The horn of Gondor announced Boromir's arrival before Legolas saw him.
The sound echoed through Rivendell's valley with the weight of centuries—a call that had rallied Men against darkness since the founding of the White City. Legolas stood on his balcony and watched the rider approach, recognizing the proud bearing and the hunger that the horn couldn't quite conceal.
Boromir. Son of Denethor. Brother to Faramir. The man who would try to take the Ring and die redeeming that mistake.
Legolas had prepared himself for this meeting. Had spent decades knowing that Boromir's fall was coming, that the proud captain of Gondor would yield to temptation and pay with his life. But seeing the man ride into Rivendell, alive and unaware of his fate, made the knowledge heavier than any preparation could account for.
Could I warn him?
The thought surfaced and was immediately suppressed. Warning Boromir would require explaining how he knew—revealing knowledge that couldn't be explained without destroying his cover entirely. And even if he found a way, would Boromir believe? Would anyone believe claims of future corruption from a stranger?
The script exists for reasons. The familiar mantra. Boromir's fall serves the story. His redemption proves that the Ring's corruption can be overcome, even at the cost of everything.
Legolas watched the Gondorian dismount and surrender his horse to Rivendell's grooms. Boromir moved with the contained energy of a soldier too long away from battle, his eyes constantly scanning, assessing, calculating.
He's already looking for it. The realization was uncomfortable. He hasn't seen the Ring yet, and already it calls to him.
The Dwarven delegation arrived that afternoon.
Gimli walked among them, shorter than the others but somehow more substantial—the weight of Durin's folk concentrated in a single frame. His beard was the color of rust and copper, his eyes sharp with suspicion that intensified every time they landed on an Elf.
Their gazes met across the courtyard. Gimli's expression hardened, and Legolas felt the ancient grievance between their peoples rise like a wall between them.
We'll be friends, Legolas thought, the meta-knowledge surfacing unbidden. By the end of this, we'll be brothers in all but blood.
It seemed impossible now, watching Gimli's deliberate hostility. But the timeline had shown stranger transformations.
Aragorn found him that evening.
The Ranger moved through Rivendell's gardens with a silence that rivaled Elvish stealth, emerging from shadow as if he'd been part of it all along. His weathered features carried the weight of a man who'd lived hard and long, but his eyes—grey and deep—held the lineage of kings.
"Legolas of Mirkwood." Aragorn's voice was quiet, measured. "Gandalf speaks of you with concern."
"Gandalf speaks of many things with concern."
"True." A faint smile crossed the Ranger's face. "But his concern for you is different. More personal." He stepped closer, studying Legolas with the attention of someone used to reading signs in wilderness. "You carry knowledge you should not have. I can see it in the way you look at the other arrivals—as if you already know their stories."
Dangerous. Aragorn was more perceptive than the others, his years of wandering having honed instincts that most people never developed.
"I have studied much during my time in Mirkwood," Legolas offered carefully. "The forest's corruption taught me to see patterns others miss."
"Patterns." Aragorn's expression suggested he didn't entirely believe the explanation. "And what patterns do you see in me?"
The king who will return. The words nearly escaped before Legolas caught them. The man who will refuse the Ring and marry Arwen and unite the kingdoms of Men.
"I see someone who carries secrets of his own," Legolas said instead. "Who knows the weight of destiny and chooses to bear it anyway."
Something shifted in Aragorn's eyes—recognition, perhaps, of a kindred spirit. Or suspicion of someone who saw too clearly.
"We will walk the same road soon," Aragorn said. "The Council will decide how far and toward what end. I hope your patterns serve us all when the time comes."
He withdrew into the evening shadows, leaving Legolas alone with the weight of everything he couldn't say.
The hobbits were easier.
Legolas encountered them the following morning in the gardens—Merry and Pippin exploring with the cheerful curiosity of children, Sam hovering protectively near Frodo's recovering form. The Ringbearer was pale but upright, his Shire-bred resilience asserting itself against wounds that should have been fatal.
Frodo Baggins. The name carried the weight of destiny. This small, unlikely hero would carry the One Ring to Mount Doom and destroy it, ending Sauron's threat forever.
And Legolas would walk beside him, fighting temptation with every step.
Frodo caught him watching and offered a hesitant smile. The expression was pure hobbit—warm despite his ordeal, trusting despite the dangers he'd survived.
"You're the Elf from Mirkwood," Frodo said. His voice was stronger than Legolas expected. "Gandalf mentioned you might be joining the Council."
"Legolas Greenleaf." He approached slowly, keeping distance between himself and the Ring he could feel pressing against his awareness. "You've recovered quickly."
"Lord Elrond's healing." Frodo touched his shoulder, where the Morgul-blade had struck. "Though he says some wounds never fully close."
He's right. The meta-knowledge surfaced again. Frodo will carry that wound forever. Will feel it ache every anniversary of his injury. Will never truly be whole again.
"You're very brave," Legolas said, the words escaping before he could stop them. "To have come so far carrying such a burden."
Frodo's expression shifted—surprise, then something like gratitude. "I didn't have much choice. The Ring found me, and now I have to see it to the end."
"There's always a choice." Legolas kept his voice gentle. "You chose to carry it when you could have abandoned it. That's not nothing."
Sam appeared at Frodo's elbow, his protective instincts clearly activated. "Begging your pardon, but Mr. Frodo needs his rest. Lord Elrond's orders."
"Of course." Legolas stepped back, grateful for the excuse to distance himself from the Ring's pressure. "Rest well, Frodo. The days ahead will demand much."
He retreated to his quarters as the hobbits continued their exploration. The Ring called from Frodo's direction, a constant song at the edge of hearing, beautiful and terrible and patient.
Nine who will walk into shadow, Legolas thought. Standing in Rivendell's light, not yet knowing their fates are bound.
Tomorrow, the Council would convene. He would hear words he already knew and speak ones he'd rehearsed for sixty years.
And after that, the road to Mordor would begin.
Note:
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.