Nimoë landed hard upon her back. Bluebell was nowhere to be seen, having bolted from the carnage laid about him. His gentle soul had proven to be his downfall. She had lost Halanna in the crush several minutes past, and she saw with horror that she had been separated from the rest of the Rohirrim. Panic welled up in her as she saw an orc register her fall. It raised its weapon and advanced upon the fallen Elf, so much more tempting a target when not guarded by the vicious mounts that the Rohirrim rode.
Nimoë scrambled to her feet and held her sword out in front of her, attempting to look menacing, while the trembling of her arm clearly showed her weakness. The first blow fell and Nimoë deflected it, but the reverberations of the clash rendered her sword arm numb. In desperation, she tried to brandish the weapon again, but there was no response from her deadened limb. Now would be the ideal time to use her song of war, but she knew that she had used too much strength already. The power needed for offensive magic was tenfold greater than that which she used for healing, and there was not enough strength left in her to muster it.
Her grey eyes grew wide as she saw dark death bearing down upon her in the form of the hideously twisted orc. Finally, too late, she felt the tingling return of life in her sword arm, but there was no time to raise it. Time slowed to a crawl, and every detail of what was happening was as clear to Nimoë as if she had an eternity to regard it. A squeal of delight rose from the creature's throat as it raised its sword for the final blow. Spittle flew from its lips, and it gnashed its teeth in anticipation of the kill. Vaguely, Nimoë saw her own hand, the one without the sword, flung up in front of her, vainly trying to guard herself from the death stroke.
Then, as the sword began to fall, an arrow, flying straight and true, pierced through the brainpan of the fell creature, sending it sprawling to the ground, where it shuddered once and died. Time returned to its previous rate of passage then, and Nimoë staggered to her knees. Her fingers reached out, disbelievingly, and stroked the white fletchings of the arrow. Legolas! He had come.
#
Legolas looked up at Eomer's still form in horror. Wildly, he looked about for a horse, and found the horse-lord's mount standing nearby. He pulled himself up onto the unfamiliar saddle, and cried out, "Rohirrim! Guard your King! I go to bring him aid!"
Eomer gave every appearance of death, but Legolas could not accept that as fact. The Rohirrim had already lost one king this day. Must they lose another? And because of him? Even as he crashed his way through the melee, guilt ate into him. If he had been paying closer attention to what was going on around him, Eomer would not be lying dead across Arod's back. But how could he have done differently? Nimoë needed him, and he could not have let her die!
His eyes searched the milling field ahead of him and he spotted her, running through the carnage, apparently trying to find her horse, which was nowhere to be seen. Clearing the rest of the combatants who stood between himself and his love, Legolas cantered up behind her and reached down, pulling her up onto his horse.
Her eyes filled with relief at seeing him alive, and though he was overwhelmed with emotions at finding her whole, he could not give voice to them. "Nimoë, Eomer has been gravely wounded. I fear he is dead."
"Take me to him," she spoke, cold dread chilling her through to the bone.
Legolas wheeled Eomer's horse about, and drew his Elven blade. The quarters were too close to fight with a bow while Nimoë was behind him.
It did not take them long to reach the spot where the Rohirrim had gathered in a defensive circle around their fallen liege. The men cleared a path for the two Elves, and Nimoë scrambled down to the ground. Arod had remained still, unwilling to move, somehow aware that his rider was sorely hurt. "Legolas, help me get him off of the horse."
Legolas dismounted and went to her side. Together they eased the horse-lord down, staggering under his weight, and they laid him on his side, with the axe wound pointed away from the earth. His eyes were open and glazed, and still no breath stirred in his body. Tears formed in Nimoë's eyes as she clasped his lifeless hands. Aware that Legolas stood guard over her, she bent all of her mind to the fallen king.
Softly, she began to sing, and what she found brought her only small hope. Although he seemed as one dead, some small spark of his life force still smoldered within him. There was a chance, one magic she could use to bring him back from the edge of death, but to save him she would have to give more of herself than she had ever been able to give before. She must be willing to die for him.
Nimoë realized that she could make no choice but one. She loved Eomer as her own brother and, above all, he was a King. For the sake of Rohan, she had to try. Nimoë pulled her resolve down over her like a knight's visor, and grasped the axe by the handle, pulling it free from Eomer's body. Before fear had a chance to change her mind, she placed his face between her hands, and laid her lips softly against his. Then she opened her throat and poured her song forth.
The power flew through her body and into his, on the very breath of her lungs. The air she breathed out was infused with tremendous strength, the likes of which she had never thought herself able to muster. It filled his lungs and, as it spread through his body, life began to flow again through his veins.
Nimoë felt her life force flowing out of her, giving new hope to this man who had been like a brother to her. Her limbs began to deaden as the blood slowed in her veins. With grim determination she ignored the frightening sensation and forced herself to keep singing. She could sense that the wound in Eomer's side was knitting, sinews re-twining and severed skin grafting itself together. A terrible burning began in her side, and she knew that the wound was manifesting itself on her own body.
Her breath gurgled in her lungs, but still she pressed on. Her vision began to swim erratically and, just before she passed into oblivion, she saw a blessed sight. Eomer's clear blue eyes opened and he saw her, and she knew she had succeeded. Then she collapsed upon him, blood soaking from her side, and all the world went dark.
#
"Nimoë! No!" The scream was torn from Legolas as he realized what she was doing. He watched in dismay as the wound on Eomer's side knit itself closed and, at the same time, blood began to pour from his beloved. Too late he tried to stop her, but she collapsed over Eomer, her body as lifeless as his had been but moments before.
Legolas' heart ceased beating for long moments as he watched her, silently pleading for her ribs to move, for breath to flow through her body. Eomer softly pushed her silken hair back from her face, and the Elf Prince saw her eyes. The light of her luminous soul no longer burned within them, and a filmy haze seemed to coat their crystal clearness.
"Nimoë," Legolas sobbed, tears clouding his vision. He fell to his knees next to Eomer and the stricken maid. Softly he laid his hand upon her cheek, and the cold clamminess of it was too much for him to bear. "No!"
Rage swelled in his breast, and he leapt up onto Arod's back, brandishing his two Elven blades like mighty scythes of death. "To me!" he cried. "We must clear a path free to Minas Tirith!"
His mind raced. The Houses of Healing were within the city. If they could bring her there fast enough, perhaps she could be saved. She was not dead. It could not be. Not his Nimoë. Not now, when he had finally found her again.
Eomer sat up slowly, cradling the lifeless Elf maid against his chest. Memory of his actions swept over him, and he understood what must have happened. Nimoë had given her life to save his. Legolas' cry filtered into his mind, but he saw that the Rohirrim hesitated to follow him. Understanding what Legolas planned, he called out then, his voice powerful and commanding, "Follow Legolas! We must win through to the city!"
As cautiously as he could manage, he draped Nimoë over his mighty steed's neck and mounted up behind her. A glance behind showed him that the remaining ships of the armada had landed and the host of undead warriors upon them were sweeping out onto the plains. It would be enough. They would overrun what was left of the army of Mordor.
#
Terrible, crushing pain was upon Legolas' heart. Much as he wished to deny it, Nimoë was almost certainly dead, and it felt as if a part of his very soul had been ripped from him. With his logical mind he understood why she had sacrificed herself, but his logical mind was far from being in control of his body. His righteous anger was forcefully demonstrated to any minions of Mordor who came before him, for he dispatched them to their deaths with inhuman strength and speed.
The Rohirrim followed behind him as he cleared a path through the remaining army of the Dark Lord, and they wondered what thing had so possessed the Elf that he fought with such careless passion. It was a marvel to those who followed that he had not been killed, for in his fury he seemed to care naught for any danger to himself, so intent was he on breaking a path clear to Minas Tirith.
Eomer was the only one among them who understood, and he wished the Elf strength and speed, for he too feared that Nimoë would never again open her shining eyes in this world. The battle raged around him, and he kept his sword at the ready, in case any foe came between himself and the healers in Minas Tirith.
Around him he saw the host of the shadow crumbling. Their commanders had been killed and the new onslaught from the riverbanks, coupled with Prince Imrahil's army, which had managed to fight its way clear through to the Rohirrim, were methodically cutting the demon-spawn down to their deaths. Hope rose up within him as he realized that they were winning. This battle was as good as over, and the side of right had won.
Ahead of him, Legolas broke through the final ranks of orcs, and the way was clear to the Gate of Minas Tirith. He reined in his horse and waited for Eomer to reach him. Together they spurred their horses onward, and the Gates were flung wide to receive them, along with the rest of the victorious army, into the bosom of the city.
Legolas looked him about and spotted a young boy nearby. "You!" he called, "Can you lead us to the Houses of Healing?"
The boy stared at the Elf Prince, struck dumb by the powerful anguish that radiated from him, and he nodded mutely. Without waiting another moment, Legolas pulled him up onto Arod and said, "Lead us there as if your life depended on it, child."
Silently, the boy pointed ahead of them, and Legolas and Eomer urged their horses into a run up the steep hills of Minas Tirith. The boy looked over at the body that the tall man of Rohan had pulled to a sitting position in front of him. His jaw dropped in wonder. "An Elf Lady? So fair and lovely is her face. Is she dead?"
Legolas felt tears of anxiety well up in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. "Pray that she is not, boy. If she dies, I cannot vouch for my actions." He knew that he was frightening the child, but the overpowering fear which crushed up against him made him curt. He risked a glance over at Nimoë, and his stomach clenched when he saw that her skin was becoming a marked shade of grey. Nausea swept over him, but he fought it down, spurring Arod to run faster still.
That stouthearted beast put all of his strength towards climbing higher into the city, although his lungs burned and his limbs felt as though they were made of heavy iron. Eomer's mount strove to keep pace, but he carried more weight, and fell a few steps behind.
Finally, the boy spoke, "There it is. Through those doors."
Legolas was on the ground before the sentence was completed, and was waiting when the horse-lord arrived. Eomer handed Nimoë's unresisting form down to him. Her weight was as nothing to the Elf Prince and he crashed through the heavy door, calling, "Someone help us!"
From around a corner footsteps echoed closer and shortly a form appeared. Almost nothing could have raised Legolas' hopes except the man who stood before him now. "Gandalf! Is she dead?"
The ancient wizard crossed the space between them and placed his hands on the sides of her neck. His faces was grave as he regarded Legolas. "If she lives, it is at some level that I cannot sense. She needs Aragorn."
Eomer had just entered the door, and he heard Gandalf's statement. "I will find him," he said, and before Gandalf could speak another word to him, the King of Rohan had left, intent on finding the Dunadan from the North.
Gandalf beckoned to Legolas. "Follow me and I will show you a place she may lie."
Legolas followed the wizard, but did not feel his legs as they moved, nor did he hear any other word that was spoken to him. The only thing he was aware of was Nimoë's still form cradled in his arms. Her blood had seeped onto his clothes and it was warm against his skin, but the places where his bare skin touched hers found it clammy and cold. They arrived at a small private room, and he laid her down upon the bed with reverent care.
Gandalf left them, but Legolas was not aware of his departure. He clung to Nimoë's flaccid hand, and his head he bowed over her inert body. Of a sudden, the sobs he had been fighting could no longer be restrained. "Nimoë, please come back to me!" he cried, his shoulders heaving with the intensity of his sorrow. "Do not leave me alone!" His voice fell to a cracked whisper, "Do not leave me alone."
His strength finally lost out to his soul-wrenching grief, and he collapsed over her, his face pressed into her shoulder, sobbing brokenly. Salt tears soaked into the fabric of her tunic and he clung to her convulsively as if, simply by the strength of his will, he could pull her back to the land of the living.