Gandalf's staff threw long shadows across the faces of the Fellowship.
The wizard had called them together after the evening meal, his expression carrying weight that needed no explanation. Caradhras had defeated them. The mountain pass was closed. And now they faced a choice that Legolas had dreaded since the journey began.
"There are two paths before us," Gandalf said, his voice low enough to prevent carrying on the night wind. "The Gap of Rohan, which would take us south between the mountains and the sea—or the Mines of Moria, which pass beneath the mountains entirely."
"The Gap," Boromir said immediately. "Open ground, faster travel, and Rohan may offer aid. My father has allies among the Horse-lords."
"The Gap also takes us within bowshot of Isengard." Aragorn's counter came without hesitation. "And Saruman watches that road. If the crebain we've seen are his, he knows we're coming."
Legolas listened to the debate with his gut twisting into knots. He knew this conversation. Knew its outcome. Knew that Moria was the only real choice—and knew exactly what waited in its depths.
The Balrog. The name surfaced with the weight of doom. Durin's Bane. The reason Gandalf will fall.
He could speak against it. Could claim Elvish foresight, dreams of fire and shadow, warnings from the Valar themselves. But what alternative could he offer? The Gap meant discovery. The mountains meant death. And Moria—Moria meant Gandalf's transformation into something greater.
Some things cannot be changed, Legolas reminded himself. Some losses serve purposes I cannot fully understand.
"What of Moria?" Gimli's voice carried an eagerness that made Legolas's chest ache. "My cousin Balin led an expedition there five years past. We might find welcome and resupply among my kin."
Balin is dead. The knowledge pressed against Legolas's teeth, demanding release. They're all dead. You will find only corpses and grief.
But he couldn't say it. Couldn't crush Gimli's hope with truth that would raise questions he had no way to answer.
"Moria is uncertain," Gandalf said slowly. "I have walked those halls before, but that was long ago. I do not know what waits within."
"Then we vote." Aragorn looked around the circle. "Those for the Gap?"
Boromir raised his hand, jaw set with the stubbornness that would eventually cost him everything. Legolas watched the captain's face and saw the cracks where the Ring would find its grip—pride that couldn't accept defeat, love for Gondor that bordered on desperation.
I could warn him, the thought surfaced again. Could prepare him for the temptation that's coming.
But Boromir's fall served purposes too. His attempt to take the Ring would drive Frodo to flee—would set the Ringbearer on the path he needed to walk. The script existed for reasons, even when those reasons felt like betrayal.
"Those for Moria?"
Gimli's hand shot up first, his hope for Balin's colony overriding caution. Then Gandalf, with the reluctance of someone walking toward something he'd rather avoid. The hobbits followed their wizard's lead, trusting his judgment over their own fear.
Aragorn raised his hand last. "The Gap is too dangerous. Moria offers cover."
"And you?" Frodo's quiet voice cut through the silence. The Ringbearer was looking at Legolas, his eyes carrying questions that went beyond the immediate vote.
Do you think we'll make it through?
Legolas met the hobbit's gaze and forced steadiness into his voice. "I think we must try."
Not agreement. Not confidence. Just the truth that they had no better options—that the road ahead was the only road, regardless of what waited at its end.
The vote settled it. Moria. The Mines of Khazad-dûm. The place where Gandalf would face his doom.
Legolas turned away from the group, ostensibly to check the perimeter. His hands were shaking. Not from cold—the temperature had risen since they'd descended from Caradhras. From knowledge he couldn't share. From watching companions walk toward tragedies he couldn't prevent.
Gandalf found him at the edge of the firelight, staring into darkness that pressed against their small circle of warmth.
"You said nothing during the debate."
Legolas didn't turn. "The choice was made before I could speak."
"That's not an answer." The wizard moved to stand beside him, his presence a weight of perception that never quite eased. "You've been watchful since we left Rivendell. More watchful than usual. And at Caradhras, you knew to retreat before the storm turned deadly."
"I've learned to read signs." The half-truth came easier now. "Mirkwood taught me that shadow takes many forms."
"And what signs do you read in Moria?"
Fire and shadow. A bridge over darkness. Your staff breaking as you fall.
"Uncertainty." Legolas met the wizard's eyes, letting genuine worry show through his careful mask. "The same uncertainty everyone feels. I hope we find passage, Gandalf. I hope Gimli finds his kin alive and well. But hope is all I have to offer."
Gandalf studied him for a long moment, his perception probing at edges that Legolas kept carefully guarded. Then he nodded slowly, accepting the answer without quite believing it.
"We leave at dawn. The Walls of Moria lie two days' march to the south. Whatever waits within—we will face it together."
He walked back toward the fire, leaving Legolas alone with the darkness and his knowledge.
Two days, Legolas thought. Two days until the doors. Four days until the bridge. Four days until I watch you fall.
The stars offered no comfort. They never did.
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