Back in Mirkwood, Thranduil suddenly awoke from his slumber. A darkness and agony consumed him and a terrible premonition of danger aroused the Elven king to his feet, whence he stumbled out into the hall. Elves, still enjoying merriment and wine were startled to see their king awake. Thranduil felt his soul cringing and reached out for the source. There was something amiss, something deadly wrong.
        “My lord, what troubles you?” A Wood-Elf asked, coming close to hold the trembling king and to guide him to a seat. Thranduil’s pallor on his fair face was white and the Elves spoke in fearful whispers, for it was not very often since the king had troubles plaguing him. “My lord, do speak.”
        Thranduil swallowed hard. “I feel an evil presence, far away. I do not know of what or whom, but someone is hurting. I cannot find out whom.”
        “Could it be an Elf from our land?”
        “How could that be, except for my son? And he is an accomplished warrior, capable of dispatching foes and darkness.” The Elven king closed his eyes, seeking for the source of the agony piercing through his senses. “Although he is young and still has much to learn.”
        “Prince Legolas is not one to fall victim to fell beasts, my lord.”
        “Perhaps not, but –” Sweat beaded on Thranduil’s forehead, wet against his flesh. “Wait. My soul cries out…I perceive some voice crying out from the deep.”
        The Wood-Elf next to the king knelt down, grasping his lordship’s hand. “And what does it say, my lord?”
        “I believe I hear something like, ‘Father!’”
        “What?” the Elf asked in disbelief. “Father? But the prince –”
        “‘Father!’ My son…my youngest son!” Thranduil turned to the Elf, eyes wild with worry. “Can we not do something for him? ‘Father!’ He is crying out to me!”

        “Father!” Legolas cried out, desperation and fallen hope in his plea. There was an emotion that lingered close to tears in that soft voice, albeit the prince held back his own sorrow. The Orc captain sneered down at him, then reached in and seized him by the torn front of his bloodstained tunic, shaking the Elf like a limp corpse. Bruises, dark and broken, marred the flesh beneath the ripped fabric and blossomed like evil flowers on the prince’s arms. Tatters of elven cloak, shredded by swords fluttered in the chill wind. Grishnákh drew the Elf close to him, breathing upon him his foul breath as he spoke.
        “We need not fear you now, Elf. Where is your cunning? Your skills? They are scattered now, are they not? We have broken your body – you will not escape us. You have slowed us down, but we have dragged you with us. See the hobbits over there? They did not slow us down. I guess that your Elven senses are leaving you in this shade.”
        Unshed tears in his dim eyes, Legolas turned his head slightly to perceive the blurred figures of Merry and Pippin. Pain lashed out at him and the Elf recoiled, only to hit hard earth beneath him. Broken bones jolted his raw nerves and the young prince screamed in agony. Orcs laughed and surrounded the Elf, kicking him and spitting on his writhing figure. Legolas tried to hide within himself, but his wounds prevented his temporary escape. A mail-clad foot connected with a broken rib, driving the bone deeper into internal flesh.
        The Elf cried out, his vision suddenly dark and murky.
        “Legolas!” Merry and Pippin yelled out in horror. An Orc keeping watch over the two forced them down, threatening death if they would not stay silent. Legolas heard faint cries, although he could no longer perceive whether they were of others or of his own.
        “This is not enough!” An Orc snarled thickly, breaking through the circle surrounding the fallen Elf. “He still remains untainted and pretty, does he not?” The other Orcs were quick to agree, for the fair creature at their feet remained untarnished – even bruises and blood had not marred his beauty.
        “What are we to do of that?”
        The outspoken Orc unsheathed his dagger and grabbed a handful of Legolas’ tunic, pulling the prince up. Legolas groaned in pain, his eyes nearly closed. “This is what we do!” One swipe of the black blade and the other Orcs cackled and laughed in malicious delight.
        Merry and Pippin gasped, frozen in shock.
        Legolas’ fair hair scattered upon the trampled black grass, glinting in the cold fire of the Orcs’ makeshift camp. Shorn, the Elf looked less fair and less ethereal – as if the gold of his tresses had given his face light. As if agreeing to the Orcs’ counsel, the wind broke loose, rustling grass and shrubbery with cold laughter.
        The Elf heard nothing.

        “Aragorn! We must rest for awhile, for although the endurance of Dwarves is trustworthy, I shall need some breath!” Gimli said, trudging besides the Ranger as they wandered in the valley after crossing the treacherous ridges of rock that threatened their steps in the dark.
        “So you shall, Gimli, for I need to breathe as well.”
        “I thought you were already breathing, for you still live,” the Dwarf replied back curtly.
        Aragorn glanced up at the stars in the sky, then back down to the Dwarf. “I had no thought of humour since our Fellowship broke. However, you seem to retain your words well.” As he watched, he noticed Gimli flinching at the harmless words. “Forgive me, my friend. ‘Tis a hard night.”
        “Aye. I dread to think of how the three fare, driven by Orcs towards dark lands.”
        “I fear the Elf’s life most, Gimli. Orcs do not spare such enemies, opposites of them in both beauty and innocence.” The Ranger sighed. “Even for an Elven prince, Legolas will not fare considerably in a throng of foes.”
        “We have yet to find tokens from his being, save for his knife.”
        “That is what I dread, Gimli. For if he is not yet dead, he will die soon.”

        Merry and Pippin shrank back as the Orcs flung Legolas at their feet, so sudden the change in the dark creatures’ minds. Creeping forward, they patted the Elf on the cheek, hoping to arouse him back to consciousness. It is very hard to arouse companions with bound hands and the Elf did not stir. His fair hair, savagely cut to his ears, fell sadly around his face. Blood smeared his pale flesh, heightening his deadly pallor.
        “Legolas!” Merry whispered, trying to shake the prince out of his dark slumber. “Pippin, what are we to do?”
        Pippin shook his head. “Why ask me?”
        A sudden outburst towards the center of the camp arrested the hobbits’ attention, and they watched as the Orcs argued amongst themselves. It could only be about their fate and the hobbits closed their frightened eyes as violence erupted, shedding more blood into an already gory and vicious night.

        The trees were no more. Legolas bit back a sob, staggering back from such a barren landscape. His beloved home, Mirkwood, was gone. His father and brothers dead, slain by fell creatures that desired blood. He had no place to return to – no home or abode to wander back to afterwards. The moon shone down on him, but to the grieving Elf, her light was cold.
        Legolas ran then, in his dreams, far away from that terrible landscape – away from all he feared. Shadows swarmed thickly around him, trying to tear him apart with their limbs. He ran, racing past sullied lakes and streams – past bloodied fields and bare forests with stumps. The shadows pursued him, shrieking unknown words in a sinister language, in a horrible inflection. The Elf dared not look back, for to do so was to forfeit his innocence.
        If he looked back, he would forfeit the light within his soul.
        Horrible images of fallen Men, Dwarves, and Elves flitted through his troubled mind. Haldir, slain and hung as an example in the charred forest of Lothlorien. Gimli, cleaved through with his own axe. Legolas fought back a choking sob that threatened to tear his composure apart. Gimli, dead? Aragorn, fallen on a field, his sword broken in twain. Lord Elrond the Half-Elven murdered along with his two sons and his fair daughter. His father, gutted and spitted on a hideous Orc spear.
        Legolas stumbled and fell to his knees, tears falling out of darkened eyes.
        Why? He screamed at the bleak sky, hands raised in anguish. In his grief, the shadows drew closer and Legolas found himself suffocated and surrounded by their black forms. Try as he might, he could not separate them from his being and they forced their clammy fingers through him. Wounds opened on his body and his blood began to pour onto the ground.
        He screamed with agony, with dread, and with fear. He did not want to die. But who would help him? Could anyone aid him in this darkness?
        “Help me!” he screamed, hoping someone would listen to him.
        But all he heard was laughter.