The gates of Rivendell stood open in the grey light of early morning.
Nine figures gathered in the courtyard, their breath misting in the cold air. Legolas took his position among them, bow across his shoulder, knives at his belt—the weapons he'd carried through sixty years of service to Mirkwood, now dedicated to a quest that would take him far from everything familiar.
Elrond descended the steps to bid them farewell. The Lord of Rivendell moved with the weight of someone who'd watched countless departures, knowing that many who left would never return.
"The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom," Elrond said, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "On you who travel with him, no oath or bond is laid to go further than you will. Farewell. Hold to your purpose. May the blessings of Elves and Men and all Free Folk go with you."
Gandalf responded with a bow, accepting the charge. The hobbits clustered around Frodo, their faces set with determination that couldn't quite hide their fear. Boromir stood tall, the Horn of Gondor gleaming at his side. Aragorn's hand rested on his sword hilt, ready for whatever the road might bring.
And Gimli glared at the assembled Elves as if daring them to offer any more flowery speeches.
"May the grace of the Valar protect you," Elrond finished. The words settled on Legolas's shoulders like a weight—or perhaps a blessing. Hard to tell which.
The Fellowship moved.
They passed through Rivendell's gates as the sun crested the eastern mountains, painting the valley in shades of gold that seemed designed to make departure more painful. Legolas glanced back once, memorizing the sight of Elvish towers against morning light. He didn't know when—or if—he would see such beauty again.
Forward, he told himself. The path leads forward.
Gandalf set the pace, his staff striking the ground with rhythmic certainty. The wizard knew these lands, had walked them for centuries. His guidance would carry them through the wilderness between Rivendell and their first major obstacle.
Caradhras, Legolas thought. Then Moria. Then Gandalf's fall.
The knowledge pressed against him with every step. Weeks of walking toward tragedy he couldn't prevent. A fall that would devastate the company, leaving them leaderless at the worst possible moment.
Could I warn them?
The question surfaced again, as it had countless times during his preparation. Could he tell Gandalf what waited in Moria? Could he prepare the others for the grief to come?
And watch the timeline shatter. Watch consequences cascade in directions he couldn't predict. Watch the careful balance of fate tip toward outcomes that might be worse than what he knew.
The script exists for reasons. The mantra steadied him. Gandalf's transformation requires his fall. The others' growth requires his absence. I cannot prevent it without destroying everything that follows.
But knowing that didn't make watching it any easier.
"You walk like someone who knows the road."
Aragorn's voice came from beside him—the Ranger had dropped back from his scouting position, falling into step with Legolas at the rear of the column.
"I've studied maps. Read accounts of travelers who walked these paths."
"Maps don't teach your feet where to step." Aragorn's expression was unreadable. "You move through this terrain like you've traveled it before."
Careful. The Ranger's perception was as dangerous as Gandalf's suspicion.
"Mirkwood's forests required similar skills. Uneven ground, hidden obstacles, the need to move quietly." Legolas gestured at the terrain around them. "Different landscape, same principles."
Aragorn considered this, then nodded slowly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you carry more knowledge than maps can provide."
He moved forward again before Legolas could respond, resuming his scouting position. The observation lingered like smoke in the air—another reminder that his strangeness was visible to those who looked closely.
The day passed in steady walking. The Fellowship fell into natural rhythms—Gandalf leading, Aragorn ranging ahead, Boromir and the hobbits in the middle, Legolas and Gimli at the rear. The Dwarf maintained his hostile distance, but his earlier challenge from the training hall seemed to have softened into wariness rather than outright aggression.
Progress, Legolas thought. Slow progress, but progress.
Pippin stumbled on a root hidden beneath fallen leaves. Legolas caught his arm before the young hobbit could fall, steadying him without breaking stride.
"Careful."
Pippin grinned up at him, the expression so open and trusting that it hurt to see. "Thanks, tall one."
Tall one. The nickname was ridiculous coming from someone barely half Legolas's height, but it carried genuine warmth. Pippin didn't see a suspicious stranger or a potential threat. He saw a companion who'd helped him when he needed it.
This is what I'm fighting for, Legolas reminded himself. This trust. This innocence. The right of small people to walk through the world without fear.
Evening found them camped in a sheltered valley, far enough from Rivendell that its light had faded entirely. The Fellowship gathered around a small fire, sharing food and conversation while darkness gathered at the edges of their circle.
Legolas took first watch, climbing a nearby tree to gain elevation. From this height, he could see the Misty Mountains rising against the stars—cold peaks that would test them all before they were through.
Caradhras, he thought. The Cruel. It earned its name.
The mountain waited, patient and hostile. And somewhere beyond it, deeper shadows waited as well.
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