“Legolas! Nimrodel! Are you ready?” called Aragorn.
        Legolas dropped the hood of Nimoë’s cloak back over her head, again disguising her feminine features. “We are, Aragorn. Lead us onward.”
        Hidden behind her cloak, Nimoë allowed herself to examine her emotions more closely. She should be upset that a member of the fellowship had discovered her deception. Yet she found that after her first terrible shock, her primary feeling was one of relief. Legolas had not rejected her out of hand once he discovered her sex. In fact, he had asked her to remain. True, a part of that was his feeling of responsibility towards her, for the sake of her parents, but another part was that she truly did have something to contribute.
        She had not allowed herself to think beyond what Galadriel had sent her to do, to keep the fellowship whole. Her failure was complete. Still, there were ways she could continue to aid what was left of the group. As they ran, she began to weave bonds of sustaining energy around them, drawing on the power of the trees and other living things which they passed. There was enough to spare, and the companions were in great need.
        Onward they ranged, spurred forth both by their desire to free the young hobbits from their captors, and their more primal urge to decimate those who had killed their friend, the valiant Boromir. Aragorn led the way, his eyes intent on the path. Truly, following the orcs was not a difficult task, for they left little alive in their wake. The swath of destruction trailed onward as far as even Nimoë and Legolas’ elven eyes could see.
        Yet Aragorn watched intently for any small thing which might speak to what had happened to Pippin and Merry. The lembas, which Galadriel had sent with them, was greatly appreciated, for they could eat it without having to pause in their pursuit. Nimoë felt as if her legs were made of molten metal, burning with fatigue, and soft enough to bend with her weight. Her years living in Lothlorien had made her soft, and bitterly she regretted the lack of exercise which had characterized her life.
        If not for the power of her own magic, she knew that she could not have followed the company. They would far outdistance her. Still, even though they were in the peak of condition, they tired as they ran, and the added power of Nimoë’s song spurred them forward.
        In a haze of exhaustion, Nimoë almost ran over Gimli when he pulled up abruptly in front of her. Aragorn had raised his arm in a gesture of command, and then began to circle slowly around a patch of ground, which to Nimoë looked no different from any other span of orc-twisted earth. He peered at it intently, then walked away from the wide expanse of the orc trail, as if following clearly dropped bread-crumbs.
        Not far had he strayed from the path, when he let out a cry and fell to his knees. The others quickly joined him. “What is it, Aragorn?” asked Gimli.
        Aragorn raised his hand to them, so that all could see what lay in his upturned palm. Legolas’ voice was tinged with wonder as he spoke, “The clasp from a cloak of Lothlorien. Do you think that it was left here by one of our friends?”
        “The footprints I followed were not made by any orc. At a guess I would say it was Pippin, for he is smaller than the other.”
        Nimoë spoke then, “Aragorn, give me the clasp.”
        He handed it to her without question. Once the clasp was in her grasp, she reached deep into its core. The jovial, sparkling light that was Pippin radiated from it. Nimoë was almost knocked off of her feet by the strength of character that assailed her.
        Legolas’ hand at her back steadied her as she swayed. “Nimrodel?”
        “It is indeed Pippin’s clasp. What strength and courage lies within him! He has dropped this in the hopes that it would lead us down the right path. He has not given up his faith in his companions.”
        Aragorn rose from the ground with renewed purpose. “You lighten my heart, Nimrodel. Let us make haste, and prove ourselves worthy of our good friend’s faith.”
        On they ran, each wrapped in their own thoughts. The effort of talking was too much. Nimoë alone gave voice to song, and that because it sustained them.
        While the companions felt that they must run until such time as they caught up to the orcs, nature drew the curtains of night down inexorably upon them. After some debate as to the merits of continuing on through the night, or stopping so as not to miss any other important details in the dark, it was decided that the chance of missing something of the magnitude of Pippin’s clasp was too great. They must stop.
        Nimoë allowed herself to collapse to the earth, and was asleep almost before she could place her pack under her head for a pillow. Her slow even breathing told Legolas that she slept. Before he could lay himself down, Aragorn spoke to him. “I am concerned about Nimrodel. He is not as strong as the rest of us. You are of his race. Do you think that he can maintain the pace?”
        Legolas brought to mind his momentary glimpse of Nimoë’s gentle face. So soft and fair, yet full of resolve. “He will do what he must. Did you not feel the effect of his song today?”
        “What do you mean?”
        “Nimrodel has been drawing energy from the earth around us, using it to supplement our strength. He is using the same spell on himself. I think that by the time the spell can no longer aid him, he will have worked himself into something approaching our level of strength. Fear not. He will not slow our pace.”
        Aragorn paused thoughtfully. “You are right. I did feel strangely powerful today. I hope that you are right about our new companion as well.”
        Legolas laid his hand on Aragorn’s arm. “Let me worry about Nimrodel. If he falters, I will take responsibility.”
        “Why is it that you would do such a thing? What is there about him that makes him so important to you?”
        Legolas dropped his eyes. “I cannot tell you. Suffice it to say that he is one of my race, and his home is in my kingdom of Mirkwood. He is my subject, and I will not abandon him.”
        Nodding his head in acknowledgement of that responsibility, Aragorn dropped the subject. “Rest well then, Legolas. We rise with the sun.”
        Glad that Aragorn had accepted his explanation, Legolas sighed. Gimli was snoring, not far from where Nimoë slept, and Aragorn had laid himself down on the far side of Gimli. In the darkness, where none could see his actions, Legolas knelt quietly in front of Nimoë and carefully pushed back her cloak.
        In sleep, her face was peaceful, relaxed and radiant. Legolas gazed down at her wonderingly. What a brave soul she was. As he was about to lower the cloak back down, her face crumpled. Her head began to rock back and forth, as if she was trying to shake herself free from the horrors in her mind, but her body was too exhausted to wake. Afraid that in her delirium, she might cry out, unintentionally revealing herself, Legolas laid down behind her and wrapped his arms around her, his hand stroking her forehead and her hair, murmuring quietly in her ear, “It’s alright. Nothing can happen to you. We are all here with you. I promise, I won’t let any harm come to you.”
        Slowly, her body stopped trembling in his arms and he knew that the terrible visions assailing her had abated. He dared not hold her through the night, as much as he felt she needed that reassurance, so he reluctantly released his embrace. But he did not move far, remaining close should she need him again. Then he slept.