This story has just been reviewed and revamped, for the first time in a few years…So thanks to those who read it before, and thanks to those who are reading it now.

Disclaimer: Me. Not. Tolkien.

Ainë Calliel pulled her green elvish cloak tightly around herself as big, fat droplets began to fall from the sky, causing the thick silvery leaves of the mallorn to tremble and shake. Mist had settled around the great trunks of the trees of Lorien. The place was, in Ainë's opinion, entirely too quiet.

She was less than fifteen miles from Lothlorien (or, what was left of the city). At this distance, two centuries ago, she would have been able to hear the rustling of the Wardens in the branches above her. She would have been able to hear the faint echoes of elflings playing in the streams. Now, all she heard was pure, earthen silence. It was 198 years after the War of the Ring, and the beginning of the Fourth age.

Most of the elves had gone into the West, save maybe a hundred or so that remained in Mirkwood, Ithilien, Lorien, and Imladris. Tiny colonies that remained entrenched in their ancestral habitats, either afraid to let go of the land that they loved, or simply unready to give up on a land they had sworn to protect. From what Ainë had heard, there was little to do in the way of protecting. The humans of Rohan and Gondor had kept peace in their realms remarkably well. The Easterlings had been unbelievably peaceable since their defeat. The dwarves were rebuilding their numbers, re-establishing the ravaged Moria to its former glory.

Ainë had never heard her call from the sea, and frankly never wished to leave on the gray ships…though a loneliness weighed heavily upon her heart since the departure of her friends and parents. She missed the golden years of the elves, when they had roamed freely and powerfully. When Men and elves had open dealings with one another.

For one reason or another, elves had begun to fade into myth in the minds of Men…And those elves that stayed in Middle Earth let it become so, living in secret obscurity. They rarely left their villages, except to guard and maintain the empty shells that once were their cities. That particular sorrow and heaviness still lay in her heart.

Ainë was content with the life of a wanderer. She considered herself a keeper of the leaders of Middle Earth-for now, an educator and advisor. She made certain that the kings always remembered from whom they were descended…and who had assisted their ancestors in the past. Ainë was a memory-keeper. She had been almost everywhere in Middle Earth, and had sat at the hearth of the leaders of Men, dwarves, and hobbits since the reign of Aragorn and Arwen. Their great-grandson, Astalmir Telcontar, now ruled. "What a fine lad," she thought, remembering the boy as she'd last seen him…ten years old, waving around a sleek birch-wood sword that Eldarion had given him for his Begetting Day. Despite the years that had past, Astalmir looked as elflike as Arwen had. A delightful anomaly-and reminder-for the royal family. They, at least, could never forget their elven heritage.

Ainë led her horse through the maze of foliage and onto a familiar Lorien road. The soft, cool autumn breeze brought a whiff of the last of the summer niphredil flowers. Her eyes drifted shut and her head sunk back, face bared towards the patches of sun that the leaves allowed to bathe the forest floor in gold. She opened her mind and senses, feeling her horse's broad back beneath her, her long hair stirring across her delicate cheekbones, the soft linen of her shirtsleeves rubbing her wrists like the hands of a lover. For a moment, she was lost in the bliss of the woods. Her forest. Her home. "Oh, how I love living!" She thought, a slow, sweet smile spreading across her face.

Her horse Fanya snorted anxiously. Ainë's hand drifted to the hilt of her sword, subconsciously. Men now dared to travel these sacred roads, and she had to be watchful. She opened her eyes, scrutinizing the area, while drawing her hood about her face. It would be better for anyone she met to think she was just a ranger on patrol. Her ears detected the pounding of destrier's hooves on the ground, muffled by grass and fallen leaves.

She debated urging Fanya into the shadows, her sleek grey body blending with the phantoms of Lorien. The horse's innate elf-magic would hide it from the untrained eye, human or otherwise. At the last second, she decided against it, relaxing Fanya into a slow gait. She could handle whomever presented themselves, and she liked to hear news from hunters, nomads, or rangers that she came upon.

Three men riding black horses came over the top of the hill ahead of her. She tightened her grip on her sword. It remained in its place, for the moment…Though her warrior's instinct was as volatile as ever. The approaching men looked to be Gondorian, with dark brown hair and the white tree on their garments. They rode up and attempted to surround her, but Fanya's ghostlike silhouette danced away, towards the edge of the wood. The black mounts whinnied, as though greeting one they knew to be a descendant of equine royalty. Fanya snorted. She had no patience for humans and their ignorance.

Artamir narrowed his eyes at the lone rider. The man was slight, clad in a common green cloak, head bowed. As he, Aldas, and Gareth approached, he noticed the fine tooled leather of the bags slung over the uncanny horse's back…as well as the absence of a saddle. Aldas flung a puzzled, unsure glance his way. Artamir raised a hand, bringing the group to a halt, traditionally attempting to encircle the green-clad one. The Ghost-Horse melted into the shadows, its flanks blending into the dark shrubbery and absence of light.

"Whoa," Artamir said softly, code for leave off. The three steeds backed up, unsure. He hesitated, looking the rider over again. The cloak covered him to his knees, but his trousers were of a fine, chocolate-brown wool. His boots were better-made than any Artamir had yet seen, as was the bow and quiver slung over his back. He could not see the man's sword, but he could see how the man's pale hand rested on the ornate pommel, and guessed that it had not gone unused or untested. "Curious, indeed…" he thought.

"What is your business in this place, traveler?" he asked as he dismounted, a gesture of good faith. He was too terribly intrigued by this man to frighten him into a chase. "Where do you hail from, and what is your name?"

"My business is my own," replied he. "And I wonder how bored patrollers such as you must be to stop every person on the road." Artamir smiled, and his men dismounted as well.

"We are simply doing our duty," said Gareth irritably. He had been grumbling all day, wishing for home and cursing the gods again and again for the rain and the cold.

"Very well. My name is of little consequence, as is my destination. If you must know, I bound for Minas Tirith."

"Why do you hide your face," asked Aldas. "And your voice is awfully high…Whatever is that accent?"

"I would rather just be on my way, so if you do not mind, I bid you good day," replied the rider, his horse's flanks disappearing into the afternoon twilight.

"Wait a minute," said Artamir. He moved towards man, grasping his ankle in an attempt to keep him from leaving. The stranger leapt off of the horse's bare back in a green blur, and whipped out a long, ornate, silver sword. The man in the cloak held it out in front of himself in a gesture of casual, yet effective swordsmanship. Should anyone get an inch closer, they would have a blow to parry.

"Do not come near me, please," Ainë half-growled. "I mean no trouble." "Oh, dear…" she thought. "I am acting like a rash elfling. By the Valor, where is my self-control?" The two subordinate men pulled their own swords from their scabbards, though their leader held a warning hand up. "I really do not wish to fight you," she said warningly as the two glared at her.

"You are outnumbered," said the youngest fiercely.

"So it seems, young one," commented Ainë offhandedly, making eye contact with the leader of the group. He was quite tall for a human, with deep green eyes and black hair. The strongest ranger blood she had seen in several decades. He seemed startled as he peered into her hooded face, examining her striking violet eyes, no doubt. Hers from her mother.

"Young one?"

"Drop your weapon, in the name of the King!" Ordered the one with the tied-back, goldish hair.

"I do not wish to fight you," Ainë said again, carefully, "But I will not hesitate to defend myself." She did not break gazes with the first of the men.

Suddenly the youngest rashly made a stab at her. As she deflected it, her hood slipped down to her neck. There was a collective sharp intake of breath.

"A woman!" gasped the golden-haired one, sheathing his sword. The other followed suit, ashamedly. He stared at her with awe.

"By the Valar!" cried Ainë angrily. "Just because I am a woman does not mean that you should sheath your swords. What are they teaching you at the palace, these days? I shall have a word with Astalmir about this."
"Your ears are pointed," said the youngest man stupidly.

"Yes, Master Obvious," said Ainë. "That is because I am an elf." She sheathed her sword with trepidation. Nothing was more tiring then having to explain herself to a group of foolish mortals when she'd had nothing to eat all day.

"But…elves are pure legend," said the first man skeptically. Before she could stop him, he reached out and brushed her left ear with his fingertips. Though the touch was feather-light, she nearly sunk to her knees from the sensation.

"Do not ever do that again," she said breathed dangerously, trying to quell the burning in her chest and lower abdomen, the lust and warmth that surfaced invariably, like oil on water. "To be so free with yourself to an elf, and a stranger…A few centuries ago, you may have lost your hand."

The man looked uncomfortable as she regained her composure and tucked a smooth brown braid behind her ear. "I apologize, my lady," he said, sinking to his knee, head down. The others followed suit.

Fanya snorted. Ainë rolled her eyes. "Get up, I beg you. My being inhuman is certainly nothing to grovel about. Though, perhaps, your manners and training are," she added. "Your names, I think, will make up for your transgression."

The leader spoke up. "I am Artamir, and this is Gareth," he indicated the young man, "and Aldas. We are of the Gondorian army."

"You are not exactly in Gondor here," mused Ainë. "This is still the realm of Lorien." Gareth looked confused.

"Lorien? I've heard of no such place. This is certainly Fangorn!"

Ainë sighed. "Lorien is the Golden Wood. Once ruled by the Lady of Light Galadriel and now ruled by her kin. Home of a few of the elves that remain in Arda. Once you crossed the Field of Celebrant, you entered our territory."

"I thought she was just a myth," said Gareth. "The Forest Witch, that is."

"Indeed not. She was a friend of mine." Ainë adjusted her golden elanor brooch and smoothed her cloak with her long fingers, the closest to a nervous gesture an elf could get. "If you do not much mind, my good sirs, I must be off. Daylight is too short to waste." She leapt onto Fanya's back.

"We will escort you to Minas Tirith," Artamir said gravely.

"I cannot see a maid traveling so far alone," Gareth said with as much bravado as he could muster, as the men mounted their own horses.

Ainë stared at him with a wintry gaze. "How old do you think I am?" she asked in a cold voice.

"Lady," replied Gareth nervously, "You look no older than 20 years of age."

She smiled mirthlessly. "Young one, I am three thousand, nine hundred and twenty one years old. I have seen the ages of this world go by, and have fought battles of which you could never dream of. I can take care of myself by now, I should think."

"All the same," said Artamir, "We are going there as well. We will go with you."

"No offense meant," she replied, "But you could only slow me down."

"No offense meant, my lady, but we could only learn from you. If we were to spend a few weeks on horseback accompanying you, is it not true that you could assist us in perfecting our swordsmanship and our travel etiquette?"

She surveyed the trail once more before looking back on him, a wry smile gracing her lush lips. The sight nearly took his breath away. "What is your rank, sir?"

"Captain."

Ainë sighed audibly again in a very unelf-like manner. "If you must come..." She spurred her horse forward into a gallop without warning, a ghost in the waning light. They silently followed her through the woods, towards the heart of the forest that they three had believed haunted since childhood.

"Lirimaer," Ainë cooed softly to Fanya, brushing the horse's coat with the silver comb her father had given her shortly before his departure. It bore the family's elanor crest, as well as the elvish inscription, Loved are you, always.

Aldas watched her, the glint of fascination still evident in his intelligent eyes. "What are we to call you, my Lady Elf?"

"Yesh," Gareth said through a mouthful of apple. "Wot is yur name?"

"Ainë. Daughter of Calla. Descended from the people of Imladris."

"A Rivendel elf?" Artamir asked, settling himself by the small fire, warming his hands.

"Yes."

"Are you truly thousands of years old?"

Ainë looked at Gareth. "When I was born, your great-great-great-great-great-grandmother was not yet in existence."

Aldas chuckled as the blood drained from Gareth's ruddy face. "Boy, your mind will have to be far more open then it currently is to grasp her," he nodded in Ainë's direction.

The three men watched as she unpinned her cloak and shook the day's dust out of it. They drank in the lean, strong, feminine body that was clad in a man's trousers and a deep amethyst tunic over a cream-colored shirt. She caught their looks and raised an eyebrow.

"If we are to travel together, sirs, I expect you not to look at me like a barmaid from the Grey Dove Tavern."

Aldas cleared his throat and looked away. "I can't imagine what you're talking about. I was just looking at the stars over yonder."

"Very good," Ainë said, laying her blankets on the ground and wrapping herself again in her cloak. "I love a fast learner."