Mithmír let there be no time for a reply.  She didn't feel she needed one – who- or what-ever it was eyed her too intensely, that she was aware of by the rising of the little hairs on the back of her neck.  She didn't allow herself to shiver.  When fighting, all movement should be controlled: as free and full of life as it can be, but nevertheless every movement should be dictated by the warrior.  She smiled a little as she remembered one of her beloved father's first lessons to his young daughter.  The expression was made grim by the determination in her steely eyes, and the slight ring of metal as she put down Celebdîn in favor of the daggers.

And then she moved forward silently, running like a cat, trying to pin down a certain point in the darkness and find the tangible, sentient being there.  She held her daggers comfortably, expertly, weighing their familiar mass in her hands and already deciding which would strike first – she would spin, making the right dagger connect first at shoulder-height, with the left following just with a jab into what should be an arm.  Incase her opponent turned out to be harmless, she would only make non-lethal attacks until she had identified them.  This was much harder than fighting to kill; being a much more refined and calculated style of fighting, where the shield-maiden had to be sure not to let adrenaline get the best of her.

She could not guess at how many times the figure eluded her among the trees.  It seemed to twist and turn among the low-hanging boughs almost as a bog-wraith would; moving with ethereal serenity and grace.  Never could she get close enough to see the stranger's face; and never did they speak for her to learn their voice.  She tried to quell the frustration that rose in her like a gaseous cloud; choking her senses and drowning her wits and mind.  It reminded her of how she had been when she was a teenager: rash and impetuous, far more than she was now.  She disliked it, and knew well how much of a disadvantage it put her at.  She shook her head to clear the dizzying fog of emotions therein, and tried to add a little more speed to her feet.  She was regretting her actions now: it had been unwise to stray from the camp and leave the others.  There were guards, of course, but she was by far the strongest fighter there.  This could be a decoy, trying – and succeeding – to draw her away from her post.

She stopped suddenly.  She would not be a pursuer in the dark any longer.  'Who are you?'  She called again, making her voice as bold and loud as it could be.  'Come out from the shadows and tell me your name, or else be you afraid of a maiden?'

She was caught completely unawares by the strong arms that looped themselves protectively about her trim waist from behind.  She tried to gasp, but a  hand was close across her mouth, binding her to silence.  When she tried to struggle, and twist the knives around to strike her assailant, a foot came up from behind her and nimbly kicked one away.  She was still holding the other, but she was persuaded not to use it when the hand left her mouth, only to return pressing a dagger-tip to the small of her back.

'Tûr nín,' whispered a satin voice beside her left ear, warm skin nuzzling hers, sending shivers through her body.  My victory.

'No,' she whispered in Common, smiling widely, before slipping into Sindarin.  The Elven tongue seemed to suit the mood coursing through her more.  She knew her captor was Legolas; and the knowledge exhilarated her.  They were alone, completely alone, with only the darkness as their cover from watching eyes…  'Altûr nín.'  Not your victory.

'Why do you say that?'  He asked, voice skipping over the beautiful syllables of the Grey Elves' language.

'You'll see,' she whispered playfully, turning in his arms to face him.  'You'll see.'

***

Sorry it's so short!  And even worse, there'll be no more chapters till Tuesday.  Mithmír and Legolas are on hold to then.  Really sorry and there'll be a nice Legomance-y chapter then to cheer you up.

-- Annaicuru