Sleep wouldn't come.
Legolas lay in his borrowed bed, staring at the ceiling of woven branches, his mind still churning with everything the Mirror had shown. The visions replayed behind his eyes—his original death, the voice that had asked him to serve, the possible futures where everything succeeded or failed.
But there was something else. A shadow at the edge of his awareness, a vision the Mirror had started to show before he'd pulled away. Something he hadn't wanted to see, hadn't been ready to face.
The something that frightened him most.
He closed his eyes, trying to force rest, and the darkness behind his lids became something else entirely.
The garden reformed around him—silver light, still water, the basin waiting. But this time Legolas wasn't standing beside it. He was inside it, submerged in visions that pressed against him from all sides.
And the Mirror showed him his worst fear.
A throne room carved from living stone, its architecture a twisted echo of Gondolin's glory. Legolas sat upon a seat of silver and shadow, the One Ring gleaming on his finger. Around him, Elves knelt—not in worship, but in chains. Their light had been drained, their immortality bound to his will, their essence feeding a restoration that had become corruption.
Mirkwood's forest stretched beyond the throne room's windows, healed of its darkness—but the healing was wrong. The trees grew too tall, too perfect, their beauty a prison rather than a paradise. Nothing aged. Nothing changed. Nothing died.
And nothing truly lived.
Tauriel lay at his feet, her eyes empty, her spirit broken. She had tried to stop him, once. Had reminded him of who he'd been, of promises he'd made. But the Ring had whispered that she was a distraction, that her love was a chain holding him back from his true purpose.
So he had removed the chain.
"My Lord," an Elf said, kneeling before the throne. "The Men of Gondor resist still. Shall we send another army?"
"No." The voice from Legolas's throat was his own, but twisted—confident, cruel, certain. "Let them resist. Let them believe they have hope. It makes the breaking sweeter."
The Ring pulsed on his finger, warm with approval. This was what it had always wanted—not a servant, but a partner. Not corruption, but completion. Legolas had understood its craft better than anyone since Celebrimbor himself. Together, they had built something that would last forever.
Forever.
The word echoed through the vision, carrying a weight that crushed everything else. Forever in shadow. Forever in chains. Forever wrong.
This was what he could become. What the Ring wanted him to become. What some part of him—the part that had absorbed Ring-craft knowledge, that understood the Rings' power from the inside—might actually be capable of becoming.
All he had to do was say yes.
"NO."
Legolas tore himself from the vision, gasping, weeping, his hands clawing at bedsheets that had become twisted around his body like chains. The borrowed quarters felt too small, the air too thick, the darkness too complete.
"That is not who I choose to be." The words came out broken, desperate, a denial that felt necessary even though the vision was gone. "That is not—I will not—"
"You have seen it, then."
Galadriel's voice came from the doorway, soft as starlight, patient as stone. She stood silhouetted against the night, her presence filling the small space without overwhelming it.
"The Mirror was not finished with you," she continued. "It showed you what you needed to see, whether you wanted to see it or not."
Legolas forced himself upright, his face wet with tears he didn't remember shedding. "How did you know?"
"I felt your distress across the realm. The Mirror's echoes carried your fear like ripples in still water." Galadriel moved into the room, her steps soundless. "What did you see?"
"Myself." The word tasted like ash. "Wearing the Ring. Building a twisted empire from the ashes of everything I claimed to love. Becoming—"
"Becoming what the Ring wants you to become." Galadriel sat on the edge of his bed, her ageless features gentle in the dim light. "The vision shows potential, not prophecy. It shows what you could choose, not what you will choose."
"But I could." Legolas's voice cracked. "I understand Ring-craft. I know how the Rings work from the inside. If I decided to embrace that knowledge, to use the One Ring rather than destroy it—"
"Then you would be capable of horrors that others could not imagine." Galadriel's voice carried no judgment, only truth. "This is the burden of understanding. Those who comprehend evil most fully are those most capable of choosing it."
"How do you bear it?" The question emerged raw, desperate. "You've carried Nenya for ages. You understand the Rings' power better than almost anyone. How do you resist the temptation to use what you know?"
"By remembering what I've already lost to similar temptation." Galadriel's expression flickered—grief ancient and deep, surfacing briefly before submerging again. "I sought power once, in the days before the sun rose. I followed those who promised glory and received only ruin. The lesson cost me more than I can express."
She reached out and took his hand—the first time she'd touched him since their conversation in the garden.
"I could destroy you," she said quietly. "I could send word to Elrond, to the remaining Istari, to every Elf-lord who might listen. I could reveal your nature and watch as the forces of good destroyed you out of fear for what you might become."
Legolas's heart hammered. "Why don't you?"
"Because I see what the Mirror showed you—and I see what you chose when you saw it." Galadriel's grip tightened. "You rejected the vision. You named it your fear rather than your desire. You wept at the thought of becoming what the Ring wants."
"That doesn't mean I'm safe."
"No one is safe. The Ring corrupts everyone eventually—that is its nature, its purpose." Galadriel's eyes met his, ancient and knowing. "But I have lived long enough to recognize the difference between those who fall to darkness and those who fight it. You are a fighter, Unsung One. Whatever else you are, that much is clear."
She released his hand and stood.
"We are allies now, you and I. Not because I trust you completely—I do not. But because I believe your intent is against the Shadow, and in this age, that is enough." Her voice hardened slightly. "Betray that intent, and I will end you personally."
"I understand."
"Good." Galadriel moved toward the door, then paused. "When you face the Ring again—and you will—remember what the Mirror showed you. Remember the chains you would forge, the lives you would consume, the love you would destroy. Let that horror be your shield against temptation."
She left without waiting for response.
Legolas sat alone in the darkness, his hands still trembling, the vision's images still burning behind his eyes.
That is not who I choose to be.
The words became a mantra, repeated until they felt like truth rather than desperate hope.
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