The Elven prince halted, lingering back as if suddenly barricaded from advancing forward. He knew what his fear was; it was the traitorous Istari. He had seen him ere he vanished, and his coming chilled the prince’s blood like frost upon morning dew. His father walked behind him, ever a strong presence. During his desperate struggle to overthrow the darkness clamoring for his soul, their bonds were sundered. Legolas felt the separation, his hand sliding out of his father’s, and he fell into shadows that shrouded him like a cage. Terrified, he met that force with his own and found it beyond his strength.

His father, Thranduil, could only watch in horror as he battled in vain. He had long since lost his light and all that encompassed it, thereby giving him a disadvantage against his weaknesses. The Elven-king stood there, his gaze fiery against all who dared to ensnare him and his son. It was the pride and glory of the noble blood of Northern Mirkwood, and Legolas drew strength from his father’s courage. In a time of evil and despair, one could stand firm and proud against darkness – it was all one could do.

Horror and wrath mingled into one telling expression. This was his father; he was his son. Legolas felt the sharp claws of shadows raking his body, and the Elf screamed, lashing out at his foes. They scattered, laughing eerily at him. Weary, the prince fell to his knees. Strength and anger left him, leaving behind a fragile shell instead of the warrior soul that he once possessed.

He needed someone’s aid. He could not refuse it anymore.

“Legolas, are you so distressed that violence is the only way you seek?”

The Elf raised his eyes, alert. He recognized that voice – Aragorn? As if heeding the cry, he arose and stood, staring at the dark expanse of sky above him. “Aragorn? Do you hear me?” Already, he had a sense of courage returning to his empty heart, and Legolas continued speaking. The wraiths of his fear, seeing him thus, retreated and vanished, for they no longer held stronghold over their victim. Leaving the last notes of their chilling cackles behind, they left the Elf standing alone in darkness.

Legolas continued to speak, his words flowing over themselves like streams running alongside valleys. Every so often, he would pause, as if speech were rendered useless to him but he soon resumed. As he spoke, unerringly and with a swifter tongue, he felt the beginning thralls of pain seizing him. Every word he let loose tore open a wound, and soon blood flowed down his body. It was his martyrdom, saying what he held secret for so long.

It was time.

That obstacle he overcame and conquered fully. Without the aid of his father’s vigilance and Aragorn’s concern, he would not have been able to step forward. Legolas realized his pride and what a downfall he would have met, if he had not listened and heeded his friend’s voice. For that, he was forever grateful.

But now, he encountered a new challenge. There was yet another barrier, another wall. How many more did he have to face and destroy? Would it take his whole life to do so? And how many more fears and occult knowledge would he unearth during his struggles?

Maybe it was unwise to ask questions for now.

“Awake, my friend! My watch is over and the horses have not returned. Come, up on your feet, my good Elf! For we have much searching to do this morning.” Aragorn said, shaking Legolas out of his slumber. The Ranger’s words pierced through the prince’s unconsciousness, dragging him out of rest.

“Well, we see who is the last one up!” said Gimli, staring down at the awakening Elf. “Although your sleep this time soothes my heart, for this is your first pleasant rest since we have met!”

Legolas, his eyes open whether awake or asleep, adjusted to the dim light of dawn, and soon he found himself speaking to his companions. As he spoke, he remembered the events of the night before. They had seen Saruman in Fangorn. The wizard had not harmed them – would not be able to, Legolas knew. He had drained all of the Istari’s strength in that battle of wills and paid a dire price for it. But Saruman had vanished, like smoke in a fierce wind. Troubled, the Elf unloosed his tongue.

“So the horses are gone, and we owe Éomer his pledge. Aragorn, what say you to last night’s events?”

“You said that you saw Saruman, which I do not disbelieve. And yet, he did no harm to us, and that is a troubling thought. Our mounts are gone, yes. We must walk then in our search, for Merry and Pippin are still to be found. My friend, can you walk?”

“No. I could stand, which is as much as my body would allow me at this time.”

Aragorn smiled. “Then you are healing.”

Legolas returned the smile, for it was Aragorn who pulled him out of his internal turmoil. “Yes, I am. Even if it is slow progress, it has started. After many a night, I see some semblance of hope.”

“Hope often comes when darkness falls, son of Thranduil. You were strong, Legolas, in saying what befell you at the hands of the Orcs. It was too terrible a secret to keep within oneself, and to share it is the only way to relieve your pain. It is like lancing a wound to drain the venom.”

“You speak often of healing, Aragorn. It is in your bearing, I should think.”

The Ranger nodded before turning aside to the ashes of their burnt out fire. “It is in my hands, Legolas. I have already tended to your wounds, although the healing of them belongs to Elvish hands like that of Elrond. The only injuries that I cannot mend are those are within your soul, for they are in your heart and I cannot delve that deeply.”

His scars within. Legolas knew full well what the man meant. There were still agonies gnawing away at him, seeping their poison into his soul even as he resisted against their wiles. The Orcs had done more than just bruise and beat him – they had nearly mortally corrupted him. If that had happened, then what? Shuddering inwardly at the implications if he had fallen into their desires, the Elf let his head hang. His madness the night before was a manifestation of his frustrations and wounded pride – it was that simple. It was that simple for the enemy to break down his barriers, should he let those interfere with his recovery again.

He could not warrant that it was over, yet.

But he had wasted too much time in thinking, and they had wasted minutes in talking. Aragorn looked back at him and spoke. “Dawn comes upon us, and morning is ever drawing closer. The sun will soon arise and we will miss our advantage. Come, Legolas! I will carry you, if you do not protest.”

What was the use of protesting when he could not force himself to walk? “Carry me, then, Aragorn. You will find me light compared to your fellow men, and lighter still for my past torments.”

The Ranger gently gripped him around the shoulders and in the crook of his knees, staggering slightly as he stood. “You are lighter than my fellow men, Legolas but not by much! If I were not mistaken, it seems you are already better! You weighed less when I met you with the Riders of Rohan.”

“At least I am lighter than a Dwarf. Is that not so, friend Gimli?”

Gimli gazed at him, his anger playful in his eyes and voice. “I wish for you not to use me as an example of weights, Master Legolas!”

“But what other comparisons are more suitable than an Elf and a Dwarf?”

Aragorn laughed. “Come now, my friends! Although your bantering is like former times, we have serious work to do! Let us leave all humour aside until we have found our friends or signs of them!”

As the three companions approached and searched the wide plains around Fangorn, Legolas felt a dark shadow encroaching upon his heart. Aragorn and Gimli found nothing around the tree, and headed away from it towards a dead watch-fire, with only ashes to mark its nightly burning. The Elf glanced at where they stood. They were close to the place where he awoke, cloaked and disoriented. He did not want to be here. And yet, he had to be here for the sake of his friends, Merry and Pippin. Where they had fled to he knew not; this was his reason for being with his companions.

“Legolas, are you all right? You grow tense.”

So even Aragorn had felt the tension in his body. “This was their camp that night,” said Legolas, sighing. He did not wish to say anymore. Already, images lingered in his mind; Legolas shut his eyes.

“I am sorry if it brings back ill thoughts, my friend. But we cannot overlook these grounds, lest we miss some tracks or signs of Merry and Pippin. You said they had fled, and that the Orc camp stayed close to Fangorn. So it is here where we must look.”

“Master Elf, it would be wise to open your eyes. We need your sight for these times.”

“He suffers from memories past, Gimli. It is not so simple to leave behind agony and remembrances of screams and cruel laughter. Although, Legolas,” the Ranger said, slightly tightening his fingers around the Elf’s shoulder, “you must open your eyes. You cannot hide forever from your fears.”

“Even during my healing, I am scathed. Will it that my mind shall bolt out these horrors!”

“You have told us of your torment, and we will bear them with you until you are healed. Do not fear, son of Thranduil! For it is now morning and your captors are slain and burnt. They cannot harm or jeer at you anymore, for now they are carrion for the birds! Take heart, Legolas!”

Forever hiding from his fears. This he now did, frightened at how near he was to where the Orcs used him for sport. Their last ritual of cruelty and violence, plundering from him whatever he had left. Saruman, waning in his power, had watched. He remembered that, drawing that image from the depths of his mind. The Istari had seen him, lying there in agony and shame, crying out in Elvish as he suffered; for his use of his own tongue, the Orcs brutalized him with savage hatred until he lost all knowledge of sight and hearing. He remembered all ills now, and the fear intensified.

“Take heart, Legolas!” said Aragorn, repeating himself. “You have not fallen, and we shall not shun you. If you deny your eyes the place of your torment, you will never seek triumph!”

“I hear your words, Aragorn but darkness draws near. I cannot force myself to look, even when I know you speak true!” So saying, the prince kept his eyes shut, shielding out all light. He knew in doing so that he was yet returning to his memories. They were memories that should have been long forgotten but how does one shed days of wretchedness and impending death? He healed slowly; that was the truth. But how does one forget atrocities like such? It was simple to tell one to release black thoughts – what if happened to the encourager?

Would that being still say the same?

Gimli grunted. “We cannot force him, Aragorn. And we cannot stay standing here! We must move on!”

“We must, Gimli, and that is the truth. I had thought that by telling us of his woes that Legolas would be more able to confront the place of his torture. Alas, I have seen falsely! There are many wounds left in his soul and many remembrances in his mind that could possibly never be healed or forgotten. Such are these dark times! But lead on, my friend! When a Man and an Elf are delayed, perhaps your stubborn race could call us to attention!”

Aragorn’s steps shook him where he lay, and Legolas felt each rise and fall of pace comforting. Dark were his thoughts, as though his admission had not brought forth light. His friend had told him to weep but Legolas found no tears to shed. What he found, upon coming to this place, were dead Orcs, stamped out fires, and the ravages of battle. He dreaded the outskirts of Fangorn. Telling of his suffering had not lessened his fear, albeit it lightened his inner burden. The sighting of Saruman ran doubt through his mind, and the Elf trembled.

He still feared what he did not know.

“Hold there, Gimli! For I see something on the grass.”

What was it that Aragorn saw? Was it a sign of Merry and Pippin? Opening his eyes, Legolas beheld Aragorn receiving a leaf from Gimli. The leaf was golden but already it started to age, turning brown on its edges and advancing slowly inward. He reflected on it, and suddenly knew what it was that Aragorn held. “A mallorn-leaf from Lothlórien!”

“Yes, Legolas,” said Aragorn, looking down at him. “Your Elvish sight is needed, my friend.”

“There are some scattered cords about,” Gimli offered forth, “as well as this knife, which doubtlessly was used to cut them.” As if proving his find, he held forth the ghastly weapon.

“An Orc blade,” said Legolas, as he watched Gimli examine the handle. “The carvings and the blackness of their weapons is enough proof. They have used such on me to mark me as theirs.”

“You were never theirs, son of Thranduil. Do not give yourself needless torment.”

Aragorn was right – at least at this moment. He was free now, released from oppression and imminent death; why did he insist on bringing back dead shadows? Legolas knew why. His shadows had never died; always, he had had a fear of darkness. That was the way of Elves, unless the moon lit the sky with her soft radiance. That was why he despised caves, like that of Moria. But it was more than just black unknowns that frightened him – there was something else. Ever since the Orcs slaughtered his mother, also depriving him of more than a few friends, he had vowed to slay them without pause.

But ever since he had fallen captive to them, he could no longer see himself in the same light. What had befallen him now haunted his dreams, twisting them from their fair forms into withered ones. Any glimpse of anything Orcish betrayed his mind, letting loose a flow of horrid memories. Was he doomed to never forget those three days of nightmarish existence? And what of those three nights of torture? He had spoken, let some burdens fall but there always seemed to be more; when would there be none left?

“It had to be the hobbits, Aragorn.”

“I believe so, Gimli. But I do not know whether both escaped or not. What I see here is one hobbit, either Merry or Pippin. An Orc carried him here, and one of the Riders slew the creature. Instead of escaping in a hurry, he simply cut his bonds and ate here for a while. Although, he did cut Legolas’ bonds, did he not?”

“Master Legolas falls silent yet again,” said Gimli, gazing towards the Elf.

“This place brings forth much dread. We have found signs – let us move on.”

Legolas found his voice. “Where should we go next?”

“If they had wandered into Fangorn, we must go in there heedless of Celeborn’s counsel. It is our duty to find them and to reunite our broken Fellowship. Legolas, you worried me with your sudden silence but at least now you speak.”

“This place goes ill for me,” said the Elf truthfully.

Aragorn shifted his weight, bringing the prince closer towards him. “You shall soon weary me out, Legolas! But let us not linger any longer. Forward into the forest!”

“We have seen more signs of our companions, Aragorn. Such tidings are kind.”

“Footprints scattered nily-wily,” Gimli said, looking back. The axe on his shoulder gleamed. “And yet, you said that they have moved from those places two days ago. It has been a long two days, Aragorn. We are not going to search the whole of Fangorn, are we?”

The Ranger nodded, resolution in his eyes. “We will, Gimli. Even if we must starve, we will find them. Our supplies will not last for much longer, I am afraid. And yet, we cannot abandon friends for food. Come, for I see some sunlight piercing through the roof of the forest.”

“That is a welcome sight.” Once in Fangorn, away from the outskirts, Legolas found it easier to release his memories. This was another forest but to the Elf, all woods were his kindred. Fangorn felt old; more aged than even Mirkwood the land of his father. Gimli dreaded being in a forest spoken of with ill repute but the Elf felt no evil – only wariness and anger. Where those emotions came from, he knew not. But could it be similar to the way he felt now? Had something wicked debased these woods, stripping these trees of their joy and pride? If so, Legolas could relate, for he suffered an equal fate.

Aragorn walked steadily, his sword slapping against his thigh. Behind him, Gimli trod along, weighted down with his coat of mail and his axe. Legolas watched as the forest diminished; a large face of rock towered above them, with steps leading towards a high shelf overlooking the land. Sunlight streamed down, piercing through the clouds. Looking at the rays illuminating the forest and the face of stone, Legolas felt relieved. This was the first true light he had seen since his capture.

He could truly revel in it, for however short a time.

“Let us go up, Aragorn and Legolas!”

And as if his short stature made no difference, Gimli son of Gloin started. He gained speed and Aragorn and Legolas watched with laughter in their eyes.

“Come, Aragorn! Make haste! It shall not be said that a Dwarf beat a Man and an Elf in a competition of steps!”

“Ah, but you cannot add yourself into that, Legolas.” Smiling, Aragorn stepped onto the stone stairs. But they were already far from Gimli, who now stood there watching with amusement.

Legolas scowled. “So an Elf and a Man admit defeat to a Dwarf.”

“Say nothing when you do not walk in the contest, Master Elf!” Gimli retorted as they approached. “Knowing your kind, though, you would have beaten me by far if you had use of your legs.”

“The hobbits were here, although I cannot name these strange tracks.” Aragorn, shifting his weight again to bear Legolas’ weight, glanced around. Legolas gazed at the surrounding forest – what a mighty sea of trees! Sunlight fell upon him and its warmth was comforting.

He liked it here.

“We have come far. If our Fellowship had not broken apart, we could have come here. It is a pleasant place, full of light and trees. But perhaps we all have separate paths to take, although I know not where mine is.”

“It will come to you in its own time, Legolas. Do not fret about what is not yet unveiled.”

Gimli stood, a small pillar of strength and grumpiness. “This path I did not want to take, that is what I say.”

“And yet here we stand, my friend,” said Legolas, gazing out. “Look, for I see someone!”

Aragorn’s hands suddenly tightened, and Legolas felt his tenseness. Beside them, Gimli leaned forward as if to strain his eyes. “Where?” the Dwarf asked in impatience. “I am no Elf!”

Legolas raised his arm, pointing down towards where the steps began near the inner fringe of the forest. “There! It is he!” What was Saruman doing here? They met him once, only the night before. Was he back to wreak havoc and destruction? Was his potency back in full force? A cold chill settled into his being, and the Elf shivered.

“He is approaching!”

A man stooped and bent, with his hand on a staff. There was no difference, except that he wore grey. Saruman had worn white the night he came upon them. Could it be? But after so many deceptions, the prince kept his own counsel within his heart. The Istari were mighty, and Saruman had grown crafty in his ways. Legolas kept his sight fixed upon the aged figure with consternation. Gimli had his axe out, as if to menace the approaching man and Aragorn held no weapon. Legolas, unable to walk but able to stand, found that the Ranger refused to let go of him. Still, Legolas doubted he could do much. He had no arrows in his quiver and his knife was useless if he could not walk, much less run.

Suddenly, the old man glanced up at them. Legolas could not see his eyes, for a wide-brimmed hat shaded them. All that he could see was the man’s beard, which was grey and the tip of his nose. A grey beard – Saruman’s beard was white! Even as Aragorn and Gimli grew tenser, Legolas felt apprehension mingled with curiosity stirring in his breast. This could not be Saruman!

“Well met indeed, my friends. I wish to speak to you. Will you come down, or shall I come up?”

Before they could even reply, the wizened figure started towards them. His pace quickened on the steps, and Legolas heard Aragorn’s sharp intake of breath. Gimli, suddenly fierce, sprang towards the steps. Just then, the old man spoke. His voice was calm but there was a tone of command that Legolas knew well.

It was the same tone his father used for a subject.

“Master Dwarf, pray take your hand from your axe-haft, till I am up! You will not need such arguments.”

Gimli released his axe; the weapon fell with a harsh clatter to the stone beneath his feet. Legolas’ eyes widened. His friend obeyed that command without protest! The old man, seemingly ageless and young in movement, now climbed the last of the steps. All weariness had left him; he was no longer as old as he seemed. Legolas caught a glimpse of white beneath his grey rags, and felt again that mark of uncertainty. Gimli breathed aloud, as if in distress or rage.

“Well met, I say again!” The old man glanced at each one of them. “And what may you be doing in these parts? An Elf, a Man, and a Dwarf. Two are clad in elvish fashion, while one bears the garb of the House of Eorl. No doubt there is a tale worth hearing behind it all. Such things are not often seen here.”

Aragorn spoke, always noble with his words. “You speak as one that knows Fangorn well. Is that so?”

“Not well; that would be the study of many lives. But I come here now and again.”

“Might we know your name, and then hear what it is that you have to say to us? The morning passes, and we have an errand that will not wait.”

The old man spoke softly, his voice mesmerizing and nearly hypnotic. “As for what I wished to say, I have said it: What may you be doing, and what tale can you tell of yourselves? As for my name!” A soft and drawn-out laugh slipped out of the man’s being, like rain upon parched earth. Startled, Legolas stared at him. Who was this person? Saruman? He wore white beneath his guise of grey! But the Istari would have slain them all by now, instead of engaging in banter and talk! “My name! Have you not guessed it already? You have heard it before, I think. Yes, you have heard it before. But come now, what of your tale?”

Could he be Saruman? Or could he be Gandalf – Mithrandir? Those were the only two names Legolas knew; the only two Istari that he had knowledge of. As he drew himself out of his reflections, he noticed the deadening silence. Aragorn and Gimli had not spoken a word of reply.

“There are some who would begin to doubt whether your errand is fit to tell,” the old man continued, still leaning on his staff. “Happily I know something of it. You are tracking the footsteps of two young hobbits, I believe. Yes, hobbits. Don’t stare, as if you had never heard the strange name before. You have, and so have I. Well, they climbed up here the day before yesterday; and they met someone that they did not expect.” Shuffling from foot to foot, the wizened figure continued his speech, even as Legolas watched in silence. “Does that comfort you? And now you would like to know where they were taken? Well, well, maybe I can give you some news about that. But why are we standing? Your errand, you see, is no longer as urgent as you thought. Let us sit down and be more at ease.”

So their friends were safe and sheltered? Was it so? Legolas kept his sight on the old man, even when he turned away from them and strode with slow steps towards a pile of stones and rocks. If he thought to recline there, the Elf thought bemused, it would give him an aching back. Gimli stooped to retrieve his axe, and Legolas noticed that Aragorn breathed more easily; it was as if an enchantment had been withdrawn. As the Dwarf gripped his axe-haft, Legolas worried for the old man. He seemed harmless.

It was obvious that Gimli did not think so.

“Saruman!” The Dwarf moved swiftly, approaching the calm figure with his weapon ready. “Speak! Tell us where you have hidden our friends! What have you done with them?” When the old man refused to reply, Gimli stepped closer. Legolas could hear rage in his voice. “And what did you do to my friend, the Elf? What cruelty did you afflict him with? Speak, or I will make a dint in your hat that even a wizard will find it hard to deal with!”

What happened next astonished the Elf, as it did Aragorn and Gimli. Evading Gimli’s threatening blow, the wizened figure leapt on to a rock, casting aside his grey rags. As he did so, he seemed to grow tall and mighty, august in his calmness. His garb gleamed white, and Legolas saw then that he was not Saruman. There was something different about this man. He could sense a kinder presence; a presence that he would willingly embrace. Gimli tried to swing at him again but the old man raised his staff and the axe fell to the ground.

Gimli retreated as if scorched by his own weapon.

There was no uncertainty left. Legolas knew whom it was he laid eyes on, and joy sprang overwhelmingly into his heart. After all of their despair, they found hope – or it found them! Moria was not his tomb, as it was never meant to be! There was a gleam of light on the horizon, and they had nearly overlooked it in their suspicion and fright. He unloosed his tongue, crying out in Elvish.

“Mithrandir! Mithrandir!”