It had been three days since the breaking of the Fellowship and Aragorn slept not, but once, for even a Ranger grew tired during pursuit. His mind forced him to hasten his pace, for three lives lay at evil’s mercy and he wished them not an ill end. While the finding of the elven brooch soothed his heart in concern of the Halflings, he fretted for the Elf. Although he told Gimli of his find, he kept the worst to his own heart. He feared that Legolas would not endure, for brutal was his torment and horrible was his plight. It echoed eerily of Elrond and his household, when the Elf-lord’s wife, Celebrían fled to the Gray Havens, for she lost the will to live on Middle-Earth.
        Even as Estel, he knew such matters and it was spoken of in secret amongst the Elves of Elrond’s court. For a Silvan Elf to endure such treatment would break his spirit, much less his body.
        Aragorn removed the silver-hafted knife from his belt and stared at it. The Elf fought bravely with them through Caradhras and Moria, only to fall captive on the slopes of Emyn Muil. Thranduil’s son, taken by foul forces, bore away towards Isengard, towards the power and might of Saruman. It chilled the Ranger’s heart and he closed his fingers around the delicately embossed hilt.
        If the Elf still lived, there would only be darkness for his future.
        Aragorn jammed the blade back into its sheath. “Gimli, let us go! Twelve leagues we have run and yet, we have much distance to cover! There is no time for rest tonight, nor shall we until we find news of our friends.”
        “Then let us go in this blackness!”
        “Forward then! Deeper into Rohan!”

        A horse galloped hard into the night away from Mirkwood’s northern side. Thranduil, in front of his Elven guards, urged his steed onto the main road. The king feared the darkness would take his son and thrust him into a nightmare from whence there is no return. If that were to happen, Legolas would forever be gone from his kingdom and from his bloodline.
        He would lose to a child to death, like that of his wife.
        Thranduil tugged roughly at the reins in his panic. “I cannot let him down,” he swore, narrowing his eyes. “My youngest son; my most sensitive child. It is not a wonder that his name fits him well – for he lives with the trees and shares with their emotions. And now, he is in danger. I cannot let him slip into darkness.”
        Hooves pounded against the earth and soon faded into silence.

        The Elf stirred, shivering in his rags and wondering when this accursed nightmare would cease. How long they traveled, or how many days past them by, he knew not. All of his awakenings and partings melded into pain and exhaustion and he slept when he could. He now knew what the Orcs had done to him; however, he dared not weep, for his foes thrived on agony and tears. He would not give them that, not when he still held pride in his heart.
        And yet, his suffering wracked his body and quenched his spirit. His body ached from the lashings of whips and leather thongs, and his back bled from the cruel bite of iron scorpions. Legolas watched the Orc camp through narrowed eyes, seeing fire and remembering nightmares of a burnt Lothlórien. He shuddered, only to find through his memories the figure of his father. It was so close – he felt his fingers; he could have grabbed him and never let go. But he slipped and awoke, awakening to fire upon his flesh and then falling into restless sleep.
        “They’ll wait for the Sun, curse them!” One of the nameless Orcs, a guard of the hobbits, stomped through the camp, muttering to himself. “Why don’t we get together and charge through? What’s old Uglúk think he’s doing, I should like to know?”
        Legolas turned his face towards the harsh voice. So the foul creatures spoke Westron, the Common Speech! Memories of speaking Westron to Aragorn and Gimli seemed so far away, and the Elf closed his eyes, musing. So bright and gay were his thoughts of Lothlórien, where he shared happiness with his companions. The Golden Wood, the Lady Galadriel and her husband, Celeborn the Wise. The moments shared with Gimli in talk, in camaraderie, and in rivalry. The other Elves considered him strange, but his joy at finding a friend banished all other voices. He wandered merrily through the trees, climbing ones with golden leaves and sitting by the majestic growths of mallorn. For once, he stayed amongst High Elves, different and yet, not strange from his lineage of Elven blood. The Lady Galadriel spoke fair words, which he treasured, and the gifting of weapons befitted their journey.
        He felt a lack and lightness where his bow and quiver should have been.
        They were stripped from him long ago.
        An ugly snarl of words caught his attention and Legolas opened his eyes. “I daresay you would. Meaning I don’t think at all, eh? Curse you! You’re as bad as the other rabble: the maggots and the apes of Lugbúrz. No good trying to charge with them. They’d just squeal and bolt, and there are more than enough of these filthy horse-boys to mop up our lot on the flat. There’s only one thing those maggots can do: they can see like gimlets in the dark. But these Whiteskins have better night-eyes than most Men, from all I’ve heard; and don’t forget their horses! They can see the night-breeze, or so it’s said. Still, there’s one thing the fine fellows don’t know: Mauhúr and his lads are in the forest, and they should turn up any time now.”
        Murmurs of dissent spread throughout the camp, although some of the brute and stronger Orcs nodded in agreement. Others lay down for rest, while some stayed awake as watchers. One of them glared at the Elf, and Legolas held his gaze. Soon, the Orc averted his eyes; they had had their sport earlier – most of the Orcs needed slumber and arousing them because of an Elf’s defiance would put most in a dreadful mood. Legolas breathed a sigh of relief and glanced to his right. Pippin, awake and alert, stared out in the dark night.
        “Pippin? Why are you awake? Should sleep be trivial for you?”
        The hobbit answered back promptly, his voice tired. “I think you need more sleep, Legolas. I may be younger than Merry, but even Merry would tell you that.”
        “I have slept, but for some time,” the Elf said. “It dulls the pain in my body and though my wounds are slow to heal, I seek comfort in unconsciousness. The Orcs’ rough sporting and torment settles me into sleep with agony, and I welcome it.”
        Pippin turned, his eyes staring at Legolas. “Your father would be proud that you have withheld tears in pain. I cry too easily and even Merry teases me about it.”
        Legolas ran his fingers over his cheek, brushing past the ragged ends of his hair. His flesh felt rough, begrimed with dirt and blood; he was filthy and the Elf shuddered at this change. Pain flared as his finger pressed upon a fresh bruise and the prince let his bound hands fall to his lap. Even under his tattered garb, he could feel the poison of an untreated wound gnawing at his flesh – a slow and painful way to die. The Orcs had broken the arrow when they dragged him over rough ground and Legolas extracted the remaining shaft out afterwards, with much agony and bleeding. Merry’s head wound received ointment, but the fell creatures in their spite refused to treat him.
        Even if they insisted, the Elf would not let those hideous hands touch him even for treatment. They had touched and tortured him enough, and he dared not partake of their flasks and healing. Elves do not meddle with the sinister works of darker forces; Legolas would not abandon his principles for comfort.
        “Pippin, although I cry not aloud, I weep within. I do so out of pride, not out of courage.”
        “But courage and pride go hand in hand, right?”
        The Elf stared hollowly at the hobbit, his heart heavy. “Not all the time. As a prince, I have my father’s pride running through my blood. It is often a burden and sometimes helpful, but it can go ill. The Orcs have reduced me to less than an Elf in some ways and for that, I mourn. But not for them to see.”
        Pippin mulled over Legolas’ words, then suddenly sat up and spoke in a sharp tone. “Legolas, who is that?” The Halfling pointed yonder past the Orcs who kept their watch. The riders whom the Orcs spoke of were gone, and no outcry appeared over the hillock. The night was eerily silent and the moon shone not.
        Legolas narrowed his eyes, gazing intently at where Pippin pointed. By the fires in the camp, he could distinguish a figure, stooped and leaning on a staff. A cloak rustled and whipped around in the chill wind and Legolas thought he glimpsed a wide-brimmed hat. His heart leapt and the Elf nearly cried out for Gandalf. However, as the Elf looked closer, he noticed white and he fell back in silence. Gandalf did not wear white; he was known as Mithrandir by the Elves, the ‘Grey Pilgrim.’
        Was this Saruman, by chance?
        The figure conversed with the Orc captains and the Elf’s heart faltered. Gandalf would not take counsel with evil; this was yet another cursed turn of fate. Then, the figure turned and Legolas saw cruel eyes and a wicked mouth nearly concealed by a white beard – the Elf cringed. It was doubtlessly Saruman, come to see his handiwork and the malice of his forces. Saruman swept his cloak aside, and stood straight, menacing and towering in the darkness above his Orcs.
        “I thought I commanded you to destroy all but the Halflings!”
        Grishnákh snarled. “The Elf is for our sport! You can also turn him over into darkness, master. That is what we have kept him alive for.”
        Legolas shuddered and tugged viciously at the ropes bound around his scarred wrists. Saruman! What evil did the wizard intend for him? The Elf fought against the burning bite of the twisted cords; blood seeped out of fresh wounds. Pippin laid a hand on him and Legolas looked hard at the Halfling.
        “Legolas, who is that?”
        “Saruman! He intends evil purposes for me, which I desire not!” The Elf snapped, ignoring the pain of his struggles. “Is there not some way of escape, for the darkest hour now lays it hand upon me and I cannot flee this blackness! Look, for there he comes!”
        The wizard crossed over the trampled region of grassy sward, his eyes piercing through the captives. Dark were his eyes and cold was his spirit, for it chilled Legolas’ heart and Pippin stirred in agitation beside him. “What is this – an Elf and two Halflings? One is asleep and the other is awake. And this one – is he even an Elf?”
        The Orcs laughed, seeing amusement in their master’s words.
        Legolas stirred, drawing himself straight even in pain. “Saruman, the craven and betrayer of Gandalf the Grey, whom we call Mithrandir. Were it not for the treason of Isengard, Sauron would not hold strong forces against Middle-earth! Even in death, Mithrandir is wiser than one who turns to folly!”
        Saruman’s eyes burned with flame and the wizard spoke with a voice that cut like fell blades upon innocent flesh. “You still believe yourself strong, Elf? Then you are the fool, not I.”
        “No, for I am not in the wrong. ‘Tis you that are disillusioned, Saruman.”
        “You will regret your high words, Elf.”

        “Gimli, do you sense evil arising in the far lands?”
        “It is still dark and you ask me of what I sense?” The Dwarf grumbled, plodding along. “I sense nothing but the coldness of the wind and the grass and stones beneath my feet.”
        Aragorn peered hard into the night. There was evil in the North and the Ranger was troubled. “Alas, for I fear the darkness in my heart. Tonight, they will not sleep in peace.”

        Legolas gazed upwards at Saruman, shadows crowding around his soul. Those black eyes pierced through him, ablaze with fury and fire, and the prince could not help but shiver in fear. He had spoken aloud, thrown words at the wizard with reckless pride and abandon. Did he believe he could survive the wizard’s wrath?
        “So, you see yourself as strong. Does this tell you anything?”
        The Elf suddenly fell to the ground, clutching at his chest. Legolas winced in shock, for he felt Saruman’s darkness entering into his being, seizing for whatever light still remained in his spirit. The Elf closed his eyes, fighting against that invasion, against that violation of his soul – he closed his heart against that fell wave of brute strength and felt the repelled fingers surging back for another assault.
        The darkness raked at his Elvish light and Legolas screamed in agony.
        “Legolas!” Pippin shouted, only to be held down by an Orcish blade.
        Thranduil. His father – his last vision of hope. His brothers, Mirkwood, and the trees. He wanted to return home, a prince received back in welcome and fatherly arms. The Lady Galadriel and the Galadhrim – times of joy and contemplation, of rest and friendship. All so far behind, and yet, not. No – Saruman would not remove these from him; never would the Elf give them to an enemy.
        “No!” Legolas cried out, his voice reaching to the sky. “You will not have me broken, Saruman!”
        At these words, Saruman staggered back, his concentration shattered. Legolas opened his eyes, his breath coming in swift gasps. So much pain and yet, he had defeated the wizard’s intentions. Saruman towered over him, shock, then anger overtaking his face. The twisted rage in his visage was so black that it seemed to bolt out the sky, eliminating night with such fury. His words slid out, grating and menacing, full of venom.
        “Such strength for a battered Elf. The Elves of Rivendell have chosen well, it seems. And yet, you will not recognize yourself, nor will they remember you. Do you know how Orcs came to be, impudent creature?”
        Legolas kept his silence.
        “Orcs were created from Elves. Morgoth, or shall I say, Melkor in your tongue, held Elves captive and through torture, twisted them into fell beings known as Orcs.”
        “You lie!” The prince cried out, shocked. “That cannot be!”
        “And yet it is true, fool! You slew your own kindred, believing yourself righteous! See now if you will wield blade or bow against Orcs, for they are of your blood! If you raise a hand against them, you are condemning yourself, hypocrite! Elves believe themselves clean, and yet they stain their weapons with the blood of their friends and mates – as you have!”
        Despair and doubt plunged into Legolas’ heart and the Elf wavered. “I…am guilty? I have slain…my own people?” Tears blinded him and the Elf dashed them aside, unwilling to show weakness. “In defending myself, I have slaughtered innocents? Then what am I?”
        Saruman smiled and Legolas in his tears saw not the cruel coldness of the expression. “You will see yourself as an Orc in your weakness, if your spirit or will should falter and fail, my dear Elf. Your companions and friends shall see such, and in their folly, will seek your destruction. It is my gift and curse to you, for since you give me trouble in turning you over to darkness, I shall give you torment through a different way. You will abhor your existence and should your friends despise you, it would be best to destroy yourself.
        “And yet, you have in your struggle, drained me of my strength. It will take me many an hour and day to recover myself to full potency and that is unheard of even for an Istari. The will of an Elf has never challenged a wizard before. For that, you will taste the bitterness of my vengeance.”
        Legolas blinked, raw fear harsh and dry in his mouth. “You have already doomed me. What more do you seek?”
        “Since you are to be as an Orc in times of weakness, should it not be so that you will share bonds with these creatures? They were once Elves, if you steel yourself against the unpleasantness.”
        The Elf paled, his pallor white and Legolas felt sweat rolling down his face. “No!”
        “Legolas!” Pippin wailed, reaching out to the Elf. “Legolas!”
        Saruman beckoned to the Orcs, even as Legolas hastened to back away. His bonds hampered him and the prince looked around wildly, fear spreading throughout his being and severing calmness from reason. Grisly arms grabbed him and stood him upon his feet and he lurched forward, his body weak. It was as if he were apart from his flesh, away from this torment.
        He wanted to scream, to run, and to die.
        “Use him well. Let the Elf see what kin he is bound to.”

        A cry of torment tore through the Elven king’s mind. Thranduil, seeking rest during the journey to Rivendell, found himself caught in a horrendous nightmare. The trees were stripped and dark crimson leaked amongst broken stones like rivulets of tears in a shattered face. Screams of anguish echoed from the ravaged forests, wailing for revenge and Thranduil wandered the barren lands, horror filling him. Were his lands gone, taken by the forces of the Dark Lord? Were his sons slain, victims to the wickedness of Sauron?
        Struck numb by what he saw, the king stood there. So much destruction, so much agony, and so much failure. The forests, bare of their glory, thrust branches into the dreary sky like beseeching fingers asking for forgiveness. But what was there to forgive? Thranduil staggered back, seeing for the first time what his son’s nightmares could have been like. Then, as he allowed himself to realize the darkness of his dream, the king felt awareness flowing into his veins like new wine.
        Legolas dreamt even now, and he had crossed into his son’s mind.
        “Legolas!” Thranduil cried out, knowing in his heart that somewhere in this marred and terrible world, his son lived in anguish and doubt. He found his child the last time, but it had been too short and Legolas had left to suffer alone. As a father and a widow, the Elf-king swore that this would not happen again. If he could not find Legolas this time, he would not leave until he did. “Legolas!”
        A cry responded to his desperate call and Thranduil turned, racing towards the sound of that pitiful voice. It was broken and utterly despondent, unlike that of his light-hearted son, who liked to walk amongst the trees and often used his soft voice to sing beautiful songs in Sindarin. But some instinct told the king that whatever songs his child used to sing, all of those had now fallen into disarray.
        Would Legolas still sing after all of this?
        “Help me!” The scream grew closer, and Thranduil, ignoring the sudden appearance of briar thorns in his path, struck them aside. Blood welled in the wounds inflicted on his hands but the king ignored them; he felt no pain. All of Legolas’ painful memories were now manifesting in these terrible forms, horrid by Elven standards. Before this, his youngest child dreamt about stars at night and running through trees in pale sunlight.
        Now, destruction and agony were his images.
        Thranduil, nearly breathless, burst into a blood-drenched clearing and then stood still with shock. In the center of the field knelt his son, pale and nearly lifeless. His wrists were raw, crimson streaks grotesque against the white flesh. Blood striped his back, where whips ruthlessly carved out his lifeblood and Legolas’ body was dark with bruises. The garb that he wore out of Mirkwood now lay in shredded tatters around his nearly naked form; his weapons were gone, doubtlessly taken from him by his enemies. Even more frightening was the deadness in the Elf’s eyes – it was as if Legolas had already bid farewell to life. The ragged edges of his fair hair settled against his hollowed cheekbones; Thranduil wanted to weep at what had been done to his son.
        As he approached, he noticed the young prince did not even move to meet his gaze. Legolas knelt there like a statue, like someone frozen by fate and time. It was as if the Elf dared not breathe, so strong was his fear. Kneeling down, Thranduil gazed into his son’s eyes, hoping for recognition.
        But there was nothing.
        “Legolas,” he whispered, sliding his hand along the young Elf’s face. “Please, my child, come back to me. I cannot bear to see you like this, even in your dreams. I met you once, but ill will tore us apart. Forgive me, Legolas – I will not forsake you this time.”
        If those were the words needed, the prince heard them. Legolas turned his face towards his father, his eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Father? Is that you?” Reaching out, the Elf crumpled in his weakness and Thranduil was swift in catching his son, cradling him like an infant. “Father, you found me. I thought I would never find hope again. Every time I try, it is always seized from me and denied.”
        “Legolas, I will never forsake you. I did not deny you your tears when your mother died, and I will not hold my love away from you when you need it. Not now, in your time of suffering.”
        White points of light shone on the younger Elf’s face; Thranduil wept.
        Suddenly, Legolas released a tormented cry of agony, writhing in the older Elf’s arms. Blood quickly soaked through Thranduil’s tunic and the father held his son closer. “They are hurting me still,” Legolas wailed as pain became apparent and the young prince came close to losing consciousness. “They…are using me…commands from Saruman. I…am no longer…myself…help me, Father!”
        Thranduil held tight to his son, keeping Legolas close to him. “I will not leave, Legolas. I have already promised that to myself. I will not break it.”

        And so it was, that Thranduil, the Elven king of Northern Mirkwood, stayed close to his son in his dreams, even when he departed later that night with his guards towards Rivendell. For Elvish dreams are more than just images and the father comforted the son until torment passed and Legolas slept. Even then, Thranduil lingered close, for a promise made to a suffering child is a vow kept.
        Thus, life, love, and light were imparted to Legolas, the son of the king.