Upon the Edge of a Knife--
“Does It speak to you as well?” Legolas asked at last. The wind mingled his fair hair with the ruff of dark fur lining the disregarded hood of his cloak, but he remained perfectly still, majestically impervious to the elements as it seemed.
The direct query was unexpected, and Boromir almost denied it. But Elves would not be easily deceived. “Yes,” he admitted, hunkering down a bit behind his shield. “It does.”
Legolas nodded, more in approval of the truth than of aught else. “It speaks to us all.” He ceased his aimless pacing to sink into a feline crouch a respectful distance from Boromir, his cloak pooling around him on the ground like smooth pitch. The muted howl of the wind assumed a more lupine voice in the distance, and Aragorn tossed in his sleep. Alerted by feral instinct, both Man and Elf reflexively glanced back.