“She is over there.”

Haldir pointed to the far corner of the Healing Room, which had been closed off with silken curtains. His companion—a small, stout, middle-aged woman with a kindly face—nodded. “I will do my best.”

“Thank you.”

Hentmirë reached for the curtain, hesitated, then asked, quietly, “Eowyn? May I come in?”

When there was no answer, she slowly lifted the corner, and peeped inside. “Oh, Eowyn!” She ducked under the silk and, pulling up a chair, sat down beside her friend. “How is he?”

Legolas was lying on his back with his arms folded across his chest. Hentmirë, who had watched over his double in the camp at Emyn Arnen, and knew how an elf looked when in healing sleep, could see that this was something very different, and very serious.

Her heart sank, but the little woman still had a job to do. “Eowyn,” she said, trying to sound firm, “if you would like to go outside for a moment or two, and get some fresh air, or if you want a quick wash and a change of clothes, I will be happy to sit with Legolas.”

Eowyn seemed unaware of her.

“Haldir,” Hentmirë persisted, “is worried because, he says, you have not eaten anything since they brought you back here. You must keep your strength up, Eowyn, or,”—she closed her eyes, crossing her fingers behind her back—“when Legolas wakes up, you will be too tired to take care of him.”

Eowyn had not heard her stretch the truth.

“Well,” said Hentmirë, desperately, “at least rest a while. There are plenty of beds—”

“I cannot!”

Yes, thought Hentmirë. I have reached her!

“I cannot leave him,” said Eowyn, hoarsely, “not for a moment. He needs me, Hentmirë. He needs me here, so that he can find his way back!”