He kept close to the entrance of the den, his plump black noise quivering as foreign scents came and went. There were too many for the boy to keep track of—not that he tried. He still lacked an interest in the outside world. It was bright and noisy; unappealing. Everything that the dark den behind him wasn’t. His siblings were keen on testing their limits (and earning scoldings from their parents), but not Legolas. He was content staying put exactly where he was. For now.
It was easier to pull himself to the edge of the den when the bright orb in the sky fell behind the trees. Everything was darker; softer. Easier to handle. He did not understand the concept of changing lights, and incapable of forming words to ask why the outside went from light to dark. All the undefined shapes surrounding the den blurred into each other when the light fell, making it even more difficult to see, but the dusty boy didn’t mind. It brought him the same comfort as his mother’s stomach. Plus, with his siblings tucked away into their mother’s side, he could actually observe the outside without them bombarding him. Making him almost enjoy it.