I have bad news… Tomorrow I am leaving on holiday and will not be back till next Friday. Unfortunately I won't be able to post any chapters of any stories at that time. On the Friday I am back I should be able to post a chapter, though, and if not on the next Saturday. I am really going to miss writing about Mithmír!
If you want to I can e-mail you when I put up the next chapter, when I return home. Just review this chapter and tell me if that's what you want. If not, just come back on Friday to read more!
So anyway, apologies, apologies.
This chapter explains the Aratirith as I said it would. Not all of the related Aratirith stuff – some I am considering putting in a short story, if I ever get around o it (blush) - , but most of it. For the rest… if I leave it on a minor cliffhanger you'll be more likely to come back and read more later (PLEASE DO).
Enjoy and review!
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She dreamed that she was back in Lothlorien. The wood was empty; however; its beautiful singers all gone. The shadows under the mallorn trees were forlorn and almost ominous. Mithmír felt an overwhelming loneliness.
'They are all gone,' said a beautiful voice from behind her. She spun around came face to face with the Lady Galadriel. The Lady was dressed all in silver; and on her finger Nenya glowed brighter than ever with the beloved star's light. Her face looked younger, with no lines worrying it, but her eyes were full of strife and sorrow.
'Where?' Asked Mithmír in a whisper.
'Their hearts have moved over the Sea;' Galadriel replied in a grave voice, her eyes locking Mithmír's into a rigid stare; forcing rivers of meaning to flow between them. 'And those that stay… they have decided to assume Men's doom; and their souls can no longer converse with the mallorn and niphredil as they once did.'
'Oh,' replied Mithmír lamely. The sense of helplessness and sorrow that overwhelmed her was incredible, too strong for words. She suddenly truly understood the final departing of the Elves from Middle Earth. Her mother's sacrifice struck her more keenly than ever.
'And she sacrificed more than you yet understand,' Galadriel said clearly. Mithmír jumped, shocked that her thoughts had been effortlessly read. 'Your mind is even more open to me when you dream than in real life,' Galadriel smiled. 'Nenya's powers are most mighty when you are at rest.'
'Tell me what she sacrificed,' pleaded Mithmír. 'Tell me of the Aratirith.'
'I shall tell you,' agreed Galadriel with a stately nod. 'And show you. Relax, and look into the water…'
Mithmír followed the pointing slim finger, and noticed a white basin in the centre of the dell. At the Lady's direction she climbed the steps that stood to one side, and then peered in…
The water was a perfect mirror, as still as the night sky, showing stars and trees in its immeasurable depths. Mithmír was entranced, and leaned closer…
The water seemed to swallow her up, and she began to drown in it; her mind sinking into the clear liquid while her body stayed motionless above it, one single strand of dark hair nearly dipping into the water. She did not struggle, but let herself go, trying to relax as the Lady Galadriel had said she should.
When the pool stopped swirling about her, she was looking over a pretty scene: a wood-land archery range. The grass was sprinkled liberally with niphredil; and all of the living things seemed younger and purer somehow. An unearthly light bathed the clearing. Mithmír instantly felt at peace.
'You are now in Valinor,' said Galadriel's disembodied voice from all around her. 'It is the time of Lómwing's youth,' she continued. 'She is presently training to take her place as an Aratirith like all of her mother's family. It is assumed that she will become High Guard of one of Finarfin's children. This was indeed the case.'
Mithmír was about to ask just who her mother Lómwing became Aratirith to, but she was interrupted. A fully-grown male elf entered the clearing, followed by two youth-elves: a young woman and a younger man. Mithmír could not help but recognize the woman: tall and stately, with dark-blonde hair and unusually expressive eyes. It was her mother as she had never seen her before: with a fire in her gaze, a spring in her step; and a bow carried with easy familiarity in her hand.
'Watch,' Galadriel's ethereal voice bade her as softly as the wind. 'Watch the daily training of an Aratirith. See just how strong they have to be, how strong you too are, the strength that flows in your veins…'
The mature elf took his place to the side of the other two, who each chose a target and began to ready for shooting. 'Lómwing, stand taller,' he ordered in Quenya not unkindly. 'And you, Bainuilos, if you don't want your sister to overtake your total you'll have to position your feet better than that.'
'Yes, father,' replied the two siblings – for so they were – obediently; winking at each other. It was obvious that they were incredibly close.
Lómwing loosed the feather-tipped, perfectly balanced arrow. It buried itself deep into the centre of the target. She lowered the bow – which Mithmír realized in shock was the very one that she had bequeathed to her daughter mere days before, the slender Cúarien. She wondered at how high a gift she had been given. She had always known the bow was of high origins and good craft; but to hear that it came from the West itself…
'Beat that, my brother!' Challenged Lómwing joyfully.
Bainuilos, who carried more than a passing resemblance to his future eldest son, Fondael, chuckled. 'I shall, my sister Lómwing!' His shot was exactly equal to his sister's. They laughed when they saw the outcome, and embraced spontaneously.
Mithmír wanted to see more, but the scene began to swirl, and soon there was only water moving about her. 'Show me more!' She begged the bodiless voice of Lady Galadriel.
'I will,' replied Galadriel.
And so Mithmír saw many more scenes of like kind: her mother training from her early youth in the arts of fighting with both bows and arrows. She was also trained on life in the wilderness; and of the history and culture of the Fair Folk, her kin. It was a grueling training, but intensely rewarding; and she became incredibly close to those who trained with her; most noticeably her youngest brother, Bainuilos.
The image that stuck most in her mind, however, was of Lómwing's final lesson on the life of an Aratirith before she swore her vows and was joined to one of Finwë's kin for all the Ages of Arda, if so Ilúvatar wished it.
The elf who she now recognized as Cuilantwen – Mithmír's grandmother and Lómwing's mother – was sitting beside her daughter on the grass in one of the many gardens of that fairest of places. They had been talking for a long while; and Mithmír appeared to only have arrived for the last part of the conversation.
'Lómwing, daughter,' said Cuilantwen in a surprisingly deep and resonant voice, clasping her child's hand in her own, 'it is a great thing that you will swear to do tomorrow. The life of an Aratirith is far from easy; and most of its hardships cannot be understood until you are tested in them. Your mind must always be just as quick as your body; and your spirit true. At some time in your life you shall probably be asked to make a decision on the spot: to save your life, or to sacrifice your life for the one you guard. What decision should you make?'
'To save the one I guard, of course,' replied Mithmír stoutly. 'Their life is not above mine; for we are both free folk; but to me their life is more precious.'
'You are brave, Lómwing,' said Cuilantwen lovingly. 'The fate of an Aratirith is right for you, or so I deem, and I have good reason to be able to judge these things.
'You have been trained for many decades in the arts of war, and protection of yourself and your Lord or Lady,' she continued, her eyes becoming unfocused. 'You shall either rise to the challenge, or fall at its knees, and that shall be the death of you. From tomorrow, your own life – and that of any other – shall always be second to Galadriel's.' Mithmír gasped – wasn't Tondfael Galadriel's Aratirith? – but there was no time to question the statement. She was merely watching something that had been, and she could not halt the past's progress. The conversation continued as if she had never made a noise. 'You are young. You cannot understand the difficulties of this yet, Lómwing. But I may try to explain: Galadriel must be to you over everyone else. You are not required to love her more than other – I love your father more than I love Finarfin – but if I had to chose between which one must die, I should have to save Finarfin and doom my love.'
'I can do that,' replied Lómwing, youth's certainty making her bold. 'Galadriel shall be all my life to me.'
The scene faded. Mithmír jumped: she was back over the mirror, still dreaming, but no longer seeing the past.
'Your mother kept that vow for a long while, and with all the strength in her bold spirit,' said Galadriel calmly, her eyes boring into the young woman. 'She loved me more than any other; and protected me as only a close friend can. But then she learnt that her love for a Dúnedain was great enough to keep her from her duty as an Aratirith; and that she feared not to face death as long as he stood by her. She left my side then; and Tondfael took her place. We do not blame her: we are happy for her. She acted as her heart declared; and it was the only righteous path in the eyes of Elbereth. Mithmír,' she said in a frightening voice, full of power, 'you are well trained enough to become an Aratirith. But we shall not force you; and you shall lose no honour if you refuse. You must decide… If you become an Aratirith, you should still be able to live with Legolas, Thranduil's son, and bear his children if you so wish; but you must reply to any call of your Lord – for so it shall be if you agree.'
'Who is my Lord to be, if I accept, Lady?'
'The very man who has married into the family of Finwë but a month ago: King Aragorn, your uncle.'
Mithmír gulped dryly, but did not reply.
Galadriel looked at her sadly and with compassion. 'By tomorrow I must have your answer. To be an Aratirith is a noble calling, and the hereditary one of your family, and it suits you. You shall enter into a great kindred of all the Aratirith, including Fondael, and may still be a Dúnedain. But if you become one, until Aragorn's death whence you are released from your vows, you must be prepared to give your life – and your love's – for his.'
The words echoed in Mithmír's head: decide, decide, decide… But how could she decide between her duty – which she had to admit she liked the sound of, especially becoming closer to her long-sundered family – and her love? One answer sprang quickly to her tongue, but maybe, maybe she could find a way to get both…
And then the dream was gone, and Mithmír awoke, face wet with tears of indecision.
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Hope you enjoyed and please review! Don't worry the resolution is good for both sides. :) But not in ways you might expect…
