Three days had passed since the army of seven thousand men, six thousand on foot and one thousand mounted, had ridden forth from Minas Tirith. Three days of taut nerves and little sleep. Halanna paced gingerly on her injured leg, back and forth beside Nimoë's bed. Frustration tore into her, and she wanted to slam her fist up against the stone wall. Despite all of her efforts, and those of the healers of the city, the Elf remained deathly ill.
Water which Halanna poured over Nimoë's face evaporated against her heated skin almost as quickly as it fell, and when she changed the dressings on her wound, it was clear that there was a deep infection burning into the Elf. Halanna wanted to scream That was not supposed to happen! Elves are immortal, and they cannot suffer from infection.
Every single remedy that she tried seemed to have no effect and the lady of Rohan was at her wits end. Not once had the Elf maid awoken, and Halanna had begun to fear the worst. Heaving her breath out in a heavy sigh, Halanna sank down on the edge of the bed. Mechanically, she dipped the cloth in a bowl of cold water, and wiped it over Nimoë's face, her chest and arms, which were bared, while the rest her body was covered only by a light sheet.
As she was bathing the Elf's face, Halanna almost cried out when a welcome sight greeted her. Nimoë's eyes were open and most of the haze of fever was gone from them. Her voice crackled, for Halanna had had little luck forcing water down her throat, but she managed to croak, "How long?"
Halanna grabbed the water bowl off the table and pulled Nimoë to a sitting position, helping her to drink deeply of the cold, clear liquid. "It has been three days since you came back from the dead. I've been afraid that you were going to leave us again."
Nimoë quaffed deeply, and when she finally came up for breath, it was in a gasp. "Then it is three days since Legolas rode to the Black Gate. Has there been any word?"
Halanna shook her head regretfully. "Nothing, although sorely do I wish for tidings. My King rides in the vanguard, and I fear for his safety." Then the maid of Rohan shook her head vigorously, unwilling to dwell on her misgivings. "Here, lie back down and let me take a look at your wound."
When Halanna unwrapped the bandage, a gladsome sight greeted her. The edges of the wound were no longer wreathed with burning red streaks, and there was no longer a smell of rot rising up from the gash. Briskly, she cleaned the wound one more time, allowing her work to hide her guilty relief. Guilty, for she had realized not long after Eomer had ridden forth to war that if it were not for Nimoë's selfless act, then her King would be dead, and she would never have known the joy of his chivalrous affection.
Much as she hated her selfish nature, Halanna found that she did not regret Nimoë's actions, but if the Elf had died, the guilt upon her would have been tremendous. To mask her emotions, she spoke with professional detachment. "Well, it looks as if you have fought off the infection, and your fever has broken. It seems you will live to see another day, and perhaps even the rest of this age."
Nimoë reached out to clasp Halanna's hands with her fever weakened fingers. "Thank you."
#
Four days later, both women were able to leave the confines of the room. Halanna's leg wound had sealed itself completely and, while she walked with a limp, she bore it like a medal of honor. Nimoë leaned heavily on her shoulder, for she was still very weak, but she felt the need of open air and the company of trees.
They walked among the gardens of the Houses of Healing, breathing in the fragranced air, and Nimoë took strength there, for her Elven nature thrived in the company of nature. Halanna pointed up to the battlements and Nimoë brought her gaze to where she pointed. Knowing that Halanna could not see as clearly as herself, she said, "It is Eowyn. Eowyn and a man that I do not know, but his hair is as dark as a raven's wing. They seem to take great pleasure in each other's company." She turned to Halanna then, "I wonder if there is a view clear towards Mordor from that height."
Halanna had secretly harbored the same thought, but had been unwilling to mention it to Nimoë, afraid that the Elf would not be strong enough to venture up the stair. "We can certainly find out."
Together they made their way, slowly and painfully, to the battlements, where they stood, some distance from the Lady of Rohan and her unknown companion. All that they could see was the line of mountains stretched out against the horizon. They loomed dark and menacing and both women unconsciously shied away from resting their gaze too long upon them.
Nimoë spoke under her breath, "There lies all of our hope. The darkness rests heavy upon us, and we cannot know what has come to pass at the Black Gate, but surely the stroke of doom must fall soon. Oh, Legolas, come home safe to me!"
Halanna wrapped her arm around the Elf maid and held her close, offering her comfort, even while her own heart ached with unspoken pain. As they stood thus, wrapped in each other's arms, an awesome sight unfolded before them. A tower of smoke-like clouds rose beyond the distant mountains, overwhelming them by its vastness, and lightning flashed throughout it. The sight filled them with fear and they drew close together, drawing courage each from the other.
A great rumbling filled their ears and the building began to shake under their feet. Halanna braced her arm against the edge of the battlement, and balanced the two of them as best she could. Once the terrible quaking passed, the strange dark cloud flew upward and out, disintegrating into nothingness. With its passing the sun broke through the clouds which had shrouded the sky for the past week, shining so brightly it seemed that it was trying to make up for its absence with new brilliance.
Nimoë and Halanna turned and faced each other, smiles of wonder upon their faces. "Do you think…" began Halanna.
Nimoë finished the thought, "The stroke of doom has fallen. It seems that our fate is now decided and, while I feel sure that a great evil has been swept from this land, we must wait now for word. But I have great hope, Halanna. Surely the Ringbearer has completed his task! The only question that remains is whether it was done soon enough to save the lives of the valiant men of the West. Let us pray that they still live."
Her heart pounded fast within her breast, and her limbs desperately wanted to pace, to work off the impatient eagerness that swept over her. "Help me down from here?" she asked.
#
The two women were unwilling to return to their sickroom, so they waited in the gardens for word. Great worry was upon them, so they did not waste their energies on speech. Nimoë sat propped against a young oak, enjoying the feel of its smooth bark, trying not to dwell on her concern for Legolas. Surely he was well. His skill as a warrior was unmatched. Surely no servant of the shadow could lay him low.
Of a sudden, a new sound reached her keen Elven ears. It was the sound of the air being swept aside by great wings, and a deep avian screech split the sky. "An eagle is coming," she spoke.
Soon even Halanna could hear the cry of the great bird, and its words brought tears of joy to her eyes. "The Dark Lord has met his doom! Frodo of the Nine Fingers, Ringbearer, has sent Isildur's Bane to the fires of Orodruin! Rejoice, free people's of Middle-Earth, for your days of terror are at an end! Sing with great rejoicing! Sing of victory! Sing of the heroes who have prevailed against all odds! Sing!"
All throughout the city voices raised together in joyous song, and the sound of it echoed round about. Nimoë filled her lungs and joined her voice to that of the others, and the music which poured forth was a balm to those who heard her.
Caught up in the power of the unified voices of Minas Tirith, Halanna felt the battlements of her hard fought self-control crumble, and she fell to her knees at Nimoë's feet, burying her face in the folds of the Elf maid's gown, sobbing uncontrollably.
Even as she sang, Nimoë reached down and stroked Halanna's long sandy hair, offering her comfort, understanding that all of her pent up fears were finally being given free rein now that the threat was over. Within the song of victory, Nimoë wove words of power, offering Halanna all the reassurance that she had to give, and as the sun began to set into night, the two women sat together in the gardens, arms wrapped tightly about each other, with tears of joy streaming from their eyes.