Nimoë watched Legolas go, but quickly turned her attention to her own surroundings. The horses were milling about, nervously stamping, for they sensed the presence of orcs nearby, and the few Rohirrim who had not mounted the ramparts were attempting to herd them back further into the Deep.

Night was falling quickly, the darkness dropping like a velvet curtain, and Nimoë strained her eyes to see farther into the Deep. There were several figures approaching, and they appeared to be women and children. She grabbed the arm of a rider as he passed, asking "Who comes from the Deep?"

The man glanced at her briefly and shock registered on his face that she was both an Elf and a woman. "They are Rohirrim who have been hiding in the caves at the back of the Deep. They come to lend aid with the horses and to bring the wounded back with them so they can be treated."

Nimoë's brow furrowed and she asked, "How far is it to these caves?"

"It is a fair distance, Lady. You should make your way there quickly."

Thoughts were buzzing quickly through Nimoë's mind, and she shook her head. "If it is that far, then there will be many injured who will not survive the journey. I will remain here. If any are so grievously injured that they cannot be brought safely to the caves, have them brought to me. I am trained in the Elvish healing magics and can stabilize them for the journey."

The blond rider looked at her with a new respect growing in his eyes. Here was a brave soul indeed. "I will spread word of this along the battlements. It may be that many will be in your debt before this night is over."

She watched the rider climb the stair which so recently Legolas had mounted. Then she hailed one of the approaching women and outlined her plan. The lady of Rohan was well pleased that an Elf would be on hand to treat those most sorely injured, and was glad that she herself would not have to remain in harm's way. Nimoë took the torch the woman carried and went swiftly to find an area that was flat and open, where she could lay the injured when they came.

Just as she had decided upon a spot, she heard a cry, "My Lady Elf! This man needs your help!" Two soldiers were carrying between them a man who had been pierced through the lung by an orc arrow.

"Put him here," she ordered, pointing to a spot to her left. "I will care for him."

The injured man was laid on the earth and the other two departed. Nimoë dropped to her knees beside him and regarded his injury. The arrow was still lodged in his body. His breathing burbled and blood was trickling from the corners of his mouth. She laid her hands on his body and began to sing. The words of power wrapped themselves throughout his body, slowing the beating of his heart, and bringing thickness to the blood. When she felt that he was strong enough, she grasped the arrow tightly with one hand and put her other hand and her knee on his body to give her leverage, then yanked the arrow free. Blood flowed more freely from the wound, but it had thickened to the point where it did not gush, and Nimoë ripped material from the hem of her tunic to bandage the hole.

Soon others were being brought to her, with gaping sword cuts, arrows embedded in their flesh and cracked skulls. She had dispatched one of the women, who came to bring those she had stabilized to the caves, with directions to bring cloth for bandages and water and herbs for her to use in cleansing the wounds. To her dismay, there was no athelas in the caves, so she would have to do without that miraculous medicine.

The stream of injured was steady, and Nimoë began to sway with exhaustion. How she wished that she could work the Elven magic on herself, but alas, it did not work that way. For each man who came before her, she sang the words of power which would strengthen their bodies just enough so that they could survive until other help could be given to them.

A great aching pain grew in her heart as she worked, for she could not spare the time or energy to heal them more completely, and leaving the men suffering in agony was almost like slitting her own wrists. "Oh, my Lady Galadriel, what I would not give to have you here with me now!" she moaned in anguish.

Full night was upon them now, and the full strength of Saruman's army was pounding against Helm's Gate. Ululating shrieks and guttural battle cries sent shivers up and down Nimoë's spine, and she tried to ignore them and concentrate on her work, but was only partially successful.

Her small encampment was very near to the Gate itself, for it was one of the only completely flat areas to be found. There were a good thirty men sprawled on the ground around her, and she worked over them feverishly, hoping to keep them alive long enough to be brought to the caves. And still more were being brought forth. To her great relief, not one of her companions had been brought to her, and she hoped against hope that it meant they were still alive, and not that they were lying dead atop the battlements.

"Lady! Here is another!" Nimoë moved as quickly as she could towards the cry, stepping carefully over the bodies of the injured, and cautiously so that she did not slip and fall in the pools of crimson blood which were spread thick across the ground. When she reached the man, she almost cried. He was the man with whom she had first spoken inside the Gate, who had spread the word of her makeshift infirmary.

There was a great rent in his side, and she could see through the gash to his internal organs. The men who had brought him left quickly and Nimoë knelt down at his side, tears forming in her eyes, which she refused to shed. Emotions almost choked her voice, but she forced herself to sing past the lump which was lodged so painfully in her throat.

Without warning, a terrible explosion shook the earth and great fire exploded at the Gate, tearing the doors from their hinges. Nimoë was flung to the ground by the force of the blast, and she cowered there for a moment, unable to process what had happened. Dust was beginning to settle when she saw that the Gate was open wide, and dark, tortured bodies began to flood through.

Several of the orcs saw the small encampment and, with weapons raised, rushed forward to finish off those men who lay there helpless. Trembling with anger and fear, Nimoë stood and drew her sword. "You shall not hurt them!" she cried, oblivious to her own danger, only wishing to defend those who had no chance of defending themselves. Then she screamed out "Ai! Elbereth! Gilthoniel! Lend me your aid!" and prepared to meet the onrushing orcs.

#

High up on the battlements Legolas regained his footing, having also been thrown by the blast which broke open the Gate. Just as he was regaining his bearings his keen elven ears made out a scream, "Ai! Elbereth! Gilthoniel! Lend me your aid!" and he spun around to find the source of the cry. To his horror, he saw dark orcs pouring through the gate and a great number of them were headed towards a solitary figure, wielding a short sword, standing alone in front of rows of injured men.

"Nimoë!" The scream was torn from his body before he could even think to form words. Without thought he began to loose arrows at the foremost orcs, at the same time running, as fast as his strong legs would carry him, to the stairs which would bring him closer to her.

Eomer heard Legolas' anguished scream and took a final killing stroke at an orc, which had almost surmounted the wall in front of him. While he himself could not see it, Eomer knew that Nimoë must be in danger. For no other cause would the Elf abandon the heights. Eomer unsheathed his sword from the orc's foul body and it crashed down, bringing down others of his kind in its fall. As soon his sword was free, Eomer ran after the Elf prince, calling to others as he passed, "Orcs are within the Gate! Bring all aid which can be spared, we must seal the doors!"