The Fellowship scattered like leaves in a wind.
Legolas watched from the edge of the clearing as Frodo walked into the trees, his small figure disappearing between ancient trunks. The hobbit's shoulders carried weight visible even from a distance—the burden of a decision that would determine everything.
Behind him, the others spread across Amon Hen in their own patterns of waiting. Aragorn stood at the clearing's edge, his hand on his sword hilt, eyes scanning the forest with ranger's instinct. Sam busied himself with supplies, his worry for Frodo manifesting as fussing over packs and water skins. Merry and Pippin gathered deadfall for a fire no one had asked for, their nervous energy finding outlet in movement.
Gimli sat on a fallen log, sharpening his axe with strokes that had become automatic over weeks of travel. His eyes met Legolas's briefly, concern passing between them without words.
And Boromir—
Boromir drifted toward the trees where Frodo had disappeared.
Legolas moved.
Not directly, not obviously. He angled toward a different section of forest, keeping trees between himself and Boromir's sightline. The captain of Gondor was too focused on his target to notice, his steps carrying him deeper into the woods with purpose that had nothing to do with scouting.
The ground rose beneath Legolas's feet as he circled, finding high ground that gave him sightlines through the autumn-brown undergrowth. His bow hung ready at his side, not drawn—he wasn't planning to shoot Boromir—but available if things went wrong in unexpected ways.
Minutes, Legolas thought. I have minutes before it happens.
The forest around him held its breath. Birds had gone quiet in a way that spoke of danger he couldn't yet see. The air carried something wrong—a heaviness, a waiting, as if the world itself knew what was coming.
Legolas found a position behind a massive oak, its trunk wide enough to hide his body while gaps in its roots let him see the clearing where Boromir was approaching Frodo. Close enough to intervene. Far enough to let events unfold until intervention became necessary.
Voices drifted through the trees—Boromir's first, low and conversational, followed by Frodo's higher tones. Legolas couldn't make out words at this distance, but he could read the conversation's shape in the way both figures moved. Boromir edging closer. Frodo stepping back. The eternal dance of predator and prey, corrupted by golden whispers that turned a good man into something else.
The tone shifted.
Boromir's voice rose, carrying now—fragments of desperation reaching Legolas's ears. "...weakness of Men... could save them all... give me the Ring!"
Frodo's response was too quiet to hear, but his body language screamed terror. He stumbled backward, hands raised in warding. Boromir advanced.
Legolas's heart pounded against his ribs, faster than it should in an Elven body, carrying echoes of the mortal he'd been. His hand tightened on his bow. Not yet. Not yet. Let Frodo escape first—let the hobbit run—then break the moment.
But Boromir was faster than expected. His hand shot out, grabbing for the Ring, and Frodo screamed.
The sound cut through the forest like a blade.
Legolas ran.
Branches whipped past his face. Undergrowth crashed beneath his feet, stealth abandoned for speed. He burst through a final screen of bushes, the clearing opening before him—
Boromir's fingers were inches from Frodo's chest. The Ring gleamed between them, golden and terrible, its presence filling the clearing with weight that pressed against Legolas's senses. Frodo's eyes were wide with betrayal, his small body frozen in the grip of someone he'd trusted.
"BOROMIR!"
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