The camera slowly pans across the sunlit chamber in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. Soft golden light filters through the tall windows. Frodo stirs in the crisp white linens, eyes fluttering open after the long nightmare of the Ring. He looks fragile, dazed, but alive. A gentle smile starts to form on his face as the weight of everything lifts—just a little.
Then... a shadow falls across the doorway.
Legolas steps into view like a runway model who wandered into a horror film. His blond hair is perfectly windswept, his expression serene and utterly serious. He raises one elegant hand... and in it, a neatly wrapped package of **lembas**.
He holds it up slowly, dramatically, like he's unveiling the One True Snack.
**Legolas** (in that calm, melodic elf-voice, but with the intensity of a late-night infomercial):
“Lembas. Elvish waybread. One small bite is enough to fill the stomach of a grown man. It will sustain you through the darkest roads, Frodo Baggins. Through Mordor. Through doubt. Through... whatever this is.”
Frodo's eyes widen. Recognition. Trauma. The memories flood back:
- Every single time they stopped on the journey.
- Every single time Legolas would casually produce another leaf-wrapped package while the hobbits were starving.
- Every single time he'd say the exact same line with that serene little smile, even when they were being chased by orcs, or rowing down the Anduin, or hiding in the dead marshes.
A single nervous giggle escapes.
Legolas takes one graceful step closer, still holding the bread aloft like a holy relic.
**Legolas** (softly, almost whispering, but somehow louder in Frodo's head):
“Even now, in victory... a bite would do you good. One. Small. Bite.”
Frodo's shoulders start shaking. The giggle turns into a wheeze. His eyes go a little too wide. That same unhinged, high-pitched, slightly deranged laugh from the end of the films bubbles up—the one that always sounded like he was one lembas wrapper away from completely snapping.
He laughs harder. It's equal parts relief, exhaustion, and pure existential dread at the immortal elf who turned product placement into psychological warfare.
**Frodo** (between gasping laughs, tears streaming):
“Not... the bread... Legolas... please... I just destroyed the Ring...”
Legolas tilts his head, unfazed, and gently places the lembas on the bedside table like he's tucking in a child.
“Rest, little one. But remember... it keeps indefinitely. Even when all other food has turned to dust.”
He gives a serene little nod, turns on his heel, and glides out of the room like nothing happened.
Frodo keeps laughing. Hysterical. Broken. The camera lingers on his face as the laughter slowly fades into a haunted, thousand-yard stare at the innocent-looking package on the table.
*(You know he'd say it again in the sequel.)*
**Caption appears in elegant Elvish script:**
*Lembas. Elvish waybread. One small bite...*
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