The Anduin flowed south like a grey ribbon stretched across the world's skin.
Legolas sat in the stern of his boat, paddle moving in rhythms that had become automatic over days of travel. Gimli occupied the bow, his complaints about water and floating having faded into grudging acceptance somewhere around the third day. Behind them, the other boats of the Fellowship followed in loose formation, eight figures carrying burdens that the river couldn't wash away.
Lothlórien was a memory now, golden and distant, its light fading with every mile of grey water. The landscape that replaced it carried none of the Golden Wood's beauty—brown banks, bare trees, the sense of wilderness that had forgotten civilization existed. They paddled through a world that didn't care about their quest, that would continue flowing whether Sauron won or fell.
Legolas's attention split between his paddle and the boat ahead, where Boromir sat with shoulders hunched and eyes that kept drifting toward Frodo.
The intervention continued. Every rest stop, every evening camp, every moment when Boromir separated himself from the others, Legolas found reasons to approach. To talk about Gondor's history, about the strength of Men, about Faramir's wisdom and Denethor's expectations. About burdens that sons carried and the ways those burdens could either forge strength or shatter spirits.
Sometimes Boromir seemed to hear him. Would straighten slightly, would meet Legolas's eyes with something like hope, would speak of his brother with fondness that suggested the man beneath the desperation was still fighting.
But then his gaze would slide toward Frodo's pocket, and the hope would fade.
"You spend much time with the Man from Gondor." Gimli's observation came as they paddled through an afternoon that had grown long and grey. "More than with any of us except perhaps me."
"He struggles with something."
"Aye, I've noticed. The Ring works on him—anyone with eyes can see it." Gimli's paddle bit into the water with particular force. "Can you help him?"
"I don't know." The honest answer felt like defeat. "I try. I keep trying. But the Ring..."
"The Ring is old and patient and has broken stronger wills than his." Gimli's voice carried unexpected gentleness. "Sometimes we cannot save people from themselves, no matter how hard we try."
Legolas thought of the vision the Mirror had shown him—himself wearing the Ring, building an empire from the ashes of everything he loved. The Ring had tried to break him too. Still tried, in quiet moments when his defenses were weakest.
You try to save him, it whispered now, its voice slipping through cracks in his concentration. But you cannot. He is mine already—the only question is when he admits it.
Legolas tightened his grip on the paddle and said nothing.
You could save him, the Ring continued. With my power, you could strengthen his will, protect him from the whispers. Together, you and he could lead armies that would drive Sauron from his throne. Gondor's captain and Mirkwood's prince, united in purpose.
The temptation was subtle—not demanding, not aggressive, but reasonable. Persuasive. The Ring understood him better than most enemies ever had. It knew that his weakness wasn't power-hunger or fear but the desperate desire to save people who couldn't be saved.
That is not who I choose to be.
The mantra from the Mirror surfaced, pushing back against the whispers. Legolas focused on the paddle's rhythm, on the water flowing beneath them, on anything that wasn't the golden voice in his head.
Evening found them camped on a narrow beach, boats pulled above the waterline, fire crackling against the growing dark. The Fellowship spread across the sand in their usual pattern—hobbits clustered together, Aragorn keeping watch at the edge of firelight, Boromir sitting apart with his back to a boulder.
Legolas approached the captain of Gondor with food that neither of them particularly wanted.
"The Argonath is close." Boromir's voice was rough, tired. "Another day, perhaps two. Then Amon Hen."
"I've heard the Argonath is magnificent."
"My father described them to me as a boy. Said they were the last true monuments to Gondor's glory." Boromir's hands clenched around the bread Legolas had offered. "Everything since has been decay. Slow collapse. Holding actions against an enemy we cannot defeat."
"Gondor has held for centuries."
"Holding isn't winning." The desperation bled through Boromir's careful composure. "Every year, the enemy grows stronger. Every year, we grow weaker. My father sends me to find a weapon that might save us, and instead I find a curse that must be destroyed."
"The Ring's destruction will save Gondor."
"Will it?" Boromir's eyes met his, and the hope there was painful to witness. "Will Sauron fall when the Ring falls? Will his armies scatter? Or will they continue their assault while we've thrown away our only advantage?"
This is how it works, Legolas understood. The Ring doesn't lie—it just shows truths that lead to terrible conclusions.
"The Ring is not an advantage," Legolas said carefully. "It's a trap. Whatever power it offers, whatever victory it promises—the cost is always higher than the benefit."
"How do you know?" The question came with desperate intensity. "Have you used it? Have you tested its power and found it wanting?"
"I've seen what it does to those who try." The Mirror's vision surfaced again—himself on that twisted throne, Tauriel dead at his feet. "The Ring serves only Sauron. Any power it grants is borrowed at interest that can never be repaid."
Boromir was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the fire. When he spoke again, his voice was smaller, more honest.
"It whispers to me. Every hour. Every moment. It shows me Minas Tirith saved, my father proud, my brother safe. It shows me everything I've ever wanted."
"I know." Legolas sat beside him, close enough to offer presence without intrusion. "It whispers to me too. Shows me Mirkwood healed, my people protected, my father's kingdom restored. The Ring knows our hearts better than we know ourselves."
"And how do you resist?"
By remembering what the Mirror showed me. By carrying the horror of what I could become as a shield against the temptation of what I might gain.
But he couldn't say that. Couldn't explain the vision that had broken something in him and rebuilt it stronger.
"By choosing," Legolas said instead. "Every time the whispers come, I choose to reject them. Not because resisting is easy, but because the alternative is worse than any difficulty."
Boromir's hand trembled as it reached for his sword hilt—a reflexive gesture, comfort sought in familiar weight. "I try to choose. But the whispers grow louder. And sometimes I wonder if the choice has already been made, and I simply haven't realized it yet."
Legolas felt his heart break a little. The man beside him was fighting a battle he couldn't win, and both of them knew it.
"The choice isn't made until you act on it," Legolas said. "Until then, you're still free. You're still the captain who defended Osgiliath, the brother who protected Faramir, the son who loves his city. Hold onto that. Hold onto who you are."
Boromir's eyes met his, and for a moment, something steadied there. Something that might have been the real man, the good man, pushing back against the corruption eating at his soul.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For trying."
It's not enough, Legolas thought as they sat together watching the fire burn low. I know it's not enough. But it's all I can do.
The stars wheeled overhead, cold and distant. Somewhere in the darkness, the Ring whispered to them both.
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