Nimoë glided quickly down the hidden path that led towards the western border. Her deep green linen dress clung to her newly developing body, and she hummed to herself as she walked. She carried a basket full of foodstuffs on her hip, her mission to deliver them to the Elves stationed along the perimeter.
Her long blonde hair was pulled into a soft braid that fell down to the middle of her back, and it swayed gently from side to side as she walked. A bird call came from overhead and she glanced up, then whistled a greeting in reply. The guard in the tree lowered his bow.
Nimoë lifted her hand and waved a greeting, knowing that the man was there, even though he was so well concealed that she could not see him. Raids along the border had grown more frequent in the past years, and the number of Elves dedicated to defense had grown accordingly. Nimoë's foster father Hanadir had even been summoned away from his work as a healer, leaving her foster mother Tinunél and two other women to care for the wounded, who were coming in with more regularity
Nimoë herself assisted when she could, and those who received her ministrations swore that she must be a gift from Ilúvatar, for her hands were gentle, but her healing was powerful. Hanadir and Tinunél had begun her instruction as soon as she had come to live with them. It had been a revelation to the traumatized child. Providing succor to those who were suffering was like a balm to her own soul. It was as if with each bandage she applied, each healing unguent spread over rent flesh, she was applying it directly to her heart.
That first day in the Colony, she had woken to find herself surrounded by many unfamiliar faces. She had tried to hide herself back under the bedsheets, but Prince Legolas had gently pulled them down, holding her hands tightly as he told her that her mother's body had been found. As he spoke, her last remaining hope was dashed from her, and she had thrown herself into his arms, weeping with the sorrow of utter devastation.
He had held her close, absorbing her grief, offering comfort, while the strangers about the bed looked on. At long last, her sobs had lessened, and she was introduced to the young healers who would serve as her foster parents. They both had open, smiling faces, and a comfortable ease of speech, which translated to a superb bedside manner. Nimoë had found them to be friendly, but when the time came for her to leave with them, she became reluctant, clinging to the Elf Prince with both arms, afraid to be separated from him. He had reassured her, however, promising that if at any time she had need of him, he would come at her call.
Nimoë smiled at the memory. He had been true to his word.
For as long as she had lived in the Elf Colony she had been aware of him and his constant protective presence. He was always on the periphery, always just on the edge of her vision. It seemed that no matter what his duties, he always found time in his day to greet her, asking her about her studies, or bringing her a small offering of wildflowers. His steady presence lightened her heart and, although it was rare that she was able to spend time alone with him, she treasured those moments.
As she moved on through the dense trees, she cast her mind back to one of her most cherished memories. Legolas had decided to hold a festival. Morale was unusually low within the Colony and it had seemed like bringing them all together for a celebration was a good way to bolster their spirits. Many games were planned: an archery tournament and knife throwing contest for the men, and for everyone there would be races of every kind.
On the day of the festival, Nimoë had come dressed in her best summer frock, hand in hand with Hanadir and Tinunél. It had been three years since she had arrived, and the unqualified love which her foster parents showered upon her had wiped away the most painful scars of her previous life, leaving her buoyant and effervescent of spirit once again. The bright colors and joyful dancing music filled her with excitement, and she could hardly restrain her impatience for the games to begin.
The first event to be contested was the archery tournament. The competition was fierce, for the men of the Colony trained long and hard, but in the end it had come down to Legolas and one other man, the Captain of the Wilderness Guard. Nimoë had watched with bated breath, willing her Prince to shoot with deadly precision.
When both men took their final shots, Gildir, the captain, came within a hairsbreadth in the bull's-eye, even though the target had been moved back an extra thirty paces. Nimoë had wrung her small hands together, fearful that even the Elf Prince could not match such a shot.
When Legolas had sighted down his arrow, however, his eyes were fiercely calm, and his arms did not shake, nor did his composure waver in the pressure of the competition. The twang of the bowstring rang through the silent air and the assembled crowd pulled in a collective gasp of anticipation.
With a solid thwap, the arrow embedded itself into the hay bale, dead center of the tiny bull's-eye. A great roar of appreciation rose up from the crowd, and the thunder of applause rang in Nimoë's ears. She leapt up and down, elated by his victory. In a way, she considered him to be her champion. He had offered her his protection, and she knew in her heart that he harbored a great fondness for her.
Unable to restrain herself, she ran forward to congratulate him, and he swept her high into the air, holding her up over his head. With a broad smile, he turned to face the crowd. "As the champion of archery, I claim the right to chose my partner for the next competition, the three-legged race. Nimoë, will you do me the honor?"
She nodded her small blonde head vigorously, overwhelmed with excitement. She would race with the Prince!
As he set her feet back on the ground, Legolas called out, "To make this race
fair, every pair must be an adult and a child.
Find your partners and assemble at the starting line!" He pointed to a red ribbon which had been
laid out across the end of the large open field, where the festival was being
celebrated.
Together the two had gone to fetch a tie to bind their legs together. At the start line, Legolas knelt down and swiftly tied the rough linen band about their legs. "There!" he declared, "Now we are bound together as one."
It seemed to Nimoë that a strange expression that she could not identify passed over his face as he spoke those words, but she shook the thought aside, wrapping her arm about his waist. For a few moments they practiced moving as one, then they were called to make ready.
The race was over in a few short moments, but they were magical. All around them, pairs stumbled and fell, either because they were trying too hard, or because the adult and the child could not manage to move in unison. Legolas, however, held her firmly supported about the shoulders, and they moved with ease, not quite running, but with confident steps. When they crossed the finish line and Nimoë looked up, she saw their nearest competitors cross just behind them.
She had shrieked in joy and, forgetting that her leg was bound, she tried to bounce up and down in her delight. All she succeeded in doing was losing her balance, and pulling Legolas down with her. As they fell, he wrapped her in his arms and rolled, so that he landed on the bottom of the pile, with her safe atop him. Looking down into his face, she had laughed with joy, and was rewarded with the happiest expression she had ever seen on his often somber features.
After that, her foster parents had swooped down upon them, while Legolas untied their feet. Hanadir lifted her high into the air calling, "Three cheers for Legolas and Nimoë, victors of the three-legged race!"
Nimoë smiled wryly. She had been so young then, a mere child. Now she was nearly a woman. Her body had blossomed over the past years, and she now stood nearly as tall as her foster mother. It would be only a few more years before she truly became a woman.
Aware of the new responsibilities that her growing maturity brought her, she insisted on performing all of the duties of the adults. Deliveries to the patrols were the one chore that she could have lived without. Always she was uncomfortable this close to the border. The patrols were spread thin, and danger was ever present. Urging her feet to move faster, she pressed onward.
A strange hush came over the forest, and Nimoë shivered. With fearful steps she kept moving forward, into the oddly silent underbrush. Always it seemed that the birds stopped their singing when danger was near. To dispel the cold dread which descended upon her, she began to sing. Singing was her balm. Strange things seemed to happen when she sang. If there was something that she truly wanted, and she thought about it hard enough as she sang, more often than not that thing came to pass. It was almost as if her song could effect the things around her.
She shook her head violently. Such ideas were ridiculous. Singing was singing was singing, and nothing magical about it. Nothing magical but the ability to lift one's spirits in dark hours. So she lifted her voice high, ringing it out loud and strong. She sang of the birds of the forest, of their beauty and frailty, and concentrated on visualizing them taking comfort and again lifting their melodious voices in song.
The cacophony of birdsong that began about her startled her. It had happened again! Why was it that when she wished for a thing hard enough, her song seemed to bring it into existence? Why?
Lost in her thoughts, she almost did not see the dark forms approaching until it was too late. Abruptly, a motion caught her eye and she lifted her face to look. Her heart caught in her throat when she saw a hooded figure crouched low behind a bush, a gleaming glint of metal in his hand. Looking closer she saw that all about her there were other dark shadows, creeping stealthily forward, and their eyes were focused on her.
Slowly at first, she began to back away, attempting to appear nonchalant, but her backward motion told them that she was aware of their presence. Dropping all pretence of stealth, the figures leapt forward, swords drawn.
Nimoë screamed and turned to flee. She dropped the basket of food, sending bread rolls, carrots and apples rolling about the forest floor, providing some small impediment to her pursuers. On feet made fleet by fear she ran, screaming, "Men!! Men! Someone help me! There are Men within the borders!"
The foremost few of her pursuers began to gain on her, covering more ground with their longer strides. She strained with every fiber of her body to outdistance them, dodging through the dense underbrush, but saw that she was fighting a losing battle. With a last glance behind her, she made her final error. A large root loomed up in her path, but she did not see it, and she stumbled over it, crashing hard to the earth.
As quick as lightning, her attackers were upon her. Two Men grabbed her and pulled her roughly to her feet. Terror like none she could remember coursed through her, and she struggled against her captors, screaming, kicking and biting. The largest Man among them approached her and pressed his sword up against her throat. "If you do not stop your screaming, I will cleave your pretty head from your neck," he growled.
Immediately, she ceased her struggles, but could not keep low moans of terror from rising from her throat. With the cold steel point of the sword embedded against her skin, she held herself immobile, not daring to move a muscle. "What do you want with me?" she begged, her voice trembling.
The scruffy looking Man in front of her relaxed somewhat, although he kept his sword poised at her throat. With his free hand, he scratched at the greyish-brown stubble on his chin. "Well, let me see, now. We could kill you, seeing as how you're an Elf, but I think I can find a better use for you."
One of the men who was holding her arms hostage gave a cry of disgust. "Not that, Rogen! She's pretty enough, but she's an Elf, for pity's sake. There's no telling what diseases she's got crawling around in her."
Nodding sagely, Rogen agreed. "True enough. But I had something else in mind. They say that there's a whole city full of Elves in these woods. I'm going to find it, and then I'm going to burn them out. Just think! The King will give me an earldom for certain. He's wanted to be rid of these foul creatures for long years."
Roughly, he jerked Nimoë close against his body, dropping the sword away from her neck, and he leered down into her face. "And you, my pet, are going to lead us there."
For an infinitely long moment, Nimoë thought that he was going to kiss her, with his flaccid, deathly pale lips. Desperately, she renewed her struggles. "I will never help you!" she cried. "I would rather die!"
She pressed away from him, her hands planted against his massive chest, trying to put distance between them. Angered beyond the point of reason at her disgusted rejection, Rogen shoved her down hard and she crashed to her back on the forest floor. Breath was knocked clean from her body, and she stared up in horror as the Man raised his sword. "That can be arranged easily enough, Elf!" he cried, spittle flying from his lips.
She closed her eyes, unwilling to watch her own death, but what fell upon her was not the killing stroke of the sword, but the full, heavy weight of a massive body. Crushing pressure forced what was left of her air out of her lungs, and she pushed up against the substantial bulk, struggling to free herself, with no success. Her face was covered by the collapsed body, and she could not see.
Although she was blinded, she could hear, and what she heard brought tears of relief to her eyes. A cold voice, seething with suppressed anger, spoke, "Leave this place now and never return. If you are seen here again, you will be shot on sight. And take the body of that animal with you. Tell your friends that such is what you can expect if you ever again try to harm my people."
There came a scuffling of feet, and the body of the unkempt ruffian was pulled off of her. Swiftly the group of Men retreated, carrying the body between them, and Nimoë made out a straight-shafted arrow protruding from the lifeless head. She rose to a sitting position and looked behind her.
Standing in a menacing line were ten of the border guard, their weapons raised, and in front of them was Legolas, his bow still drawn, keeping the Men in his sights until they passed from view. Then he motioned two of the Elves with him ahead. "Follow them," he commanded. "Make certain that they leave this place. If they do not, kill them."
He glanced down at her then, and a look of incredulous shock spread over his face. "Nimoë?!" He crossed the distance between them in an instant, pulling her to her feet, hands traveling over her to reassure himself that she was in one piece. "What are you doing here? Have you no idea how dangerous it is on the borders?"
His intensity frightened her, and she replied, "Of course I know it is dangerous. Everyone knows it is dangerous! That does not mean that the patrol does not need to eat! Every day there are women out here, delivering food and supplies. I am here because it is my duty."
Legolas did not trust himself to speak, so great was his ire. She was no woman yet, so what was she doing in harm's way? Someone would answer for this. Reining in his anger before he could frighten her further, he beckoned forward one of his men. "Caldarion, take Nimoë home. Bring her to her mother."
He then turned his intense blue gaze back onto the girl, now so close to blossoming into womanhood. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice strained, overwhelmed at the realization of how close he had come to losing her again.
She nodded and bent down to brush the dead leaves off of her dress. "I am nothing worse than frightened."
"Good. When I return from my watch, I will come and find you. I wish to speak with you on serious matters."
Nimoë bowed to acknowledge his request, although she was still shaking with reaction to the attack. "I will wait for you."
He squeezed her upper arm to help bolster her spirits, giving her a small half-smile. "Go with Caldarion. He will see you safely home."
"By your command," she said, then moved towards the young Elf. He was only a few decades older than she was herself, and already an accomplished fighter. His deep brown hair reminded her painfully of her mother and father, but she pushed those thoughts away.
She had only taken a few steps when her quaking knees buckled, and she stumbled. Caldarion reached out a firm hand to steady her, then wrapped an arm about her waist, to support her as they walked. Nimoë leaned in against his solid strength, accepting his silent comfort.
Legolas watched after them, rage simmering in his veins. They had almost killed Nimoë! Too often now were Men penetrating his peaceful domain. Too often, and with too much cost. Something would have to be done, and soon, although for the life of him, he could not think what.
Turning abruptly on his heels, he beckoned what was left of the fighters to follow him. "Come. We must not relax our vigilance for an instant. It was only luck that so many of us were near enough to hear her cries. Keep your wits about you."
The troop of Elves moved out of the glade on silent feet, and soon they were lost to sight.
