Nimoë spent a sleepless night, pacing back and forth along the battlements of the Houses of Healing. She lived there still for, although her wound had healed, she was often called on to help tend the sick who came for healing. This was not a burden to her, for she felt it was her duty to offer aid wherever she could.
Her keen sight pierced the darkness of the moonless night, and she gazed out at the jagged profile of Mountains of Shadow. Mordor. What a foul place. How long would it take before living things could begin to grow there, and not be tainted by the poisoned earth, the acid air? A shudder passed through her and she moved on, back and forth and back again.
When finally the eastern sky began to fill with pale lavender hues, which gave way to fiery crimson and molten gold, she turned and walked down the stairs to the gardens. Soon the city would be rousing. She could seek out Galadriel, and finally her dread would be given a name.
In her small room, she dressed herself in a simple white gown, laced about her waist with a twined green cord, the ends of which hung down past her knees. Her cloak she left behind her for, although the dawn air was chill, she wanted to feel it seeping into her bones. The bite of the cold helped to remind her that she was alive.
On quiet feet she left her temporary home and started up the steep path towards the top of the city. People were beginning to stir, some throwing open their shutters to let in the first light of morning, shopkeepers braving the cold morning to prepare their stores for the day, which would undoubtedly prove to be a lucrative one. Celebrations inevitably made people feel like spending their money.
A young girl, with riotous, brown curly hair, dashed past her, on some urgent errand, but took time to flash Nimoë a brilliant grin on her way by. "Good morning, Elf Lady!" the child called back over her shoulder.
In answer, Nimoë lifted her hand in a half-hearted wave. Worry was too heavy upon her to muster a more energetic reply. Thankfully, the girl had already sped away, and was not aware of her response.
At long last, somewhat winded by her climb, Nimoë reached the tower at the top of the city. It was Aragorn's palace now, and the guests of the kingdom were housed within. The guard at the door recognized her immediately and did not challenge her passage. He pulled back the heavy oak, and wished her a good day.
Once inside, the Elf maid climbed the twisting stair until she reached a large oaken desk, set just inside a door off the stairway. A secretary sat there, shuffling through a thick stack of parchment, and he did not notice her until she cleared her throat. He jumped, startled, then nodded to her. "What can I do for you so early in the day, My Lady?"
"Can you tell me where I can find Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien? I have urgent business with her."
"Of course!" The secretary leafed through a second stack of parchment, and found what he was looking for four sheets down. "Ah! She is housed three flights up at the end of the hall. I remember now. That suite of rooms has the largest windows, and tall trees grow just outside of them. King Elessar felt that the Lady would be most comfortable there of all the places inside this edifice."
Nimoë nodded. "Thank you," she said, then stepped back into the stairway, rapidly ascending the three flights. Through the long, dark hallway she trod, on slowing feet. Now that she was near to her goal, she was strangely reluctant to complete the journey. Finally, she stood just outside the heavy door, breathing deeply, trying to work up the courage to knock.
"Nimoë, I have been expecting you. Come inside," came Galadriel's voice, echoing through the cavern of her mind. Not a sound had been uttered, for the Elf Queen spoke directly into Nimoë's consciousness.
Of course she would know that I am here, without my knocking, thought Nimoë, and so the Elf maid pushed open the door. Galadriel was sitting in the windowsill, looking out through the tall trees towards the rising of the sun. Gentle breezes fluttered her long golden hair about her, and her snow white gown seemed to dance upon the wind.
"Sit," she spoke, without turning her head to see that Nimoë had obeyed her command to enter. An upholstered white stool was nearby, and Nimoë sank down onto it, glad for its presence, for she was afraid that her legs would not hold her up, as they were quaking in fear.
She drew a shaky breath and asked, "Please, My Lady. I know that something is amiss, and it frightens me not knowing. Won't you tell me what you must and be done with it?"
At long last, Galadriel turned her face away from the glory of the dawn's splendor, and rested her clear blue gaze upon Nimoë. This girl had been like a daughter to her. How could she bear to hurt her as she knew she must? How could she pronounce her doom?
Alighting from the windowsill, Galadriel glided across the stone floor, and stopped in front of Nimoë, where she took her hands in her own. "Tell me, Nimoë, what death was like."
Shrugging her shoulders, the Elf maid replied, "It was cold. Piercing, aching cold. Like nothing I had ever experienced before, nor have I any wish to feel it again. My body was pain, and pain was my body. It was agony."
"Nimoë, if you felt pain, how could you have been dead?"
"I…" Nimoë paused, thinking. "I had not thought of that. Are you telling me that I was not dead? But everyone assures me that I was. I was not breathing, nor was there a pulse to be found on me."
Galadriel shook her head. "You were not dead. You say you were cold. Did no one tell you of the unnatural chillness of your body? Even in death, the chill does not set in so quickly, nor so strong. Nay, it was the spell which you used. It is a very powerful one, and I am surprised that you were able to make it work. Never did I teach you that. When you took King Eomer's wound from him, you also set a defensive response in yourself. To keep yourself from dying before there was a chance for your body to begin to save itself, you went into a state which I can only describe as hibernation. Your breath and pulse were so slow and shallow, frozen by that icy chill, that it seemed to all that you were dead. But you were not. Only awaiting the time that you could begin to heal naturally. When that time came, you began to come back into awareness, and the functions of life returned full force."
Relief washed over Nimoë. So that explained it! Although she hoped never to face death again, the threat of it had loomed large over her, for she had no wish to live that agony of pain for all eternity. It seemed that with the threat of eternal suffering lifted, Nimoë's heart grew lighter.
Galadriel's face grew somber. "Nimoë, that is not the end of my tale."
The relief which had spread through the Elf maid flew away on swift wings. Here now, would come the revelation which she dreaded.
The Elf Queen released one of Nimoë's hands, and began to stroke her long fingers through the maid's silky, straight hair. "Nimoë, the magic which you used to save Eomer is ancient and powerful. There are consequences to its use. When you give of your own life to save another, you take more of them into you than simply their wound. Among Elves, any who has performed this magic carries a part of the one that they saved for all time. Not so ill a thing, it would seem, but it was not an Elf whom you healed. It was a man. A mortal." Taking a breath to steady herself before delivering the crushing blow, Galadriel continued. "When you gave Eomer your life, you did so in truth. Your immortality has flown from you, Nimoë. You are mortal, doomed to die."
Disbelief registered on Nimoë's fair face, and she shook her head in denial. "No! It cannot be so. Still can I use the Elven magic. Still have I the keen sight and hearing of my people. I cannot be mortal!"
"I am afraid that it is so. Your constitution is still that of an Elf, so all of these things are yours by right, but you are no longer immune to disease and, though it will be slow, you will age, and you will die." The Queen's voice fell to a whisper, "I am sorry, Nimoë, dear as daughter."
Thinking back on her long bout of fever, coupled with the infection of her wound, the truth finally seeped into Nimoë's brain. Her fair face crumpled and she bowed her head into her hands, tears streaming down her face. Galadriel knelt in front of her, and gathered her to her breast. "Oh, child, I wish that I did not have to tell you this thing! I wish that I could make it untrue. But what is done is done. Rohan's King lives and one Elf, strong in the ways of power, will pass from the earth."
Nimoë pulled her tear-stained face out of her hands and looked pleadingly up at her friend and mentor. "I would not care for my part. I grudge Eomer not the gift, but what of Legolas? How can I do that to him? How can I ask him to remain with me and watch me wither into old age, to stand by me in sickness, knowing that his love will be for naught? Oh! It is not to be borne!"
She leapt then to her feet and fled from the room, and her sobs echoed back down the corridor, reaching Galadriel's sensitive ears. The Elf Queen shook her head sadly. Nimoë was right. She had lost not only her hope of eternal life, but her hope for eternal love as well. Heaviness descended even deeper over Galadriel's heart and she stood, leaving the antechamber where she knelt, and went to find Celeborn. She found she needed the comfort of her husband's arms.