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The Duel
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The elves exited the forest not far from where they had entered. Then they sped along southward, for the most farsighted of them saw ahead that the Golden Wood was enduring an enemy assault of its own. Arbalo assured them that in Lorien there was at least a power too great for the enemy's servants to overcome by the enchantments of the woods within, and strength that the Lady's power gave to the hearts of elves who lived there and fought for it. But all were still quite anxious to get back to the aid of their people, knowing the fences still required a manned defense.
As they drew closer the teams could see now a large force along the eastern banks of the river, crossing over in many boats. They were unsure of what help they could give to a force so large, except perhaps to fire upon their boats from afar. So they hurried to set themselves along the banks and began firing what was left of their arrows to great avail against the enemy ferries. The elves had spied two of the foul beasts of the air circling like enormous vultures, but then it was Mírilis who cried out in dismay, for she saw most clearly the riders they bore: the pale wraiths of Men walking in living death.
These descended toward a landing upon the fields. Seeing the small but sizable elf host descending toward them from the north one turned toward them, letting out his chilling screech of a cry. Then a part of the horde focused on assaulting the Golden Wood peeled off to meet the archers upstream. The lead Nazgul, lieutenant and second-in-command of the Nine, remained to oversee the assault against his master's chief foe after Gondor. But his comrade came up flying low overhead to the aid and lead of his troops. Not a few of the elves back away in dismay, but when he landed he stared intent at Mirílis, thinking her in the lead with some powerful magic as the lone elf of the West standing among them. But Arbalo rallied his archers, and quickly he spread them out and arrayed then for battle as seemed best to him, and by cover of shields in small groups as they had done before they began firing. The Orcs who had now reached them., and soon they were in close combat with their long knives and axes.
Mirílis meanwhile stepped back in a start, for she found herself now faced with one of the Nine, the topmost chieftains serving the Dark Lord. She saw him clearly: tall and terrible in his undeath, the might of his menace and terror palpable in the thick air of the enemy's endless night, his eyes glowing red with the hatred and gloating that his master felt in his surety of victory over his chief opponents in that moment. But in Mirílis this but kindled the defiant spirit of the house of Fëanor, and the tale of her father's torment and death sprang to the front of her thoughts. 'Maybe there is no hope to take the fight direct to the enemy's tower,' she thought. 'But here I may strike him as he won't forget, if I can.' Then taking her spear she charged. The wraith lord gave a mocking laugh, thinking himself invulnerable to such attack, and the hideous sound of it sent a shiver through all who stood near, elf and Orc alike. But Mirílis paid no heed, the light of the West light blazing bright in her eyes, and she ran right up and swung her spear against him. He leapt back in dismay, for though he had his small host with him he had not the power that his kind could wield when they stood together, and then around him his soldiers wavered, much to the boon of the elves. The enemy thought her indeed akin to the fell Witch of the Wood - as she was labeled by his forces, some lower lieutenant such as himself. But he could not in this situation flee her attack, for the forces at his command were all near, so he drew his own wraith weapon.
Mirílis knew these were more perilous than ordinary swords, and so now she jumped about in dodging as he went on attack. But at length their weapons clashed indeed, the force of his evil ring against the mighty spirit of the Noldor, and it pained her hands grievously. Then finally at the third such collision she cried out, and her spear fell. She felt very weary, and she faltered and stumbled, and stood hunched over in resting. The wraith lord strode up in savor of his victory, and prepared his final strike, as the fighting spirit of his soldiers around him on the field rekindled. Mirílis looked up at him. Within the shade of her cloak curtained down over her shoulders her hand despite its hurt went carefully to hilt of the pale long knife of the forest elves that she still carried, desperately working to rally herself for one last try to do some sort of damage before she fell.
There was no need. In that moment it seemed the faint screech of his kind carried on the winds over the lands from some distant place far away. It rang out sounding shocked and defeated and mournful, and suddenly the blazing red flame in his eyes dimmed, and Mirílis watched him look to the skies startled and dismayed. Then seeing her chance she jumped up at him with a fierce swing of her knife, but he had suddenly turned and fled, mounting his steed and swiftly taking to the skies and speeding off away southward with his comrade. His Orcs meanwhile were now hesitating in a disordered jumble of confusion, and at last the elves of the wood took the upper hand and what was left of them were swiftly slain or driven away, off into to the forest or panicked into the river.