Bainuilos was leading Galadriel and Celeborn back to camp, sword drawn, all senses keen and tuned, when suddenly he stopped. He swung his head about almost as if searching for a scent; dark hair flowing over his shoulders like a black flood.
'Tondfael has found trouble?' Asked the Lady in Quenya. It may have been an odd choice of language for the moment; but neither of the other Elves questioned it at all.
'Yes,' replied Bainuilos in the same tongue. His son was a competent fighter; far more skilled than most left on Middle Earth in this Evening Days; but that did not stop him worrying. Even an Aratirith might suffer bad luck and be felled in battle. Elven bodies were not always spared from death just because of their immortality. He paused a while longer before continuing: 'there are orcs in the wood!' Before the Lord and Lady had time to react; Bainuilos – with his fighter senses – had already assessed the situation. Celeborn and Galadriel were unarmed, but for a dagger in a sheath at the he-Elf's waist – and that could do little damage. They could still run fast, however, and hide in the trees so well they could never be seen without much searching. And they had weapons of a different kind too – courage, wisdom, and – in the case of Galadriel – the inherent power in all High Elves. Bainuilos counted Nenya not as a weapon: the Elven Rings were for crafting, not destroying. Only in the greatest and most pressing need would Lady Galadriel use the Ring of Adamant's failing power for killing. Hopefully, that need should not show itself, and the last of Nenya's magic should be used to create some lasting monument to the beauty of the Elves.
'Shall we return to the camp?' Asked Celeborn calmly. He trusted his Aratirith with his life, and the life of his Lady.
Bainuilos was an Aratirith true; even as the old High Guards were. He did not pause in his answer when he decided to leave his son to whatever fate awaited him in the Wood. It was not lack of love, but faith; and after all the Aratirith's duty was to care for their Lord – or Lady – before their all else. Aratirith lived and died by the sword, if they died at all. Tondfael was one of the best. He would survive. 'I shall accompany you to camp,' he agreed. 'It would be dangerous to leave you alone. Would you care to go ahead? Lord, draw your dagger. I shall guard with my bow. Galadriel…' though his son may have been in danger a mere half-mile away, Bainuilos was always courteous. After Galadriel had stepped away ahead of him, he followed behind her, notching an arrow to the bow. He was ready, just as he always had been during the countless years he had held Celeborn's life before his own.
By the time all the orcs were dead, their carcasses littering the ground, nearly an hour had gone by. Mithmír had received many minor cuts and bruises – she had not been wearing her armor, a fact she did not regret as it would have made her meeting with Legolas far less pleasurable. Elven flesh was more agreeable under caressing fingers than cold metal. As soon as she had felled the final orc before her, she plunged Celebdîn deep into the soft earth before. When she drew it from the ground with a heave, the blade was mostly clear of orc-gore; and so she sheathed it. The sound of metal on metal ran out through the clearing; the very sound dulled by the atmosphere of death. Even in victory, Mithmír did not find killing something to celebrate. To win a battle against evil was a joyous occasion, yes, but to revel in the spilling of blood… Only when she had cleansed herself and rested could she show true joy.
'You shall make a wonderful Aratirith, my cousin, Lady Mithmír Rochiwen.' Tondfael's voice was tired, but sincere. Mithmír looked up at him, wiping a trail of her blood from her right forearm as she did so.
'Thank you, Tondfael,' she replied quietly with a smile. 'My fighting skills cannot compare with yours, however. And Cristeiliant…' she let her sentence hang, knowing her wide eyes would tell her cousin all he needed to know. She blushed a little as Tondfael bowed to her, and turned to Legolas. 'Nín meleth[my love]? Are you alright?' She asked, a little worry creeping into her voice. The Wood Elf had sheathed his daggers, and was standing tall with no visible wounds, but one hand was to his face, and his eyes glittered with some shocked emotion.
'Legolas?' She asked again, momentarily forgetting Tondfael as she approached her love in a rush, stopping only when she was before him and looking up at his pretty face. 'What's wrong?' She fought to keep the hysteria out of her voice; a part of her disgusted at herself for being so worried, so like an ordinary maiden.
Legolas' eyes widened, thick eyelashes fluttering closed as he blinked rapidly. He drew his hand down from his face. To Mithmír's relief, only a thin trail of blood wandered over his fingers. The cut from which the blood came was thin and nearly perfectly straight; a red line moving down from elegant cheekbone to jaw, narrowly missing his moist lips. The Prince smiled a little at her worry. 'Barely a scratch, Silfëa,' he assured her. 'Only the tip of an orc-dagger. It shall heal in two days or so, and leave not a mark – Elves heal better than mortals.'
Mithmír sighed in relief, and leant into his chest where his arms embraced her tight. She reached up a careful finger and wiped away a droplet of blood that was forming. She did not speak. His words may have been true; but this incident had proved to her again that her beloved was not invincible.
It was Tondfael, not Legolas, standing to the side of the pair, silent and watchful, who saw a single tear fall from Mithmír's eyes. He did not speak, knowing that she had just realized even her undying love could not save he who was above all else in the world to her.
