The tide of onrushing orcs swelled ever closer to Nimoë and her heart began to beat as rapidly as a hummingbird’s. Her breathing was shallow, but rapid, and the combination of blood coursing much too quickly through her veins and an insufficient supply of air caused her extremities to tingle into numbness. Ignoring the fact that she could no longer feel the sword in her hand, she raised it up and prepared to fight.
        Then they were upon her, swarming around her like locusts, tearing at her with claw-like hands. Her sword arm flailed about like a windmill gone mad, and in her panicked fervor, she managed to inflict a good deal of damage. Orcs fell back from her with cuts to their arms and chests, some to their legs, and one orc’s neck she almost severed. They came at her like an army of ants, mindlessly throwing themselves forward as if they wanted simply to crawl over herself and her charges, leaving nothing but mangled remains in their path.
        The beasts which came against her were armed almost solely with rocks and clubs. A hidden corner of her mind which was still capable of conscious thought pointed out that the orcs with superior weaponry must be engaged in the scaling of the wall. Those foes which managed to make their way past her erratically thrashing sword pummeled her with their crude weapons and, while she suffered great pain, and surely was deeply bruised, she was lucky that none managed to break her bones, or worse yet, to land a killing blow on her skull.
        Through the din of the fighting, and the almost surreal vision of the disfigured orcs swarming around her, lit only by flickering torchlight, she became aware that some of her foes were falling. Help was on the way! All she had to do was hold out until aid could reach her. Then she could begin to move her injured charges back away from the fighting.
        With that thought of hope, she swung even more fiercely against her foes. How they kept multiplying! Was there no end?
        Cries of, “For Rohan! Forth Eorlingas!” reached her ears and she knew that help was closing in. She could not risk raising her eyes to see how close they were, but she prayed fervently that they would arrive soon, for the adrenaline which had pushed her as far as she had come was rapidly losing out to her weakened state of health, and she knew not how much longer she could stand.
        Although she was aware that she had been hit countless times, she did not truly feel the pain, since her body was ignoring the agony to allow her to keep fighting. Silently she blessed that miracle of nature which allowed the animal instincts to take control in the heat of battle.
        Without warning, a club hit the back of her calves, sweeping her legs out from under her, and she found herself flat on her back, with the breath knocked completely from her body. Her vision clouded as she struggled to move, yea even to draw a breath, and through the haze she saw orcs bearing down upon her, raising their weapons to strike her dead. Like an upturned beetle she lay, unable to raise even a finger in her own defense, and her soul cried out in despair that her time upon the earth was to come to an end.
        Then, like lightning striking from the sky, a figure tall and fair leapt in front of her, swinging two short swords and raining death down upon the fell creatures. “Back, Creatures of the Shadow! You have no place here! Go back to your master, or prepare to meet your doom!” he cried in a voice of ringing thunder.
        As Nimoë’s vision began to clear, and she was able again to draw breath, she knew that it was Legolas who so bravely defended her against the evil hordes. For a moment, she was awestruck at his battle skills. His swords danced like flashes of liquid flame and none of the orcs who approached him were able to pass.
        Out of the corner of her eye she saw more men pouring down from the ramparts. Most were running to block the Gate and hold back more orcs from passing through, and others were coming to join the Elf in guarding the injured, and in killing off those of the enemy who had already breached the first line of defense.

        Legolas fought like one possessed. If Nimoë were to fall here, he knew that he would never forgive himself, and desperation drove him to fight with a skill he had never before attained. He was, however, unable to break off his attack, for then the orcs would have no impediment to massacring the injured men behind him. Since he could not himself get the Elf maiden out of harm’s way, he searched as best he was able for someone else who could. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eomer wade into the fray, wielding his great sword almost like an axe. “Eomer!” he cried, unable to name any of the other Rohirrim who fought at his side. “Get Nimoë away from this place. Take her into the Hornburg!” He saw the blonde giant nod his understanding, then focused all of his attention on the enemy.
        Eomer fought his way through the swarming orcs, and pulled Nimoë to her feet. “Come with me!”
        “No! I cannot leave the injured!” she cried, and began to turn away towards the man laying moaning on the earth behind her.
        “I do not have time to argue with you, so forgive me,” spoke Eomer, and so saying, he slung her bodily over his shoulder and ran for the Hornburg, cutting down any enemy which crossed his path.
        Nimoë’s head bounced off his back repeatedly as he ran. “Put me down. Put me down! Those men need me!”
        “Trust me when I say that more will be found, and you can treat them just as well inside the Hornburg. I can name at least two warriors who will fight with a freer heart knowing that you are safe within its walls.” He leapt then up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, and crossed the top of the wall until he was inside the Hornburg itself. Only then did he set Nimoë back on her feet. “Now stay here!” he commanded. “Set up your infirmary within these walls and do not venture forth unless the citadel itself is beset.” Abruptly he fell to his knee before her and took her hand in his, saying, “Please, for the sake of my heart, promise me that you will remain here safe. If I am worried about you, I fear that I shall not be able to keep my mind on what I must do.”
        Nimoë was moved to hear Eomer speak thus, and dared not give him cause to lose his focus at such a time. Still, she had one more concern. “I will promise, if you will promise me this one thing in return. Make certain that Legolas is well. He saved my life, and I would not have him pay for it with his own.”
        It felt to Eomer as though a great weight had been lifted off of his heart and then was replaced just a swiftly by a new one, not as dire, but perhaps more painful. “I promise. I will see him safe, if it is within my power.” Then he rose and was gone.