The pool lay still as black glass beneath the cliff face.
Legolas had been watching it since they arrived, his Morgul-awareness prickling with wrongness that had nothing to do with the cold. Something lived in that water. Something ancient and hungry, corrupted by the darkness that seeped through these mountains.
The doors of Moria stood hidden in the stone above—Dwarvish craft concealing their presence from casual observers. Gandalf studied the rock face with his staff raised, searching for the markings that would reveal the entrance.
"Ithildin," the wizard murmured. "Moon-letters. They only show by starlight and moonlight."
The Fellowship waited as darkness gathered and the moon rose over the mountains. Legolas positioned himself near Frodo without conscious decision, placing his body between the Ringbearer and the water.
"You keep looking at the lake." Sam's observation came quietly, pitched for Legolas's ears alone. "Is something wrong?"
Yes, Legolas wanted to say. Something is very wrong. In moments, that water will try to kill us.
"Stay away from it," he said instead. "The water feels... wrong."
Sam's face paled, but he nodded and moved closer to Frodo. Good. The gardener's instincts had never failed his master yet.
Moonlight struck the cliff face, and the doors blazed to life.
Silver lines traced themselves across the stone—an arch of interlocking symbols that spoke of ages past, when Dwarves and Elves had been allies rather than strangers. Legolas read the Elvish script without effort: The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter.
"A riddle," Gandalf mused. "What is the Elvish word for friend?"
The wizard began trying passwords, speaking words of command and opening in half a dozen languages. The doors remained closed, their silver tracery gleaming mockingly in the moonlight.
Legolas watched the water.
A ripple. Small, barely visible, but definitely there. The surface that had been perfectly still now showed the faintest movement—something rising from the depths.
Mellon, Legolas thought. The word is mellon. Say it, Gandalf. Say it before—
"It's a riddle!" Frodo's voice cut through the wizard's increasingly frustrated attempts. "Speak 'friend' and enter. What's the Elvish word for friend?"
"Mellon," Gandalf said.
The doors swung open, revealing darkness beyond. The Fellowship moved forward, eager to escape the oppressive silence of the lake.
Legolas grabbed Frodo's arm.
"Move. Now."
The water exploded.
Tentacles erupted from the lake—massive, writhing appendages covered in suckers that gleamed wetly in the moonlight. They swept toward the Fellowship with terrible purpose, guided by hunger that had waited centuries for prey.
Legolas pulled Frodo backward, shielding the Ringbearer with his body as a tentacle crashed past them. The impact threw spray across his face, the water carrying a corruption that made his skin crawl.
"Inside!" Aragorn's shout rang across the chaos. "Get inside!"
The Fellowship scrambled through the doors. Sam was dragging Frodo forward now, the hobbit's face white with terror. Merry and Pippin ran ahead, their shorter legs pumping frantically. Boromir's sword flashed, severing a tentacle that reached for Gimli.
And Gandalf stood at the entrance, his staff blazing with light that seemed to pain the creature in the water.
Legolas loosed arrows as he retreated—three shafts that buried themselves in writhing flesh without apparent effect. The Watcher was too large, too ancient, too far beyond simple weapons. It would take more than arrows to stop something that had lurked in this darkness since the Elder Days.
"Legolas!" Aragorn's voice, urgent. "Through the doors!"
He dove forward, rolling beneath a tentacle that would have crushed him against the stone. The impact of the missed strike shook the mountainside, dislodging rocks that cascaded down around the entrance.
The doors began to close—whether by Gandalf's power or the Watcher's assault, Legolas couldn't tell. Stone ground against stone, the ancient mechanisms engaging for the first time in centuries.
The last thing Legolas saw before darkness swallowed them was the Watcher's eyes—dozens of them, rising from the lake like diseased stars, filled with a malevolence that went beyond simple hunger.
Then the doors sealed.
The fury of the creature outside was muffled by stone so thick it seemed to absorb sound itself. The Fellowship stood in absolute darkness, gasping for breath, waiting for eyes to adjust that might never adjust to this depth of shadow.
Gandalf's staff flared to life.
The light revealed what Legolas had known they would find—but knowing didn't prepare him for seeing. A Dwarf corpse lay before them, centuries dead, an arrow protruding from the back of its rusted armor. Beyond it, more bodies. Dozens. Perhaps hundreds.
Gimli made a sound that wasn't quite a word.
"The Mines of Moria," Boromir said grimly. "It seems Gimli's welcome has... expired."
"This way." Gandalf's voice carried command that brooked no argument. "We cannot go back. The Watcher has sealed us in as surely as any lock. Our only path is forward."
The Fellowship began to move, stepping carefully around the evidence of slaughter. Legolas fell into position at the rear, his eyes scanning darkness that even Elvish sight struggled to penetrate.
Behind them, the Watcher still raged—its fury audible as distant thunder, its hatred pressing against the stone like a living thing.
And ahead, in darkness so deep it seemed solid, something far worse waited.
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