The wrongness reached Legolas during deep meditation.
He'd been exploring the Inheritance Space—a routine check of newly opened chambers, cataloging knowledge without absorbing it—when the sensation struck like a blade between his ribs. Cold. Ancient. Hungry.
The Nine.
Legolas's eyes snapped open. His chambers were dark, night having fallen while he meditated, but he could feel the disturbance as clearly as if it burned on his skin.
The Nazgûl were hunting.
Not close—hundreds of leagues distant, in lands far beyond Mirkwood's borders. But his sensitivity to Morgul-sorcery, developed through years of studying the corruption that had plagued his forest, detected the echo of their awakening. Nine ringwraiths, mounted on beasts of shadow, riding toward the Shire with murder in their empty hearts.
They know, Legolas thought, his pulse racing. Sauron knows the Ring has been found.
He rose from his meditation position and moved to the window. Stars burned cold and distant in the sky above—Varda's creation, older than the world itself. Somewhere beneath that same sky, a hobbit named Frodo Baggins was running for his life.
The timeline had begun.
Legolas pressed his hand against the cold stone of the windowsill, grounding himself in physical sensation while his mind raced through implications. Gandalf had confirmed Frodo's ring was THE Ring. The Ringbearer was fleeing Bag End. The Black Riders were converging on the Shire.
I could intervene, the thought whispered. Ride west, find Frodo before the Nazgûl do, change the opening moves of the war entirely.
The temptation was powerful. Sixty years of preparation, of building abilities specifically designed to fight this enemy, and his first instinct was still to break the script. To take control. To prevent suffering through direct action.
But he'd learned the costs of intervention. Had watched the spider attack claim two guards who would have lived if he'd left the corrupted glades alone. Had felt his father's trust shatter when he'd tried to influence events beyond his authority.
The script exists for reasons, Legolas reminded himself. The mantra had served him well over decades. Not all of them bad.
Frodo needed to reach Rivendell. The Fellowship needed to form with the specific members the story demanded—Aragorn, Gandalf, Gimli, Boromir, and the hobbits whose friendship would prove as vital as any weapon. Legolas's place was among them, yes, but not as a replacement for the connections that would develop along the way.
Wait for the summons, he decided. Prepare for the journey. Join at Rivendell, where the Council will determine the Ring's fate.
The decision settled over him like armor—protective but constraining. He couldn't save everyone. Couldn't prevent every tragedy. Could only position himself to help where it mattered most.
"Frodo," he whispered into the darkness. The name of a hobbit he'd never met, carrying a burden that Legolas understood too well.
The Ring-craft knowledge stirred at the edge of his thoughts, as if responding to the mention of its creation's current bearer. Legolas pushed it down firmly, reinforcing the mental barriers he'd built over sixty years.
Not now. Not ever, if I can help it.
He left his chambers and walked through the sleeping palace, needing movement more than rest. The corridors were quiet, guards stationed at intervals but otherwise empty. Legolas nodded to each sentinel as he passed, acknowledging their service without breaking stride.
The training grounds called to him out of habit. He'd spent thousands of hours here, transforming borrowed muscle memory into genuine skill. The Glorfindel bladework that had once required conscious effort now flowed as naturally as breathing.
Legolas drew his knives and began moving through the forms. Not practice—he didn't need it anymore—but meditation through motion. Physical exertion to quiet the storm of his thoughts.
The Nazgûl are hunting.
Block, strike, pivot. The blade sang through empty air.
Frodo is running.
Sidestep, parry, thrust. Muscles responded to patterns learned across decades.
The War of the Ring has begun.
The sequence completed, and Legolas stood alone in the darkness, weapons extended, breath steady despite the weight of knowledge pressing against his skull.
He'd prepared for this. Had trained for sixty years, healing forests and mastering abilities and building relationships that would matter in the conflicts to come. Everything led to this moment—the intersection of timeline and readiness.
I am as prepared as I'll ever be, Legolas thought. Now I discover if it's enough.
Dawn found him still in the training grounds, practicing movements he'd perfected years ago. Tauriel joined him as the sun climbed, her own blades catching morning light as she fell into familiar rhythms beside him.
"You're troubled," she observed between sequences. "More than usual."
"Something's happening. In the west." Legolas completed a particularly complex transition—Glorfindel's technique merged with his own innovations—before continuing. "I can feel it through the Morgul-awareness I developed studying the corruption. Something ancient is moving."
"The Nazgûl." Tauriel's voice carried recognition rather than surprise. She'd learned enough over the decades to read his expressions, to understand when he was sensing things beyond normal perception. "They're hunting?"
"Yes."
"What does it mean?"
Legolas lowered his weapons, facing her directly. The morning sun illuminated features he'd known for sixty years—longer, if he counted Legolas's original memories. She was the closest thing to a partner he had in this world. The closest thing to home besides the forest itself.
"It means the war I've been preparing for has begun. The Ring has surfaced. The Enemy knows where it is. And representatives from every free people will be summoned to Rivendell to decide what happens next."
Tauriel processed this, her tactical mind already working through implications. "And you'll be among them."
"Mirkwood will need representation. Who better than its prince?"
A faint smile crossed her face—the expression of someone acknowledging a statement too obvious to require saying. "Who indeed."
They finished the training sequence together, movements synchronized through decades of practice. When the forms were complete, Tauriel cleaned her blades and sheathed them with the efficient grace of a lifetime warrior.
"Will you tell Thranduil?"
The question carried weight they both understood. The estrangement between father and son had softened over sixty years but never fully healed. They spoke at court, cooperated on matters of state, but the intimacy of family remained broken.
"I'll inform him of the summons when it arrives," Legolas said. "He won't object. The realm's interests align with my participation."
"And when you leave?"
"Then Mirkwood will need a strong captain to protect it in my absence." Legolas met her eyes. "You've earned that role many times over."
Something flickered in Tauriel's expression—pride, perhaps, mixed with something more complex. "I had a good teacher."
"You exceeded the teacher years ago."
They walked back toward the palace together as morning activity stirred the realm to wakefulness. Servants emerged to begin their duties. Guards changed shifts with military precision. The machinery of Elvish civilization hummed along, oblivious to the cosmic conflicts unfolding beyond its borders.
Legolas paused at the palace gates, looking back toward the forest he'd spent sixty years healing. Patches of healthy growth scattered through the remaining corruption. Progress measured in decades. Work that would need to continue long after he'd gone.
"I'll come back," he said, as much to the forest as to Tauriel. "When the war is won."
"Will it be won?"
The question deserved honesty. "I don't know. I believe so—believe it deeply enough to have spent my life preparing. But belief isn't certainty."
Tauriel nodded slowly. "Then we make certain. Whatever it takes."
"Whatever it takes."
The day unfolded around them, and somewhere far away, a hobbit ran from shadows that would not rest until they found what they were seeking. The fate of Middle-earth hung on small feet and unexpected courage.
And in Mirkwood's royal halls, a prince who wasn't quite what he seemed prepared to join a Fellowship that would determine everything.
Gandalf would need representatives at Elrond's council. News would come within weeks—the Grey Wizard's summons, delivered through channels that had connected the realms for ages. When it arrived, Legolas would answer.
He returned to his chambers to begin preparations. Weapons to maintain. Supplies to gather. A father to inform, if not to reconcile with.
The Ring called from leagues away, sensed through knowledge that made him vulnerable to its promises. The Nazgûl hunted through darkness that echoed in his Morgul-awareness. The war he'd spent sixty years preparing for had finally arrived.
Legolas drew his knives and began checking their edges. The familiar weight of the weapons grounded him, reminded him of everything he'd learned and everything he'd become.
I am ready, he thought. Or as ready as anyone can be.
Somewhere in the west, Frodo Baggins took his first steps on a journey that would end at Mount Doom or in darkness. The One Ring whispered promises to everyone who encountered it, speaking to desires both noble and corrupt.
And in Mirkwood, a soul that existed outside the Music prepared to walk beside the Ringbearer—carrying knowledge that made the Ring more dangerous than ever, and hoping that sixty years of preparation would be enough to resist its call.
The countdown to Rivendell had begun.
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