Before anyone comments, I know this is pathetically tiny [abashed grin], but I had so much homework tonight… I'll try to put more up tomorrow. Good things are coming! For now just read, review, enjoy… The usual stuff.

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'Be thee tired yet, Lady?' Asked Gimli with a wry grin when they halted for their first night's rest, at the crossroads by the river Morgulduin, in the land of Ithilien. Mithmír smiled, and chuckled in response:

'Nay, no more than you yourself are, master Dwarf.'

'Now that I cannot believe,' retorted Gimli jovially, his eyes sparkling in the firelight. Fears could be forgotten now, in the glow of the flames. 'Mortal women being as hardy as Dwarves? It cannot be.' His laughing voice dared her to fight back, and so she did.

'I believe it is mortal men you think of, good Dwarf,' she replied. 'We women are higher and mightier than our male kin; being half-elves only increases that.' She looked over to Aragorn with a cheeky twinkle in her eye. His mouth, she was pleased to see, was agape; his manly pride hurt. From somewhere in the darkness came an Elven chuckle. Mithmír tried to persuade herself she was not happy that Legolas was listening.

'What makes you say such things, elfling?' Aragorn cheerfully teased back.

'We bear children, we care for our incompetent men, we heal their woes, we teach them the old tales, we go to war…' She smiled back innocently. 'And we are much, much braver when it comes to the end. Much wiser too.'

Gimli roared with laughter. 'Well said, maid! Well said indeed! You are not so unlike Aragorn, are you?'

Aragorn slumped back and ignored Gimli's comment but replied to Mithmír. 'Why the wiser? Our womenfolk would have us stay at home and save ourselves, and leave the fighting till it came to our doorsteps.'

'Women with children and husbands feel the need to protect them,' Mithmír agreed. 'But I have no children; I have no husband. I am as free and as untamed as the horse that is wild. I have a warrior-spirit stronger than many men here. Eowyn has such a spirit. Great women of old were so. Why not I?'

There was mild clapping, and the elusive Elven laugh came from the darkness again.

'You are right, Gimli,' agreed Aragorn finally with a laugh. 'She is indeed too much like me. We are both stubborn. And maybe,' he turned to Mithmír while he spoke, 'this lady Mithmír Rochiwen, the grey-stone, the maid of horses, is meant for war as surely as any of us. The Lady Arwen now - she should not fight; it is not in her blood. But Mithmír…' his dark eyes looked deep into hers as if searching to see her soul - 'she has the fire-spirit. Was it not she who called even as the Dúnedain warriors of old: "Lacho calad! Drego morn!" flame light! Flee night?'

'I shall toast to that,' agreed Gimli, and drowned his earthenware mug of ale.

'And I too agree,' Legolas said with a small smile; entering the circle of light and sitting beside his Dwarven friend.

'I shall not pass judgement,' Gandalf spoke for the first time in his solemn way, 'but if I were to…' a chuckle came into his voice, 'I would say that yes: she is a fighter.'

Mithmír blushed and ducked her head, embarrassed that so many people praised her so highly. She felt callused fingers around her chin, and they lifted her head gently.

'Do not hide your face, neth maethorwen [young warrior maid]. Be proud, as proud as I am of you.' Said Aragorn with a smile.

Mithmír was happier then than she ever had been.