Legolas was hunched over, a terrible coiling like a snake in his gut, tightening and making him nauseous. He wasn’t entirely sure what had set this off; he never knew. All he knew was it had been twenty years since his rescue and he still was sent into panic at least once a week.
“Don’t t-touch me,” he begged, for his skin was covered in sensitive goosebumps. His eyes were glassy, seeing something still that was not there. He grasped a handful of his own hair at the root and tugged harshly, the pain tying him somewhat to the present.
“…It’s f-fine. I’m fine.”
“I’m not going to touch you,” he promised, sitting back on his heels and staring at the startled prince. Maglor could remember what it was like - not that he had stopped having flashbacks, he was of the opinion it that they merely lessened, never went away entirely - he could easily understand exactly what it was that Legolas was going through.
“Don’t lie,” he scolded, reverting to the tone he often used with Elrond. “You are not fine, telling yourself that you are will not help, and there is nothing wrong with being completely shattered. Or so Elrond tells me, and he would only lie if he thought it would make me feel better, so take it as you will.” Maglor offered the prince a smile, hoping that his bluntness would not cause Legolas to worsen (if that was possible).