Sunlight pierced through the cracks in the ramshackle hut where Nimoë was imprisoned.  She groaned and rolled onto her back.  They would be coming for her soon, to begin the trek to Orodruin, to release Morgoth.  Her cheek stung where it had been pressed into the rough earth through the night.  Her stomach grumbled loudly and she tried to ignore the pangs of hunger. 

It was a long journey back to the Mountain of Fire.  Surely the Easterlings would have to give her food and water.  She would never reach their destination, else.  And when they pulled her gag free, she would be ready.  Once, she'd sworn not to use the magic to harm, but to save her child, she would do anything, even the act that would truly brand her Elf-witch.

The click of the bolt opening alerted her and she forced herself to relax.  Fear would only weaken her.  To her surprise, it was Garad himself who entered her hut, his massive bulk overwhelming the space.  He was smiling.

"I trust you are rested?  I do hope so.  I have a special surprise for you this morning."  Garad dragged Nimoë to her feet.  "You may see your son, witch.  Take what pleasure in him you may, for I fear you'll have little more this day, or many others to come."

As they stepped into the crisp morning, Nimoë squinted against the bright light after the near darkness of the hut.  The camp bustled with activity: men rolling up bedding, sharpening axes and blades, and a steady stream moved away from the main encampment towards an empty copse just to the north.

Garad led her in that direction, his fingers tight enough around her arm to bruise, but Nimoë did not struggle.  Indeed, she wasn't certain that she would be able to stand without his support.

"Nimi!"

Nimoë spun around at Caldarion's high-pitched cry and began to tremble with relief when she spotted his little blond head dashing towards her.  The cut where Garad had bloodied his face the night before was still raw and red, but the edges were beginning to heal.  He was alive.  He was well.

He reached her side and threw his arms around her booted leg.  "Nimi, Darion scared!"

Unable to respond, she nudged him gently with her foot.  The smile he gave her showed her he understood.

"A lovely reunion.  And there is more, although perhaps you will wish it had not been."

Suddenly afraid, Nimoë glanced up at Garad's flame-framed face.  His smile was cold and he drew her onwards to the clearing.  With his free hand, he gestured to the trio of trees that stood in the center.

As her eyes focused on what she was seeing, Nimoë staggered.  No!  Not Legolas!  His face was haggard, his hands tied over his head, legs lashed to the trunk of the tree.  Gilmin and Raven, ever faithful friends, were trussed beside him.  This could not be happening.  A dream.  A fevered hallucination.  She'd had them before.

Then Legolas saw her.  The expression of rage and devotion that swept over his face told her this was no dream.  Her husband had found her, and now he would pay the price.

Garad's laugh began low in his belly and rumbled up out of his throat.  "Oh, I see such pain in your eyes, Witch.  I could almost believe you mortal in this moment.  And like a mortal your husband will die."

Nimoë wrenched herself free of his grasp, shaking her head furiously.  How to make him understand?  If he killed Legolas, he killed her with him.  She dropped to her knees and groveled, not feeling the humiliation of her act, intent only on saving the life of her love.

"Nimoë, no!" Legolas called, and she glanced up at him.  "Do not abase yourself for me.  You must be strong for Caldarion."

Caldarion.  His warm body nestled against her own, his cheeks red, eyes swollen with crying.  Nimoë thought her heart was being ripped in two.  Uncertainly froze her and Garad dragged her back onto her feet.  "Stand here, Witch, and watch them die.  And remember, if you do not do what I ask, this will also be the fate of your beautiful son."

Garad strode away toward the center of the field, flanked by two of his men; the rest stood in a loose circle ringing the edge of the trees.

Legolas caught her eyes, although she could hardly see through the tears that flowed freely.  It was enough.  She could see the unearthly blue, but each moment a vision came upon her of their light gone out, staring cold and lifeless towards the sky.  She staggered, and her boot brushed up against Caldarion.

"Any last words, Elf?" Gadar growled.

Legolas drew his gaze away from Nimoë and faced the flame-haired giant.  "Kill me if you must, but spare my companions.  They have done you no harm."

A strange pulling sensation ran up Nimoë's shin and she glanced down.  Her mother's knife!  She'd kept it hidden in the shin of her boot, and Caldarion was pulling it free.  Oh, Valar, thank you.  Elbereth, give him speed.

Garad lifted his axe free from his belt.  "You waste your words, Elf.  I know well who your companions are.  Without their acts, my master would reign now in Middle-Earth.  No, they shall die in your wake."  He raise the axe and pulled it back, preparing to throw.

Nimoë felt the cold steel of her mother's knife against the skin of her wrists as Caldarion sawed at the rope binding her hands.  He gave little grunts as he worked, the heavy fiber too tough for his small strength to cut with ease.  Hurry, my son.  Hurry for your father's sake.

The first coil snapped free.  Nimoë wriggled her hands, urging blood to flow back into her deadened limbs.

"Your master is sealed in the void where he was banished," said Legolas.  "It is the will of the Valar.  He cannot have dominion in this world."  His eyes flashed to Nimoë, then widened just slightly.  He turned his gaze away, his face hard.  "You will die, Easterling, for the harm you have done to my wife and child."

Garad threw his head back and laughed.  "Fine words from one who is bound like the evening meal ready to be roasted."  Suddenly, his smile disappeared and his face went black as thunderclouds.  "We have wasted too many words.  Die!"

The last coil of rope fell free and Nimoë grabbed the knife from Caldarion's hand. Garad's arm flew forward and the axe hurled through the air towards Legolas' head.  Without a thought, Nimoë flung the knife with deadly aim.

The lighter blade reached the tree first, severing the rope that held Legolas' arms over his head.  As quick as lightning, he dropped to a crouch and the axe buried itself in the tree just above his head.

He reached up, grabbed the axe, and chopped away the rope binding his legs.  Then, spinning like a whirlwind, he freed Gilmin and Raven.  He tossed the axe to the Dwarf and pulled the knife free of the tree.

The Easterlings had been stunned momentarily, but quickly roused themselves and ran forward, weapons raised.  Legolas, Gilmin and Raven drew together and stood with their backs close, the Elf and Dwarf brandishing their weapons, Raven his fists.

There were too many.  The first wave of Easterlings crashed against them and fell, Raven grabbing a sword from an attacker's belt.  Then the next wave fell, but they could not hope to stand for long.

Nimoë's numb fingers struggled with the knots of her gag.  Caldarion hugged her leg tight.  She watched in horror as Garad strode through the attacking Easterlings toward the trio of fighters.  He held a new axe, and vengeance burned behind his eyes.

Suddenly, Gilmin faltered and dropped to one knee, clutching his shoulder, which had been pierced by an Eastern sword.  Then Raven staggered and fell, clubbed over the head.  Legolas stood alone.

Garad howled and charged, his axe ready to cleave Legolas' head from his shoulders.  Legolas tried to parry, but a Easterling hit him from behind and the knife fell from his hand.

With one vicious yank, Nimoë pulled the gag free, tearing the corners of her mouth.  Through pain and blood, she sang.

Garad stumbled, hesitated, then screamed in agony.  He collapsed to the ground, clutching his head between his hands, and one by one, every Easterling dropped to the earth.  Their wailing nearly drowned out Nimoë's song, but as she poured her anger into the words of power, one by one, they died.

The song raged through her, out of her control, until the field was littered with dead Easterlings.  Then, when her parched throat could not rasp a single note, her eyes rolled back and she felt herself fall as the world went dark.

#

Author's Note:  I just wanted to thank all of you who have taken the time to email me with words of encouragement and hope.  This has been a very big learning experience for me.  You should know that Elfsong, this story's prequel, was the first story I ever finished, and it had a built in major plot to follow.  Song of the Heart is the first story with a completely original plot that I've ever come close to finishing.  When I do (which really is only a few chapters away) this will be a major milestone in my writing life.  Finishing something has always been a struggle for me.  With perseverance, this will finally get done.  It will.  It will. *repeat mantra*

Thanks again and look for more within the next week.