Please check the reviews page; I have posted one correcting my mistake on why Elrond became Elven. I was kind of right-ish… maybe… or not. Ah well. Basically he was half-elven and of high lineage on his Human side… (Sense any familiarities with a certain half-elf in this time??!!) And so the Valar granted him the choice. It did kind of have something to do with the War of Wrath, though, because he was given the choice after.

Hope you're enjoying this! Please R&R

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She grasped her father's right hand in between her own; so hard she thought she'd never be able to let go. He looked so frail lying there, helpless, with his left arm bundled in bandages and stinking of healing-weed. Mithmír had an odd feeling that he was the child and she the adult. For all her independent and rebellious spirit, she didn't like it.

'Daddy?' She asked quietly, nearly begging for him to respond. 'Daddy, it's Mithmír…' She kissed his pale hand lovingly. 'Wake up, daddy.' In some ways the half-elf had never grown up. She had always been closer to her father than her mother; he had been her protector and mentor. He was much more accessible than her mother, whose serene beauty and air of wisdom could make her harder to approach. She had never stopped calling him "daddy".

The healer, Disde, who stood beside her, shook her head kindly. 'He's probably too sleepy, child, and he needs his rest. I'll call you when he wakes, if you want.'

Mithmír nodded through teary eyes. For once she couldn't care less about being called "child". 'My thanks, Disde. That would be wonderful, if you could.' She got up from kneeling, her legs besieged by pins and needles, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. 'He will get better, won't he?' She asked with the worry plain in her voice and eyes.

'Of course, dear,' Disde assured her. 'His arm will never be as strong as it was, but it'll still be able to wield light weapons and do most things. It's not the end of the world, however much it may seem like it is now.' She patted Mithmír on the shoulder kindly. 'Don't worry yourself about your father, lass. He's a strong, brave man - or should I say, Dúnedain.' She smiled kindly, and then propelled Mithmír firmly away and out of the Houses of Healing. 'I'll contact you when he wakes up,' she said finally, and then shut the door.

Mithmír's head was hanging as she made her way back to Faramir's room, where she had been told she could stay as long as he was ill. Guest rooms were hard to come by in the City, which was now crowded by the Men of Rohan, the Dúnedain, and men from some lesser kingdoms as well as the Gondorians themselves.

She bathed quickly in the scented water, and was asleep the second her head touched the pillow.

She saw nothing of Legolas or Aragorn for some days afterwards; for they were engaged in meetings in the pavilions on the plain. She was lonely, but for her uncle only. Her mind had been made up about the elf: she had behaved childishly in the extreme, and from now on she would be courteous to the elf but no more. She wondered at how she had got so carried away.

She was kept busy in those days; carrying messages mostly, which irked her, but sometimes she would be given a more enjoyable task, such as learning to forge weapons in the smithy; especially when her hand was mostly healed. Her father awakened, and they shared a tearful reunion and swapped many tales. On the fifth or sixth day, she could not remember which, she emerged from her room in the morning to find the elf standing in the corridor outside. He looked slightly abashed, but his stance was proud and tall. He bowed politely, and she bobbed a little in place of a curtsy, never once taking her eyes off him.

'Yes,' she said finally, her look suspicious. Without thinking she ran a hand nervously through her hair. She had just washed it and it was still damp and cool against her neck.

'I have come with a message from Aragorn,' he said with remarkable composure. 'He says that you are to be told that you need not disobey his orders any more.'

'I'm sorry?' She asked with impeccable manners. If he can be polite, she thought somewhat bitterly, so can I.

'We march to war before the Black Gates tomorrow morn,' Legolas explained. A flicker of some unidentifiable emotion passed like a shadow over his fair face. It may have been fear.

'That's suicide!' Mithmír broke out before she could stop herself. She felt herself blush instantly.

'We go to war anyway, lady,' Legolas replied calmly, 'for the sake of the hobbits Sam and Frodo. Aragorn wants you to ride with us.'

Mithmír grasped the door-frame so tight her knuckles went white. 'Me? Ride with you? Really?' There was immeasurable hope, and joy, and above all shocked disbelief in her eyes. 'Why? What makes him suddenly think a mere woman is good enough for war?' After so long of being snubbed for her sex, she was hesitant to believe.

Legolas couldn't stop himself smiling a little. 'Your father gave you permission. He cannot ride to war himself because of his wound. He says that you should represent him.'

'Really?' She asked, a broad smile creeping over her. 'You are the bearer of wonderful news today, Prince Legolas!' She laughed spontaneously. 'Well I had better prepare my weapons then!'

'Indeed,' he replied, and then bowed before moving away. He sighed deeply when he had finally turned the corner and was out of her sight. Men were so obvious; they lacked the subtlety of Elves. Mithmír sleeping in Faramir's room… Even if he was not there, it was still vulgar in its suggestiveness.

Mithmír could barely contain her excitement as she settled down for a long day of polishing and sharpening. For the first time in all her life she was good enough to be allowed to do one of the things she most wanted to do, despite the danger! She was whistling a merry tune - one of the folk-dances she had heard in Ithilien - and took out her daggers. The day looked promising.