Rivendell loomed ahead; the Elven city gleaming on the dappled cliffs like a star amidst flowers. Thranduil hastened his horse forward, even when the beauty of the legendary Imladris swept through him like the way the sea calls to the Teleri. In the first light of dawn, the delicate structures of the immense yet graceful abode seemed itself an exotic blossom – the work of Elven smiths. Never in Thranduil’s life had he seen such beauty, for long had he stayed in his kingdom of Northern Mirkwood. There, it was merry and bright until threatened by the forces from Dol Guldur and even with the trees and sunlight, nothing surpassed Elrond’s dwelling in craft or skill.
        It was here where the Fellowship formed and departed. Legolas, his youngest son, went only as a messenger, never guessing that fate would choose him as part of a perilous journey. Thranduil remembered his surprise and concern when Elrond’s messengers returned, bearing news of his son’s status. The Elven king had not expected such and could only wish for Legolas’ safe return.
        But that was not to be, for darkness had claimed his son.
        Thranduil rode past the gates and dismounted, handing the reins to one of his Elven guards. “You know where to take him,” he said, bestowing his trust upon the younger Elf. The guard nodded, then spoke a fair word to the beast and led it away towards the stables. This guard was the same one who accompanied Legolas to Rivendell – so did the king trust in his subjects. As Thranduil entered into Rivendell, he noticed the curious eyes of Elves keeping watch on him, for he had come without notice and without warning. A tall and stately Elf, clad in light blue, met him as he approached the stairs about to cross the threshold.
        “What is it that you seek, or whom do you desire to speak to?”
        “Is your lord Elrond at home? Thranduil of Northern Mirkwood seeks his audience.”
        The Elf bowed. “He is, my lord and I will speak to him.” Turning with the grace bestowed to her race, the Elf walked down the hall. The Elven king noticed her light steps and the elegant way she held herself; once was his son. Would Legolas still hold himself proud and noble, with a tread that left no print on grass or earth?
        The memory of embracing his tormented child haunted his mind and Thranduil fell back against a pillar in anguish. Terrible were the wounds on Legolas and dark were his dreams, more shadows of death than wraiths of doubt. The lack of expression on the younger Elf’s face was chilling, for it was as if an abyss threatened to devour him and the prince noticed not, nor stirred to battle his impending death. If Thranduil had known that Legolas came close to falling into death’s shadow by choice, the king’s agony would have been complete.
        Never had he lost a child born by his wife.
        A soft voice, majestic with authority, awoke Thranduil out of his musing and the king turned to face his friend and ally. “Thranduil, it has been a long time since our last meeting. Your arrival here has not reached our attention and has thereby aroused our fair court.”
        “My pardons, friend. I came not to disturb your court, but to speak with you. My mind is troubled, for my son has been seized by darkness and it has been a difficult struggle.”
        At this, Elrond gazed sharply at Thranduil. “Your son? You speak then of Legolas, your youngest?” Doubt lurked deep in the Half-elf’s eyes and the lord of Imladris spoke anew. “How came you by this knowledge? Your son is in distant lands, beyond our reach. We did not send messengers to those lands, unless one of your court decided his own path and found your son.”
        “I found my son through his dreams. Legolas oft dreams, even in morning and the quiet wake of noon. I slept one night, when the sky was fair, and a cry arose from within my being. It startled me to awakening and as it continued, I found out with horror that it was Legolas calling for me. His cries were dark and full of anguish; it took me more than a night before I found him. On the first, I saw not yet his wounds, for his mind was still strong. Yet, he was desperate and lost and I felt his terror. I reached out for him, imploring for his trust and when he could have succeeded, darkness tore us apart.
        “I continued my search, knowing now his plight and unwilling to surrender the battle while he still held breath. I found myself one night, on route to Rivendell, in his dreams – more nightmare than pleasant tidings. The forests he once dreamt of were ravaged and blood stained his mind, blotting out sunlight and song. His screams fell upon my shocked soul and I ran, desperate to find him in this mockery of Elvish dreams. I found him, alas, in a bloodied field and he recognized me not. Wounds ravaged his body and he seemed dead to all. Were it not for my touch upon his face, he would have knelt there, unconscious to my presence.”
        Thranduil paused, his voice thickening, for the Elf felt himself close to tears. When he spoke again, sadness touched his words with a pale shade of grief. “I brought him back, out of this brink of darkness that he alone could no longer flee or fight against. He fell against me, exhausted and in tears, wondering how I had found him. My son! My fair son, reduced to this shadow, this weary and fallen being! Darkness had treated him cruelly and he had lost much of his lightheartedness – how I dread to face him should he return! As if evil would not release him, a new torment arose, tearing shrieks of agony from his throat and he clung to me even as his torture persisted. He cried out words that horrified me and I held him tighter, for his agonies were also mine. Long was his torment and he did not sleep until pain had passed. I have not left him yet, for even now he dreams.”
        Elrond stared at the Elf king, his eyes wide with horror. “And yet, it repeats itself again. Your news smote me full in the heart, for your agony is also mine. My wife departed for the Havens because of torment at the hands of Orcs, foul creatures that removed my beloved from my side. Your son, doubtlessly, suffers from their cruelty and yet, he cannot flee.”
        “Why is that?”
        “Your son belongs to the bloodline of the Teleri, as I believe you know. He cannot flee until the call of Sea beckons him, and he is still young. So, he must stay in Middle-earth until his longing for Valinor is awakened.”
        “But that will bring forth despair in his life! Could he not find healing in your residence, Elrond? I am speaking to you as royalty to royalty and as friend to friend. I wish not to see my child in distress, ere he departs over the sea! Your hands are of healing to flesh and spirit, are they not?”
        The Elf-lord nodded slightly, but when he turned to the corridor leading to the great hall, Thranduil sensed falseness in his gesture. “Follow me, Thranduil. We have much to speak of and standing idly by the threshold is not regal to two lords. We shall partake of some wine to clear our troubled minds and then again shall we speak, for your distress deserves company and I long have grieved for my own loss. For in this time of darkness and shadow, we should seek counsel, not division.”

        “An Elf taken prisoner by Orcs? I am surprised he is not dead!”
        “Hold your tongue, Éothain!” Éomer snapped, chastising the outspoken Rider. “Although we know not of this prisoner, he declares himself a prince! Do you desire your words to fall ill on a noble mind? He is alive but he suffers and we know not how to treat him! Hold your peace and let me think!”
        Legolas glanced at the Rider, appraising his speech in his mind. A man born to leadership, with wisdom on his brow and a sword in his hand. Although the other Riders considered him strange, Éomer treated him as one would treat a captive of the Orcs. Almost immediately, the man sheathed his sword and offered him his hand but Legolas shook his head; he could not walk in his pain and his breathing was shallow from previous beatings. Éomer’s grey eyes had softened and the Rider asked if he could carry him then, at least towards the banks of the Entwash. Caution and wariness grew in the Elven prince’s mind, but he eventually relented. The Rider’s hands were gentle and as Legolas felt him being borne towards the river, he remembered Thranduil’s embrace and the prince let slip a silent tear.
        Were that all Men were like this!
        Even now, as he heard Éomer silencing the more uncouth of his soldiers, Legolas remembered the firm gentleness of Aragorn towards the hobbits. Two of their kind and both alike and as noble and fair as legend! The coldness of river-water on his flesh reminded the Elf of his task at hand, and he turned to the Entwash in a hurry. Éomer had placed him close to the banks, enough so that Legolas could reach the water and had left to his possession a cloth. It was readily apparent what the Rider wanted him to do.
        “Clean yourself off and I will arrange for clothes to be brought to you.”
        He had grasped the man’s hand, almost in tears. “You have a kind heart.”
        “I have seen many slain by Orcs and to find one taken and still alive is a blessing in this dark age. Hurry if you can, for the Riders of Rohan are often impatient and mistrustful of strangers. I will convince them of your harmlessness, for then they can rest in peace and trouble you no further.”
        Legolas winced as he brushed upon an old wound, the pain removing his mind from Éomer’s kind words. The river flowed fast beneath him and the Elf soon found his fair flesh beneath the filth of abuse and travel. Yet, the prince felt his heart sinking, for his fairness was marred and his healing was slow. Where the Orcs bruised him, the paleness of his flesh was grey and sickly and his wounds still bled from being reopened by repeated sport. The cloth soon grew black with blood and earth and Legolas wrung it clean, his hands frozen by the chill waters of the Entwash.
        His reflection in the moving water came to haunt him; for Legolas remembered his fairness ere he parted for Rivendell and what he now saw shattered him. Much had changed in his eyes and the innocence in them was no more; rather, gloom dwelled deep in his expression and he felt as if a shadow had claimed his visage. Bright and clear they once were – alas, for now they had fled into melancholy and guilt! If they could reclaim their light, Legolas knew not, for his spirit knew nothing of redemption after darkness. His face had grown gaunt, through misery and turmoil, and he abhorred it. He brought a trembling hand towards his shorn hair, feeling the severed strands even as his heart cried out to cease this internal torment.
        Much had changed; was he still an Elf?
        Could he walk again in light, abandoning shadows and nightmares?
        He could find no answers and clinging onto the mere fringes of questions and hope, Legolas sought for an open road. He sought for a path to lead his lost feet, to guide him back to the forests and to sunlight and to songs. But how could he find it, when he himself had no direction?
        Legolas wept, in his fury and anguish.

        “My son went only as a messenger, Elrond. For what purpose did you send him on this journey?”
        Elrond turned his dark head and gazed at Thranduil, his eyes speaking for him. “Your son, Thranduil, is one of the only Elves that has not been touched by grief and by the Sea before his parting. We dared not send one of the Elf-lords, for they may arouse Mordor’s might, as was in the time during the First and Second Age.”
        “Legolas now lives in grief and darkness, my friend. Melkor sought our destruction, but did not succeed because of our many Elf-lords. Does the sacrifice of a Silvan Elf save the households of the Noldor?” A chalice slid across stone and Thranduil leaned forward. “If this is your reason, then it is a selfish one.”
        “I did not send your son to death and destruction willingly, Thranduil. Rather, it was necessary to send others with the Ringbearer, who bears a greater burden. We needed a representative for our people and your son, being royalty and being a warrior, served our purpose.”
        The Elf king sat back in his seat, his sudden anger draining from him. “So it was not by prejudice, then, that you sent a Sindar Elf instead of a Noldo? You decided the matter because of preference?”
        “I knew your son since the middle of the Second Age, my friend. He is a child that would be envied by many for his joy and his maturity. Yet, he lives in youthfulness and that is rare amongst Elves these days. Long have Elves lived on Middle-earth and many now flee for the Havens. He stays willingly and that is a blessing.”
        “He will not want to stay after all of this. I have seen him, Elrond. He is not himself and will not be for years to come.”
        Elrond bowed his head, his raven hair framing his face. There was much stress on his fair features and Thranduil wondered if the Elf-lord worried over his wife. Legolas’ plight was similar, yet he could not take flight for shelter like that of Celebrían, who was a Noldo in blood. Then what was his son to do, should he return? “Elrond, will you take him in for some time? Mirkwood will not heal his wounds or his heart. I fear his reception should he come back.”
        “You fear more than that, dear king. You fear your own reaction to his change.”
        The Elf king of Mirkwood sighed, for that was the truth. “I fear what I will see in his eyes. He has lost much of his innocence and light – things that are intangible, but difficult to retrieve once lost. Legolas no longer sees any hope, I believe. And yet, I did give him everything that I could give – love, hope, light, and warmth. He has lacked these for so long, and it has greatly wounded him.”
        “And you must give him more, Thranduil. He is now vulnerable to his fears and should he suffer guilt, it would be terrible to abandon him to his own struggles.”
        “I will not leave him in his darkness, Elrond, for even now, I am with him.”

        “Will he ride a horse with us, Éomer?”
        Legolas gazed at the man who spoke, and decided to answer in turn of their captain. “No, for my captors have treated me unmercifully and I cannot sit a mount without pain.”
        “The Elf answers swiftly, captain,” one of the Riders said, acknowledging his reply. “Should we let someone else carry him then on a separate horse?”
        Éomer shook his fair head. “It would be unwise. Legolas, do you wish to share a mount with one of my soldiers? I do not wish to insult you or leave you behind. What do you say?”
        The Elven prince decided the latter of the two, for riding a horse was unthinkable in his condition and he did not wish to incur the Rider’s displeasure. As much as Legolas disliked pity and aid – for his father’s blood ran through his veins – he found himself agreeing with Éomer’s counsel. “I will ride with one of your men. Much thanks to you, Éomer of Rohan.” He remembered the help given to him by the Entwash and the gift of clothes to hide his nakedness. “You should be blessed for your kindness.”
        “You speak sweetly, even in your pain.”
        “I am a prince. It is in my bearing, even as a prisoner.”
        “And captive you are no more.” The Rider smiled, the light reaching his grey eyes. “We shall now depart for the plains of Rohan. Will you accompany us in this, Legolas?”
        The Elf nodded, his spirit complying with this change of events. “I will. Lead your men on, Rider of Rohan.”
        “Forward, Riders! Towards the plains, for the King of the Mark awaits our arrival and our report!”