How did Mithrandir survive the fall in Moria? Was the Balrog slain? Seeing the Istari clad in white, elevated in power and mightier than before, Legolas felt excitement sweeping swiftly through his blood. Aragorn and Gimli stared in amazement, and the Elf saw that the Ranger was on the verge of tears. After all that had happened, could he really blame him? The Dunedain held their company together with his scant knowledge of Gandalf’s plans, ere the scattering at Amon Hen. And now, their leader had returned, shining like a pure flame.
        “Legolas, Aragorn, and Gimli. It has been a while.” Gandalf sprang lithely down the rock, landing lightly on the ground. His staff he now held next to his side, and the wizard hastened towards them. Gimli, having retrieved his axe with cautious hands, ran alongside Gandalf.
        “It has been many months since we have seen you, Gandalf,” spoke Gimli, eyes raised in reverence. “It is good to see you back.”
        “Gandalf!” Without releasing Legolas, Aragorn strode forward. The look of wonder on his face was glorious to behold. “Gandalf! So you have returned to us in the time of our need!”
        The Istari smiled, and joy shone in his eyes. “So I have, Aragorn son of Arathorn. And I have returned just in time, for there is much to be done.” As he spoke these words, Gandalf turned his eyes to Legolas, and the Elf felt his piercing gaze. A somber mood fell over the wizard, and he seemed to fall deep into thought, upon which Legolas pondered his behavior. “And much has befallen you, Legolas son of Thranduil. It has been many a dark day and night for you.”
        So Mithrandir knew his troubles. Upon realizing that, the Elf felt himself strangely calm and quiet within. The Istari knew all that had happened to him? Then he need not speak forth about his calamities, his turmoil, and his anguish? Reaching out, he touched the wizard’s shoulder as if to rouse him from his musing. “Gandalf, it is I. You know then, what has ailed me for so long. Can you do something about it?”
        Bushy eyebrows rose as if in question, and the Istari’s dark eyes gleamed. “Yes, perhaps it is in my power to deliver you from some of this darkness that enshrouds you, my good Elf. Come, Aragorn and Gimli. Let us rest upon these stones – you may release Legolas, Aragorn. These stones will do his bones no harm.”
        As Gimli sat, his axe held in both hands across his lap, Aragorn stooped down. Gently, he laid Legolas down on the ground, resting his back against the wall of the shelf. Grateful for his aid, Legolas grabbed Aragorn’s arm, smiling as the man glanced at him in surprise. “Much thanks, Aragorn. If you should ever come again to Mirkwood after all of this, I will laud you as one of my most honored friends.” Gimli scowled jealously across from him, and the Elf bit back his laughter. “You are not forgotten, friend Gimli. Both of you have cared for me like brothers. Without you, I would have died earlier.”
        “Yes, Legolas,” said Gandalf as he reclined next to the Elven prince, “you would have perished of your grief and self-pity if you had not been found. Fate is ever watching over you, even if it has taken you towards paths you did not expect. But enough of talking – what has Saruman done to you?”
        “Many ill things, and some that I cannot say again unless my heart bleeds.”
        “But you will speak, my young prince. I know of your troubles but I cannot aid you unless you let the words spill forth from your own lips. I do not like to use force, and I am unwilling to look within your soul to uproot Saruman’s vile deeds.”
        Legolas sighed, intertwining his slender fingers together. The patterns they made interested the Elf, and it allowed him to focus on something else while he spoke of cruelty and pain. “He bound me to a spell, appearing as an Orc when my will falls weak.” As his voice faltered, he noticed not the expressions crossing those of his companions – looks of shock, horror, and anger. Gandalf sighed heavily next to him but did not interrupt his silence. “I have a question to ask of you, Gandalf: did Orcs start from Elves? Saruman told me it was so.”
        “Do not listen to his counsel, Legolas! He is known for his lies.”
        “No, Gimli. Saruman is crafty and full of wiles but he will not lie about past histories. It is the truth, son of Thranduil. Melkor held captive many Elves – those called the Avari, dark elves in those days – and corrupted them through torture and darkness, similar to what you have suffered. But their suffering was greater and tragic, twisting them into what we now call foul and cruel. I know what it is you fear but you must release it.”
        “I cannot slay what used to be my kin!” Legolas said, hearing the frustrated rage in his voice. “I only killed because I had to to live. I lost friends and family to them; that was why I took hold of bow and knife. But now, since I know of their origin, how could I slay them, knowing that I shed innocent blood?”
        “They are no longer innocent, although it is also with great pity that I slay them. It was not of their choice to be born upon Middle-earth; rather, created as mighty armies for Melkor and his lieutenant, Sauron, whom we now fight. You cannot allow this truth to seal your spirit, Legolas. For that is the reason why Saruman told you this – he seeks to demoralize us, to weaken our Fellowship. He started with you, strongest and eldest of us all, excepting I, and his words have done their deed. You are strong and wise, Legolas but you harbour many fears and insecurities, which my former peer used to his advantage ere he left you. It is well that you have asked, for now I see what I must break.”
        “Is it in your power to break it?” Aragorn asked, leaning forward. “Are you now mightier than Saruman?”
        Gandalf nodded. “I am now Gandalf the White. Saruman has renounced his wisdom, and therefore has fallen out of rank and order. I am what he used to be before pride and folly poisoned his mind. As for breaking this curse, I will first see how strong of a hold Saruman has on him. Legolas son of Thranduil, lay your trust in me.”
        “I have never doubted in you, Mithrandir.”
        “That is well, then.” Legolas started as Gandalf laid a hand upon his breast, above his heart. “Do not be afraid! Your heart is the stronghold of your soul, my dear Elf. It is here where your turmoil stirs, and it is here where I can unbind the chains Saruman has wrought. Do not be afraid!” The wizard fell silent, speaking no incantations or uttering any language. It occurred to Legolas that in his mightier form, Gandalf had no need to mutter nonsense; did not Saruman cast his curse without any strange utterances? It perhaps all laid in the power bestowed; only lesser beings would resort to uttering tongues for their craft.
        Suddenly, a searing pain burned in his breast. Legolas flinched, only to feel the Istari’s hand holding him down. No sweat fell off of Gandalf’s brow, and the wizard did not tremble. Some strong force laid its grasp upon Legolas; he could feel it with intensifying awe. As the minutes went by, swift and unceasing, for time was such, Legolas felt many things. Light, raw and pure from Gandalf’s power, surged through his withering and tortured soul, rushing like a flood through the darkness. As the black shadows fell back, battered into defeat by the Istari, another greater darkness loomed forward. It was grand and tall in its cold majesty, claiming dominion over the Elf’s being.
        Both forces grappled with each other within him, and Legolas gasped as it soon manifested as physical pain. Yet, the agony was small, for Mithrandir laid his other hand on to his brow as to quell thoughts of doubt. Still, no weariness crossed the wizard’s brow; his eyes gleamed fiercely. Aragorn and Gimli watched in concerned silence. Legolas bit back a cry as the darkness roiled forth, sending spears of pain throughout his body. Gandalf gazed at him, reassuring him. Without speaking, the wizard sent forth yet another wave of light; Mithrandir needed no words of command.
        “Is he succeeding?” asked Gimli, his eyes wide with consternation. “It seems to be hurting him.”
        “I would not doubt Gandalf,” Aragorn said, watching with just as much attention. “He is now the White. He will know how to shatter this foul vise that imprisons Legolas in madness and guilt.”
        Light and dark fought for his soul. Saruman and Gandalf, rival Istari, now bent on taking what was rightfully theirs. Saruman laid claim to him ere Gandalf returned but Mithrandir knew him ere the fallen wizard cursed him. The dark pillar within him struck back and the light tore something away; Legolas sighed deeply, as if content. Gandalf nearly sprang back, like as if recoiling from a viper’s bite. Aragorn and Gimli rose to their feet as one. Legolas felt something dark removed, abolished from existence.
        But the black pillar within still remained, taunting him.
        “What happened, Gandalf?” asked Aragorn, coming to the wizard’s side for assistance.
        “I found the source of his curse, and battled with it till both of us knew each other’s strengths and flaws. I only managed to break the part that would twist Legolas’ mind and ways into Orc behavior but I could not remove the rest of that bane. He would still look like one, should his will fall. Saruman was clever; indeed crafty. He buried that curse deeply within Legolas’ spirit and heart. It is not easy to remove, unless force is used; that would render him slain by my hands.” The wizard turned to him, fixing him with his piercing gaze. “It is in your strength and might, Legolas my dear Elf, that this curse could be broken. You must resume your strength.”
        “And how shall I do that?”
        “This fear of slaying Orcs is where Saruman holds his highest position in that dark tower of yours. You must surmount it, my good prince. You are still one of the Fellowship, and there are still battles to be fought ere the Ring is destroyed. You will take up your bow and knife again in due time. But first, you must be healed of your wounds, for an injured archer does us no good. You shall return to Rivendell, to the house of Elrond. There, the lord awaits, along with your father.”
        Astonished, Legolas would have sprung to his feet if it were not for his injuries. “My father? What is he doing out of Mirkwood, Gandalf? Do you know something about him?”
        “Your father came to Rivendell to speak with Elrond. My knowledge tells me that it concerns you, Legolas. For although your father is known as the Elf-king who hoards his treasure and delights in his wine since the day Bilbo Baggins partook of the quest to recover the Dwarves’ riches, he has now refused them all. It is good to see that a miser could cherish his children, even if it took severity to do so. He has not slept till the night before, so worried was he for your health. If it were not for Elrond’s gentle admonishment, your father would have stayed awake to see you home safe and well.”
        Legolas heard Gandalf’s words with a strange emotion stirring within his breast. His father, Thranduil was the reason he held on to life. If his father still dwelled in Imladris when he returned, there would be much talk and weeping; the Elf knew this. He did not know if he would shed tears but he knew Thranduil would. His father had left Mirkwood – when had the elderly Elf done that? He still remembered seeing his father sitting on the throne, counting his jewels and handing the sacks to his subjects. And if the king was not doing that, he drank himself to excess. Legolas remembered his many nights of isolation, either in his room or at the archery grounds. Or walking amidst the trees when he could lose his guards, for the young prince did not like the strict rules accompanying a royal life. Those days were lonely, without the company of his brothers and his father.
        It was different when his mother still lived.
        “Overcome your fears, my good prince. We shall need you when time beckons.”
        “It is simple to say, Gandalf. Alas! I wish to break this hideous curse but it questions my beliefs and tears at my heart. To slay ones forced into moral depravity and slavery – ones who were my kin! Where is the justice in that? But then if I do not, I will force myself towards a swifter death. Which path must I choose?”
        “That is for you to find out, Legolas,” said the Istari kindly. “Legolas, look into the sky. What do you see?”
        Shading his eyes with his hand, the Elf glanced out into the open. At first, he saw nothing but soon a shape took form. Squinting his eyes against the sunlight, Legolas glimpsed a bird, soaring high into the sky. As it drew ever closer, he knew what it was he saw. “An eagle, flying swiftly as if in competition with the wind. Its wingspan is long; stretched out it would cover the Sun. Gandalf, do you know anything about this?” he asked as he lowered his hand from his brow and gazed at the wizard.
        “He is Gwaihir the Windlord. He is the lord of Eagles, young Legolas. He saved me from the deeps of Moria – something I shall speak of, Aragorn and Gimli. As for you, my good Elf, he shall deliver you safely to the house of Elrond. Look, for here he comes!”
        Gwaihir circled above their heads, lowering himself so gently upon the precarious shelf that none of the companions felt any tremor of protesting stone. “Ah, my old friend!” said the lord of Eagles to the Istari as he balanced himself on the edge of the shelf. His way of speaking delighted Legolas, who was fond of all creatures save foul and cruel ones. “It has not been long since I have taken you out of Moria, and yet here is another who needs my aid! He is an Elf, as the Lady Galadriel told me ere I left.”
        “He is, my good friend,” answered Gandalf, his eyes merry. “Is the weather pleasant?”
        “You see the sun, do you not?” Gwaihir jested back, flapping his wings once in a while. “Come now, friend. Where is the Elf in need of my wings?”
        As the rest of the company turned to face him, Legolas braced himself for what had to be done. Using the wall of stone behind him, he slowly rose to his feet, grimacing every so often as pain numbed his senses. When Aragorn stepped forward, eager to help, the Elf shook his head. This was his battle against his body; it was his turn to surmount a small difficulty. Agony upon agony pierced his mind but the prince refused to lose this fight. He would not lose to himself – not now; not when it counted.
        Upon standing, he caught the smiles on his friends’ faces. He had triumphed! This battle he won by his own strength! Facing the majestic eagle before him, Legolas spoke. “Gwaihir, lord of Eagles, it is I whom you must send forth to Rivendell. I am Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil. The Lady Galadriel told you my name, did she not?”
        “She did, Legolas Greenleaf. You speak wondrously fair, and that is no surprise for all Elves have a gentle and noble tongue. Are you ready to bid your friends farewell for a short time, young princeling?”
        A young princeling, indeed! Legolas would have laughed merrily at that, if it were not for his soon departure. Aragorn strode forth until he stood across from the Elf. Instead of embracing him, he laid a hand upon his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Legolas,” the Ranger said, his expression kind. “When you come back to us, you will see that you have been sorely missed.”
        Without speaking, Legolas laid his own hand upon the man’s shoulder. For a while, words refused to come, so overwhelmed was he with emotion. But something needed to be said, for without Aragorn’s stern counsel and aid, he would have come to grief. “Farewell, Aragorn. I cannot thank you enough for your help.”
        “You do not need to thank me too much, son of Thranduil. You are strong – remember that. Do not overwhelm yourself with dark tidings, Legolas.” Aragorn finished speaking, only to look behind him and laugh. Legolas smiled, knowing the reason. “Ah! Seems like Gimli does not want to go unnoticed!”
        The Dwarf glanced at Aragorn in annoyance. “He will not forget me! We are bonded soul to soul!”
        Legolas removed his hand from Aragorn’s shoulder; Aragorn did likewise and stepped aside. Gimli gazed at the Elf, a fierce fire in his eyes. Ignoring the pain, Legolas forced his body to kneel so that he met Gimli face to face. The Dwarf smiled, joy brightening his usually dark visage. “Well, Master Elf! Seems like we will be parted for a while! Take care of yourself, do you hear? I do not want my friend to come back lesser than he was ere he left!”
        “You take care of yourself too, friend Gimli,” Legolas replied back softly. “I will come back, hopefully. I just need to find my own path, for it is ever eluding me.”
        “You cannot elude me, that is all that I know, Elf!”
        “Nay! You speak false, Master Dwarf! As an Elf, I would outrun you in any contest!”
        Laughing, Gimli released his axe and embraced Legolas. The Elf did not resist, for this was what Gimli wanted and what he needed. “Gimli, you are crushing my ribs! Do not forget that one is still healing!” As if scalded, the Dwarf released his hold; Aragorn laughed. Shaking his head, Legolas returned the embrace. “I do not wish to leave you in an ill mood, my friend. Take this as a memory of our friendship, for you are now Elf-friend and I care not for the mocking of my kin. Take it as my promise to return, for I am still a member of this Fellowship and I will not abandon my friends ere the task is complete.”
        “Thank you, friend Legolas.”
        “As much to you,” said Legolas before he stood. Gandalf came into his sight, and the Elf knew that the Istari had moved, rather than to let him risk injury for his behalf. The wizard stepped forward, a gentle and fatherly smile creasing his weathered face. With the sun shining her light upon him, Gandalf shone like the flame of Anor that he was. Gentleness, humility, and power – this was Mithrandir.
        “May you soon find peace, Legolas son of Thranduil. You were not born to suffer anguish; rather, you shall stand tall and proclaim victory. Darkness will have no dominion over you if you choose to battle instead of cower. I bestow my hopes and blessings upon you. Carry him swiftly ere this night, Gwaihir my friend!”
        The eagle, having waited patiently for the companions to say farewell to the Elf, flapped his wings and lifted himself into the air. “I shall do just that, my friend! Come now! Move aside, for I do not wish to flatten you all into the stone or into the forest below! As for Legolas, stand where you are!”
        Legolas stood as straight as he could, unbending like an arrow shaft aimed for the sun. Gandalf, Aragorn, and Gimli retreated towards the wall of the shelf, pressing themselves flat against the stone. With a cry ringing like a trumpet blast, Gwaihir raised himself aloft, gaining speed with his mighty wings. Circling once, he flew above the towering rock face, only to immediately wheel around. Wind blew past Legolas, and the Elf blinked, hair flying into his eyes. His bow and quiver were strapped to his back; his silver-hafted long knife was in his belt. With another cry, the eagle seized him by his talons and lifted him high above the shelf.
        The land soon sped past him. Legolas could not see his friends, or much detail of the forest below him. Trees seemed nothing more than a mere verdant plain at his height. Gwaihir released yet another cry of triumph, letting it ring above the clouds and into the sun.
        Exhausted, Legolas closed his eyes and slept.

        “Will he be well, Gandalf?” Aragorn asked, looking into the sky where the eagle had taken his friend. “It is far from Rivendell, is it not?”
        The Istari lowered his eyes. “He will be there ere this evening, Aragorn. You do not need to worry for his sake, for he has taken it upon himself to solve his own troubles. As for us, we have our own to deal with, and soon. But for the while, I see you have questions to ask and answers to hear. Come then – speak!”
        “Will he break the curse himself, Gandalf?” asked Gimli innocently.
        As Aragorn watched, the wizard sighed and glanced again at the sky. Gwaihir was gone; the lord of Eagles flew swiftly, like the wind. Legolas was with him; he had nothing to fear. “Will he, Gandalf? For this curse of his lays a burden upon his heart.”
        “He will, if he so chooses. It is his own choice now.”

        “Elrond? Do you sense something amiss in Rivendell?” Thranduil questioned, concerned for his friend. The raven-haired Half-elf sat at the banquet table in the great hall, his face turned away from the music and gaiety of his fellow Elves. Without warning, he leapt to his feet, turning to the Elf-king. What expression he had Thranduil could not name, for it was not fear or concern. What troubled the Elf-lord? “Something is drawing close – it is like a premonition in my heart.”
        “By what do you mean, Elrond?”
        The Elf-lord strode out of the banquet hall, swift in his steps and hurried in his pace. Not wishing to leave his friend behind, Thranduil followed. The music from within soon dimmed as both of the lords hastened out towards the corridor, where open space allowed them fresh air and privacy. And still, Elrond did not speak.
        “Elrond? What troubles you?”
        “Nothing troubles me, my friend. Rather, I feel like as if someone is calling me. As if someone is telling me to be alert. And yet, it is not for peril. It is for something important and urgent.”
        Intrigued, Thranduil could not help but ask. “Something urgent? This would not have anything to do with concerning Gwaihir the Windlord, could it? It is the only matter of concern that you have unveiled as of late.” It was the only news that the Elven king was aware of. It very well might have been the only thought Thranduil kept to himself, for it spoke of events beyond them. Could it have to do with his son?
        As if his words were what Elrond needed, the lord of Imladris turned on one heel and gazed at him. Realization dawned upon the Half-elf and Thranduil saw the light of understanding bright upon his face. “It very well might be, Thranduil!” exclaimed Elrond as he strode over. “My heart bids me wait until dusk.”
        “Where should we stand, my friend?”
        “The same as usual, Thranduil. The balcony where you last pondered your son’s plight.”

        This time, when he dreamt, he found himself upon a dimly lit path. Darkness still surrounded him, as if unwilling to leave but Legolas realized that the only way to banish it was to find a way out. Already, this path took him past several desecrated fields, places of wars and battles declared in the songs of Men. Elves never glorified in battle, although they partook in them when their own livelihoods were at stake. Legolas glanced sadly at the abandoned places of glory long forgotten and continued walking.
        His father now stayed a distance from him; he knew why. Once he had decided to fight for himself, his father had simply released him to his own will. It was the way of living – it was the road to maturity. Legolas considered himself mature in his own right but in comparison to other Elves, he was young. That was why his brother scorned him; it was the reason why his mother loved him. It was also the reason why Thranduil now aided him, albeit from so faraway. Being young in soul and mind made him vulnerable to the harshness of life but Legolas would have it no other way.
        He did not want to be jaded and weary, forever thinking of escape.
        Deep in thought, he strode down the path, which led him over sloping hills towards a hidden horizon. Raising his eyes, the Elf gazed steadily at the faint light in the distance. It would still be a constant war, incessant battles upon incessant battles for his soul. He wanted to be free of this shade, these wraiths that haunted him. It would be a long walk, requiring him to forget about trivial matters. If he forsook them, his journey would be easier to bear; if not, he could easily stumble and fall.
        Legolas did not want that.
        Smiling grimly, the Elven prince continued. Dusk was soon to fall even in his dreams, and Legolas had no intention of waiting for twilight. Placing his hope in that faint remembrance of things past, he walked on, taking no respite for it was not yet his time to rest.
        He had much to do.

        “So now our horses will bear us to Meduseld, as we promised Éomer,” said Aragorn as he urged his steed closer to Gandalf. The Istari rode upon Shadowfax, a swift and pale beauty. Gimli clung on to the horse’s mane tightly, as if afraid of falling, and the Ranger laughed. “Gimli son of Gloin, you surprise me! Has not riding Arod taught you anything except for placing your trust in Legolas?” Aragorn quickly looked back and smiled. Arod, even without a rider, galloped swiftly behind them for Shadowfax was his friend and leader.
        As much as the rest of us for following Gandalf, Aragorn thought with amusement.
        “It soon grows dark, my friends,” said the Istari as he led them through the rolling lush plains of Rohan. Here, the grasses grew tall, almost fifteen hands high; it was almost as tall as their horses. Undeterred, the steeds and their riders plowed through, ignoring the lashings of the grass at their bodies. Shadowfax galloped swiftly, showing no signs of weariness or complaint and Aragorn wondered at the noble mount.
        “It will soon be dusk,” Gimli said when he had the chance to free himself from his preoccupation with the height of the horse. “Will Legolas soon be arriving at Rivendell, Gandalf?”
        “Gwaihir is swift and tireless. Your friend will be there ere night casts her darkest cloak upon us all. Do not worry, Gimli. Legolas is already resolute – I could see it in his eyes ere he left.”
        Legolas resolute? Then that was a good sign. “Does Elrond know of this?”
        “He knows, for I have bent my thoughts and he has received them this very noon. He will wait for the call of Gwaihir; do not trouble yourself, Aragorn son of Arathorn. There are many paths that a Man, an Elf, or a Dwarf may choose. Fate has already destined your road; she will lead Legolas to his own destiny.”
        “Hopefully one without anymore agonies or treacheries.”
        Gandalf remained silent for a moment. “Life without obstacles, Aragorn, is not a life worth living. He will confront them in due time. And hopefully, when he does, he will be able to smite them down with his former strength. For that is what I hope for him – his road is already dark enough.”

        Dusk fell rapidly upon Imladris. Elrond and Thranduil waited in silence upon the balcony, each glancing at the shades of colour filling the expanse above their heads. Far off to their right, a pale moon gleamed, not yet visible while sunset dominated the sky. With a sigh, Thranduil leaned forward, throwing his weight against the railing. “It is a long wait, Elrond. And yet, with this news of the Windlord, my heart is calm.”
        “The lord of Eagles travels swiftly, my friend. Do not concern yourself, for my own heart is quiet. It has been a while since I have felt that. During this time, this Third Age, we have much to worry about – you, your son; me, the destruction of the Ring and the defense of Imladris against Sauron. We all have our moments of despair and wretchedness. But we now wait for a harbinger – one bearing hope, I should think.”
        “I do will that to be true, Elrond.” It had been a while since Thranduil left Mirkwood; he did not know when he should return. “If the Windlord brings me hope, I shall depart for my kingdom ere the night is over. I have my own premonitions, for I have a sent one of your messengers to bear news for my sons. I called them forth to Rivendell, for my heart tells me of joyous tidings.”
        “Have they received your command, my fellow lord?”
        Thranduil nodded. “I have received a message scripted by my sons but a day and half ago. They will be here on the morrow. When, I do not know but they travel light and armed. Such are these times. Should I leave this very night, greet them with the courtesy extended to friends and nobility.”
        The Half-elf gazed across at the dimming sky. “Do not fear lack of respect, Thranduil. They will be well received and spoken fairly to. As I have treated you, a guest and companion in my humble home, I do not expect hospitality to diminish when your sons arrive.”
        “Many thanks, Elrond.”
        “I return the same thanks to you, Thranduil. It gets lonely here, even with sons and a daughter. Our time is soon over, and we shall be forgotten. What Men will remember of us would be nothing more than myths and legends.”
        “I wait for the same fate, as all Elves do.”
        Their contemplative silence suddenly broke as a shrill and majestic cry rent the sky. Glancing skywards, Thranduil beheld the lord of Eagles, Gwaihir the Windlord. The eagle circled round Imladris, his wings stretched wide as he descended towards the ground. Straining his eyes, the Elf-king saw what it was the eagle carried in his claws. Or rather, whom Gwaihir carried.
        “My son!”
        Elrond turned to him, a smile on his face. “I think your questions have been answered, my fellow lord. Shall we go and receive your son?”
        “Let us do, Elrond! Now my heart can rest assured, for he has returned to me!”

        Gwaihir flapped his wings, lowering himself towards the ground. Gently, he slipped his talons free of the Elf’s garb, settling the sleeping prince on his side. Regal in his splendor, the eagle turned to welcome the figures of two Elves, both noble in their own right. “My lords, is he what Gandalf has told you to wait for?”
        Thranduil fell to his knees, cradling his son in his arms. Ever since that night when Legolas first cried out for him, the Elven king could not bear to sleep without knowing his son’s plight. He had come to Rivendell, to Elrond to seek advice and counsel. Elrond had given them, and had shared his own grief. And now, his child had returned to him, sleeping like an infant. He caught the eagle within his sight, and the fierce yellow eyes gazed back at him. “I cannot thank you enough, lord of the Eagles. For he is my son, and he is now safe.”
        The eagle blinked. “It was by the command of the Lady Galadriel and Mithrandir to bring him to you. You have a worthy son, king of Mirkwood. He speaks fairly to all, and although he is scarred from without, he still has beauty within. If I had a child, I would be honoured to have one such as he.”
        “Gwaihir,” said Elrond, stepping forward, “you are returning to your people now?”
        The eagle rustled his feathers. “I shall, for subjects without a king are lost and often wander astray. I cannot stay here long, for there is much for me to do.”
        “As it is for all of us. Go then, my friend and tell your people a kind greeting from the house of Elrond.”
        “And from the kingdom of Thranduil,” said the Elf-king as he looked at Gwaihir, grateful. “For by your vigilance, you have brought back one that I feared dead.”
        “I will bring your fair words back, my lords. The night draws close, and I bid you all pleasant dreams.” So saying, Gwaihir raised himself aloft in the air, gained speed, and soon flew over Rivendell and disappeared into darkness. A gentle breeze blew past, casting dignified robes and tresses into the air.
        “My fellow lord, it is best now to bring him in. Shall we wake him?”
        Thranduil shook his head. “No. Let him sleep, for he is weary.” Cradling Legolas in his arms, the Elf stood and strode next to Elrond. “He seems at peace now. He sleeps like a child.”
        “He is a child, Thranduil. At least your own.”
        “That he is, and for that I am grateful.” So speaking, both Thranduil and Elrond entered once again into the sanctuary that was Imladris. As the night strengthened her forces and the moon waxed pale, the lord of Rivendell sought to heal what he could of Legolas’ wounds, working diligently as the hours passed. As for Thranduil, king of the Silvan Elves of Northern Mirkwood, he held his son’s hand. Their parting had been long, and they were soon to part again, but not before Thranduil could pass his tranquility and relief onto his son, whom he loved better than all of his riches and wine. Almost too late had he discovered that truth, and he realized for how long he had left his child alone and adrift.
        Upon leaving, he glanced at one of the rooms where the faint light of candles could be seen. Legolas lay there, now in Elrond’s care. He could not leave without saying a word of encouragement or hope. Legolas would hear him, for he still dreamt. “Farewell, my son. May you grow strong again, and never look back. There are many destinies for us all to take – take yours without shame.”

        He halted, feeling someone’s presence behind him. The feeling was warm and comforting, without harshness or spite. It was his father. Turning around, he faced the elder and lowered his eyes in respect. A hand gently caught him below the chin and raised him so that he could see Thranduil face to face. There was something akin to fatherly love in the Elf’s eyes, and Legolas felt safe.
        “I have come to tell you farewell, for you cannot hear me from without. I will not leave you in your dreams but I must leave you in the flesh. The lord Elrond will take care of you. Heal swiftly, my son and do not look back.”
        “I will try not to, Father,” said Legolas humbly. “I do not wish to disappoint you.”
        “Nay! Do not seek my approval, Legolas. Do not disappoint yourself. Continue finding your path; I will be behind you, always.”
        Legolas smiled. “Thank you, Father. May your journey back home be swift and safe.”
        Thranduil smiled back, running his hand along Legolas’ face. “And yours as well, my son. Come, we must both split paths. I will walk mine; you have yours to turn to.” Removing his hand from his child’s face, the Elf-king stepped back. “It is time, Legolas.”
        Turning around, the Elven prince strode ahead. Ahead into darkness, ahead into light, and ahead into many struggles and joys yet unseen and unveiled. These roads he must cross, and these obstacles he must overcome.
        He was ready now.