Eomer had spent his time well, and Nimoë was soon riding, if not with confidence, then at least without looking like she had to cling with every muscle in her body to Finduél’s back. Their time had been spent in lighthearted banter, but soon the seriousness of their errand began to press down upon them, and they rode side by side in silence.
        A heavy mist began to settle into the low valley of the Isen, and it seemed that it bore with it the chillness of the high mountains. Nimoë drew her cloak tight around her and shivered. Heavy droplets adhered to the fabric, and to her hair and face. With her free hand she wiped her eyes, temporarily ridding them of the mist which clung tenaciously to her eyelashes, distorting her vision. She glanced about her, looking for Legolas. He had been missing for a long time, and she was worrying.
        Eomer’s voice broke into her thoughts. “He can take care of himself, you know.”
        Embarrassed at being caught, Nimoë brushed aside her concern. “I was not worried. Only looking to see where he might have gotten to.”
        “Do not lie to me, Nimoë. Friends do not do such things to each other. You are concerned about him, so do not bother hiding it.”
        Her shoulders drooped, and she nodded. “I am sorry. It is just that it is not like him to disappear. He was so insistent that I stay with him, and now he is gone. It is just…” She turned her face to Eomer and her confusion was clear to see. “I do not know what to think.”
        If she were any other woman, Eomer would have offered his shoulder to cry on, but he knew better than to do that for Nimoë. “I am sure that there is some logical explanation. Do not worry. He will return.”
        Nimoë nodded, but did not reply. The fog pressed closer still around her as she tried futilely to ignore the sensation burning at the back of her skull that something was terribly wrong. Just as she was about to wheel Finduél about, to ride back the way they had come and find Legolas, heavy hoofbeats rang through the dense mist.
        Arod, with Legolas upon his back, seemed to materialize from nowhere. First there was only swirling fog, and then they were there, pulling up abruptly at her side. Legolas gave her a tight smile, but his eyes were focused far away.
        “I told you he would come back!” called Eomer, but as he looked more closely at the Elf Prince, he was not sure that he was back at all.
        Nimoë spoke his name quietly, afraid of his response. “Legolas, what is wrong?”
        He shook his head. “It is nothing. Do not trouble yourself about me.”
        “But I want to help you…”
        Legolas cut her off with a brisk wave of his hand, and his voice was harsh as he forestalled her words. “It is nothing, I tell you! Leave it be!”
        Nimoë felt tears rise up unbidden, and she stifled them with a strangled sob. Unsure of her ability to keep herself from crying if she remained in Legolas’ presence, she kicked Finduél into a brisk trot, fleeing from the Elf who was so suddenly and inexplicably remote.

        Nimoë’s sob was like a dagger into Legolas’ heart, but he found that he could not follow her. He could not explain to her the truths which had been set before him. It was too immediate, too harshly real a possibility.
        He sensed Eomer drawing close without looking up from Arod’s neck. Eomer’s voice was pointed as he asked, “What are you thinking, Elf?! Do you not see that you are hurting her?”
        Legolas replied in a choked whisper, “I do not wish to discuss this, Eomer.”
        Anger welled up in the horse-lord and he spoke fiercely. “I care not if you wish to discuss it! You are frightening Nimoë and causing her pain. I will not stand by and watch you break her heart. I ask you again, for I can only assume that there must be some good reason, what do you think you are doing?!”
        Legolas looked straight at the horse-lord then, boring deep into his soul. “If I speak of this to you, will you swear never to breathe a word of it to Nimoë?”
        “I will.”
        The Elf drew a deep, shuddering breath, then he began to unburden his heart to Eomer, who rode patiently at his side, not speaking, but offering a sympathetic ear.

        Nimoë quickly caught up with Theoden, Aragorn and Gandalf, with Gimli riding behind him on Shadowfax. They nodded to acknowledge her arrival, but did not speak. Silence reigned until they came upon a monumental black pillar at the side of the path. Upon the pillar was a giant sculpture of a long white hand. Nimoë unconsciously drew away from the imposing obelisk.
        “We are almost to Isengard. Keep your eyes open,” spoke Gandalf.
        Uneasiness gnawed at Nimoë, and she longed to return to Legolas’ side, but his earlier outburst had frightened her so that she could not bring herself to seek him out. Turbulent thoughts tumbled about in her mind and she stamped them down with irritation. She was not a fool! Nor was she a coward. Whatever was to be faced, she could do it well enough alone.
        Gandalf signaled that they should wait for the rest of the company to catch up to them. “We should be together when we enter Isengard. There is strength in numbers.”
        Soon all were present, and Nimoë was uncomfortably aware of Legolas’ gaze drifting ever towards her. It seemed that he could not keep his eyes away from her, but he made no move to join her.
        What was wrong?!! She wanted to scream with frustration, but kept her ire buried deep inside herself. Gimli turned his head from herself to Legolas and back, trying to understand what was happening between his two friends, then shrugged his shoulders, unable to come up with an explanation.
        When all were gathered, they rode forth, and came to the gates of Isengard. There they reined up and stared in flabbergasted wonder at what lay before them. The once mighty fortress had been utterly destroyed. Slabs of granite lay strewn about as if tossed by giants of incomprehensible size, and what little was left standing was but islands in a muddy quagmire.
        Their eyes suddenly were drawn to a movement near at hand. The riders of Rohan regarded the being facing them with amazement written on their faces. He was only as tall as their waists, but had the appearance of one full grown. The stranger spoke then, “Hail Theoden, King of Rohan! My companion and I have been bade to await your arrival and to welcome you to Isengard with all the honor due to your station. You are welcome in this place and any thing that you may need shall be put at your disposal.” He stopped then and looked straight at Gandalf. “Was that grand enough, Gandalf?”
        The laugh which had begun deep inside of the wizard bubbled its way to the surface. “Well done, indeed, Master Meriadoc!” His smile included Pippin, who had also risen from the rock upon which they had been eating while awaiting the party. “I see that the two of you are indeed well, as I suspected. But tell me truly, is it Saruman that bids you to welcome the king to his fortress?”
        “Saruman, alas for him, has had some uninvited guests. He has not been disposed to come out of the tower of Orthanc. Nay, it is Treebeard who has set us to this post,” replied Merry.
        Legolas slid down off the back of Arod, and helped Gimli down from Shadowfax, for he looked as if he would tumble down soon, if no aid came to him. Together they crossed the ground between themselves and the two young Hobbits and Gimli shook their hands heartily, while Legolas wrapped them in a welcoming embrace. Legolas cried out, “My friends, it does my heart good to see you again! And quite well, I might add. Why, you have grown since last I laid eyes upon you!”
        Gimli stood back to get a better look at them and nodded. “Indeed you have. And quite some chase you have led us on. I sense that there is a long tale to be told when there is time for it. But have you nothing else to say to us?”
        Pippin spoke up then. “Indeed we do. Treebeard bids Gandalf and Theoden to attend him away at the south wall of Isengard, if they please.”
        “What say you, Theoden? Will you come with me to meet with Treebeard? He is also called Fangorn, and is the oldest living creature in this world,” spoke Gandalf.
        “I will, and Eomer will join me.”

        So the King of Rohan and his heir, along with Gandalf, went to find Treebeard. The other Rohirrim went inside the gates, to see the ruin wrought upon their hated enemy. Aragorn had joined Legolas and Gimli with the Hobbits, but Nimoë remained aloof. Finduél pranced under her, but she did not dismount. She felt strangely ill at ease. Of course, she was elated to see Merry and Pippin alive and well, but she had not known them well before they had been taken captive. The others were all dear friends, and their reunion was heartfelt. She felt that she would be an intruder among them.
        Unsure of what to do, she began to lead Finduél towards the swamp that was now Isengard. A voice calling her name stopped her short. “Nimoë! Won’t you come and be properly introduced to these young Hobbits?”
        Looking over her shoulder she replied. “I will, Aragorn, and thank you for the invitation.”
        She slid off of Finduél’s back and stepped carefully through the mud to join them. Legolas kept his eyes averted from her, and she tried unsuccessfully to ignore the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach, which was born of desertion.
        Aragorn spoke, “Merry, Pippin, may I introduce you to Nimoë, daughter of Naldor and Glorfiane of Mirkwood, apprentice to Lady Galadriel, and better known to you as Nimrodel.”
        The eyes of the two young hobbits opened wide and Pippin’s jaw literally dropped open. “Nimrodel is a lady Elf! There is a tale here as well!” he cried.
        Gimli eyed the empty plates upon the rock and said, “It seems to me that you have been eating. I am more than eager to hear and tell tales, but first, tell us if you have more food. It has been long since we have had a full meal.”
        Merry jumped down off the rock and beckoned them to follow. “Food we have in plenty, and fine wine! But most importantly, we have good pipe- weed! Come with me and we will share our bounty and our tales, while the high and mighty discuss matters of import.”
        They all followed after them but, in her turmoil, Nimoë did not pay close enough attention to her footing and she slipped in the mud. Almost she fell flat on her back in the sticky stuff, but Legolas, who was walking behind her, caught her up in his arms.
        He did not release her immediately, but caught her eyes with his own, which were haunted by some unspoken trauma, and asked, “Are you hurt?”
        Her eyes never broke their gaze as she replied, “I am fine. But, Legolas, what about you? Please won’t you tell me what is wrong?”
        The Elf Prince assisted her to find firm footing again, then dropped his hands away from her as if she would burn him if he touched her longer. “I cannot speak of it. Please let it be.”
        His voice was so wretchedly pleading, as if some inner part of him were being eaten away by acid, that Nimoë let the subject drop. No longer was she afraid of him, but she grew frightened for him. Some terrible thing was destroying him from the inside, but she could not begin to guess what. And worse even than that, he was shutting her away. He would not accept her help.
        As she followed the others deeper into Isengard, she resolved to find some way to help him. Nothing was more important to her than his happiness, and she would do what she could to ease his suffering. If only she knew what was causing it!