Vaguely Nimoë recalled opening her eyes in the searing light of day. It seemed to her, in her confusion, that she had seen Prince Legolas, his eyes full of tears, regarding her. That could not be true. What need would Legolas have for tears? Surely she was only imagining it, as she had imagined his face so many other times before, in the horror of the cell. Yet it had seemed so very real… She could almost smell the warm scent of him, like spices and cedar, and the smell of Elf man, which was so uniquely his own.
        Something brushed against her cheek and she shied away from it. She would not open her eyes to look, for she could not bear the living darkness, but surely it must be a rat, hidden away deep in the dungeon with her. She whimpered and tried to turn away.
        Then she heard a voice, clear as the ringing of bells, yet deep and resonant as the sea. “Aragorn, she is waking.”
        Still not sure of what was real, she tried to roll away from the sound, afraid that the conjurings of her mind were finally taking control of her. Hands gripped her shoulders and she began to struggle.
        “Nimoë. Nimoë! Please do not fight me. It is Legolas. You are safe. We have come for you. Nothing more can hurt you. Please open your eyes. Look at me, Nimoë. Please.”
        A dream! It had to be a dream. This could not be real. Gathering her little remaining strength, Nimoë lurched up from her back and tried to flee.
        Strong arms encircled her and the voice cried out it a panic. “Aragorn, hurry! She is not in her right mind!”
        Legolas held her tightly against his chest, pinning her arms close against him, afraid lest she would do herself more harm. His heart pounded erratically and he could hear his own pulse beating in his eardrums. Seeing Nimoë so frantic and hysterical was more terrifying to him than any battle he had ever faced.
        Finally, just as Aragorn ran into the room, his hands laden with the plant which Legolas recognized as athelas, Nimoë’s strength ran out and she lay quiescent, but sobbing uncontrollably, in his arms. He lifted frightened eyes to Aragorn’s as he rocked her, stroking her hair and kissing her brow. “What am I to do?”
        Aragorn regarded the stricken Elf with pity. “Hold her there. Soon she will recognize you, and I think that she will be less afraid in your arms than alone on the bed.” He worked quickly, lighting a brazier and setting the athelas to boiling.
        “How can she bear this, Aragorn? So many days confined. So many days without the light of the sun. Even in Moria I had the light of Gandalf’s staff to light my way. I cannot imagine the agony she must have suffered.”
        The mortal lord looked at his friend with understanding. “I think that you must help her to bear it. Give her your strength to lean on. Her physical scars will be the least of her worries. She will heal from them. It is the trauma that she has suffered in her mind that worries me. When I knew her as Nimrodel, she was ever buoyant in spirit, quick with a song and a light word. I am afraid that this experience will taint her heart.”
        Unconsciously, Legolas pulled her tighter against him. “Anything I can do for her, I will. She is bravest maiden I have ever known. Do you know,” Legolas asked with a hint of awe in his voice, “She does not even know how to wield a sword? And still she chose to journey with us, into the greatest danger facing this land, only to lend her aid. To sustain us in our struggles!”
        “Some might call that foolishness.”
        Fire blazed behind Legolas’ eyes. “Never! The Lady Galadriel chose to send her, and she had no hesitation in following her destiny, be it to her death. I will not hear you speak ill of her.”
        Aragorn raised his hand in apology. “Peace, master Elf! I meant no harm. I think that I need not fear for her if you are in her presence.” Then he poured the water with the steeped herbs into a goblet. “Give her this. She must drink it all.”
        Gently, Legolas tilted her head back, and brought the goblet to her lips. He was concerned that through her sobbing he might have difficulty getting her to drink, but as the fumes wafted up to her she began to quiet, and she did not protest as he poured the warm liquid down her throat. When it was gone he handed the goblet back to Aragorn. “How long before we can see what effect it has?”
        Aragorn gave him a half smile. “Not long, friend. I will leave you now. I think it best that only her closest companion be with her when she wakes.” He walked halfway out the door, then turned back. “Be a rock for her Legolas. She needs security now more than anything.” Then he left.

        Nimoë began to feel something she had not felt for what seemed like an eternity. Warmth was seeping through her body. It began in the pit of her stomach and radiated out like the rays of the sun creeping over the earth at daybreak. Pains which she had managed to forget became real again, and she cried out, as she became aware of each individual injury. Then, as quickly as the pain had returned, it began to dull. A deep sense of peace washed over her and she finally allowed her body to relax.
        “Nimoë,” spoke a voice that was familiar to her, “Won’t you open your eyes? I miss their color, like a cloud filled sky, with the sun filtering through. Will you not give me this one joy on a day filled with sorrow?”
        Slowly she lifted her heavy lids and found herself gazing up at the face which had helped to sustain her through her torment. Timidly she spoke, as if afraid to break the spell of his presence. “Legolas?”
        The smile which suffused his face as she recognized him and spoke his name was like the singing of the birds in the trees, a homecoming after long years parted. “Yes. I am here. You are safe.”
        A cloud passed over her and she spoke quickly, “Pippin? Merry? Are they safe?”
        "Trust you to think first of your friends, when you yourself have been at death’s door. We did not find them, but Gandalf assures us that they are in good hands.”
        She gazed at him in confusion. “Gandalf? But he has passed into shadow!”
        Legolas lightly placed his finger over her lips, silencing her questions. “You must rest. You have suffered much.”
        Memories of her recent captivity flooded over her then, and her breath came in shallow gasps. Almost she cried out, but Legolas took her head between his hands and forced her to look at him. “Nimoë, I am here. The past is gone. There is only the future, and I will not leave your side. Ever. Until such time as you ask me to.”
        Lost within his eyes, pools of emotion, Nimoë could not help but believe him. Willingly she placed her trust in him, and even as she smiled weakly up at him, tears of relief fell from her eyes. “You are my rock, Legolas,” she cried. “You are my strength.”