The morning light struck Legolas like a physical blow.
He'd stepped from his chambers onto a balcony overlooking the valley, expecting beauty—Rivendell's reputation preceded it across all of Middle-earth. But expectation and experience were different things entirely, and sixty years of Mirkwood's wounded beauty had not prepared him for this.
Undimmed.
The word surfaced from memories that belonged to both his lives—the Elvish understanding of light as it had existed before the shadow fell, and the human appreciation of something transcendent. Rivendell carried both qualities. The trees sang with colors that seemed to exist beyond normal perception. Waterfalls caught sunlight and scattered it into rainbows that persisted far longer than physics should allow. The air itself tasted of starlight and growing things, untouched by corruption.
Legolas gripped the balcony railing and let himself feel it. After decades of fighting shadow, of walking through forests that screamed with infection, of cleansing corruption that always grew back—this was what health looked like. This was what the Elves had been before the enemy rose.
This is what I've been trying to restore.
The thought carried unexpected weight. His cleansing work in Mirkwood had seemed meaningful while he was doing it—gradual progress, small victories against an endless tide. But standing in Rivendell's light, he understood the scale of what he'd lost. Of what all the Elves had lost when the shadow first fell.
His stomach rumbled, breaking the moment. Three weeks of travel rations and the previous evening's modest meal had left him genuinely hungry—a sensation his Elvish body experienced differently than his human one had, but hunger nonetheless.
Breakfast waited in a hall that seemed designed to maximize the morning light. Legolas found a seat that kept his back to the wall, old habits refusing to die even in sanctuary. The food was simple but extraordinary—bread that seemed to have captured sunlight in its crust, fruit that tasted of summers he'd never experienced.
"Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm."
The voice came from a Rivendell Elf who'd approached with the silent grace of long practice. Her silver hair caught the light, and her eyes held the assessment that Legolas had learned to expect from his own kind.
"I am Arwen Undómiel. My father asked that I welcome you properly now that you've rested."
Arwen. The name surfaced with the weight of meta-knowledge. Elrond's daughter. Aragorn's future bride. The Elf who would choose mortality for love and live to see her children's children.
"Lady Arwen." Legolas rose, offering the formal greeting of prince to princess. "Your home's beauty exceeds its reputation. I find myself... overwhelmed."
Her smile was gentle but not entirely warm. "Mirkwood's visitors often say so. The contrast with your forests must be stark."
She knows. Or suspects, at least. The Rivendell Elves had sensed something wrong about him from the moment he'd arrived—he'd felt their attention during his brief interaction with the guards, seen the subtle glances exchanged behind formal courtesies.
"Stark," Legolas agreed. "But not hopeless. The corruption can be fought."
"So we have heard." Arwen's gaze sharpened slightly. "Word of your cleansing work has reached us. Unusual techniques for a Sindarin prince. My father would speak with you about them, when you're rested enough for politics."
The invitation—or summons, depending on interpretation—was clear. Legolas inclined his head. "I am at Lord Elrond's disposal."
"This afternoon, then. In his study." Arwen's smile warmed fractionally. "Until then, you're welcome to explore. The gardens are particularly beautiful this season."
She withdrew with the effortless grace of someone who'd spent millennia perfecting the art of polite dismissal. Legolas finished his breakfast and considered his options.
The Ring called from somewhere in Rivendell—a constant pressure at the edge of his awareness, not demanding attention but impossible to ignore entirely. Frodo must be recovering nearby, probably in the healing halls. The Ringbearer and his burden, close enough to feel.
Don't seek it out, Legolas reminded himself. Distance is your ally.
He chose the gardens instead.
The paths wound through cultivated wildness that somehow managed to feel both designed and natural. Flowers bloomed in patterns that suggested meaning Legolas couldn't quite grasp, their colors shifting as the sun moved across the sky. He walked without purpose, letting Rivendell's peace settle over him like a blanket.
Other Elves moved through the gardens—residents, servants, visitors from distant realms. They acknowledged him with nods and quiet greetings, but none approached for conversation. Word of Mirkwood's strange prince had clearly spread.
Let them wonder, Legolas thought. Better speculation than investigation.
The sun had climbed to its zenith when he found a secluded grove that seemed designed for meditation. Benches of living wood curved around a fountain that sang rather than splashed, the water rising and falling in patterns that matched no music he could hear.
Legolas sat and let himself breathe.
Sixty years of preparation. Decades of training and cleansing and building abilities that might matter in the conflicts to come. And now he was here, in Rivendell, waiting for a Council that would determine the fate of Middle-earth.
The Fellowship will form. The certainty settled over him like armor. Frodo will carry the Ring to Mordor. Gandalf will fall in Moria. Boromir will yield to temptation. And I will walk beside them, carrying knowledge that makes me vulnerable to the Ring's whispers.
The Ring-craft understanding stirred at the edge of his thoughts, drawn by his attention to future events. He pushed it down firmly, reinforcing the mental barriers that had kept him stable through the journey.
"You feel like a wound."
The voice came from behind him—ancient, measured, carrying the weight of Ages. Legolas turned to find Elrond standing at the grove's entrance, his ageless features revealing nothing of his thoughts.
"Lord Elrond."
"Prince Legolas." Elrond moved into the grove with the deliberate grace of someone who'd had millennia to perfect every motion. "Forgive the intrusion. I thought we might speak before the formal meeting this afternoon."
"Of course." Legolas gestured to the bench beside him. "Your home is beautiful beyond words."
"It is." Elrond sat, his presence somehow making the grove feel smaller. "And you appreciate its beauty while carrying darkness that does not belong in Elvish flesh."
Direct. More direct than Legolas had expected from the master of Rivendell.
"Gandalf warned you."
"Gandalf mentioned concerns. I see them confirmed with my own perception." Elrond's eyes held the same sharpness his daughter had shown, but deeper—the sight of someone who'd witnessed the last great war against Sauron and survived. "You carry light from the Two Trees, yet you have never seen them. You understand techniques that should have died with their makers. And your fëa..."
He trailed off, something flickering across his expression that might have been pity.
"My fëa is wrong," Legolas finished for him. "I know. I've been told before—by healers, by wizards, by beings older than the sun."
"Yet you persist."
"I persist because I serve the same cause you do." Legolas met Elrond's gaze without flinching. "The Shadow must be defeated. Whatever I am, whatever made me this way, I intend to use it against the Enemy."
Silence stretched between them. The fountain sang its wordless song.
"The Ring calls to you," Elrond said finally. "I can see it in the way you hold yourself—the tension of someone resisting constant pressure. Your knowledge makes you vulnerable to its whispers."
"Yes."
"And yet you've come here anyway. To a Council that will discuss the Ring's fate. To a gathering where it will be present, calling to everyone with ears to hear."
"I've prepared for this moment for sixty years." Legolas heard the edge in his own voice and didn't try to soften it. "I've built barriers against temptation. I've studied the Ring's nature so I can recognize its seductions. I am as ready as anyone can be."
"Perhaps." Elrond rose, his expression still unreadable. "We shall see. The Council convenes in three days. Use the time to rest, to prepare, to strengthen whatever defenses you've constructed." A pause. "And stay away from the Ringbearer. Distance serves both of you."
He left the grove without waiting for response. Legolas sat alone in the singing silence, the Ring's distant call pressing against his awareness like water against a dam.
Three days, he thought. Three days to prove I belong here.
The sun continued its arc across Rivendell's perfect sky, and somewhere in the healing halls, Frodo Baggins recovered from wounds that should have killed him.
Note:
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.