THIS FANFIC CAN BE READ ON IT'S OWN, so please do, but it is a kind of prequel to "The Daughter Of Elves And Men", and centers around the same character.
This is the first, long-awaited tale of Mithmír's past. I can't promise that there will be as much plot as there is in the others (I'll try to make something big occur, though), but it will definitely give you an idea of how Mithmír has matured over the years. At the moment there is only one chapter which can stand on its own; so if you don't enjoy it I won't carry on, and if you do… what can I say. There will be more.
At present she is sixteen, going on seventeen (not intentionally quoting a musical!), and is wandering the wild places of Eriador as a ranger. She's a bit more "wild" at this age; and quite passionate (she gets angry quickly, and bears grudges).
Enjoy it and please review!
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It was high summer, and the door to the Prancing Pony was wide open to allow a better circulation of fresh air. It seemed that near all of the male population of Bree and the surrounding towns were inside; sampling Barliman Butterbur's fine ales, and wetting their tongues for a hard morning's gossiping. It was a prosperous year for the Bree folk; and the harvest would be exceptional, if the great fertility of the fields was anything to go by. Most of the earnest chatter was on the weather; and the crops; and some news of the more serious affairs in the Shire. The more enthusiastic conversations, between the men who had already managed to become mostly inebriate by only eleven in the morning, included rumors; speculations; and hilarious tales of those odd folk in the Shire.
Barliman was his usual bustling self, moving around his premises with all the speed of a small tornado and the efficiency of a bee. He entered the room with a sheen of sweat over his rounded face; wearing his usual grimy apron; and carrying the characteristic half-dozen tankards of beer in his hands. He stopped on the threshold, looked around the room, and raised his eyebrow when his gaze caught certain people – those who had called for more drink. He then moved about the crowded room, shouting hurried greetings as he went, handing out the ale and collecting the equivalent sum in small coins.
His last port of call was far over in the darkest corner of the room, near the stairs and – conveniently for the occupant – the door. There was a single table against the wall; and at it was a figure swathed in a grey traveler's cloak that looked as worn as if it had seen all the miles of Middle Earth. The person slouched back in the chair, heavily booted feet on the table beside a hefty sword – sheathed, Butterbur was pleased to see. Butterbur knew who it was instinctively – one of the odd rangers, that much was for sure, but what was more, he knew which one in particular. And even more odd still, this was only a girl not yet twenty.
He put the mug down on the table with a clang. She was well aware of his thinly veiled hint to remove her boots from the table, but she ignored him. She knew he would show her as much respect as she merited, which was considerable. The people of Bree, stuck with their heads in the sand, may dislike and distrust her, but they didn't normally bother her. 'There you go, lady Ranger,' the innkeeper said gruffly. He wished she'd take off her hood and try not to look so secretive. She may have things to hide – what ranger's didn't? They weren't overly trustworthy, any of them – but she put the other customers on edge. She always paid her dues, though, he had to admit, and her tips were often mighty generous. There were some folk who would have you believe that rangers protected the Bree lands from danger – though that was all drunken blabbering, reason told him. The rangers were an odd race, and no mistake; and they were certainly not someone you should like to meet in a dark ally. They did no serious harm, but little good either.
'Thank you, Barliman,' she replied in that odd voice of hers – assured without being distinctly arrogant, calm without being overly serene. Almost elvish he should have called it; had he ever met one of the Fair Folk. He was instantly glad he hadn't called her by the name Wild-cat, which is what the village men used for her. That was guaranteed to put him in for a totally different tone – scolding and very, very frightening when it was coupled with a sword openly displayed. 'How is the year for Bree then?' She asked vaguely as she drew two coins from her pocket and put them in his outstretched hand. He noticed that she bit her nails.
'Very good, lady Ranger,' he answered stoutly, determined to not be prejudiced between his customers. He had long got over the fact that she drank no ale and only water or a little wine, normally the finest in his cellars; and was not surprised to see her take a deep swig of her most basic of drinks. 'The farmers say the crops are growing well; and what with all the dwarves staying in Bree on their way to the Mountains in the West, my trade has been roaring, thankfully.'
'That's good, then,' she replied softly. Butterbur, feeling dismissed, bowed and walked away shaking his head. For such a young girl she had an incredible amount of presence. He felt young when he was around her.
The girl's name was Mithmír Rochiwen, and she, being a half-elf, was the only Elven Dúnedain of that time. She looked around the stuffy room with mixed emotions; a mild distaste tempered with a strong urge to protect these people in their secluded, innocent existence. Mithmír had never been satisfied with being told, in her youth, that only male Dúnedain became Rangers. She had pointed out angrily that she would be the exception; and now, in her sixteenth year, she had lived up to that statement. She wandered with as much freedom as her male counterparts; and fought as fiercely and bravely as any man, and better than many. Her connections with her mother's Elven kin had made her wise and mature beyond her years.
Butterbur pointed towards the corner where Mithmír sat. 'There be the Wild-cat,' he said firmly. 'Sitting on her own in the corner.'
The brawny man spat onto the rush-covered ground. 'She should skulk alone indeed! I'll go and talk to her now then, and sort this unpleasant business out.' Butterbur shied away from the farmer as he swaggered arrogantly away. Farmer Bullsway had a reputation which was known all through the Bree land. He was aggressive and a liar; but a powerful one with many followers who would gladly back him up. He wondered what the Ranger had done to get on the wrong side of such a dangerous man. He almost pitied the fact that she did not have another Ranger with her here – it should definitely be a help if a face-off was initiated. He winced. A brawl was the last thing he needed today.
Mithmír didn't move as the well-muscled man drew up a chair and dropped down onto it. He was obviously trying to intimidate her with his impressive bulk, and with any other he would have succeeded, but the Rangers were of a better line than most, and Mithmír counted as high even among them. She didn't even blink as he spread himself out on the chair; his macho display not fazing her. She'd had to cope with many of his type before; and would have to deal with many more again. He was no problem for a well-seasoned warrior such as herself.
Farmer Bullsway was slightly knocked off-balance by her calm, disconcerting gaze. For some unfathomable reason he felt at a distinct disadvantage. 'Wild-cat,' he snarled aggressively and in as loud a tone as he could manage. There was quiet in the bar, as he had hoped; and the assembled drinkers began to gather around to see "some fun". Few if any would bet on the slim, slight, female Ranger being the victor of this fight. 'Faramir Bullsway has a bone to pick with ye.'
'Yes?' Replied Mithmír politely. Her quick, dark eyes skimmed over the table and immediate surroundings. She expertly judged how far away the hilt of her sword was; and estimated that if things got too nasty she could make a quick exit in under six footsteps. Nonchalantly she shifted her position, drawing her feet off the table. Naïvely, the man assumed it to be a sign of weakness. Not a skilled fighter, he didn't realize that now not only her sword could be used, but her two daggers could be drawn quickly from her belt.
'I woke up this morn to find my six cows, all good milk-givers, gone from their barn!' He said gruffly, looking around the audience, who nodded in sympathy. Cries of agreement went up from the crowd. To Barliman Butterbur, watching anxiously from the corner, they looked like hounds baying for blood.
'And?' Asked Mithmír, looking incredibly relaxed as she finished the last of her water. It would be a pity to have it spilt and wasted; for it was better and purer than any she partook of on her journeys. Her dark eyes glinted dangerously.
'It was ye who took them!' He bellowed, bringing his fist down with incredible force on the table. Mithmír was glad she had finished her drink, for the mug fell to the floor with a smash. She made a mental note to leave Barliman some coin for it: she was not unreasonable; and not too poor as to not pay what was due either.
She nodded slowly, moving her hand to lazily rest on her sword. The man was dimmer than she had anticipated, she realized with a slight tightening of her stomach – not fear but anticipation. He wasn't going to realize her prowess as a warrior and back off without a fight, which could not end well for him. 'Someone must have released them. Cows, however much milk they produce, do not open barn doors. I hardly think I could have been responsible, however – I only arrived in Bree this morning, off the East Road.'
'Don't lie to me, you stinking Wild-cat Ranger!' He cried in rage, a dull fire leaping into his eyes, the cows forgotten (they were wandering aimless in his fields, let out by an unruly stable-hand). 'Your people have never been any good to anyone and I don't see that changing anytime soon. What kind of woman wanders alone and plays as a man, carrying a sword?' He sneered. 'You are nothing but a filthy pay-woman, looking for buyers, aiming to pollute the fair town of Bree with your body…'
A pure rage erupted in her at this untrue words; and she lived up to her name in the town, unable to contain her wild anger. With a cry she launched herself at him, knocking over the table first and him second, landing with a thump on top of him. The watchers began to cry, 'fight! Fight! Fight!', and they drowned out Butterbur's calls to stop. The farmer was strong she found, if lacking her finesse. He began to pummel her with heavy blows, shouting as he fought. She dodged the blows, not realizing that her hood had fallen back and her pointed, Elven ears were revealed. Luckily for her, in the heat of the moment few others noticed either. Elves were not welcomed in Bree.
He threw her from him and got up awkwardly. Mithmír, however, leapt nimbly to her feet, and her twin daggers were flashes of silver in her hands. They circled each other for a few minutes, each trying to find an opening in the other's guard. Mithmír wasn't keen on shedding any unnecessary blood, and the adrenaline surge caused by her anger was wearing off, leaving her disgusted at her behavior. This half-drunken lout wasn't even worth her attention.
The man's own bulk was his downfall in the end. With a final cry of, 'ye'll never return to Bree again after I'm through with ye, Ranger!' he charged at her, putting all his weight behind the maneuver.
'Fool,' whispered Mithmír with a grim smile, knowing the fight was over. She rolled easily aside; leaving him, unable to stop his movement as quickly as was necessary, to hit the wall with a sickening thud. In a second she was back by the dazed man's side, leaning over him with a victorious grin on her face.
'Never think you can beat a woman and an Elf,' she whispered. 'Consider yourself lucky you aren't dead.' She got to her feet easily, sheathing her daggers, much to the relief of the now-horrified crowd. 'Respect the Rangers who protect you more than you'll ever know,' she spat finally, and then – tossing a generous amount of coin to Barliman for his trouble – walked boldly out of the Prancing Pony.
Barliman was left standing, gaping at the money in his hand, in the middle of the chaos. After a moment had passed he pocketed the coins – still mulling over their impressive collective amount – and sighed. He surveyed the damage: one broken mug, and a table on the ground. More difficult to fix were the shocked looks on the faces of his customers, and the half-conscious, soon-to-be-fuming-with-anger Farmer Bullsway on the ground. Not that the braggart hadn't deserved it. He shook his head and waded into repair both. It was all in a day's work as the innkeeper of the Prancing Pony.
Though granted, the female Ranger made things a lot more interesting than usual.
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Hope you enjoyed this glimpse of Mithmír's rather turbulent time as a teenager. Something makes me think Aragorn is not going to be happy about this little display… LOL. Please review.