The day of departure dawned silver and gold.
Legolas stood with the Fellowship at the base of Caras Galadhon's greatest mallorn, watching as Galadriel and Celeborn descended to meet them. The Lord and Lady of Lórien moved with the grace of beings who'd witnessed ages turn, their presence filling the clearing with a weight that went beyond mere royalty.
"Your stay with us has been too brief," Celeborn said, his voice carrying across the gathered company. "But the quest calls, and we will not delay those who serve it."
"We offer gifts," Galadriel continued, "to aid your journey and remember your time among us."
The gift-giving proceeded as Legolas knew it would—Elvish cloaks woven from materials that shifted to match their surroundings, rope for Sam that held hidden strength, the Light of Eärendil for Frodo in its crystal phial. Each gift was precisely chosen, perfectly suited to challenges that lay ahead.
Legolas watched his companions receive their presents with varying degrees of wonder and gratitude. The hobbits touched their cloaks with reverent fingers. Boromir accepted his with stiff formality, his eyes flickering toward Frodo's pocket before jerking away. Gimli's request for a strand of Galadriel's hair drew gasps from the assembled Elves—and brought a smile to the Lady's face that carried genuine warmth.
Then Galadriel turned to Legolas.
"For the Prince of the Woodland Realm, I have something... different."
She produced a small phial—smaller than Frodo's, its light somehow deeper, more concentrated. The glow within pulsed with a rhythm that felt almost like a heartbeat, and when Legolas took it, the weight surprised him.
"This light comes from a source older than the stars," Galadriel said, her voice pitched for his ears alone. "It was captured in the days when the Trees still shone, preserved through ages of darkness for a purpose I did not understand until now."
Legolas turned the phial in his hands, feeling power thrumming against his fingers. "What purpose?"
"Light and shadow are not equal opposites," Galadriel said, her words carrying the weight of hard-won wisdom. "Light exists in itself; shadow is only its absence. Remember this when darkness presses close. The light you carry can banish any shadow—but only if you choose to use it."
The emphasis on "choose" was deliberate. A reminder of their conversation, of the vision he'd seen, of the alliance they'd forged through mutual understanding of what he could become.
"Thank you," Legolas whispered.
Galadriel inclined her head—the faintest acknowledgment of something that went far beyond simple gift-giving. Then she moved on, her attention shifting to the next member of the company.
The boats were prepared at the river's edge, grey Elvish craft that sat light upon the water despite the burdens they would carry. The Fellowship loaded their supplies, their gifts, their grief—everything that had accumulated during weeks in Lothlórien, everything that would accompany them on the journey ahead.
Legolas found himself paired with Gimli in one of the boats, the Dwarf grumbling about water and floating and the general indignity of travel that didn't involve solid ground beneath one's feet.
"You've been quiet," Gimli observed as they pushed away from shore. "More than usual."
"The Lady gave me much to think about."
"She does that." Gimli's voice carried unexpected fondness. "Did you see how she smiled when I asked for her hair? Three strands she gave me—three! The Dwarves won't believe it when I tell them."
Despite everything—the weight of the phial in his pocket, the echo of the Mirror's visions, the knowledge of what lay ahead—Legolas found himself smiling.
"Tell me about what you'll do with them."
Gimli launched into an explanation involving crystal and gold and craftsmanship that would take generations to complete, his enthusiasm so genuine that it pushed back the shadows pressing at the edges of Legolas's mind.
Lothlórien faded behind them as the river carried the Fellowship south. The golden wood grew distant, then vanished entirely, replaced by banks that grew wilder with every mile.
And ahead, somewhere on the water, Boromir sat in his boat with shoulders hunched and eyes that kept drifting toward Frodo.
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