It was a pair of blue eyes that lingered on the beared face of the dwarf. A supposed King under the mountain, and ironic saviour of an elf that had no intentions of thanking him. Locked together in hatred were their kind, and such things were not about to change. Respect for skills on the battlefield were one thing, forgetting past animosity between their kin was, however, not an option. Legolas was certain it never would be. But they had worked together, their people, and fought away those that would claim the Lonely Mountain ( and eventually the world. The elf prince had no doubt about this. ) The people of Dale would finally be given a moment's rest, and Legolas was free to return home. ---I cannot go back.
His stare lingered before trailing side-long, taking in the sight of a red haired she-elf that had journeyed down from the Hill on which the Pale Orc had been felled. How easily their hatred had been forgotten-- and how easily it was rekindled again within him.