Author's Note:  Alright… I have done oodles of research for this chapter, but I am still not certain that I am not treading on some bit of canon history.  Where I have been unable to find a history, I have chosen to write my own.  If this has to be labeled AU, so be it.  I hope that it is not.  I am truly trying to stay as true to what is out there as I can.  Yet, I can only find so much.  Please don't hurt me if I have done something that is not completely in keeping with the later history of Middle Earth.  Just go with it, and hopefully this will make for an exciting story. ;-P  Also, for those who don't know, Ilúvatar/Eru are one and the same, the creator of Arda.

Her heart filled to bursting, Nimoë fled all the way back to the Healing House.  No longer did the dark shapes of the crops fill her with fear and dread.  Legolas loved her!  It hardly seemed real, but the heavy swollen feeling of her lips proved beyond a doubt that the interlude had not been a figment of her imagination.

When she reached the door of the Healing House, which was wrought of a wood that was unrecognizable to her, the other startling reality of the night came crashing down on her.  Caldarion!  What would she find inside? Was he still truly Caldarion, her steadfast friend and companion?  Or had his brutal treatment changed him in some vital way?

She drew a breath to steady herself.  No way to know but to face the scene that was hidden behind the door, and no reason to hesitate.  She pushed open the heavy wood, and stepped into the large room, which was illuminated by three long tapers, flickering in sconces spaced evenly along the long back wall.  They lent an eerie glow of dancing gold to the room and in the dim light Nimoë tiptoed towards the cot where Caldarion was lying.

Tinunél sat over him, bathing his burned face with healing herbs, which wafted on the cool night air.  Nimoë saw that the young Elf slept, and she settled herself in a chair next to her mother.  "Will he recover?"

Tinunél shook her ash blonde head slowly.  "I do not know.  He has many injuries, some internal, and I can only guess the extent of them.  Normally I would say that an Elf who had sustained such grievous hurt would have one chance in two of surviving.  But it is Caldarion, so perhaps his odds are slightly better."

Nimoë took her friend's long, tapered fingers in her hand.  Of all of his body, they were among the few things not damaged.  Speaking to her mother, she asked, "Did you hear what he said to Legolas?"

"Only bits and pieces.  He insisted on being private, but I could not help but overhear some of it.  I know that he was held captive, and that Jeran and Irenwë were killed.  What else I heard was so bizarre that I cannot help but wonder if it was a hallucination that he suffered.  He spoke of a demon of fire, the bowels of Mount Doom, and the nine rings of mortal Men.  I did not understand what little I heard."

Tinunél finished her work on Caldarion's burn, and turned to face her daughter.  "Whatever he said, it clearly upset Legolas.  He ran from this place, telling me that he was off to find you, and to send you back to the city.  I can see that he succeeded, although I am surprised you abandoned your post.  He must have done something spectacular indeed to convince you to return,"  Tinunél raised her arched eyebrow, turning the statement into a question.

Nimoë dropped her eyes, blushing a furious red.  "He told me that he is in love with me."

Abruptly, Tinunél's face was suffused with a huge grin of relief.  "Well, it is about time!"

Nimoë's grey eyes flashed to her mother's face.  "You knew?!"

"I think that everyone in Núrnelven knew, except for you.  You truly are an innocent, child."  The older Elf reached out and pulled her amazed foster daughter into her arms.  "You return his love, or I am sorely mistaken.  I wish you joy in your life together, although I fear there will be little time to enjoy it."

"Nimoë," came a quiet, strained voice from the cot.  "Is that you?"

Immediately extracting herself from Tinunél's embrace, Nimoë leaned over Caldarion, softly brushing his matted hair back from his mangled face.  "Yes, sweet Caldarion.  It is me.  You are safe."

His deep brown eyes opened wide to stare up at her, and the haunted gaze pierced her through.  "We will never be safe, Nimoë.  Never."

She shook her head, denying his words, "Do not say such things.  No matter what has happened to you, we will not let it happen again.  Legolas will keep us all safe.  Trust in him."

He reached out and grabbed her wrists in a painful, vise-like grasp.  His wild eyes seemed to protrude from his head.  "You do not understand, child!  There is great danger!  For you more than…"  His speech was suddenly cut off by a strangled gurgle.  The ashen skin of his face turned a startling purplish blue.

Immediately, Tinunél and Nimoë lifted him into a sitting position, hoping to aid him in breathing.  Gasping like a drowning man, he grated, "Nimoë, you must take care…  I fear for…"  Then an agonized scream was wrenched from him and his entire body arched in twisting pain, muscles cramped in clenched knots.

"Nimoë, get out of here!  I do not understand why, but your presence is more than he can handle," directed Tinunél, as she tried to soothe the writhing Elf.

Completely distraught, Nimoë fled the Healing House, the screams of Caldarion chasing after her on the cold breeze.  What was wrong with Caldarion?  And why was he trying to warn her?  They were all in danger, weren't they?  At a full run, she raced up the starlit shore of the Sea of Núrnen.  She did not pause until she reached the eastern edge of Núrnelven.  There she flung herself down on the sandy shore and wrapped her arms about her knees, burying her head in the hollow of her arms.

The night had been full of too many things, both wonderful and terrible.  Holding tight to herself she rocked back and forth, trying to sort out her conflicting emotions.  Foremost in her mind was the image of Caldarion's body, prostrate with pain, trying to warn her against something.  What?  There was no way to know, for it seemed that speaking of it inexplicably multiplied his suffering.

Seeing her dearest friend in such a state shook her to the core.  She felt completely helpless and lost.  Although she was a skilled healer of the body, it seemed clear that Caldarion's wounds were sorest upon his spirit, and she knew not how to help him.  Silent tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she sat staring out over the vast waters of the inland sea, seeing nothing but the tortured body of Caldarion.  In her mind's eye, the angry burn upon his face began to blaze with a deep scarlet glow and darkness hovered over him like a specter of death.

How long she sat there, mindless of her surroundings, she did not know, but when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her from behind, she fell back into the familiar firm embrace with no hesitation.  "What is to become of us, Legolas?" she whispered, needing reassurance.  Needing his strength more than anything.

He pulled her back against his chest, holding her close with one arm, while with the other he stroked her hair softly, delighting in the silky caress, all the while feeling the press of a future un-seeable, but assuredly bleak.  "I do not know, Nimoë.  All that I do know is that we will face it together.  Tinunél told me what happened with Caldarion.  Do you have any idea what he was trying to tell you?"

He felt her head shake in the negative against his chest, and she seemed to shrink in upon herself at the memory of her meeting with the dark-haired Elf.  Wishing that there were some way to take away her pain, to give her honest reassurance, Legolas sighed and wrapped both arms all about her, enfolding her completely within the caged strength of his body.

"Legolas, what did he tell you?" she asked, although she was afraid of the answer.

Legolas looked up into the star-filled sky.  So many pure lights, sparkling in hues of white and blue, like the very eyes of heaven.  Ai! Elbereth! If there is so much purity in the world, how can such a vital evil make its way back into the realms of the living?  Why must I be the one to face it?

Out loud he spoke, "How much do you know of the history of the Third Age?  Do you know of the Nazgul?"

She nodded, "Of course I do.  Everyone knows of the nine mortal kings who bore the rings of Men.  They were the servants of Sauron, bound to his will, not living, yet not dead.  A dread blight on this world."

"That is right.  Caldarion has told me things that concern me deeply.  He was captured and brought north to Orodruin.  There he was kept in captivity, chained and tortured.  He stayed strong until the final evil came to him.  There is a Balrog dwelling there, Nimoë, one of the most fearsome servants of Melkor, Morgoth as he was called by Fëanor.  The burn that you see upon Caldarion's face was inflicted by the mere touch of the beast.

"While he was in contact with the creature of flame he learned much.  More, perhaps than it was meant for him to know.  It seems that when Sauron passed from this world the Nazgul were lost, directionless.  The Witch-King had been slain, but since he was not truly alive, his soul did not depart like that of mortal Men.  He was called back into the Void.  There he was caught in the sticky web of Morgoth.  Men are weak, and easily swayed.  Once he was ensnared, he called the other Nazgul to him.  Soon all of the nine were in the power of Morgoth.  He controls the Nine Rings of Mortal Men, and has rekindled their power with his own malice.  With them he can command their feeble minds.  They will soon obey his every whim.

"We are lucky.  Thus far he has not been able to break his way out of the Void.  Only through his minions, like the Balrog, is he able to work directly on Middle-Earth.  Yet already are the minds of Men poisoned against all the other children of Ilúvatar, especially the Elves, the firstborn.  Ever has Morgoth sought to wrest the creations of Eru into his own pattern.  That has not changed from the beginning of time.  It seems that with the Nine in his power, he feels the time is ripe to act."

Nimoë pulled away from his embrace, turning to face him, her hands curled in the fabric of his tunic.  "Legolas, you mean to tell me that the very embodiment of evil wishes to wipe us from the face of Middle-Earth?"

He nodded.  "That is what Caldarion learned during the time of contact with the Balrog.  It may be that we will be very grateful that he was so branded.  It seems too much suffering for any one man, but the early warning may be our saving grace."

"No," she whispered.  Then, more strongly, "No!"  She leapt to her feet, and moved without knowing where she went to the very edge of the lapping sea.  "Why?  Why does such an evil come now?!  How can we fight the fallen Valar?  Compared to him, Sauron was a child!  We are doomed!"

"Nay, not doomed.  Hard pressed, indeed, but never doomed.  Against all odds was Sauron defeated.  Surely it can be done again.  We must seek out the Dwarves.  As the adopted children of Ilúvatar, Morgoth will rise against them as well.  They will join with us, I think."

Nimoë did not turn to look at him when she asked, "Are not Men also children of Eru?  Yet Morgoth will leave them alive?"

"If he can shape them to his own ways, I believe that he will.  He does not wish to have dominion over a place empty of followers.  Never did I think that I would say this, after all the harm that Men have wrought on the Elves in recent years, but I pity them.  We must find a way to stop Morgoth, not only for ourselves, but for Men as well, for they cannot help themselves."

Nimoë felt hot tears stream down her face as she thought back on the burned out husk of her home in Mirkwood; the blackened and broken body of her father which she had never seen, but knew must have been there; on Mendiel, her birth mother, and her death at the brutal hands of Men; and lastly on the burning of Ithilien and the death of so countless many Elves, her foster father and others, good friends and true.  Her shoulders shook with rage and hopelessness.

"After all that they have done, you still want to help them?!" she asked, in a voice full of suppressed rage and sorrow.  "Every hurt in my life has been at the hands of Men.  I do not pity them.  I hate them."  She turned to face him, and Legolas saw the starlight twinkling off of the tears that fell unchecked down her heart-shaped face.  "I hate them!  And now that I hear this tale, I hate myself it.  What am I to think?!  What am I to do?!"

Legolas rose to his feet and crossed the ground between them in a few scant strides, pulling her tight in his arms, rocking her like a child.  "Nimoë, Nimoë.  I understand.  I do.  But once there was a time when Men and Elves were allies and friends.  It may be that some time you will find that Men can be, and have been, your friends.  Please trust me.  We must do all in our power.  Will you follow me?  Will you put aside your hatred for now?"

She sobbed against his shoulder, lost in her own confusion.  At last, she nodded.  "I love you.  I will do what you ask.  But know that this is no easy thing.  I will not pity them, now or ever, but I will try to save them from slavery.  No being deserves to have his will stripped from him, especially by the living lord of evil.  No one deserves to live such a life."

He pressed a kiss to her brow.  "Good girl.  I knew you would not disappoint me.  Will you come back to the city now?  You cannot return to your home in the Healing House, but you can rest well enough in my bed."

Her eyes flashed up to his in shock, and in the midst of the oppressive aura of danger, he actually laughed.  "Not like that, Nimoë!  I will sleep on the floor in the entry hall.  Do not fear for your safety with me.  I will keep you safe from everything, including myself."

She nodded, angrily wiping the last tears from her eyes.  "I will come.  Thank you, Legolas."

With his arm around her waist to guide her, for she walked as if in a dream, a nightmare, Legolas led Nimoë back to his home in the city.  Tomorrow would be soon enough to decide on a plan of action.  No denizens of evil had been seen anywhere nearby, and Legolas allowed himself to believe that their immediate safety was not in peril.

Gazing down at the moon-pale head that rested against his shoulder he felt a wave of protectiveness sweep over him.  So gentle!  So innocent and pure!  He would do anything to keep her from the clutches of Morgoth and his minions.  Again, Legolas looked up into the starry, starry night, and he muttered a silent prayer to Elbereth, begging for direction, for some flash of inspiration as to how to go about the defense of Middle-Earth.