Three lines of dialogue are taken directly from ‘The Riders of Rohan’ chapter in TTT.

To all readers – thanks for the encouragement and feedback! The suggestions also help – I’ve already used a few of them! *smiles*

        Night fell nigh upon Rivendell, hiding the Elven abode in a comfortable swath of darkness. Thranduil, Elven-king of Northern Mirkwood, ruler of the Silvan Elves walked along a balcony in heavy strides, bent towards his thoughts. Stars shone in the sky like dim harbingers of peace, studded across a wide expanse of black and violet that roiled with wispy clouds. Sighing, Thranduil bowed his fair head. Even in the silence of Imladris, his heart clamored loudly for his son.
        “What troubles you, lord of Mirkwood?”
        The Elven-king turned around at the sound of Elrond’s voice. The Half-elf stepped onto the balcony, and glanced at the sky with clear grey eyes. Ageless he seemed and fair, alike that of the Sindarin ruler who gazed at him with curiosity. A silver circlet bound back his raven hair, shining from the faint flames of nearby basins. Clad in a heavy robe of dark blue, Elrond seemed adjoined with the surrounding shadows but his fairness appeared as a light in the intensifying gloom.
        “Is it not tranquil tonight, my friend? And yet, you seek no rest or food.”
        “I see only my son, and he is ever wistful in our forests. He gazes at all things, whether they are beast or tree with innocent eyes. He has not forgotten much, but what he has lost is telling and I cannot bring back broken memories. He walks with wounded steps, and a shadow hangs over his head.”
        Elrond lowered his gaze from the stars. “Such it was with Celebrían, my beloved. I healed her of the poisoned wound, but her heart fled from Middle-earth. She found no comfort in Imladris, even when I held her close and declared my undying love for her. In loving her, I let her go west. From there, she sailed for the Undying Lands. Her tracks I cannot yet follow, for there is much to be done.”
        “You suffer in your loss, and I grieve with you.”
        “As so do you, my friend. Such grief should not be one’s own but shared. Perhaps, your son needs comfort from another as well. The Fellowship should be his guide and unerring support.”
        Legolas, his youngest. Although he possessed most of his mother’s beauty, he also derived a fierce sense of courage and pride from Thranduil himself. Having dealt with his son before, the Elven-king knew what Legolas would say in times worthy of pity. His son detested pity even from companions and allies. What the real danger was was if he failed to spot his own wretchedness and thereby tumbled into an abyss of his own making. In his pride and unseen folly, Legolas could stumble and never rise again.
        “If my son is willing to accept aid from his companions, he might have a chance. But I know him, Elrond, and he delights not in the giving of pity. Should they give him the wrong turn of words or glances, he will despise them for their care. I worry for his sake.”
        “It is his path, Thranduil. He must walk it, or he will never emerge triumphant.”
        The Elf glanced quickly into the calm eyes of his dark-haired counselor. “And if he fails, Elrond? What if he should fail?”
        “The sons of Thranduil do not surrender easily to the Enemy. Legolas is strong enough to surmount difficulties thrown into his path. I did not choose your son from mere rabble, my friend. He will prove himself in the right after all of this ceases.”
        “I see. You spoke to me as one speaks to a child unsure of his way.”
        The Half-elf fell into thought, his brow heavy with advice and consolation. When he spoke again, the wisdom of his words hushed the din in Thranduil’s heart. “Sometimes, we are all children lost in our paths, my fellow lord – for this is our blessing in that we can amend our faults.”

        “Aragorn, is that my knife at your belt?” Legolas asked, his sight fixed on the weapon. “Did you find my bow and quiver as well? Those are dear to me, for the Lady Galadriel bestowed them to me ere we left that pleasant land.” The tree’s acceptance of him and what that meant had loosened the Elf’s tongue, and Legolas spoke fairly and was pleased. Silence was hard to bear for any Elf, and meant severe grief. Troubled at first by who he was after his trials, he now rested alongside his friends. Speech came to him as if unsealed by that affirmation of his identity.
        “You speak and withhold your silence, Legolas.” The Ranger smiled and withdrew the sheathed knife from his belt. “Take your weapon, son of Thranduil. I do not wish to burden you with your other tools of war but if you insist, I will freely hand them over.”
        “Give them unto me, then, my friend. For the pain is not so unbearable that an archer’s tools will not be borne. Although I am in no condition to battle, I will not see my weapons go to ruin.”
        Unstrapping the bundle on his back by loosening his baldric, Aragorn brought the wrapped weapons out of hiding. Legolas closed his fingers around the silver-hafted knife, sliding it firmly into his belt as to free his hands. As the bow and quiver were handed to him, the prince held onto them possessively. He did not know when he would have the courage to use them again but they were his by right. Noticing the quiver was empty, he sighed. “There were plenty of arrows near Parth Galen. If I had not been seized, I would find arrows to refill this empty vessel.”
        “Leave your ill thoughts behind, Legolas.”
        It was not a suggestion given to him. It was a command. Challenged, the Elf stared at the Ranger. “I speak because I find my heart calmed for a while, Aragorn. I do not leave behind thoughts of torture and inevitable death by your will. I do not give myself pity, although my heart desires it with bitterness. Cannot a prince assuage his own wounds ere a friend speaks in such a tone? I know of your concern but it is not in your right to tell me what I should think or not.”
        “Perhaps not, Legolas but your insistence to wheedle out pain and agony will do you great harm. It is almost as if the Orcs have left a shadow upon you. Any Elf who still has mettle and strength would work to cast off such a burden; however, you embrace it and it stings you like nettles upon a naked hand. You daily grow weaker in will, son of Thranduil, and if you are not wary, your body will fail you as well.”
        The counsel of Aragorn burned in the Elven prince’s heart like fire upon a bleeding wound, and Legolas responded the only way he knew how. Releasing his weapons with the force of anger, the Elf lunged for the Ranger. Startled, Aragorn seized him roughly and bore him to the ground, even as Gimli stood in shock. Fury, bitterness, and despair wholly filled Legolas and he knew not what he did. Pain tore through his body as Isildur’s heir restrained him; madness screamed eerily in his mind, enticing him towards darkness. What evil had taken control of him?
        “Legolas, are you so distressed that violence is the only way you seek?”
        Aragorn. He had attacked his one of his closest friends. What had he done? Could he ever make amends for this? Agony from his wounds drove darkness out of his mind, and the Elf went silent. He could not endure Aragorn’s words; for although they were spoken in truthfulness, they reminded him of whom he used to be. A tall and proud Elf-prince, who never sought others for aid but did all things by his own hands. Aragorn called him weak in his struggles, and to Legolas, this was an unforgivable blow against his pride.
        And then, he nearly struck his own.
        “Legolas, have you returned to your senses, yet?”
        It was strangely quiet. Gimli knelt down next to him, and it grieved the Elf to see caution reflected in the Dwarf’s eyes. “Master Legolas, what overcame you?”
        He was so tired and night still reigned strong over Fangorn. “A sudden anger, Gimli. One that I cannot explain. Aragorn, it was unlike me. Release me, for whatever madness I fell into, it has left me.”
        “Such madness I had never seen in an Elf, Legolas. What did the Orcs do to you? Tell me! You live in constant strife with yourself, denying your hurt but it has manifested itself. If we were asleep, would you have slain us where we slept? Your captors have done more than you let us know. What did they do to you? – for I will not rest until I know the reason for your torment and anger!”
        “I cannot say, Aragorn.”
        The Ranger lowered his head in exasperation. “I will not release you until you tell me what lowered you to this state, son of Thranduil. Even now, blood stains your garb, for you tore open your wounds in that foolish attempt. I will tend to your needs soon but not until I see why you chose to attack instead of talk.”
        Defeated, Legolas found it difficult to hold his gaze onto Aragorn’s piercing one. He looked away, and the man did not force his sight back towards him. For so long, he fought within for a semblance of peace – now, it had proven fruitless. He was not able and strong enough to combat the ravenous darkness that sought for control within him. With his father’s guidance, all might have been possible. But he was full-grown, and his own paths he chose. Would he rely on his father for the rest of his life? Did he not say that he needed no aid or help of hands? He knew he was still an Elf, for the tree ensured him of that or else it would have denied his touch. An Elf lost in shadows, seeking any thread of light through dark skies.
        He had tried; still, he was trying.
        Where was he going, though – down into self-pity and black thoughts or up towards hope and light remembrances? Why could he not fight harder – what was holding him back?
        “Speak, Legolas. You fall again into silence and it worries me.”
        The words were slow to come; so raw were the memories that accompanied them. “Long did they torment me, ever in day or night. Orcs seldom stop when they carry prisoners by the wills of their masters. But halt they did, for they wished me agony. It was seemingly light work at first but it soon got worse.”
        Aragorn gently shook him. “Do not cease in this talk, my friend. Perhaps this will heal your heart. You have kept it within, allowing it to poison your very being. We are your companions; we have endured trials together. Speak, Legolas and do not stop.”
        “You are very patient, Aragorn. And yet, my memories never cease to terrify me.”
        “Then talk and we shall bear your fear and pain together.”
        “I could not do much against Orcs unarmed. They bound my wrists, so that in my struggles, I now bear scars. They beat me, drawing blood and breaking bones. One of my ribs is now broken, and it pains me. They used the lash on me. I often held back death but willed for it when my suffering increased. They burned me, used their weapons on me. I could not fight them in my state, for I had long since weakened and ceased to be a threat. They took great glee in this, as all Orcs do when they maim an Elf.”
        The Ranger’s hands loosened somewhat, and Legolas knew without looking that an expression of immense sorrow creased his brow. “Orcs delight in all forms of cruelty, Legolas.”
        Legolas did not respond.
        “You hesitate, and I have no doubt that we are approaching your sorest trials. If you choose not to speak further, that is your desire. However, know this: if you should not tell, we cannot be at your side to comfort you. And that will grieve me, my friend. I have already grieved more than once on your behalf, and to neglect you at your worst is faulty of me. Gimli and I traveled far to find you; we will not leave you ruined as such.”
        “Then I will speak further.”
        “For that, you possess fierce courage. Do not let the Enemy seize that from you.”
        He spoke then, feeling himself aloof of all that he said. To the Elf, it seemed as if he heard his words from afar. “The night ere you found me, Saruman happened upon the Orcs. I believed them to be his, and they listened to his words. He came upon us – Merry, Pippin, and I. He tried to bring me by force towards his darkness, and I fought him hard and won. But wrath consumed him, and he doomed me to further torment by a curse that I have yet to see take form. What it is I will not describe to you, too horrid for words even to explain.”
        “This curse – can it be unbroken by Gandalf, do you think?”
        “I do not know. If he were still alive, I might have hope. But he is fallen, and I do not ask for dead souls to grant me freedom when they should be sleeping. Saruman laid his curse, and his anger still burned. In his rage, he gave me over to his Orcs.” Legolas shuddered. He felt Aragorn holding him tightly, as if to say that he knew his fear. He could not look Aragorn in the eye; so shameful did he feel about that accursed night. He could have fought back if he had the strength but he had none left. Was it because he already saw no hope?
        “What then, Legolas?”
        “They defiled me.” The words rang harsh in his ears, and the Elf cringed. “They soiled me with their filth, and laughed at my agony. Saruman commanded them to; they obeyed his bidding. I wished for death that night but I was saved from it. I could not find any endurance left. I desired death.”
        Gimli’s voice raged. “If I could lay my hands on that wizard and his Orcs, I would happily behead them all!”
        “That you would, Gimli.” Aragorn spoke softly, and instead of releasing Legolas, brought him towards him in a gentle embrace. “You have spoken words of pain, son of Thranduil – that takes courage. Do not consider yourself craven; no lesser being could have lasted such fiendish torture. You have withheld your tears, for it is known by Men and Dwarves – even Halflings – that Elves compose themselves in all times. But there is still wretchedness within you, and if you do not weep, it will never heal.”
        “I have already said much, my friend. It hurts like a new wound, yet the burden is lightened.”
        “That is why I said you must speak, Legolas. That is the only way to recover from such ills.”
        “Would it that Sam could aid Frodo, for his turmoil is greater than mine.”
        Aragorn, son of Arathorn shook his head. “Alas, for the both of you! I do not know whose burden is greater now, for both of you carry heavy weights in your soul. Will they heal? That is not in my knowledge, although the deities would know. The Ring and a scarred life – which is heavier?”

        “He has escaped and shed some shadows, Elrond.”
        “And so you have stood guard as he battled, my fellow lord. Is Legolas strong of will?”
        Thranduil rested his hand upon the railing, staring out at the stars. “It was a close struggle, and it was not his fight alone. Someone was urging him in the battle, crying out for reason and speech. A sudden darkness shrouded him and dimmed Mirkwood’s brightness, and in that cloak of evil he fought. It was one that he chose to win.”
        “Does it ease your heart, Thranduil?”
        “It does, but his struggles are far from over. This is only the first wall down – he has many to overcome. It is like a siege upon his soul; a war that I cannot help him win. So from here, our paths split. I will follow him from behind in his lost ways, hoping to be his counselor in times of need.”
        The Half-elf raised his head, avoiding Thranduil and instead looked down at the cliffs upon which Rivendell rested. “He has overcome something, then. His recovery has begun with his strength.”
        “You mentioned Mithrandir to me a while ago, Elrond. So he has left for Fangorn, and has left you words of advice? What are they, if you are willing to let foreign ears hear.”
        “Mithrandir told me to be alert for the call of the Lord of Eagles, that of the mighty Gwaihir. What that forebodes I have no ken of, except to await and listen for his cry.”
        Gwaihir the Windlord? The Lord of Eagles? What strange news was this? “Wizards talk forever in riddles, do they not, Elrond?”
        “Your son’s heart is a riddle. Our dilemma is one as well. Until Middle-earth is lost, Thranduil, we will forever be creating and solving riddles.”

        “These wounds are deep, Legolas. Should they heal, you will bear scars.” Legolas nodded wearily as Aragorn stripped the light bandages off of his torso, revealing his wounds. He heard Gimli gasp aloud in horror at what befell him, and the Elf closed his eyes. He could see what the Dwarf saw – stripes of crimson in a cruel pattern, crisscrossing upon formerly pale flesh. He wondered if the healing regions were still grey and sickly in appearance.
        “Alas for that!” said Legolas, sighing. “It would be hard to return home without reflecting on these marks. I would be considered fallen, even if I came back in triumph.”
        Gimli trudged over to him; his stout and burly form massive. There was a hard glint in his eye. “If your subjects despise you for your honesty and bravery in hardship, I will use my axe to threaten their tongues!”
        “Nay, Gimli! Do you wish to hasten the divide between Elves and Dwarves? Rather, it is my burden.”
        “One that I will bear with you, Master Elf!”
        Legolas smiled. It was easier now, after his companions had heard of his misfortunes. “You do not need to carry unnecessary weight, Master Dwarf. As it looks now, you are already heavy enough. The armour and axe does not help, which is unfortunate.”
        As Gimli sputtered in playful rage, Legolas laughed. Aragorn walked over, holding in his hand ripped cloth and a small basin of hot water. The fire burned merrily, and while Legolas turned not his eyes towards the flames, he felt their warmth. The Ranger knelt down next to him, holding his attention with his steadfast gaze. “Legolas, I will tend to your wounds. This might hurt, I warrant you that.”
        “It is not uncommon for injuries to protest when touched, Aragorn. Just be as gentle as you could, for my sake. These wounds are slow to heal and are still raw. My own folly moments ago ripped them open, I believe.”
        “And what folly, Legolas! Although it surprises me how an Elf unable to ride a horse could leap at me like that!”
        Light jests and talks – like before the Fellowship sundered at Amon Hen. “I rode a mount, Aragorn. Although it is not the common way of riding, I did accompany you to Fangorn, did I not? Gimli was not used to it, I must say.”
        “Hold your tongue, Master Elf!” the Dwarf retorted, glaring at Legolas with bright and fierce eyes. “If you had not urged the horse to quicken his pace, I might have held on better!”
        “Falling behind was not our goal, though. Is that not true, Aragorn?”
        “It is true, Legolas and for now, I will ask you to brace yourself. Gimli son of Gloin, keep watch for fell things. Should there be any cause for alarm, call me.”
        The Dwarf tramped off, muttering under his breath. “Call you? A Dwarf’s voice is loud enough to echo through caves. As if I am incompetent for watching a makeshift camp with three companions – a Man, an Elf, and I!”
        Legolas’ keen hearing caught Gimli’s complaints and the prince could not help smiling in mild amusement. “Caves already echo themselves, my friend. Your bellowing would benefit us all from a distance.”
        Gimli growled ferociously. “Speak less, Elf! For albeit I am your friend, your words should be more fair; lest this axe shorn off more than your tongue!”
        “Ah, so the prince is now threatened?” Legolas mocked back, watching as Gimli’s scowl deepened. Aragorn administered his treatment, and the Elf winced. The most that Aragorn could do was to cleanse him of blood. He had been injured by the Enemy and by their dark weapons. Nothing could heal those wounds, except by Elvish skill. He thought then of Elrond, lord of Rivendell, and of how he possessed the gift of healing fell wounds. If only those hands could cure him of his injuries, then some of his grief could be quelled.
        Suddenly, Gimli let out a cry. Legolas and Aragorn looked towards the fire, startled. An old man, withered and bent, with gnarled fingers clutching a staff tottered towards them. A wide-brimmed hat veiled his eyes from sight; Legolas shivered. He trembled not from the cold but from a darker knowledge. Could it be? He was not Gandalf; he was not Mithrandir. Could it be Saruman, spent from his assault upon his broken body? If so, then what was the Istari doing in these woods? Saruman had no more strength or vigor left to assail him with; was his coming an ominous sign? Chill winds blew across the camp, and Legolas bit back a cry as it froze his naked back.
        Aragorn stepped forward, ever courteous and dignified. “It is cold here in these woods. Well, father, what can we do for you? Come and be warm, if you are cold!”
        Legolas wanted to grab Aragorn, to prevent him from advancing towards that wizened figure. He knew it had to be Saruman – Gandalf was dead, slain in Moria. Why did Aragorn persist in this peril, like that of a moth drawn towards a deadly flame? Lothlórien, ruined and faded came into his mind, and the Elf cast it aside, even as he watched the noble man approaching the stooped one. “Do not touch him!” he cried out in his soul. “Aragorn! Are you blind or deaf?” Unable to move quickly, Legolas could only sit there in dread.
        But his worries were uncalled for.
        The old man vanished – completely and without a trace of his whereabouts. As the two able companions wandered around the outskirts of their camp warily, Legolas glimpsed the moon disappearing into darkness. The night grew heavier, and Legolas found his breath short. What had befallen them just then? Their steeds cried out but not in fright; he heard them clearly. They were bolting, having dragged themselves free of their pickets. Where were they galloping to and towards whom? Why did they take flight?
        “The horses! The horses!”
        Gimli and Aragorn turned to him upon hearing him crying thus. A look of apprehension crossed Aragorn’s face, adding years to his age. As for Gimli, the Dwarf glanced down in uncertainty. Those steeds belonged to Éomer, the leader of the Riders of Rohan. They were pledged to return them. What now of their promise? How could they return empty-handed, delivering the Rider into wrath and discipline? Would they not lose their honour?
        “They are gone,” said Aragorn after a long silence.
        “What did we witness tonight?” Gimli asked, flickering his eyes hither and thither nervously. “Are we all mad, proclaiming ill visions?”
        “We saw someone. But I know not who.”
        “I do,” said Legolas, carefully rising to his feet. His body trembled even as he stood, gritting his teeth against sharp stabs of pain. “I recognized the old man. And it shook me terribly like a leaf on the open wind.”
        “Who did you see, Legolas?” Aragorn questioned.
        “Saruman.”

        The stars dimmed in the sky, quenching their light and letting fall upon the world a dreary mantle. Thranduil turned around, exhaustion burning deep within his breast. For many long hours, Elrond and he discussed their choices in Legolas’ situation. For Elrond, Thranduil could see how much the matter pained the Elf-lord, for it often brought back memories buried in a hurting heart; he had no intent of harming him in such a manner. Through their suffering, though, they cleaved their minds as one and sought for answers.
        “Your son is well?”
        It was a commonly asked question now, and Thranduil expected it. “He is healing within and progress is slow. Something just startled him; he now halts in his steps and is unwilling to walk forward. It is another wall, Elrond. Never have I seen him confronting so many horrors.”
        “A shadow hangs over him like an executioner’s blade, so you have said.”
        “Yes. But the blade has not fallen yet, nor claimed his life.”
        Elrond strode away from the balcony and towards the inner walls of the abode, looking down. “He is holding the wielder of death back. You have a stubborn child, my friend.” The Half-elf paused in his steps and glanced back, his face softening with pity. “Rest, my friend or partake of some food. It would not do for the father to fall as well as the son.”
        “If the son falls, the father carries him.”
        “Maybe but that is not your choice, yet. Come in, for shadows are stretched across the sky and we will see no more stars for tonight.”
        Thranduil followed Elrond, back into the warmly lit rooms of Rivendell. “He has found peace for a short while. It is a daily battle and a constant war.”
        “One that you cannot participate in.”
        “No. But he can fight it – I know he can.”

A bit more of the following of TTT events and then the story should pick up its pace – in about two chapters! *smiles* Ã