Several long hours later, as the sun reached its zenith in the sky, the Elven refugees had almost crested the craggy pass that would lead them forth into Mordor.  Nimoë and Tinunél had remained near the back of the crowd, for the girl was still suffering the aftereffects of the strange song of power.  Tinunél remained behind Nimoë, afraid that she would slip, that her legs would fail her and she would crash down the mountain.  Yet not once had the girl faltered.  Each step followed the next, slow and plodding, but sure.

Every so often, Tinunél glanced behind, looking for signs that Men were following.  If they were, they were moving slowly, for she could see nothing.  Perhaps the Eagle had done enough damage to repulse their immediate attack.

The Eagle!

Watching the whole surreal event from above, Tinunél had thought that certainly Legolas and Nimoë were lost.  Then Nimoë's voice had raised in song, and her foster mother thought that she had never heard its like.  Often enough Nimoë had sung, for she was a young Elf, and music was an integral part of life.  But her voice, when lilting the familiar lays of their people was a small, pure, clear soprano.  Lovely, but not beautiful, for there were many who could claim a more melodious instrument.

The sounds which had reached to the ears of the watching Elves and also, apparently, to the great Eagle, had been much different: low, potent, and ringing with a vibrant power that seemed to compel obedience.  Where had such a thing come from?  Was there more to this girl-child that she had raised as her own than it seemed?

Casting her memory back, she realized that she had heard once of something similar.  There had traveled with the fabled Fellowship of the Ring, in the end of the third age, a young Elf maid.  Her name was lost to history, for she had refused any such honor, but rumor had it that her voice was a powerful tool of healing, that she had saved the life of Eomer, King of Rohan, sacrificing her own immortality in the process.

As Tinunél climbed on, she wracked her mind, trying to remember every last detail of the mysterious lady of legend.  Ah, yes!  She had died not long after, slain by a minion of Saruman.  It had been rumored that the Elf Prince was in love with her, and when she died he had lost the will to live, neither eating nor drinking, nor even sleeping.  Then, mysteriously, he had pulled himself back from the brink, although none who had told her the story could say how or why.  Never since then had the Prince shown interest in any woman, although many would have been willing, yea eager, to be with him.

Tinunél suddenly ceased her forward motion and looked up at the steadily treading form of her foster daughter.  A strange suspicion began to build in her breast.  Legolas had always been so fiercely protective of the girl, although there had never been an explanation of why…  Could it be?  Was Nimoë the mysterious maiden of the Fellowship, born again into the world from the Halls of Mandos?

But the girl had become mortal!  It was impossible for a mortal to be reborn.  Still, the longer she thought on it, the more firmly convinced she became in her mind.  It would explain the Prince's strange obsession with the girl, and the frightening power that Nimoë had demonstrated on the cliff ledge.

Tinunél realized that she had fallen far behind, and she began to climb again.  In the dusky light of the new morning, she could see her breath coming in foggy puffs.  It was autumn, and this high in the mountains the air was bitterly cold.  She chafed her hands together, but the frigid breezes that blew past denied her even that small bit of warmth.  She bent her head down and remained that way, forging upward without watching what was coming ahead, only keeping her face out of the stinging wind.

Abruptly, she came upon the still forms of the Elves.  They stood, staring out over the pass in dismay.  Tinunél looked out into the desolate landscape that would be her new home.  Blackened earth spread as far as the eye could see, shot through with great crevices and chasms, looking as if a giant had smashed his hammer down, shattering the very ground.  Only a few stunted trees tried to grow, their forms twisted and dwarfed, looking less alive than dead, although the rare leaf could be seen fluttering on a tortured limb.

Across the vast plain and to the north rose a terrible sight.  Thrust up from the earth like a spear driven through from the underworld was a vast mountain, its heights wreathed in black, smoky ash, fiery red rivers rolling down its flanks, clouds of hissing steam rising up about them. 

Tinunél shuddered and heard sobs coming from many about her.  Looking at the blanched faces nearby, Tinunél wanted to cry herself, but found that she could not find the energy.  She looked about for Nimoë, and found the girl sitting on a rocky outcrop, some distance from the others.  Something in the way she held herself told Tinunél that she wished to be left alone, so she bowed to her foster daughter's wishes.  Instead, she went to find Legolas.

Legolas had come back to consciousness a scant half of an hour after he had succumbed to the weakness wrought by his loss of blood.  Elves are quick to heal, and Tinunél had powerful herbs in her ever-present pouch, so, while he was not well, he was strong enough to climb on his own, although he could not use his left arm.  He stood next to Caldarion, who had not left his side, staring out at the warped land ahead.

How could they survive in this place?  There were poisons in the air, and in the land and water.  Growing things were few and far between.  What would they eat?  Drink?  He shuddered.  It was even worse than he had dared to believe.  Surely after four centuries some healing would have taken place… But no.  The evidence was clear before him.  And they had no other options.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nimoë leave the company, settling herself down on a rocky promontory.  Her pale hair fluttered in the cold wind.  Somewhere along the way she had lost the tie holding her braid in place.  Her eyes were fixed forward, and Legolas could guess the nature of her thoughts, much the same as his own.

He tore his gaze away from Nimoë, and looked behind and about him at what was left of his Colony.  There were more than she who depended on him, and now was not the time to leave them to their own devices.  They desperately needed strong leadership.  Many were weeping, both from reaction to the destruction of their homes and the probable loss of their loved ones, and also the fear of the hardships which clearly lay ahead.  Sorrow was heavy upon him, as he guessed that there were only around six hundred left in the company.  Almost half of them lost!  Most of those who were missing were men, those who had been out on patrol when the attack had come.  He harbored little hope of finding them alive.  It seemed that the women outnumbered the men by two to one.

Indeed, they would have to learn different roles in this new frontier.  If they were to survive, they must all be willing to take on new responsibilities, new skills.  A quick thought sped through his mind.  In front of them spread the fields of Gorgoroth.  Perhaps farther south, near to the Sea of Núrnen, there would be a better chance of survival.

Although he harbored no thoughts of ease, for Nurn was still within the realm of Mordor, the idea filled him with a small ray of hope.  It had been rumored that the plains of Nurn harbored some growing things, for it was there that the slave-farms of Sauron had been kept.  Slaves needed to eat.  If they could reach the southern land of Nurn, they might have a chance.

Lifting his voice high, Legolas called out, "We must not falter now.  We must go forth without fear.  Follow me!"

He set his feet on a path down the rugged eastern slopes of the Mountains of Shadow.  Caldarion followed on his heels, unwilling to leave the weakened Prince to his own devices.  Legolas did not need to look behind to know that the others were moving to obey his command.  He could hear them well enough.

He beckoned to Caldarion and the youth hurried to walk at his side.  "Caldarion," he began, "Most of the men of the patrols have been lost.  You are one of few who remain.  You have proven your worth many times over, not least when you convinced the Elves to follow you towards Mordor.  I will need a man that I can trust to serve as my lieutenant.  Will you accept this charge?"

Caldarion felt pride swell in his chest, although it was tempered by the knowledge that it was only due to the loss of many great Elves that he was offered such a responsibility.  "My Prince, it is my honor to serve you in any way that you see fit.  Your valor is legendary, and it humbles me to serve at your side."

Legolas nodded.  "Good.  We have a long hard road ahead of us.  This terrain is too difficult for many, and we must reach the plains of Gorgoroth with all due speed.  From there we will move south.  There will be more mountains to cross, but they are not so terrible.  On the other side is the land of Nurn.  Green things will grow there, not with any vigor, but enough for us to live on."

He shook his head with worry.  "I know not if there will be any food, or even water along the way.  I fear that we may lose more before we reach Nurn.  Still, we must keep them going.  Do not let them falter, Caldarion.  Circulate among them.  Help those that you can."

The younger Elf's brown eyes grew deadly serious as he understood the magnitude of what was facing them.  He held his body straighter, and looked up the slope at those who followed.  "I will do everything in my power.  You can count on me, Legolas."

Legolas nodded, then moved on, exhaustion dogging his steps, the wound in his shoulder throbbing with a piercing ache.  He lifted his eyes to the northeast and looked at the smoking sore that was Orodruin, Mount Doom.  The mountain was no longer dormant.  That boded ill, for at the passing of the One Ring, it had fallen deep into slumber, not to be awoken until some new force of Evil came to call it forth.

He shuddered with remembrance of what had almost been those long centuries past.  Unwilling to dwell on the implications of the rumblings of the mountain, he turned his eyes away, focusing all his thought on seeing his people safe into the land of Nurn.