Legolas was resembling his younger self more and more, though he was not conscious to recognize it. He was startled to wakefulness when a weight fell on his chest, his finger twitching and then coming to rest upon the figure laying over his body.

“Legolas—“ he murmured blinking awake, and then, more firmly— “Legolas?”

Legolas’ concern was writ on his face, plain as could be, and Thranduil smoothed a hand through his hair in a sleepy attempt to comfort, blinking a few times as he fought the lethargy. What had happened before—before sleeping came back to him, and his hand stilled.

“I was to keep watch.” And he had failed.