Unable to offer more than a token resistance, Nimoë was hustled away from the throne room and forced down a long staircase. She lost track of how far down the stair wound, but with each step the earth seemed to close in around her. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, her captors stopped in front of an ancient iron door. It was drawn open and they thrust her forward through its maw.
        With her arms bound, she could not catch herself as her momentum threw her down upon the hard earth. Her face and shoulder crashed hard, and the breath was momentarily crushed from her body. Stars swam before her eyes and she tried to gasp for air, but the gag in her mouth kept her from even that cold comfort.
        The door was slammed shut and she vaguely heard the sound of a solid iron bar being placed across it. The marshals left, taking their torch with them and Nimoë was plunged into the most utter blackness she had ever experienced. It was as if the darkness was alive. It swirled ever closer in around her, smothering her like the breath of a Nazgul.
        She stumbled to her feet and staggered toward the door, at least where she felt the door should be. With her back to the wall, her hands searched frantically for a handle, but there was none. Desperately she flung her body at the door, hoping against hope that it would open. Pain radiated out from her shoulder where it had slammed into the solid metal. Numbness swiftly followed the pain, and she collapsed onto the ground.
        Only able to breathe the fetid air through her nose, Nimoë gathered what breath she could and began to wail. The sound was muffled by her gag, but she was unable to control it. Fear and pain were the only sensations she could feel. The Elf, trapped in the bowels of the earth, sat on the ground and rocked and wailed, and tried to gain control of her unreasoning terror.

        Eomer had been taken to a dungeon on a level less deep than that where Nimoë was held. He was still the Third Marshal, and heir to the throne, after the death of Theoden’s son, Theodred. There was light in his cell from a torch hung on the outside wall. He paced back and forth like a caged beast. Every so often he hit the wall for good measure.
        Finally he gave up his pacing and threw himself down onto the ground in disgust. Just as he was putting his head down into his hands, he heard his sister’s voice.
        “Eomer?” she spoke, “Are you alright?”
        He leapt to his feet and ran to the door, where there was a small opening. He could just make out the top of Eowyn’s fair head. “I am locked away in my own hall. Of course I am not alright!” Then, remorsefully he apologized. “I am sorry. None of this is your fault. Tell me, Eowyn, how things have gotten so bad?”
        There was a sigh from outside the door. “Much as you see. Wormtongue holds all the power. Since the death of Theodred, the king has been sorely troubled in mind, and it was easier for Grima to gain sway. Tell me truly, brother, was it Aragorn, son of Arathorn, that you met upon our plains?”
        “I believe that to be true.”
        “His is a name of noble lineage. Would that I could meet a warrior so great. I fear that I will never be allowed to fight against the shadow. Though sorely do I wish that I could.”
        Eomer shook his head. Why would his sister not give up on her strange passion? “The Elf girl Nimoë was traveling with the great lord, in the guise of a man. He himself did not know until she was revealed after attacking me.”
        “Truly? Do you believe that she is an enchantress?”
        “It may be that she is, but I do not believe her to be evil. If she were, then my company would not have been enough to stop her from decimating our numbers.” The thought of the slender Elf maid leaping to the defense of her mistress made him laugh. A brave soul indeed, and inhumanly fair on top of it. Well, she was an Elf, so that was to be expected. The thought of her gagged and bound as he had last seen her galled him, and he said more soberly, “I hope that she is not treated too harshly.”
        “She has been cast into the deepest dungeon of the hall. Wormtongue is sorely frightened of her, and believes that as she is an Elf-witch, the best way to render her harmless is to bury her far beneath the earth, for such a thing an Elf cannot abide.”
        Very troubled was Eomer to hear of this, and he said as much to his sister. “Eowyn, can you do anything? Can you release her from her prison?”
        “Alas, I cannot. The way is guarded.”
        “Then promise me this: when her companions reach the city, make certain that they know of her imprisonment. I believe them to be men strong enough to make Theoden reconsider.”
        “I will, my brother. I must go. The guard is returning. My time is done. My thoughts are with you.” Then she left the cell, her thoughts bent on the three unknown men and their imminent arrival in Edoras. She hoped against hope that their coming would be the key to breaking the spell that had been cast over her king.

        Several days passed and still no one came to Edoras. Eowyn bristled at the delay, and at the captivity of her brother. She made it a point to be in the Great Hall at any time that Theoden was present, to keep an eye on Wormtongue and his craven counsels. So it was that she was present when Hama came into the hall to say that four had come to the gates and wished speech with the king. They were Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, Gimli, son of Gloin, and most surprisingly, Gandalf, the wizard.
        Grima immediately counseled that they should not be admitted, but with a surprising act of independence, Theoden stated that they should be sent in, without their weapons, be it only a staff. Eowyn felt her heart flutter at the thought of laying eyes on the Heir of Isildur. Her hand clenched upon the back of the throne so that her fingers were white.
        After some delay, the four companions entered the hall. They were unarmed, but for Gandalf, who still retained his staff, although he leaned upon it heavily. The hall was but dimly lit, so Eowyn was not able to regard any of them fully.
        “Hail Theoden, King of Rohan!” spoke Gandalf.
        “I greet you, but I do not offer you welcome. Ever you come as the bearer of ill tidings, although nothing could be more ill than the death of my Theodred.”
        Grima then spoke, “Indeed, you shall be called Gandalf Stormcrow, for you are ever the bearer of ill news.”
        “The courtesy of your hall is faltering, Theoden. Do you not know who these are who come before you? There are few men more worthy in this world,” replied Gandalf. “They travel with the favor of Galadriel of Lothlorien.”
        Grima leapt forward. “You see, they are in league with the Elf-witch of the Golden Wood!”
        Eowyn then stood in awe as from the staff of the old wizard deep clouds and fire spread forth. It was an awesome sight, but she was not afraid. The voice of the wizard seemed to fill the entire hall as he spoke again. “Grima Wormtongue, too long has the king listened to your words. You should not speak of things you do not know.”
        Grima had backed away, and he cowered behind the throne. “His staff! Did I not tell you to forbid it? We are betrayed!”
        Lightning spewed forth from the staff and Wormtongue lay stunned upon the floor. In short order had Gandalf then convinced Theoden to come forth into the sunlight, where he had not strayed in countless days. Eowyn went forth with them and there she beheld Aragorn for the first time in the fullness of light. Tall he was, and strong and her heart ached with the beauty of him. Yet she perceived that he regarded her only with pity for her long suffering.
        “Theoden-King, you must now make use of all those who wish you well. You must release Eomer from his imprisonment,” spoke Gandalf.
        Theoden nodded. “Only did I imprison him for threatening death to Grima in my hall. It seems that he was only acting in my best interests.” Then he addressed Hama. “Bring forth Eomer, my sister-son. I would speak with him in gentler time.”
        Eomer was brought forthwith and he offered his sword in service to his king. “It has ever been thine to command.”
        Then Theoden looked upon him with love in his eyes.
        The Elven prince, who had grown impatient, then spoke. “Eomer? Where is Nimoë?”