Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess

Author's Note:

This is a LegoRomance (slow-burn)

Warning: This chapter contains a few familiar scenes.

ActI

Undoing The Quest

Chapter 86: Farewell to Rivendell

Rivendell, December 25th 3018 T.A

It had been two months since he had last seen her, yet those two months weighed on Legolas more than he cared to admit. For an elf, two months should have passed like the blink of an eye, a mere ripple in the long centuries of his life. But these two months felt different—each day stretched longer than the last, laden with unease. He knew, as surely as he knew the strength of her will, that Xena was capable of managing herself. Yet knowing this did little to quiet the gnawing worry that had taken root in his heart.

For a time, he had taken solace in knowing that Elros, Thalion, and Mírdan were with her. They were seasoned warriors, men of Mirkwood he trusted implicitly, even if they didn't always see eye to eye with him. But when word came a month ago that she had sent them back, his sense of security faltered.

Elros had explained it plainly when they returned to Rivendell. "She sent us back because she believed the road ahead would be safer for her to walk alone," he said, his tone tinged with frustration but also reluctant admiration. "She didn't want to draw attention with too many companions of elves. She thought it better this way."

Legolas had not scolded him, nor the others, for disobeying his instructions to stay with her. He had expected it, in truth. Xena's independence was as much a part of her as the weapons she carried. She would not have tolerated anyone, even those sent under his orders, lingering too long once she decided otherwise. And deep down, Legolas understood. It did not ease his worries, but it made sense.

Still, Elros had stayed back to speak with him before returning to Mirkwood, offering a rare insight into the woman they had all come to respect. "It wasn't just about the quest," Elros had said. "Not entirely. She spoke of undoing the contract, yes, but there's something more. You can see it in her eyes. She's searching for something—not just for you or for us, but for herself."

Legolas had absorbed those words in silence, his thoughts heavy. He wanted to go after her, to join her on whatever road she had chosen to walk. But duty called him elsewhere. The Fellowship of the Ring was now his responsibility, and though he doubted the wisdom of trusting such a monumental task to a Hobbit, the decision had been made. He had sworn his bow to the quest, and there was no turning back now.

Perhaps it was for the best, he told himself. They had spent weeks together, and already his thoughts were too often consumed by her. She challenged him, frustrated him, yet he could not deny the pull he felt toward her, a connection that grew stronger with every shared trial. Distance was the better path—for both of them. Yet even knowing this, he could not banish the thoughts of her: her strength, her wit, the way she had endured more than any mortal should have to endure.

And then there was the wound.

The Morgul blade. She had survived, but that did not mean she was healed. Such wounds left more than scars; they left shadows, and he could not help but fear that her strength might falter, even if only for a moment. It was a thought that haunted him as he prepared to leave Rivendell.

He finally released Elros, Thalion, and Mírdan from his command, knowing that their place was no longer with him but back in Mirkwood. "Return to my father," he told them, his tone steady but distant. "Tell him that I am well, and there is no need to worry."

Elros had frowned at this. "He will worry nonetheless, my prince. Thranduil knows better than to expect you to stay safe on the road you've chosen."

Legolas allowed himself a small, weary smile. "Then tell him that I have chosen this path willingly, and I will see it through."

Elros nodded, though his expression remained solemn. There was an unspoken understanding between them now, something that had not been there when they had first set out together. Over the course of their shared journey, the once-stiff relationship between the prince and his father's trusted men had softened, replaced by mutual respect.

It had not started that way. When they first joined him on the road to Rivendell, Elros, Thalion, and Mírdan had been quietly resentful of Legolas. He had rejected the mantle of prince, choosing instead a life of wandering and fighting alongside rangers and mortals. To them, it was unbecoming of a prince of Mirkwood. And his friendship with Xena, a human woman, had only added to their unease.

But traveling together had changed that. They had seen him take responsibility, act decisively, and carry the weight of his title when it mattered. In Rivendell, they had seen him act as a prince should, speaking for his people at the Council of Elrond. It had not gone unnoticed.

When the time came for their farewell, Elros spoke with uncharacteristic candor. "We did not like you, not at first," he admitted, his voice quiet but firm. "You were not what we expected a prince to be. But you have proven yourself to us, Legolas. It is no small thing for us to say this, but we trust you, and we will carry word of your strength back to the Halls of Mirkwood."

Thalion added, "And should you call upon us again, know that we will come."

Mírdan said little, as was his way, but the nod he gave spoke volumes.

Legolas, moved by their words but unwilling to show it, inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I will remember," he said simply. "And I am grateful."

As they rode out of Rivendell, leaving him behind, he watched them go with a mixture of pride and sadness. Their paths had crossed in unexpected ways, and while they might not have understood his choices at first, they had come to accept him for who he was—not just as their prince, but as someone they could respect.

Legolas turned his attention to his own journey, the Fellowship waiting for him. Yet even as he prepared for what lay ahead, his thoughts lingered on Xena. He hoped, against all odds, that wherever she was, she was safe. And he promised himself that, should their paths cross again, he would not hesitate to walk beside her once more.

The Fellowship departed Rivendell under the cold gray skies of late December. The air was sharp with the bite of winter, and their breath formed fleeting clouds as they walked. The company of nine moved with quiet purpose, their footsteps falling into a steady rhythm as they left the safety of the elven haven behind. Each carried the weight of the journey differently, their thoughts as varied as the paths that had brought them together.

At the lead, Gandalf moved with practiced ease, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of danger. Though the ranger seemed calm, his thoughts were heavy, and the tension in his shoulders betrayed the burden he carried. To his left walked Frodo, his small frame wrapped tightly in his cloak, the One Ring hanging from a chain beneath his tunic. Though the hobbit tried to focus on the path ahead, his hand often drifted to his chest, as if reassuring himself that the Ring was still there.

Beside Frodo were his kinsmen: Sam, loyal and steadfast, his pack heavier than any other, yet he bore it without complaint; and Merry and Pippin, whose cheerful chatter occasionally lightened the mood, though even they seemed subdued by the gravity of their quest. Behind them, all walked Aragorn his eyes watched over them like a sentinel.

Gimli marched with determined steps, his axe slung across his back, muttering occasionally about the cold or the long road ahead. His gruff demeanor was offset by the silent grace of Legolas, who moved with the effortless fluidity of an elf, his sharp eyes ever watchful.

Boromir walked nearby, his thoughts troubled by the Ring. Despite lingering notions that its power could be harnessed to strengthen Gondor, he had pledged to honor the decision of the Council. His word was given, and he intended to uphold it, though the conflict within him remained.

The first day's travel passed uneventfully, the company moving steadily through the rugged terrain. By nightfall, they reached a small clearing sheltered by a ring of trees. Aragorn and Gandalf quickly set about organizing the camp, while Sam prepared a modest meal from the supplies they carried. As the fire crackled and the stars emerged in the crisp night sky, the Fellowship began to settle into their new reality as a company bound by a singular, perilous purpose.

When most of the company had retired for the night, Legolas remained awake, his sharp gaze fixed on the flickering flames. Aragorn joined him, settling down beside the elf with a faint sigh. The two sat in companionable silence for a time, the weight of their respective thoughts heavy in the air.

It was Aragorn who broke the silence, his voice low. "Do you think this quest will succeed, Legolas? Or are we chasing hope beyond reason?"

Legolas tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. "Hope is not always reasonable, Aragorn. Yet it is often all we have. I believe Frodo has the strength to carry this burden. But it will not be an easy road."

Aragorn nodded, his gaze drifting toward the stars. "No, it will not. And the burdens we leave behind make it no easier." His voice softened, the shadow of a name passing through his mind. "I left Arwen in Rivendell, knowing it was the right choice, yet it feels… unbearable."

Legolas turned his clear, piercing gaze to the ranger. "Why do you say it was the right choice? She chose you, Aragorn. She chose this path willingly. Why would you deny her the love she has given so freely?"

Aragorn sighed deeply, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword. "Because I am mortal, Legolas. My path is uncertain, and my fate even more so. She should sail with her people, be free of this world's sorrows. To stay here with me is to choose grief."

Legolas's voice softened, but there was an unyielding conviction in his tone. "Grief is a part of love, Aragorn. You cannot spare her from it, nor should you try. If Arwen has chosen to stay, it is because she sees a future worth the sorrow. Do not belittle her choice by doubting her resolve."

Aragorn looked at him, the weight of centuries reflected in the elf's steady gaze. "You speak with such certainty. As if you know love in its truest form."

Legolas hesitated for the briefest of moments, his expression unreadable. "I know enough to understand that love cannot be measured by time or reason. It is not lessened by sorrow. And to deny it is to live half a life."

Aragorn studied him for a moment before nodding, conceding the point. "Perhaps you are right. And yet, the thought of what I might leave behind if I fail…" His voice trailed off, the unspoken fear hanging heavily between them.

Legolas shifted the conversation, sensing Aragorn's need for distraction. "Elros and the others should be near Mirkwood by now," he said, his tone lighter. "They spoke well of their time in Rivendell, though I think they will be glad to be home."

Aragorn chuckled softly. "Elros seemed less inclined to like you when we first met. He spoke with great pride of his loyalty to your father."

Legolas smiled faintly, the firelight casting soft shadows on his face. "He still does. But we came to understand each other on the road. Thalion and Mírdan as well. Time spent in shared purpose can change much."

Aragorn nodded, then hesitated, his voice quieter when he spoke again. "And what of Xena? Do you think she is safe?"

Legolas's expression tightened almost imperceptibly, but he masked it well. "She has always been capable, Aragorn. I have no doubt she is managing herself." His voice was steady, but there was a flicker of something beneath the surface—something Aragorn noticed but chose not to address directly.

"She has a strength about her," Aragorn said after a moment. "And yet, it is rare to see one so burdened by their past."

Legolas turned his gaze to the fire, his voice now in elvish, the melodic tones carrying a weight that only the ancient tongue could convey. "She carries more than her share of grief, but it shapes her, strengthens her. It is why she will endure."

Aragorn switched to elvish as well, his tone gentle. "And yet, you speak of her often. As if her path is one you wish to follow."

Legolas shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Her path is her own, as is mine. To intertwine them would be to risk everything. But it does not mean I do not worry."

Aragorn studied him for a moment, then said quietly, "To worry is a sign of care, Legolas. Do not deny that you care deeply."

Legolas's gaze flicked to him, his expression unreadable. "The road ahead is full of uncertainties, Aragorn. Let us focus on those we can control."

Aragorn gave a faint smile, sensing the conversation had reached its limits. "Very well. But remember, even elves cannot evade the truths of the heart forever."

Legolas offered no response, his gaze fixed on the fire as the conversation faded into silence. In the quiet of the night, each man retreated into his own thoughts, the weight of the journey settling heavily upon them as the stars kept their silent watch.

When it came time to rest, Legolas, as was his custom, chose to sleep away from the camp. It was a habit Aragorn had long grown accustomed to, though the others would soon begin to notice. The elf preferred the quiet solitude of the trees or the shadows beyond the firelight, where the world seemed still and his keen senses could remain alert to any sign of danger. He rarely slept as men did, instead slipping into a light, meditative state that allowed him to remain watchful even in repose.

Aragorn knew this behavior well. Legolas had always been this way, especially on journeys fraught with peril. He kept his distance, not out of disdain but out of necessity, a habit born from centuries of vigilance and battles fought under the cover of darkness. While the others found camaraderie around the fire, sharing stories and laughter to ease the weight of their task, Legolas would remain at the edges, a silent sentinel observing everything with those sharp, unyielding eyes.

Yet, Aragorn also knew that Legolas could open up, though it was a rare and measured thing. With Aragorn and Gandalf, he would occasionally lower the barriers he kept so firmly in place, sharing his thoughts or offering counsel. And when he did, it was often with an understated wisdom that belied the youthfulness of his appearance. On the matter of Aragorn and Arwen, for instance, he had always been a steadfast supporter of their love. He understood Arwen's choice, even as he sympathized with Aragorn's struggles. To him, their love, despite its trials, was something to be cherished—a rare and precious thing in a world shadowed by darkness.

But when the conversation turned to matters of his own heart, Legolas grew guarded, retreating behind an impenetrable wall of silence. Emotions of that nature were foreign to him, not because he lacked the capacity to feel but because he had long denied himself the possibility of happiness. To him, joy was a fleeting thing, a privilege he did not believe he deserved. The burdens he carried—the guilt, the grief, the shadows of his past—were weights he bore willingly, but they left little room for dreams of a lighter heart.

So, as the Fellowship rested, Legolas kept his quiet vigil, his thoughts a tangled web of duty, grief, and memories he refused to name. Though his expression remained serene, his mind was a storm, and the solitude he sought was as much a refuge as it was a necessity. For now, his focus remained on the road ahead, the dangers they would face, and the unspoken promise he had made to see this quest through—no matter the cost to himself.

The journey had stretched on for weeks, the days blending into one another with a monotonous rhythm of walking, resting, and keeping watch. The weariness of the road weighed on many, though the hobbits brought a lightheartedness to the company that even Legolas had not expected. Their cheerful chatter, love of food, and insistence on 'second breakfast' or breaks for tea brought smiles even in the grimmest moments. Bill the Pony, loaded with their cooking pans, food supplies, and even a stash of Longbottom Leaf, seemed to carry as much of their optimism as their burdens. Gandalf and Aragorn often shared a pipe in the evenings, and even Gimli had tried the hobbits' leaf, though with little ceremony.

Legolas walked lightly, his elven endurance carrying him without complaint. Yet his own burdens were not of the body but of the spirit. The nights brought his recurring nightmares, dark whispers that seemed to grow stronger in the presence of the Ring. These were not the cursed dreams that had plagued him before—those had begun to fade after the intervention of Elrond and Gandalf—but the lingering shadow of the Ring itself, its malevolence brushing against the edges of his mind, unspoken but deeply felt.

The Company of Nine set out, their path turning half east as they steered their course towards Caradhras. The mighty peak rose before them, crowned with snow, its lofty heights faintly glowing red in the first light of the rising sun. The air had turned bitterly cold, and the wind, which had been their companion for days, shifted once more to blow from the east. Caradhras loomed ahead, imposing and indifferent to their struggles.

The snow began to thicken as they ascended, the wind biting at their faces. Gandalf, who had been walking at the forefront, stopped for a moment, sniffing the air. "Winter deepens behind us," he said, his voice carrying over the crunch of their steps. "The heights to the north are whiter than they were."

No one had spoken for some time, the quiet between them a mix of concentration and weariness. Aragorn, walking near the middle of the group, glanced at Gandalf and responded gravely, "We must go on. Delaying will not ease our passage. The sooner we cross, the better."

The Fellowship pressed on, the slopes of Caradhras growing steeper and more treacherous. Fresh snow blanketed the ground, glistening under the pale blue sky. Suddenly, Frodo, who had been walking ahead of Sam, lost his footing on a patch of ice. He stumbled, then fell, rolling down the slope with a startled cry.

"Frodo!" Aragorn called, rushing to him. He slid to a stop beside the hobbit, helping him to his feet. Frodo dusted off the snow, his hand instinctively going to his neck, where the Ring hung hidden beneath his tunic. His face paled as he realized it was gone.

The others froze as Frodo frantically searched the snow, his wide eyes scanning the ground. A glint of gold caught the sunlight just above him—the Ring, lying exposed against the pure white snow.

Boromir's eyes locked onto it immediately. He stepped forward, his voice quiet, almost reverent. "It is a strange fate," he murmured, reaching down to pick it up. "That we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. Such a little thing…"

The rest of the Company turned sharply to him, the tension thick in the air. Boromir's fingers brushed the Ring, and for a moment, his expression was unreadable. The golden band seemed to shimmer unnaturally in his grasp, its weight far greater than it appeared.

"Boromir," Aragorn said firmly, his voice cutting through the silence. He took a step forward, his hand resting lightly but deliberately on the hilt of his sword. "Give the Ring to Frodo."

Boromir hesitated, his eyes fixed on the Ring as if mesmerized. But Aragorn's steady voice broke through the spell. Slowly, Boromir descended the slope, his steps deliberate, and held the Ring out toward Frodo. "As you wish," he said, his tone dismissive as though the object suddenly mattered little to him.

Frodo snatched the Ring from Boromir's hand, his movements sharp and defensive. He placed it back around his neck, retreating a step. "I care not," Boromir said lastly, turning and resuming his climb as though nothing had happened.

Aragorn watched him closely, his grip on his sword loosening only when Boromir had turned away. Frodo glanced back at the ranger, suspicion flickering briefly in his eyes before he fell in beside Sam once more.

The tension lingered as the Fellowship resumed their ascent. Gandalf led the way, his staff plunging into the snow with each step, forging a path along a narrow ledge. The wind howled fiercely, carrying with it a growing sense of unease. The air seemed charged, as if the mountain itself was watching them, waiting for a moment to strike.

Legolas, ever light on his feet, moved ahead of the group, his steps barely leaving an imprint in the snow. The blizzard swirled around him, but he seemed unaffected, his elven agility allowing him to glide over the surface with ease. He paused, his sharp eyes narrowing as he peered into the storm, scanning the path ahead.

The others, half-buried in the deep snow, could barely see him through the swirling white. Gimli muttered something about elvish grace being more suited to skipping about than to enduring true hardship, but his words were swallowed by the wind.

"Legolas!" Aragorn called, his voice raised above the storm. "What do you see?"

Legolas did not turn but replied, his voice calm yet carrying a faint edge. "The storm is unnatural. There is a malice in the air, a will behind the winds. Caradhras does not wish us to pass."

The Fellowship stopped in their tracks, huddling together against the growing blizzard. Gandalf raised his staff higher, its light cutting dimly through the storm. "Then we must tread carefully," the wizard said, his tone grave. "The mountain may test us yet."

And so they pressed on, the shadow of the mountain's will looming over them, the blizzard's fury a prelude to the greater trials that lay ahead.

The storm on Caradhras raged with an intensity that felt unnatural, as if the mountain itself had awakened to oppose their passage. The blizzard was no longer merely a battle against nature—it was a contest of wills between the two wizards. Gandalf stood resolute, his staff raised high, his voice booming in ancient incantations as he sought to calm the mountain. But Saruman's presence loomed like a shadow, his power reaching out from afar, fueling the storm and driving it to greater ferocity.

The Fellowship struggled against the storm's fury, huddling together as best they could, their faces battered by ice and snow. Lightning forked across the sky, striking the peak of Caradhras with an ear-splitting crack. The impact sent a cascade of snow and ice crashing down toward them. The roar was deafening, and the ground beneath their feet trembled.

"Watch out!" Aragorn shouted, his voice barely audible above the chaos.

Legolas, standing nearest to Gandalf, saw the avalanche before the others. His sharp eyes widened, and with a burst of elven speed, he lunged toward the wizard, grabbing Gandalf and pulling him back just as the icefall struck. The two tumbled against the rocky face of the cliff, disappearing under the rushing snow.

The rest of the Fellowship scrambled to find cover as the avalanche thundered down around them. Snow piled high, engulfing them in icy drifts. It was several tense moments before movement began again, each member of the company emerging slowly, shaking snow from their cloaks and coughing against the cold.

Boromir was the first to speak, his voice strained with urgency. "We must get off this mountain! Make for the Gap of Rohan and take the west road to my city!"

Aragorn, brushing snow from his shoulders, turned to him sharply. "The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard! It is too dangerous."

"If we cannot go over the mountain," Gimli interjected, his breath misting in the cold air, "then let us go under it. Through the mines of Moria." He had suggested the route days ago, confident it was the safer path. Now, with Caradhras proving impassable, he repeated the proposal with greater conviction.

The mention of Moria made Gandalf hesitate. His usually firm expression flickered with uncertainty, and he looked away for a moment, his face shadowed with an unspoken fear. "The Ring-bearer must decide," he said at last, his voice low but carrying the weight of the moment.

Boromir stood protectively over Merry and Pippin, his arms around them as the hobbits shivered uncontrollably, their faces pale and drawn from the bitter cold. "We cannot stay here!" he shouted, his voice echoing against the cliffs. "This will be the death of the hobbits!"

Gandalf turned his attention to Frodo, his eyes filled with a quiet but pressing urgency. "Frodo?" he called gently.

For a moment, Frodo said nothing, his small frame huddled against Sam's for warmth. The weight of the decision pressed on him, visible in his troubled expression. The Ring seemed heavier around his neck, a constant reminder of the burden he bore. Finally, after what felt like an age, he lifted his head and spoke.

"We will go through the mines," he said, his voice quiet but resolute.

Gandalf nodded solemnly. "So be it."

The Fellowship wasted no time. They gathered their belongings and began their descent, moving southward along the treacherous paths. The storm continued to howl behind them, as if the mountain itself protested their retreat, but they pressed on. The air grew slightly warmer as they descended, though the chill of Caradhras still lingered in their bones.

For days, they traveled along the shadowed slopes, their journey marked by a tense silence. The ruins of an ancient aqueduct loomed in the mist, its broken arches stretching across the landscape like the bones of a forgotten giant. The sight served as a somber reminder of the history buried in these lands, of the countless lives that had passed through here before them, and the dangers that still awaited.

On January 12th, after days of arduous travel, the Fellowship arrived at the gates of Moria. The ancient doors loomed before them, carved with intricate runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. The silence here was heavy, oppressive, as if the mountain itself held its breath. The Fellowship gathered before the gates, their journey far from over, the weight of their task heavier than ever.

((Upcoming Chapter Eighty - Seven))

Thank you for taking the time to read this! Feel free to Review - Follow - Favorite!