Nimoë stood perched high on the northern watchtower, her bow at the ready, staring out toward the north, where the fires of Orodruin grew ever brighter as the months wore on.  She fingered the nock bead on her bowstring, nervous, as she always was when it was her rotation on guard duty.  A cold breeze blew down from the Mountains of Shadow to the west, and she shivered.  After ten years in this place, she would have thought that such a breeze would no longer hold any fear for her, but such was not the case.

Every time the west wind blew, she was reminded of that terrible trek from Ithilien.  So many had died.  A full hundred Elves passed into the Halls of Mandos, weakened from lack of food and water, poisoned by the foul gases that ravaged the northern plains of Gorgoroth.

By the time what was left of them had reached Nurn, they could hardly place one foot in front of the other.  The dried green plains of Nurn had looked to them to be a paradise, rich in food, with water flowing in streams that were untainted.  Once they had regained their strength, however, the reality of the country was far less inviting.

Nurn was a broad plain, fertile, but only enough to grow the most meager of crops.  They had passed south to the Sea of Núrnen and, on the far western bank, where a swiftly flowing river cascaded down from the Mountains of Shadow, emptying into the vast inland sea, they had built their new home.  Núrnelven, they named it.  Place of the Elves in Nurn.

It had been an easy choice as a building site, for many rotted out ruins still remained from the time when Sauron's slave-farms had thrived there. Burned out remnants of buildings littered the shore and, while in any other time, the Elves would have shied away from them, they had proved to be invaluable.  Using the ruins as the skeletons for their own construction, they were able to shave months off of the time it would have taken to build from scratch.

When the first snows of winter had blown that first year, a mere two months after their arrival, the drifts had piled shoulder high, and the Elves had been forced to huddle together in the three buildings which remained mostly whole, using their body heat to keep each other from freezing to death.

It had been a long a perilous winter.  Legolas sent small groups out to forage for food whenever there was a break in the relentless snows, and they had not starved, although most had grown lean, their features sunken.  When the snow had melted away, the Elves had turned their attentions to the fields.  Wheat and oats grew wild in the places where the slaves of Sauron had sown them, centuries past.  It took two long years to tame the land to a state where crops could be grown in enough abundance to feed them well.  In those years, all had grown gaunt and thin.  Nimoë, who had still been growing, felt the effects more than many.  Indeed, Tinunél told her that she stopped growing early, due to malnutrition.

Now a fully mature Elf, Nimoë stood only as tall as Tinunél's nose, and her foster mother was short for an Elf.  Her stunted growth, however, had not effected her beauty.  Many of the male Elves watched her with desire, for although she did not have the classic beauty of the Elves of legend, she radiated a pureness of spirit that was tremendously alluring, especially in this place of hardship.

Nimoë was aware of their attentions, how could she not be, but she held herself aloof.  In point of fact, the only male Elves she socialized with were Legolas and Caldarion.  It seemed that the latter had finally lost his boyish infatuation with her, and they had grown close.  Through the ten long years that the Elves had resided in Núrnelven, more often than not Nimoë would be found in his company.

Nimoë smiled to herself as she thought back.  He had quickly attained a position of prestige and leadership in the colony.  With his new responsibilities came unexpected burdens, and he often came to her when he felt he could not chose the right path to follow.  Legolas trusted him implicitly, and gave him ever increasing duties, trying to spread the burden of command over someone other than himself, on the off chance that something should happen to him.  It was wiser to have a second in command groomed and ready to pull in the reins if the leader was killed.

Nimoë felt her smile fade as she gazed through the dimming light into the dark plains of Gorgoroth in the distance.  It had been three weeks since Caldarion had left for the north.  Two other Elves traveled in his company, but they were young and inexperienced.  Strange things had been happening in and around Núrnelven:  blood was found spilt in the fields, unexplainable howls echoed in the night, and one woman swore that she had surprised a strange, dark, twisted figure in her home, and only managed to scare it off by brandishing her knife at it.

Legolas and Caldarion had decided that they had to take action to find the source of the disturbances.  Nimoë hefted the solid weight of her bow in her hand.  She found that she was now glad that the Prince had insisted the women be trained in the arts of warcraft.    With so many men lost, it was vital that the women be able to defend themselves and their village.  Like it or nor, there was nowhere else for then to run.

Legolas himself had taught them how to shoot the bow.  The lessons had been a pleasure and a torment for Nimoë.  Pleasure, because Legolas was forced to lay his hands on her body, helping direct her in her stance, her grip.  She rejoiced at being in his arms, even in such an impersonal way.  Torment, because that was the only time she had been there since the terrible night they had faced death together in the forests of Ithilien.

He always went out of his way to visit.  Many times he ate his evening meal with herself and Tinunél, but always it was purely platonic.  Never once did he lay so much as a finger upon her body, although often she felt his gaze lying heavy upon her.  The nights were tense as they ate in silence, or in polite conversation.  Tinunél seemed to be withdrawn on those nights, as if trying to be forgotten, while at the same time, the simple fact of her presence made Nimoë want to scream.

A loud crash in the distance brought Nimoë swiftly back to her present surroundings.  With her heart racing, she lifted the bow and drew back the arrow, sighting down its long straight shaft towards the place where the sound originated.  Whatever was approaching made no attempt at stealth, but crashed through the underbrush as loudly as a Dwarf.

Nimoë's mind ran at top speed.  She was too far away from the village to call for help.  Whatever was out there was hers alone to deal with.  In the back of her mind she noted that she would ask Legolas to have a bell forged, that could be rung on the watchtower in times of need.  She knew that he would not deny her.

He had tried to deny her the responsibility of guard duty but, when she had reached her majority the year previously, she had overruled him.  "I am a woman grown, and I will take the same responsibilities as the others.  You cannot protect me forever, Legolas."

He had bowed his head in acknowledgement, but she could see in his eyes that he rebelled against the thought with every fiber of his body.  Right at the present moment, she found that she wished she had listened to his words.  She would rather be anywhere else than standing with her bow pointed at an unknown foe.  Although she had proven an apt shot, she felt somehow wrong using a weapon of war.  Her skin crawled at the thought of taking life.  She was a healer!  It was her place to save lives.

Abruptly a tall figure broke into view.  He staggered a few more steps, then crashed to the ground.  Nimoë stared down in amazement, recognizing the once proud figure of her friend.  "Caldarion!" she breathed, in shocked horror.

Abandoning her bow, she flew down the ancient steps of the watchtower, one of the few buildings left from the time of Sauron that were still used.  She crossed the ground to his side in moments, then rolled him onto his back.  His clothes were tattered and blood seeped through the fabric from his back and chest.

The most frightening thing was his face.  Bruises and cuts were everywhere, rendering him almost unrecognizable through the swelling welts of black and blue.  Yet more terrible still was the angry burn that covered most of the top of his face.  Scabbed skin hung crusted over oozing sores, and his eyes did not seem to truly see her.

Nimoë felt tears of shock and fright creep into her eyes, and she yanked him mercilessly to his feet, knowing that he was in desperate need of the medicines in the new Healing House.  "Come, Caldarion.  You've got to come with me.  Here, lean your weight on my shoulders.  That's right.  Now one foot in front of the other.  I'll get you home.  Don't be afraid…"

She kept up her litany of platitudes, as much to soothe herself as him, for he did not seem to hear her.  Once they had staggered within shouting distance of the village, Nimoë began to scream, "Help me!  Somebody help me!"

Several women came running at her hysterical cry.  Between them they lifted the beaten Elf and carried him the last distance to the Healing House.  Tinunél leapt up as they entered, and motioned them to lay Caldarion on an empty cot.  Even that small motion brought a groan to his lips, but it also brought back some of his awareness.

He reached out and grabbed Nimoë's arm with frighteningly strong fingers.  "Legolas," he gasped.  "I must speak to Legolas…"

She nodded frantically.  As soon as his painful grip relaxed, she ran from the Healing House, as fast as her feet would carry her towards the archery fields, where the Prince would be teaching some of the younger girls to shoot.

Nimoë rounded the bend and almost cried with relief when she saw he was indeed there.  He was immediately aware of her, and he told the child he was working with to wait, then walked quickly towards the quaking woman.

"Nimoë, what is amiss?!" he asked, deeply concerned.

She reached out to grasp his upper arm.  "Please, Legolas, you must come with me.  It's Caldarion.  He's come back and…"  Tears overwhelmed her, and she found she could no longer speak.  Instead she yanked Legolas after her, and he ran at her side, apprehension rising in his heart.  Something was terribly wrong.

They reached the door of the Healing House, and she paused, afraid to see her friend's tortured face again.  "He is asking for you, Legolas."

Seeing Nimoë in distress always made him tremble, and he reached out a soft hand to brush her cheek.  "I will see to him, Nimoë.  Everything will be alright."  Then he turned and entered the Healing House, leaving her alone in the falling darkness.