A/N:  The world belongs to Tolkien, the words alone are mine.  Oh, and poor young Caldir, Dalmar, Caltha, and suchlike are mine also.  As is Gelmir, the pompous ass.

"Haleth was a woman of most singular purpose.  In fact, she bore many characteristics we may describe as 'male' – her love of and talent in the arts of war, her ability to inspire and lead warriors, and her ability to put aside personal interests in times of strife..  Never did she marry; one can only conclude that from an early time she had her mind on higher things, and unlike most other young women, was never concerned with the finding of a husband and the begetting of children."

                                                -From 'Lives of the Haladin', by Gelmir of Dol Amroth

"Ow.  Orcs and Spiders, Haleth, that hurts!"

"Don't be such a baby, Caldir.  Let me see."

Caldir winced, and peeled up his sleeve.  Beneath, a large bruise was forming, mottled blue and black.  Haleth sighed.

"I'm sorry, Caldir.  I didn't realise I was so hard on you yesterday.  You've got bruises all over."

"I think I am a bruise.  You're getting too good for me."

Haleth raised an eyebrow.  "What do you mean, getting?  I surpassed you long ago, slowpoke."

"My lady, you do me injustice!" Caldir grinned.  "I'm still far better than you with the bow."

She made an unladylike noise of disgust at the mention of her one failing in the martial arts.  "Do not remind me, Caldir.  I made a fool of myself last time."

Caldir watched as her gaze drifted, inevitably, towards Dalmar.  Dalmar, in Caldir's opinion, was a bully, and an oaf.  But every girl for three leagues seemed to think he was the greatest man to ever walk the earth.  So handsome, so wonderful.  Tall as an Elflord!

"What did you say?" asked Haleth.  Wonderful, he'd been thinking out loud again.

"Nothing.  Your hair looks nice."

"What?"  She stared at him as if he'd grown another head.

He nodded towards the little braids that adorned her head. "Your hair looks nice like that."

"Oh."  Her hand flew to her head.  "Beleth did it this morning.  I guess she got bored."

"Do you think her and your brother will get married soon?"

"I guess." said Haleth, stretching her legs out before her.  "It seems strange to me.  They've only seen seventeen rounds of the sun, same as you and me."

"So you don't want to get married yet?" he asked, heart in his chest.

"Why, are you proposing?" she laughed.  Yet her gaze drifted back to that dratted Dalmar.  "I guess not.  I'd want to be sure.  Really sure."

He was about to say something, but he couldn't think of what.  Quick as a flash, she was on her feet, flicking her braided hair over her shoulder.

"Race you to the river!"

By the time he was to his feet, she was already off and running, hair streaming out behind her.  He laughed, and took off after her.

He knew he wouldn't catch her, but that didn't matter.  Because he was sure.

Really sure.

-----

Caltha watched her niece run up from the river, bare-footed and clothing askew, and sighed.  Haleth was tall for a woman – too tall, Caltha would have said – and broad shouldered and muscled in a way no young lady had a right to be, the result of her training as a warrior.  Caltha had thought for a long time that her brother ought to put a stop to his daughter's behaviour.  Teaching the girl to hunt was one thing – too often these years they had too many days of winter, and too few hunters to see them through.

But training her with a sword!  This was one of many things upon which Caltha had Opinions.  It was a pity that Haldad couldn't be convinced to agree with her.  But then again, her younger brother always had been a stubborn one.  His children looked as if they would more than follow that trend.

She sighed, and called out.  "Haleth!  Over here, please!"  Her niece changed direction mid-pace, her movements as smooth as any elf-child, making young Caldir look like an unwieldy foal beside her.  All arms and legs, that boy was.  A good lad, though.  Her eyes narrowed.  That wouldn't be a bad match, either.  Haleth would never be pretty, and she shouldn't set her sights too high.  Perhaps Caltha should have a talk with Haldad one of these days.

At least Haldar had that Beleth girl.  There'd be pretty grandchildren for Haldad out of that marriage.  Though they'd need to be strong too.  The winters grew colder, the nights longer, the orcs bolder.  There was trouble a-coming, or the ache in her bad hip lied.

For a moment she imagined she saw Haleth wielding an axe stained with the black taint of orc-blood, standing over the bodies of her father and brother.  She shook herself out of it as Haleth came bounding up.  Dark thoughts ne'er did anyone any good.

"There's a brace of hares your father caught that need skinning."

Caldir offered to help, of course, but was drawn away by his own mother, called off to chop wood for the fire.  That left Haleth to the repetitive knife work, but she was soon joined by others – Caltha rounded up a couple of her daughters and they made quick work of it.  The hares were winter-lean, but they'd make good eating – better than mere grains and leaves, the stubble of the earth.  For the moment stilled, hair tied back, chatting with her cousins, she looked calm, at peace.

She looked like her mother, and Caltha felt the resemblance like a blow.  If only they'd been quicker – if only Laerneth had been able to turn the babe – if only the Valar had been more kind to them, then Haleth might have known the gentling influence of a mother's touch.

"You should wear your hair like that more often." she murmured, curling her fingers around a braid.  Haleth looked up and shrugged.

"Beleth did it."  She set the last skin aside, handing the rabbits over to Caltha's eldest to prepare dinner.  Caltha knew better than to let Haleth cook.  "Keeps it out my face, I suppose, but they're so fiddly."

Caltha, having tried a thousand times to teach Haleth to take care of her hair, all in vain, just nodded and smiled, absentmindedly chopping the few vegetables they'd managed to round up for the stew as they chatted.  Questions about Caldir could wait for later; it was seldom that she managed to get her niece to sit still long enough to talk to her at all.  A rare thing, to be treasured.