Thanks so much for all the reviews; as well as the one on "Daughter". I owe all of you guys so much!
This chapter is mostly to illustrate the average attitude towards Rangers in Bree; and the few opinions that disagree with the common consensus (I think that's the right word).
I am shocked to realize just how many background stories on Mithmír there will be… I promise I will put up the stories explaining the mysteries in her family a.s.a.p. Just bear with me. :)
Enjoy, and please review!
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Mithmír stepped into the morning sunshine; and the fresh air blew the final traces of that untamable rage out of her. She stopped still there for a second, poised perfectly in a cat-like stance. She savored the cool wind that blew her hair in eddies around her ears for barely a few seconds before she reached up and pulled her grey hood forward over her head. It should not do for the Bree folk to find out her status as an Elf: any strangers here were mistrusted, whether they come often by the Prancing Pony or no, and those of different race even more.
She turned her dark eyes to the East, and wondered for the first time where she should now go. It should be unwise, she knew, to return to the inn. Better to steer clear of there for a while, until tempers had cooled and grudges were half-forgotten. Nowhere in Bree or the surrounding villages should be open to her, either: her little "display" had closed off those options. She scowled a little. Her uncle Aragorn – called "Strider" by the more naïve folk – was not going to be happy with her; and neither was her father Dîntir, though he would be more gentle in his anger. She shrugged: it could not be helped. There was only one place she could go: well away from Bree, for a little while at least.
The Shire was not open for her at that time: the hobbits were mistrustful of her kind; and she had no wish to disturb the peaceful, eccentric little folk; who truth to tell amused her somewhat. She did not wish to pass South or North; for it was from the North that she had come, and the South held no promise in all its long miles for her, or at least it did not at that time. She looked to the East with purpose now, and decided instantly that she should pass by Weathertop, along the East Road, all the way to Rivendell. There dwelt in peace and happiness many of her kin, including her mother Lómwing. They would greet her kindly and be glad to see her, she knew.
She was distracted by a woman who, dressed in the usual bright dress and carrying several baskets, hurried past. She was obviously struggling to carry the heavy load; and her not-unpleasant face was reddened with exhertion. Mithmír was not unkindly; and she called out,
'May I help, lady?' She moved forward nimbly, and took three of the baskets from the woman; who smiled in thanks and moved the last two baskets to a more comfortable position in her arms.
'My thanks,' she said with a bend around her knees that was probably intended to be a curtsy, but Mithmír couldn't be sure. On closer inspection she perceived the woman was a somewhat portly, motherly figure, with hair that was tinged with grey and a face creased with laughter lines. She may have been forty-five, maybe fifty, but of her age Mithmír could not be sure. Her good-natured spirit, however, shone out from her visage like a beacon-light. 'I am Ora,' continued the woman with a welcoming smile. Her voice was fast but familiar and easy. Her instant impression was one of kindliness and inclusiveness. 'My real name is Oraleen, but that is such a mouthful that everyone calls me just plain Ora.' She chuckled. 'Mind you though,' she continued in a chatty tone, motioning for the bemused Mithmír to follow her down the street. 'I didn't learn from it! My three girls are Araleen, Erileen and Iraleen; and they have to be called Ara, Eri and Ira respectively, because their real names are too long and far too similar. Their mother is a silly hen who didn't think that she wouldn't be able to distinguish, at a shout, one of her children's name from the other.'
Mithmír, feeling like she was being left behind, broke in: 'I am Mithmír Rochiwen, and I am pleased to meet you.'
It was then for the first time that Ora looked directly at her. She beamed. 'You are one of those Ranger folk, aren't you?' She asked. Mithmír, suspicious as always, half-glared at her; but the woman seemed to be showing no sign of malice or distaste.
'Yes,' replied Mithmír slowly. 'I am.'
'I thought you were, even though it is odd to see a girl,' nodded Ora busily, pushing a gate open and barging through. Mithmír followed uncertainly into the cluttered yard. 'I have nothing against your folk, unlike the other good people of Bree. I know the truth of them – or at least, as much truth as any can at this time.' Her dark eyes met Mithmír's momentarily; and there was a great wisdom and perception in that gaze. Mithmír knew instantly that she did not need to lie for this stout-hearted woman; and as any Elf she trusted her intuitions and feelings.
'And what is this truth?' She asked, following Ora into a long, low house. Inside it was surprisingly bright; a kitchen-living-room lit by many candles. Amid the clutter and many articles of a comfortable, family life lay a huge table, easily large enough as to seat near fourteen people. It was on this which she and Ora deposited the baskets; which appeared to contain mushrooms. Mithmír had never liked the "odd little growths" as much as most of her acquantinces, and backed away from the overpowering smell of them that reached for her as soon as Ora whipped off the covering cloths.
Ora beamed. 'You Rangers wander the woods about here, and many other places too if I'm right, protecting the Bree lands from evil things. And in return,' she said with a roll of her eyes, 'we ostracize you from society!'
Mithmír was amazed that any of the Bree folk knew that Rangers were helpful. The people of that land were kindly at heart but mistrustful.
Ora laughed. 'I can see from your eyes that I've hit the mark with my guess, or at least part of it. I don't doubt that Rangers have even more secrets than that, but don't we all.' She smiled genially. Ora was one of those wonderful women who appears to be a mother to everyone; and the perfect hostess into the bargain. To prove this she bustled over to the kettle, filled it, put it on the stove, and was about to start chatting away again when a tall figure, who had a slight limp, entered the room from outside. Mithmír spun around on one foot to face the newcomer instantly – even a safe, comfortable environment like this couldn't make her relax totally. Few things could make a Ranger relax after they had seen what the Wild had to throw against them.
It was a man, and one – to her horror – who had seen her brawl in the Prancing Pony a bare twenty minutes before. And by the disgusted look on his face, he remembered her just as clearly.
'Ora!' He bellowed, moving towards Mithmír threateningly. 'Have you any idea what you've welcomed into our home?'
Mithmír set her jaw determinedly, and ducked past the irate man to make for the door. 'I'll go,' she said clearly, and moved out at a jog; not turning to meet Ora's eyes.
As she moved away from the house into the sun, she heard the man berating the kindly Ora:
'She's a Ranger! And what's more, she's an Elf! She can't be trusted! She could have murdered you, and the babe upstairs, in cruel and horrible ways before I was home to protect you!'
Mithmír did not hear Ora's reply. She moved silently away from the homestead, a great bitterness rising in her, but not surprise. This happened wherever she went; and she could never be at peace with other people.
She was a Dúnedain, and far above these mere peasants, and yet she was the brunt of their jokes and taunts. The anger that the knowledge gave her nearly sent her over the edge again. 'I must leave,' she whispered decidedly, and so she did, a grey shadow slipping over the gate and disappearing into the woods beyond, seen by none.