I am finally back!  Whew!  Thanks for all the reviews left for all 3 of the stories.  They're greatly appreciated.

I am now relaxed and full of ideas…  I can't type quick enough!  There's more "bad" news though: I go away again on Tuesday, but I will try to put up at least one chapter a day till then.  I am back on the next Tuesday, I think it's the 15th.  There is a tiny, tiny, tiny, tiny chance that I might be able to post during that time – but it's very unlikely, so don't count on it.  Again, tell me if you want me to e-mail you when I post again after that.

I agree with the point someone made that she needs to consult Legolas; but he's away and won't return for two days, and Galadriel needs an answer a.s.a.p…  Mithmír needs an idea, and fast.

Enjoy & Review!

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Mithmír arose early, and dressed in a frantic rush – undergarments, leggings and tunic were on in a matter of minutes.  She was too busy to brush her hair properly; so she merely ran a course brush through it once and tied it up with a ribbon – Legolas objected to her using lengths of string, as she had been accustomed to, saying that your beautiful hair deserves better, nín meleth.  She smiled at the memory.

'Aurmaer, Legolas,' she said in a joyous whisper, her reflection beaming back at her from the glass.  Good morning, Legolas.  Then she ran from the room, banging the door after her.

She made her way through the empty, stone corridors of Helm's Deep at a quick jog, her heavily-booted feet scuffing the floor.  Legolas hated the unnecessary sound it made; she remembered with a slight glimmer of a smile.  She missed him more than she would openly admit, and he was only due back tomorrow…

She bumped into the hobbit without warning.  He nearly fell over, but being quick on his feet – at least that hadn't changed in Frodo Baggins – caught himself just in time.  His hand flew to his sword, Sting, which hung by his side; and an angry fire roared in his eyes.

'Forgive me, master Frodo!'  Apologized Mithmír, embarrassed at her carelessness, and yet also shocked.  Something had changed deeply and irreversibly in the Ringbearer after his ordeal.  His eyes showed pain and guilt unmatchable, the cheery twinkle that used to light those brown lamps now rarely showed; and his smile was slow to raise.  It distressed her greatly to see him so.  When he was in the company of others he obviously made a great effort to behave normally; but she could sense the great unease in him; and the tormenting memories which gnawed away at his soul.

'Nay, Lady, forgive me,' said Frodo, quickly putting his right hand in the pocket which once had held the Ring, over his breast.  'I was paying no attention…'  He drew his free hand, the left, over his brow.  Mithmír was reminded of his missing finger.

'Nonsense, master Frodo,' she said with a kindly smile, laying a hand on his shoulder.  It appeared to him then that she was taller, and stood more erect; and he was then persuaded that she was, body and soul, one of the Fair Folk whom he had so envied.  She was a thing of great power and wisdom; her eyes glittering like deep brown jewels under water; and her voice full of compassion.  'You are merely tired, or so I think.  What makes you wander so early in the morning?'

'I am restless,' he said dreamily, and then grinned at her, suddenly, looking abashed.  'And Sam – dear, loving Sam – well, he deserves more sleep.  If I stay in my room awake I shall make some noise, and Samwise shall wake and rush in to calm me.'  He shrugged.  'It is better for both of us if I wander alone for a while, and clear my mind for the coming day.  Sam is tired, even though he' Mithmír fancied she heard a slight stress on the pronoun 'is healed, and therefore he needs sleep.'

'I understand,' she said in a friendly way.  Where is the merry hobbit who wandered with me in Ithilien?  She wondered sadly, beginning to see that the Ring had caused deaths in not only body but spirit, too.  What power snatched him from his place and people on Middle Earth?  'I have to find King Aragorn – and I will wake him up, if I must.  I need to talk to him.'

'Then let me not stop you from doing so,' smiled Frodo politely.  His face, though more drawn and care-creased than before, was still well-made and attractive – even Mithmír noticed that, from her somewhat more elevated height.  He obviously wanted to be on his own; Mithmír recognized; and it was probably good for him.  The words of others could hold little meaning after he had experienced that terrible horror that still haunted his features: to succumb to the evil of the Ring, at the time when he was needed most.  Mithmír understood it, in a flash of revelation, and smiled before taking a smooth bow.

'Thank you, Frodo.  I shall see you at breakfast?'  It was neither a question nor a statement.

Frodo nodded slightly, and attempted a smile.

It was as devoid of light as any Mithmír had ever seen.  Maybe the greatest terrors, she realized, could be inside of you.

She knocked on the heavy oaken door of Aragorn's kingly room loudly.  No other rooms were overly close to his; and there was no danger of waking any others.  'Aragorn?  I need to talk to you.'

There was a groan from inside, a thump, and then a torrent of swearing in Common.  It seemed that the King had fallen from his bed.  Mithmír suppressed a giggle – Aragorn had never been very good at mornings; and it should not surprise her if he had stayed up all night talking to the Elf-Lord Celeborn.

The door opened a minute or two later; to show a rather disheveled and worse-for-wear Aragorn, dressed in a hastily-chosen tunic, blinking in the bright light.  His eyes focused on her wearily.

'Mithmír?'  He said hoarsely.  'Mithmír, what're you doing here so early?'  Her tugged his tunic a little so it looked more presentable, and ran a rough hand over his stubble-covered chin.

'I need to speak to you,' she said boldly.  'Either I come in, or you come out with me.  It's up to you.  We have to talk, whatever happens, and before the Lady Galadriel is up.'  She smiled at him brightly; her light expression completely contrasting to her imperative tone.

He groaned, and held open the door wider.  'Come in, then.  Ignore the mess.'

Mithmír stepped past him.  The room was indeed messy: shoes, cloths, armor and sheathed weapons scattered over the floor as if the owner had got into bed in a fatigued hurry the night before.  It resembled her own, she realized with a grin, and sat down on a wooden chair in the corner.

Aragorn moved over to the curtains and swept them open, closing his eyes against the sun that rushed in.  Aragorn's room boasted spectacular views out over the plains, and it was one of the few that did.  Mithmír's own showed mostly an inner courtyard, depressingly grey in colour, with only a glimpse of the outer world.  He flopped down on the bed, stifling a yawn.

'What time did you get to sleep, uncle?'  She asked innocently.

'Too late,' he said, acknowledging her sly judgment with a slight grin.  'I was talking with Celeborn… he has much to say, indeed.'  He ran a hand through his hair.  'And I drank too much, by the aching of my head.  The Elves, not surprisingly, touched nothing; and will be considerably better-off than me this morning.'

'The Elves do not suffer fatigue as easily as Men,' stated Mithmír simply, before continuing, 'I didn't come to talk to you about your bedtime, milui ada-nost [beloved kin of my father].'

'Then please continue,' he said, ducking his head in a bow and getting up slowly.  'I must shave and dress.  I will be in the bathroom next door – I will still be able to hear anything you say.'

She watched him go, irked that he seemed to not understand the gravity of what she wanted to say.

'Do you know of the Aratirith?'  She asked bluntly over the noise of a running tap.

'Yes,' he replied simply, his voice echoing in the tiled room.  'Arwen Undómiel told me of them.  You want to be one, now Galadriel has told you of them?'  Neither of the speakers were ones for beating about the bush, and their conversation was frank and to- the-point.  Despite this he couldn't hide his slight apprehension of her, his niece, protecting him with his life…

Mithmír watched drifts of smoke claw their way out of the room.  'I don't know…  That's why I want to talk to you, Aragorn.  You can help me decide.'

The trust in her voice touched him.  He halted shaving for a second to reply.  'Well here I am.  What bothers you about it?'  It sounded stupid to him even the second that it left his lips.  Arwen had told him about the responsibilities of the Aratirith, and there were many things he could see therein to intimidate even the most stalwart of warriors.

'I want to serve you so, Aragorn my King,' she said truthfully but with hesitation, as if trying to formulate her thoughts.  'The role of Aratirith appeals to me, just as being a ranger did.  I feel… I feel…' she absently picked up a boot and fiddled with it.  'I feel like it runs in my blood.  Though it's odd,' she said with a slight twitch of her lips, 'to picture my mother fighting, let alone earning the name Fell-handed…'

'I'm sure it is in your blood,' agreed Aragorn, letting the water drain out of the basin.  'Arwen told me little of your mother, saying it had to be Lómwing herself and not I who told you of her deeds, but apparently the title "the Fell-handed" was well-earned, and Lómwing was a name greatly respected in all Elven kingdoms.'

'I will have to speak to her, then,' said Mithmír in a deliberate voice.  'My family are full of surprises.'  She absently took a clean shirt off the hook by her head and handed it to the pointing hand that had snaked around the doorway.

'Thanks,' Aragorn said in a muffled voice as he pulled it over his head.  It had mildly occurred to him that it would be seen as suspicious for him to have his young – and incredibly sensual and sexually attractive (if not overly pretty), for so she had become in her womanhood – niece in his room at this early hour; but he brushed the thought away.  They were close; and even if all others had ideas, the truth was innocent.

'But,' said Mithmír in sudden exasperation, getting up to walk agitatedly around the room, 'I don't know if I can do it, fulfill all of the requirements.  I would die for you, Aragorn, my beloved liege-lord.  But…' she paused, and her eyes became unfocused.  'To let Legolas die…  That I could not do,' she finished in a whisper.

Aragorn stepped soundlessly from the bathroom.  He came up behind her and wrapped strong arms about her slim and short form.  Mithmír had a large spirit but a rather short physical body.  'I do not ask it of you, Mithmír.  You are too young for this; too young to be tied down by such oaths.'

'Courage and honour are not fruits of age alone,' she said dryly.

'Wisdom is,' he replied with a chuckle in his voice.  'I am honored to have you offer your own life for mine, Mithmír.  I ask for no more; for I have already received more than I am due.'

'I want to do it, Aragorn!'  She said, louder than she had intended.  Aragorn let go of his niece and took a step back.  She continued in a more controlled voice, turning to face him, her eyes wide.  'I want to do it, I want to become one of the Aratirith.  Not only for the thing itself, the honour and adventure involved in it, but I will become part of a bigger family – the kin of the Aratirith, one of the most select of orders.'

He perceived her yearning for a people to truly call her own, and felt pity for the proud woman.  For all her formative years she had been balanced precariously on the middle of two peoples, and she still felt the resulting lack of placement, keener than she let show to most people.  'I see,' he said, with a grave nod.  'Well, Mithmír, if it is really what you want I cannot stop you: I am one of the kin of Finwë, having married into that kin, and you are one of the kin of Gwainferedir, and an Aratirith in blood and spirit; and we cannot be separated.'  He stooped to kiss her cheek tenderly.  'You shall make a wonderful High Guard, Mithmír, and I am more blessed by the offer of your sword to protect me than you can ever comprehend.

'I shall talk to Galadriel,' he continued, pulling on his boots.  'We shall arrange a way around this thing…  A way that when you make your vows, it shall be made clear that you shall always value your family above me.'  He bowed his head so she couldn't see his grateful tears.  He had always known Mithmír had an unusual measure of courage, but to have her offer her young life as a shield for his… that nearly overwhelmed him.  'Are you sure, Mithmír?'  He said finally, almost wanting to change her mind.  'I cannot ultimately make your decision, but I ask you to consider it fully before you reply.  It is a large choice to make, for anyone.'

'I will do it,' she said decisively.  'But would that I could talk to Legolas before you tell Galadriel of my answer… I am worried that he shall be angry at me for swearing my life to another.'

'You will only swear to protect me with your life, and I would that it were not even that,' said Aragorn gravely, opening the door and ushering her out.  'Legolas, and your children if there be any – may there be – shall never be endangered for my sake.'

'All the same…' she said nervously.

'Mithmír,' said Aragorn, looking unwaveringly at her, 'Legolas wants what you want.  He loves you.  He should be proud of you to make this decision; immeasurably proud.'

She knew it was true.  'Then it shall be so,' she said with a slight, hesitant smile.  'I will follow my wish and become a conditional Aratirith.'

Aragorn beamed, and followed her out.  They made for the dining room.

Despite her outwardly calm appearance; Mithmír was troubled inside.  The talking had reminded her of Aragorn's mortality, a thing which had bothered her for all her life, and even more so now.  She did not want to lose another that she loved… and she could not protect him from that final Doom of Men.  She also worried for Legolas' opinion; though she need not have, and she knew it.

There was one final thing that preyed on her mind: Aragorn's words: Legolas, and your children if there be any – may there be.  Her eyes glinted, unseen by her emotionally overwhelmed uncle, with a confusion that rarely rested there.  Her worry of being a mother still bothered her; and though she knew Legolas must know, she harbored the irrational fear that he should cease to love her for her fear.

'I will tell him,' she whispered finally to herself.  'I will tell him.'

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Hope you enjoyed and please review!