Nimoë had hoped to ride in the eored with Eomer but, in the crush of horses leaping forth to war, she found that there was no way to accomplish that goal. And so she kneed Bluebell onward behind Elfhelm, aware of Goliant and Halanna beside her. There had been no word spoken between the two women, but each assumed that they would remain together for as long as it was possible.
Wonderment came upon Nimoë as she heard a sound which seemed to rise from the very earth itself. Singing. The Rohirrim poured down the ridge like an avenging tide, and the song which went with them sprang from their throats like thunder, buoying their spirits and sending a wave of fear over the foes which came against them.
Halanna had drawn Henodred's sword and she brandished it before her with an unreasoning glee. Here she would wreak vengeance for the suffering her brother had undergone, for her parents, who had been slain by roving orcs sent forth from Mordor, and for all the other Rohirrim that had suffered under the heel of Sauron.
Nimoë also drew her sword, once again feeling the sense of wrongness that came over her with cold steel clenched in her fist. Her essential essence was so completely peaceful that even the presence of destructive weapons in her hand made her stomach clench. Still, she had no choice. Here was the battle, spread clear across the vast fields, that would decide the fate of the age.
Elfhelm led his eored forth at a run, breaking through the first line of defense, and they made for the siege engines which battered the walls of Minas Tirith and lofted balls of burning pitch into the city itself. Seeing their danger, those enemies manning the giant weapons of war turned to face the onslaught.
The song of the Rohirrim still rang true, and Nimoë took strength from it. The first foe to come against her was an orc, which had been manning a catapult, engaged in the firing of Minas Tirith. It came at her with a howl, and Nimoë slashed at it instinctively, but missed her target, only managing to graze its shoulder.
Halanna watched as the Elf struggled with her attacker and then she shouldered Goliant past Bluebell, placing herself in front of the sorely outclassed Elf. Burrowing deep into her memory, Halanna brought what Henodred had taught her to the fore. Strength seemed to flow into her sword arm, and she swung with precision, cleaving the orc's neck through to the bone. It crashed to ground in front of her and, in the brief respite, she turned to raise her sword in a gesture of victory to Nimoë.
Shaken, the Elf bobbed her head in response, while she concentrated on not dropping her sword from her trembling fingers. What was she doing here?! Knowing that she was no use in battle she had come anyways, and now she was a liability once again. She tried to move her hand, and found that it was frozen. Fear gripped her so strongly that she was paralyzed. Unable to move, she sat, focusing on breathing, trying to calm her taut nerves.
A pained cry rang out behind her and it broke through her paralysis. She turned and saw one of the Rohirrim sprawled on the ground, where he had been thrown by his horse. His hands clutched at his chest, and Nimoë saw blood spring from the corner of his mouth. This was why she was here! This was how she would prove her worth. "Halanna!" she called. "Will you guard my back while I tend to the injured?"
In the heat of battle, none noticed the name that was shouted, and Halanna nodded her agreement. Nimoë leapt off of Bluebell's back and ran to the injured man. When Goliant had taken up a place above her, the Elf took the injured man's hand and began to sing. She was forced to give him only a cursory healing, stopping his internal bleeding, but could do no more, knowing that there would be much more to be done before the battle was over.
She hailed a nearby rider and he made his way to her. "Here is an injured man who cannot be moved. Will you guard this place if I send others here? As soon as a way can be cleared, we can begin evacuating the casualties."
The rider agreed, and took up a defensive position over the man. Nimoë pulled herself once again onto Bluebell, and together she and Halanna followed the tide of battle. As time wore on, the precedent they had set with the first man became their established pattern. Halanna would stand guard while Nimoë did what she could for the gravely wounded. More than once the Elf would have been smitten had it not been for the quick sword of the maiden of Rohan.
Slowly Elfhelm's eored began to eliminate the enemies manning the siege engines, and it seemed as though the tide might be turning for them. Then the brighter darkness of day was suddenly brought to complete blackness. A deep shadow descended about them, and the Rohirrim faltered in their song and their fight. Surely some foul evil had joined the battle, and they looked about them in fear, wondering where it would strike.
Halanna's sword faltered, and an orc's weapon made it past her guard, gouging deeply into her thigh. She cried out in pain, and clenched the wound with her free hand, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Before the orc could finish its work, however, she marshaled her strength and swung viciously, cutting it down to the earth.
Then, once her immediate danger was past, she curled down over her wounded thigh, excruciating pain shooting through her, rendering her incapable of sitting straight. Briefly she sheathed her sword and tore a large strip from the hem of her cloak. Keeping one eye on what was happening around her she grunted as she lifted the leg off the saddle and wrapped the bandage around it, as tight as could be borne. As soon as it was done, she pulled the sword again, and forced herself to ignore the burning agony, to focus on her duty.
Nimoë stood up from the man she had been working over and asked, "Are you injured? Do you need my aid?"
Stoically, Halanna shook her head. "It is nothing. Save your strength for those who truly need it."
Nimoë was skeptical, as she saw the blood flowing freely from beneath the bandage, but she accepted the young woman's word. "Tell me if that changes."
Just as Nimoë was scrambling once again onto Bluebell's saddle, a terrible piercing wail echoed through the vast open plain. The Elf clapped her hands over her sensitive ears, trying to shut out the pain of the scream. As soon as the cry faded away to nothingness, the sun pierced through the shroud of darkness and every man, woman and creature of the shadow blinked in the sudden overwhelming brightness.
Something of great evil had been swept from the face of Middle-Earth, but what it was, or the means of its death, was a mystery to Elfhelm's eored. Taking advantage of the unexpected boon of daylight, he pressed them forward, intent on eliminating what was left of the siege engines.
At that moment, the sound of a great horn pierced the sky, and the Gates of Minas Tirith opened wide. An army of horses spilled through under the banner of Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth. Nimoë watched as they rode straight into the fray, and many of those who had been guarding the engines left their posts, intent on stopping the approaching army from reaching the rest of the combatants.
Halanna rode up to a torch, which was burning nearby. It had been lighting the workings of the catapult next to which it was placed. Brandishing the torch, the young maid set fire to the weapon, which had caused so much damage to the White City of Gondor.
Others saw what the hooded rider did and went about among the other engines, also putting them to the torch. Within minutes the entire line of weaponry was aflame, and Elfhelm motioned his eored to ride out into the field, where they could hear that the song of the Rohirrim had ceased, replaced by the fell cry of "Death! Death!"
Nimoë and Halanna followed along with the eored. Soon they had almost overtaken the eored of Eomer, and Nimoë caught an occasional glimpse of his fair head, towering high over the other Rohirrim. Onward they plunged, breaking through row upon row of their foes. The two eoreds did not slow in their progress, swept up in battle fervor.
A cry began to rise up among them, "The Corsairs are coming! Their ships approach at full sail! We must retreat or all will be lost when they land!"
Nimoë looked up and saw that indeed there was an armada of ships, with black sails full into the wind, bearing down upon the shores of the Anduin with frightening speed. Those around her began to look behind them, hoping to find a clear path to retreat. Unfortunately for them, in their haste to break through the line, they had left many foes behind them, and those were pressing now upon their flanks. The Rohirrim were surrounded.
Nimoë looked about her frantically, hoping to find some spot of weakness among the forces of Mordor. There was none, and the enemy was coming upon them with deadly intent.
Halanna's voice broke in upon her thoughts. "Even if we are surrounded, we must fight on. Find the injured, and we will do what we can for them. Some miracle may yet come to save us."
Nimoë nodded her agreement and dismounted from Bluebell, ready to heal those she could find, although expecting at any moment to feel a killing stroke upon her body. As she knelt next to a sorely wounded man, a voice she recognized called out, "It is not the Corsairs! Look at the banner which flies ahead of them. It is Aragorn, come unlooked for to bring us aid. He has survived the Paths of the Dead! If we can hold our position here long enough, it is possible that we will be saved!"
Eomer's words fell upon Nimoë's ears and her heart leapt into her throat. Aragorn was coming, and with him would be Legolas, unless he had somehow been killed on their road. A new sense of urgency filled her as she worked. They must manage to survive long enough for the rescuers to reach them. In her heart she knew that once Legolas reached her, she would be safe.
#
Legolas stood in the bow of the lead ship, beside Aragorn, Gimli, Halbarad and the sons of Elrond. His bow itched in his palm and his hands fairly twitched with the desire to join the battle which raged before them. His keen eyes could make out much of what was happening on the shore. "Aragorn," he spoke, "I can see Eomer. He bears the banner of Rohan. I fear that Theoden must have been killed." He peered closer, then he spoke with new urgency. "The men with him are surrounded. A multitude of the host of Mordor presses against them. I do not think that they can stand against them!"
Aragorn laid a restraining hand on the Elf's forearm. "Wait, Legolas. Only a few more minutes and we will reach the shore. Then we will ride with all speed to their aid. We must hope that they can last that long."
The Elf Prince swung his glance back behind them to the boats which followed in their wake. They were filled with the shades of the Oathbreakers, who had come now to fulfill their obligation to the heir of Isildur. Perhaps there were enough of them. It had to be enough.
Impatience ate at him, but, inexorably, the shore grew closer. When what seemed an eternity had passed and they came up against the banks of the Anduin, the men ran to their horses. A long gangplank was lowered to the shore and they rode down with deathly speed, setting their course for the white banner of Rohan.
Legolas' bow was in his hand, and his arrows flew into the enemy surrounding the Rohirrim. The fury of their assault took the enemy by surprise and they were able to crash through the ranks of Mordor, joining their strength with the besieged Rohirrim.
Aragorn and Legolas reached Eomer, and he the new King of Rohan hailed them. "I greet you, friends, and I thank you for your aid. Great evil has befallen us here, I am afraid."
Aragorn answered him, "Then let us avenge it ere we speak of it."
Legolas had not ceased his rain of death, but as he swung around to face a new set of foes, his eyes fell on a sight which brought his motion to a halt. A rider had been knocked from his mount, but as he fell, his cloak fell back from his head, and a mane of moon-pale hair blew back, revealing her identity to his keen Elven sight.
"Nimoë!" he cried. She was far from him, with many men and horses between them. He watched helplessly as she struggled to her feet, her sword raised against an attacker. There was no other rider nearby to aid her. Ignoring the rest of the battle raging around him, he raised his bow and sighted down the length of the arrow's long shaft. Riders of Rohan, engaged in deadly combat, wove back and forth through his sights and frustration and fear rose up within him, seeing that he could not fire a clear shot.
Eomer had heard the Elf's cry, and horror welled up within him. Already he had found his sister lying dead upon the field, next to Theoden. Would he now lose another woman he loved? What was she doing in this place? He saw that Legolas had Nimoë's adversary in his sights, but was unable to fire. He turned his horse, and was drawing nigh to the Elf Prince, when a sudden movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. An axe was flying through the air, on a straight path for Legolas' undefended back.
Before he had a chance to think, the new King of Rohan leapt from his saddle, intent on knocking the Elf off of his mount and out of harm's way.
Finally, Legolas had a clear shot, and none to soon, for the orc had raised its sword and was about to swing a killing blow at Nimoë's fair neck. His fingers released the taut bowstring and he knew as he fired that the shot would fly true. He was about to pull another arrow from his quiver when something crashed into him from behind, sending him flying from his horse.
He landed flat on the earth, and shook his head to clear it as he stood. Turning to see what had happened, he paused, dumbstruck. Eomer lay sprawled across Arod's back, an axe protruding from his side.
He was not breathing.