Days flew by as rapidly as summer rain and finally the massed army of free men returned to the White City. As the sun rose on the first day of May, they crossed the river at Osgiliath and rode with great pomp to the gates of Minas Tirith. Revelry spread throughout the city as the Lord Aragorn was made welcome by Faramir, Steward of Gondor, who Nimoë recognized as the man with whom Eowyn had stood upon the battlements of the Houses of Healing, while awaiting the stroke of doom.
A ceremony was held before the Gates and, with grave honor, Faramir brought forth the crown of the Kings of Gondor. Frodo carried the noble helm to Gandalf the White, who set the it firmly upon Aragorn's head. And Behold! A wondrous transformation came over him, and he was no longer Strider, mysterious wanderer of the north, nor was he Aragorn, battle-weary warrior. Before them now stood King Elessar, radiant in the mantle of his power, strong and noble of bearing. All who saw him bore no doubt in their hearts that this man, the heir of Elendil and Isildur, was truly their rightful born king and sovereign.
When the ceremony was completed, they entered into the city, to receive the accolades of the grateful citizens. The Fellowship walked together, for the part they had played in gaining the victory had won them great renown. Nimoë stubbornly refused to walk with them, saying, "Never was I one of the True Fellowship. Nine walkers to match the nine Nazgul. Once Gandalf was discovered alive, my part was played out, for ten was not to be borne. Only did I come along for the journey, to offer what aid I could. I will accept no laud for what little I did. Go, Legolas, and take pleasure in the honor that is your due. I will be waiting for you at the end of the day."
So Nimoë and Halanna rode together, near the rear of the crowd which flowed into the city, as relentless as floodwater. Their hearts were gladdened at the colorful banners, and cries of welcome, which were echoing about the city walls, and they smiled at those who chose to greet them.
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A full month later the memory of that day was still fresh in their minds, but also there was an impatience which hung about them. Aragorn was restless, often looking out from the heights of the city. Looking for what, none could say, but it seemed that until this unknown arrival, nothing of great import could be undertaken. Thus, the company relaxed in the bosom of the city and the country round about it, waiting restlessly for what would come.
Nimoë and Legolas walked hand in hand among the gentle foothills of the Ered Nimrais in the soft golden light of morning. Wildflowers blossomed like a fragrant carpet over the mossy ground, and the two elves took pleasure in the heady aromas that swirled up to them on the gentle breezes. Between them there passed no speech, for they needed it not. Their only communication was passed through the soft caresses of sensitive fingers, the flow of awareness that sped from one through to the other.
They reached the top of the hill and sat upon its verdant prow. Nimoë lay down fully, resting her head in Legolas' lap, where he stroked her hair absently. Aware that his thoughts were far away, Nimoë asked, "What is it, my heart? Why do you dwell in far off thoughts?"
Legolas pointed up into the sky, where white gulls were wheeling on the eddying air. "Do you not hear them? Their voices speak of the sea. Ah, the sea, Nimoë! I have yet to see it, but I feel the pull of it upon my heart. Many long years have I lived on these shores, and I feel the yearning to be away across the Western Waters."
Nimoë was silent for long moments. When she spoke, her voice was solemn, "Once Galadriel told me that a part of me still clung to this world like a deep-rooted vine. I find that she spoke truly. The cry of the gulls does not stir the sea-longing in me as it does in you. Perhaps it is because I am so many centuries younger. There is so much left for me to see!"
Legolas bent down and kissed her gently on her full pink lips. "I forget that there is such a difference in our ages. I hope that we will soon be able to leave this city, for the call of the gulls disquiets me. I do not wish to be parted from you, but the sea-longing is hard upon me."
A small smile curved on the corner of her lips. "Will you not let me distract you?" Her hands reached up and twined themselves through his silken hair, pulling him down onto the grass beside her.
Gazing at her enchanting face, Legolas managed to block out the cry of the gulls. "So beautiful," he whispered, then wrapped his arms about her, reveling in the sensation of her supple body pressed close against his.
His lips found hers in an achingly sweet caress, which quickly burst into roaring flame. Swept up by the sensations which he awoke in her, Nimoë clung to him, almost afraid of the blissful fire that smoldered within her. Warm rays of sunlight bathed them in radiance as they melted into each other.
With their arms entwined, oblivious to anything other than the fevered ardor of their love, they lay. Nimoë's radiant moon-pale hair mingled with Legolas' golden locks, and it would have been nearly impossible to tell where one person began and the other ended.
Raising up on his elbows to draw in a gasping breath, Legolas smiled down at his beloved, her face flushed with exhilaration. He ran his hand gently over her shoulder, impatient to smooth away the gown which stood sentinel between himself and her luminous skin, but she brought her hand up to still his. "Legolas," she breathed, desire making her voice quake, "Are you certain that this is what you want?"
In a husky voice he answered, "More certain than I have ever been in all my life. Please, Nimoë…"
For answer, she pulled him back down upon her, hands reaching for the clasp of his tunic. Just as he was about to pull the light garment, which was suddenly far too warm, over his head, a noise brought them up short. It was a trumpet, clear and strong, echoing off of the hills, announcing a new arrival to Minas Tirith.
Even as they lay there, staring at each other in wonderment, a symphony of other horns began to peal out their songs. "What…" began Legolas, sitting up and releasing Nimoë.
The Elf maid had rolled onto her elbows and she peered down to the valley floor. A host of horses and their riders was marching on the city, and their banners crackled in the breeze. One sight above all others caught Nimoë's eye and she leapt to her feet, crying out in joy, "Galadriel!"
Heedless of anything other than making her way to her beloved teacher, Nimoë ran headlong down the steep side of the hill, gathering the folds of her pale yellow gown into her hands to keep from tripping. Legolas sighed at the interrupted interlude, but ran quickly after her, re-sealing the clasp of his tunic as he went.
Nimoë's feet flew, but they went faster than she could control them, and she slipped, rolling several feet down the hill. Once she landed, she simply brushed herself off and made ready to continue her perilously rapid descent.
"Nimoë!" Legolas cried, and his voice commanding, "Slow down or wait for me!"
Impatiently, she pulled up short, and as soon as he was near she grabbed his hand, fair yanking him down the hill after her. Although she still traveled at breakneck speed, Legolas felt better, knowing that he was there to catch her if she fell. Together they reached the Pelennor Fields, and raced to intercept the line of riders.
As they drew near, Legolas saw that not only was Galadriel present, along with Celeborn, but with them rode Elrond and his daughter Arwen, as well as the brethren Elladan and Elrohir as well as many other men of noble bearing.
Heedless of decorum, Nimoë ran straight through the line of horses until she reached Galadriel's knee, where she burst into frantic speech, "My Lady, I failed in the task which you set me, and I dared not return to you. The way was blocked by orcs, and I chose to aid what was left of the fellowship in the best way I could see. Please tell me that I chose the correct path? Please tell me that I did right!"
The Lady of Lothlorien reined her white horse to a halt, and she looked down on her apprentice with a bemused smile. Always this girl had been impetuous, and clearly her adventures had not changed that. "I have followed your progress in my mirror, child, and I knew of your failure. But you have proven yourself to be of far greater worth than even I expected. If not for you, Rohan would not have a King. Many men owe their lives to you, and I would not have had you chose otherwise."
Nimoë had not realized how much worry had lain upon her, at the thought that she would disappointed her mentor, and when the words of approbation fell upon her ears, she felt her knees buckle in relief. Legolas' arm was about her instantly, and a soft smile flitted over Galadriel's face. "Take care of her, Legolas, son of Thranduil. She is as dear as a daughter to me."
"I will, Lady Galadriel."
The Lady of Lothlorien looked ahead of her towards Minas Tirith. "We must not delay here longer, but ride into the city. Nimoë, when the festivities are completed, I wish you to attend me. I have something of great import to discuss with you."
Nimoë bowed her head and backed away from Galadriel's horse, Legolas by her side. Together they watched as the caravan of the high and mighty rode into Minas Tirith, to the call of silver trumpets. But Nimoë's heart was troubled, for she had heard worry hidden deep in Galadriel's sonorous voice. Something was wrong, and it involved her.
A shiver ran its way up her spine, and she turned to seek comfort in Legolas' embrace. Tomorrow she would learn what evil thing could cause her mistress to worry. Tomorrow was a day that Nimoë desperately wished to avoid, for she feared that whatever revelations were to come, they could not help but destroy the idyllic life that she had enjoyed for the last month.
Legolas and Nimoë walked slowly back to the city, as Legolas could sense her reluctance. He squeezed her hand reassuringly, "All will be well, Nimoë. Trust me."