I checked an atlas of Middle-earth so the distances I give would not be too unrealistic, however I'm used to the metric system and am not very familiar with miles, leagues and rangar so it might not be as accurate as I would like it to be. Also I have been wondering how fast Maglor could walk, based on how fast the Fellowship progressed (some people did calculate that!). [in case anyone cares]

2. Rain

Anfalas 2028 T.A., end of September

Rain had been pouring down the sky for two straight days, but he could not afford to delay their departure any longer. Gilmith had spent three weeks in the small cavern and though at first it had been a convenient shelter, it had since then become partly flooded and, moreover, too tiny for the two of them to stay there. The young girl had regained some strength and she now could stand up and walk a little which he deemed enough for them to begin their journey towards her home - journey being a bit of an overstatement, for he intended to drop her in the nearest inhabited settlement. At any length he believed proximity would do them no good, for he had caught her eyeing him a few times already and he had began to fear she might become curious and start seeking to learn more about him.

"Do you believe carrying me on your back is our best option, sir? I daresay it might be too burdensome for you..."

Gilmith knew not how to address him properly, being reluctant to simply use Dregor and still trying to figure out if he could be any sort of lord, thus she had settled for the term "sir" which she deemed to be neutral, yet polite.

"You cannot walk for such a long distance and we have no horses," he replied flatly.

Besides, the girl was small and he'd have wagered that if the wind blew too hard she'd be swept away, like an autumn leaf in the breeze - perhaps he would even have been able to pick her up by the scruff and carry her around, as if she were a kitten. All in all, her concern was rather amusing, but he was not in the mood to jest.

"Alright..." she muttered, gathering the woolen grey cloak he had lended her around her shoulders - the hood was too big for her and raindrops kept rolling off of it. "What of the rain? Shall it not get too cold for you?"

His attire was plain and whatever warm clothes he owned he had put them on her, urging her to bundle herself up - with such bad weather, he dreaded she could have easily caught some terrible disease.

"It does not matter, a little water won't hurt me." He discarded her concerns with a shrug and anyhow, he was drenched already.

And Gilmith could not think of any other reason not to climb on his back, aside from her own shyness to proceed.

Until then, she had not gotten a proper look at him. In fact she had listened more than she had watched, for he possessed a heavenly voice, so enthralling it was like traveling in a dream every time he sang - she did wonder if all Elves were such skilled menestrels or if even among his peers he was outstanding. Thus she had oft kept her eyes close in his presence and before this day, as they were about depart, she had never stood beside him. But finally they were both right outside the cavern, next to each other, and Gilmith felt ridiculously flustered to discover that this Dregor was a giant, well above the two rangar that had been considered a decent height in Númenor and that was hardly reached by the tallest men of Gondor nowadays.

Yet his impressive frame was only part of what caused her to be bashful as he also happened to be handsome, strikingly handsome to be exact, and Gilmith would have been unable to tell precisely why, nor to provide a thorough description of his features. His aura was breathtaking, so much that it seemed to blur her vision whenever she tried to focus on his face and all she was really sure of was that his hair was black and his eyes grey, like most of the people dwelling of Anfalas and Belfalas. And there was a gleam in his gaze, a light the likes of she had never seen, and she felt it was the key to his origins which he had carefully avoided to mention so far.

"Are you all set, Gilmith? The village lies some six leagues east of here and I believe we should reach it before dawn."

What could she be but ready when all she had to bring along was herself, she had no idea, yet Gilmith shot him one last look, unsure and she noticed his right hand was wrapped with a thick bandage, although his fingers were free to move - it crossed her mind he could have gotten injured in the afterwards of the attack, searching through the rubble.

"Perhaps your hand would hurt if—"

"Off we go, young girl," he snapped and he had put one knee down.

"Alright..." Gilmith said again.

She slid her hands on his shoulders while he grabbed her legs and it was a small relief for both of them that she was wearing so many layers of clothes - there was still a barrier between them. Even then Gilmith was stiff, clinging on his back awkwardly, and the fact that he did not utter a single word made her feel even more uncomfortable. Hopefully night had fallen and darkness helped her ease up a little, while his steady pace rocked her into a pleasant state of drowsiness.

Eventually Gilmith forgot about decency and she leaned her head on his shoulder, wrapping her arms tighter around his neck, gazing at the scenery unfolding around them - shadows of tall pine trees, big rocks on which the waves broke and shimmering sand. The rain had calmed down, it had become more of a drizzle that seeped into fabric, but she could not complain for she was well protected from it by her cloak. And at some point, she could not clearly remember when, he started singing softly a lament whose lyrics were obscure yet whose melody was so mournful it was as if the Sun was never to rise again.

How sorrowful this lonesome Dregor could be...

Gilmith woke up when she felt he was putting her down, on wet grass. Rain had completely stopped, but not since long, and the sky was still greyish, even though dawn was to come soon.

"Is the village far?" she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

"It is right behind this grove."

From what he had glimpsed, this area had also been visited by the corsairs, however he told her not about it. And as he saw she was trying to get up, he summoned her not to move.

"Let me go first, I shall be back soon enough," he whispered.

Still numb from her sleep, Gilmith watched him stride away, hoping that for once he would bring back some real food, not just nuts and roots. It took her a while to become really aware of her surroundings, yet it seems she was on the bank of what appeared to be a small pond, around which young trees and bushes grew, and she was under the impression that the sea was not far - the breeze carried a salty smell and seagulls flew in circle right above her.

By the time she was fully awake, the Sun had come out from behind strands of white clouds, welcomed by singing cicadas, and its light warmed Gilmith who felt cold and wet from that night she had spent outside, even though the many layers of clothes she was wearing had kept her away from the worst. However, she was convinced she smelled like some dog who had been locked out outside during a stormy night and gazing at the nearby pond, it crossed her mind how pleasant it would be to bathe while her clothing dried, spread on the grass or hung on a branch. A quick investigation confirmed the water was just at the right temperature, fresh enough to revigorate her, yet warm enough that she would not freeze, and soon Gilmith had slipped out of her dresses. A sigh of satisfaction escaped a lips when she entered the pond.

Washing away the dirt, the sweat, the blood felt supremely good, almost as if she was getting rid of her old skin, the one that had suffered so much over the last weeks, and ultimate happiness was reached when she immersed herself fully in the water. Her long thick brown hair floated around her, it formed a long banner behind her when she began to swim and what a relief it was to be able to move so freely, as if all pain had finally left her.

Birds had come closer, warbling gaily in the bushes, and a squirrel on a quest to find chestnuts had stopped by, allowing her to pet the top its head awhile, before going back to its business. Gilmith and her brother both had an uncanny knack with animals, wild or tame, and their dogs and their horses had always been the best trained in the land. Galador especially was proud of this gift and despite his tall height and his sturdy silhouette, he knew how to walk silently in the forest and no creatures feared him, whereas they would have fled at the merest sight of his companions. That ought have been enough to make him a great hunter, yet while he enjoyed riding in forests, he had absolutely no taste for hunting - much to their father's despair.

And that was how it happened, how Gilmith finally broke in tears, upon realizing how far she was from her family, to whom she was seemingly forever lost. Still immerged in the water, she was unable to stop weeping and her shoulder shook frantically as she covered her face with her hands. Many grieving matters did she have to deal with and she surely could not hope that one bath would free her from the horrible memories of the attack. She had to mourn those who had fallen and unleash her grief.

He caught sight of her from afar, as she was stepping out of the pond. Her long brown hair partially concealed her nakedness, yet before averting his eyes from her, he managed to register an impressive number of fleeting details - the water drops running down her back, the shapeliness of her hips, the roundness of her breast. He saw not the bruises that still marked her skin, nor did he see her eyes brimming with tears, and that was a turning point although he was unaware of it, captivated as he was. Gilmith no more was just an anonymous victim he had saved from death, she was a beautiful maiden whose melancholic expression moved him deeply.

And perhaps, in the depths of his heart, desire had awakened.

When he finally showed up in front of her, Gilmith had put back on her clothes and her hair had almost entirely dried, shining under the sunlight. She did not ask him why it had taken him so long to come back, neither did she really care about the food anymore - she had also forgotten about the village's inhabitants who, she had hoped, would help her reach home. Her eyes were still red from all the crying and even the flock of flamingos, who had come to rest in the pond just mere feet from her, had failed to cheer her up.

"I'm afraid this village was also attacked by the corsairs," he announced without any preamble - he'd rather pretend he had not noticed she had cried. "There is barely anything left..."

Sadly, he had foreseen this and what he had gone seek in the village was not people who would have taken care of Gilmith, but means of transportation. A horse or two would have been ideal, or perhaps a small boat, but none of that had he found there, where everything had been burned down and sacked, and he now found himself facing a dilemna. He would never let Gilmith journey alone, fully healed or not, yet he also felt it was urgent he parted from her.

"Should we not head further inland, sir?" she suggested, her voice hoarse. "The villagers probably fled towards the mountains."

"I never leave the seaside."

"Well then, there might be no need for you to go, but I have strayed long enough." And all she really wished for was to see her father and her brother again, as soon as possible.

"Gilmith, you barely can stand on your own two feet and you would travel through these unknown lands in search of villagers that might have just all perished in the attack?" he told her, too harshly perhaps.

"You saw yourself that some of them were able to flee..."

"Indeed, yet if by now, three weeks after that dreadful night, none of them has returned near the shores, I highly doubt that they shall come back before Spring," he said, in a softer tone, and he felt foolish, for he would have gladly stroked her hair, her cheeks, to soothe her distress.

"What am I to to do, then? Spend Winter here?" she muttered, peering at the pond. Somehow, she found it easier to argue when she was not looking at him.

"We shall go farther eastward," he announced, a bit surprised himself at what he was suggesting.

"There are no settlements for another twenty leagues at least..."

"So be it. We will leave tomorrow at dawn and it should take us no more than three days to cover this distance."

And having said this, he decided it was time for dinner - he had caught two hares on his way back from the village - and he busied himself, starting a fire and dismembering his catch, careful not to glance at her. Whether he headed to Dor-en-Ernil or not did not matter, as he followed no specific path, but slowly the idea had been born in his mind that he could walk with her as far as the river Morthond, where Edhellond had been raised. Oh, it was a foolish thought, for he believed he had spent too much time with her already, yet what would be a few more days...

"I owe you much already, Dregor,"said Gilmith, after having remained silent a few minutes, and it startled him to hear her pronounce his 'name'. "I can scarcely fathom how I could ever hope to thank you properly... and I cannot expect more from you, can I? Are there not any more pressing matters you should attend to, instead of wasting your time with a daughter of the Men?"

She still had no clue as to why he had bothered to save her or the others - she had come to understand he had done so several times, over the years - but she presumed his generosity had some boundaries.

"When I removed you from the ruins of the stabble, I also committed myself to safely return you to your family," he told her in a low voice, running his hand, the one wrapped in a bandage, through his black hair. "And perhaps a month is a long period of time for you, yet to me it is not much to spare."

"I suppose I can thank you nonetheless?" Gilmith said, turning her head to look at him.

Her green eyes were very pretty, though they were filled with tears, and he was struck at the way she was staring at him, so openly, so genuinely.

"Yes... yes, of course," he found himself muttering as he crouched by the fire.

Although he pretended to check the roasting of the hares, he was concerned by far different issues. Even at first glance, Gilmith had seemed to be an Elf and now that he was actually considering her up close, now that her brown hair shone from having been freshly washed and that her cheeks had gone pink, her ressemblance to the Silvan folk was absolutely startling - she belonged to great wild forests, not to the stone cities of Men. Yet she had said she had been fathered by Imrazôr of Dor-en-Ernil and she had not lied about it, thus what else could she but a mortal maiden?

However there was something else he had dared think about, a possibility he would rather not pondered about, for the mere notion of it stirred the most grieving feelings within his chest.

"Pray, Gilmith, who is your mother?" he inquired all of a sudden.

"My mother vanished barely a few weeks after I was born, I do not remember her," she answered, wary.

"What was her name?" he insisted.

"... Mithrellas."

Sindarin names were not uncommon among Men, for most of the lords still followed the traditions of the old days and in the western parts of Gondor Westron was actually seldom heard. However this particular name had a definite... Silvan feel to it.

"Was she a lady of Gondor, or perhaps a lady of Eriador?"

"Is it not enough that I have told you I come from Dor-en-Ernil?" retorted Gilmith who was growing uneasy.

"Yes, I suppose it is, I..."

It was none of his business who she was, truly, and he never bothered to learn much about those he saved - he was not seeking to form any kind of attachment with them. All he cared about was to heal them, whatever they did before or after ought not be any of his concerns, for he had chosen to lead a lonely life, cut from all ties, an existence of mourning and repentance. Yet if her mother were to be an Elf, then it would make Gilmith... a Half-Elven and that caused him great anguish.

On the other hand Gilmith had no idea he never made that kind of inquiries and she believed him to be nosy and to suspect she had not told him the truth, whereas she had indeed. She liked not talking about her mother and anyhow at home her name was never pronounced. Not that she had become the object of some absurd hatred, on the contrary, it was because she had been loved and was still loved that it was so hard to mention her.

Lord Imrazôr missed dearly his wife, although he had always been aware their union was to be tragic in the end and he was not resentful in the least bit, he simply was sad. As to Galador and Gilmith, they had been raised by a very loving father, who treasured them above all else, yet the absence of their mother had ever been a wound in their hearts, one that could not quite be mended. Gilmith, especially, had always had to deal with this feeling of loss and as she had grown up, it had become more and more evident she was strikingly alike her mother. For years already, she had been nicknamed Edhelwen by many, although never in front of her father. But she oft wondered, did she merely look like her mother or was she truly like her mother, of the same nature as her?

"My mother was named Mithrellas and she was a Silvan Elf who got lost on her journey to Edhellond, hence my father came upon her in the forests of Belfalas and took her as his wife. She bore him two children, my brother and I, and then she left in the night, and that is all there is to tell, for that is all I know myself," Gilmith told him at last, in a single breath.

Silent tears were rolling down her face, however he was too stunned to notice it. There had been but very few Peredhil throughout the history of Arda and he had been too closely involved with them not to be horribly shaken upon discovering Gilmith was one too - he heaved a sigh, unable to speak.

"What does that make me?" she inquired, whispering.

"The likes of you were called Half-Elven in the old days," he managed to say, focusing hard on his hares - truth be told, they were about to be totally burned.

"And what have the likes of me become in the old days?"

"How would I know..."

Pronouncing these words, his face had become so sinister that it lead Gilmith to believe Half-Elven were frowned upon by the Elves, however being scorned was the least of her worries.

"Are there any others like me where... where you come from?" she dared ask.

At first she had thought he was from the North, maybe from Lindon where still dwelled some of the Elves who had once been ruled by last High King, Gil-Galad, but he had neither denied nor confirmed it when she had tried to ask him about it, when they were in the cavern. One thing was sure, he was not of her mother's folk, for he was too tall and too sturdy to be one of the Silvan Elves. Gilmith had read and heard everything she could about them and she was naive enough to believe that it would be sufficient to recognize one, would such an encounter happen.

"No... Half-Elvens are a rather uncommon occurence," he answered, reluctant.

"Yet is not lord El—"

"Do not say this name!" he cut her off, sharply, and he jumped on his feet quickly. "I will be off to the beach, but do enjoy your meal."

In a swirl of grey and brown clothes, he stormed off hurriedly, carrying his harp, and a dozen of whistling seagulls flew after him, while in the pond the flamingos, disturbed in their rest, ruffled their pink feathers lazily.

Gilmith was left alone to ponder, oblivious of the fact that the hares were completely burnt by then, and she was quite puzzled, for she sensed it was not anger she had triggered in him, but sadness, infinite sadness.

It seems I keep insisting on how small Gilmith is, but frankly I don't picture her being especially small, it's more how Maglor perceives her to be because he is ridiculously tall himself (I see that as a family trait) and also because she is much much much more younger than he is. He'd probably consider her father and her brother to be small too, when it's really not the case.

End of September might seem late for swimming, but considering that Minas Tirith would be on the same latitude as Firenze, I suppose Gondor in general must not be that cold at that time of the year.

'Edhelwen' ('Elf maiden') was how Morwen (Túrin's mother) was called because her beauty was that of an Elf and so I thought it could be a likely nickname for Gilmith too, since she looked like her Elven mother.