Legolas and Mithmír were enjoying another searing kiss when they heard an Elven call from nearby in the wood.

'Crist enni!  Crist enni!  Glamhoth vi'eryn!  [Swords to me!  Swords to me!  Orcs in the wood!]'  Despite how preoccupied she was with her love, Mithmír instantly recognized the voice of Tondfael, and the two Elves sprang apart; the woman's hand flying to her sword-hilt, and Legolas taking his bow and readying a Lothlorien arrow.

'Ellon a elleth teli! [Elf and elf-maid come]'  Cried Mithmír, the flush caused by Legolas' attentions slowly leaving her cheeks.

'We do,' agreed Legolas in a whisper, before moving forward in a swift, silent run towards the place whence Tondfael's voice had sounded from; and where now the faint cries of battle could be heard.  Mithmír ran beside him, moving through the trees like an arrow, straight and sure.  She looked over to him, and wondered at how focused he was: such a short time ago they had been embracing passionately – a fact which she could not rid from her mind – and yet now need called, his mind was purely on the task at hand; his slim fingers curled around the Elven bow skillfully and strong; not caressing smooth skin.  She admired him for it; though she felt a pain somewhere deep in her chest at the idea that, though immortal, a blade or an arrow-tip could steal the life of her beloved; and that though now he ran to face combat with an expectant, almost joyous expression on his youthful and yet age-old face, the fighting could easily overcome even his skill; and replace the smile with a pale façade of death.

Legolas seemed to sense her eyes upon him, and though he looked not from the way ahead, he said in a timeless voice which belonged to all lovers that have ever been or will be, 'you can never lose me, Mithmír.  We belong together.'

The tears came to her eyes unbidden; but she had controlled them by the time they reached Tondfael.

The dark-haired Elf was surrounded by a band of maybe a dozen orcs.  His sword, the wondrous Cristeiliant, was drawn; the orcs being too close and too many for using arrows.  Three orc-bodies were already fouling the fair forest-floor, two killed by arrows, the other still bleeding his last ounces of life-fluid – if life it could be called, to be an orc – from deep wounds on his chest and neck.  Tondfael himself was a fighter in his element.  He looked as if he were incredibly distant in spirit as he fought; his mind having strayed to the place of incredible calm the most skilled of warriors can reach at will.  His dark hair spun around him as he moved fluidly and powerfully; perfectly composed and in control – stroke, parry, stab, parry, stab, withdraw blade…

Mithmír, who had never seen her mother's sword hewing flesh as it was truly meant to, was in awe.  She could see why it was said to make rainbows: it whistled through the air as if cutting the very fabric of reality; and even as the blade itself shone as if with many colours, so did the air it sliced through, shimmering for many seconds in it's wake.

After what seemed like many minutes, but was really only moments later, a portion of the orc-band noticed the two new-comers, and broke off to fight them.  Mithmír stepped towards them, as did Legolas, and after that neither had any knowledge of the other, or of Tondfael.  Each would have to trust to the other's skill to keep their loved one alive.

Mithmír had already drawn Celebdîn, and her first stroke was made as if she were in a trance.  It cut almost lazily through the air, moving slow in her eyes, taking its time, before hitting the shoulder of the nearest orc with a sickening crunch and digging deep into the flesh, cracking bones and splitting flesh.  As Mithmír withdrew the blade, heaving with both hands at the effort, she heard the wheezing breath of the stricken beast, and knew that its lungs had been punctured and its life would not last long.  She felt an odd thrill in the attack, and as soon as that adrenaline coursed full through her body, time resumed its normal speed.  A grim smile spread out over her features.  After all the emotional drama of the last few days, she had finally returned to the sword-play which made her so sure of who she was:

Mithmír Rochiwen, the Elven Dúnedain, shield-maiden and Aratirith.