The wind cut through Elvish clothing like it had personal grievances.
Legolas pressed forward through snow that reached his waist on the hobbits, his eyes streaming from cold that seemed designed to blind. Caradhras had turned against them with a fury that exceeded natural weather—Saruman's malice, he knew, directed at the Fellowship from distant Isengard.
But he couldn't say that. Couldn't explain how he knew the storm was artificial, guided by a wizard who'd fallen to darkness. Could only watch his companions struggle and wait for the moment when retreat became necessary.
Boromir carried Merry, his broad shoulders bent against the wind. Aragorn had Pippin on his back, the young hobbit's face buried against the Ranger's cloak. Sam struggled forward with Frodo, their small forms nearly invisible in the driving snow.
And still they climbed. Gandalf's stubbornness—or perhaps his need to avoid Moria—drove them upward despite conditions that would have turned back sane travelers hours ago.
Not yet, Legolas thought, calculating. The storm will get worse. But if I speak too soon, they won't listen.
He watched the company struggle, feeling the cold they felt even through his own Elvish resistance. His fingers ached despite gloves. His face burned where wind-driven ice scored the skin. The mountain was trying to kill them, and it was winning.
"We cannot continue."
His voice cut through the howling wind, pitched to carry without shouting. The Fellowship paused, turning toward him with faces masked by frost and exhaustion.
"The mountain fights us. We should retreat before we cannot."
Gandalf's expression was invisible behind his hood, but his posture conveyed reluctance. "The pass is close. If we push through—"
"We will die." Legolas gestured at the hobbits, barely visible in the swirling snow. "They cannot endure much more. Even the Men are reaching their limits."
Boromir stirred, his competitive instincts flaring despite the circumstances. "I can carry both the halflings if necessary. We should not surrender to weather."
"This is not natural weather." The words escaped before Legolas could stop them. "This storm has will behind it. Malice. It will not ease until we retreat or die."
Silence fell—or as much silence as the screaming wind allowed. Legolas felt eyes on him, measuring, questioning. Gandalf's attention sharpened with suspicion that had never quite faded.
"How do you know this?" The wizard's voice carried power that cut through the storm.
"I've felt such malice before." Legolas chose his words carefully. "In Mirkwood's corrupted zones. Weather that serves shadow rather than season." A partial truth, wrapped around knowledge he couldn't explain.
Aragorn moved to stand beside him, his grey eyes assessing the conditions with a ranger's pragmatism. "He's right about the hobbits. Another hour of this, and we'll be carrying corpses."
The support tipped the balance. Gandalf's shoulders slumped slightly—defeat, or perhaps resignation to inevitable necessity.
"Very well. We retreat."
The descent was almost worse than the ascent. The snow had accumulated behind them, turning their path into a frozen maze that required constant vigilance. Legolas broke trail where he could, his lighter step keeping him atop snow that would have swallowed the others entirely.
Gimli fell into pace beside him as they reached lower slopes, the wind finally beginning to ease.
"You didn't fight the mountain."
The observation came without hostility—a simple statement of fact that carried undertones of surprise.
"Should I have?"
"Most Elves would." Gimli's breath steamed in air that was merely cold now, rather than murderous. "They think they can overcome anything. That their immortal bodies make them superior to mere weather."
"Survival matters more than pride."
Gimli grunted—the same sound he'd made in Rivendell, but warmer somehow. "Sensible. I'll remember that."
Progress. The word surfaced again. Small steps toward a friendship that had seemed impossible when they'd started.
The Fellowship made camp at Caradhras's base, sheltered by an overhang of rock that blocked the worst of the remaining wind. Sam produced food that seemed miraculous after hours of frozen hell—warm bread that he'd somehow kept protected, dried meat that tasted like the finest feast.
Legolas helped Sam warm frozen fingers by the fire, sharing body heat without words. The gardener's hands were red and swollen from cold, but he'd kept working throughout the retreat, ensuring that supplies weren't lost, that the hobbits had what they needed.
Heroes come in unexpected packages, Legolas thought. Sam will save the world, and he doesn't even know it yet.
The fire crackled in the darkness, casting dancing shadows on faces that had aged visibly during the day's ordeal. Boromir sat apart, his pride wounded by the retreat. Merry and Pippin huddled together under a shared blanket, their earlier cheerfulness replaced by exhausted silence.
And Frodo sat closest to the flame, the Ring hidden beneath his shirt but its weight visible in every line of his body.
"One path closed." Gandalf's voice broke the silence, heavy with implications. "Another waits below."
His eyes turned toward the darkness to the south, where the Misty Mountains continued their march toward distant horizons. Legolas followed his gaze and felt his stomach tighten.
Moria.
The Mines of Moria waited beneath those peaks—ancient Dwarvish halls that had become a tomb. Goblins and worse lurked in those depths. And deeper still, in shadows that even memory feared to touch, the Balrog slumbered.
Gandalf's doom, Legolas thought. The Fellowship's breaking point. And I cannot prevent it.
"The Mines of Moria," Gimli said, something like hope entering his voice for the first time since Rivendell. "My cousin Balin established a colony there. We could find rest and resupply."
Balin is dead. The knowledge pressed against Legolas's teeth, demanding to be spoken. They're all dead. The colony fell to darkness years ago. You will find only corpses and grief.
But he couldn't say that. Couldn't crush Gimli's hope with truth that would raise questions he couldn't answer.
"The Mines are dangerous," Gandalf said slowly. "I do not know what waits within. But if Caradhras is denied to us..."
"Let the Ring-bearer decide." Aragorn's voice cut through the growing tension. "It is his quest. The choice should be his."
All eyes turned to Frodo. The hobbit looked at each face in turn—Gandalf's reluctance, Gimli's hope, Boromir's impatience, the other hobbits' fear. And then his gaze found Legolas, holding for a moment that felt weighted with significance.
He's asking if I know something, Legolas realized. Asking if my earlier warning applies to what comes next.
But Legolas couldn't guide him. Couldn't reveal that Moria's horrors were nothing compared to what the Ring-bearer would face at journey's end. Could only watch as Frodo made a choice that would cost them all dearly.
"We will go through the Mines," Frodo said quietly.
Gimli's face split into a grin that Legolas couldn't bear to look at. The Dwarf didn't know he was walking toward his cousin's grave, toward proof that his people's attempt to reclaim their ancient home had ended in slaughter.
"Then it is decided." Gandalf rose, his staff catching the firelight. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow we seek the Doors of Durin."
The Fellowship settled into their bedrolls, exhaustion claiming them quickly after the day's ordeal. But Legolas remained by the fire, watching flames that couldn't warm the cold growing in his chest.
Moria, he thought. The Balrog. Gandalf's fall.
The path led forward, as it always did. And he would walk it, carrying knowledge that felt heavier than any mountain's snow.
The stars wheeled overhead, cold and distant, and somewhere in the darkness, shadows waited with patience older than time.
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