Another stroke came easier, now that Legolas knew what to expect. He was still learning in the process, but he was also a quick learner, especially when he cared to put his mind to something, as this most certainly was one of those things. Not only to not hurt Artemis with his failure, but also to simply please him with a job well done. It was an offer made to make his life easier, to help him relax — though it had already backfired on that terribly —, not to make it more difficult or unpleasant, after all.

"Waste not your thought on their anger," he chided gently, playfully, arching his brows as his gaze flickered between the task at hand and meeting Artemis's eyes, "I could show you the same satisfaction from simply living; I think I could also show you better if you had wanted."

It was a strange sound of the blade scraping along scruffy skin, it felt strange as well, and it was not as smooth as he hoped, not even with the motion more practised, a little more confident.

"There is no greater joy in life, after all, than... the life itself, yours and of all that grows around you."

Again, he pulled back when the blade gathered soap and shaven hair, grabbing the same rag as before to wipe it. He took his time, just long enough so that Artemis got the time to speak, if he wanted to— it was not too hard to notice how quiet (and tense) he got when the blade was too close.