Days blended together in the endless night of Moria.
Gandalf led them through halls that had once been magnificent—vaulted chambers carved from living stone, their pillars rising into shadows that even the wizard's light couldn't fully illuminate. The Dwarves had built something remarkable here, something that spoke of craft and patience and a love for the deep places of the earth.
Legolas felt it through his Dwarvish earth-song sensitivity—faint echoes of the pride and skill that had shaped these spaces. Not the full perception a true Dwarf would experience, but enough to understand why Khazad-dûm had been considered the greatest of all Dwarvish realms.
They loved this place, he thought, running his fingers along a carved pillar. They poured centuries of devotion into every stone.
"You walk these halls strangely."
Gimli's voice came from behind him, the Dwarf's usual hostility muted by grief and curiosity in equal measure. The bodies they'd passed had affected him more than he was willing to show—his kin, slaughtered in the home they'd tried to reclaim.
"Strangely how?" Legolas kept walking, but slowed enough for Gimli to fall into step beside him.
"As if you appreciate them. Most Elves would see only darkness and dust. You're looking at the craftsmanship."
"I've learned to respect the stone-craft." The admission cost him nothing, and the truth behind it went deeper than Gimli could know. "These halls were magnificent, Gimli. Whatever happened here, whatever darkness took root—it doesn't diminish what your ancestors achieved."
Gimli was silent for several steps. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its edge entirely.
"My father spoke of Khazad-dûm. He said the light of the great forges could be seen from leagues away—that the hammers rang like music, day and night, crafting wonders that other races could barely imagine." A pause. "I never expected to see it like this."
"No one could have expected this."
They walked together for a while, the silence between them different from before. Not comfortable—nothing about Moria could be comfortable—but no longer hostile. Something had shifted in the Dwarf's perception, a crack in the wall of prejudice that generations had built.
Progress, Legolas thought. Even in darkness, progress.
The Fellowship moved through chambers that varied wildly in scale—vast caverns that could have held armies, cramped passages that required single file, bridges spanning chasms whose depths the light couldn't reach. Gandalf navigated by memory and instinct, his staff providing the only illumination in a world that had forgotten the sun.
Legolas shared lembas with Merry during one of their brief rest stops, the young hobbit's usual cheerfulness dampened by days of oppressive darkness.
"How long do you think?" Merry asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Before we reach the other side?"
"Gandalf says three days. Perhaps four." Legolas broke off another piece of the Elvish bread, watching Merry chew with mechanical determination. "The lembas will keep your strength up. It was made for journeys like this—when proper meals aren't possible."
"Was made by Elves, you mean." A ghost of Merry's normal humor surfaced. "Everything useful seems to be made by Elves."
"Not everything." Legolas nodded toward the walls surrounding them. "Dwarves made this. And whatever else has happened here, you're walking through one of the greatest achievements in the history of Middle-earth."
Merry looked around with new eyes, seeing the craftsmanship rather than just the darkness. "I suppose they did do rather well, didn't they?"
"They did magnificent work."
The compliment carried across the chamber to where Gimli sat. The Dwarf didn't acknowledge it directly, but something in his posture eased slightly—a burden shared, if not lifted.
Gandalf called them forward, and the journey continued.
The three-way fork came on what Legolas estimated was the third day, though time had lost meaning in the eternal night. Three passages opened before them, each identical to Elvish eyes, each leading into darkness that revealed nothing of what lay beyond.
"I have no memory of this place," Gandalf admitted, his voice carrying frustration that the wizard rarely showed. "We must wait while I think."
The Fellowship made camp—if a cold huddle in absolute darkness could be called a camp. No fire was possible; the smoke would have had nowhere to go, and the light might attract attention they couldn't afford. They ate cold rations and spoke in whispers, the weight of the mountain pressing down on them from all sides.
Legolas sat apart from the others, his back against cold stone, his perception extended as far as he could push it.
And he felt it.
Heat.
Distant, deep below, but unmistakably present. Not the warmth of living things or natural geological activity. This was different. This was rage made manifest—ancient fury that had burned since the First Age, contained but never extinguished.
The Balrog.
The name surfaced with the weight of nightmare. Durin's Bane. The demon that had driven the Dwarves from their greatest home. The fire and shadow that would claim Gandalf's life.
It's waiting, Legolas realized. It knows we're here. It's been waiting since we entered.
The knowledge should have been familiar—he'd known about the Balrog since before the journey began. But feeling its presence, sensing the malevolence that radiated from depths he couldn't see, made it terrifyingly real.
Two days, he calculated. Maybe less. Two days until the Chamber of Mazarbul. Until the drums. Until the bridge.
He looked across the darkness to where Gandalf sat, the wizard's face illuminated by the faint glow of his pipe. Sixty years Legolas had known about this moment. Sixty years of preparation, of training, of trying to understand whether he could—or should—change what was coming.
And now the moment approached, and he still didn't have an answer.
Could I warn him? The question felt different now, with the Balrog's heat pulsing distantly below. Could I tell Gandalf what waits, give him time to prepare?
But prepare for what? The Balrog was a Maia—a spirit of fire from the creation of the world, corrupted by Morgoth into something terrible beyond mortal comprehension. No amount of preparation would make Gandalf strong enough to defeat it. Only the sacrifice itself could trigger the transformation that would follow.
Gandalf the Grey must fall for Gandalf the White to rise.
The thought felt like betrayal. Felt like watching a friend walk toward death and doing nothing to stop it.
But the alternative was worse. Without Gandalf the White, Theoden wouldn't be freed from Saruman's control. Helm's Deep would fall. Gondor would fall. Everything they were fighting for would crumble because Legolas had valued one life over the fate of the world.
The needs of the many. The phrase from his old life surfaced, carrying weight it had never held before. Sometimes the few must sacrifice for the many. Even when the few don't know they're being sacrificed.
"You feel something."
Gandalf's voice made Legolas flinch—he hadn't noticed the wizard's approach. The old man's eyes glittered in the faint light of his pipe, perception cutting through the darkness with uncomfortable precision.
"I feel... wrongness." Legolas chose his words with care. "Deep below. Something that shouldn't exist."
"The Dwarves woke something in their mining," Gandalf said slowly. "Something ancient and terrible. It drove them from Khazad-dûm centuries ago. I had hoped—" He stopped, shaking his head. "No. Hope is a luxury we cannot afford in this place."
"Do you know what it is?"
The wizard was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight that made Legolas's chest tighten.
"I know what it might be. And if I am right, we must move quickly and quietly, and hope it does not wake."
It's already awake, Legolas wanted to say. It's been awake since we entered. It's waiting for us.
But he couldn't explain how he knew. Couldn't reveal the source of his certainty without destroying everything he'd built.
"I understand," was all he said. "I'll watch for danger."
Gandalf nodded and moved away, returning to his contemplation of the three passages. After another hour, his voice rang across the chamber with renewed confidence.
"It's this way. I've remembered."
The Fellowship gathered their things and followed the wizard into the passage he'd chosen. Legolas brought up the rear, his perception still extended toward the heat below.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow we reach Balin's tomb. Tomorrow the drums begin.
The darkness swallowed them whole, and somewhere beneath their feet, fire burned with patient malevolence.
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