Light.
After days of darkness so complete it had become a physical weight, the shaft of pale illumination streaming through the ceiling felt almost violent. Legolas's eyes, adjusted to Gandalf's staff-glow and nothing more, watered at the sudden brightness.
The chamber opened around them—a tomb, that much was clear from the stone sarcophagus at its center. But a tomb that had once been a hall of records, its walls lined with alcoves that held crumbling books and rotting scrolls. Whatever ceremony or governance had happened here, it had ended long ago.
Gimli pushed past the others before anyone could stop him.
The Dwarf fell to his knees before the sarcophagus, a sound escaping his throat that wasn't quite a word. His hand trembled as it reached out to touch the carved stone, tracing runes that spelled a name Legolas could read even from across the chamber.
Balin son of Fundin. Lord of Moria.
"Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria." Gandalf's voice was gentle as he read the inscription aloud. "He is dead, then. It's as I feared."
Gimli's shoulders shook. The grief was raw, uncontained—the hope he'd carried through days of darkness finally collapsing under the weight of undeniable truth. His cousin hadn't established a thriving colony. His cousin had died, along with everyone who'd followed him into these depths.
Legolas watched the Dwarf grieve and felt his own chest tighten with guilt. He'd known. Since before they entered Moria, he'd known that Balin was dead, that the colony had failed, that Gimli would find only a tomb where he'd hoped for welcome. And he'd said nothing.
What could I have said? The familiar justification felt hollow now. How could I have explained knowing?
But the silence felt like betrayal nonetheless.
Gandalf moved through the chamber, his staff-light revealing details that the shaft of natural illumination couldn't reach. He found a book clutched in skeletal hands—a thick tome, its pages stained and torn but still legible.
"The Book of Mazarbul," the wizard murmured. "The record of Balin's colony."
The Fellowship gathered as Gandalf began to read, his voice carrying the final testimony of Dwarves who'd known they were doomed.
"'We have barred the gates but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums... drums in the deep.'" Gandalf paused, his eyes scanning ahead through pages that grew increasingly desperate. "'We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out.'"
Silence fell over the chamber. Even Pippin, usually irrepressible, stood frozen with fear that had nothing to do with the present moment. The words described events decades past, but they carried a weight that pressed against the Fellowship like a physical force.
"'They are coming.'"
Gandalf closed the book. His face was grave, but something else lurked behind his expression—recognition, perhaps, or resignation. As if he'd known what the book would say before he read it.
Legolas used the moment to move through the chamber, cataloguing positions with the tactical awareness that Glorfindel's training had made instinctive. The hobbits clustered near Gandalf—good, they'd be close to the wizard's protection when chaos came. Boromir and Aragorn flanked the main entrance, their warrior instincts placing them where danger would arrive first.
But Frodo stood too exposed.
Legolas drifted toward the Ringbearer, positioning himself between Frodo and the doorway without making the movement obvious. If the attack came—when the attack came—he needed to be close enough to intervene.
"Stay near me," he murmured, pitched for Frodo's ears alone.
The hobbit looked up, fear and gratitude warring in his expression. "You feel it too? Something's wrong here."
"Something's been wrong since we entered." Legolas guided Frodo gently toward the chamber's rear, where a second doorway offered escape routes the main entrance couldn't provide. "Keep Sam close. When I tell you to run, run."
"What about—"
"Don't argue. Don't hesitate. Just run."
Frodo's eyes widened, but he nodded and moved to Sam's side. The gardener's hand found the hilt of his small sword, his face pale but determined.
Good, Legolas thought. They'll survive this. They have to survive this.
Gandalf was still examining the chamber, his staff-light probing corners that the natural illumination couldn't reach. The wizard's expression had grown increasingly troubled, his movements carrying an urgency that hadn't been there before.
"We must move on," Gandalf said. "We cannot linger here."
"A moment." Gimli's voice cracked. "Please. A moment for—"
A clatter echoed through the chamber.
Every head turned toward the source—Pippin, standing frozen beside an ancient well, his face white with horror. Behind him, a skeleton was tumbling into the darkness, its armor clanking against stone as it fell.
The sound cascaded downward. Metal striking rock. Bone shattering. Echoes multiplying until the well seemed to contain a small war.
Then silence.
Gandalf closed his eyes, and when he opened them, something ancient and terrible looked out.
"Fool of a Took." The words carried no anger, only exhaustion. "Throw yourself in next time, and rid us of your stupidity."
Pippin's face crumpled, but before anyone could speak—before anyone could offer comfort or condemnation—another sound rose from the depths.
Drums.
Distant at first, barely audible over the Fellowship's breathing. But growing. Pulse after pulse, like a heartbeat rising from the earth itself.
Doom. Doom. Doom.
"Orcs," Boromir breathed.
Legolas nocked an arrow, his hands steady despite the fear coiling in his gut. This was it. The battle he'd known was coming since they'd entered these mines. The chaos that would force them to flee toward the Bridge—toward Gandalf's doom.
Tomorrow you fall, he thought, looking at the wizard. Tomorrow the Fellowship's heart breaks. And I cannot stop it.
The drums grew louder, joined now by shrieks that echoed through corridors they couldn't see. Hundreds of voices, maybe thousands, raised in a hunting cry that spoke of hunger older than the colony they'd devoured.
"Bar the doors," Aragorn commanded. "Boromir, help me."
The two Men shoved furniture against the entrance—heavy tables, stone benches, anything that might slow the approaching horde. Gimli climbed onto Balin's tomb, his axe ready, grief transmuted into fury that burned in his eyes.
"Let them come," the Dwarf snarled. "There is one Dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath."
Legolas positioned himself with clear sightlines to both doorways, his quiver heavy against his back. Twenty arrows, perhaps twenty-five. Not enough for what was coming. Not nearly enough.
But they would have to do.
The drums reached a crescendo—doom doom doom—and then the doors exploded inward.
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