Later that night, Strider wandered away from the group of Rangers who were
sitting around the fire, sharing tales of their travels. The girl was
still resting, but her breathing was now shallow and uneven. He was
worried, but knew that as an elf, she would have to survive. She must.
Without even realizing it, he wandered back to the tree where Miradon had hung, wounded and bleeding. He collapsed at its base, and sat with his back to the trunk, and his arms hanging limply over his knees. He leaned his head back and heaved a sigh.
What was wrong with this whole story? Five Rangers meet up in Near Harad, of all places. Not only that, but together, they come across a village attacked by orcs. In the North, orc attacks were common, but it was rare for them to be found this far south, in this heat and bare terrain. And then the elf girl. If she hadn't had mentioned that she was an elf, Strider would never have guessed. Her ears were pointed, that was true, but something about her, something about her spirit or aura was too…human for her to be an elf. Perhaps it was only the influence of living with humans for so long. Nevertheless, something just wasn't right.
Strider was deep in thought, when he was pulled back to reality by the cracking of a branch.
"Who's there?" he exclaimed, his hand prepared to pull his blade.
These people are incredibly jumpy, thought Miradon. "Pardon me, sir, I was just…ugh…"
"Well, what do you want?"
"I just needed to…seek some relief?" Miradon hoped he'd get the message.
"Oh…oh! I'm sorry, please, I'll go back to camp."
"Did I disturb you? I could go somewhere else. Thinking is important, especially in times like these…when reality just doesn't make sense anymore."
Strider skeptically looked at the girl – there was elvish in her somewhere.
"I was just wondering…about many things. The energies of Mordor are not often focused this far south. But in the smaller picture, I was just wondering about a certain elf maid," Miradon blushed "and how she was transplanted from the woods that elves love so much to such a dry, pathetic place."
"The story is far too long, sir…"
"Strider. My name is Strider."
"Strider. I don't believe I have the time or the energy to delve too deeply into my tale."
"Ah, so yours is not only a story, but an entire tale," said Strider, trying to suppress a smile.
"Why, yes sir…Strider…we all have our own tale. No life is a story."
"Well, unless your bladder is screaming out for help, I do not feel the need to sleep just yet, and if you could find the patience to sit with me while I listen to a fascinating tale, I am more than willing to as well," Strider was more than eager to gain some understanding of this mystery.
Miradon looked a bit confused and anxious. Strider was beginning to wonder what her secret was.
"Is there something you are keeping from me?" Strider asked.
She looked him straight in the eye and ran into the cluster of trees behind him. He didn't bother following. 'It's just as I suspected,' he thought, 'she must be keeping something important from us.' Strider was about to go back to the camp when she came running back.
"I'm sorry," she panted, "but I couldn't hold it any longer!"
Strider stared at her in disbelief and then suppressed a smile.
"Very well, if you are ready, I am willing to endure your tale."
"I'm glad you are so eager, for I fear it could not hold your attention."
Strider did not reply, but made himself comfortable. Miradon sat down as well.
"I…I'd like to thank you for healing me. I have bruises, but almost no pain. You are a true healer, like the great kings of old, only in the body of a Ranger."
Strider shifted uncomfortably. How could she possibly know? She couldn't know. She was just insightful, like every elf. Nothing new or important. Miradon did not notice, as her face was still swollen and disfigured, so she continued.
"If you are seeking to know how from whence I came, I cannot answer you. I have no memory of my previous life, if I had one. My first memory is of me stumbling into the town of Nakyere, after having neither eaten nor slept for who knows how long. I did not know I was an elf, but the people that had given me shelter noticed my ears and told me what I was."
"Wait, you're saying you had no idea what you were?" interrupted Strider.
"I had no idea. But they told that I was an elf and that I was not welcome in these parts. Elves were dangerous and inevitably brought magic and danger with them. They told me I could not stay that I must leave town immediately. I had no desire to go – I had nowhere to go. I begged them to let me stay. I would do anything. They agreed to let me stay, but only if I was to become their servant. I would do any menial labor they wished, in return for a bed of straw and table scraps. It wasn't a bad deal. The other servants did not think of me as horrible, I did have friends of a sort. But everyday was the same. Nothing exciting ever happened. Each day was routine, and that routine would never end, whether I wanted it to or not. I forgot that I was an elf and got used to the fact that beating and cursing were things that were done to me, no matter what I did."
"Your life doesn't sound like it had much meaning."
"No, I don't think it did, but it was still a life."
"How did you learn archery?"
"I never did really…women are not allowed to fight. It was just an attempt to save myself."
"But you must have had experience with some weapon…your arms look like they belong to an archer…yet you say you're not one?"
Miradon began to look uncomfortable again.
"Strider, do women fight were you come from? Up north?"
"Most women are comfortable in the home, but there is no definite rule against it…she is free to practice and learn techniques, but going into battle is not smiled upon. In fact, a great princess in the kingdom of Rohan is famous for her fighting skills. The White Lady Eowyn. It may be because she's royalty, but if she has the talent, no one can deny it."
"Strider…" began Miradon, "I am not an archer. My weapon is more…primitive than that."
"What? Knives? Swords? Whips?"
"No. Slings."
"Slings?"
"Slings. It is simply a strap of leather that you fit with a stone and then aim and shoot. It works quite well. I've gotten quite good," she said, with childlike excitement. "I had to practice at night when everyone slept. I practiced hitting tree trunks. If you look right above your head, you can see the notches I made."
It was true; the notches were deep and smooth, as if they had been hit multiple times. In fact, the entire front of the tree was decorated with small, round notches. Strider was amazed.
"I've never heard of anyone using the sling before. I mean, I've heard of it, and I know what it is. But most men, and elves, I know prefer the sword or the bow. Even axes and knives have more appeal than a leather strap."
"I know. I had heard of all these conventional weapons. But a few years ago, for I have only been in Nakyere for, oh, I think ten years, a traveler came through here. He was old, and his brown beard grew well past his knees. He wore rags and walked with the help of a staff, but he still walked with confidence and carried a sword. Well, he did not stay at the inn where my masters were the owners. Instead, he came in for a meal, and paid using his last coin. Unlike the other customers, he wanted to leave me something for my troubles. I insisted that he did not need to, that serving him was my job. He wouldn't hear of it, and asked me to meet him outside after my work was over. It was late, almost sunrise in fact, but I met him right outside the back door of the inn. He showed me his sling, told me how to make one of my own, and instructed me on how to use it. It was an extremely hasty lesson, but I remembered it all. After he left, I managed to steal some scraps of leather and fashion my own sling. I even burned some markings into the straps. They look beautiful but I don't know what they mean – it's just as well. I can't speak elvish, which is the only language I ever wished to learn. I tried to teach myself by eavesdropping on visitors to the inn, but I just don't get it."
"I admire your attempts. I myself still have some difficulty understanding elvish and I've been listening to it for my whole life."
"You grew up with elves?"
"Oh, um…please pardon me. I expected you to tell me your story, without returning the favor. If you could only understand. A Ranger, which is what we all are, is anonymous. We don't speak of ourselves or our pasts and our lives. The name that we call ourselves, you may have heard me speak to Chaser, Ahren, and Jonhe, and Syres, are not our real names. Syres does not speak much, even when spoken to. He is an observer, which is just as well. Rangers are meant to blend in – to enter and leave a situation without anyone truly noticing. I do not wish to tell you about my past, if that is all right."
"We all have secrets, Strider. I understand. If you think I have told you everything about me, you are not as intelligent as I assumed you were. But I am tired now. I heard that we are setting off tomorrow – my first experience out of Nakyere."
Miradon got up and started walking away. Strider's gaze followed her for a few moments, before he looked to the ground.
"Strider."
Strider looked up. Miradon was facing him and she was playing with the necklace that hung around her neck. Strider hadn't noticed it before.
"Yes."
"I would like to thank you now, ahead of time."
"Thank me? For what?"
"For saving me. For taking me away from this place. For taking me somewhere where people won't all hate me – I hope."
"You are very welcome, Miradon."
"It's just Mira."
"You're welcome, Mira. Good night."
"Good night."
Mira turned and walked away. Strider's eyes never left her until the darkness enveloped her.
Without even realizing it, he wandered back to the tree where Miradon had hung, wounded and bleeding. He collapsed at its base, and sat with his back to the trunk, and his arms hanging limply over his knees. He leaned his head back and heaved a sigh.
What was wrong with this whole story? Five Rangers meet up in Near Harad, of all places. Not only that, but together, they come across a village attacked by orcs. In the North, orc attacks were common, but it was rare for them to be found this far south, in this heat and bare terrain. And then the elf girl. If she hadn't had mentioned that she was an elf, Strider would never have guessed. Her ears were pointed, that was true, but something about her, something about her spirit or aura was too…human for her to be an elf. Perhaps it was only the influence of living with humans for so long. Nevertheless, something just wasn't right.
Strider was deep in thought, when he was pulled back to reality by the cracking of a branch.
"Who's there?" he exclaimed, his hand prepared to pull his blade.
These people are incredibly jumpy, thought Miradon. "Pardon me, sir, I was just…ugh…"
"Well, what do you want?"
"I just needed to…seek some relief?" Miradon hoped he'd get the message.
"Oh…oh! I'm sorry, please, I'll go back to camp."
"Did I disturb you? I could go somewhere else. Thinking is important, especially in times like these…when reality just doesn't make sense anymore."
Strider skeptically looked at the girl – there was elvish in her somewhere.
"I was just wondering…about many things. The energies of Mordor are not often focused this far south. But in the smaller picture, I was just wondering about a certain elf maid," Miradon blushed "and how she was transplanted from the woods that elves love so much to such a dry, pathetic place."
"The story is far too long, sir…"
"Strider. My name is Strider."
"Strider. I don't believe I have the time or the energy to delve too deeply into my tale."
"Ah, so yours is not only a story, but an entire tale," said Strider, trying to suppress a smile.
"Why, yes sir…Strider…we all have our own tale. No life is a story."
"Well, unless your bladder is screaming out for help, I do not feel the need to sleep just yet, and if you could find the patience to sit with me while I listen to a fascinating tale, I am more than willing to as well," Strider was more than eager to gain some understanding of this mystery.
Miradon looked a bit confused and anxious. Strider was beginning to wonder what her secret was.
"Is there something you are keeping from me?" Strider asked.
She looked him straight in the eye and ran into the cluster of trees behind him. He didn't bother following. 'It's just as I suspected,' he thought, 'she must be keeping something important from us.' Strider was about to go back to the camp when she came running back.
"I'm sorry," she panted, "but I couldn't hold it any longer!"
Strider stared at her in disbelief and then suppressed a smile.
"Very well, if you are ready, I am willing to endure your tale."
"I'm glad you are so eager, for I fear it could not hold your attention."
Strider did not reply, but made himself comfortable. Miradon sat down as well.
"I…I'd like to thank you for healing me. I have bruises, but almost no pain. You are a true healer, like the great kings of old, only in the body of a Ranger."
Strider shifted uncomfortably. How could she possibly know? She couldn't know. She was just insightful, like every elf. Nothing new or important. Miradon did not notice, as her face was still swollen and disfigured, so she continued.
"If you are seeking to know how from whence I came, I cannot answer you. I have no memory of my previous life, if I had one. My first memory is of me stumbling into the town of Nakyere, after having neither eaten nor slept for who knows how long. I did not know I was an elf, but the people that had given me shelter noticed my ears and told me what I was."
"Wait, you're saying you had no idea what you were?" interrupted Strider.
"I had no idea. But they told that I was an elf and that I was not welcome in these parts. Elves were dangerous and inevitably brought magic and danger with them. They told me I could not stay that I must leave town immediately. I had no desire to go – I had nowhere to go. I begged them to let me stay. I would do anything. They agreed to let me stay, but only if I was to become their servant. I would do any menial labor they wished, in return for a bed of straw and table scraps. It wasn't a bad deal. The other servants did not think of me as horrible, I did have friends of a sort. But everyday was the same. Nothing exciting ever happened. Each day was routine, and that routine would never end, whether I wanted it to or not. I forgot that I was an elf and got used to the fact that beating and cursing were things that were done to me, no matter what I did."
"Your life doesn't sound like it had much meaning."
"No, I don't think it did, but it was still a life."
"How did you learn archery?"
"I never did really…women are not allowed to fight. It was just an attempt to save myself."
"But you must have had experience with some weapon…your arms look like they belong to an archer…yet you say you're not one?"
Miradon began to look uncomfortable again.
"Strider, do women fight were you come from? Up north?"
"Most women are comfortable in the home, but there is no definite rule against it…she is free to practice and learn techniques, but going into battle is not smiled upon. In fact, a great princess in the kingdom of Rohan is famous for her fighting skills. The White Lady Eowyn. It may be because she's royalty, but if she has the talent, no one can deny it."
"Strider…" began Miradon, "I am not an archer. My weapon is more…primitive than that."
"What? Knives? Swords? Whips?"
"No. Slings."
"Slings?"
"Slings. It is simply a strap of leather that you fit with a stone and then aim and shoot. It works quite well. I've gotten quite good," she said, with childlike excitement. "I had to practice at night when everyone slept. I practiced hitting tree trunks. If you look right above your head, you can see the notches I made."
It was true; the notches were deep and smooth, as if they had been hit multiple times. In fact, the entire front of the tree was decorated with small, round notches. Strider was amazed.
"I've never heard of anyone using the sling before. I mean, I've heard of it, and I know what it is. But most men, and elves, I know prefer the sword or the bow. Even axes and knives have more appeal than a leather strap."
"I know. I had heard of all these conventional weapons. But a few years ago, for I have only been in Nakyere for, oh, I think ten years, a traveler came through here. He was old, and his brown beard grew well past his knees. He wore rags and walked with the help of a staff, but he still walked with confidence and carried a sword. Well, he did not stay at the inn where my masters were the owners. Instead, he came in for a meal, and paid using his last coin. Unlike the other customers, he wanted to leave me something for my troubles. I insisted that he did not need to, that serving him was my job. He wouldn't hear of it, and asked me to meet him outside after my work was over. It was late, almost sunrise in fact, but I met him right outside the back door of the inn. He showed me his sling, told me how to make one of my own, and instructed me on how to use it. It was an extremely hasty lesson, but I remembered it all. After he left, I managed to steal some scraps of leather and fashion my own sling. I even burned some markings into the straps. They look beautiful but I don't know what they mean – it's just as well. I can't speak elvish, which is the only language I ever wished to learn. I tried to teach myself by eavesdropping on visitors to the inn, but I just don't get it."
"I admire your attempts. I myself still have some difficulty understanding elvish and I've been listening to it for my whole life."
"You grew up with elves?"
"Oh, um…please pardon me. I expected you to tell me your story, without returning the favor. If you could only understand. A Ranger, which is what we all are, is anonymous. We don't speak of ourselves or our pasts and our lives. The name that we call ourselves, you may have heard me speak to Chaser, Ahren, and Jonhe, and Syres, are not our real names. Syres does not speak much, even when spoken to. He is an observer, which is just as well. Rangers are meant to blend in – to enter and leave a situation without anyone truly noticing. I do not wish to tell you about my past, if that is all right."
"We all have secrets, Strider. I understand. If you think I have told you everything about me, you are not as intelligent as I assumed you were. But I am tired now. I heard that we are setting off tomorrow – my first experience out of Nakyere."
Miradon got up and started walking away. Strider's gaze followed her for a few moments, before he looked to the ground.
"Strider."
Strider looked up. Miradon was facing him and she was playing with the necklace that hung around her neck. Strider hadn't noticed it before.
"Yes."
"I would like to thank you now, ahead of time."
"Thank me? For what?"
"For saving me. For taking me away from this place. For taking me somewhere where people won't all hate me – I hope."
"You are very welcome, Miradon."
"It's just Mira."
"You're welcome, Mira. Good night."
"Good night."
Mira turned and walked away. Strider's eyes never left her until the darkness enveloped her.