It has just occurred to me that I am publishing chapters faster than I write them. I have only written about two chapters further than this. Shock horror! I have to speed up!
Thanks again for the reviews - if you haven't reviewed, please do so now!
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The cell they locked her in was a bare ten-foot by ten-foot, with a pile of straw in the corner for a bed. Water was in a pail by the door - it had scum floating on it, but she was too thirsty to care, and her pride too battered to notice this new blow - and on a plate beside it was a piece of bread. It had none of the nutritional qualities of lembas, but then it was Man made; and it took the edge off her hunger. After she had finished all of her meagre provisions, she went on a search for her armour, weapons and traveller's pack. They were all gone, to her intense disappointment. It seemed like a moral blow. She wasn't only shivering from the cold. Her hands were still bound, but at least her gag was gone.
Her legs felt stronger, and her stomach was settled, so she walked over to the door of her cell and peered out through the grill. The city, though it was ruined, was an awesome spectacle - what little she could see of it. The building which was her cell was one of the few which was not entirely decrepit and ruined. Lizards scuttled over the stones. She could hear voices, but they weren't too close. The guard who stood to the left of the door ignored her questions; even when they elevated to shouts and curses he didn't flinch. She also couldn't see Brialvastor, to her intense dismay. She feared for her equine companion: feared he would be punished for throwing some Man from his back. They would call him wild, when all he was exercising was loyalty to the death.
She was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, head in hands, when she heard feet run quickly up to her cell, tripping on the loose stones. A muttered message was passed onto the guard: doubtless she was not meant to hear, but obviously these Men had not bargained on the ears of Elves, be they only half-elven or no.
'The Lord Faramir is here, with enough men to bolster our defences. He wants to see the prisoner in half and hour.'
'Do you think he'll call for execution?' The guard's voice was slow and ponderous, but not without kindness.
'Oh yes,' said the messenger with cruel pleasure. 'And the thing deserves it, trying to kill the Lord Faramir so!'
'Does Faramir know it's a she?' Mithmír was quickly starting to realise the guard wasn't all that bad. She smiled, hope and courage blossoming in her. A bit of the old, carefree half-elf maiden returned to her.
'Nay,' sneered the messenger. 'What need is there to tell him of that? It's still a traitor.'
'Well, I don't think I agree with you there…' Replied the guard.
'Must go,' the messenger terminated the conversation in disgust. The sound of his feet on the stones fast receded. Mithmír finally breathed out. She would be saved at last! She smiled widely. Life would go on.
She was soon taken out of her cell, and the situation was - unnecessarily - explained to her. The guard wasn't too rough in his handling of her, but he was obviously torn between loyalty to his Lord - who Mithmír may have attacked - and an in-built reaction that this was a lady, and should be treated accordingly. He didn't untie her bonds, however, and the rope was starting to dig into her skin. She could bear it, however. The warrior spirit was returning.
She was led by a direct route to the ruins of a great hall. Only half of it was standing, and that fraction only just. Mithmír disliked the idea of entering it - it was clearly unsafe - but nothing would stop her when she saw the familiar figure engaged in conversation with one of his soldiers at the other end. With a cry of joy, she broke free of the grasp of her guard, and ran on feet aching with cramp towards him. Tears flowed unashamed down her face to see him alive, and unharmed. She called again, 'Faramir!' And finally he turned. His face didn't register her for a second, but then there was joy, joy and tears… He ran to her, caught her in protecting arms and embraced her for what seemed like and eternity. Their tears of happiness at unexpected reunion mingled, and Faramir covered her cheeks and forehead with kisses. He finally let her move back a step, but still held her waist.
'What happened to you, Mithmír, my sister?' He asked in wonder, his eyes wide at the marks of ill-treatment on her bare arms, and the rope at her wrist. 'Are you the evil thing who tried to betray me, the one who I am to sentence now?'
'Yes,' she laughed. 'Yes, I am, and I cannot say much for the hospitality shown in Osgiliath of late!'
He frowned at her, and cut her bonds with his dagger, before massaging her wrists so the circulation returned quicker. 'It's grievous to see you like this, Mithmír - my men did this to a friend as close to me as beloved sister!' Anger ran through his voice. 'Can you identify those who did this to you?' His eyes ran down her body, and he noticed the bloody tear in the fabric of her tunic where the spear had pierced her skin. He knelt to look at it better, and his face was grave while his gentle fingers inspected the wound. 'Who did this? Tell me, Mithmír!'
She dearly wanted too. She dearly wanted to make the men who had done this too her feel as much pain and humiliation as she had. But she quelled the urge. 'No, Faramir,' she said sternly but softly. 'They did as they thought best, and they cannot be blamed.'
'But friend…' He said earnestly, getting up.
She shook her head firmly. 'No, Faramir. They know they've done wrong. That's enough. It wasn't their fault.' She felt better as soon as she'd said it. Some of the men around the room, who had been in the party which captured Mithmír, visibly relaxed. Some even bowed almost imperceptibly her way, as if to thank her. Her feeling of having done the right thing strengthened.
He shrugged, and then suddenly threw his arms around her again, spinning her widely. The third swing had reached its zenith when she cried out. He let her down immediately with concerned gentleness, and looked into her eyes. 'Mithmír, what's wrong?'
She smiled bravely, but the colour had temporarily gone from her face. 'Nothing…'
He shook his head. 'Don't play the brave adventurer with me, young lady. I forgot about that wound of yours. Follow me and I'll patch it up for you.' He smiled cheekily. 'If you'll let me, of course.' He bowed deeply.
Laughing, she took his outstretched arm. 'Of course,' she said out loud, and then whispered, 'it's good to find you alive, friend.'
He smiled a little, and without looking at her replied, 'how could I die and leave you alone to grieve?'
