The sunlight felt like a lie.
Legolas stood at the rear of the Fellowship, bow in hand, watching the eastern gate of Moria for pursuit that hadn't come. His body moved through the motions of duty—scanning terrain, checking sightlines, maintaining vigilance—while his mind remained frozen on a bridge that no longer existed.
Fly, you fools.
Gandalf's final words echoed through his skull, each repetition carrying fresh weight. The wizard had looked at him in that last moment. Had met his eyes across the chaos and fire and death, and something in that gaze had seemed almost like understanding.
Did he know? The question burned. In that final instant, did he realize I'd let him walk toward this?
Behind him, the Fellowship was breaking.
The hobbits wept openly, their grief raw and uncontained. Sam held Frodo, the gardener's usual practicality shattered by loss that transcended his experience. Merry and Pippin clung to each other like children, which they were—children who'd followed their friends into nightmare and emerged diminished.
Boromir sat on a rock, his face blank, his eyes seeing nothing. The captain of Gondor had watched his only hope for victory die in fire and shadow, and some essential part of him had gone quiet. Gimli's silence was worse—the Dwarf's rage had turned inward, burning with an intensity that promised explosion when it finally released.
And Aragorn stood apart, forcing himself to his feet through willpower alone, his grey eyes carrying the weight of leadership that had just doubled.
"We cannot linger." The Ranger's voice was rough, scraped raw by smoke and screaming. "The Orcs will pursue. We must reach Lothlórien before nightfall."
No one moved. The command fell into grief and drowned there.
Aragorn's jaw tightened. Legolas recognized the expression—the conflict between compassion and necessity, between allowing time to mourn and ensuring there would be time to mourn later.
"I know." Aragorn's voice softened. "I know this is impossible. But Gandalf gave his life so we could escape. We dishonor him if we die here."
"He gave his life." Frodo's voice emerged small and broken. "For us. For me."
The Ringbearer's hand pressed against his chest, against the burden that had cost them everything. The guilt in his expression mirrored what Legolas felt—the certainty that someone else's death was somehow their fault, that different choices could have saved the one who fell.
But I actually could have saved him, Legolas thought. I knew what was coming. I could have warned him, prepared him, changed something.
And destroyed everything that followed. Gandalf the White wouldn't rise without Gandalf the Grey's fall. The timeline required this sacrifice, this loss, this breaking of hearts that would never fully heal.
Does that make it better? The question had no answer. Does purpose justify letting someone die?
Legolas moved to Aragorn's side, his footsteps silent on grass that should have felt welcoming after days of stone. The Ranger met his eyes, and something passed between them—recognition of shared burden, acknowledgment that they were now the Fellowship's leadership.
"I'll take rear guard," Legolas said quietly. "Get them moving. I'll watch for pursuit."
Aragorn nodded, a gesture that conveyed gratitude without words. The Ranger turned back to the Fellowship, his voice gentle but insistent, coaxing grief-stricken companions to their feet.
Legolas positioned himself at the back of the forming line, bow ready, eyes scanning the mountain's face for any sign of Orc pursuit. The work was mechanical, familiar—the routine of patrol that Mirkwood had burned into his muscles over sixty years.
But his mind kept returning to the bridge.
I could have done something. The thought circled like a carrion bird, refusing to land or depart. Could have warned him about the whip. Could have positioned myself differently. Could have—
Could have what? Fought a Balrog? Challenged a Maia of the ancient world with arrows and knives? The absurdity should have been obvious, but guilt didn't respond to logic.
You let him die, his conscience insisted. You knew and you let him die.
For the world, another part answered. For Gandalf the White. For everything that comes after.
The mathematics of sacrifice. The cold calculations that transmigrators learned to make, weighing individual lives against the fate of nations. Legolas had made such calculations before—had chosen to let the Dwarves face Mirkwood's spiders rather than intervene, had watched events unfold that he could have changed.
But this was different. This was Gandalf. This was someone who'd questioned him, challenged him, watched him with suspicion that had been entirely justified. Someone who might have become an ally if given time. Someone who'd died without knowing why Legolas had seemed so strange.
Fly, you fools.
The Fellowship moved east, their pace slow, their spirits crushed. Legolas walked at the rear, watching their backs, carrying guilt that would never fully fade.
The trees of Lothlórien appeared on the horizon as afternoon faded toward evening—golden leaves catching light that seemed to come from somewhere beyond the sun. Even from this distance, Legolas could feel the power of the place, the protection that Galadriel's Ring provided against the darkness pressing on Middle-earth from all sides.
She's waiting, he remembered. The Lady who named me "Unsung." The confrontation I've been dreading since Rivendell.
But right now, the dread felt distant. Right now, all he could feel was the weight of a wizard's last words and the knowledge that he'd let them become last words when he could have done something—anything—different.
The Fellowship walked toward the Golden Wood, and Legolas walked behind them, guarding their retreat from enemies that hadn't pursued.
The enemy that haunted him couldn't be outrun.
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