Yay, a long chapter at last! Well, longish, anyway. Happy reading and please review.

Annaicuru

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Mithmír shot four arrows in quick succession, three of which found their mark and killed instantly. She dropped back down behind a parapet of stone to catch her breath. The fighting was fast and thick now. Faramir and his men were somewhere to the Northeast of her, she judged, fighting with swords to protect the ford. She was all alone, with no one in hailing distance - no one that would ever answer summons again, anyhow. She looked with great pity down to the face of the fallen archer beside her. He was young, younger than herself. He should not have died here. He had much longer to live, many pleasant things in life to savour yet. She turned back to the fighting. Mourning took place after a battle. Now she must kill.

She stood up swiftly, and fired another four: two direct hits, this time, but the two others - though they hit their target - were not strong enough to kill. She ducked again, but not before she saw something that shocked her: a boat, laden with foul orcs, being launched from a hidden port on the other side of the river. This was grim news indeed, and likely to turn the tide of the battle for good. The foul things must have been working secretly in Osgiliath for many months now. A fleet of boats made Faramir's whole brave stand at the ford pointless. She had to move quickly, or he would be encircled in a ring of foes, and massacred.

She fought to keep her breathing calm and steady, to not let fear make her rash. She quickly searched out a well-protected route through the rubble with her eyes. Before she sprang out on nimble feet to follow it, she whispered to the dead man, 'Îdh vi sîdh, tolog maethor.' Rest in peace, stalwart warrior. And then she ran.

'Faramir, you must retreat!' She shouted in frustration. She wanted to reach over and shake him as one would do an erring child, but she didn't have the time: her hands were to busy directing Celebdîn's blade into orc and goblin flesh. 'You cannot win this battle!' She side-stepped quickly to avoid a thrust of some primitive blade, and returned it with a lethally effective slash.

Faramir's stance was easy, and he never turned to look at her while he fought, devoid of all emotion, almost like a machine. His voice was fitting: cold and deadly calm, with only the mildest stresses when he put an exceptional amount of effort into a sword-stroke. 'I can't back down till the very end, Mithmír. We can win this yet.'

'What makes you so stubborn and so blind, Faramir?'

He ignored it. 'Change weapons, Mithmír. Use your daggers. That sword's nearly cutting me in half when you swing it.'

Obediently and quickly she followed his wise words, and switched to a more "finesse" style of fighting with the light weapons. The calm, lithe movements of her body betrayed the strength in her coiled form. She ducked, twisted and spun from one foe to the next. She wasn't averted from her purpose, however. 'Why, Faramir? What makes you, who were so wise, so rash?'

Still he wouldn't look at her. 'No reason, Mithmír, but that I cannot give in here.'

'Why can you not?' She sprung on this slight hole in his verbal shell as quickly as on the next orc that approached her. Her hand was cut, but in the heat of battle - with adrenaline coursing through her - she ignored it.

He was silent for so long she nearly asked again, when suddenly he replied, 'my father ordered it, Mithmír, and I will be a good son to him!' He let out an animal cry of rage and brutally struck a uruk-hai over the head with his sword. It's helmet was no resistance to the rage-lent power of that blow, and the beast's skull was cleaved like ripe fruit by a knife.

Mithmír didn't let herself be shocked by that unusual show of anger. 'You are a good son, Faramir,' she replied kindly. 'Your father will see that, when this grief has passed.'

He finally looked at her, and his eyes were more empty than she had ever seen them before. 'How can you be so sure.' He said softly, so softly that somehow it could be heard despite the raging battle about them. It was not a question, but a statement.

'I am as sure as I can be, Faramir,' she said with great compassion in her voice. 'Do not throw -' and here she struck a particularly violent stabbing blow with both daggers - 'your life away on a whim ordered in sorrow!'

'It is the best thing I can do for my father, the Steward Denethor.' Faramir said in an odd voice.

'Do not lie to yourself, Faramir,' Mithmír half-ordered. 'The best thing you can do for him - for me - for all of us - is to live.' Her eyes beseeched him. 'I beg of you, Faramir. You have the soul that has bowed to no man before pleading you on bent knees in love. You said you would not leave me alone to grieve. If you die here, I die too.'

Finally Faramir's shoulders sagged, and he nodded. 'You're right, as always, sael dúnedhel [wise elf]. We retreat, whatever my father says on this. I cannot let my men die for such a cause as this.' And he looked at the ruins about him with cleared eyes. 'If they have boats, there is no hope for the stopping of their crossing, and if we move not soon our retreat shall be halted by a line of orcs.'

'I am glad your mind is decided rightly, Faramir,' she said, and there was an odd pride in her voice - whether in herself or her friend, it could not be told. 'We call the men of Gondor to your banner, then!' And in a clear, unwavering voice, she cried out with such force - of heart or body or both - that all living Gondor men hearkened: 'retreat, defenders of the White City! Men of Gondor, fall back! Retreat to Minas Tirith! Retreat behind the banner of your captain, Faramir!'

And Faramir's strong, bold voice, deeper than Mithmír's, begun when she had ended: 'retreat, men of Gondor! Retreat with all speed to Minas Tirith! All brave souls of the rear-guard, come to Faramir's side!' And then he blew twice, thrice, four times on the horn that was slung around his neck. Already the soldiers had begun to move: walking backwards, fighting as they went, or running as fast as they could. The bravest of the archers did not run, but stood firm and stemmed the flood of enemies that followed with hundreds of well-aimed arrows. Faramir's power and charisma as a leader was proved then, as was his men's love for him. No fewer than seventy men flocked to his side to act as rear-guard. He turned to one, an older man who should have been fighting no more, and to him he said: 'run you to the Hall, and there mount my horse. Ride as quick as you can to the White Tower, and summon aid.'

The man would have insisted on staying, were it not for the grave look in his Captain's eyes. He nodded quickly, and began to run, but before he was out of hearing Mithmír called to him: 'nay, good sir! Mount the stallion that stands there; for he is a fleet-footed horse indeed.' The man turned, and, stumbling, bowed in thanks to her. Mithmír trusted Brialvastor to let the man ride him. He would sense the need, and, she hoped, Mithmír's agreement. She would also hate to see her faithful steed mauled by the creatures that pursued them. Better to have him far away from the trouble.

'A generous gift,' Faramir said with a smile. 'And one well given. Brialvastor shall be returned, lady, you have my word.'

Mithmír smiled. 'Now let us flee, my Captain, before the Black Riders join in the chase of us!'

And flee they did.

***

It would be better if she was fighting beside Legolas, not Faramir. LOL! Hope you enjoyed it!