It's long! At last! Thanks for the reviews and its great to have you all back. I am not sure if I am happy with this chapter so any ideas for improvement welcome.

Any Legolas fans out there (I am one too by the way): LEGOLAS CHAPTER! Whether you will like it or not is another matter…

Please read, review, enjoy!

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On the fourth day the attack came.

A strong fighting-force of orcs and uruk-hai sprang on them from the forest in many places, brandishing cruelly-shaped swords and shooting arrows with barbs designed to stick into flesh and resist attempts to be removed. The entire army was thrown into chaos, or rather would have been were not Aragorn there to rally his people into battle.

'Fight! Fight!' He called in a voice so regal the like of it had not been heard since the downfall of Númenor. 'Fight for your loved ones! Fight for yourself! Fight for the West!'

Mithmír felt a familiar rush of adrenaline enter her system. She turned side-on in the saddle and drew her bow just in time as four orcs rushed at her and Gimli, who dropped like a stone from the back of Legolas' horse. He was up on his feet in a second, but not before all four orcs had been shot down by arrows. He turned to the Elf and half-elf behind him. Both had raised bows.

'Who shot them, aye?' He asked grumpily. 'Who denied me my fun?'

Mithmír and Legolas laughed as one. 'Two each, master Dwarf!' Legolas replied gleefully, shooting another arrow as he spoke, and controlling his horse with his legs alone.

'Legolas was a much better shot than I, however,' added Mithmír. She drew her daggers from their sheaths quickly, one in either hand, and then gave Brialvastor an order - or rather a request. Elven horses are not owned and have no masters. The horse swivelled his ears intelligently, and then with a piercing whinny made off towards where the fighting was thickest; first in a trot and then a canter.

Mithmír laughed as she struck her first blow into the vulnerable neck of an orc. Her eyes glinted with wild delight in fighting; and her body was tall and proud in the saddle. She rode Brialvastor easily, for all his bucking and biting. He too was trained in the arts of war; had been since he was a colt. He knew no fear of metal or flame. While the fighting continued Mithmír felt almost as if she were one with the valiant horse beneath her. They moved as one being; such as rider and steed often seem to be able to guess their partner's actions after years of companionship. Mithmír wished Faramir could be here for this. And her father. She wondered, for the first time in many days, where her mother was now.

It seemed to her that the fighting was over too quickly. Within minutes (or nearly an hour as it really was) she was left with only orc bodies about her, and a few weary swordsmen. She was panting hard from exertion, and even Brialvastor had lost his usual frisk. His chest heaved underneath her. She sheathed her bloody weapons and leaned forward so she was lying over his neck, smothering her face in his mane and his neck beneath with kisses.

'Oh, you wonderful horse,' she told him in Sindarin. 'Oh, you pretty thing. How wonderful you are! White shall always come second-place to brown for me. No white horse is as clever and brave as you, Brialvastor the Strong!'

The stallion let out a huff and his nostrils flared. Mithmír laughed and sat up. She felt weariness tug for the first time at her body; even though it must have been present much longer. 'Go back to the others, Brialvastor,' she murmured softly. 'Take me back to them.'

The horse silently obeyed; but not directly. With the uncanny sense of his kind he went off towards one of his rider's wounded comrades. Mithmír was too tired to notice.

Legolas stood motionless and surveyed his arm. In the way of Elves he had worn no heavy armour, and little on his arms; and this was responsible for the arrow shaft sticking out from his flesh. It was halfway between his wrist and elbow. Luckily it was not deeply in: it had entered his arm at a diagonal, and only half and inch had entered his skin. It was barely more than a scratch compared to most wounds taken and caused in battle; and would not even stop him from fighting in the next skirmish - when the shaft had been removed. He could not do it himself for fear of doing it unskilfully due to the fact he could not twist his arm around enough to see it. Despite himself he winced with pain. He wondered where Gimli had got to - where was his good friend when he needed him? He had followed the orcs a decent way into the shade of the trees and it would take a long walk to get back to Aragorn and the others.

He had begun to walk as fast as he could towards them when he heard hoof-beats at a steady trot from his left. He looked there in hope - no orcs rode horses, for none would bear them. Here, surely, came someone who could heal his wounds. His aspect brightened considerably, and he called out in Common: 'who comes to help a wounded Elf?'

Mithmír heard this and sat bolt upright in the saddle, her eyes wide. Her mind was torn in two: whether to help an injured companion, regardless of how silly and young he made her feel, or to ride past and pretend - ridiculously - not to have heard? There was no choice, in the end, for Legolas caught sight of her through the trees at that moment.

He stiffened instantly. He would rather bear the pain of the barb than be healed by this lady. The emotions she aroused in him were unwelcome and unexpected. He felt jealousy, a rare emotion among Elves, for the way she obviously was linked to Faramir. He was disgusted at himself for caring so. He tried to quell the faster beating of his heart as she got nearer. He felt bitterness well up in him; bitterness from jealousy, from self-disgust, and from the feelings he could not hope to have returned. His expressive water-like eyes froze over so no emotion was visible by the time Mithmír had dismounted and was by his side.

Despite herself she let out a slight hiss of shock. She grasped his arm, forcing him to stop walking and turn to her. She gently touched and examined the bruised area where the tip of the arrow, the barb, entered his skin. 'It's not too bad,' she said without looking up. 'I should withdraw the barb and bind the wound for you here…'

'No!' He replied quickly. Her head shot up and her dark eyes met with his.

'Why?' She asked suspiciously. 'I do have as much training in healing as any other warrior, Legolas Greenleaf, if not more.'

Legolas wondered if she knew how attractive she looked like that, her eyes wide with worry, her jaw set firmly, strands of dark hair loose from their tie and framing her face. She was not pretty in the way of Elven maids, however; but in a way unique to her: her attractiveness was born of her free will, her charisma, her bold and happy spirit. The bitterness erupted. 'Why don't you return to Gondor and tend to Faramir's wounds instead?' He said, his voice harsher than an Elf's should be capable of. Mithmír was silent with shock. He horrified himself by continuing: 'is that not a lady's duty, to tend to her bed-mate?'

Mithmír was shocked that anyone could so have misread her relationship with Faramir. The fuse of anger was lit inside her, however, and she retorted: 'Faramir is no lover of mine, Elf! He is as a brother to me, and a brother dearer to me than you could ever be! I have never known Elves could be so rude and unjust, insulting and judgmental… If they are all as you, Legolas Thranduil's son, I would far prefer to die the death of Men than live all eternity among their hurtful words!' Her voice was raised into a shout; in her blind fury she did not see the shadow of horror pass over Legolas' face, transforming his expression to one of sorrow. 'I am a warrior, Legolas! Do not ask me to stay at home and tend to the house until you yourself shall do so!' Her eyes glared at him with the wrath of her soul for another moment, and then she was mounting Brialvastor and heading away.

'Mithmír…' Legolas called futilely after her. 'Mithmír, I knew not, forgive me, forgive my words…' He felt a silver tear run its track down his smooth cheek. He was horrified at his loss of control, the uncharacteristic anger he had shown. He believed the things Mithmír rightly accused him of being were only faults in himself, not the Elven kind (though rather they were faults that neither bore). If he could only manage to tell her what emotions had stung him to uttering those foul things… He had all but ruined his chances with the fierce shield-maiden; things could never be righted unless he swallowed his pride and begged her pardon… He was old enough to cope with that deed, he knew, in all but one respect: he could not bear to be rejected again, and he knew rejection was all his previous behaviour had merited. His tears became tears for the hopelessness of his situation. He wanted to tell her so, wanted to tell her how he felt, wanted them to at least be friends… But what if she refused him? What if the same hatred arose in her eyes again?

He cried out once in fierce emotion; and with no thought for the consequences dragged the barb from his arm, releasing a flow of warm blood along his white skin. He made no attempt to stem the bleeding, but walked on and on towards the others until the blood was hard and dry, caked onto his flesh. He felt he deserved the pain. It could be no more than he had put her through. And as long as it lingered he would remember the things he wanted to tell her…

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As I said comments are greatly appreciated so please review.

Next chapter will be up by tomorrow night (GMT)

Annaicuru