The terrace opened onto a view that seemed designed to inspire courage in troubled hearts.
Legolas took his seat among the Mirkwood delegation—himself alone, since Thranduil had sent no other representatives—and surveyed the gathering with eyes that already knew each face. The Council of Elrond spread before him like a play he'd memorized, every actor in position, every line scripted by history he couldn't change.
The Ring sat on a stone pedestal at the center of the terrace, gleaming with morning light that couldn't quite penetrate its golden depths. Legolas felt its attention like a physical weight, the pressure from last night's assault still fresh in his memory. His hands wanted to tremble. He forced them still.
Elrond rose from his chair at the terrace's head, his ageless features grave with the burden of hosting this gathering. "Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor."
The words flowed exactly as they should. Legolas listened to history unfold, his attention split between the familiar narrative and the faces of those who would shape it.
Boromir sat rigid, his pride radiating like heat from a forge. The man's eyes kept drifting toward the Ring on its pedestal, drawn despite himself. Legolas watched the hunger kindle and thought of what was coming—the temptation that would break Boromir's honor and ultimately cost his life.
I could warn him. The thought surfaced again, as it had every time he'd seen the Gondorian. Could find some way to prepare him for the Ring's seduction.
But Boromir's fall was necessary. His attempt to take the Ring would fracture the Fellowship, yes, but that fracture would send Frodo on the path he needed to walk. Without Boromir's corruption, the Ringbearer might never have fled—might never have reached Mordor at all.
The script exists for reasons. The mantra had become reflex. Not all of them comfortable.
Gimli glared at the Elvish majority with undisguised hostility, his suspicion a wall that decades of grievance had built. The Dwarf's hand rested on his axe as if expecting treachery at any moment—which, Legolas supposed, he probably was.
We'll be brothers by the end, Legolas reminded himself. Closer than either of us can imagine right now.
It seemed impossible, watching Gimli's contempt. But the timeline had shown stranger transformations.
"The Ring cannot be hidden," Elrond continued, his voice cutting through Legolas's thoughts. "Already the Nazgûl have been drawn to it. It cannot be unmade by any craft that we here possess. It was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade."
Boromir stirred in his seat. The words that followed were inevitable.
"It is a gift," the Gondorian said, rising to address the Council. "A gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use this Ring?" His voice carried the passion of someone who'd spent a lifetime fighting a war he was slowly losing. "Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe."
Legolas watched the other Council members react—Elrond's careful neutrality, Gandalf's concern, the hobbits' confusion at talk of politics and power. He knew how this speech ended, knew the danger in Boromir's reasoning.
"Give Gondor the weapon of the Enemy. Let us use it against him."
"You cannot wield it." Aragorn's voice cut through the tension, quiet but certain. "None of us can. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."
Boromir turned toward the Ranger with disdain that would take months to overcome. "And what would a Ranger know of this matter?"
Legolas watched the exchange that followed—Elrond's revelation of Aragorn's heritage, the fire that passed between the two Men, the complicated dynamics of pride and prophecy that would eventually resolve into alliance. He'd seen it play out in memory so many times that the actual moment felt almost dreamlike.
This is history, he thought. I'm watching the hinge points of an age, and I already know how every scene ends.
The knowledge was isolating. Everyone else in this Council was living the moment, uncertain of outcomes, weighing possibilities. Only Legolas sat with the weight of predetermined fate pressing on his shoulders.
Gimli's axe shattered against the Ring.
The sound echoed across the terrace—metal screaming as it broke against something that couldn't be harmed by mortal craft. The Dwarf stumbled backward, his weapon ruined, and for one moment the Ring seemed to pulse with something like amusement.
You know better, its presence whispered to Legolas alone. You understand why that could never work.
He strengthened his mental barriers and said nothing.
The debate spiraled outward. Voices rose, proposing and rejecting, arguing and countering. Legolas tracked each speaker while his attention remained fixed on Frodo.
The hobbit sat quietly through it all, growing smaller as the arguments intensified. The burden was settling on him already—Legolas could see it in the way Frodo's shoulders curved, in the pallor that spread across his features, in the distance that grew between him and the political maneuvering of his supposed betters.
He knows, Legolas realized. He's known since he heard what the Ring is. He's just waiting for everyone else to realize that he has to be the one.
Sam sat beside his master, protective instincts radiating even in stillness. The gardener had followed Frodo across Middle-earth, would follow him into Mordor itself, would be the only thing that kept the Ringbearer moving when all hope seemed lost.
The hero isn't Aragorn, Legolas thought. It isn't Gandalf, or me, or any of the warriors. It's these hobbits. These small, impossible, determined hobbits.
The realization wasn't new—he'd known it since his first life, since reading the stories that had shaped his understanding of this world. But watching Frodo accept a burden he'd never asked for, seeing Sam's quiet determination to stand by his friend no matter what, made the knowledge feel different.
This is real. The thought pressed against him with unexpected weight. These aren't characters in a story. They're people. And I'm about to walk with them into shadow.
"None can," Gandalf said, his voice cutting through the chaos. "The Ring cannot be wielded by any of us—not to save Gondor, not to defeat Sauron, not for any purpose however noble. It must be destroyed."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Gimli's voice still carried frustration from his failed attempt.
"The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli son of Glóin, by any craft that we here possess." Elrond's repetition carried the weight of doom. "It was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came."
Silence fell.
Legolas watched understanding spread across the gathered faces. The implications of Elrond's words—the impossible journey they demanded, the certain death that seemed to await anyone who attempted it.
"One of you must do this," Elrond finished.
More silence. Boromir shifted uneasily, his earlier arguments suddenly meaningless against the reality of what was being asked. Gimli's hostility seemed trivial compared to the shadow of Mordor. Even Gandalf looked older, the weight of ages pressing down on his weathered features.
And Frodo rose.
The movement was small—a hobbit standing barely tall enough to meet the seated Elves at eye level. But the Council fell silent as if a king had commanded their attention.
"I will take the Ring to Mordor."
The words hung in the morning air, simple and devastating. Frodo's voice trembled slightly, but his eyes were steady.
"Though I do not know the way."
Gandalf moved first, stepping to Frodo's side with the swift certainty of someone who'd been waiting for exactly this moment. "I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear."
The pattern had begun. Legolas watched the volunteers step forward—Sam bursting from the bushes where he'd been hiding, Merry and Pippin rushing to their cousins' side, Aragorn pledging his sword, Boromir committing Gondor's support, Gimli refusing to let Elves alone with such a prize.
Eight stood with Frodo. The Fellowship needed nine.
Legolas felt the Ring's attention intensify, pressing against his barriers with renewed force. It knew what was coming. It knew he would step forward and commit himself to a journey that would test every defense he'd built.
You don't have to do this, it whispered. You could stay. Let others carry me to destruction. You've already done enough—healing forests, learning magic, preparing for wars that others will fight.
He rose from his seat.
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