With Hope and Without Hope

Chapter 45: Freedom for the Taking

Legolas awoke to wonder why there was so much light. There was no light in Orthanc but from the fires. Stranger still, the air lacked the oppressive heat of the pits.

Startled, he sat up, and the sight of Wellinghall brought back the events of the previous day. His ride in the palm of the Ent was a blur, save for the glorious sun high overhead. Now the sun was low in the east and the forest was filled with songs of waking.

Despite having slept a full day and night, his weariness lingered. His aches and pains had eased somewhat, likely due to the waters of the Entwash. Likely he now looked worse than he felt, for his tattered leggings and leather boots, the only garments left to him, still bore stains of blood and grit. Dirt, dried blood, and the ash that had surrounded him in Orthanc covered his skin. Even his hair hung in filthy clumps, coated in the same grime, the braids having long ago come undone.

The cuffs that had held Legolas to the wall in the pit still bound his wrists, and the skin beneath was raw and bloody. Despite the dose of healing waters, his back still ached with bruises, and cuts yet pulled at the skin. His broken ankle and arrow wound had begun to heal, but his hands still throbbed, particularly the right with its mangled fingers. And though he had drunk deeply of the Ent's waters, he still hungered for food and thirsted for more water.

The elf stretched cautiously on the stone slab that had served as his bed. After his time in Isengard, he had almost forgotten the peace of the forest. The green forest was full of life. With the shrieks and screams of orcs echoing in his mind, he closed his eyes and breathed in the air, the sounds, and the song of the forest. He nearly wept for what his senses had not taken in for—how long? He could not guess.

A crackling of dried leaves disturbed his nascent sense of peace and sent his heart into his throat. Too light to be the steps of an Ent, too quiet for an orc, he wondered who else shared this forest with Fangorn. It was too quiet even for a man, and his curiosity was aroused as well as his wariness. His thoughts went briefly to his bow, and he mourned the loss of the precious gift of Galadriel. But there had been greater losses on this journey, and surely there were more to come.

The taste of freedom was too fresh. Quite aware that he had no weapon and little strength, he looked swiftly for a safer position or sheltering nook, but there were only his stone bed and more rock behind him. Sliding himself down the six feet to the ground, he leaned heavily on the slab and fixed his eyes in the direction of the sound.

He saw the white robe before he saw a face and gasped. Of all paths for his fate to follow, it had been the same as Saruman's! He stepped back and looked about. Where was he to go? His anger flared. He would not return to Isengard, not with Saruman. He turned to face the wizard.

His knees nearly buckled beneath him, and his breath left him entirely, when the face emerged from the wood. He could not draw his eyes away from the visage of his old friend, but in a moment his mind caught up with him, and he saw the deception. The wizard slowed as he entered the clearing but said nothing. Legolas narrowed his eyes. "Stand back! I know who you truly are. I will not return to Isengard, Saruman." He spat out the name with venom.

The wizard halted his approach, and narrowing his eyes, looked over Legolas thoroughly.

"Show your true face!" Legolas said, hating the desperation in his voice. "You use the face of a friend I cannot recover. You do not deceive me!"

"Why would I wish to deceive you?" the wizard said calmly.

Too calmly, Legolas thought. His manner did not strike him as that of Saruman. He hesitated, but his despair would not allow him to relinquish his disbelief. "You cannot be Gandalf!"