Darkness hid wickedness and brought forth blacker evils, and Legolas did not know when he fell into unconsciousness away from pain; he welcomed it, though, for his situation was dire and he wished not to live. Since the day at Emyn Muil, when the Fellowship split, it had been three days and the Elf felt his burdens increase even as his life dwindled and faded. Were it not for his memories of a happier time, the prince would have severed his ties with Middle-earth, leaving all behind, including his father.
        But was it not strange that in his nightmare, when he found himself alone and nearly forsaking life that it was his father who embraced and comforted him? Legolas, already dead to himself and nursing no thoughts about living, paid no attention to his surroundings. Thranduil, his one link left to home and to joyous days – even he, the prince did not recognize. If he did, Legolas chose not to. Something, during those three days and nights, hardened in his heart and built walls around his soul.
        He had lost much, and nothing he did could ever bring his losses back.
        So it was when the older Elf found him, kneeling in blood. Crimson, drenching the sodden grass and filling his nightmares with its violent shade, was the only colour he knew now. The pale gold of sunlight and the verdant leaves of the forest were no more; he no longer remembered them. If he did, he only kept some of Lothlórien close to his heart, keeping it jealously for himself. His companion, Aragorn, had not come and Legolas despaired of him, wondering what delayed his steps.
        Not that it mattered any, the Elf thought. Even when found, he would no longer be as he once was before.
        Melancholy settled upon Legolas and he considered dying at that moment. What could be more tolerable than death, he questioned, unmoving and as still as stone. He was bound to Arda – what more could he expect of a cruel and inhospitable world? Once, many months ago, he spoke with Gandalf at Caradhras, resulting in jests of Elves finding the sun so that snow could be melted. Legolas recalled, faintly, his own jest that Elves were meant for running across the hostile plains of white.
        All of that seemed so far away now, and even he had changed.
        Just as he made his decision, about to leave his wretched life behind, a warm hand dripping blood slid across his cheek. The warmth of this unknown hand startled Legolas, and it took all of his willpower to prevent movement. Who was touching him? The young Elf felt the hand, gentle and patient, stroking his face and some of the walls around his soul crumbled. He was not fit to be seen, or to be touched. He was no longer an Elf, if compared to others who remained unscathed. Whoever saw fit to approach him and to touch him had to be blind.
        Legolas no longer loved himself.
        That was when words took form – words of beseeching, asking for forgiveness and response. “Legolas,” a voice said, near tears. “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.”
        Something familiar in that voice, in those words brought Legolas out of his isolation. Could it be? Could it be his father, Thranduil? But how did he find him again after that last ill chance? Afraid, Legolas turned, only to see the loving eyes of his father fixed upon him. There was blood on one of his hands; how he came about to be wounded, the prince did not know. All of his defenses shattered in that moment, broken by those words and all of his repressions, fear, and guilt overwhelmed him in that second.
        “Father? Is that you?”
        Four simple words, asking for the truth. And yet, that was all that he needed to say. Weeping, he reached out for his father, only to find himself faltering. Thranduil caught him, gently, and Legolas settled into his father’s arms, vulnerability protected by strength.
        The Elf cried then, allowing himself the tears he did not shed in front of his enemies. For too long did he believe himself abandoned, only to find himself deceived. There was someone who still loved and accepted him, despite the way he was now. Grief and joy mingled and Legolas spoke. “Father, you found me. I thought I would never find hope again. Every time I try, it is always seized from me and denied.” Like the chance dashed to pieces in his last dream, when he failed to reach his father.
        How many more failures would he experience before his agonies were over?
        Words of comfort and hope reassured him, soothing his weary mind and aching heart. His father would not forsake him. Never, even if he were to return – if he returned home – to Mirkwood and all the Elves disdained him. Even if his two brothers saw ill of him, his father would respect him; there would be no change. Light, long held back from him by darkness, now entered his being and Legolas felt some of his old self returning.
        But he would never be able to be truly Elven again.
        As if his mind spoke true, a sudden agony seized his body, tearing his soul and flinging it into darkness. Intense pain flooded his being and Legolas found himself clinging to his father, crying out even as black thoughts sought to poison his mind and corrupt his spirit. They were breaking him and they were succeeding. Fear and shame filled his blood and the prince could not keep his silence. Thranduil held tightly onto him, his arms reassuring as the violence increased and Legolas fought back, only to find himself wailing in pain for his troubles. Did his anguish mean nothing? Why did he have to be further defiled? Darkness hazed his mind and the Elf wavered, grappling between consciousness and unconsciousness. Out of his screams, he heard a plea for his father to help him, for the fight was too much for him and Legolas was weary and torn by his struggles.
        “I will not leave, Legolas. I have already promised that to myself. I will not break it.”
        Light in his darkness – was there a way out when lost?

        Aragorn raced up the sloping hills, unsure of his footing in the dark. A Ranger had more experience than most men in such situations, but without Elven sight, walking at night was treacherous. He would have rested, if it were not for the keening cry of darkness in his heart. Something had gone amiss tonight, beneath the black sky, and Aragorn felt his premonitions concerning Legolas coming to light.
        He had been too slow to come to his aid, for even now, the Elf suffered.
        Stiffening at this, the Ranger turned to look at Gimli. His companion had tried his best to match his pace with that of his own, but exhaustion had set in and now the Dwarf swayed as one close to sleep. Pity surged through Aragorn and he laid his hand upon Gimli’s shoulder. If there was anyone who suffered from the Elf’s absence, it was the Dwarf, for Legolas and he were bonded in Lothlórien and the shock of the Elf’s capture had sapped much strength from Gloin’s descendant. The fire of rage that formerly seized Gimli was now spent, utterly lost in the numbing flow of time and weariness. Only sleep could rekindle those flames again.
        “Sleep, Gimli. It would do Legolas no good should you stumble.”
        As Gimli lay down and rested, Aragorn glanced uneasily at the sky. Would it that dawn would soon overtake them and lend them her aid in this pursuit! For this was the third night and yet, besides a few tokens, there were no signs of their companions. How the Halflings were, Isildur’s heir did not know and fear for the Elf swept through his being. Since Legolas’ capture, their company of two found it dull in their chase, for Thranduil’s son knew when to jest and when to sing. Without him, conversation was lackluster and darkness seemed to draw its cloak around them.
        He missed the Elf.
        Raised in an Elvish household, with Elrond as his father during his childhood, Aragorn grew up amongst the fair folk. Tragic but beautiful were their songs, and Legolas’ song of Nimrodel stirred remembrances of the past. Elves were destined for many paths in life, but bringing joy, song, and sadness to living seemed to be their gift.
        It was also Legolas’ gift, for he was beautiful and melancholy, wistful and sensitive, mature and childish. Although the hobbits were childlike in their simple way, the Elf represented serenity and youthfulness in his own way. Legolas was one of those youthful Elves, almost forgotten, in a time filled with waning hearts and bitter minds. There were very few of those kinds left.
        There would soon be one less, and for that, Aragorn grieved.

        Voices, sounds of screaming and warfare, and oaths muttered in vain raised the camp in a din. Legolas awoke, pain searing through his body and he thought he still dreamt. His wrists, he found, were no longer bound – someone had cut them – and an elven cloak thrown over him served to hide his nakedness. As the screams of dying and savagery rose and fell around him, the Elf grew aware of what was happening.
        The Orc camp was under attack!
        Orcs fell, slain by grey-feathered arrows shot from men on horseback. Swords gleamed in the cruel light of the campfires and one of the captains fell, slaughtered by a clever blow directed underneath armor. Black and scarlet blood flowed as Men and Orcs battled to the death. Three of the Riders fell beneath a savage mob of Orcs that sought escape into the woods and spears stabbed back in return from retaliating horsemen for their slain companions. Corpses littered the now bloodied plain and Legolas watched in silence.
        Was this his chance of escape? Were the Riders good or evil?
        Another Orc fell to a well-aimed shaft from a yeoman’s bow and Legolas suddenly longed to feel his own weapon in his hands. And yet! The Elf remembered Saruman’s words, speaking of the lore of the Orcs and his desire soon left him. To commit atrocities against fell creatures that used to live the lives of Elves! Could he deal death to his own people, as twisted as they were now? Hatred and guilt battled in his mind and the prince could not choose. The Orcs cruelly abused him, turning him into a shadow of what he once was. He should revile them!
        And yet, they were Elves once. To slay a race that had no choices during their torture would make him a murderer, shedding blood with guilty hands. Even if they beat him and enslaved him to their black desires; what could he do about it? What if the Istari was right and he was already fallen?
        Legolas could not decide; he was torn.
        Westron flowed out from amongst the Riders and they separated, each collecting broken helms and swords from the clearing. Fires burned and the Elf saw that they were burning the Orcs, setting afire the creatures that they had fought and killed. Images of a destroyed Lothlórien swamped his mind and Legolas tore his eyes from the flames, shaking in distress. What could he do? He dared not lay bow or knife against the fell creatures now and his nightmares plagued him even during the day or night when he slept not.
        And where were Merry and Pippin?
        The hobbits were nowhere to be found. Legolas scanned the region, wild thoughts running amuck. What if they were slain or taken into the woods? He felt at the silken cloth of the elven cloak thrown around his body and realization struck him. Merry and Pippin had fled! Who else would cut his bonds, releasing his hands? Looking down, the Elf found a packet of lembas at his side. Picking it up, the prince glanced around.
        Wherever those Halflings were, they deserved his thanks.
        Just then, a sword lingered in front of his face and Legolas gazed upwards into a stern face framed by a helm. White hair flowed from the helm like a horse’s tail, giving the man a very regal appearance. His eyes were curious and cold. “Speak your name. Who are you and why are you here?”
        “Is it not apparent? I am a prisoner of these Orcs.”
        “What are you, then? You are no Orc. And you are not a Man.”
        Legolas nodded. “I am an Elf, son of the king of Mirkwood. And what is your name, may I ask?”
        “Éomer, the son of Éomund of Rohan.”