Everyone wants Legolas! Including me! So I'm just going to have to write this v. v. quickly… don't worry though I promise you will get your fair share of Leggy later.

Last chapter without Legolas! Hahahahah! Joy! Legolas chapter/s (at least one) will be up by tonight.

Thanks for all the reviews by the way!

Please R&R

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For many hours Mithmír worked tirelessly in the outer circle. She was not on the Wall, for even her fine bow could not send arrows far enough so as to reach the black tide of the enemy lines. Instead she worked with many of the other soldiers at fighting the fires that were started by the enemy's fire-arrows and fire-stones. She never once took off her helmet through all the long, hot work. She didn't want a crowd of soldiers demanding that she went home like a lady should, or asking about her Elven ears. She smiled to herself as men around her gossiped while they worked about an Elven lady who was rumoured to be fighting alongside them somewhere. It seemed to inspire hope in them, that one of such an ancient race was here to aid them.

She stopped for a pause a while later, and quenched her thirst with water from a water-boy's bucket. It refreshed her greatly to feel the cool liquid flow through her parched mouth and throat. After she had had her fill she passed the bucket to the man who sat beside her. He was around middle age, and his dark face was not without elegant beauty, but there were jagged cuts and burns on the hands that clasped the bucket. When he had finished - and he drank heavily even compared to Mithmír - he handed the bucket back to the waiting boy and then turned to Mithmír, who was re-adjusting her helmet after drinking.

'Have you any news of the Lord Faramir, sir?'

'No. Why? Do you?' She asked, trying to deepen her voice to the pitch of a man's.

'Aye,' he said wearily, getting up himself. 'It's old news though, and you probably know it already.'

'I don't think I do,' said Mithmír, trying to keep her emotions in check. If Gandalf had lied to her about how ill Faramir was… 'I came from the Citadel many hours ago, and have not heard of Faramir since.'

The man looked at her oddly for a second before shaking his head as if to clear it. 'How old are you, soldier? Your voice is high and young.'

'Barely seventeen,' she lied fluently.

'Thought so,' said the man with a grunt as he tightened his breastplate. 'Terrible place this is, for one so young. Well, farewell and good luck.' And he made to move away.

Mithmír reached out and grabbed his hand. 'Please, sir, tell me of Captain Faramir.' It felt odd to call him by the title, but she would have to from now on, she realised, if she wanted to fit in. With barely a second's hesitation she went on, 'I fought beside him in Osgiliath, and he saved me on our retreat over the Pelennor. He is dear to me. Tell me of his fate.' It was almost a prayer.

The man turned to her. 'I hate to be the one to tell you this… Your Captain Faramir lies dying, it is said, in the arms of his father.' And with that he walked away.

She dropped to the ground suddenly, her legs crumpling underneath her, until she kneeled on the smooth paving-stones. A great rushing sound came into her head and she couldn't hear anything else but the torrent of her disbelieving grief. Her eyes glazed over, and though they were open she beheld nothing but a ghost of Faramir's face, beaming widely as he had done when in Ithilien. Her hands clenched into fists, to tight that her knuckles went white, and her nails drew lines of blood into the flesh of her palm. The first sob that overtook her started deep within her stomach, and when it finally burst its way out of her mouth it was an animal cry of remorse that knew no bounds. The tears followed afterwards, as burning tracks of liquid down her face that made her eyes sear. She sat there for nearly twenty minutes, unaware of anything, before finally her eyes cleared, and it could be perceived that a great, furious fire burned within. The men who had not wished to come to her in her grief now had even less wish to do so in her anger. They backed away.

Mithmír got up quickly and nimbly. She glanced towards the Citadel, but it was barely more than that; so brief was its duration. In a second she was away towards the Wall to make herself useful again. She showed outwardly no emotion but anger, but had the learned of Gondor read her hastily moving lips they could have seen her true feelings in her words:

'Alcarle awarthanin, Faramir! Annale nin lín peth, le alinnas awarthanin erui nîr!' Do not abandon me, Faramir! You gave me your word, that you would not leave me weeping alone!

She was making her way to the Wall still when the troops of Mordor began their next great terror; and the heads of those slain in Osgiliath were lobbed into the city. She was unaware of the identity of the black shapes flying over the walls for a long while; and even when the crying and shouting began, she was still in ignorance till she was nearly upon the stairs to the Wall. It was then that, upon the ground by her feet, she perceived a face that she had never thought to see again: that of the young archer who had fallen beside her in the city on the river. She thought at first that it was her tired, emotionally-tender mind playing tricks on her: but when she knelt down, she saw the truth of the gruesome thing. Again the fury eclipsed her mind. She stood up silently, dropping the foul thing again, and took the steps up the Wall two at a time.

Finally the enemy's troops came close enough for her and the other archers - the few that had been stalwart enough to remain - to shoot them. Many fell, but more still kept coming, appearing unconscious or uncaring towards their losses. Mithmír shot faster and more accurately than any man there, and many privately wondered who this skilled archer in their midst was, but in the heat of the time there was no space for words. Mithmír's face was composed and deadly, her hand barely pausing from firing one arrow to drawing the next from her quiver. She did not show any sign of recognition when her arrows killed their target. Only when the siege-engines came perilously close, and the great battering-ram named Grond was brought nigh up to the Gate, that she seemed awake at all. With a cry of battle - 'Lacho calad! Drego morn!' which is an ancient cry of the Edain of the North and means, flame light! Flee night! - she ran along the ramparts with all the speed of her Elven relatives.

Above and about the Gate the archers were mostly those men from Dol Amroth; who are fabled to be descended partly from the First Born, and there is more evidence to prove this than to disclaim it. Mithmír took her place easily among them, even though she knew they had heard her cry and so knew her nature.

The archer closest to her spoke, without turning from his shooting: 'why do you hide your ears as if ashamed, lady elf?'

With equal concentration she replied, 'do you remove your helmet while we fight merely to prove that you are human by the shape of your ears; and a man by your face?'

The man laughed out loud, despite the shadows of the Black Riders that swept above them. 'Well said!' He replied with mirth. 'Well, I count myself both blessed and lucky to have one of the Fair Folk fighting on my right hand side!'

She smiled a little, despite her worry for Faramir. 'And I am lucky also, for the knights of Dol Amroth are some of the most courageous in all of Middle-Earth.'

'Then we are equals and so allies and friends!' Agreed the knight, but there was no time to say any more, for Grond was thrust into the Gate of Minas Tirith, and the entire Wall shook. Many men lost their footing, and some of the most unlucky fell many feet backwards into the City, meeting with death instantly on the hard cobbles. Mithmír's sharp eyes followed one such unfortunate, and in doing so she saw a great thing: Mithrandir, Gandalf the White, was riding Shadowfax towards the Gate, and when he was barely a few metres away he stopped suddenly. He sat tall and lordly in the saddle, and the horse below him showed the same characteristics in his bold stance, which was unafraid, despite the terror approaching on the other side of the Gate.

She was so looking when the second and final thrust of Grond came; for when it hit the Gate, the previously steadfast wood and stone was shattered, and fell inward. The shock moved the Wall so greatly that many more men fell, and indeed Mithmír - with her half-elf reactions - grabbed the knight who had befriended her to stop him meeting similar fate. He would have thanked her profusely, asked her name, but again his words were cut short, by a great fear. The same fear took over every man on the Wall, and Mithmír too felt it settle like some chill mantle over her heart. Her breath became harder; it got caught in her restricted chest.

The Witchking of Angmar, bane of the Edain and, indeed, all free people of Middle Earth, stepped into the City - to be confronted by Mithrandir. There was silence, and Mithrandir spoke. Later Mithmír could not remember the words, and even at the time they were blurred, for it was then - after a timely cock's crow - that the horns of war blew out across the Pelennor to the North East; and the cry went up:

'The Rohirrim! The Rohirrim are here!'

And suddenly her heart was as high as the hidden sun, and it flew on wings of new-found hope and joy renewed.

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Next chapter you get LEGOLAS! Yay!