Rivendell. He was in Imladris yet again but this time for another purpose. Legolas tilted his head, listening to the birds singing their fair songs. He wished to join them, for he longed to hear his own voice glad upon the wind again. But alas! his healing was far from over; how long it would take Legolas did not know but he banished the hopelessness out of his mind. It would not do to fall again into despair and wretchedness – not when his companions struggled so hard to pull him away from its brink. Smiling at the thought of Aragorn, Gimli, and Gandalf, the Elf turned away from the balcony and went back into his room.
        When he had awakened upon the first light of dawn, the lord Elrond was there, standing by his bedside. Legolas remembered looking at the Elf-lord with dazed realization before he nearly sprang out from under his covers in acknowledgment of Elrond’s presence. The ruler of Rivendell laughed then, his amusement apparent and Legolas fell back against the bed in embarrassment. He had never seen the lord Elrond so merry before; was it due to his youthful reaction to authority?
        “Do not be surprised, Legolas. You are now a guest within my halls, as free to wander around as the rest of the Elves. You are now fully healed of your physical hurts; that has been dealt with. You will find your weapons resting on the chair over there,” explained the Half-elf, jerking his head in that direction with a slight nod, “and the new clothes are on your bed. I tried to get the colours of your father’s kingdom for you, for you are doubtlessly used to the hues of Mirkwood and I will not obligate you to don colours not of your liking.”
        “I am fully healed?” he asked, surprised. “But I could not have been here for long!”
        “Indeed, Prince Legolas. Gwaihir the Windlord brought you to us the night before, while Rivendell took its respite. Your wounds were terrible but they were not beyond my abilities to heal, albeit they took long hours into the night. You will bear scars, for the marks were deep. If you should choose to walk, you will find yourself able to; those wounds required more than skill – they required reverence to those who created us. Only they could heal dire injuries as such, and they did while I laid blessings upon you with closed eyes.”
        “I owe you my thanks then, lord Elrond. The last time you laid eyes on me, I was healthy and well. When you saw me the night before, I was bruised and weary; now, I am recovered because of your efforts.”
        Elrond smiled, and in that ageless face, Legolas glimpsed wisdom and fatherly encouragement. “I did what I had to, son of Thranduil. I am a father as well, so your pain is common to me. Your father was here for several days; he went back to Mirkwood ere the dawn came. Your brothers should be coming soon, according to their own words. Rest if you want, Legolas! And if you should wish to explore Imladris yet again, you may! I have spoken too much, and my tasks now bid me come. A maiden will come to tidy your appearance ere your kindred meet you face to face. That is all.”
        The Elven prince gazed fondly around his room. The carved chair where he found his bow, quiver, and knife. The quiver had been replenished with arrows, he noticed. A large oak wardrobe was on his left, placed against the wall and facing the bed. It was empty and Legolas placed his nightwear inside, as carefully as when he had lived in his own home. Sunlight shone into the open enclosure, softening the delicate structures surrounding him. Upon lord Elrond’s departure, he had thrown off the covers and slid out of the bed. He was astonished that he could walk, for he had been incapacitated for so long. Overjoyed at this change, he had immediately stridden from corner to corner. He still walked with a light step, although he did note a slight heaviness to his pace – that would take time to correct, he told himself. Then, without wasting time, he changed clothes and contemplated his situation outside on the balcony.
        He had come to the decision to battle whatever darkness tried to seize him. After depending on his father and his companions for the past few days, he now found himself independent and free to do whatever he wished. Gandalf’s words remained in his mind, like a sign emblazoned upon a banner. Overcome your fears, my good prince. We shall need you when time beckons. The first fear he had to conquer was that of the Orcs – should he slay them or not?
        It still bothered Legolas whenever he brought forth the subject. They used to be dark elves, Avari as Mithrandir called them. Elves that had never seen the light of the Two Trees of the Noldor; he was one of their kindred. In Elven history, he remembered that his people were broken into two branches – one called the Calaquendi, known as Elves who had seen the light; the second called the Moriquendi, known as Elves who had never seen the light and therefore lived in darkness. He belonged to that branch, for he had been born long after the events of the First Age. Therefore, the Avari were indirectly linked to his lineage through similar circumstances.
        “Such a burden I had never thought would fall upon me,” said Legolas, settling his bow and quiver to the floor so that he could sit in the chair. Pulling out his silver-hafted long knife, the Elf turned the weapon around in his hands. Sunlight reflected off the smooth surface and the metal gleamed. He had used this knife to defend himself on the slopes of Emyn Muil, near Parth Galen where Boromir had fallen. Not only had he failed to save the man’s life but he had endangered Gimli as well. He had dropped his knife in the leaves after an arrow through the chest rendered him helpless and weak. What if he had not come to Boromir’s rescue?
        Guilt filled the Elf, and he clutched the weapon tightly in his hand. He had failed to save a member of the Fellowship, although his efforts were worthy of merit. But what good was it when he had placed a friend in peril and in turn became a captive of his enemies? This was yet another struggle that he had unearthed.
        “My lord, Elrond bids me come to tidy your appearance. Am I disturbing you?”
        Raising his eyes, Legolas saw a pale maiden standing at the door, her foot not yet across the threshold. She held a wrapped bundle in her hands. As he studied her, the Elf noticed her smiling, as if amused by his silence. Lowering his sight so that he only beheld his knife, Legolas spoke. “No. You may do your task.” By the sound of rustling cloth, he knew that the Elf had entered.
        “My lord, will you lay down your weapon?”
        “Is there any trouble with my contemplation? Can I not hold it while you attend to your duties?”
        “No, my lord,” the maiden said, setting her bundle down to the table next to him. “But I do not wish for you to injure yourself with that. Elrond has healed you, as I have heard and I will not have blood spilled because of the flawed handling of a knife.”
        At this, Legolas turned around and gazed steadily at her. “My lady, I am a warrior. I handle all of my weapons with skill and care. The knife is sheathed and will therefore do me no harm. Instead of trying to involve me with your talk, do what your lord bids you to do. I need solitude and I cannot think with idle chatter.”
        “Very well, my lord.” It was as if he had struck her, for she flinched. Legolas regretted his cold manner of speaking but there was nothing else he could have possibly said. The maiden, in her carelessness, had treated him like a novice warrior; he wondered if she despised him. Did she know about his dilemma? Troubled, Legolas slid his knife into his belt, letting his hands fall into his lap.
        “I will trim your hair first, for it is uneven and does not befit an Elf.”
        “Do what you must, my lady and be quick about it.”
        Releasing himself into the Elf maiden’s skill with a blade, Legolas sat back. The last time he looked upon himself was during his cleansing down at the Entwash, and he remembered how agonized he was by his reflection. In his eyes, there was no light. All that he saw was darkness, tinged with melancholy and grief. His shorn hair framed his face; however, it failed to brighten it. Much had been lost and much had been changed. Did the Orcs scar him, marring his visage? This was the last thought to strike him, and Legolas raised his hand towards his forehead.
        “What are you doing, my lord?”
        “Nothing,” said Legolas softly. Slowly, he ran his hand over his forehead and then felt along his cheekbones. Surprised, he felt the outline of his face and brushed his fingers past his other cheek. Nothing. They had only bruised him; they had failed to scar him where it should have mattered. A small tremor of joy passed swiftly through him.
        “If you are worried about your fairness, my lord, it is of no great concern,” the maiden said boldly, “for the bruises will fade. There were no scars, else I would have shuddered to touch you.”
        “It is not wise to judge by looks alone, my lady. ‘Tis unfair of you to consider that.”
        “I do not love ugliness, my lord. What I say is honest and true.”
        “I believe that,” said Legolas, “for all Elves detest what is ugly and foul. And yet, what you say strikes me to the heart. Can you look past any being’s outward appearance, my lady and see what is truly there? For the beauty within rather the fairness without is what I hold most true. Although if I were scarred and hideous to behold, I would consider myself scorned by all who saw me. It is a blessing that I did not receive wounds that eyes could see.”
        The Elf behind him lowered her blade. “Finished, my lord. It was swift work at best, and one that I am glad to complete. This talk of wounds, scarring, fairness, and foulness is unusual talk amongst Elves. You are lord Thranduil’s son, are you not? When you last came, you were bright and cheerful; what ill tidings have befallen you? If it were not for your way of speaking and your silence, I would have mistaken you for another.”
        Legolas sighed, weary of talking about his woes to Elrond’s maidservant. What he would give to have Gimli and Aragorn by his side, friends and companions with whom he had spent many months of peril and camaraderie! Only they knew him best, being as close as brothers and as loyal as ones’ own blood. He sorely missed them, and wondered if they thought the same. Running a hand through his hair, he bowed his head. “Is that all, my lady?” This time, his voice did not sound cold and annoyed; instead, he heard a slight strain of sadness that doubtlessly came from within his own heart. “My lady, is that all?”
        “Yes it is, my lord. Do you wish for me to leave?”
        A light and elegant voice; Legolas thought he heard some veiled irritation. “You may leave.” His father, Thranduil often said this to his subjects after he was through with them. For all of them, those were words of relief. Just then, he had sounded like his father – not in voice, but in tone. Glancing around the room, Legolas realized that the maiden was gone. Swiftly and with light steps, for the Elves were such creatures. Her talk had reopened an old wound, and Legolas sat there, watching the shadows of leaves flitting across the floor.
        He had seen prejudices before in Elven society; this was one that he had never paid attention to during his upbringing. The concept of fairness against ugliness was in every Elf’s mind, be they male or female. As an aesthetic race, they only sought beauty wrought by skilled hands, preferably that of their own making. Even if the Dwarves contested that, there was an air of pretentiousness amongst his kinsman. No one could conquer them in a competition of craftsmanship – that was the common saying. He had lived with his father and brothers in the forests, isolated from all other Elves. He had not even been to Lothlórien prior to joining the Fellowship; his own grandfather despised the Lady Galadriel for a reason that he was never told of. Against his ancestor’s wishes, he had crossed into the Golden Wood, rested there and partaken of the lord and lady’s gifts.
        Legolas shook his head, feeling his trimmed hair brushing against his face. He was wandering off in his own thoughts – not a good sign. Could he go back to Mirkwood? If he chose to, would his own people reject him? Even if his face had not been marred, he was no longer smooth-bodied like the way he was ere he left the forest. The Orcs had made certain of that with their whips and swords, beating him until blood flowed. The lord Elrond reminded him that there would be scars. His eldest brother he dreaded to face; what mockery and derision would Mornereg unleash that would create new wounds within him? If his second brother came, then perhaps he might seek some comfort and reassurance; Nimthôn was always the kinder one, for he held him after the death of his mother. Mornereg had accused him outright in front of his father and the court for negligence to protect the queen; his second brother defended him and strife ran between the three of them.
        His father, widowed and grieving, did nothing to quell their feud.
        Already, the Elven prince felt his old shadows returning upon him. Agonized at reawakening his old memories and what he must do to defeat his current obstacles, Legolas sprang out of the chair and turned to his weapons. As he held each one, feeling the wood and metal of each object, he narrowed his eyes. His bow, quiver, and knife – idle tools of war they were not. Mithrandir told him to prepare for battle, possibly against the very foes he now dreaded to kill. What should he do with these weapons, then? They were his pride and joy, for even if he did not relish fighting, their craftsmanship was genuine and Legolas thanked the Lady Galadriel for them. His own knife he commissioned an Elven smith to create out of unalloyed silver; so dexterous were Elves that forged silver would not bend or grow soft during use. During his times of training in archery, he learned how to fletch and whittle his own arrows.
        What fate should he give to those faithful weapons?
        After gazing at them for a long moment, in which the wind outside ceased and silence fell tensely upon the room, Legolas sheathed his knife and slid it tightly into his belt. Undoing the polished leather straps attached to his quiver, he moved it to his back and readjusted the baldric snugly around his torso. Lastly, he held the bow in his hand, feeling the leather grip bending where his fingers curled around the rounded surface. He could not abandon his weapons – they were as much a part of him as the trees were. His ambidextrous qualities in battle were not meant for waste.
        But he was not yet ready for war.
        So thinking, Legolas left his room; he strode with a light step and a slightly heavier pace.

         “Mae govannen, Legolas!”
        “Lindir, my friend!” exclaimed the Elf prince in delight. “How goes the days at lord Elrond’s house? He sent a maiden to my room but a while ago, and she nearly snapped my patience! I do not wonder that the tranquility of this place makes you sing and dance gaily while the rest of the world finds itself in a quarrel! Tell me, friend, how bodes your time here?”
        Legolas could not have been more surprised. Upon leaving his quarters, he headed for the great hall, for he wished to ask about archery grounds. The last time he frequented Imladris, he did not have the time or the luxury of practicing his hand against the other Elves. The most he did afterwards was to sing fair songs with Lindir and his fellow kindred, basking in the hearth fires and reveling in Elven tradition. Now, he did not have the heart to sing and his troubled mind forced him towards repetitive practice to forget his woes. As he nearly passed the hearth, a voice cried out his name, greeting him in the light tongue of Quenya.
        The greeting he knew, for both Silvan and High Elves used it as a polite form of address. Taken aback by the speaker’s enthusiasm, he strode forward until he found Lindir sitting by another fire. The Elf had not changed since the Fellowship left for their quest.
        Still, he sang and partook of merriment.
        “Legolas, you are hasty in your questions. As for my time here, I live the same from day to day. What else is there to do, my friend? As for that maiden, I know her. She is still learning the quaint way of ladyship and that is a harder task than what we are accustomed to. Although your task is harder still, being noble and a king’s son. I heard tales of your adventures with the Fellowship. How goes the journey?”
        If only Lindir had not asked! Legolas sat down next to the Elf, keeping his back to the hearth, for he did not wish to look upon the flames. Before he left Rivendell, there were no nightmares plaguing him; now, he dared not tempt his mind. A ravaged Lothlórien he had not the heart to look upon, whether it be phantom or shadow. He noticed Lindir studying him, as if knowing his mind and Legolas turned his sight away from his inquisitive kinsman. “One of us has fallen – the man of Gondor. The Orcs slew him and our Fellowship is now but remnants, divided and on different destinies.”
        “That is a cruel fate,” said Lindir softly, his voice falling low. “And yet, some of your companions have fared well, is it not?”
        “Mithrandir, Aragorn the Dunedain, and Gimli the Dwarf are now together. The Halflings have gone their own way. I am in Imladris, back to where I started. Tell me, Lindir – how does unity divide itself so viciously? I will to be back with the others; the Dwarf is the one that I feel a lack of at this moment.”
        Lindir laughed. “The Dwarf? Legolas, surely you have not been tricked by his cunning!”
        “I jest not, my friend. I no longer hold such petty prejudices against his kind, for we are offensive to his people with our ways as well. There is something that might interest you, Lindir. You know how we pride ourselves for our craftsmanship and arts, boasting that there is no equal? My friend, do not stare at me so,” said Legolas, for Lindir looked at him curiously. “I found that Dwarves and Elves are similar, bound by a weakness for things wondrous and fair. Gimli is such a Dwarf; already, the Lady Galadriel has bestowed to him a great gift and choice words.”
        “You have changed, Legolas. Ere these days, you scorned a Dwarf. But you return with strange knowledge, speaking of things queer to Elves. I know not what to say. Look not around you, my friend, for others stare.”
        “They know then of my misfortune.”
        “Most of us do but not all. Come, Legolas – you appear tired and sad. I do not know what has befallen you; such is the way of aloofness and merriment of wine and song. Where were you headed? I shall accompany you and if you are willing, speak and tell me of your burdens. I can already see in your eyes a gloom like that of dusk falling. Come, my friend.”
        Ignoring the piercing stares directed at him, Legolas stood. He could feel in their expressions contempt and coldness. Shaken by his first experience with Elven society against fallen ones, Legolas roused himself from his reveries and followed Lindir out of the great hall. The Elf led him down one of the three corridors branching out from the hall, choosing the middle path and walking with a swift pace. It was as if Lindir could also feel the begrudging acknowledgment from the other Elves, Legolas thought moodily. In his distress, he strode with unsure footing; his steps heavier than usual.
        Lindir turned in the corridor, his face illuminated by sunlight. “Come, Legolas!”
        Weary and pained by rejection, Legolas slowed and eventually halted. He could not have prepared himself for the cruel glances his own kinsman gave him, no matter how much time he allotted. Resting his bow against the delicate wall of the open corridor, he leaned back against a pillar, eyes closed. Here then was another wound; a fresh one torn open by the spite of his own people. He crossed his arms, embracing himself. Even with the warmth of the sun, he felt cold inside.
        Was this what it felt like being a stranger to loved ones?
        “What is it, Legolas?” Lindir stood in front of him; he could tell from the direction of the Elf’s voice.
        Bowing his head, Legolas refused to answer. If this was the way it was in Rivendell, then what of Mirkwood? How could he go back to the Silvan Elves if rejection was his only reward for surviving brutal torment by their foes? Did they prefer him slain rather than returning in shame? Was that it? Bitterness welled within him, and the Elven prince fought against a dammed flow of ready tears. He could not weep, not yet. It was not yet his time to grieve for this loss. Keeping his eyes shut, Legolas continued thinking. If that was the situation at hand, he did not know where to go. Lothlórien? The Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn might understand but what of the other Elves? They were Noldor; he was Sindarin. He was of another blood, another division and branch. They would only scorn him. Where should he turn to and to whom?
        “Legolas, you are frightening me,” said Lindir. “Legolas, my friend, what is it that is agonizing you so?”
        If Lindir only knew! Lindir would never experience this kind of rejection, for he lived in lord Elrond’s house, safe and sheltered. The lord Elrond would protect him, armed with majesty and power. But for Legolas, he felt the raw wound tearing his soul apart and he bled within, too grief-stricken to explain. Once again, he had fallen into shadows, tripped by callous expressions and no kind words of greeting save that of Lindir. Was Lindir his only friend? Would Nimthôn his second brother greet him with gentle words? Shivering from inner chills, Legolas held himself harder.
        When all hope seemed to dim, he felt Lindir’s hands grasping his shoulders. “Legolas, my friend, do not grieve. If it is because of the cruelty of our kinsman back in yonder great hall, ignore them. I will talk to lord Elrond about this, for this is most inhospitable. But for now, can you not speak to me? Your face is pale and you seem mute. It frightens me, for I have never seen one so afflicted. Legolas, speak to me.”
        Lindir. His friend. Lindir had not given him cruel looks or a harsh tongue. Legolas raised his head and opened his eyes, gazing into the Elf’s worried face with guilt. And now, he frightened the elder by his silence. By his own will, he shed some of the shadows and took control of his speech. Pain still numbed his mind but he spoke. “Lindir, is that you?” His voice threatened to slip and falter along with the admission of tears. Legolas blinked and looked away.
        “It is, my friend. You had me concerned there, Legolas. Do not do that again, my friend. I beg this of you.”
        “I cannot give you my promise, Lindir. There are too many shadows around me.”
        Lindir gazed at him sadly. “I cannot sway you from your black thoughts, Legolas. But will you accompany me? Where is it that you want to go? I will take you there. Perhaps some activity would deter your mind from sadness and weariness, which is plain to see on your face. Your former joy has fled and it grieves me terribly.”
        “The archery grounds, Lindir.” His own words were hard to come by, and Legolas reached for them desperately. “Does the lord Elrond have an archery ground, Lindir? For it is there where I could spend my grief on arrows and targets.”
        The Elf nodded and took a hold of his arm. “Come, Legolas. Let us go there.”

        Thranduil saw the scene before him with anguish. Legolas, struck down by a fell shadow, collapsed to the ground. The path before him darkened and his son lay there, silent. If it were not for his releasing of Legolas to his own will, the Elf-king would have swept his child into his arms and held him. But it was no longer his battle alongside Legolas – it was Legolas’ own struggle.
        Before he could look away, he heard a terrible sound. It was the sound of one crying as if in deep distress, as if that being was torn and could not move on. Those were the cries of forsaken hope and fear newly awakened.
        It was his son’s voice, lamenting for a new loss.
        Grieved but unable to help, Thranduil could only stand there and watch.

        “Your arrows never miss, my friend. Has the grief lessened since those six arrows were shot?”
        Legolas lowered his bow, swinging it to his side. As he turned to face Lindir, he could feel new agony rushing into his heart. Lowering his eyes, he stared at the ground. “It has not faded, as I had hoped. Instead, it has increased. I feel so alone; is this what I have returned for?”
        “Why not shoot another arrow?”
        That was Lindir, all right. The Elf only knew happiness and shelter; he did not know agony and nakedness. Raising his bow, Legolas swiftly nocked it and fired. The shaft soared through the air, hitting its target so forcefully that the other arrows split and fell to the grass. But it brought Legolas no joy and he turned away from his amusement. Replacing his bow onto his back, he strode forward, knelt down, and retrieved the broken shafts. More than one had the fletching completely torn off.
        “That was a good shot, my friend. You still seem burdened. Why not tell me what has befallen you, for you have kept your silence for long enough.”
        Legolas looked at the broken arrows. “You seem eager to find out why I suffer.”
        “If I seem eager, Legolas, it is because you are not speaking!” Lindir leapt off the rock he was sitting on. “Tell me, Legolas – have you gotten so afraid that you no longer trust anyone?”
        “I do not even know myself now, I am afraid. I am seeking my path but it is a long and arduous find. I know where I must go and where I must walk; however, getting there is simple and staying on is difficult.”
        “I will ask you a question then: why did lord Elrond heal you?”
        Startled, Legolas faced Lindir. “Must that be your first question, my friend? Can you not ask another?”
        Lindir shook his head and stood, for he had knelt next to Legolas. “That is the one you must answer, Legolas. I will not stir from this place till you speak.”
        “It is a question that will take a while to answer, for my heart bleeds with every word. Sit yourself down upon the stone again, Lindir. I will be with you in a short time.”
        “What are you doing, my friend?” asked Lindir curiously.
        “Collecting the broken arrows. Even if my own soul is shattered does not mean I will leave lord Elrond’s home in disarray. At least he has you and the rest of your kindred to watch over him,” Legolas said softly, feeling a new wave of grief overtaking him. “I will answer your questions, my friend. Look at the sky, Lindir – for already the sun is sinking towards the horizon.”

        “That is why lord Elrond healed you?” Lindir stared at him in unveiled shock. “How did you manage to survive, Legolas? Any other Elf would have already perished!”
        Legolas smiled wanly, knowing Lindir’s outcry was perfectly understandable. “I would have died, Lindir. Do you remember how Elves dream even when awake? Someone reached out for me and saved me from peril. I was not strong enough myself; I had to rely on others.”
        “Will you explain who saved you, my friend?”
        Legolas shook his head. If there was one thing that he had promised to himself, it was that he would keep his father’s times of protection sacred and secret. He was not going to tell anyone, even an Elf like Lindir. Only Thranduil and he would know the reason for his survival; it was a cherished moment between father and son. Lowering his sight away from Lindir’s perplexed face, Legolas hid a slight smile. “No, my friend. It is not something for others to know. I am sorry for your sake, although I do not feel guilty for this lack of admission.”
        “It is all right, Legolas. You do not need to reveal all to me.”
        “That is how I wish for it to be, Lindir.”
        “Will your father Thranduil look for prospects of marriage for you, then? I know you spoke of your brothers ere you left with Gandalf and the Halfling. Perhaps a wife would soothe your wounds.”
        “I will not marry now,” said Legolas coldly, still staring down at the leaves. “I did not tell you one thing, Lindir. No king or lord would ever want his daughter to wed one tainted by darkness. I remained unwed for as long as I could, and my father did not begrudge me for that. Now, with my scars, I will avoid betrothal for the rest of my life.”
        “Legolas, what do you mean?”
        “Lindir, are you blind or deaf? Which wise lord would want his daughter wed to one unmanned?”
        “Legolas, you do not mean what I believe you to be saying?” Lindir reached out for him, and then withdrew his hand. Legolas glimpsed the Elf’s hand; he trembled.
        “Yes, my friend. That is what I meant. I cannot forget that mark of disgrace and shame; forever will I remember the memories. It is vile to think of, and yet this particular darkness is unforgettable. So it is that I speak, with regret and humiliation. It is good that you do not know this torment, for you are safe where you are.” So saying, Legolas fell silent yet again.
        For a moment, the two Elves sat in silence, each concentrating on his own thoughts. The Elven prince raised his eyes after a while and glanced at the sky. He had talked to Lindir for many hours, even as the sun finally sank below the horizon and dusk overtook the wide expanse above their heads. Pale violet and streaks of dark blue tinged the sky; he thought he could see the white underside of the moon revealing herself. It was going to be a tranquil night, shimmering with stars and moonlight. Legolas preferred to stay outdoors, away from the other Elves.
        It looked like as if Lindir had the same thought, for the Elf did not stir.
        “Are you not going in, Lindir?” he asked, concerned. “Or are you just going to forego your supper?”
        “If I go in, Legolas, where would that leave you? Do not concern yourself about me. I would rather stay out here with you instead of going in and facing my kinsman. I will never look upon them highly again, for they have scorned someone courageous and true of spirit. You truly are Thranduil’s son and that is no understatement, my friend.”
        Legolas smiled. “Thank you, Lindir.”
        Before Lindir could reply back in his own turn, an Elf ran out of the abode, fleet of foot. Legolas did not recognize him but Lindir did, for he cried out. “Gildor Inglorion! And I thought you had gone west! What are you doing back here, my friend?”
        Gildor slowed as he approached the two Elves. Legolas could see that he was tall and mighty, slender and elegant, with fair hair and a noble face. The Elf turned to him, and Legolas realized that Gildor knew him; could it be because of the lord Elrond’s counsel? “Prince Legolas, it seems like your brothers have been delayed on the road. They will not be present tonight. Perhaps they are under attack?”
        Something constricted in Legolas’ throat and he nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He noticed Lindir staring at Gildor with wide eyes, as if also in disbelief. Gildor glanced at Lindir, and then turned his attention back to him. “Lord Elrond sent forth messengers and scouts, for this delay is strange. He has only gotten a message back saying that they have been delayed but without a stated reason. I suppose it could be a nightly assault upon their small company. Prince Legolas, are you all right?”
        His brothers were possibly under attack by foul forces. Could anything be worse? Legolas fought to free his voice; it seemed as if silence had become his scourge since his fateful circumstances. “No,” he managed to choke out without sounding like a fool. “It is nothing. Is that all, Gildor?”
        “It is, Prince Legolas. Lindir, why are you still outside? It is already dark!”
        “Legolas prefers the sky and the wind, my friend. Why do you linger out here? Tell lord Elrond that I will accompany Legolas outside, for it is the prince’s will.”
        Gildor stepped back. “I will tell him, Lindir. Just be sure to keep yourself and Prince Legolas safe, is that understood?”
        “Understood, my friend. Now go on inside and leave us in peace!”
        His brothers were delayed. They had not come. But the lord Elrond had told him about their message; what was delaying them? The road to Rivendell from Mirkwood was only two days worth of travel – one day and a half if rushed – and when he last came, there had been no enemy forces waiting in ambush. Had everything turned dark for him, even extending to his family?
        “Legolas? Are you all right?”
        Legolas turned away from Lindir, no longer gazing at the sky. “Leave me be, Lindir but for a while. I shall need the silence. It is the only thing that comforts me.”

        His son had stopped weeping but he still lay on the darkened path. Thranduil did not know what to do. Was there a new agony for Legolas to conquer? If so, then this was going to be a long night.
        “Legolas, do not shed your hopes,” he said, knowing that Legolas could not hear him.
        “Mornereg! Nimthôn!”
        Upon hearing his other sons’ names, Thranduil stiffened. What new terror was this? What had befallen his other two children? He stepped forward but found himself unable to approach Legolas. The Elven prince lay dismally on the ground, as if lost in his thoughts.
        He no longer spoke.
        “Legolas! What has happened?” the Elf-king cried out, distraught by his son’s behavior and the mentioning of his other offspring’s names. What shadow threatened them?
        The younger Elf turned his face towards his father, and Thranduil felt pity and grief overwhelming him from within. Instead of distress, he saw terror. Instead of agony, he saw bitterness. And instead of anger mingled with melancholy, he saw exhaustion.
        A tear ran down Legolas’ face; that said enough without words.

Mornereg – “ black (morn), holly-tree (ereg)”

Nimthôn – “white (nim), pine (thôn)”

As I said before, I think this fanfic will take me straight through the events in The Return of the King. Any other way would not end it well. Thanks for loving it, and for the support! ^^;;; I will not let you guys/gals down, even when January 22, 2002 whips around the corner and bombards me with homework! All hail J.R.R. Tolkien and The Lord of the Rings!