Shadows Amongst the Leaves

Nightmares and nightmares, incessant and dark plagued his dreams, banishing starlight and song. Legolas slipped deeply into unconscious rest, unwilling to fully awake until his turmoil ceased. And yet, awakening to the harsh realisms of his life were warranted, for the Orcs were not satisfied by simple torment. The shadows seizing at his soul dragged him into a maelstrom of dark images and murder; resist though he might, his own determination wavered and Legolas grasped desperately at whatever light he could see.

He did not have much time left and he did not wish to depart by grief. Elves do not part with the earth unless forced to, and the young prince did not seek death. He had to look out for Merry and Pippin, lest some ill omen befall them; however, the Elf felt all the pains settling upon his own frail frame.

“Merry,” he whispered one morning, grabbing at the hobbit’s grimy hands. “How are you faring?”

The Halfling looked back at the Elf, concern naked in his eyes. “I am fine, Legolas. It is you that worries me. You cry out in your sleep and if not, you tremble as if in fear.”

“I am glad that you and Pippin are not hurt, although, I fear for myself. I cannot find solace in my sleep, for I see violence and doom. The Orcs hesitate to slay me, perhaps for some ill purpose…I cannot say.” A sigh escaped from Legolas and the Elf cast his sight downwards, eyes devoid of light. He could not seem to find any hope left – how did the Halflings fare in such conditions? “I wonder what has become of Aragorn and Gimli. The last I saw of the Dwarf, he was felled. Gimli, son of Gloin and Elf-friend – no other friend do I love more!”

Merry reached forward to affectionately tussle the Elf’s ragged hair. “Do not do this to yourself, Legolas. You will survive this in the end, as all of us will.”

“All of us? I believe that to be false.”

“By what do you mean?” the hobbit asked, surprised.

“Gandalf fell in the deeps of Moria and then Boromir and Gimli at Emyn Muil. Do you believe an Elf without his weapons at hand could survive amongst Orcs?” Legolas looked away, misery welling from deep within his soul. “If Aragorn fails to find us soon and you survive, tell him farewell and to bring news to my father.”

“Legolas!”

“The Orcs abuse me more as the hours draw close, Merry. Even if they choose not to slay me, I shall find no joy in this world left. I will choose to die and to be forgotten, for such is the way of Elves in despair.” Thranduil’s son closed his eyes, drawing in a painful breath. “It is good, though, that you and Pippin are with me – without company, I would have perished long ago.”

The hobbit stared at the Elf; dark eyes meeting formerly clear ones. “Listen, Legolas. You will live and go back to your home. Do not worry, for we are here.”

For once, since that fateful day at Emyn Muil, Legolas smiled. “Much thanks, Merry.” The sound of rough footsteps approaching alerted the Elf and Legolas released the hobbit’s hand. “Watch over Pippin for me, all right? They have come again for sport – for their hatred will not be quelled.” As a rough hand seized him, smelling of cruelty, blood, and sweat, Legolas released himself into his dreams, where nightmares were kinder than reality.

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The two hunters raced down the slopes of Rohan, their legs stirring the verdant grass that had remained untouched by Orcs. After the barren bleakness of the highlands of Emyn Muil, this was a pleasant change. However, Aragorn and Gimli saw no reason for lingering long, for the search for the captives had led to an unpleasant discovery. While in despair at not recovering tokens of their seized companions, they had come upon a blood-soaked turf, scattered with the hewn bodies of mutilated Orcs. An argument had erupted, Aragorn explained after searching the area, and the Orcs slew those in disagreement.

As of the captives, they were nowhere to be found.

The hours that passed them by seemed to fall into the ill use, and Gimli spoke. “Aragorn, at this pace we will never find the remnants of the Fellowship and all the while, the hobbits and the Elf are in death’s shadow!”

“He might be in it at this moment,” Aragorn replied, knowing of Elvish ways. “Alas, that the leadership falls to my hands! If I could be swifter, they would be safe now.”

“Then we must talk later and run for now!”

“You are right, Gimli. You run fast for a Dwarf and your stubborn stoutness gives us hope! Let us search while running, for I sense some light at the end of this darkness!”

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He saw his father. Thranduil, king of the Silvan Elves living beneath the trees of Mirkwood. He saw his father alive. In disbelief, Legolas ran close, and then drew back in caution. After all of the frightening images that assailed his mind, he could not just fall for a shadow. For an illusion. The Elven prince held his eyes on the august and fair majesty of his paternal blood; was he dreaming?

He was dreaming, though, he reminded himself.

And dreams were never real.

“Who are you?” he asked the figure. His voice sounded unlike his own, full of dread and apprehension – not some trait expected from one of noble blood. “I ask of you, shadow that reveals itself as my father, who are you and what do you seek from me?”

Thranduil reached out his arms, almost touching his child. “Legolas, it is not an illusion you see. I heard your cries – son, where are you?”

Legolas stumbled back, his emotions coming to the fore. Tears welled in his clear eyes and the Elf saw not his father. “How did you find me? I have long waited for death, dreading her touch but she dares not take me as of yet. I have lost sight of the light that guided me in my life and have despaired of living. Father…do you hear me?”

“Legolas, reach out for me. I have suffered anguish at hearing your cries and know that you are surrounded by darkness. And yet, I can impart the will to live and some light into your gloom. All you need to do is to trust and take my hand, my son.”

Tentatively, the young prince reached out. His father! His father had found him and sought to remove from him this burden of lingering death! This was no shadow and illusion! How could he have believed otherwise? Thranduil was so close; this was the one who gave him life through his mother and raised him to become a strong and valiant warrior. This was the one who gave him condolence when his mother died, instead of hurling insults like arrows at his heart.

Legolas reached out, felt his father’s fingers, then slipped…

The Elf jerked out of his reveries, gasping in pain as a stripe of flaring pain seared down one shoulder and then stripped the flesh off his bones on the other. The Orcs treated him worse as each hour passed, but dared not slay him at the commands of their captain. In a faint, Legolas held his last dream close to his spirit – he nearly found hope. His father found him, but their meeting was not to last long.

Still, he found some remnant of hope and that was enough as long he still drew breath.

“I say not farewell, yet,” the Elf whispered as he passed again to faraway places. “Father…”

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“A quiver and a bow!” Gimli shouted, raising the weapons above his head with strong hands. “A token at last of the Elf! I hope that Legolas is safe!”

“I fear his life.” Aragorn said bluntly, even as he revealed the brooch that had been dropped by hobbit hands. “Merry and Pippin may seek safety for a while, but there are stains of blood and torment that are witnesses to cruelty on the ground. The Orcs have been using Legolas for sport, as I feared. We must hasten forth.”

Gimli stared at Aragorn. “When we reach them, my axe will be at work.”

“And not just your weapon alone, son of Gloin.”

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Thranduil rubbed at his eyes, exhaustion drawing him to its soporific brink. His son! He saw Legolas, caught in a mire of darkness that even an Elf-lord would dread. It shattered the noble king’s heart, to see his flesh and blood suffering alone and without aid. There was only fear in Legolas’ voice and never before had the king seen his son so afraid.

It had been so close. He had almost caught his son, imparted to him the light that Legolas lost during his struggles. But then, something tore them apart and Thranduil heard his son crying out. Somehow, his fleet-footed offspring lost his footing and slipped.

The Elf king sighed and covered his face with his hands.

He would have to consult with Elrond, for the perils for his son were too much and his father’s heart was broken. Never did he dream of the day when his son needed rescue and he was unable to give it.

Thranduil did not sleep that night.

Neither did the rest of Mirkwood.