Nimoë was led to a building on the outskirts of Dunharrow. It was unspectacular in any way, and the dull brown of the walls was singularly unwelcoming. The serving woman pushed the door open and Nimoë stepped inside.
        Rows of cots were lined against the walls, and every one of them was filled, with other men lying in the middle of the floor on piles of clean blankets. The smell of death was heavy within the room, and Nimoë looked about her, shocked to see that all of the windows were bolted shut. A weary looking young woman, with a soiled apron wrapped about her waist, scurried to greet her. “Can I help you?”
        “Are you the healer in this place?” asked Nimoë.
        The woman nodded her sandy blonde head. “If you can call me that. I do what I can, but I fear that it is not enough. I know how to do little more than bathe the wounds and change the dressings. And even that is more than anyone else here in Dunharrow.”
        Nimoë strode farther into the room. “Why are the windows closed?”
        The nurse hurried after her. “That is what my mother’s mother taught me. If the windows are left open, then the spirits of the living may steal away.”
        Nimoë shook her head in resignation. There was much to be done here. She faced the nurse directly and stated her name. “I am Nimoë. The Lady Eowyn has sent me here to offer my healing skills. The first thing that must be done is to open those windows. Clean air and daylight will help cure the ills of many of here, I do not doubt. Fear not, their spirits are well attached to their bodies, and I can do much to aid in the healing of those.”
        The sandy haired lady scurried to do her bidding, for it was clear that here was someone with much greater skills than her own, and truly she wanted do all that she could to save the lives of her kinsmen. Once the shutters had been thrown back and air began to circulate, she hastened to Nimoë’s side, where the Elf knelt next to a young man who was suffering from a vicious infection at the site of a stab wound in his side.
        When the Elf lifted her hands from his face, the nurse spoke. “My Lady Elf, my name is Halanna. I will do all that I can to aid you. Only tell me what I must do.”
        Nimoë motioned with her hand, indicating all of those within the room. “Which ones of these are in sorest need? I will tend to them first.”
        Halanna quickly beckoned to the Elf to follow her, and began to lead her to those men for whose lives she had most feared. Her deep brown eyes widened with wonder as she watched the Elf lady work. This was like no medicine she had ever seen before. Over each man the mysterious lady knelt, taking their hands, or touching their faces. Then she sang and, while her voice was deep and sonorous, it could not be called beautiful. Not beautiful, but clearly powerful. Before her eyes she watched the strengthening of the man who was sung over. Color began to return to faces which had been ashen and drawn for many days. Breath which had been long labored came more easily.
        After three men had been tended to, Halanna led Nimoë to a bed in a back corner. The man who lay there suffered from a wound in his leg that had festered and refused to heal, leaving him in the grip of a raging fever. More than that, he was not in his right mind. When he had been brought to the infirmary, he had been shouting, raving about orcs chasing him down. Halanna had been forced to bind his arms to the cot, to prevent him from doing himself injury. She related this tale to Nimoë with a catch in her throat.
        Nimoë glanced up at the woman and asked with compassion, “Who is this man to you?”
        Halanna dropped her eyes, large and round like a deer’s, to the floor and whispered softly, “He is my brother.”
        She was aware of the Elf’s gentle hand laid over her own, and her melodious voice reassuring her, “I will do all that I can. If he can be brought back to you, I will do it. What is his name?”
        “Henodred, my Lady Nimoë.”
        Upon hearing his name, Henodred began to thrash against his restraints. “They are coming! Run! I will keep you safe, Halanna, just run!”
        Halanna bit her lip in consternation, unsure whether to go to him, or if her presence would only agitate him further. Nimoë motioned to her to step back and leave her some room. Gratefully, she did as she was bidden.
        Nimoë took Henodred’s hand, which he could not pull away, as it was strapped in place, and began to sing. Halanna watched without taking breath, hoping against hope that this Elf would be able to do what she could not. To bring her brother back to her.
        Slowly, his thrashing ceased and his wide eyes dropped shut. For the first time in days, Henodred slept, the true sleep of healing. Halanna let her breath out in a sob of relief and fell to her knees at Nimoë’s feet. “Thank you, Lady. I had feared that I had lost him forever. He is all the family that I have left. Will he recover now?”
        Nimoë lifted her gently to her feet. “Please, do not call me Lady. My name is Nimoë, and if we are to work together, it will be less cumbersome. Henodred is very ill. I cannot heal him completely all at once. The same is true of many men here. It will take at least a few days.”
        Another voice broke in upon the two women. It was Eowyn, who stood in the doorway, a tray of food in her hands. “You will stay, then, will you not? These men have great need of you.”
        Nimoë bowed her head. The rest of the Grey Company would be leaving within the hour. Legolas would be with them and her heart longed to remain at his side. She turned her head and looked down at Halanna, who had knelt down at her brother’s side, and was gently stroking his sweat soaked hair off of his brow. Then her eyes scanned the rest of the room, full of men suffering, with no other person to aid them.
        Returning her gaze to Eowyn, she nodded. “I will stay.”
        The White Lady of Rohan handed her the tray of food and spoke, “We will be ever in your debt. I will go and bring word to your companions that you will not travel on with them.”
        “Thank you.”
        Once Eowyn was gone, Nimoë ate the tray of food quickly, restoring her strength before going back to the sick and injured. Halanna had left her brother to rest in peace and was walking among the beds, checking dressings and tending the wounds with herbal poultices. For one who had no training, Nimoë had to admit that she had done the best that she could. Even if her lack of skill was marked, at least the wounds had been kept clean, and the girl’s gentle smile was clearly a balm to those who were suffering.
        She went to join the sandy haired girl, and smiled down at her. “Come, let me show you some of the Elven healing which you can perform. It is not all made of the magic of song.”
        Halanna proved to be a quick study and together they made the rounds of the men, Nimoë allowing the girl to perform the work which she could, before she used her song upon them. Some of the men were well enough that they could be left solely to Halanna’s care, giving Nimoë fewer direct responsibilities, so that she could better focus her energies.
        “Nimoë,” came a familiar voice from the doorway. “I would speak with you.”
        She turned and saw Legolas framed in the door. Motioning Halanna to continue her work, Nimoë went out the door, and Legolas followed her. Once they had moved away from the outskirts of the city, Legolas reached out his hand to her shoulder, stopping her motion. She spun around and looked up into his deep blue eyes. Oh, how she would miss the sight of them.
        “You are remaining behind?” he asked, sadly.
        “I must. So many here are suffering. Many will die if I do not remain. If I were to go on with you, I would be a burden. I will not use my powers unless at greatest need, and even then I will be reluctant. I will do better work here. Once these men are healed, they will be that many more to ride against the forces of Sauron. Theoden and Eomer will come by in a day or two, and if I can work quickly, many men will be able to join the muster, who otherwise would not. Who is to say that such a number might not make the difference?” Her words spilled out of her, trying desperately to explain this sudden desertion.
        Legolas laid his finger over her lips. “Hush, Nimoë. I understand, truly I do. If you felt differently I would think less of you. All the Valar know that I will miss you like I was missing my arm or my leg, but this is where you are needed. In times of trouble, we must all go where we are needed. So I will follow the Paths of the Dead, and you will offer new life to those who would elsewhise pass to the other side.”
        Nimoë threw her arms around him and clung to him with a deep sense of loss. “I fear for you on the Paths of the Dead.”
        Legolas smiled at her reassuringly. “The shades of men hold no fear for me. I will be well. See to it that you take care of yourself. I will await the time when we are together again. If we win this war, I will find you. Wherever you may be, I will find you. Only see that you stay alive. Promise me.”
        She nodded. “I will do what I must. And you must promise me as well.”
        “I will come back to you. Though all the hosts of Mordor bar my way, I will return to you.” Knowing that the time for departure was nigh, he reluctantly drew away from her. “Take care, my dearest. I know not when I will see you again, but I will carry you always in my heart.”
        He turned away then, not willing to suffer a drawn out farewell. She watched him go and a solitary tear rolled down her cheek, it salty sting burning into a cut above her lip, which had not yet healed. “My thoughts are with you always,” she whispered after his retreating form.
        Then she turned purposefully and made her way back to the infirmary, where Halanna was waiting for her. She had work to do.