Legolas stood alone upon Carrock, his arms folded across his chest, his cloak closed tight around him. The wind was fierce with the approaching storm: the hem of his cloak thrashed around his legs. His golden hair whirled chaotically about his head and his eyes narrowed against the gale. His boat rocked violently against the eyot, straining against the rope that anchored it to a large rock. Legolas braced himself, waiting for the moment when the air would crackle with violent energy. He felt the change as it raised the tiny hairs on his neck. Looking up, he saw lightning pierce the sky. Bright white, jagged fingers burned through the rapidly darkening sky, and just as suddenly as it came, it disappeared. But Legolas knew this was only the beginning of the tempest that would descend upon Mirkwood. Another surge came, surprising him as it streaked down close by to strike the roiling river. Water sizzled, and a few fish floated belly-up, dead.
Legolas waited patiently for the storm to intensify. He could not explain to others how much he loved turbulent weather. It was the only time he could release pent-up emotions, and no one would be the wiser.