Thanks again for all the reviews they are very much appreciated.  I agree with the comment that the beginning of the last chapter was kind of unclear: I suppose I was assuming a bit much that everyone had read the book and remembered the plot reasonably well.  Next time something like that comes up I'll try to avoid making the same mistake.

Glad to hear you're enjoying it!  I'm considering writing a few short stories about Mithmír's past and putting them up on fanfiction.net; pretty much purely as a supplement to this.  Any feedback on this is welcome: if you're not interested I will just keep them to myself.

Please enjoy and review!

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Mithmír stood beside the Elves for the final stand of the West against Mordor and its fell power.  Legolas was on her left, with Elladan and Elrohir to her right, Elladan closest.  They had all drawn their bows; and they stood with their aim high and their arms did not shake.  Arrow-tips glinted in the red sunlight.  Mithmír's face was stony and composed like those of the immortals about her.  None of them wore any helmets, and their hair rippled freely in the wind: Elladan and Elrohir's twin shade of deepest brown, Mithmír's lighter hazel, and finally Legolas' ever-bright blond.  Mithmír's hair had been given two small braids at the front by Legolas, for as he pointed out, if she were a Sindarin Elf she would be considered an adult and allowed to wear them.  The ranks of Men wondered openly at their beautiful, powerful appearance.  Mithmír found it odd to hear them talk of her with such awe: after all, she saw herself as one of them – or had.  Now she was not so sure; for after being with the Elves and seeing them not as a guest does but as friends for a long while, she felt close kinship to them.

They watched the battalions of orcs, uruk-hai and trolls emerge from the open gates of Mordor.  The sight was terrible to behold; and coupled with the fierce cries of the Nazgûl as they swooped above, it was enough to make brave souls quail and steadfast warriors wish to flee.  Mithmír desperately held onto her calm composure, not panicking and loosing her arrow too early, waiting for Aragorn's command.  Just when she thought her heart would break with terror, and she should loose all pretence of bravery, the intensely beautiful and sorrowful (for the beauty of Elves is magnified by sorrow, not marred by it) voice of Elrohir broke the still air:

'A Elbereth Gilthoniel

silivren penna míriel

o menel aglar elenath!

Na-chaered palan-díriel

o galadhremmin ennorath,

Fanuilos le linnathon

nef aear, sí nef aearon!'

Then he began the whole of that long hymn to Elbereth the Everwhite, and the other Elves (and Mithmír) soon joined in.  The song was bold and defiant on that final battlefield; and it lifted the hearts of all who were near enough to hear it.  Aragorn also sang, to Mithmír's surprise and delight, and also Gandalf in his deep, age-old voice.  Even the Prince Imrahil, who she had not thought to speak the fair tongue, sent his strong voice to join the rest.  By the time it was over, the host of the Enemy was nigh close enough to attack, and a final call went up from Elladan: 'a Elbereth Gilthoniel, an canle!  Sílalín lim ammen!'  O Elbereth Gilthoniel, I call you!  Shine your light on us!

Mithmír felt her heart rise even further at the call.  She joined her own voice to it, in the cry of the Dúnedain: 'Lacho calad!  Drego morn!'  And Aragorn and the other Dúnedain repeated it after her with growing force, until they were shouting themselves hoarse and adrenaline pumped through them.  Suddenly there was silence, and then the cry of the King rose high above all else:

'Fire!'

The assembled archers of the army loosed their first flight of arrows in perfect time; just as the approaching orcs broke into a crude but terribly fast run.  Many fell, but many more took their places.  So it continued for many minutes; the Elven archers being the most skilled, followed by Mithmír, and then the knights of Dol Amroth, and finally the Men of Gondor.  The black tide reached them all too soon, and the first obstacle it reached was that of the Dúnedain, the knights of Dol Amroth, the few Elves, and the King; who stood before the main host, which seemed pitiful before the huge army of Mordor.  Mithmír drew Celebdîn as Legolas took out his daggers, and the Elven twins their wondrously crafted swords; Elladan's Gorellen [dread star] and Elrohir's Kirdae [shadow cleaver].  The silver of the weapons gleamed.  It struck Mithmír, in the second before the onslaught hit her, that this is what it must have been like at the Last Alliance of Elves and Men.  She saw the rows and rows of humans, and the Elves about her, dressed in their light but firm armor which was tinted golden.  She wondered at the sense of fellowship that grew from desperation…

And then she became purely a warrior, at one with her blade.  She greatly missed Brialvastor, but she had sent him away from the battle: he was too precious to be lost, and the odds were too heavily stacked here.  Instead she focused all her body and soul on the swift, deadly movements of Celebdîn, the way the hilt fitted firmly into her hand.  She used her gauntlets often as crude shields, blocking blows of fell daggers with one or other side and then quickly shoving forward in a stabbing motion to kill her opponent.

She was dimly aware of Legolas to her left; she could see him spinning and twisting, dodging and slashing, his long hair whirling about his head.  She smiled a little.  He was so beautiful when he was fighting; so beautiful and so deadly…  She kicked a dagger from the hand of an approaching uruk-hai, and hewed off its ugly, misshapen head with her two-handed sword.  She was caught unawares as a staff of wood or iron was swung at her shins.  It hit her leg-guards alone, but was hard enough to swipe her legs from under her and she dropped to her knees.

'Are you well, Lady?'  Came Legolas' anxious voice.  In answer Mithmír ran the beast responsible through on her sword.  For a second the Elf's face was clear to her.  She smiled grimly.

'I can take care of myself, Prince.'

'Don't I know it,' Legolas muttered in reply.

Meanwhile Mithmír stood up quickly, and managed – with some difficulty – to draw the sword from the corpse of the uruk-hai.  Some wonderful power granted her respite from the battle – for a moment there was a break in the flow of dark things heading to her – and she used the chance to sheath Celebdîn and draw her daggers.  The large sword was becoming just too tiring for even her, a seasoned warrior at using things of such weight, to stand for long.  She caught a glimpse of Elladan, who was doing well by the pile of orcs at his feet, before charging with a cry of rage at her next – ill-fated – opponent.

She heard the cry from her left too late.  She saw her beloved Elf fall; though; she saw the dark things swarm over him.  The bright golden-white of his hair was hidden by the shadows of the orcs about him.  She cried out,

'Nín meleth!'  My love!  And began to make for him as fast as she could…

Legolas felt the searing pain enter his thigh, and while he doubled over in agony a heavy blow with a blunt object hit his head forcefully.  He cried out, reached feebly and futilely for his half-elf who was too far away to come to his aid, and then toppled to the ground.  His eyes blacked out with pain as he felt more blows rain down on him, though few were not stopped by his armor.  He drew his arms up over his head in a useless defense, and through the pain he realized that he cried.  It was not for life lost; for all Elves come to battle completely aware that they may die, and they accept the fact calmly.  Rather he cried for his grey-stone, his Mithmír, whom he should never see again…  The salt water mingled with the blood on his lips; and all the while he mouthed silently: 'Im meleth le, Mithmír, im meleth le…'  I love you, Mithmír, I love you…

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~ sob sob ~ I have depressed myself!  I'll put more up soon.  Please review!