[ Fingers smooth the curve of a jaw at its back, thumbs stroke the high, sharp cheekbones. The skin beneath his palms warm, pleasant to the touch. Simple touch as it is, though it feels oddly intimate. To hold such beauty between his hands, though terrible and capable of cruelties great and wrath that chills to the very bone. He is mesmerised, enchanted by a spell of staggering intensity and yet sweet tenderness now too. And his insides feel like they are being torn apart, between this affection he feels, the interest, and the way his body protests against any and all contact between them, attempts to reject it by bringing phantom pain to the surface. Sharp, taking his breath away, yet bearable now.

His eyes widen briefly with the thought, dots connecting in his mind and drawing lines that make up a peculiar picture, a bemusing realisation.

Gradually the trembling of his hands ceases, though his touches are still uncertain, like one would touch a wild cat that demands affection yet gives no certainty as to whether it will strike or not.

Legolas can't hate him, he finds, it's a revelation he had known for a time already, had said so to Celegorm himself. Though a part of him wishes he could, for it would make things much less confounding for him. Things could make sense then, unlike now when he feels this odd elation at this touch, at the way Celegorm so obviously enjoys the attention he gives him. Though this thought makes him feel guilty, for wishing he could feel hate at all.

No, it's what it is now. ]

Wisdom is most valued amongst the Eldar, is it not? [ He shrugs a shoulder, dismissive of the concept and his small smile further proof of it. A woodelf through and through. ] I do not understand myself anymore, this is why I ask. And I cannot grasp you...

[ He sighs, his hands grow slack with a feeling of sudden foolishness, like an elfling far too smitten with a star far beyond his reach. ]