Preface: So I know Mary Sue stories get a bad wrap but I just can't help it I love writing them ;P ...After endlessly tweaking my LOTR one, I had a bug to make one for the Silmarillion, but this time I decided to make a plain o' mortal. As Tuor's is probably my personal favorite story in that anthology I decided to insert her there (though I do have her promptly veer off from it). And being a fan of using sister characters, I decided to do it by giving him one. As usual I took some artistic license, especially toward the end, because I wanted to give her something important to do... So here goes nothin again ( assuming anyone but myself is interested in reading it )... :D

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The Messenger

The Tale of Mírian Anufiniel

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The Mountains

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The wind blew strong outside the caves where Mírian lay trying to sleep. The howling sirens of its bluster through the hills and valleys kept her from dozing long, and in the dead of the night she lay in the dark staring at the curtain wall of her room.

At that still hour the noise outside at last had started to die down, and her mind started to calm and allow her to finally start drifting off. But suddenly she heard a rustling noise nearby, and her eyes shot back open. She rolled from her side onto her back so as to hear better with both ears. There were sounds of little clicks and clinks of wood and metal, shuffle and rustling of clothes and shoes. Then a soft pat pat pat of shoes on the cave floor receded into the distance.

Mírian quickly considered what to do. Should she investigate the noise? No. There was no need to go snooping around, she knew what they were. She sat up, and began rustling through her own things scattered around her little room of curtain walls. She changed into her day clothes, slipped on her shoes, and swung her brown cloak over her shoulders. Once she finished her usual morning preparations for going out - several hours too early albeit, off her own feet pattered toward the cave entrance.

Outside a figure hard to discern but for its movement was already very small at a distance, and growing smaller as it wove through the trees at that dark hour.

Mírian pulled her cloak snug around her - it was approaching the coldest hour of the night, and still early Spring in these northern parts. She watched the figure, keeping well hidden in the woods, as it wove through the bushes and trees skirting along the lake, nearly as still a fresh rain puddle as it mirrored the little gems high in the heavens, descended the foothills toward the valley.

The figure was already far ahead, and she knew she had to start at a fast pace to catch it up. Taking one of the footpaths of her foster people, Mírian took off at a jog. She resented that she felt obliged to do so - she didn't care much for running, but told herself the activity would serve to help keep her warm.

After a while she began to grow weary and slowed her pace, for she had traveled far in a short time. But she had come within closer range and was able to come to a fast walk. Still she had to keep her walking fast to keep up the pursuit. Mírian had left the footpaths now, as the trees grew more sparse and the target of her hunt was now wading into the deep grasses of the low hills beyond the lake that descended down to the rolling plains of Hithlum.

She took care to stop when her target stopped, and did her best to stay hidden, steering to the cover of trees and boulders as she went. At last the figure ahead had reached a patch of woods and slowed its pace, and crept very slowly and stealthily from tree to tree. Mírian could see what her mark was making for. Looking around she veered off her following course and made her way up a nearby hillside, carefully creeping and scrambling up until she found a good view point that was close enough to keep a watchful eye on things, and stay within her effective range.

Behind the mountains at her back the sky was just beginning to lighten. From the cover of a large boulder Mírian brought forth a small wooden bow from she had carried under her cloak. Slipping the quiver from her shoulder she pulled back her hood. Then slowly she crept around the side of the boulder and took a kneeling position, placing a pile of arrows by her knee. She took one up and strung it, holding it taught.

Mírian had no heart for hunting, for she loved the creatures of the forest, trying rather to befriend them to the amusement of her family. They likened her to her kinsman Beren, and her ancestor Bëor the Old, who, it was rumored among his folk, had such a way with animals that he could have speech with them and refused to eat of their flesh. For this their crafters even made for her containers for water fashioned from the gourd squashes that they sometimes used for kitchen jars, so that she would not have to use skins. But she joined the hunting lessons anyway, so as to learn tracking and stalking. Now she remembered her lessons, and watched.

*.*.*

Dawn was approaching when young Tuor at last found the enemy camp he had overheard his people discussing. It was a small camp, they said, and they planned to keep an eye on it for now. None could guess where they were headed or what they were up to.

His foster folk were kind and caring and managed their defenses well enough at need. But they would not muster forces and charge forth and retake Hithlum for his people and for their mastery of their own lands of old.

'They are afraid to do what is needed,' young Tuor thought to himself. 'I am my father's son. I shall do it and avenge him and my people of the House of Hador!'

His foster family slept little, and light, and he had to take extra care in order to sneak out without waking anyone. The wind that night was wild and loud that night, and he decided that was his opportunity. He had waited till all was quiet in their cave, then rose and dressed, and crept out through the dark halls, and slung his cloak over himself as he stepped into the cold night outside.

For many miles he walked, and was approaching the high plains of Hithlum beyond the secluded woodland valley of Mithrim Lake. Though he was just fourteen years old, Tuor's strong legs, already grown long for his age, took him far in a short time. At last he found what he was looking for - a small band of Orcs, settled into a camp - all too comfortably, it seemed. Now he slowed, taking care to proceed with stealth as he had been taught during lessons on tracking prey. As he approached, tree by tree, boulder by boulder, inching his way crouched through the tall grass, he gained a clearer view of the camp's inhabitants. Just three smaller ones around a fire. 'Not too bad,' Tuor thought to himself, 'I can manage that, then might I prove my battle worthiness and my foster-father will allow me to join the patrols. Then I will lead them, and we may retake Hithlum in honor of my people!'

Tuor took a moment to gather himself, pulling his long white knife from its sheath. Then suddenly he sprang to challenge his enemies.

"Begone foul vermin of Morgoth," he cried, knife pointed at them, "if you would not feel my wrath by the sting of my blade!"

The three sprang up, and two reached to pull their own blades. But they were caught unawares, and fumbled as they scrambled to stand and bring forth their weapons.

At fourteen Tuor actually was already quite accomplished indeed in his weapons training, and he came at them, bold and confident, and these two he slew quickly. But the third was quicker than the others, and cleverer, and had jumped back and backed away at the sight of his surprise enemy. Then the third had pulled his whip, and snagged the would-be young warrior by the neck from behind. He gave a good yank, and his opponent stumbled back. But the fearless young mortal thinking fast turned and swung his blade, hoping to cut the whip. But this enemy was also quick, and caught his wrist with a shocking grip. This last Orc clenched Tuor's wrist so fierce the boy dropped his knife with a yelp. The knife now the ground received a great stomp of his enemy's foot and split in two.

"Now, then!" he said in the common speech with a rough, gravelly voice. "What to do with this mean little squirrel?"

Realizing he could either make some money selling his captive to the Easterlings or win good favor by handing him over to the Big Boss, he loosened the whip from Tuor's neck. Holding the boy secure with his iron grip he fished out a rope, wrapping them so tight it did not take long for Tuor's hands to start feeling cool.

The orc pulled out a large black dagger. "You'll pay for that," he said, pointing the blade at his slain comrades lying on the ground. "But let's see here, should I just kill you now? Or tickle you with this first?" he said, holding up the knife.

Tuor's heart sank as he realized the scale of his dilemma; he was caught, with no help coming. He had no other weapons to reach for, but he was searching for others - scanning his opponent and the ground around him for something to grab.

He soon discovered the camp was not as small as the overheard conversation led him to believe. Two other Orcs approached the fire from where they had been out in the field. These were a bit larger than the first three. Tuor wondered if the first group were adults who were simply of some smaller kind of Orc, or if they were closer to children, similar in age to him?

The newcomers came and found the mess of slain comrades by the fire and flew into a rage.

"I say we kill him!" cried one as he came up from behind and shoved the boy to his knees with a foot to the back.

"Oy!" replied the first, "he's my prisoner and I say we tickle him first! Make 'im suffer for that. But he's a brat of those yellow haired Men, with an elf blade. I reckon the Big Boss would reward us handsome if we hand this one over. Have his own fun with him; make him pay for his kin, I bet. And send down some reinforcements to deal with the elves who been hiding him. We could run his stick legs all the way to the Fortress - wouldn't that give us a fun time!"

There was a chuckle at this, and the first newcomer stopped to consider the idea.

"Oh bugger the Boss; just kill 'im!" cried the other, as he came up, pulling out a short broad sword. He raised it up to prepare a swing.

Then suddenly the sword dropped, and this second of the larger Orcs dropped to his knees, and fell in a heap over the first one's feet. His comrades looked down and saw an arrow stuck in him, up high right through the ribs. They looked up in a fright, and were dashing for cover as more arrows flew, two missing a mark and one piercing a leg.

Tuor saw the arrows and looked up at the dark hillsides nearby from where the arrows seemed to fly, realizing he was not alone. Based on the varying degrees of success with which the arrows found a target, he had a guess at who might be out there helping him, and fear gripped him, but not for himself. But seeing a chance he grabbed up the short sword near his knees just as one of the bigger Orcs came back out at him. Tuor raised it up in front of him as he swung around and it ran his opponent straight through. Now emboldened again, Tuor turned on the last Orc focused on plucking the arrow through his leg, and dashed toward him. But just then another one sprang up out of the grass from the shadows beyond the fire, with a great iron-tipped spear thrust out, pointing at him.

"Drop it, little worm," the new one growled, "or you'll be feelin' the bite of my blade."

Tuor lowered the sword, but he hesitated, hoping the archer in the distance might come to his aid again. But then he heard rustling and footsteps behind him, and turning he saw even more enemies appear. One had dashed up and seized him from behind and relieved him of the sword. Still no more arrows flew. The Orcs were discussing what to do with their prisoner when another couple of their comrades appeared from the direction of the hills, with another prisoner in tow. Tuor looked up, and his heart sank.

This prisoner was pushed over to the first and bound in like manner. One captor tossed a small bow onto the ground in the firelight, which his comrade walked up and also snapped with a stomp of his foot. And there the two prisoners now sat on their knees, bound and gagged, listening in despair to their captors trying to decide whether to kill them straight out, torture them and then kill them, sell them to the Easterlings as slaves, or drive them north for the pleasure of their master.

The sky in the east began to lighten from indigo to a deep azure, and the Orcs knew they had to get a move on soon to get some distance from whoever might come looking for their prisoners. One started putting out the fire while the others began packing up gear. Suddenly the two prisoners heard a thunk, and a crack, and looking up saw that the captor assigned to watching them now had a long, sturdy arrow through his chest, direct through the center at his heart. Then, one by one each of the remaining captors also went down, arrows through a neck here and a back there, but to the prisoners it seemed to happen so fast it was as if they all had been struck at once.

Now the two prisoners sat there, alone in the quiet for several long moments as the sky lightened, now unsure of making any further moves.

At last from the shadows emerged a tall elf, who strode up and stood before them. He looked upon them silently for several long moments, then knelt down to untie their gags and bonds.

"Well!" he said at last, "I hope you two have a good explanation for all of this."

Both prisoners sat up on their knees and opened their mouths to speak up and defend themselves, but he raised up a hand.

"Save it," he replied. "Save it for your foster father."

The second prisoner, Tuor's sister, sat back down on her knees and hung her head. "Yes, Cúdolin," she answered. She looked over at her brother. His gaze was at nothing in particular, and his brow was furrowed, and he looked occupied with his thoughts. Mírian wondered what he could be angry about, having just been safely rescued from their own foolishness.

Meanwhile others had appeared to start on cleaning up the mess of Orcs. Mírian looked at the elf. "Thank you, Cúdolin," she added, "for saving us."

She looked over at Tuor and tapped his arm. He looked back at her, and glanced up at their rescuer. "Thanks," he muttered as he cast down his gaze, and was lost to his thoughts again.

The elf's face softened as he went to cut the bonds at their wrists. "Come along then, it is time to face your judgment."

Off they were trotted, walking in silence as they backtracked the miles they had traveled through the tall grasses of the lowlands that bordered the foothills, past the piles of boulders and small cliff sides topped by low tables of rock, through the patches of mountain woods, and back along the fair lake, now dappled in the cool gray colors of early morning, disturbed by faint splashes and tiny ripples joining together into soft waves as the as the fish were stirring to catch their breakfast. 'The return journey feels so much longer,' Mírian thought to herself, 'but I think I could never tire of gazing at this lake.'

Back up along the subtle woodland footpaths they climbed into the hidden upper reaches of the hill valleys, above the trickling spring creek that spilled down toward the lake until at last close to noon they reached the caves they called home. The twins' foster parents had told them that before the Nirnaeth they lived in peace and comfort by the fertile shores of their beloved mountain lake, and for long only the oldest among them remembered needing to use the caves way up here.

Finally they were home, and their rescuer brought them before their foster father. He was calm and cool, which Mírian began to worry about. For himself Tuor looked to be managing a struggle in his mind over gratitude for the rescue and anger with himself for needing it.

"Now," said Annael patiently, "what were you two thinking?"

He looked back and forth between the young mortals. His gaze went to Mírian and at last she replied, "I was worried about him," she said, nodding toward her brother.

Annael looked over at Tuor, but the young man could or would not answer. At last the elf sighed and continued. "There is a reason our sentinels and soldiers have survived many encounters with Orcs over the years. Not only have they achieved their full stature both in size and training, but they work in teams, and look out for each other.

"This the second time you've risked your lives for such mischief. The first time was a softer target, other Men, whose warriors and hunters happened to be away, and all you did was rob them of weapons and valuables - stolen from your kindred though they may have been. This time you were fortunate, barely, that the watch guard marked you leaving and arrived in time.

"My children, there are tasks of great import that lay in your future, I deem - for both of you.

"So you, my daughter, please alert us to such fears as you might have for your brother, that you both may survive to do those things.

"And fear not, my son! There will be many chances in your future to avenge the sires of your house. But, not just yet."

*.*.*

"They may need to be separated," said Mírian's foster mother, Lothaelin, to Annael. "They are likely to get each other killed, or worse. Or the young lady will get herself killed in his following."

"Yes, I think you are right," replied Annael. "Those Orcs were a small band for their usual number, I suspect they may have been a scouting party hunting for news of folk high in the House of Hador, for their master's vengeance. But there were more of them snooping around than we realized, and if they had caught a glimpse of them or even just us it would be a bad turn for all. In the end thus it may be well that the children attacked them in their foolhardiness, for it should be a long while before any news at all reaches his hold, if it ever does, and so a long while before the enemy may learn any hints on the existence and whereabouts of Huor's children.

While many are reluctant to leave as yet, there are a few among us anxious to send their families to refuge in the south. It may serve well to plan for those desiring it to depart sooner than later, and Rían's daughter at the least should go with them."

"Yes," answered Lothaelin, "for the road is rumored to be passable of late. And so I too shall go, and my nearest kin with me."

"Very well," he said. "I could not say why, but my heart tells me Tuor should yet tarry here a while. Therefore Rían's son will stay here with me and those who remain."

The children were then informed that the elves would be leaving in two parties, one during the coming warm season and the other later on. This would be at a time to be determined, likely the following year. Despite the training in arms and tracking he had given Mírian, Cúdolin the great archer volunteered to accompany the first group, both for pity and worry over the daughter of Rían but also because he had kin beyond the mountains whom he desired to go see.

Tuor was saddened, but untroubled being burdened with less fear, and agreed it best his sister flee soon while she may. But Miren wept. "Wherefore must we be separated? Come with us if you worry so for me," she protested. She tried to persuade the elves, arguing that they may as well all leave together now, but Annael refused, telling her what he had told her foster mother. Tuor's heart went to his sister in her grief, and he tried to comfort her.

"Do not fear, sister!" he said to her. "The rest of us shall depart soon enough, and by the time the warm season wanes next year we shall all be safe in Nan-Tethran together. Annael has strong foresight, and sees great things in our future."

Mírian shook her head. "Nay, brother," she replied. "Our foster father's foretelling may indeed come to pass one day. But I also have a foresight on me, yet it is more a foreboding and a shadow on my heart. If we will be reunited it will not be for a long time, and not until after we have both endured much hardship and suffering."

But Tuor wondered how this could be, for the danger was rumored to be low as of late, and the enemies they had yet encountered were quickly overcome. Thus he was inclined to trust in the optimism of his foster folk. So on a day in high summer when the green of the trees was full grown and daylight had passed its peak already, the twins parted with love and sorrow, and the first group prepared to set out.