Legolas shot to his feet, and nearly cracked his head on the ceiling -- a narrow miss, saved only by his cat-like reflexes. He hurried to the door, and when he clapped his eyes on Aragorn, relief flooded his veins, like the first flush of water from off the mountains after the spring thaw. He smiled, brilliant and beaming, practically a light in the small Hobbit hole, as radiant as the Eldar could be in the fullness of their grace and happiness. He looked at Aragorn, looked at him closely and intently. He was dirty from travel, a bit bedraggled, much as he had seemed on the days of the quest, and it was a marvellous, familiar thing -- not so much had changed, and everything had, and how strange their fates, all of them. But some things were consistent. Aragorn always managed to wear the road and the wood on him, easily, as if he were a part of it. How like him. How comfortingly familiar.
"You're here," he said in Sindarin, heartfelt. Then, his voice turned wry, clearly teasing, an echo of earlier words. "You look terrible."