One to rule them all. | Legolas.

Chapter 2- Fellowship

The great hall of Rivendell was filled with murmurs as representatives from the Free Peoples of Middle-earth gathered to discuss the looming threat of Mordor. Elves, Men, Dwarves, and Hobbits exchanged quiet words among themselves, some in friendly conversation, others in tense silence. The weight of the situation was heavy, but none could yet feel the true gravity of what was to come.

The door suddenly swung open, and all conversation ceased. Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, entered the room. His presence was commanding, and the room fell into a hushed stillness as he moved to the center of the chamber. His eyes swept over the gathering, his gaze lingering briefly on the empty spaces, as if expecting someone. He sighed, a weary but determined sound, before seating himself in the chair at the head of the council.

"Strangers from distant lands, friends of old," Elrond began, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound by this fate. This one doom."

Elrond gestured to a pedestal before him. "Bring forth the Ring, Frodo."

Frodo rose from his seat, his heart heavy, and moved forward with quiet determination. He placed the One Ring on the pedestal, its dark presence immediately filling the room with an eerie, oppressive air.

"So it is true," a man's voice spoke from the side. Boromir, son of Denethor, looked at the Ring with a mix of awe and desire.

Frodo returned to his seat, never taking his eyes off the Ring. As he sat, a shiver ran down his spine. The whispers began—soft at first, then growing louder. Dark voices, speaking in twisted tongues, reached into the minds of those around him, each person hearing a different whisper in the darkness.

"In a dream, I saw the eastern sky grow dark," Boromir began, his voice shaky. "But in the west, a pale light lingered. A female voice was crying, 'Your doom is near at hand.'"

As Boromir approached the Ring, the tension in the room grew palpable. His fingers hovered over the dark artifact, and the others watched with bated breath. Both Gandalf and Elrond exchanged a brief, knowing glance.

"Boromir," Elrond's voice rang out, firm and commanding.

Gandalf stood suddenly, his cloak swirling around him as he raised his staff. The air crackled with a surge of magic, and he began chanting in the Black Speech of Mordor, his words filling the room with an unnatural, foreboding power.

The Ring itself seemed to echo back, repeating the sinister words of the dark tongue.

"Never before has any voice uttered the words of that tongue here in Imladris," Elrond said sharply, his gaze fixed on Gandalf with a look of stern reproach.

"I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond," Gandalf rasped, his tone resolute. "For the Black Speech of Mordor is already whispered among the shadows of our closest allies, and it will soon be heard in every corner of the West." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "The Ring is altogether evil."

"It is a gift!" Boromir replied with rising passion, his gaze still fixed on the Ring. "Why not use the Ring? We could wield it for the good of all."

"You cannot wield it!" another voice cut in—Aragorn's. "Not many can. The One Ring answers to so few. It has only one true master, known only in legend. It cannot be controlled by mortal hands."

"And what would a ranger know of this matter?" Boromir sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

"This is no mere ranger," came the reply from Legolas, the Elven prince, his voice calm but unwavering. "He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and you owe him your allegiance."