She made for Weathertop with all the speed she could muster. Her feet instinctively took the paths known only to the Rangers; the hidden ways that wound through woods and over rocky moors and broken lands long uninhabited – though she avoided the Midgewater Marshes. The only things to see her were the – rare – wildlife: circling birds and stalking foxes, and rabbits which fled at her coming. As far as she knew no humans wandered then: no Men, Elves or Dwarves. She caught no trace of any Ranger, but then that was to be expected – they would travel as light as she, leaving no marks of their passing.
It took her fleet steps only three days to reach Weathertop. She arrived very late at night on the third day; and set up her "camp" in a dell well known and used by the Ranger folk. The last person to be there – maybe Aragorn, her father Dîntir, or one of her other relations – had left a large, but well-disguised, pile of freshly-cut wood for a fire. She took what she needed, whispered a silent thanks to whoever had done the deed, and made her fire. She had been learning how to make flame with only flints since she was a child whose tiny hands could barely clasp the stones; and so it was quickly and deftly that she made a decently-sized blaze.
She caught a rabbit and, after skinning and roasting it, devoured the carcass with great relish. She had wandered many miles from Bree with no taste of meat. When Mithmír was sated she checked a final time around her camp for anything unusual, weakened the fire to mere embers, and then lay herself down to sleep in the ever-diminishing circle of firelight, a thin blanket wrapped around her. She did not sleep deeply – few of the Dúnedain ever do, even when in safe houses such as those of the Elves – and was always alert for any sound that heralded the presence of any foe, or even a common traveler.
She was not careful enough, however, for she woke as usual at dawn to see her uncle Aragorn sitting by her. She got up into a sitting position wearily, stretching as far in all directions as she could. Mithmír tried to not reveal just how irritated she was by the fact that Aragorn could always do this – creep up on her silently.
'Good morning, elfling,' said Aragorn unemotionally, using his habitual nickname for her. The name bothered Mithmír greatly – she was still a proud teenager, after all, and to her the name sounded childish.
'Good morning,' she replied curtly, and tamed her hair with her fingers. 'When did you arrive? Or have you been tracking me all of my most recent journey?'
'I arrived barely three hours ago,' he said simply. 'I knew where you were, but I was not tracking you. I have other ways of being aware of wanderers. There're mushrooms from Maggot's farm by the fire,' he continued evenly, pointing over to a covered wicker basket. Mithmír lunged for it – mushrooms were not her favourite delicacy, but hunger gnawed at her belly like a wild animal. Aragorn watched her eat with placid eyes; innocent love clear in their dark depths. He cared for his young "niece" – they were definitely related, but not that closely – like a daughter; and was loath to scold her – but knew he must. He waited till she had eaten; and then washed; and then settled down to clean her sword, before he could bring himself to speak.
'There was quite a commotion in Bree when I was last there,' he said as a starter, and waited for her reply. None was forthcoming. He sighed inwardly – by the determined way she sharpened her daggers, she wasn't going to make this easy for herself or him. He hadn't expected her to – she was always as stubborn as her father, Dîntir – but he always hoped. A little mature control wouldn't go amiss in this wild maiden.
'They said a Ranger had caused a brawl in the Prancing Pony,' he continued slowly, giving her full time to defend herself, which she didn't. He hated playing the reprimanding, criticizing parent – he didn't want to be like that in her eyes. But it seemed there was no choice; and he had promised her parents that, if they were absent, he would "keep her in line".
Mithmír scowled down at her sword. She loved Aragorn dearly, and would do anything for him, but sometimes he was infuriating in his criticism.
'A female Ranger,' he continued. 'The female Ranger.' She still didn't look up. This irritated him – he was very aware that he didn't intimidate her in the slightest, and he felt control of the situation slipping from his grasp. He didn't want to be in command of her constantly, but she was a teenager and should take her lessons seriously. He cringed inwardly, hating how he was acting. 'Look at me, Mithmír Rochiwen, daughter of Dîntir and Lómwing Melkalwen,' he ordered finally, in a stern voice.
She looked up, a feirce fire in her brown eyes which were so like his. 'So?' She asked curtly, glaring at him. 'I was provoked and defended not only my honour, but all of the Dúnedains' also. You always tell me that honour is paramount in the beliefs of the Númenorians.' She smiled almost victoriously. Mithmír had a sharp tongue and a quick mind; a lethal combination in Aragorn's eyes. He needed all his wits to keep ahead of her; and he barely managed it. Often he thought that it was unlucky that she was so close to him in kinship, for it made her rude and impolite to him; as opposed to the other Rangers' awe. That thought, however, was quashed instantly by the joy and gratitude he felt at being so close to what he genuinely perceived as a very special young woman.
'I know the story, Mithmír,' he said in a softer voice, coming over and sitting beside her. He put one of his arms over her shoulders and drew her unresponsive, statue-still body down into his lap, so she was formed to look up at him from below with stony eyes. 'And I sympathize with your feelings at that moment.'
Valar, how she hated that tone and above all that word – sympathize. Sympathy bothered her. She was not weak enough, or so she believed, to need it.
Unaware of her mental disgust, Aragorn continued. Absently he stroked her hair paternally – there was nothing sexual in his closeness with her, merely unadulterated adoration and love. 'But you must learn – fighting like that, whether you win or lose, only strengthens the Bree-landers' bad opinions of the Dúnedain – the Rangers.' He chuckled a little at the naïve nickname. 'You must see that ignoring brainless fellows like that farmer is far better in the longer run. You may have paid Butterbur back for the material damage, but you have made an enemy for life – Men do not forget shame at the hands of a girl-maid easily – and tainted many opinions. Do you understand?'
She sighed, and rolled her eyes. 'Yes, Uncle. I won't do it again. But it was his fault, and they were lies.'
'I know, nín hên-gwilwileth [my butterfly-child],' he said comfortingly, leaning down to kiss her forehead tenderly. She wriggled under his tickling beard as she had done since she was a mere babe-in-arms; and smiled at the affectionate name he graced her with only when he was in a good mood. And he must be happy indeed, for the occurrence in Bree not to sully his emotions overly much.
'What makes you so happy?' She asked inquisitively. Mithmír rarely thought something without voicing it in some form or other.
Aragorn laughed heartily, pushing her gently out of his lap and getting up. He began to remove traces of the fire. 'Oh, many things, my elfling. The fair day, the joy present in the Spring…' He laughed again. 'But most of all there are two reasons. Both shall occur because I head for the Last Homely House, and the realm of the Elf-Lord Elrond Half-Elven. Firstly…'
'Arwen!' Broke in Mithmír with a knowing grin. Her uncle's love for the Evenstar was something she was well aware of; and she never doubted that they should be wed in the end; whether that end was soon or late.
'You know me too well,' he continued with a grin. 'Yes, I am overjoyed at the mere thought of seeing Arwen Undómiel in all her radiance. But there is also another reason – and it concerns you, and a wondrous gift.' He winked at her; knowing it agonized her to be in such suspense.
'Tell me!' She begged, packing away her things. 'Tell me, Aragorn!'
'You shall find out in Imladris, in Rivendell,' he replied with an infuriating grin.
'Always I must wait!' She moaned in a (mostly) joking way, melodramatically clasping her head as if in pain. 'As long as it shall be worth it, I will survive, however.'
'It shall,' he said simply. 'It shall.'
***
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