It was dark, and even though the vast hollowed cavern the Fellowship had taken up residence in for the night (or was it day?) was huge enough for all of them to rest with room to spare, the dark made things feel closer than they were. As a result, after Gandalf had dimmed the light from the stone mounted on his staff, Legolas had become uneasy. His own skin crawled beneath his heavy tunic, the soft shirt beneath that grating like sand. Even as he slept, eyes seeing even as his mind rested, the near claustrophobia burrowed into his subconscious.

He’d never felt like this before. Although he was a child of the open woods, and Mirkwood at night much blacker than this, enclosed spaces had never even stirred a second thought. But now, something had taken hold of him… and he both knew, and didn’t know, what it was.

After he’d offered his bow to Frodo and had been named to the Fellowship, he’d had the chance to speak with Elrond. In that conversation, he’d gotten the true story of what it meant to the Elves to see the Ring destroyed. Legolas had always known the time of his people would come to an end, and had thought he’d been prepared for it. Even when Elrond had laid that fact out on the table, plain as the summer sun on the water, Legolas had not even flinched. But since then, the more they’d traveled, the more the thought had gnawed at him. If Frodo succeeded in destroying the One Ring, then it meant an end to the Elves.

And I, Legolas, an Elf, shall help him do it. I gave him the service of my bow… and by doing so, play a hand in the destruction of my people. What have I done? he thought, even as he was surprised at the question he posed to himself.

What indeed, a voice from somewhere on the fringes of his slumbering mind whispered. You are stronger than any of them. Faster, with eyes sharper than a hawk’s, the soft-footed gait of a cat stirs not even the ancient dusts of this mine beneath your feet. You could take it, and lead your people to glory, over the Hobbits, Dwarves, and Humans alike. And you would be the one the legends would sing of, the one the Elves would love forever as their savior.

Legolas was so stunned by the voice he was jolted from his rest, his body uncoiling in a whiplash-like movement from the flat outcropping he’d been curled on, knees to chest. Scrabbling to his feet, in one lightning move he drew his bow, nocking an arrow, looking for the source of the voice. The other eight members of the Fellowship snapped awake at the sudden noise, which in the dead silence of the deserted mines was loud, even for the impossibly-silent Elf.

“What is it, Legolas?” Aragorn asked, hand to the hilt of his sword.

Legolas stood motionless for several tense moments, not replying. Other than the crawling of his own skin, he could sense nothing else about them. “Nothing. I thought I heard something…”

“Perhaps you were dreaming?” Frodo offered, largely unaware of the way of Elves and sleep. It was all Legolas could do to keep from cringing at the Hobbit’s voice. Something in it was suddenly pulling him, causing an impulse to rise within his heart that should not be there…

“I do not… Elves do not sleep, nor dream…” The strained tone of Legolas’ voice set Aragorn on edge. Something was wrong about it. As Legolas dropped down, curling into his resting position again, the others relaxed and settled back down to sleep… but Aragorn decided to stay awake a while, to keep an eye on his friend. It was far too unlike the usually cool, collected Elf to be quite so prone to false alarms, but there had been a few since their journey through Moria had begun.

Legolas drifted off again, this time facing the members of the Fellowship so that his eyes could catch sight of whatever it was that had spoken. For some time, the cavern was silent; long enough that eventually even Aragorn gave in to the need for slumber. But the drive was still there, pounding in Legolas’ heart even more now. Something about hearing Frodo’s voice had set the smoldering embers that had been ignited to blazing.

You could take it, and lead your people to glory…

I could, Legolas answered the voice, which now felt even closer to him. They’d never know, he’d never feel it. I’ve plucked honeycombs from the nests of bees before they even knew I was there… this would be so much easier…

And suddenly, inexplicably, Legolas began to dream.

In his mind’s eye, he rose, stealing silently across the floor of the cavern, each step taking several minutes as he moved with the greatest of stealth. Not a one of them stirred, not even Aragorn or Boromir, hardened, alert warriors that they were. Legolas smiled, pride filling his chest to bursting. I am better. I can trick them all. They’ve no idea what I am, or can become.

It took an eternity, his own soul spurring him on as his body strained to stay at bay lest he burst forth and his plan be foiled. But finally, he stood over Frodo, the sleeping Hobbit totally unaware of his presence. Crouching, Legolas reached his long arm out, deft fingers slipping into the pocket at Frodo’s breast, connecting with the tiny, cold object within. Securing it between the tip of thumb and forefinger, Legolas brought the One Ring out into the dim light. He was mildly surprised at how heavy it was, for such a small band. Raising it, he squinted, trying to find the Elvish he had been told was there, but saw nothing but his own distorted reflection in the smooth surface.

Don it now! Add the cloak of invisibility to your stealth, and go on alone. Leave them to the depths of the mines. You could block their paths, and they would never emerge again… and your people shall truly live forever.

Legolas stared down at the Ring in his hand, then braced it again between thumb and forefinger, staring through the perfect circle. It would fit his middle finger well… He raised his right hand, pausing one last moment before he slipped the long finger through. Something within his heart of hearts began to scream, its voice barely audible beneath the raging in his mind…

“LEGOLAS!”

The Elf jolted awake, and to his horror found himself not only holding the Ring, but also wielding one of his knives. He had not been dreaming – he was crouched over Frodo, the Hobbit’s huge blue eyes even larger in their terror at the Elvish blade resting on his throat. It had been Aragorn’s voice that had torn Legolas from his Ring-enduced hallucination, and now the Ranger stood with blade at the ready, his own heart torn at the distinct possibility of striking down his friend.

“I must have it!” Legolas heard himself crying out. “If I let him live, he will take down my people! I must save them all… we are immortal! We are not meant to die! You would allow him to take the beauty of Rivendell… the ancient trees of my beloved Mirkwood… I have been deceived into helping to destroy my own blood! If I take it, I can save them all, and men will not take hold of what they do not deserve to own!”

“Legolas…” Aragorn made every attempt to remain calm, but his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. “Let go of the Ring. Listen to your heart, as I have always known you to do. You once told me you welcomed your people’s fate, that you relished the thought of time ending, because it would force you to live, to seize all the moments you could. You have lived long enough to know that there are no true ends, only new beginnings.” As he spoke, Aragorn could see in the Elf’s eyes the conflict raging within; Legolas’ very soul fought to spill forth, to break the spell wending its way through the cracks brought on by the shadow of doubt. The blue Elvish eyes softened ever so slightly, speaking volumes, telling of one request: Help me…

“Legolas…”

Frodo’s voice issued from beneath where Legolas’ hand still held the knife pressed to the Hobbit’s throat. The still-entranced Elf’s gaze was drawn down to the object of his magically-induced contempt. “I know you’re within… the heart that so eagerly offered me his bow still thrives, and knows it must win this battle. I call to it now… I believe that for as much as you love your people, you know what must be done. You yourself said at the Council that ‘the Ring must be destroyed’. Let the truth guide you now,” Frodo pleaded, fighting to keep his voice even as the magic within the Elf caused his eyes to take on more of an angry fire… and even as Frodo prayed his gamble would pay off, it did.

A sickening wave of shame came over Legolas and he dropped the knife, letting it roll off of Frodo’s shoulder to land beside the Hobbit’s head. For a few moments, despite his best efforts, he still held on to the Ring, then finally forced his hand open, letting it fall on Frodo’s chest. He shot upright, spinning in the opposite direction, scrambling like a crazed animal to the flat rock he’d been perched upon. Shuddering violently, he collapsed into his knees-to-chest position, burying his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Aragorn moved toward the Elf slowly, allowing him some time to calm before moving to comfort him. Behind them, Boromir had moved nearer to the Hobbits, reassuring them as best he could. Gandalf looked on, knowing all too well of the Ring’s power and sympathizing with the Elf. And Gimli kept his place, his feelings a mix between the lingering contempt he harbored for Elves as a whole, and the pang of sympathy Legolas’ obviously deep remorse had released in Gimli’s heart.

It was a long time before Aragorn ventured close enough to Legolas to speak to him, but by then the Elf had again withdrawn into his version of sleep. Figuring it was best to allow Legolas to heal on his own, Aragorn turned and made his way back to his sleeping place, once again watching his friend until the veil of slumber enveloped him.

It was some time later before Legolas awoke again, and was grateful this time to find himself in the same place he’d begun in, and having had no dreams, waking or otherwise, or heard any more strange voices. But he was aware of a presence next to him, and turning, was surprised to find Frodo at his side, sitting in a similar knees-to-chest position, his cloak covering all but his head.

“I believe this is yours,” Frodo said gently, his hand emerging from his cloak to reveal Legolas’ delicate yet deadly Elvish knife. Reaching out tentatively, the Elf extended his hand, palm up. In return, Frodo laid the knife’s hilt in the archer’s hand, and the Elf slowly put it away, after which he averted his gaze from the Hobbit.

“You’ve no reason to be ashamed,” Frodo said softly. “That’s what it does. It finds the smallest crack in the armor, and nudges at it until it is near to breaking. I’ve felt it. I’ve donned the Ring more than once, though I always mean not to. It will make anyone do anything to serve it, even as they believe they are serving themselves or others.”

Legolas did not answer at first, still cradling his face in his hands. Frodo looked upon the Elf, still somewhat shaken by Legolas’ vulnerability, and in a strange way, comforted by the fact that even the strongest of them could fall. Finally, he gently raised his hand, placing it on the slender shoulder nearest to him, prompting Legolas to raise his striking blue eyes to the Hobbit.

“You are no less trusted. If nothing else, you’ve gained my respect all the more. You fought it and won, and that’s no small thing.”

“But I nearly took your life,” Legolas whispered. “I swore my protection to you, not to bring down your death.”

Frodo shook his head sadly. “No… you did nothing… nothing but allow yourself to have a doubt, a fear of what will be should we succeed. There’s no harm in that. I’ve the same fears for my people. There’s no telling what will become of any of us when this is seen through. Believe me, I’ve had my share of doubts as well. In any other time and place, those fears are harmless thoughts to be voiced among those we trust. But here, now, with this…” He placed a hand over the pocket which held the Ring. “Everything has changed, and, I fear, will change all the more before it’s done.”

“I just wish I could take it back… resisted as I know I should have…” Legolas shook his head, angry with himself now for his perceived weakness.

“There’s no point in that. It can’t be undone. The best way is to move ahead, and leave it behind you, or it will weigh upon you until the end of your days… or for the ages. If you require forgiveness, then I give it, though there’s no need to request it,” Frodo answered.

Legolas drew in a deep breath, rubbing his throbbing head, comforted by Frodo’s words. Finally relaxing, he absently searched for the last time in his life he’d had a headache, and suddenly remembered that it had something to do with one of those wine-soaked forest parties the Mirkwood Elves were so fond of. In fact…

“Did your uncle ever come to know that he disturbed my birthday party on his way to visit Smaug?” Legolas smiled.*

Frodo blinked. “Well… why no! So is that what all that fuss in Mirkwood was about that night?”

Legolas grinned. “Yes… and I can say I wasn’t too thrilled. I suppose it was a foretelling of the future… now yet another Baggins has crossed my path and is mucking up the way of things.”

Frodo grinned now, relieved at the mischievous glitter he now saw for the first time in the Elf’s eyes. “Perhaps it was, my friend… perhaps it was.”

~Finis~

*If you have read The Hobbit, you may recognize this as a reference to Bilbo and the Dwarves' repeated disturbances of an Elvish party while lost in Legolas' home forest of Mirkwood. In the book, the party itself was never defined as such, nor is Legolas ever mentioned by name; however, Legolas' father, the Elvenking of Mirkwood, is noted as hosting the party. The party itself, however, is only used in my story as a point of reference.


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