They went into the Main Courtyard, and there they sat on a long, low bench of dark stone.  Mithmír Rochiwen sat in the center, with Aragorn on her left and the Wood-Elf on her other side.  Legolas only settled down for a second, however: barely as he sat down he got up again, feeling more comfortable to stand as straight and easy as a tree before the pair on the chair.  He did not appear to feel uncomfortable to be so separate from the others and to have them both looking at him intently.  He cocked his head and waited, politely, for his love to speak.

'Im meleth le,' Mithmír reminded him softly, so quietly that Aragorn, who appeared to be lost in his own thoughts anyway, did not hear.  It seemed to Legolas that Mithmír's hearing had always been sharper than most Men's, and now she was an Elf it was even more so.  I love you.  She met his eyes with hers, once, her dark orbs trying to pass on the music of her soul to him.  'I… I made a choice while you were away, Legolas,' she said in her normal voice.  'I can still change my mind, if you want me to, of course.'  She blushed a little uncharacteristically.  The colour didn't come to her cheeks like rose petals – as it always does in stories – but more like a slumbering flame hidden in the embers of a dying fire.  This description was far more apt to her character; and, to the Maid of Horses, would have been far more flattering – had she heard it.

'Please tell me,' begged Legolas in his eloquent tones.  A worry stirred in his heart, but he stifled it quickly.  I will never doubt your wisdom, he reminded himself of her.

Mithmír looked at Aragorn for reassurance.  His shadowy eyes, so similar to her own, put her at ease, or at least more so.  Mithmír realized with a grateful smile that her uncle would always be there for her, for all his long life.  He was as close to her father as anyone living could ever be – except herself, his only child and daughter.  'Do you know of the Aratirith?'  She asked Legolas.

He nodded a little after hesitating.  'Yes.  The High Guards of many stories of the Calaquendi [the Elves of Light, the High Elves, those who saw the Trees in Aman].  Yes, I have heard of them in tale and song.  I have heard no stories of them after the Second Age, and even before then they are only nameless tales with faceless characters; merely containing echoes of near-unmatched valour and fidelity…'

Aragorn spoke next, breaking his silence with a strong voice.  'You have heard the Wood-Elves' tales of the Aratirith, yes.  The Calaquendi themselves have much more complete records, as befits the respect the High Guards merit.  Maybe you shall hear them someday.  But for now, I presume that you know all you need…?'  He raised an eyebrow in question.

'I think I do,' replied Legolas in his usual, lilting voice; though it contained more confusion than was normal in the wise being.  'I know that they were brave, and wise, and gave their life for those they swore to protect.  I know that they guard the House of Finwë – or once did.  As I said, I have heard nothing of them for an Age.'  He looked thoughtfully at Mithmír.  It appeared to her that he was already guessing her part in these tales…

'Do you know the Melkalwen of the stories?'  She asked suddenly and abruptly, her intense gaze locking Legolas' attention to her.  'The Aratirith of Galadriel?'  Though she may not have noticed it, Legolas was aware of her hands playing with the hilt of one of her daggers as if she were tense.

'I have heard the name,' admitted Legolas.  'It was the name of one of the Aratirith, one worthy of renown, who was living for many of the Ages of the Stars, and was last mentioned in our tales in the Ages of the Sun.  Why does this matter to you, Mithmír?'  He asked finally.

'My mother, Lómwing, was once called Lómwing Melkalwen,' said Mithmír alone, her voice bold in the silence.  'She was the Aratirith of Lady Galadriel.  And it is her blood which flows in my veins; which granted me the right to be counted among the Elves; and which also…' she paused, desperately trying to read her love's outwardly calm expression, 'shall have me joined into the ranks of the Aratirith.'

Legolas would have been proud of the serenity of his fair visage.  Dark lashes closed nearly completely over effervescent sapphire eyes, blocking off his emotions.  What he had feared – and also anticipated – for so long was finally happening: his grey jewel was being taken away from him, and he could not hold her to him without taking away her freedom.  For a second he drowned in his sorrow, and then, suddenly, the clouds in his mind cleared.  He opened his eyes totally again to see Mithmír's concerned gaze.  He realized that it would not be so bad.  He could see the worry there in her eyes; the love; the – though she should hate to admit it – partial dependency.  She should never run away from him, never once and for all.  She needed her freedom, her right to express her emotions, the option to run free and without care, sand this was her birthright after all.  Mithmír was born to wield a sword and daggers as much as she was destined to make a difference with her flame-spirit, and this was her chance.  He discerned that she needed to be remembered, after she was gone, needed to be sung of in lays and written about in scrolls of Records; and this was the way to make sure that happened, that the part of her soul which was still Human and needed recognition could be content.

'Tell me of what you must swear to be an Aratirith,' he said delicately, a voice like the wind and more than equally striking in its bold beauty.  'Trenarnin.'  Tell me.