The arrows didn't waver.
Legolas counted twelve bows drawn among the trees, each one held by an Elf whose silver-grey cloak blended with the mallorn bark until only movement betrayed their positions. The Galadhrim were legendary for their skill—Lothlórien had never fallen to enemy assault, and the precision of these archers explained why.
Haldir stood at the center of the path, his bow unstrung but his posture carrying authority that needed no weapon to enforce. His eyes moved across the Fellowship with assessment that missed nothing—the hobbits' exhaustion, Boromir's wariness, Gimli's hand drifting toward his axe.
"The Dwarf breathes so loud we could have shot him in the dark."
Gimli's hand tightened on his weapon. "Let them try."
"Peace." Legolas stepped forward, placing himself between the Dwarf and the Lothlórien guards. The movement drew every eye, including Haldir's—and something flickered in the marchwarden's expression. Recognition, perhaps, or the wariness that Legolas had learned to expect from those who looked too closely.
"We are the Fellowship of the Ring," Legolas said, letting Thranduil's training shape his voice into something that carried princely authority. "We travel under the protection of Elrond of Rivendell, bearing burdens too heavy for delay."
"The Ring." Haldir's voice went flat. "You bring the Ring of Power into the Golden Wood?"
"We bear it toward its destruction. Gandalf the Grey guided us—" Legolas paused, the words catching unexpectedly in his throat. Even knowing the wizard would return, the grief was real. "Gandalf is dead. He fell in Moria, fighting a Balrog so that we might escape."
Silence rippled through the Galadhrim. Even the arrows seemed to hesitate, their deadly aim wavering as the news settled over the border guards.
"Mithrandir has fallen?" Haldir's mask cracked, genuine shock bleeding through. "When?"
"Days ago. We fled Moria and came here seeking sanctuary." Legolas met the marchwarden's eyes, letting his own grief show. "Will you deny entry to those who mourn him?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with implications that went beyond simple hospitality. Lothlórien had maintained its isolation for ages, allowing few outsiders to pass its borders. But Gandalf had been a friend to this realm—had walked these woods when the world was younger, had counseled with Galadriel through centuries of shadow.
His death changed things.
"The Lady will wish to see you." Haldir's voice had softened, though his posture remained alert. "All of you. But the borders must be respected—even for those who bear grief." His gaze moved to Gimli. "The Dwarf will be blindfolded through the heart of the wood. Our secrets are not for outside eyes."
"Blindfolded?" Gimli's protest was immediate. "I'll not walk blind through Elvish territory like some prisoner!"
"Then you will not walk through it at all."
Legolas turned to his friend—and the word felt right now, earned through shared grief and silence. "Gimli. Please. We need this sanctuary."
The Dwarf's jaw worked, pride warring with practicality. His eyes found Legolas's, and something passed between them—the same understanding they'd built on the road from Moria, the same recognition that old grudges mattered less than present survival.
"Fine." Gimli's surrender was grudging but genuine. "But I'll not forget this indignity."
"You'll be in good company." Haldir's expression had thawed slightly. "All the Fellowship will be blindfolded through the deepest woods. The Lady's protection requires sacrifice from all."
The blindfolds were soft silk, blocking sight without binding. Legolas submitted to one despite the discomfort of walking without vision—the price of entry, paid by everyone equally. Even Aragorn wore one, the future king rendered as blind as the youngest hobbit.
But sight wasn't the only way to perceive.
As they walked deeper into Lothlórien, Legolas felt the realm's power pressing against him like warm water. The light here was different—not the harsh brightness of the sun or the cold gleam of stars, but something older, something that seemed to come from the trees themselves. Even blindfolded, he could sense the golden glow that suffused everything.
Nenya's work, he understood. Galadriel's Ring, holding back the world's decay.
The Ring of Water. One of the Three Rings that had been created without Sauron's direct touch, now used to maintain a pocket of the Elder Days within a world that had long since moved on. Lothlórien was a sanctuary, yes, but also a kind of tomb—preserving what could not be preserved, fighting a battle against time itself.
Haldir's hand touched his arm briefly as they walked. "I am sorry about Mithrandir." The words were quiet, meant for Legolas alone. "He was a friend to this realm. His loss diminishes us all."
"Thank you." Legolas found the response inadequate, but what else could he say? That he'd watched Gandalf fall and done nothing? That he'd known it was coming and let it happen anyway?
Some truths aren't for sharing, he reminded himself. Some burdens have to be carried alone.
The journey through the woods took hours—or perhaps days, time moving strangely beneath Nenya's influence. The Fellowship walked in silence, each member lost in their own thoughts, their own grief, their own wonder at the unseen beauty surrounding them.
And through it all, Legolas felt something else. A presence watching him. A perception that cut through blindfolds and barriers, examining him with an intensity that made his skin prickle.
Galadriel.
The Lady of Light had sensed his arrival. Had been waiting for him since her message reached Rivendell, perhaps longer. And now that he was within her realm, within reach of her power, she was taking his measure.
The Unsung One, she'd named him. A soul from beyond the circles of this world.
She knew. She'd always known. And soon, she would demand answers that Legolas wasn't sure he could give.
The blindfolds came off as afternoon faded toward evening.
Legolas blinked against light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere—the golden glow of mallorn leaves catching the last rays of sun, transforming ordinary twilight into something that belonged in legend. The Fellowship stood at the base of the greatest tree Legolas had ever seen, its trunk wider than a castle tower, its branches reaching toward stars that were just beginning to emerge.
Caras Galadhon. The city of trees. The heart of Lothlórien.
"Welcome to the realm of the Lady of Light," Haldir said, and even his formal tone couldn't hide the pride in his voice. "You will be given quarters and rest. The Lord and Lady will receive you when you have recovered from your journey."
The Fellowship climbed spiral stairs carved into living wood, rising through levels of the great mallorn until they reached platforms that seemed to float among the golden leaves. Quarters had been prepared—soft beds, clean water, food that tasted of comfort rather than mere sustenance.
But Legolas couldn't rest.
He walked the platforms as night deepened, watching the stars through gaps in the canopy, feeling Galadriel's attention follow him with every step. She wasn't hostile—he could sense that much. But her curiosity was as heavy as Sauron's malice, pressing against his defenses with patient, relentless pressure.
She's waiting, he understood. Waiting for me to be ready. Or waiting to see what I do when I think no one is watching.
The stars wheeled overhead, cold and distant but somehow less indifferent than they'd seemed in Moria's aftermath. Other eyes had watched these stars while carrying similar burdens. Other souls had faced the Lady's examination and emerged... changed, perhaps, but not destroyed.
I'm ready, Legolas thought, stopping at a window that overlooked the forest's silver-lit depths. Come ask your questions. I've been dreading this moment for too long. Let's get it over with.
The night offered no response. But somewhere in the city below, the Lady of Light smiled.
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