Morning came pale and slow to Rivendell, like a hand reluctant to shake the shoulder of a sleeping house. Frost lay silver upon the stone railings, and the birds sang only half-heartedly in the higher trees, as if they too suspected something grim behind the day’s beginning.

In the courtyard, the Fellowship assembled — not in formation, nor with any ceremony — but in the shuffling, muttered, ill-organized manner of travellers setting out too early after too little breakfast.

“My boots are still damp,” said Merry, tugging at the heel of one stubborn hobbit-foot and nearly toppling backwards. “They were right near the fire, and still they’re wetter than a Brandywine trout.”

“That’s what comes of washing them,” replied Pippin, grinning over his shoulder. “Elves don’t wash their boots. You saw them. They just glide. That’s the trick.”

“They don’t glide,” said Gimli, stumping past with his axe resting across his shoulders. “They tiptoe like they’re afraid of waking the grass.”

Legolas, standing a few paces away, gave no sign of having heard. His eyes were turned toward the east, but he said, quietly, “Stone has less complaint than grass, dwarf.”

“If you had to wear stone on your feet, you’d complain too,” Gimli muttered.

Nearby, Sam knelt over a bundle, carefully tucking a tin of wrapped parcels into the side flap of a leather satchel. “That’s the last of the sausage,” he said to no one in particular. “If we eat it first, it won’t go off.”

“We could eat it now,” said Pippin brightly.

“You ate already,” Sam replied without looking up.

“A single honey-cake does not count as a breakfast.”

Boromir walked past them both, shaking his head. “When I left Minas Tirith, I rode with five squadrons and an armory behind me. Now I march into shadow with children and breakfast disputes.”

“You’ll find that children tend to carry more than their weight,” Gandalf said, stepping from the archway beneath the eastern hall, his staff tapping against stone. “Especially when they are underestimated.”

Boromir said nothing. But he glanced, again, toward the one who bore the Ring — not with open suspicion, but with the wary calculation of a man who had once worn the weight of many lives in his hand.

Aragorn stood quietly near the gate, arms folded, half-shadowed beneath the bare bough of a winter elm. He said little that morning, only spoke once — a quiet word to Gandalf, and another to Legolas in Elvish. His sword was sheathed, but his eyes moved often, watching the others.

“Has anyone seen my pipe?” asked Merry suddenly.

“You packed it,” said Sam.

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You made a whole to-do about choosing the proper pouch for it — the one with the blue lining and the brass button.”

“Oh. Right.”

Gimli gave a low chuckle and said something to himself in Khuzdul.

At last, Gandalf raised his staff.

The chatter did not cease at once, but dwindled. Cloaks were adjusted, belts checked, boots knocked once or twice against stone. Sam stood, wiping his hands on his trousers. Boromir settled his shield upon his back with the resigned sigh of a soldier long used to silence. Pippin sneezed.

Then the eastern gate was opened. It creaked like a tired door protesting the day’s labor before it had even begun.

No trumpets rang. No horns called. Only the sound of boots on frost-hardened earth, and the whisper of breath against scarf and collar, and the first quiet footfalls of a long and terrible road.

Somewhere far above, an unseen bird turned in the grey, and flew west.

The Fellowship had begun their march. But it was not silence that followed them down the path — it was the murmur of voices, and complaints, and nervous laughter, and the rustle of packs not quite balanced. For even in legend, the road begins in pieces — with half-remembered items, and arguments about sausages.

Mist coiled low over the stone tiles of Elrond’s east courtyard, glistening faintly in the pale hush of dawn. Frost clung in slender veins across the carved archways and mossed flagstones, and the cold seeped up from the ground in stubborn silence. Above, the trees of Rivendell kept their vigil — old things, tall and silver-limbed, with leaves that whispered in no wind.

The Company had not yet departed, though they were gathered. Not in ranks or solemn quietude, but in something nearer to domestic disarray: cloaks half-fastened, straps tangled, tempers fraying before a single mile had passed underfoot.

“I can’t find it,” said Pippin. “It was right here, I swear it.”

“You packed it yourself,” Sam replied, tugging the corner of his coat as he crouched over a bundle. “Tucked it in beside the salt. You made me move the bacon for it.”

“Ah.” Pippin looked thoughtful. “I might have eaten it.”

Sam stood slowly.

“I said might,” Pippin added hastily.

A short distance off, Gimli grumbled to no one in particular as he secured a wrapped axe-head to the side of his pack. “Elves with all their ropes and knots,” he muttered. “Not a proper loop among them.”

Legolas passed by at that moment, silent as a shadow, and did not deign to reply.

Boromir adjusted the binding on his gauntlet, glancing now and then toward Frodo — who stood off to the side, his small frame tense, his cloak drawn tightly. He spoke little, and the others left him to it. The Ring’s weight was not visible, but its echo rippled across the Company in the way eyes avoided each other too long, and laughter died too early.

Gandalf leaned on his staff beneath the old arch. His cloak was fur-lined against the cold, and his brow low beneath the brim of his weather-worn hat. He watched all, but said nothing yet.

“Have you got everything, Sam?” asked Frodo softly, appearing at his friend’s side.

“I think so, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, still fretting with the edge of the pack. “Unless anyone’s hidden mushrooms in their bedrolls.”

“You’d know,” came Aragorn’s voice, dry and amused. The Ranger stepped into view, arms crossed loosely, his sword sheathed but always near. “Your nose’s sharper than mine when it comes to mushrooms.”

Sam flushed. Pippin grinned.

Just then, a raven called once from the high tree beyond the gate. The sound was sharp, sudden — like the clack of stone on stone.

Gandalf lifted his staff. “Enough now,” he said. “The hour draws on.”

Aragorn moved toward the gate without a word. The others began to gather behind him — some with quiet purpose, others with resigned mutters. Gimli dropped the final strap of his pack with a huff. Legolas adjusted his bowstring, eyes flickering toward the rising sun.

Frodo gave Sam a small nod, and together they followed.

From behind came the clinking sound of Pippin retying his belt with one hand and tucking something small and likely illicit into the folds of his cloak with the other.

“Don’t let Gandalf see that,” muttered Boromir as he passed.

“I didn’t take it from the kitchens!” Pippin protested, too quickly.

“No one asked,” said Gimli.

At the gate, the morning opened like a door left ajar. Cold light spilled out over the path that ran eastward — grey stone winding through bare wood and frozen fern, down into the world beyond Rivendell.

The Company began their march.

It was not solemn. It was not glorious.

It was half-shod and slightly late, and someone had definitely forgotten the salt. But still — they walked.

Nine companions, a long road, and no turning back.

Rivendell woke late, as Elvish places often did — with no bells or roosters, just the hush of mist lifting from the trees and the occasional soft footfall echoing under high, vaulted stone. The sky had begun to bloom with a cold, colourless light, and somewhere far above, a hawk turned slow circles against the grey.

The courtyard, however, had none of that grace.

Boots scraped stone. Packs thumped against knees and walls. Someone sneezed. And near the fountain, Sam Gamgee was elbow-deep in a satchel that had clearly been packed, unpacked, and repacked three times already.

“No, that’s the wrong bundle,” he muttered. “Those are the bandages. The biscuits are in the red cloth, not the blue. Why would you wrap biscuits in a blue cloth, anyway? That’s madness, that is.”

“You said to use the red cloth for the dried pears,” Merry called over, tightening the strap on his belt with one hand and chewing on what looked suspiciously like the last of the honey-cakes with the other.

“I said no such thing,” Sam replied.

“Well, someone did.”

Gimli stumped past them, his beard already lightly dusted with frost. “By Durin’s beard, you hobbits are noisier than a forge full of goblin hammers.”

“That sounds like a compliment,” Merry said brightly.

“It wasn’t.”

Legolas, already cinched and ready, stood near the far pillar with one hand resting on the hilt of his knife and the other brushing stray snowflakes from the pale braid over his shoulder. He had said nothing all morning. When asked earlier whether he ever slept, he’d only smiled.

Boromir paced the edge of the courtyard in a slow arc, adjusting the fit of his shield and scanning the others with the long, measuring gaze of a man used to leading more disciplined marches.

“I have marched to war with fewer provisions and less argument,” he said to no one in particular. “Though not, admittedly, with halflings.”

Frodo was off to the side, silent beneath his grey cloak, his hand resting lightly against the shape of a small bundle under the fabric — the Ring, hidden, yet humming like a low wind only some could hear. He spoke little, but his eyes were sharp as river glass.

Gandalf emerged last from the Hall of Fire, the hem of his robe darkened with melted frost, his staff clutched loosely in one hand. His brows were knit beneath the wide brim of his hat, though not in anger — more the expression of a man already anticipating the headache to come.

“No sign of Elrond,” Aragorn said quietly as he approached the wizard. “He leaves the morning to us.”

“As he should,” Gandalf replied. “It is not his road.”

From somewhere behind the fountain, a clatter rang out — the sound of metal on stone.

“I found it!” called Merry. “It was under the cloak pile!”

“That’s my buckle!” Sam snapped. “I told you not to touch the cloak pile!”

“Too late now!”

“I swear,” Boromir muttered, “if we meet our doom before the Misty Mountains, it will be under a heap of your bloody cloaks.”

The eastern gate creaked open.

There were no horns. No cries. No watching crowd. Only the whisper of trees and the cold breath of winter threading down the stones. The world held its breath — and the Company took its first steps into the East.

Merry nudged the nearest shoulder with a grin. “Did you pack the flint?”

“Course I did,” came a muttered reply.

“You brought the right one this time?”

A shrug.

“Well,” Merry said, drawing his cloak tighter, “we’ll find out, I suppose.”

The Fellowship moved like a herd of half-awake pilgrims: boots still stiff from disuse, cloaks twisted, one of the ponies already dragging its reins. Somewhere near the rear, Gandalf sighed.

And so it was — the Quest of the Ring began not with thunder, nor prophecy, but with complaints about biscuits, misplaced bandages, and the unmistakable sound of someone already regretting their choice in socks.

The morning light in Rivendell was slow to rise, filtering down through the high winter boughs like old gold trapped in mist. Frost clung to the flagged stones of the courtyard and painted the edges of every leaf in glass. It was a morning for silence — for thoughts unspoken, for goodbyes unsaid — but the Fellowship, gathered near the eastern gate, were not inclined to quiet.

“I swear by the Shire, Pippin,” said Merry, voice muffled as he wrestled with the straps of his cloak, “if you’ve packed the second breakfast instead of the map again—”

“I haven’t,” said Pippin. “Probably.”

“Probably?” echoed Gimli, who was checking the heft of his pack for the third time. “Elves preserve us, we’ll be halfway to Hollin before that one knows which way east is.”

“I know which way east is!” Pippin insisted. “It’s that way.” He pointed confidently.

“That’s west.”

“Oh.”

Legolas said nothing but turned his face toward the mountains beyond the vale. His pale eyes narrowed slightly. He wore no pack, only a long bow slung across his back and a coil of fine grey rope looped at his belt. His breath did not fog the air.

Not far from him, Sam crouched beside a wrapped bundle on the stone bench, adjusting its ties with a quiet efficiency that suggested this was not the first time he’d re-packed Frodo’s kit. The latter stood close by, still and cloaked, fingers laced before him. His face bore no visible strain, yet every so often his gaze would shift toward the eastern horizon — not with eagerness, but as though it called to him by name.

Boromir adjusted the baldric of his sword, then muttered a sharp curse when the buckle refused to tighten. “In Gondor we have men for this,” he growled.

“In Rivendell,” said Gandalf as he approached from the hall, “we have Elves. But they rarely follow anyone into Mordor, buckle or no.”

The wizard carried his staff lightly in one hand and walked with the slow purpose of one who had done this many times before, and had learned that haste did not make burdens lighter.

“It’s cold,” Pippin added, rubbing his hands together. “And I still say we should have taken ponies.”

“You ate all the pony feed last week,” said Merry.

“I did not! That was shared property.”

The gates groaned slowly open.

There was no ceremony. No horn. No final Elven blessing. Just a biting wind and a thousand miles of uncertainty yawning beyond the stones. Packs were hoisted. Cloaks fastened. Gimli muttered something about the indignity of leaving without a proper breakfast. Legolas adjusted the fletching on his quiver. Pippin sneezed.

Frodo moved to the head of the group, his shoulders squared beneath the grey cloak gifted him in the last hours of dusk. Sam followed a pace behind, ever-watchful.

Then, from somewhere above, soft voices rose in song — Elvish and mournful. Wordless. Like the memory of rain in a dead land.

Gandalf paused and turned slightly. “It is time.”

The Fellowship began to move. Not as a shining host, but as a cluster of cloaked figures wrapped in quiet tension — each footstep unremarkable, yet heavy with purpose. The courtyard emptied, leaving behind only bootprints in the frost.

And the east, waiting.

Still and far and grey.

The air in the courtyard was sharp with winter, though the sun, still hidden behind the high ridges of the valley, cast no warmth upon the stone. A thin crust of frost edged the cloister tiles, gleaming silver in every crevice, and the breath of the Fellowship rose like smoke into the pale morning hush.

They were gathering slowly, as folk do before long travel — not with ceremony, but with the low, habitual disarray of those unused to journeying in one another’s company.

“Whose idea was it to leave before the sun even wakes?” grumbled Pippin, tugging at his pack straps with all the dignity of a squirrel wrangling an oversized nut. “Not that I’m complaining. Except that I am.”

“You are,” said Merry, squinting as he re-buckled his cloak. “That’s all you’ve done since you got up.”

“I haven’t eaten.”

“You ate twice.”

“Second breakfast is a birthright,” Pippin sniffed.

“Enough,” muttered Boromir from beneath his fur-trimmed cloak. “You make more noise than a smith’s yard at noon.”

Gimli harrumphed as he passed, muttering something in Khuzdul that might have been agreement — or a recipe, if the tone was anything to judge by. He carried his axe on his shoulder, and his beard was still damp from the water basin, poorly combed and slightly askew.

At the edge of the yard, Aragorn leaned against the gatepost, arms crossed, eyes narrowed toward the east. He had spoken little since dawn, and his expression bore the long patience of one who had seen too many partings.

Frodo stood nearby, quiet and composed, his pack already fastened, his cloak clasped. His gaze flicked often toward the horizon — and once, briefly, toward Gandalf, who was adjusting his belt and speaking softly to Sam.

Sam, for his part, was bent over a leather satchel, rearranging its contents for the third time. “It’s not the weight,” he was explaining to no one in particular. “It’s how it’s balanced. You don’t want the sausages knocking about with the flint, or it’ll all smell of smoke and pepper by lunchtime.”

“Speaking of which,” said Pippin hopefully, “if there’s any—”

“There isn’t,” Sam cut in.

The old wizard gave his staff a final test against the stones and exhaled slowly through his nose. “We are nearly ready.”

Boromir pulled on his gauntlets with slow, deliberate tugs. “In Gondor, we do not dawdle when the road calls.”

Merry looked up. “Do you also leave behind your companions when they can’t find their pipe?”

“No one is leaving anyone,” came Gandalf’s firm reply. “And pipes can be found on the road as well as in pockets.”

At that, Merry reached into his cloak and pulled out the missing pipe with a grin of triumph. “Knew it.”

Gimli shook his head. “If this is the fellowship that holds the fate of the world, may Aulë guard us.”

Then Aragorn moved. With a quiet motion, he straightened and nodded once to Gandalf.

The gate creaked open.

No horns were sounded. No banners lifted in the wind. Only the soft rustle of cloaks, the mutter of boots on gravel, and the tightening of belts and buckles.

The Fellowship stepped out, one by one, into the white morning. There was no farewell but the hush of the Elven halls behind them, and no herald but a single raven circling high above.

Some spoke in low voices. Some walked in silence. But all turned their faces eastward — toward the long road, and the waiting dark.

And far behind, Imladris faded — not all at once, but slowly, like a dream one forgets only when it has truly ended.

Morning had crept softly into Rivendell’s high halls, but no song heralded the day. Instead, frost veiled the flagstones and clung in feathered silence to the carvings of the courtyard, as though the valley itself held its breath. In that hush, the Company gathered — not as warriors in rank, but as folk preparing for a long and unwelcome march.

“It’s gone again!” Pippin exclaimed, rifling through a satchel too small for his enthusiasm. “I had it in here yesterday!”

“You didn’t have it,” said Merry. “You thought you had it, and what you actually had was my bit of twine and a button.”

“They look remarkably similar in the dark.”

“You’re not helping.”

Sam passed by them with his arms full — rope, tins, wrappings — his eyes on the ground, but his ears plainly following every word. “Don’t forget we’ve got enough lembas to last a fortnight, if we’re careful,” he muttered. “And a bit of sausage, if it’s not been pilfered.”

“I resent the implication,” Pippin called after him.

Across the yard, Legolas stood near the fountain basin, gazing at the water as if searching it for omens. His fingers rested lightly on the fletching of one arrow, but he made no move to draw or speak.

Gimli, not far off, was muttering to himself in Khuzdul. He stomped once, adjusted the strap on his axe harness, and said to no one in particular, “It’s colder than a goblin’s hearth. And if that elf thinks to walk on top of the snow again, I’ll push him under it.”

“He might thank you,” Gandalf replied, approaching from the hall. “Elves enjoy novelty.”

“Not his kind.”

Gandalf said no more, but he paused mid-step as his eyes landed on one among them. His staff lowered slightly.

Aragorn followed his gaze. The ranger stood beside the gate, arms crossed, face shadowed beneath his hood, but his eyes were clear. He said nothing, only watched with the quiet intensity of one who had seen too many roads begin in frost and silence.

Nearby, Frodo adjusted the clasp at his throat, then stepped aside to make room as another approached. He did not meet the other’s eye but glanced down at the hilt of a sword — a Gondorian blade, polished and old, its sheath bearing the sunburst of the White City.

No one spoke to him directly. Yet the conversations dimmed.

A few feet away, Merry nudged Pippin. “Don’t stare,” he whispered. “He is a captain.”

“I wasn’t staring,” Pippin said. Then, after a pause: “Do you think he brought any cheese?”

“I doubt cheese is high on a Gondorian’s list of war-provisions.”

“That’s tragic.”

Sam finished tying off a pack and looked up just as the great gate was drawn open by unseen hands. The hinges groaned — not from disrepair, but from long disuse, as though they had not opened for a road like this in many years.

Gandalf stepped forward, raising his staff. “The hour is come,” he said. “Nine have been chosen. Nine will walk. Not for glory, nor for tale, nor for song — but because the road cannot be walked alone.”

The Company shifted. Packs were hoisted, cloaks drawn tight. The clinking of harness and steel echoed off the courtyard walls.

Frodo moved first. Then Sam. Then one by one the rest followed — past the gate, past the last safety of the hidden valley, into the high air and bitter wind of the world beyond.

The one from Gondor — tall, broad-shouldered, helmless, but crowned in the bearing of long battles — followed last.

The road lay open, grey and narrow, cutting across a slope of winter grass. There was no fanfare, no audience, no last speech. Only the breath of companions, the shuffle of boots, and a muttered argument behind them about whether Pippin had packed too many rocks or just enough.

And behind it all, the silence of the Ring — heavier than it had been the day before.

The courtyard of Elrond’s house lay silver with frost, the stones glazed in the first light of morning. Winter clung to the high arches and carved railings as though it, too, were reluctant to let the Fellowship go.

Far above, the pine-clad slopes stood dark against the pale sky, and the valley behind them slept in a hush. But in the cloistered yard where nine companions gathered, the hush was steadily unraveling into the clatter and murmur of travelers not yet settled.

“Are we nearly off, then?” asked Pippin, stamping his feet and blowing into his fingers. “Because if we’re waiting much longer, I shall turn into a snowman and be left behind.”

“You’ll be left behind if you keep on pestering,” said Merry, checking the straps of his pack for the third time. “Your cloak’s not even fastened.”

“It is, look!” Pippin pulled it tight at the neck. “There, I’m ready.”

“Your boot’s untied.”

Pippin looked down and muttered something unprintable.

Not far off, Gimli cursed in Khuzdul at a knot that wouldn’t hold on his water-skin. Legolas, who stood beside him with his arms folded, said nothing, though a faint lift of his brow hinted at amusement. His gaze often drifted eastward — the only one, save Aragorn, who looked to the road ahead rather than his own feet.

“Would someone tell that elf he’s not better than us just because he doesn’t blink?” Gimli muttered, loud enough to be heard.

“I heard that,” said Legolas mildly.

“You were meant to.”

Under the stone arch, Boromir checked the edge of his blade, then the weight of his shield. His armor clinked softly with every motion, not quite suited for stealth, though he bore it like a man who had marched beneath watchfires for too many years to change now. He glanced often toward Frodo — not rudely, nor with open distrust, but with the wary caution of one who watches a child carry flint through a hayfield.

Frodo stood apart from the chatter, quiet and withdrawn, the hem of his grey cloak dusted with frost. His pack was fastened neatly, his gloved hands still. He looked not to the east, nor the west, but toward the ground — toward nothing in particular — as if listening for something none of the others could hear.

He flinched when Gandalf’s staff rang once, softly, upon the stones.

“All is in readiness,” the wizard said, not loudly, yet every voice stilled at once.

Beside the gate, Aragorn stepped forward, adjusting the clasp at his shoulder. “We ride light, but we walk heavy,” he said, not to any one of them, but to the cold morning. “Speak farewells in your heart. The next time you see this place, you will be changed.”

Gandalf gave him a sharp look, though said nothing. Then, turning, he looked across the gathered Company. “Nine companions,” he said. “Nine walkers. There is no road back. But there is one ahead — and we are late upon it already.”

Somewhere behind them, unseen, an elven voice lifted faintly in song — distant, wordless, and sad. Perhaps it was farewell. Perhaps it was blessing.

The eastern gate opened with a low creak.

No fanfare. No banners. Only the jangle of leather, the crunch of boots against frozen soil, and the groan of a pack too heavily laden.

“Did anyone bring a flint?” asked Merry in a low voice.

“I’ve got two,” Pippin replied. “But one’s cursed.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just a funny feeling I had about it.”

From behind them, a clear voice said, “Come on, Sam.”

Frodo stood at the threshold, looking back — his face unreadable, his tone gentle, but firm.

The Company began to move.

The long road had begun — not with trumpets, nor with glory, but with a half-tied boot, a forgotten sausage, and nine uneasy souls walking into the teeth of winter, shoulder to shoulder, step by hesitant step.

The dawn in Imladris arrived slow and blue, like a forgotten song played on cold strings. Mist still lingered in the stone groves and gardened paths of Elrond’s house, curling like smoke between carved pillars and leafless boughs. Snow had kissed the heights above the valley in the night, and even here, beneath the eaves of the Last Homely House, the ground sparkled faintly with frost.

But the silence that reigned through the night had begun to crack — not from horns or bells, but from half-muttered curses, muffled rustlings, and the awkward shuffle of travelers preparing for a march that none were eager to name.

Pippin sat cross-legged on a low stone bench, fiddling with the straps of his pack and chewing on what might have once been an apple. “If I’d known we’d be leaving before the bread finished rising,” he said around a mouthful, “I’d have nicked another loaf from the kitchens.”

“You nicked two already,” Merry replied, pulling his cloak tighter against the morning chill. “You gave one to a horse by mistake.”

“Wasn’t a mistake. He looked hungry.”

Sam finished cinching the last buckle on Frodo’s gear and stood, brushing his hands on his thighs. “Everything’s packed,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “Hope it’s enough.”

Frodo gave a nod but said nothing. His face was pale with the kind of silence that spoke louder than speech, his eyes cast downward. He clutched the strap of his pack tightly, though it was already secure across his shoulders.

“Boromir,” called Aragorn, voice firm and low. “Have you secured the horn?”

“Aye,” Boromir replied, adjusting the heavy bundle slung across his back. “Though if you ask me, we should have brought horses. A knight of Gondor does not take kindly to being made a mule.”

“You’d be hard-pressed to ride a horse through the mountains, son of Denethor,” said Gandalf, emerging from the covered archway with his staff in hand. “Best to leave your pride behind with your banners.”

Boromir opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it and turned away, muttering under his breath.

Somewhere nearby, a tight knot in the leather of a water-skin refused to hold. It slipped for the third time, sending the stopper rolling across the cobbles. A passing elf retrieved it silently and placed it back in the bundle with a bow so graceful it somehow made the gesture feel like a lesson.

Legolas stood a little apart from the rest, his cloak barely stirring though the wind picked at the others. He watched the horizon with distant eyes, the line of his jaw still as stone. When the commotion rose — Pippin tripping over his own cloak, Sam apologizing for some spilled parcel, Merry bickering about maps — the elf gave a barely audible sigh and said, “We shall not reach Mordor at this pace.”

“I don’t see you carrying breakfast,” someone growled in reply.

The elf said nothing.

At last, Gandalf raised his staff. The silver knob rang softly upon the stone.

The courtyard fell still.

“No trumpets,” the wizard said, as if answering an unspoken expectation. “No farewells. Only the East, and the miles between.”

Aragorn stepped forward, clasping the brooch at his collar. “It begins now,” he said. “Steel your feet. The path is long, and the world grows heavier behind every step.”

From somewhere above, a faint song drifted down — elven voices, unaccompanied, slow and sad like water echoing in old stone.

The eastern gate creaked open. Mist curled past its arch like breath from some slumbering thing.

The Fellowship began to move — slow at first, as though pulled from the hearth by invisible cords. Packs jostled, boots scraped, someone coughed.

“Are we walking all the way to Mordor?” Pippin asked no one in particular.

“Yes,” said Gandalf shortly.

“Oh.”

And so they set out — nine companions and more doubts than plans — not with banners or bold songs, but with shivering shoulders, uneven pacing, and the faint clatter of iron tools hurriedly repacked.

Behind them, Rivendell stood silent and serene. Before them, the world waited. And the road, old and winding, had not been walked in earnest for an age.

The eastern sky held no fire that morning — only a thin grey light that slanted between the towers of Imladris like the pale hand of a cautious herald, feeling its way across the world. Frost rimed the flagstones beneath the high arches, and mist hung low over the river below, winding silver through the roots of the gorge.

The courtyard was awake, if not exactly orderly.

“I don’t see why we can’t have ponies,” Pippin muttered, fumbling with his belt buckle. “Or even just one. One noble pony. For baggage. Or second breakfasts.”

“Because noble ponies don’t climb mountains,” Merry answered, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders. “And because we’d never hear the end of it from Aragorn.”

“I said nothing about ponies,” Aragorn offered, as he passed them, adjusting the straps of his worn leather pack.

“No, but your eyes did,” said Pippin.

Gimli sat on a flat stone, muttering under his breath as he checked the edge of his axe with a finger. A small nick at the edge displeased him greatly, and he grunted each time the whetstone scraped along the steel.

“Have you oiled your boots?” he asked Legolas.

“I have no need,” the elf replied, without looking down. “Elven leather does not stiffen with dew.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Gimli said. “Elven everything walks on clouds, or so I’ve heard.”

“You might try clouds,” Legolas said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They’re easier on the knees than rocks.”

At the edge of the yard, Boromir tested the weight of his shield with both hands, his breath fogging. He did not speak much, but his gaze drifted often to Frodo, who stood still beside the ivy-covered wall, his hands tucked beneath his cloak. There was something tight in the line of the young hobbit’s shoulders — not fear, perhaps, but expectation.

Sam stood nearby, checking and rechecking the fastenings of his master’s pack, muttering the inventory aloud like a charm: rope, wrapped bread, flint, bandage roll, waxed leaf for salves, flask of miruvor.

Behind them all, just beneath the shadow of a carved lintel, Pippin was still patting his coat. “I had it,” he said. “I know I packed it.”

“Packed what?” asked Merry.

“My pipe.”

“You didn’t,” Sam called over. “You set it down on the balustrade when you were trying to tie your laces.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.”

Sam made a face. “It’s exactly what you’d do.”

The discussion was interrupted by the soft thud of a staff against stone. Heads turned — slowly, some guiltily. There was no need for speech.

Boromir straightened. Aragorn stepped forward. Merry coughed quietly. Even Gimli halted his grinding.

From the higher galleries of Rivendell, unseen voices sang in farewell — not a song of triumph, nor even hope, but of parting and patience and things set into motion beyond mending.

The eastern gate groaned open, exposing the winding road beyond, blanketed in light snow and the first fingers of mist.

The Fellowship gathered.

“Everyone’s here, then?” asked Pippin.

“No,” said Legolas, without looking up. “We are only nine.”

“And that’s everyone,” said Merry under his breath.

They began to walk.

Not in step. Not in silence. Not in unity, precisely. But in motion — boots crunching on the road, cloaks whispering against pack-straps, a few last mutters about forgotten sausages or the smell of dwarven whetstones.

The journey to Mordor had begun — not in glory or dread, but in cold fingers, bickering hobbits, and the watchful stillness of one figure who walked ahead, silent and robed in grey, bearing the weight of futures he would not speak aloud.