The paper felt heavier than it should in Legolas's hands.
The Lady of Lórien sends word: she knows you are coming, and she is waiting.
The words burned themselves into his memory, each one carrying implications that made his stomach tighten. Galadriel. The Lady of Light. Bearer of Nenya, the Ring of Water. One of the most powerful beings still walking Middle-earth.
And she knew he was coming.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor behind him. Legolas turned to find Elrond approaching, his ageless features grave with something that might have been concern.
"You've received her message."
"Yes." Legolas held up the paper. "What does she mean by it?"
Elrond's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. "The Lady Galadriel sees what others cannot. She perceived your arrival in Rivendell before you crossed our borders. Now she sends word through channels that should have taken weeks, arriving within days." A pause. "She used a different phrase when she first contacted me. 'The Unsung one who walks your path—I would speak with him in Lórien, if he survives the darkness ahead.'"
Unsung.
The word struck like a blade. Radagast had called him "unwritten." The Valar had examined him as an anomaly in their creation. But "unsung"—that was Galadriel's own assessment, drawn from perception that exceeded even Gandalf's.
She knows I don't belong to the Music, Legolas realized. She knows I exist outside the patterns that shape this world.
"I don't understand her meaning," Elrond continued, watching Legolas's face carefully. "But I trust her judgment. If she wishes to speak with you, it is because she sees something significant in your presence."
"Significant how? As a threat? An ally?"
"That, I suspect, she will determine when you meet." Elrond's gaze sharpened. "The Fellowship's path leads through Lothlórien. You cannot avoid this encounter."
Legolas looked down at the message again. The simple words contained no threat, no accusation. Just acknowledgment. Galadriel knew what he was—or at least knew that he was something other than what he appeared to be. And she wanted to examine him personally.
What truth can I offer someone who sees through lies?
The question had no easy answer. Galadriel's mirror showed truths that the viewer might not want to see. Her perception cut through deception the way light cut through shadow. If she chose to examine him directly, his carefully constructed defenses might crumble entirely.
And yet—
Perhaps an ally waits there, Legolas thought. Perhaps someone who finally understands.
The hope was dangerous. He'd spent sixty years hiding what he was, building barriers against discovery, maintaining a facade that protected him from consequences he couldn't predict. The prospect of being truly seen, truly known, carried both terror and relief.
"I cannot avoid Lothlórien," Legolas said finally. "The quest requires passage through its borders."
"It does." Elrond inclined his head. "Then whatever awaits you there, face it with the same courage you've shown in joining this Fellowship."
Courage. The word felt wrong applied to someone who already knew how the story ended. Legolas hadn't joined the Fellowship out of courage—he'd joined because the timeline demanded it, because his presence served purposes that went beyond personal fear or desire.
But Elrond didn't know that. Couldn't know that. And explaining would require truths that Legolas couldn't share.
"Thank you, Lord Elrond. For delivering the message. For your hospitality."
"May it serve you well." Elrond turned to leave, then paused. "Whatever Galadriel sees in you, Legolas Greenleaf—whatever secrets you carry—I hope they prove worth the burden."
He left without waiting for response. Legolas stood alone in the corridor, the message still clutched in his hand.
The Unsung one.
The name felt like a brand. A mark that identified him as something outside the normal order—something that existed where nothing should exist. The Valar had noticed him. Gandalf suspected him. And now Galadriel had named him, reaching across leagues and time to let him know that his nature was visible to those with eyes to see.
Legolas walked to his chambers, the message burning against his palm. He lit a candle and held the paper to the flame, watching the words blacken and curl.
She knows you are coming, and she is waiting.
The paper turned to ash. The words remained, echoing in his mind like a prophecy he couldn't escape.
Lothlórien. Weeks of travel lay between here and there. Caradhras to cross—or fail to cross. Moria to survive. Gandalf's fall to witness and mourn. And then, if he lived through all of that, Galadriel's examination awaited.
Running isn't an option, Legolas told himself. The path leads forward. Whatever waits in Lothlórien, I'll face it.
He brushed the ash from his fingers and began his final preparations for departure. Dawn would come soon, and with it, the road into shadow.
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