They rose, even before the rising of the sun. All were refreshed by their short rest, and even Nimoë felt ready to begin the chase again. The muscles of her body were aching with the pain of too much use, but once they were moving again, the motion would work the kinks away. She raised her arms over her head, reaching out to the sky, greeting the awaking dawn.
        “Do you call the sun to shine upon us, Master Nimrodel? Have you power over the weather?” Gimli asked in a gruff voice, somewhat sarcastically.
        “Alas, not, sir Dwarf. Only do I greet the coming day, and enjoy the feeling of new life in the air.”
        “Hrmph.”
        Legolas laughed lightly. “Pay no attention to Gimli. He is often surly in the morning. He’ll feel much better after sharpening his axe on some orc skulls.”
        “You speak truly, Legolas,” the Dwarf agreed. “And I fear that those we hunt have not rested this past night. They will surely have lengthened their lead. We must make haste to follow them.” Gimli looked to Aragorn. “Well, son of Arathorn?”
        “Move out.”

        The trail stretched out clearly across the wide plains of Rohan. Nimoë felt strangely ill at ease. Almost all of her life had been spent surrounded by trees. Their wide branches shaded her, enfolding her not only with their ancient presence, but with their auras of eternal power and agelessness. The silvan Elves were always most at home among the trees and Nimoë’s heightened awareness of the forces in the world around her made her own relationship with the forest even more intimate.
        The vast expanse of sky above her, unbroken by a single branch, and the sprawling vistas of rolling hills served only to make Nimoë very nervous. There was less power here for her to draw on and she felt uneasy and vulnerable. There was no place to hide. Almost unconsciously she accelerated her pace, running to close the gap between herself and Legolas who ahead of her.
        “Nimrodel, are you well?” he asked quietly.
        The running left her out of breath and she responded with as few words as she could, “There are no trees. I am afraid.”
        Legolas nodded his blond head. “I understand. I feel it as well. The sense of wrongness will never leave you, but believe me, you learn to ignore it. Trust in your companions, we all have hearts as stout as the trees.” He flashed her a reassuring smile. “There are no true or braver men than Aragorn and Gimli.”
        “Nor than Legolas, I believe.” Nimoë immediately fell silent. Her eyes scanned the horizon restlessly. “Legolas, what is that cloud that floats close to the earth?”
        He peered where she pointed. “That is not a cloud.” Then he called out to Aragorn, “There are horses and riders ahead of us. They are coming this way.”
        “Do they follow the orc trail?” asked Aragorn.
        “They do.”
        “How do we know if they be friend or foe?” Gimli asked.
        “We cannot know until they are upon us and we can regard them with clear eyes. Can you tell how many there are, Legolas?”
        “I cannot say for certain, but they are a goodly number, more I think than we could easily vanquish.” He replied.
        Aragorn did not hesitate then. “We must hide. These riders may be men of Rohan, out to see what is crossing through their lands, or they could be forces of Mordor or of Isengard. It would be safest to remain out of sight until we can ascertain for certain. Can they see us yet?”
        Legolas shook his head. “I do not believe so.”
        Nimoë was inclined to agree. An Elf herself, even she had not been able to identify what was causing the dust rising from the horses’ hooves. Legolas’ sight was keener than most any other Elf, and no other race could match the Elves’ keen senses.
        “Then up over that hill there. Do not let them see you.”
        They all scrambled to follow Aragorn’s command. On the far side of the hill, they lay down flat against the grassy earth. Nimoë’s heart pounded and her hand clenched spasmodically at the hilt of her sword. She could feel the thunder of the hoofs radiating up from the ground beneath her. Inexorably, the horsemen drew closer. Nimoë turned her head to the side, and was startled to find Legolas’ face mere inches from her own.
        Even though her face was deep in the shadow of her cloak, Legolas was able to see the fear glinting in her eyes. He gave her a half-sided smile, meant to lighten her spirits, while he himself hoped against hope that they would not have to fight. As the first wave of horsemen passed their hiding place, he kept his gaze firmly locked with Nimoë’s, offering his strength to keep her fears at bay.
        Nimoë recognized what the Elven prince was doing, but she did not fight it. Willingly she allowed herself to focus only on his piercing blue eyes. Within that gaze she was able to block out the rest of the world. As the massive steeds roared past, she was barely aware of their passage. All she could see was blue, deep and liquid. Almost she felt as if her whole body was bathed in blue light.
        When most of the horsemen had passed by, Aragorn rose abruptly and called out, “What news from the north, Men of Rohan?”
        Legolas’ half-smile broadened to a grin of relief. Then he broke his gaze and leapt to his feet. The riders had drawn up abruptly, their steeds immediately responsive to their commands. One of the men, tall and broad, with long hair, gleaming with the light of the sun, called back to Aragorn, “Who are you, and what is your business here?”
        By that time, Gimli and Nimoë had also risen from their hiding place. Gimli had not yet released his axe handle, and he stood with his knees bent, ready to fight if need be. Nimoë decided to follow his lead, and she tried to look imposing, drawing herself to her full height and resting her hand menacingly on her sword hilt.
        “I am called Strider, and I am hunting orcs.”
        The blond giant laughed loudly. “Hunting orcs, indeed? I am afraid you are too late. We have already eliminated the orcs that created this eyesore on our fair country. But speak now truly, are you servants of Saruman, or the foul demon in Mordor? Strider is no fit name for a man.”
        “We are servants of the free people of Middle Earth. We have just come from Lothlorien, where we were equipped and sent forth by the Lady Galadriel. Our business is dire.”
        “Then the Lady of the Golden Wood does exist. I have heard that she is a wielder of terrible power. I would that she were but a myth. Such power must perforce be of great evil,” spoke the blonde giant.
        Both Gimli and Nimoë reacted immediately to this slight against the Lady. Gimli went to draw his axe, but Nimoë was faster and she leapt forward, reaching for her sword, enraged by the man’s arrogant assumptions.
        She was brought up short, however, when his reflexes proved very quick, and she found her neck up against the point of his long sword. “I suggest you stop where you are, or you will bitterly regret your rash behavior, sir,” spoke the horseman.