The Misty Mountains rose against the eastern horizon like teeth waiting to bite.
Legolas had been traveling for two weeks, pushing himself at a pace that would have killed a human and exhausted most Elves. He slept rarely, ate sparingly, moved with the single-minded purpose of someone racing toward a destination that couldn't wait.
The Nazgûl's presence followed him like a cold wind at his back.
Through the Morgul-awareness he'd developed over decades of studying corruption, Legolas could sense the Nine at distance. They hunted something far to the west—a small presence that burned with fear and determination. Frodo. The Ringbearer ran while Black Riders converged, and Legolas felt every pulse of their malice through spiritual senses that refused to quiet.
I could intercept, the thought surfaced for the hundredth time. Could reach the Shire before Frodo leaves. Could change everything.
And destroy everything in the process. The timeline demanded specific meetings, specific connections, specific moments of courage that couldn't be forced or replaced. Aragorn meeting Frodo at Bree. The flight to the Ford. Arwen—or Glorfindel, depending on which version of events played out—saving the Ringbearer from the Witch-king's pursuit.
The script exists for reasons, Legolas reminded himself. Not all of them bad.
He crossed a river as dawn broke on the fifteenth day, the water cold enough to shock even his Elvish physiology. His boots would take hours to dry, but he couldn't afford to rest. The Council approached, and he needed to arrive before the key decisions were made.
The wilderness between Mirkwood and Rivendell was empty of civilization—endless leagues of forest and field that had never known permanent settlement. Legolas moved through it like a ghost, leaving no trace that would attract attention.
On the seventeenth day, he felt something change in the spiritual landscape.
The Nazgûl had stopped hunting.
Legolas paused at the top of a ridge, extending his Morgul-awareness to its limits. The Nine were gathering—not scattered across the countryside, but converging on a single point. Something had happened. Something that required their combined attention.
The Ford, he realized. Frodo must be reaching the Bruinen.
The final confrontation before Rivendell. The Ringbearer would cross the ford, the Black Riders would pursue, and the river itself would rise against them—Elrond's power, wielded from the Last Homely House to protect those who sought sanctuary.
Legolas couldn't see the event directly, but he felt its aftermath. The cold presence of the Nine diminished suddenly, as if nine flames had been doused simultaneously. They weren't destroyed—couldn't be, not truly—but their physical forms had been swept away.
Frodo made it. Or he's about to.
The relief was unexpected in its intensity. Legolas had known this would happen, had trusted the timeline to unfold as it should. But knowing and feeling were different things, and the weight of uncertainty had pressed against him for weeks.
He resumed his travel with renewed urgency. If Frodo had reached Rivendell, the Council would convene soon. Days, perhaps. Not weeks.
The mountains loomed closer as he approached, their peaks lost in clouds that promised nothing good. He knew passes that would take him through without encountering the worst of the terrain—routes that Elvish traders had used before the shadow fell on Mirkwood, knowledge preserved in Legolas's inherited memories.
The passage took three days. Cold bit through his traveling cloak despite Elvish resistance to temperature. Wind howled through gaps in the rock, carrying sounds that might have been natural and might have been something else entirely.
On the second night in the mountains, Legolas dreamed of the Ring.
It came to him wrapped in Celebrimbor's voice—the smith whose notes he'd absorbed in the Inheritance Space. The dream showed golden metal gleaming with internal fire, inscribed with script that burned without consuming. It showed hands—his hands—reaching toward the Ring with understanding rather than corruption.
You know what I am, the Ring whispered in the dream. You know how I was made. You could improve upon Sauron's design. Could create something better—something that serves rather than dominates.
Legolas woke with sweat freezing on his skin, his hands clenched so tightly his fingernails had drawn blood from his palms.
The Ring knows I'm coming, he realized. Or it will know, when I get close enough.
The mental barriers he'd built over sixty years felt suddenly fragile. The Ring-craft knowledge that had seemed manageable in Mirkwood's familiar territory now loomed like a trap waiting to spring. He would walk beside Frodo for months, close enough to touch the Ring, carrying expertise that made him vulnerable to its whispers.
This is why the Valar watch me, Legolas thought. This is why Gandalf is suspicious. I'm not just an anomaly—I'm a potential liability.
He descended from the mountains on the third day, emerging into the valley that held Rivendell. The Last Homely House appeared through morning mist, its architecture a blend of Elvish grace and defensive positioning that spoke of ages of experience.
Home. Or the closest thing to it that existed outside Mirkwood.
Legolas had never visited Rivendell in either of his lives, but Legolas's memories supplied enough familiarity that he moved with confidence. The guards at the valley's entrance recognized him—word of Mirkwood's prince had preceded his arrival, probably through Gandalf's intervention.
"Prince Legolas." The guard captain's greeting was formal but warm. "Lord Elrond expected you. The Council gathers in three days."
"The Ringbearer?"
"Recovering. The wound he carries was severe, but Lord Elrond's skill has preserved him."
Relief again, sharper this time. Frodo had survived the Morgul-blade. The timeline continued as it should.
Legolas was shown to guest quarters that overlooked the valley, the rooms comfortable without being ostentatious. He bathed, ate, allowed himself the first real rest in three weeks. His muscles ached with the pleasant burn of earned exhaustion—the same sensation he'd felt after training sessions in Mirkwood, proof that even Elvish endurance had limits.
Evening brought a summons.
Gandalf waited in a private study, pipe smoke curling around his weathered features. He gestured for Legolas to sit, then studied him with the same penetrating attention he'd shown in Mirkwood.
"You made good time."
"The journey demanded urgency."
"Indeed." Gandalf puffed on his pipe. "Frodo nearly didn't survive. The Morgul-blade came close to claiming him completely. If he'd arrived even hours later..."
He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
"The Council convenes in three days," Gandalf continued. "Representatives from every free people will debate what must be done with the Ring. Most will suggest destruction—throwing it into Mount Doom, the only fire hot enough to unmake what Sauron created." A pause. "Someone will need to carry it."
Someone will need to carry it. The words hung in the air, weighted with implications that Legolas understood too well.
"Frodo will volunteer," he said quietly. "The Ring came to him. He will feel responsible for seeing it destroyed."
Gandalf's eyes sharpened. "You speak with certainty about events that haven't happened."
"I speak with hope." The correction was smooth, practiced. "A hobbit's courage saved Bilbo from many dangers. Perhaps it will save his nephew as well."
"Perhaps." Gandalf didn't seem convinced, but he didn't press. "Rest tonight. The Council will be... contentious. Old grievances will surface alongside new ones. You may find yourself choosing sides."
"I've already chosen." Legolas met the wizard's gaze. "Whatever happens at the Council, whatever path is decided—I will walk it against the Enemy. That hasn't changed since we spoke in Mirkwood."
"No." Gandalf's expression softened slightly. "I don't believe it has."
The wizard dismissed him with a gesture, returning to his pipe and his thoughts. Legolas walked back to his chambers through corridors that hummed with the subtle power of Elvish construction—Vilya's influence, he realized, the Ring of Air that Elrond wore and never displayed.
One of the Three, Legolas thought. Created by Celebrimbor before Sauron's corruption. The same principles I absorbed in the Inheritance Space.
He could feel Vilya's presence now that he was looking for it—a warmth in the air, a sense of protection that went beyond physical walls. The Ring wasn't visible, but its effects were everywhere.
The same principles. The thought was uncomfortable. The same theory that created the One Ring, applied to different purpose.
He slept poorly that night, dreams haunted by golden fire and whispered promises. But dawn came eventually, as it always did, and with it the final countdown to the Council that would determine Middle-earth's fate.
Three days.
Three days until he stood before Elrond and volunteered for a quest he knew ended in shadow. Three days until he walked beside the Ringbearer, closer to the One Ring than anyone with his knowledge should ever be.
Three days until the Fellowship formed, and the War of the Ring truly began.
Legolas rose from his bed and dressed for the day ahead. Somewhere in Rivendell, a hobbit was recovering from wounds that should have killed him. Somewhere else, a wizard was planning strategy for battles not yet fought. And in the shadows beyond the valley, darkness gathered, waiting for its chance to strike.
This is what I prepared for, Legolas reminded himself. Sixty years of training, cleansing, building the abilities that might make a difference.
He left his chambers and walked into morning sunlight that felt warmer than it should. The Last Homely House welcomed him with beauty that seemed designed to ease troubled minds—gardens that bloomed despite the season, waterfalls that sang with music almost audible.
In three days, this peace would end. The Fellowship would form, and the long walk to Mordor would begin.
But for now, Legolas allowed himself a moment of stillness. A breath of air that carried no corruption. A glimpse of sunlight that reminded him why he fought.
The Ring called from somewhere within Rivendell's walls, sensed through awareness that shouldn't exist. It knew he was here. It recognized his knowledge.
Legolas strengthened his mental barriers and walked toward breakfast.
Three days, he thought. Make them count.
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