With Hope and Without Hope

Chapter 47: Awakenings

Gandalf turned the rabbit roasting on a spit over a small fire. Treebeard had been kind enough to indicate wood acceptable for burning. The mundane activities of hunting and cooking were rather soothing, despite Gandalf's growing sense of urgency. They were needed in Rohan, but they would go nowhere before Legolas regained his vitality.

And Legolas had much to regain. After bathing in the Entwash, he had fallen asleep beside the fire, curled into himself. Frequently startled awake by noises of the forest, Gandalf mulled over his stay in Orthanc that he could become so unaccustomed to the wood.

Thankfully, Fangorn had been generous with his revitalizing waters. After perhaps a day of hearty eating and additional draughts from the Entwash, Legolas might have the strength for the arduous travel ahead. Gandalf's instincts demanded they travel to Edoras, not Isengard, and he hoped the elf trusted his word that they would return to Isengard as soon as they were able.

Now Gandalf turned to attending Legolas's wounds. The wizard was only mildly concerned for the many superficial wounds that had begun to heal with the first ent-draughts. The elf seemed accustomed to the limp he bore, and so it was likely an older wound for which Gandalf could do little. A swelling on Legolas's side restricted his movements and breathing, hinting at more broken bones to which he could not tend.

He hoped to do something for Legolas's hands, however. The fingers of his right hand were puffy, red, and bent at odd angles. He held the hand in a cupped fashion close to his body and used only the back of the hand when he had the need of it. Without the use of his hand, Legolas would be greatly impaired—and possibly never wield a bow again. For that reason alone, Gandalf would do what he could. But what that was, he did not yet know.

"Legolas," he called gently. "The meat is cooked."

The elf's eyes blinked as he woke. He looked around him sharply, until he saw Gandalf and Wellinghall behind them and relaxed.

"You're safe, Legolas. We are in Fangorn Forest, remember?" Legolas nodded as he rose, shaking sleep from him. His eyes landed on the food immediately and widened. "I am fortunate you are not a hobbit," Gandalf said. "I would be hunting the entire day."

Legolas remained somber, his eyes on the food. "The last sight I had of a hobbit was in Orthanc, as we were brought before Saruman." He looked up now. "I felt Pippin's eyes upon me as they led me away, but I could not look at him. I wonder if he yet lives."

Gandalf mutely handed Legolas a piece of meat. As Legolas tore into the food, eating with one hand, Gandalf asked himself again whether a day's rest and care would be enough to ready the elf for riding. "You say you do not know how long you were in Orthanc?"

Legolas shook his head as he chewed. "I do not. I only know we marched for four days before arriving in Isengard."

"And you were not fed then, either?" Legolas shook his head. "Water?"

"Once." Legolas finished his meat and laid down by the fire to enjoy some blackberries Gandalf had gathered.

"I wonder if there is nothing to be done for your hand. Would you tell me, did they break it?"

Legolas's eyes grew dark. Turning on his back, he chewed silently until he had finished the fruit. Sitting up then, he drew his right hand out before him.

"One of the uruk leaders," he began, looking at his hand, "who was present when we were captured..." Legolas's expression grew distant as the memories returned. "He remembered that I used the bow," he said in a whisper. "He decided I would use the bow no more."

"So this was done because you were an archer?" Legolas nodded.

Gandalf held out his hand. Legolas hesitated before slowly extending his own. The fingers had been broken in many places. Splinting them would be excruciating. "I fear the most I can do at the moment is to wrap the hand to prevent it from being bumped."