The sun had risen to its zenith in the sky by the time they rode into Helm’s Deep. The scene was much different from when they had ridden out. Burial mounds were built up in even rows, and the bodies of the orcs had vanished. Nimoë relaxed her shoulders, which she had not until that moment realized were tense, in relief. She had been dreading the sight of the death fields about the Dike.
        The company passed quickly beyond Helm’s Gate, and left the horses outside while they entered the Hornburg. How very different the place seemed now. The murmurs of quiet conversations and the stomping and nickering of the horses outside were the only sounds to be heard. To Nimoë it seemed almost wrong to be there and not hear screams of death. Wrong, but reassuring.
        Aragorn had gone immediately to one of the highest rooms in the citadel, along with the sons of Elrond and his kinsmen from the north. There was little to do but eat, rest and wait, so Nimoë wandered away from the others and made her way to the room where she had worked so feverishly to save the lives of the injured Rohirrim.
        It was empty and bare, but dried blood still clung to the floor stones and along the walls, where those who could sit had been propped. Slowly, Nimoë stepped through the doorway. With hesitant steps she approached the spot where the man who had so reminded her of Boromir had passed from the world. A large stain of congealed blood marked the place, and she knelt next to it, running her fingers thoughtfully over the encrustation.
        So much she had tried to accomplish in this place. Memories of the men she had aided flooded over her, and she wondered what had become of them. Had they survived? Was what she had done for them enough? Would she ever know?
        She rocked back on her heels and laid her face in her hands, trying to put to rest in her mind the ghosts of those she had failed. There was no question in her mind but that she had done her best, yet still she grieved for those who had lost their lives.
        A hand was laid upon her shoulder, and she knew that it was Legolas before he spoke. “I thought that I would find you here. Nimoë, I have a message for you, but I am afraid I am very late in delivering it, for a time never presented itself. The men who watched after those you had healed bade me to tell you that many men owed you their lives. That they if not for your skill, countless more would have died. They bade me give you their thanks.”
        She lifted her head and smiled at him. “That eases my heart. I thank you for the message. Yet I cannot help but wonder what became of them.”
        Legolas assisted her to rise, then spoke, “You may find out soon enough. My guess is that we will ride from here to Dunharrow, where the Lady Eowyn awaits word from the king. The injured will have been brought there. You can ask after them.”
        “I will. I hope that we will not be long in arriving.”
        Legolas raised his eyebrows and grinned. “To that end I bring you another message. Food is prepared. We will eat, then we will soon be on our way. Come back with me?”
        Nimoë laid her hand in his, and they left the room alone with its memories. The smell of hearty food was already wafting its way up the spiraling staircase and they moved quickly, anxious to eat and be off.

        The meal had been completed and the Rohirrim were growing impatient to be off by the time Aragorn came down from the high tower. Nimoë looked at his face in shock. It seemed as though he had aged many years in the short hours he had been closeted away. His usually stern visage was grey with fatigue and his shoulders were bent.
        “Theoden-king,” he spoke, “I have looked into the Stone of Elendil. I have seen the Dark Lord, and he has seen my face. My strength was barely enough, but I managed to wrest the Stone to my will, and Sauron now knows that the heir of Gondor walks the world.”
        Legolas, Nimoë, Gimli and Eomer exchanged worried glances. Such a thing was of dire import, and they did not know how to react. Aragorn continued, “He knows of my presence and I showed him Anduril, Narsil of old re-forged. He fears the sword, for it is the very one which cut the one ring from his hand in the first age. He also fears the blood of Elendil and Isildur. I fear that he will intensify his siege of Gondor, hoping to crush it before I can come there. Time is now of the essence, and I must ride with as much speed as can be mustered. I must travel the Paths of the Dead.”
        Voices round about cried out, “The Paths of the Dead are cursed. You cannot pass through them and live!”
        Aragorn raised his hand for silence, and the voices ceased without protest, for the mantle of power was upon him, and they could not disobey. “It is true that for all other men, to travel the Paths of the Dead is to willingly commit suicide. But for me, there is a chance. There is a prophecy, which tells of the heir of Isildur and the Oathbreakers. For those are the dead who dwell within the Paths. They failed to fulfill their oath to my ancestor, and so they are doomed to wander until I call them forth to do what they had sworn to do. To aid in the fight against the Dark Lord. Therefore I may pass unmolested, as will those who travel with me.”
        Theoden looked as if he wanted to object, but instead he nodded his understanding. “The Paths of the Dead begin outside of Dunharrow. You must ride there faster than my party will be able to travel. Take word to my sister-daughter that I am well and ride towards Dunharrow to bring her tidings and to make for the muster at Edoras.”
        “I will. My kinsmen from the north will ride with me, as will the sons of Elrond.”
        Gimli stepped forward. “Paths of the Dead or no Paths of the Dead, I will follow you. You cannot get rid of me that easily.”
        “Nor I,” spoke Legolas.
        Nimoë shook off the alarm which passed over her at the thought of the dreaded path they would follow, and with voice soft but firm, she spoke, “Nor I.”

        As soon as the decision was made, the Dunedain and the others who would follow Aragorn went to their horses. Eomer watched with sorrow and no little trepidation as Nimoë was boosted to her seat upon Finduél. The path she would travel was a dangerous one, and he feared for her, but he knew that his duty was to the people of Rohan. She waved back at him as they galloped way, and he responded with a bright smile and a nod of his head.
        When the Grey Company had left, Eomer and Theoden began to gather the remaining Rohirrim, for their slower, but not gentle, ride to Dunharrow. A deep silence was over them, as if a pall were draped about their shoulders, and they thought long of what would await their friends on the dread Paths they would travel.

        Never had Nimoë ridden so hard. Finduél was lathered in sweat, making his back slippery, and his breathing was labored, but still they pounded onwards, knowing that time was one thing they had not nearly enough of. After long hours, the trail they followed began to rise up into the hills, and they knew that Dunharrow was drawing near.
        Coming around a last bend, they arrived at the city. It was not large, and the buildings were constructed low to the ground, giving the place a flattened look, as if some giant had taken a step and squashed it all down. The clamor of the horse’s hooves brought many out of their homes, and a woman clad in white separated herself from the others, stepping forward with her hand on the hilt of the sword that was belted to her waist.
        Wonderment showed clear in her eyes as she recognized Aragorn, and she released her grip on her sword. “Hail, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and welcome to Dunharrow. It is good of you to come so far out of your way to bring news to Eowyn in her confinement.”
        Aragorn dismounted and went before her, clasping her hand in greeting. “Surely no man who made such a trip could count it wasted, Lady, but I am not out of my way. I will ride the Paths of the Dead. All I ask of you is refreshment, and a place to sit and rest before we depart.”
        A flash of horror flicked across that fair face. “Surely you jest? It is death to pass there.”
        Aragorn sighed. “I will not speak of it here. Will you not offer us food and drink?”
        Suddenly aware of her duties, Eowyn beckoned to the party to follow her. Then her eyes lit upon Nimoë and they brightened. “Lady Nimoë! Right glad am I to see you. We have here many who were brought from the battle of Helm’s Deep. Some of them are grievously injured, and ill in spirit. They spoke of you and your healing. I beg you, will you lend your aid again here?”
        Nimoë nodded. “If someone will lead me, I will go to them directly.”
        Eowyn motioned to a serving woman to lead Nimoë to the infirmary. “I will have refreshment sent to you. Thank you for lending your aid.”
        “It is my duty.”