Soon the companions had joined the great river Anduin, their boats traveling swiftly on the rushing current. As they passed out of Lothlorien, a sense of doom began to settle over them, for they were no longer within the safety of the realm of Galadriel. The silence grew cumbersome and Nimoë broached it, asking, “Master Gimli, Master Legolas, tell me of your journey from Rivendell. How came you to pass through the dreaded halls of Khazad-dum? Surely the high pass of Caradhras would have been the safer route?”
        Legolas replied, “So it would have seemed. We did toil high upon the mountain pass. Almost did we cross, but we were set upon by an evil wind. Snow blew fierce against us, blown forth from Orthanc. Gandalf thought that he might be able to stop it, but then a blast of lightning brought down an avalanche upon us. It was decided then that we must brave the dark mountain halls. It was a struggle even then to retreat from the high places of Caradhras, for the snow was piled so deeply that it reached over the heads even of the Men.”
        At this, Gimli harrumphed. “Struggle? That’s nice, coming from an Elf. You who can simply tread upon snow as if it were the most solid of stone. I’ll say it was a struggle. We burrowed our way out. There did the perseverance of the Dwarves shine clearly.”
        Legolas’ laugh was like the sounding of deep bells. “Indeed, you did well, Master Gimli. If not for your perseverance and the strength of Aragorn and Boromir, the fellowship may well have frozen on that pass.”
        “Well, that’s more like it,” the Dwarf replied, somewhat mollified.
        “So you made your way to the halls of Balin, son of Fundin?” Nimoë prompted.
        “Alas, for Balin, son of Fundin,” spoke Legolas, “His passing, and the doom of the Dwarves of Moria, will be sung in songs of valor. Against the evil that lurked in the deep places, they stood no chance.” Nimoë felt a shudder run through the Elf behind her. “I wish that I had never set foot in that cursed place. I cannot relate to you the things which befell us there. The grief is still to near.”
        Gimli then spoke again, “Indeed, the Mines of Moria have been consumed by darkness. Still, I am glad to have looked upon the great city of my people. Surely, sir Elf, you cannot deny the beauty of the stones there?”
        “I know only that within the Mines I was separated from the bright sunlight. The air was stagnant, and the stone was hard beneath my feet. Rather would I spend my days among the trees and flowers of the forest. Do you not agree, Nimrodel?”
        Nimoë nodded in understanding. “Only when I am among the growing things of nature can I feel truly happy. Master Gimli, may I sing for you a song, of the beauteous things in the world?”
        Gimli’s tone was gruff as he replied, “I do not see how I can stop you.”
        And so Nimoë began to sing. Her voice was deep and melodious, and within the word of the song, she began to weave her spell.
        “Moonlight in the evening, sunlight in the day, starlight in the deepest hours, will ever guide my way.
        “On I tread beneath the trees: the rowan and the pine, the cedar and the hawthorn sharp, the willow and the vine.
        “Swiftly flowing rivers, glide onward towards the sea, homeward they are beckoning, their voices call to me.
        “Still I must venture onward, I cannot see to where. The future it is clouded, like a mist upon the air.
        “So moonlight in the evening, sunlight in the day, and starlight in the deepest hours, still guide me on my way.”
        The Elven prince and the sturdy Dwarf felt strangely buoyed by the song of the mysterious Nimrodel. Surely they would be successful in their quest. All of nature was there to aid them, to shed light upon their path. They were surrounded by companions brave and true. They could not fail.
        “Not a bad song as such things go,” muttered the Dwarf, under his breath.
        Nimoë allowed herself a secret smile. Galadriel’s training had served her well. The song had been imbued with more than words of comfort. Threads of magic wove through the melody and the harmonies it implied. Threads which tightened the cords binding these men together. Those threads, when added to others, would form a web of trust and friendship stronger even than would grow naturally. And Nimoë could sense that for all of their sparring, these two companions were already well on their way to a lasting friendship.

        Hours later a thundering pounded in the air and Nimoë felt fear stir in her heart. What could cause such a tremendous roar? “What is that sound, Master Legolas?”
        “It is the rapids of Sarn Gebir. Soon we must come ashore. We will have to make a portage around them.”
        Ahead of them, Aragorn and Boromir beached their boats and the hobbits crept out onto dry land. Legolas skillfully brought his own boat up to the shore next to them. Gimli, who was seated in the front, hopped out and dragged the boat farther onto the shore. Nimoë stepped carefully out onto the bank and awaited instruction.
        The forest was close about them and, while the smells were fresh and wet from the river, it seemed as though an unseen presence was watching them. Nimoë fought the urge to glance behind her, knowing that nothing was truly there, for she did wish to appear foolish. Surely these men must be used to the sensation of wrongness which dogged their steps.
        Aragorn, pointed to the packs and gear and said, “Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin, you must carry these things. The boats, I am afraid are too heavy for you. Legolas, Nimrodel, Gimli, Boromir and myself will carry those.”
        “I will prove to you now the strength of a Dwarf,” spoke Gimli. “Since there are five of us, let me be the one to take a boat on my own. Not so heavy a weight it will seem to me.”
        Aragorn nodded, “As you wish, Master Gimli. Boromir and I will take one boat, and Legolas and Nimrodel the remaining. Let us be quick about it. Time is precious.”
        Nimoë approached the bow of the boat and waited for Legolas to give her the command to lift. When it came, she bent all of her strength to it and managed to loft the ship over her head. Nearly did she stagger under the weight of it, but she managed to maintain her footing and did not stumble. “I am ready, Legolas.”
        They moved into line behind the four Hobbits, carefully watching their footing as they followed the steep path downwards toward the end of the rapids. In the beginning, Nimoë had been pleased to find that she could lift the boat at all. Soon, however, the boat began to weigh heavily upon her shoulders and the muscles in her legs screamed in agony. Refusing to utter a complaint, she forced herself onward.
        Without warning, she made a slight misstep. Her foot had not been lifted high enough to clear a root which rose out of the middle of the path, and she stumbled dramatically. She was able to catch her footing, however, before she crashed to the ground with the heavy boat on top of her. Still, Legolas called down to her in concern, “Nimrodel, are you well?”
        It seemed the time had come for a half-truth. “I am afraid I have spent much of my life in the study of spiritual things. My physical pursuits have been few. Alas, it seems that I am not as strong as I might wish.”
        “I understand. Fear not. There is nothing to bring one into form quite like immersing oneself in strenuous work. Although you will suffer for a while, it will be a brief enough time before you can toil as well as the rest of us.”
        There was truth in his statement, but Nimoë did not relish the period of pain that she would go through. Still she smiled as she replied, “Do not fear, Master Legolas, I shall not hold you back.”

        Finally they reached the end of the portage. Gimli set down the boat he had carried and came to aid Legolas and Nimoë in settling theirs to the ground. The sturdy Dwarf reached high and took the weight of the bow from Nimoë, who was visibly bent from it, then he and Legolas let the boat gently down.
        Nimoë sighed and walked slightly apart from the others, massaging her neck and shoulder muscles, hoping to relieve some of the pain that was gathering there. She walked slowly, but steadily, away from the group, lost for the moment in the contemplation of her soreness.
        “Regretting your choice, Master Nimrodel?” came a voice behind her and she nearly jumped into the river in her shock.
        She spun around and there was Boromir. He had a sardonic grin upon his face, and Nimoë found that she did not feel at ease with him, as she had with the other members of the fellowship. “No, Boromir. I do not regret it, although sorely do I regret all of the time spent in study, when I might have found it of more use had I engaged in physical activity.”
        Boromir reached out his hand and turned her by the shoulder so that she was facing away from him. She watched out of the corner of her eye as his hands reached up towards her neck. Hastily she brought her own hands down out of his sight, afraid that he might notice their femininity. She quashed the sensation that he might be reaching out to strangle her, and was pleasantly relieved when his strong fingers began to work into the tight muscles of her neck, shoulders and back.
        “The least that I can do is help ease the pain which you suffer. You have given up much to accompany us. But what is it that made you choose to come along on our journey? I think that the Lady of the Wood would not have sent you if you had objected. There must be some urgent need, known only to the Lady and to yourself.”
        A frisson of fear ran up Nimoë’s spine and she forced herself not to shiver under his question and his touch. There was a current of tense laughter in her voice as she replied, “Is this not the most important quest of the age? Would not any Elf of good heart leap at the chance to render aid?”
        His fingers dug into her neck then, pinching close around her spine. “And just what sort of aid do you offer, Elf? I am afraid that I am not clear on that point.”
        Rather desperately, Nimoë began to glance out from under her hood, hoping to see some other soul coming to speak with them, to distract this very imposing man from his pointed and uncomfortable questions. “Did not Lady Galadriel say? I am to offer you the aid of nature, in what little ways I can bend it.”
        With his fingers squeezing ever tighter around her neck, he bent his head close to her ear, and she felt her knees begin to buckle from the pressure of his presence and his grip. Softly, but with a core of ice, he whispered, “And just how is that, Elf?”
        Nimoë thought that she would faint from fear, as the poison of his suspicions washed over her in waves. She struggled vainly to escape from his clutch, but found that his fingers pressed onto some nerve which rendered her legs and arms immobile. She had just drawn breath to shout when the voice of Legolas greeted her ears, and her heart began to beat more freely.

        “There you are, Nimrodel. And you also, Boromir,” Legolas spoke, as he approached them. His keen glance took in the scene before him and a cold fear passed over his heart. Something was amiss here, and he did not understand it. The Elf Nimrodel stood as if he was terribly frightened, and Boromir towered over him, his regal presence seemingly more terrible than was his wont. Unsure of what to make of what he saw, Legolas spoke, “It is time to proceed. Aragorn and the others are waiting.”
        Boromir dropped his hands from Nimoë’s neck, and she sprung forward away from him, control finally restored to her limbs. In her haste she stumbled over her own feet and fell headlong into Legolas, who caught her close to keep her from crashing to the earth. Hastily she pushed herself out of his grasp and mumbled her thanks, then walked as fast as her legs would carry her back to the waiting boats.
        Legolas was troubled. How light Nimrodel had been with his grasp. How slender and slight. Even for an Elf he was small, almost frail, and the top of his head just reached his own shoulder. How would he manage to keep up with them on this journey? He sighed and shook his head. “Are you coming, Boromir?”
        The usual look of patient condescension had dropped back down over Boromir, and Legolas shook away the sense of unease that had come over him when he had first set eyes upon him. At that time, it was as if something foreign had taken control of the son of the Steward of Gondor. He must have been mistaken.
        “I follow behind you, Legolas.”

        At the shore, Aragorn had already loaded Frodo and Sam into his boat, while Merry and Pippin waited for Boromir. Gimli stood impatiently at the stern of the third boat, tapping his toe in irritation at the delay. Seeing that the boats were already prepared, Nimoë saw that she would indeed ride again with the Elf and the Dwarf. In a way she was relieved. She had hoped to join Boromir, to begin to work her magic upon him, but after their recent encounter, she was afraid that the sickness which swept over him might have already taken too strong a hold for her to affect it.
        Gimli scrambled into the boat when he saw the other three approaching, and Nimoë clambered in after him. Legolas pushed off from the bank, leaping gracefully into the boat behind them. With swift, sure strokes, he followed Aragorn off down the river. Boromir and the two little Hobbits were close behind.
        Nimoë sat straight in the boat, unable to relax her body. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Boromir’s boat approaching. Softly she began to sing, sending out tendrils of power his direction. All of her thought she concentrated into the forming of the words of power.
        When the backlash came, it caught her completely by surprise. All of the strength and energy she had sent at Boromir came back against her, just as strongly, but without any direction. Almost was she knocked over backwards, and only managed to save herself by her quick, firm grip on the gunwales of the boat, and a terrible, sickening wave of nausea swept over her.
        It can’t be! Her mind cried out in despair. It can’t be that he is already beyond my reach! Do not let me fail!
        She glanced out from under her hood and saw Boromir close by, staring at her as if he could see straight through the heavy fabric of her cloak and hood. As if he knew her secret. As if he knew that she had come to tame his heart, and that she had failed.