Legolas watched as Nimrodel swayed, and made ready to catch him again if he fell. What strange thing was happening under his very nose? The Elf caught himself on the gunwales of the boat, and Legolas relaxed slightly. Something was not right. This Elf was clearly not what he seemed. And he meant to find out what it was that did not ring true.
        Unable to calm the stirrings of nausea rising up in her, Nimoë tried to focus on those things around her which were still pure: the river, with its sparkling blue water, the ancient trees growing along its banks, and the two who shared her boat. The Elf and the Dwarf were patently pure of heart and she took comfort in their presence. She drew deep, cleansing breaths into her body, and finally the wave of sickness settled back into the pit of her stomach, away from her throat.
        Gimli began to sing under his breath, a song of the dwarves of old. The rhythmic cadence called forth images of hammer and chisel, delving into the hard, deep places of earth. Nimoë allowed the gentle rocking of the boat and the hypnotic beat of Gimli’s song lull her.
        Her eyes flew open as her name was spoken. “Nimrodel, won’t you tell me of your time in Lothlorien? It far surpasses even my home in Mirkwood in its loveliness.”
        “Indeed it does, Master Legolas. I know this well, for I did come from Mirkwood as well. I grew there for the first years of my life. As I grew it became evident that I had a power surpassing that of those around me. My parents decided to send me to Galadriel, in the hopes that she could train me. I have spent many years now with the Lady. There is much that she has taught me. Yet I still have much to learn. Her knowledge is vast.”
        Legolas latched onto one comment and tried to follow the path it would lead. The strange Elf was suffering, and he did not understand why, but he felt a strong compulsion to ease away the hurt, if he could. “You are also from Mirkwood? Who are your parents? Perhaps I know them.”
        Nimoë paused before answering. Surely there was no way that the Prince of Mirkwood would know her parents. They lived far from any city, immersed in the study of different trees, how they live and how they die. It could not hurt to be truthful. “Their names are Naldor and Glorfiane” Her voice reflected regret at the time spent apart from the two who had brought her into the world. “I miss them.”
        “I am certain that they miss you as well, Nimrodel.” Legolas then slipped into a troubled silence.

        Some time later, a shout rose from Aragorn in the boat ahead of them, “Behold the Argonath! Long have I desired to look upon the likenesses of my sires of old!”
        Nimoë raised her eyes and her heart fluttered in awe at the monumental statues of the ancient kings. Stories told of the Argonath did not begin to impart the sheer power and majesty of the pillars. She bowed her head in homage before the statues, which stood with their palms upraised.
        “Now that is stonework that must please even you, Legolas,” Gimli growled.
        The sonorous voice behind her was filled with joy at the sight. “Never have I seen such a true melding of natural beauty and monumental masonry. Indeed, Gimli, I will not challenge you. I am dumbstruck.”
        They passed between the pillars and onto Nen Hithoel, the waters of the lake strangely calm after the rushing river. Legolas paddled smoothly and surely and they crossed the lake with all due speed. Upon reaching the far shore, nigh unto the dramatic falls at the southern end of the lake, they once again pulled the boats onto the shore. Gear was unloaded and they began to make ready to camp for the night.
        Nimoë looked about her, hoping to find Boromir, having worked up the courage to try once again to reach him with the words of power. When she did not see him, she spoke, “Where is Boromir?”, precisely at the same time that Merry asked, “Where is Frodo?”
        The remaining companions looked at each other with some trepidation on their faces. Aragorn spoke, “We must find Frodo. If he were to come to harm, all our toil would be for naught. I will go to the top of the hill. The rest of you, stay near to one another, and see what you can find.” Then he ran off up the hill.
        Legolas looked at Nimoë with a peculiar expression on his face. “Nimrodel, you should stay close to me. If your training is in the more peaceful arts, you should remain with a fighter. Do not stray.”
        Nimoë was relieved that she had an excuse now to stay close to someone with a weapon and the knowledge of how to wield it. She carried with her a short sword, but was painfully inept in its use. “I will remain at your side, Legolas.”
        He nodded. “Then come.” They ran off at an angle less steep than that followed by Aragorn. The Hobbits had disappeared at the same time as Aragorn, but Gimli was not far ahead and they soon caught up to him on their faster Elven feet.
        As they ran, a dark presence began to intrude into Nimoë’s thoughts. “I feel something is approaching. It is something of great evil.”
        “Orcs. Be ready to fight, I can feel them coming nearer as well,” replied Legolas.
        “Fine time to be separated. Where is Frodo? Where are the others? We should stand together!”
        “Fear not, Gimli,” said Legolas. “We shall find them soon enough. Listen for the clash of steel.” As he ran, he pulled his bow into his hand and kept his gaze trained on the surrounding woods.
        Nimoë’s fingers strayed to the hilt of her sword. The steel felt cold in her hand, and the chill seemed to seep through her skin into her body, freezing her heart with fear. Everything was going wrong. Dread filled her as she realized Boromir had most likely already attempted to take the ring from Frodo. Her only mission was to keep the fellowship together, and it appeared that she had failed. Orcs were approaching and she would likely be killed. She was wise enough to know that as an untrained fighter she was sorely outclassed by any orc.
        Still she ran on, hoping against hope that her fears were for naught. Then sounds of fighting broke out from the hilltop. Legolas cried out, “Gimli! To the top! We are beset!”
        Nimoë crashed up the slope behind Legolas, and ahead of the Dwarf. When they crested the hill, she was horror-struck to see the hordes of orcs, pressing hard against Aragorn, who stood alone against them. Gimli let out a battle cry and waded into the fray, his axe swinging in killing strokes. The bow of Legolas sang and orc after orc fell, pierced by the deadly rain of arrows.
        Nimoë drew her sword as she was faced by three orcs, their twisted features crazed with battle fervor. Swinging wildly she repelled their first attack, her lack of skill made up for by her very real fear for her life. She swung at the nearest orc and through blind luck caught it high on its sword arm. It fell back howling. The two remaining orcs closed in on her. She backed away until she ran up against a wall of the ruins. Again she raised the sword, but the quarters were now too close to allow her to swing with force.
        “Nimrodel!”
        Before she could look for Legolas, who had shouted her name, the two orcs crashed down in front her, arrows lodged in their skulls. Legolas ran towards her and took up a place between herself and the onrushing orcs. With frightening skill, he decimated the orcs who came against him. His bow was a harbinger of death as his arrows slaughtered those which chose to attack.
        Nimoë saw that his quiver was emptying quickly and she ducked out from behind him, yanking arrows from the dead bodies of orcs piling around her. Those which were still in one piece she dropped back into his quiver as rapidly as she could. It seemed the best way she could contribute to their defense.
        Just as the tide was beginning to turn, clear notes sounded loudly upon the air. “The horn of Boromir!” cried Aragorn. “He is in need!”
        Without pausing to think, all four companions ran towards the clarion call.