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Chapter One | Míril

Míril watched the goblins celebrate the last moments of their lives. They chittered and danced around their campfires, gnawing at raw meat and picking their teeth with sharpened bones. Did they know death came for them? All she needed was Candaith's signal.

As the flames illuminated their rotting fangs and grey, wrinkled skin, she doubted even Mandos held them much in his thought. They would find no rest in death. But when they silenced the goblins, the Men and Hobbits of Eriador could sleep a little more soundly.

Míril could feel every muscle in Faeron's body tensing beside her. Candaith was lucky Faeron hadn't sprung out of hiding yet. Míril placed a hand on his shaking knee. And they all said she was the impulsive one.

Thirty or forty goblins sat scattered around campfires in the sparse trees. She hadn't gotten a total count. But there couldn't be many more. Ten for each seemed fair, anyway. And if Halros had gone soft from living in his little cottage on the edge of the Shire, surely they could pick up the slack.

Come on. Where was the signal? 

She realized her own leg had started to shake when Faeron gave it a light smack. She looked over at him. In the dark she almost couldn't see where his brown hair ended and his brown cloak hood began. But she could see the glint of his grey eyes. 

Three hoots of an owl pierced through the goblin revelry. She smiled.

Faeron loosed two arrows at the nearest goblin sentries. Strangled screams in whatever hideous dialect of black speech this tribe spoke clashed with the raucous feasting from moments before. Four more goblins dropped. 

Míril left the sentries to Faeron and Halros. She drew her sword. Steel glinted in the firelight. Poison dripped from the curved blades raised to meet her. She didn't need poison.

Blades met. She heard whistling arrows race past her head. A few campfires flickered out. In the shadows, she couldn't make much out. Burning flesh hit her nose. Goblin? Animal? Probably both. Bodies dropped all around her.

Míril took the head off another one. In the dying light of the few remaining fires, she found herself face to face with Candaith. Blood splashed across his skin, tanned and scarred from long years in the wild. 

"Took you long enough," she said. "Faeron and I nearly fell asleep waiting for your signal."

Candaith let out half a scoff. Míril saw his eyes widen before she slammed into a tree, Candaith's sword catching the blade of a goblin that would've taken her head off. She shook her head, forcing away the pain. If Faeron had seen that he'd never let her live it down.

It didn't take long before she stood back to back with Candaith, Faeron, and Halros around the last campfire. Nothing stirred in the trees. Even the leaves lay silent. Wildlife had the good sense to skitter away from goblins but apparently so did the wind.

"Well. That went quite well," Faeron said. "I for one think we did splendidly."

Míril snorted out a laugh. "Lucky you didn't blow our cover earlier."

"At least I did not find myself face-first in a tree trunk-"

So he had seen it. Well, so much for not getting teased through winter. But Candaith cut her off before she could respond.

"We are not out of the woods yet."

"Literally," said Faeron.

Míril barely managed to bite her cheek to hold her tongue. Halros wasn't so skilled. Must've been that cottage life.

"All right, all right." Candaith waved his hand. "Míril, take Halros and scout the area for stragglers. Faeron and I will get to work burning these." He gave a half kick to the closet goblin boot. 

Míril heard Faeron protest as she melted into the thicker trees alongside Halros. She still remembered when he was born; the sunniest day of the year for one of the cheeriest rangers she knew. Perhaps her father, Halbarad, had taken pity on the young man by giving him the task of guarding the route between the Shire and Bree.

"You are sure this was the only camp?" Míril said.

He nodded, his light brown hair nearly black as the night around them. The soot covering him from putting out the fires didn't help. "I would have wiped them out weeks ago if there had not been so many. I hated thinking they were so close to the hobbits."

They were spread so thin these days. But then, even in the days of her parents' deaths, they had been few in number. Or so she'd been taught. It had taken two weeks to gather just the three of them. Candaith had left his post in the Lone Lands, Faeron had come from the Midgewater Marshes, and she had been caught coming back from Tharbad. But even four made short work of the enemy.

Only two goblins had escaped their net. Two well-placed arrows dispatched them with ease. The bodies stunk of disease as she dragged them by the ankles back to the flames. Halros had conveniently insisted he needed to search for spent arrows, leaving her to do the dirty work.

She found Faeron pushing a half-burnt, fallen goblin corpse further up the pile when she returned. In the bright fire light she saw a deep gash on his cheek. So they had not all escaped unscathed.

"What did that?" 

"A goblin."

Míril rolled her eyes as she tossed the two bodies into the flames. Faeron flinched away when she inspected it more closely. It didn't look poisoned, but one could never tell.

"Candaith?"

"He's setting up camp for us just north. Halros?"

"Here." 

Míril and Faeron both turned to see him stride out of the trees, a full quiver of arrows on his back. The grisly task complete, they set out to the north. She let Faeron lead.

She had no particular love for the Shirelands. But she preferred company to the absolute silence of her journey down the Green Way. There had been nothing but the odd group of refugees and long lands filled with ruins. Tharbad had fallen into disrepair so long ago, that only a handful of rangers were stationed anywhere within three week's ride of the broken crossing.

They found Candaith boiling water in a small pot. The scent of healing herbs cascaded around the small, tree-lined dell in the hills. Míril allowed herself to breathe in the glorious scent as she settled down in the grass. She closed her eyes.

"Ah! I can treat my own wounds, Candaith!"

"Perhaps if you were not well known as a ranger of little common sense, I would believe you."

"And perhaps if you did not spend your time secluded beneath Weathertop you would remember manners."

"Faeron-"

Míril opened her eyes as Halros cut in. Sitting up, she placed on a hand on his arm. "I would not attempt to get between them," she said, lowering her voice. "I tried that once. It isn't worth the verbal lashing."

Faeron took the poultice from Candaith and applied it to his cheek. It seemed to satisfy everyone as peace fell over the dell once more. Dinner wasn't much more than dried fruit and some meat Halros had caught two days before, but better than nothing.

"So, how is Tharbad?" Faeron said.

Míril looked up. "About as we expected. Crumbled to ruins, but mostly silent. I detected no sign of the Enemy except goblin scouts."

"Which you promptly dispatched?" Halros said.

She didn't respond beyond a smile. Gazing into the fire, she thought back to every goblin body, every orc corpse she had fed to the flames. Míril did not know if the others made the destruction of the enemy personal, but she did. She burned them for her brother. Eldir had died by an Orkish blade, so orc-kind would die by hers.

Both Aragorn and Halbarad warned her against dwelling on thoughts of revenge. And she had read all the tales in Elrond's library of how revenge had led to the destruction of half the world. 

But her father had been there! How could he move on from seeing Eldir speared through the heart? She had been a child playing Ranger. Eldir had done it for real that day.

Halbarad may not have been her father by blood, but she could barely remember anyone besides him. Surely he could understand why every time she tossed a goblin into the flames, it made her feel just a little better about the world?

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Míril snapped back to reality. They were being watched.

She moved her hand ever so carefully to the dagger on her belt. Hidden beneath the cloak, only her companions would see. Halros and Faeron kept talking. 

But Candaith noticed immediately. Their eyes met. With the slightest nod, she communicated everything to him. Wait for my signal. We're being watched.

Three, two, one. Míril leaped off the ground. Her dagger embedded itself in a tree. As Faeron and Halros startled, Candaith nocked his bow. 

A light laugh, a bit startled but not unkind, greeted their attack. "And that is how I know Míril is here. I should expect nothing less!"

"Gildor!" 

She couldn't help laughing as well, calming her heart rate as best she could. The elf stood just beside the tree, her dagger at throat level. With his fair hair and fairer skin, she could not mistake him for anyone but one of the Exiles. Few still wandered around Middle Earth, and as a child, she had tried to meet every one of them. Glorfindel and Elladan had humored her.

"Pardon the interruption, Dunedain." Gildor bowed slightly as he moved into the firelight. 

"You are always welcome, Gildor," Halros said. "You know that."

He smiled. "Three of you I know. But you, I do not."

"Faeron," he said. Standing, he bowed before the elf.

"You only knew it was Míril who threw the dagger because you did not know Faeron," Candaith said. A rare smile flashed across his face as he went to hug the elf. "It has been too long, my friend."

"I am not sure the wide lands of Middle Earth are prepared for two Dunedain of Míril's..."

"Choose your words carefully, Gildor," she said.

"Disposition."

Good enough. She wasn't sure she'd get much nicer from any of the Dunedain. Míril pulled her dagger out of the tree before greeting Gildor with a hug as well. "What brings you to our humble campfire?"

His expression dropped. "Now that is rather a serious matter, I'm afraid." He looked into the flames for a moment before turning to the rangers. "I bear grave tidings. Gandalf is missing, and the Hobbits have left the Shire alone."

"What?" Míril said, barely above a whisper. "Missing?"

Gildor nodded. "I have sent my people far and wide over the last few days. We have scoured many miles and found no trace of him."

"That's impossible. Gandalf does not go missing unless he means to," Faeron said.

"And yet he has."

Míril rubbed her temple. Gandalf missing? He would not have gone missing on purpose so close to the departure of the hobbits with the Ring. She glanced up. Candaith also met her gaze. She knew that he was aware of the hobbit's quest, but Faeron and Halros likely not. Did Gildor even understand the true gravity of the situation?

"Where's Aragorn? Has he been told?" Candaith said.

Gildor nodded. "I spoke to him personally. But I do not know if he reached the hobbits in time."

"In time for what?" Halros said.

"Then you have not heard." Gildor shook his head. "Bree was attacked last night."

"Attacked?" Míril said. All of her companions were just as shocked. They had only been gone from meeting at the Pony two days ago. 

"Riders in black."

The air once so peaceful, suffused with the scent of herbs and a gentle breeze, stilled. The temperature dropped. Just the mention of the Nazgul sent shivers down her spine. She had never laid eyes on them, but Aragorn had, and he had been more than willing to impress upon her how deadly they were.

"How many?" Candaith said.

Gildor shook his head. "I do not know. Our people are not welcome in Bree these days, with so much distrust in the world. I know just what the birds have told me. I thought to find as many of the Dunedain as I could on short notice. It was only by the grace of Elbereth that the skies are clear tonight and I saw the smoke of the pyre."

"I'm going to find them," Míril said. She placed the dagger back in its sheath. 

Candaith protested. "Halbarad needs your report."

She just scoffed. "Faeron is returning as well. He can take it. There wasn't much to report." Taking a last swig of wine from Halros's canteen, she shook her head. "Aragorn may be with the hobbits, or he may not be. But I won't leave that up to chance. Nor will I sit idly by as another goes into danger."

For the first time since she'd known him, Faeron stayed silent at the mention of his name. Guess he knew better than to stand between her and a task. Candaith sighed but nodded.

"Sleep in the company of allies until dawn," Gildor said. He laid a hand on her shoulder. "The servants of the Enemy are here, Míril. There is no sense in rushing off into darkness."

Though his words made sense, every fiber of her being willed her to leave the safety of the dell. Aragorn could be out there right now, injured. The hobbits could be dead. The Ring could be in the hands of the enemy- No. They would know if the Enemy had the ring. And that was some sort of comfort as she sat back down.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two | Míril

It had been many years since Míril last saw Bree so up in arms. Both literally and figuratively, unfortunately, as she saw a local militia of shopkeepers and what passed for learned men among the Breelanders gather just beyond the gates. Had she ever seen it like this?

The chaos would make her job more difficult. Blood stained the edges of her fraying grey-green cloak. No one in Bree would be able to tell the difference between orc blood and human blood. The reputation of the Dunedain hardly helped.

Still, she’d learned more than a few tricks to evade curious eyes. The shade beneath the bows of the Chetwood would help. Míril passed beneath the boughs to circle Bree from the direction of Archet and Combe. 

A handful of trees backed up to the stone walls of the north side of Bree. Seizing the cover of angry men screaming about missing horses, she hauled herself until she could drop into Bree with as silent a step as possible. Eerie quiet met her.

In the secluded alley, only a startled cat made any sound. Míril removed her hood. She splashed a bit of water over her face from a puddle atop a nearby barrel. Hopefully, it would remove any leftover orc blood. Nothing short of a deep bath in Rivendell would cleanse the layer of dirt and grime off her.

Míril took a deep breath, eyes closed. The stench of waste, burning wood, and mildewed hay slammed into her. What she wouldn’t give to be in Rivendell. She’d even take a few days in the outpost of Esteldin, surrounded by a handful of rangers who knew what herbs would cleanse the air of darkness.

But, she had a job. Míril opened her eyes. One foot in front of the other, she moved into the road. The Prancing Pony would be her best bet for news. Butterbur grated on her every nerve but he kept a welcoming fire where gossipmongers gathered.

The closer she got to the Pony, the louder shouts and arguing grew. She could see a small crowd gathered outside the inn, men waving their hands in the air like it would actually do something. A handful of hobbits smoked pipes together to the side, casting glares up the steps to the open door. 

“No I haven’t heard about your horses, Mr. Milkweed, but if you’d take it up with the Watchers maybe you might get your answers!” Barliman Butterbur had hands on hips, a stained apron down his front and bags under his eyes. “I just run this here inn. I don’t run the town!”

She paused beside a streetlamp a few meters from the crowd. A hobbit girl caught her eye and Míril smiled. The girl ran. Míril suppressed every urge not to roll her eyes. She understood their fear, but she didn’t have time for it.

“What news?” she said, tapping a man on the shoulder at the back of the crowd. “Quite an uproar.”

“Oh, not one of you!”

A few in the crowd turned at his shout and five pairs of angry eyes stared at her from terrified faces. They parted, moving as far from her as possible. Míril sighed. 

“You aren’t wanted here!” said a hobbit, stomping up to her. “You ain’t a Breelander, so stay out of Bree!”

“That’s right!” another man stood beside him. “Outsiders bring trouble. We want no trouble!”

Míril shook her head. “Perhaps I can aid you.” She didn’t have time for this. There was no time. Where was the Ring?”

“I beggin’ your pardon, lass, but these good folk have had more excitement in the last days than any of us want our whole lives,” Butterbur said. “It’d be best if you kept on down the road.”

“You would turn aside a stranger from your inn?” she asked.

He crinkled his nose, a deep frown settling in his features. “A sad day it is that I turn aside a customer, but I’m afraid I have no space for you. No space! Leave, please!”

The hobbit who had first spoken nodded. “That’s right. Barliman Butterbur knows what's best!”

“We don’t need another Outsider taking any more hobbits into the wild,” said a sandy-haired hobbit next to him. 

Another outsider taking hobbits. Míril’s heart quickened. Who was the outsider? Was it Aragorn? Another ranger? Or something more sinister.

No one would answer her. They turned their backs or walked away. A few spit at her feet. She could feel frustration burning in her chest as she wanedered down the lanes trying to get someone, anyone, to speak with her. 

A deep dread settled in her stomach as she drew near the South Gate. Míril spent more time glancing over her shoulders than looking forward. The shadows lengthened, and animals fell silent. But the people weren’t silent.

Wailing mothers clutched at children. Husbands hid wives inside doorways. The Gate lay in ruins, splintered wooden doors pounded deep into muddy ground. A more organized militia than that of the other gates stood clutching spears and whispering in hushed voices. 

Míril stopped in the shadow of a hedge row. The sun shined high in the sky, creeping towards evening. But it felt cold. Each breath strangled her lungs.

The Nazgul had been here. Many of them. Death clutched the South Gate tightly. If none would speak to her, then she would have to gather information other ways.

She closed her eyes, willing her senses to focus only on the sounds around her. Days of training in youth from Elladan to become a hunter even amongst a crowd had served her well. The men spoke of war upon the borders. The women cried for futureless children. The children, they wondered why the world was ending.

The stones, though. She could hear their groans from dark hooves. Elladan said elves could hear their words, but at least as half-elves, they could learn to hear their cries. And these stones cried.

A chirping bird broke her concentration from the dread. Míril opened her eyes. A blue jay flitted from fence post to fence post where once the Breelanders had stabled horses. A note of hope. What hope, though? Who had been there, and had they arrived in time?

“You’re too late.”

Míril turned to a gate in the hedge. Leaning against the low wooden door stood Bill Ferny, a scraggly man with greying dark hair and wrinkled skin. He sported a bruise in the middle of his face and over his right eye. 

“What do you mean?” she said. She hadn’t wanted the one person in Bree willing to talk with her to be Ferny, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “What do you know, Ferny?”

“Now, now. That ain’t the way to speak to a man upon his doorstep.” He shot her a crooked smile, unlatching the gate and joining her in the alleyway entrance. 

She couldn’t play this game. Not right now. Míril launched forward, grabbing him by the throat and pushing him against the stone wall beside the hedge. “Give me one good reason not to end your miserable life right now.”

His eyes bulged. Ferny grasped at her hands, ranking fingernails across her skin. The fear in the air twisted around her heated chest. Míril forced herself to breathe. She relaxed her grip.

“I could call the guards!” he stammered. “I will!”

But she shook her head. Míril stepped back and surveyed him. He hunched over on himself, cowering back like she’d stabbed him. She hadn’t. She’d thought about it though. This had Ferny treachery written all over it. He dwelt too comfortably in the darkness.

It didn’t matter though. And she said as much. She had a job to do, and killing Ferny, though it would likely be justice, would not aid her. If the hobbits had left with Aragorn, he'd head for Rivendell. If the hobbits left with someone, or something, else then likely they would disappear into the wilderness.

As she pushed through the crowds to leave by the South Gate, it occurred to her that Aragorn could have taken the Ranger paths through the Chetwood and the Marshes. Perhaps she’d walked right by them and not known. If that was the case, she’d throw herself at Elladan and Elrohir’s feet for mocking herself.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three | Míril

The tracks weren't hard to find. They must have left recently, the last day or two. Míril sent a quick prayer to the Lady Elbereth that it was indeed Aragorn with the hobbits, and not someone more sinister. But there was no way to know. No way, except to catch up with them.

Autumn leaves rustled overhead as she worked her way through the Chetwood. Doing her best to obscure the tracks as she found them, Míril put her head down and focused. She had to move fast. Time was their enemy.

Many had taught her to live in the wild. First had been Halbarad. The best way to stay safe was to be smart. Know the wilds. Know your limits. With Eldir's death yet more limits had been placed on her. They'd sent her away, her father and Aragorn, to the safety of Rivendell.

Master Elrond accepted her graciously. But it had been Elladan who stayed by her side at all times. From Elladan she'd learned to push limits. Run harder, jump further, be prepared for anything.

But he often rode abroad with Elrohir, ever the elven protectors of the Dúnedain. Training by herself helped little. Glorfindel had stopped that quickly, after she'd spent an hour honing the wrong techniques. He accepted nothing less than her hardest effort. If she was to learn to fight, she would learn to fight well.

The sight of Eldir's bloody body fueled her. He lingered in her dreams with each sleep. While she had pretended to be a ranger in the safety of their camp, swinging a wooden stick like a blade that would cleave goblins in half, her brother had done it for real.

He'd died for the cause. He'd died for Aragorn. And as Míril pushed on and on through the Chetwood without a break, she prayed that she could live up to his memory.

Evening fell, and the trees thinned. Míril paused to get her bearings. The tracks ended where the pools began. It had been years since she patrolled the Marshes. Somewhere in the back of her mind were the paths that the Rangers took to navigate safely. If only she could remember.

Her breathing slowed. Her heartbeat calmed. Rushing would not help here. Míril closed her eyes.

She envisioned the Midgewater Marshes. Allowing the smells and sounds of the bog to fill her, Míril concentrated. The stench of sulfur and still water, midges buzzing in her ears and the grasshoppers screeching in the night. How she despised this place. And yet, she had to traverse it.

Míril opened her eyes. There, on two fallen trees who had stabilized each other long ago. She couldn't help but smile as she eased herself down the bank to examine the bark. A distorted arrow carving, barely visible. That way.

Mud caked her boots. Even the easiest path had its struggles. With the moon high in the sky giving her a little light, picking her way through the pools and tall reeds was no laughing matter. There were few markers on the path. The occasional stone with a quick rune gave her some peace but not often enough.

What ifs ran through her mind. What if the Hobbits had not gone this way at all? What if they'd left with a servant of the enemy? What if the Nazgul came upon them in the night? What if-

Míril gasped as her foot went straight into a pool of muddy swamp water. Even through her leathers and well-maintained cottons she felt the cold slime. Gagging, she pulled her foot out, back onto the firm path.

Muttering a few curses under her breath, she sat on the ground. Water poured out of her boot as she took it off. Her father would've been furious. A stupid mistake.

Stupid mistakes got you killed. They were few enough these days. Even a half-elven Dúnedan of forty years, trained by the best in Rivendell could not afford to lose concentration. Stop with the what ifs. What mattered was the now.

Míril resumed her march. Night passed into day. With the warmth of the sun on her face, she relaxed a little. There had been no sign of the Nazgul. The land did not easily forget their passing. She had only the midges and the biting grasshoppers to worry about.

Her patience wore thin with each hour. The bleakness of the landscape between Bree and Rivendell had been her stomping grounds once. Many young rangers spent their formative years in these less dangerous areas. Close to safety, rarely home to any stable goblin population, it was also good practice for teaching rangers about one of the constant dangers from that moment one: loneliness.

Míril had to rest. Her body ached as she pushed through the second night in the Marshes. Coming upon an elevated flat with a few trees, she decided there would be no better spot. It seemed someone else had agreed with her.

Signs of a small campfire sat hidden behind a prickly bush. For the first time in days, Míril smiled. Perhaps this was the right way. Perhaps she wasn't so alone in this wilderness.

Elladan and Elrohir would tease her for being dramatic. But then, they had each other. They always had each other. As she pulled off her cloak and laid it on the ground to sleep on, she just sighed. Míril's brother was gone. Slaughtered by the enemy. She would not rest until every last goblin and every warg from the Grey Havens in the West to Mordor far in the East was dead.

And that, she knew the twins understood. No wonder they gravitated towards one another.

Míril settled down on the cloak, pack for a pillow. A slight breeze blew through the reeds of the Midgewater Marshes. It offered a pleasant change. With Elbereth's stars shining far above, she tried to settle her racing heart.

The sky exploded. Lightning sprang up from the hills far in the east. Míril shot up. What in Elbereth's name could that be?

It looked like lightning, and yet could not have been. For it reached up to the sky in bright bursts, not down, and there were no storm clouds in sight. A million thoughts ran through her mind. Weathertop lay in that direction. Some foul sorcery of the enemy? Or, more hopefully, of Gandalf?

She balled her fists. Energy coursed through her. Now more than ever she wanted to abandon caution and find the hobbits before it was too late. But she would be no use to them half asleep on her feet. Her father's voice was one of reason, constantly in the back of her mind.

So she slept.

The third day, she pushed even harder. If she moved without stopping she hoped to exit the Marshes by a few hours after sundown. It came flooding back to her, the paths all rangers learned. She bet that the hobbits, if being led by a ranger, would be exiting the marsh soon as well. Though it depended on how hardy they were.

Hobbits, as a general rule, were not particularly hardy folk. Míril did not spend much time around them. They were slow, and generally fat, and not inclined to care about much but food and relaxation. She preferred to travel farther afield. Halbarad held the North Downs under his purview. The hidden sanctuary at Esteldin had a handful of rangers at all times. But he and Aragorn did not see fit to assign her so close to Fornost or Angmar.

Míril kicked a stone. They refused to give an explanation. But she knew why. An excess of caution, for they'd already seen her brother's death. Ridiculous. She was older now than he had ever been. Better trained than he had ever been.

So she spent most of her time near the ruins of Annuminas. They had not reclaimed their ancient fastness on Lake Evendim, but they did their best to keep it clear of foes who would desecrate it further. Elladan and Elrohir, though, took her beyond those bounds.

Míril couldn't help but smile as she thought about them. Ruthless to their foes, endlessly loyal, and funnier than they had any right to be, they were her best friends. Only friends, it seemed sometimes. Aragorn wasn't a friend. He was her chieftain, a foster uncle, someone should kill and be killed for.

Elladan was her mentor. Quieter than Elrohir but no less steadfast in duty, he'd fought for her from day one. When others did not want her trained, he trained her. No one in all of Middle Earth except her father believed in her more. Of that, Míril was certain.

And then there was Elrohir. Míril pushed away the tiny butterflies that fluttered in her chest. No. Elrohir had not trained her. Indeed, as a child, he had seen fit to be around her as little as possible. She remembered days when he looked with great sadness on her in the training yard. But he was funny, and witty, deeply caring, and-

Míril tripped on a tree root. Her wrists ached as she braced her fall on solid ground. In the rolling fog of the third evening in the Marsh, she'd missed it. No more Marsh.

It took a moment for her to get up. Her heart raced so fast that all she could hear was the blood in her ears. Stupid. Another stupid mistake. There was no time for daydreaming, least not at night while on guard for enemies.

She took a moment to stretch. Fog had rolled in. Not far, she heard the sounds of a stream emptying from the Weather Hills into the marsh below. Aragorn would make for that.

Alder trees lined parts of the stream. For the most part the Lone Lands stretched for barren miles in all directions. With heather and dry grasses popping up between hard stone, few animals or people settled there. But long ago, when the Dúnedain had not lived lonely lives in the wilds, there had been great battlements here.

Míril didn't often traverse the Weather Hills. Even so, she knew the path Aragorn would make for. At one time, it had serviced the soldiers of Arthedain. Here they had arrayed themselves in glorious defense of their kingdom. Now, the stones crumbled. They cried for the blood that had been spilled.

But the stream ran pure. Míril paused beside it, looking down into the soft flowing water. She had ever been at peace when water was near. That was another reason she had chosen to guard Lake Evendim. Elves experienced sea-longing. She was no elf, and yet sometimes she thought she could hear it. A deep music, resounding in the depths of every stream, lake, or river.

Taking a moment to wash her face and refill her water, Míril breathed. Elbereth's stars and the light of the waxing moon reflected back in the stream. She loved the night. Most feared the darkness, for the enemy's spies could not abide the day, but Míril found there to be an intangible comfort there too.

She looked up. Eärendil's Star shone down on her. With a smirk, she shook her head. Maybe she had spent too much time around elves for her own good.

Time to move on. Míril gathered herself. She needed to move more carefully now, to look for any tracks. But she still believed the stream to be her best bet.

A few hours later, she halted behind a tree. Dark shapes lay still in the darkness. Míril slowed her breathing. It could be her query. But it could also be any number of much worse things. Wargs, wild wolves, stray goblins passed out from too much alcohol.

She drew her sword. Míril hid it behind her leg. The bright light of the waxing moon could give her away if she wasn't careful. With each step, she inched closer. One shape sat larger than the others, hunched in the darkness.

Her blood pounded in her ears. Still, she could not decipher friend or foe. She had to make a choice.

The shape leapt up. Before Míril could speak, she found a blade headed for her throat. Míril raised her own and stumbled back. With a growl, she pushed forward. Two counterstrikes were blocked. The other figures scrambled away.

Míril slammed into a tree. Sword clattering on the riverbank, she gasped for breath. An arm hauled her up, pinning her to the tree mere inches from the point of the blade.

"Míril?"

Light reflected off the sword blade and onto Aragorn's face. She saw half a dozen emotions flash across his expression. Fear, anger, relief, consternation. The sword fell.

"Thank you for that welcome," she said in Sindarin, between heaved breaths. Her side ached. There would be a bruise for sure. "I should have declared myself sooner, I suppose."

Aragorn helped her stand, a calloused hand on either of her arms. His gaze darted over her just as her father often did. "Of all the foolish things!"

"I apologize, but given the situation…"

Míril glanced beyond him. Four hobbits, all with swords drawn, crowded together in a clump just nearby. Perhaps it would be better to converse in Westron.

"Gildor alerted us to your plight," she told him. "Gandalf missing, and four hobbits leaving the Shire without a guide. With the Pony attack, we feared the worst."

"Gildor Inglorion?" said a hobbit.

Míril nodded. "Indeed."

Aragorn nodded. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he stepped back to face the hobbits. They trembled in the dark.

"This is Míril, another of my kindred." He sat back down on the ground, gesturing for them to do the same. "I suggest we all try to rest, and in the morning more will be made clear. All you need know at this time is that she is a friend and ally of Gandalf."

The hobbits looked ready to argue. But the one who had first spoken told them to follow Strider's lead. She nearly laughed at the moniker. Poor Aragorn had been given that nickname years ago and never managed to drop it.

"Have you had news of him at all," he said, when the hobbits had laid back to sleep. "Or anyone else?"

Míril shook her head. Easing herself to his side, trying not to show how painful the shove into the tree had been, she just sighed. "None of Gandalf. Candaith, Halros, and Faeron were with me when we received the news and should be seeking the rest of the Dúnedain."

"Good. Then all we can do is carry on." He pointed to each of the hobbits and named them in turn. "They are a hardy folk, but I fear pushing them too hard on this journey. We must get to Rivendell as soon as possible though."

"What can I do?"

Aragorn sighed. He looked up at the stars and then back to her. "Let us see what the dawn brings. I fear traveling in too large a group. But I will not lie, having another able sword does give me some relief."

Míril nodded. As silence stretched between them, she allowed herself to relax a little. She had found her chieftain, and he had found the hobbits. Together they would reach Rivendell, or she would die in the attempt.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four | Míril

When Míril opened her eyes, she was met across the way by a hobbit's gaze. Pippin, if she remembered Aragorn's hasty introductions correctly. A warm light of a cool dawn highlighted his youthful face. She didn't have time to wallow in self pity at how much her side hurt. It had been her own fault, really. She'd taken a calculated risk, not announcing herself. But it had been a bad one.

She offered him a small smile before sitting up. Not far away, Aragorn stood gazing off at the ruins of Weathertop. They were a day out, perhaps. If all went according to plan.

Or, she assumed that was their plan. Making for Weathertop was sensible. But she would defer to Aragorn. Before she could stand up, however, she was interrupted.

"Are you an elf?"

Míril turned back around. Pippin chewed on some dried berries, fully awake and altogether more curious for a hobbit than she expected.

"You don't seem like one," he added, between bites. "I've met them, you know. That Gildor fellow you mentioned."

She almost laughed. Settling across from him, she just shook her head. "Nay, not an elf. Half-elven." Then she narrowed her eyes. "And you, Master Pippin. That is your name, right? You seem to have a deal more curiosity than your average hobbit. At least, of those I have seen."

"As I should. I'm a Took of Tuckborough!"

"And you have far too loud a voice for a hobbit, too."

Míril glanced at the second hobbit to wake up. He had dark hair and a fair face. But already she felt the seriousness in his voice. Frodo Baggins. The hobbit they'd all been concerned for.

"You are Frodo Baggins?" she said.

He nodded. "I am. And you are a ranger, like Strider?"

"I am. Or, I try to be," she said. Míril couldn't help but smirk up at him. "I will admit, he is a much better travel companion than I am. Even if he is more prone to being overly serious in conversation."

Aragorn turned back around. In the morning light she could see the playful frown on his face. But it quickly disappeared. They had far more to worry about. Poking fun at each other would have to wait for better days.

The last two hobbits, Merry and Sam, had woken up as well. They asked many questions, not least of all Sam, who seemed quite suspicious of her sudden arrival in the dead of night. Míril couldn't really blame him.

"I apologize for the manner in which we met, Master Gamgee," she said, "Truly, I did not mean to startle anyone. But it was necessary to reach you as soon as possible and I will not apologize for that."

"Nor should you need to," Merry said. "I for one am very happy to have another person to share the baggage, should the pony need a break."

Míril laughed. "Good enough, then."

"We should get moving."

Aragorn helped them stand. His movements were sharp, precise. She could all but feel the anxiety pouring off him in waves. Reality set back in.

Gandalf was missing. The Nazgûl rode abroad. The ring still had many days to travel before they reached Rivendell.

"Aragorn, a word," she said.

They stepped aside. He looked exhausted. She doubted he'd slept at all. With a quick glance at the hobbits, she switched to Sindarin.

"I will scout ahead," she said. "I know the path you intend to take. We head to Weathertop now, correct?"

"We do. But it is too dangerous for you to go off alone." Aragorn gestured toward the ring of ruins that could be seen far above on Amon Sûl. "We do not know where the Nine are. If they came upon you in the wild, you would not win. And that is no slight to you! Few in this world could prevail against them. Stay with the hobbits, and I will go."

The familiar burning of anger filled her chest. Not because she said she could not win. Míril knew they were far beyond her skill to face alone. But the constant refrain of no, no, no from Aragorn and her father!

"No." Míril leaned closer. "You are their guide. I am not. And more than that, you are my chieftain, my king though you wear no crown. It is my duty to protect you! Just because we are family does not change that."

Silence stretched between them. The hobbits had grown quiet and for a moment, she wondered if they spoke elvish. She glanced over. Frodo watched her closely. Elf-friend. He was an Elf-friend. She could see it in his eyes.

Aragorn sighed. But he nodded. "Very well. But stick to the path. No rash heroics. There is nothing to prove to me here. And find us again by noon."

"Understood."

Míril didn't look back. With bow on her back and sword at her side, she headed off into the Weather Hills. The sun shone on her face and for the first time in days, she felt a sense of peace amidst her determination.

The mission now was clear. No more searching, just straight on. Get the ring to Rivendell. Get the ring to safety.

The path along the Weather Hills used to service the soldiers of Arthedain, long before the downfall of all three kingdoms of Arnor. Crumbled ruins topped most of the hills. None could rival the ruins of Weathertop, though.

There was a hallowness, here, a solemnity in the sunlight. After spending so many years patrolling in and around Lake Evendim, Míril had gained quite an appreciation for her history. The Dunedain had valiantly defended their lands for centuries. Even the Witch-king could not fully bring them to their knees.

Purple heather and spikey grasses dotted the landscape. How much blood had watered them, over the years? The path she followed now had once been paved. Few stones remained. A thousand years of dirt and weeds obscured where they'd come from. But still, the path persevered.

Míril neither saw nor sensed any sign of the enemy. There was some foot traffic along the route, but that was to be expected. It had become one of the more frequent Ranger routes this side of Bree.

As she wound her way around the base of another hill, she looked up towards the clear blue sky. Noon would be approaching soon. She hesitated. Another ten or twenty minutes of brisk walk and she knew she could see the ruins of Weathertop.

Worth the risk. Quickening her pace, Míril hurried off down the path. Through dells and hidden behind boulders or overgrown trees, she didn't fear being spotted. And better it be her than Aragorn and the hobbits.

The hidden path ended. Or rather, the path did not, but all sense of concealment did. Crouching behind one of the larger boulders, Míril looked up at the crest of the grey-green hill. Towering Amon Sûl, though crumbled into ruins, crowned Weathertop. She couldn't even imagine how grand it must've been in the days of a united Arnor. When Gil-Galad and Elendil had joined their forces for the Last Alliance, it must've stood like a beacon of hope to the soldiers.

And now it lay in ruins. Sorcery, fire, and time had sped up the process, destroyed by the evil out of Rhudaur and Angmar in the north. But still the bones remained. They were strong, like the Dunedain. Pride swelled in her chest. Every day she woke to defend the North, she felt connected to all those who had come before her, not least of all her brother.

After taking a moment to observe Weathertop under the bright sunlight, she turned away. Mid-day would be approaching soon enough. Aragorn waited for her report.

She found them not far down the path, after about an hour. Glancing at the sky, she smiled. Just in time. No scolding from her chieftain today.

"The way appears clear," she said. "Though I could not be overly thorough."

"Well that's a relief," Merry said.

Aragorn echoed him, though with much less certainty in his tone. "I am glad, but we should still proceed with caution. The lights we saw a few nights ago have not fled my memory."

"I saw them as well. Several possibilities came to mind."

"To mine as well, but I do not wish to speak of them here. We must make for Weathertop, with haste."

They did so. Within the hour, they reached the same break in the path that Míril had stopped at. To hesitate would be to increase their danger. Aragorn led them beyond the safety of the path and onto the slopes of Weathertop. A dell sat on the western side of the hill. There they would make camp.

"I will make for the top," Aragorn said. "Frodo at least should come with me. I do not wish for you to go beyond my sight."

"I would go too," Merry said. "I find these ruins all terribly interesting."

It was decided that Sam and Pippin would remain with the pony. Bill, as Sam insisted they call him. But Míril had no intention of staying idle.

"I will patrol the lower slopes."

Aragorn sighed. But he nodded. It surprised her, the lack of argument. The danger of the exposure of the Weathertop put the priority on securing the ring. Even his care for her would not stand in the way. With instructions to return far before sunset, they split up.

She began by heading north. Retracing their steps down the slope, she tried to pay better attention to any signs of recent visitors. As before, she found a handful of footprints. They could not have been very old. But that didn't mean much. If Candaith had taken the road, he could have easily reached the Weather Hills before them.

The eastern slope had more in the way of cover. The trees grew more thickly, though with autumn in full swing, they had shed many of their leaves. Looking out over the Lone Lands she saw the road winding far away. The Last Bridge lay on the edge of the Trollshaws, many days away. It would be difficult going forward without being spotted unless they dipped far out of the way.

Evening set in by the time she rounded the southern edge of Weathertop. This way faced what had once been the kingdom of Cardolan. Little in the way of cover lay on this slope, except sparse trees and tumbled ruins from the crest of the hill.

Clouds replaced the brilliantly clear autumn day. Míril frowned. The chill deepened. With a quiet shiver, she wrapped her cloak closer. But it didn't help.

A creeping heaviness began to settle in a deep pit of her stomach. The cold that gripped her heart was not from a cloudy autumn evening. She hunched down. Something approached.

Míril stared out at the westward road. There, on the edge of sight, she saw it.

Them.

Riders black as night.

She couldn't breathe. They rode like the wind. Míril scrambled back. Loose rocks tripped her. The bruise on her side sent searing pain through her whole body as she slammed into the ground.

With all the effort she could muster, Míril hurried back to the dell. They were coming. Three at least. Maybe more.

She burst into the dell. The hobbits and Aragorn spun around to face her. Aragorn had a hand on his weapon but relaxed when he realized who it was.

"They're coming," she said.

He did not respond in Sindarin. "We know. There is not much to do now but fortify our position and prepare for nightfall."

She could not respond at first. An icy grip held her voice at bay. To wait for the Nazgûl… and the others called her rash. It was hard to breathe. But Aragorn held her gaze. He did not waver. She knew he had some experience with the Nine, though what that was he would never say. If he could withstand them a second time, she would join him.

"We found tracks here, though they were confused by the time I returned," he said. "Did Candaith plan to come here straight after you left him?"

She shook her head, glancing around at the dell as well. The remains of a camp had certainly been left behind. It could've been his. But there were plenty of other explanations.

"I'm not sure," she said. "He could have beat us here if he'd left immediately. But I think he had planned to find Halbarad with Faeron."

As the hobbits began to prepare a meal, small though it was. They had to stretch their rations as long as possible. Míril was little help. She had only a few days worth.

Aragorn filled her in on their findings at the summit. For the first time in many days, her heart lifted. Though they did not know for sure if it had been Gandalf who left the runes and scorch marks it made sense.

"For my part, I believe it was him," Míril said, smiling as she bit into a bit of dried meat. "Fire and a cryptic message? I can think of no one better."

Pippin laughed at her joke, but she merely got a smile from Aragorn and half-hearted grunts from the other hobbits. The deepening darkness drove them all into dark thoughts. And though she did her best to avoid it, the creeping sense of doom did not leave Míril alone either.

Even as Aragorn recited the Lay of Lúthien, she could not settle. Standing up to stretch, she moved off from the fire. Her legs ached. Her hands itched to hold her sword. But this creeping dread could not be resisted by blade or bow.

How had the great elven heroes of old resisted the darkness? Lúthien had woven spells of song, enchanting and defeating even Morgoth. Míril did not have that kind of power. Her mother had been no Maia.

Fingon the Valiant had persisted for love of cousin and kingdom. The story of his rescue of Maedhros had been her favorite as a child. One elf prince, alone in a world of darkness, using the tools of his enemy to undo Morgoth's great plan.

The final stand of Fingolfin spoke of the dangers of despair in otherwise great deeds. No one in all of elvendom had ever done as great an injury to the Dark Lord as King Fingolfin did in his duel against Morgoth. But his death spelled disaster for the Noldor. She reminded herself frequently of the dangers of rash heroic deeds. Not that it helped much, according to her friends.

Finrod Felagund had died defending his dear friend in Sauron's own dungeons. Rivaling Fingon in loyalty, he had done what was necessary to ensure his oath of friendship was fulfilled. Like all oaths, it had ended in destruction.

She realized Aragorn's song had ended. Darkness crept back in as her memory of the Fëanorian destruction across Beleriand came to mind. Used as a warning against who would swear in vain, so much darkness in the world had been caused by those elven princes. Even the good they did had been undone by their oath.

A dark shape appeared on the hill. Her legs froze in place at the sight. A deeper black than the midnight around them, it began to creep forward. Not one, but many.

Míril dropped back. She willed her legs to move towards the sound of Aragorn's voice behind. She couldn't make out what was said. But she focused on him.

A rock tripped her. Míril fell to the ground, sending pain shooting up her back as she writhed on the sandy floor. Dark shapes moved forward. Voices rose, thin whispers in the air.

A shadow turned its empty face to her. Míril couldn't breathe. In the light of approaching fire she forced images of her heroes back to the forefront of her mind.

A blade gleamed in the moonlight. Míril gritted her teeth. She would go down fighting. She would go down swinging, just like the princes of the Noldor.

She raised her sword, trying to prop herself up on the ground. The Nazgûl's blade slammed down. Her blade fell to the ground. Shouting in pain at the unexpected strength, Míril barely had time to turn away from the counterstrike.

Pain shot through her. She felt blood pool against her face as her cheek was split. Tears filled her eyes unbidden as she grabbed a log of the fire. Míril swung. Ash and cinder burned her as she tried to catch the shadow aflame.

It skittered back. Woozy, she dropped the branch. The icy fear and darkness blacker than any night dissipated. She returned to her senses.

"Míril?"

Coughing on the ash she'd breathed, she tried to respond. Her hand flew to her cheek without thinking. Míril hissed in pain.

"The hobbits?" she said.

Aragorn appeared at her side, uninjured. His eyes widened at her cut. But he glanced behind himself.

"Alive. As are you," he said. "Can you walk?"

Míril forced herself up. Her face ached but she would live. Saying as much, she accepted Aragorn's help to her feet. It had felt worse than it was.

"Stay with the hobbits," he demanded. "I must follow them. They were not all here."

He did not wait for her to agree. Leaving her sitting at the fire, he fled into the night. Forcing herself to focus on anything but her own pain, she took stock of the others. Yet even as she tried to pay attention, her mind drifted. Exhaustion and agony mixed together to tear her from them.

They were alive, at least. They had survived the Nazgûl. Míril took a deep breath. Soon, Aragorn would return, and all would be right. He would make it right.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five | Míril

Crashing waves woke Míril from slumber. Opening her eyes, she stared up at a waning moon crowned by stars. There were no trees, no hills, no grass beneath her body. 

No grass. Míril sat up, running a hand through her hair. She lay on cold stone. Not stone, pavement. White paving stones lay all around her, crafted by many hands to create a beautiful open courtyard lined by tall towers.

Only the ocean made any noise as she struggled to her feet. Wind whipped her dark hair into her face as she turned. Where had all the people gone? Míril stood alone.

The towers felt elven. Smooth and strong, adorned by mosaics of sea glass, she had never seen their like. As she moved from the courtyard, she joined a road of beautiful pebbles. Like a riverbed, it snaked through this strange city.

Míril passed under a great white arch. Mosaics trellised up the side columns in patterns of green vines and bright flowers. Beyond it, the road, which she realized was just a footpath by comparison, opened to a great street along a flowing river. 

Still, no one came forth. The cold wind her only companion, Míril walked to the edge of the river. White towers lined the other side as well. Great bridges, placed at various intervals as far as she could see to her right, spanned the gap.

But to her left, only one bridge remained. For beyond, dark and unfathomably large, lay the ocean. She couldn’t breathe. Míril had seen the ocean a few times when visiting the Mithlond. It had always amazed her. And yet this great sea, in the face of it she could not speak.

Míril went to the bridge. A white stone wall that came only to her hips kept her from falling into the mouth of the river. The waters mingled.

As she looked out across the ocean, darkness enveloping her and silence restraining her, Míril struggled to move. She could not tear her eyes from the sinking moon. As it disappeared beneath the far western horizon, the sky went black.

Míril looked up. The stars disappeared. Only one remained, Eärendil’s Star, ever a beacon for those in Middle Earth. It would not be overtaken. But soon, the warmth in her chest began to freeze.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She was not alone. But she could not look away, could not turn her gaze anywhere. Nowhere, except down.

The shore looked wrong. The ocean waves stopped. No ebb, no flow, just water standing terribly still. No, not water.

Blood.

Míril’s heart raced. The pounding in her chest hurt to contain. Each breath came more strained than the last.

Only one light prevailed. Even amidst the ocean of blood, Eärendil’s Star reflected back at her. Beautiful, powerful, life-giving. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Míril reached for it.

The reflection disappeared. A white ship ran aground, sending ripples through the blood red waves. The ebb and flow of the ocean resumed, but when Míril looked up, Eärendil’s Star had died.

No one spoke. The white ship had no crew. The long neck of the swan ship curved above her, intricately crafted with hands far more skilled than her own. An onyx eye watched her so closely, Míril wondered if the ship yet lived.

She reached up. Her hand trembled. The swan ship’s eye reflected Eärendil’s Star. Far away, beyond reach, faint but still alive.

Someone lingered. Míril ripped her hand away mere inches from the swan ship’s head. There was that feeling, being stalked, being watched.

Míril looked away. On the other side of the bridge, a structure larger than any other lay in wait. Not a castle, nor a keep, but a grand dwelling place all the same. A beautiful, almost living mosaic decorated the smooth, white walls. In the darkness, even as a waxing moon rose in the sky, it seemed to dance and shift.

There appeared to be one large story, like a tapestry of glass. Nearest the pebbled road came waves that broke upon brown-golden rocks. The entrance way, a rounded arch with a beech wood door, split the image into two. 

Upon the western wall, sea glass depicted a beautiful but terrible figure among the waves. He held a great horn fashioned like a conch and sea birds danced far above him, heading up and up the wall until they disappeared into an onyx night sky peppered with white stars.

So striking was the art that for a moment, Míril could not move her gaze away. Nor did she wish it. Even as fear filled her, so did wonder and longing. But at last she could not withstand the gaze of the sea glass, and turned to the other side.

On the other side, the eastern wall of the great house, lay a mosaic of three elves upon the same brown-golden ocean rocks. Two held harps. But the central figure, with bright silver hair and piercing pearlescent eyes, stretched out his arms. Míril could not speak. She knew him. This was Círdan.

Lightning split the darkness. Míril fell back, ducking as thunder rolled over the empty city. Rain came down in torrents. Gone was the light of Eärendil’s star. Gone was the ship. The black ocean boiled and tossed in the storm. Even as she tried to find some sign in the waves, the sensation returned.

She was not alone. Míril spun around. In the shadows, nothing stirred. No one spoke. No one attacked. She was defenseless but there seemed to be nothing to defend against. In her desperation, she looked upon the mural again.

Míril froze. Those sea glass eyes. All breath left her lungs as she looked upon the living mosaic of the towering figure in silver-green mail. Horn to his lips, she swore she heard the music. But there was no music. No trumpet blasts, nor hymns of praise.

The mosaic had shifted. In the sea glass sea there lay a swan ship. And in the water reflected Eärendil’s star.

She reached her hand forward. Lightning crashed. Recoiling, Míril gripped her hand to her chest as though something had stabbed it. Cradling her bloodstained hand, she screamed.

Rain and tears blurred her sight for a moment. What had she done to deserve this? Míril crumpled to her knees. She wanted her brother. She wanted her father. Why had they all left her alone?

“You are not alone.”

Smooth as still water, deep as the ocean, the voice calmed the storm around her and in her heart. Her pounding heart slowed. Her strangled breathing eased. But the pool of blood staining the stones around her did not abate.

“Choose.”

The ground cracked. Míril screamed. Down, down she fell into cold water. As her lungs filled with the sea, she could make no sound. She thrashed. Pain seared through her. Until at last, she woke up.

“Míril!” 

Strong hands held her shivering shoulders tightly as she blinked against sunlight. Aragorn. Gasping for breath, she rolled over on her side. Nausea rolled through her. Her face ached. All memories of the last few days rushed back.

Five days they had traveled in the cheerless Lone Lands from Weathertop. Frodo had been wounded, stabbed by a Morgul knife. With every march they pushed on, faster and further, as much as the hobbits could take.

They had to reach Rivendell. Time was their enemy now. The Nazgûl would follow, or try to follow. Aragorn remained with Frodo at all times, but she scouted their paths. He didn’t like it. But they had little choice.

No one else had been attacked by the riders but her and Frodo. A simple blade, sharp despite its age, had split her cheek. Frodo’s wound was far more serious. If they did not reach Elrond in time, he would fade. And then the ring would be at risk.

“I am alright,” she said. Her pounding heart began to slow, the cold of the ocean’s darkness fading in the sunlight. As she met Aragorn’s concerned gaze, she switched to Sindarin. “How is Frodo?”

“Fading quickly, though slower than I would have guessed,” he said. “The hobbits are made of stern stuff. I admit, I am surprised.”

Coughing out a bit of a laugh, she smiled ruefully. “Perhaps when this is over, they could teach Faeron how to withstand the wilds better.”

Even Aragorn could not resist a small smile. It was unfair, really. As much as she enjoyed making fun of Faeron for preferring comfort to days under the open sky, there were few rangers better suited for slithering about unseen. He took too much pleasure in it. Had he not been so devoted to the good of the Free Peoples, he would’ve made a good thief.

They could’ve used his skills. The road was too dangerous. Between the two of them, she and Aragorn cut a good path through the wilds but Frodo needed a smoother ride than either could provide.

“There is a bit of food left for you,” he said. Aragorn rose from his knees beside her, facing the hobbits. “We must push hard today, so tighten your belts and ready your packs.”

“Have we not been pushing hard every day?” Pippin said.

Aragorn nodded. “Indeed. But today will be the hardest yet.”

Míril did her best to eat. Even six days after the attack, it hurt to chew. The movement threatened to reopen the wound. But if she did not eat, she would be of little help to them.

The day passed as all the others had. She left them early, striking out along the path that she and Aragorn had planned the night before. Taking as much care as she could, she honed the route to enable Frodo the least exertion with the most secrecy.

Míril checked back every few hours. If the Nazgûl returned, it would likely be during the night. But the Enemy had many servants, not just wraiths. Goblins and evil men could pose just as much danger if caught at unawares. 

Yet Míril could not concentrate. Multiple times, she tripped on a loose stone or tumbled from a gnarled tree root. The vivid dream haunted her steps. So much blood. So much water. The fading light of Eärendil’s star. 

And the voice. That voice vaster than the heavens and deeper than any ocean. Choose, it had said. Choose. Choose what?

Míril hissed in pain. A thorny branch dug into her arms as she misjudged the path. Stupid. Another stupid mistake. She had made far too many these last weeks. And yet, as she untangled herself from the painful plant, her mind lingered in the dreamscape.

When night fell, she rejoined Aragorn and the hobbits. Even as they warmed Frodo by light of a campfire, they discussed the next steps. She and Aragorn looked at each other. They knew the danger which lay ahead.

The Last Bridge. Long ago, Arnor had constructed it to span the Mitheithel. Cold and fierce, the river ran down from the Ettenmoors. Míril had rarely ridden in that land. Trolls inhabited it, and as long as they did not trouble the rest of Eriador, she did not cause herself more trouble by provoking them.

They could not wade Mitheithel. Only the Last Bridge remained to cross it. No better place could the Nazgûl pick to ambush them.

The hobbits drifted off one by one. Míril watched as Aragorn smoked a pipe in silence. Even as she sat cross-legged, her knee bounced up and down. Finally, he looked up.

“What do you wish to say?”

Míril paused. He always could read her so well. Too well. She had much to say but she knew he would not like it.

“I will scout the bridge tomorrow.”

Aragorn removed his pipe. He shook his head, setting it aside. “No. It is too dangerous. Stay with the hobbits, and I will go.”

“It is precisely this reason that you should not!” Míril felt the rage building inside, the bitterness she always felt when Aragorn and her father restrained her. “You are the chieftain of the dunedain. I am one of your rangers.”

“You’re wounded.”

“A scratch across my face changes nothing!”

She watched as he ran a hand through his tangled hair in the darkness. Míril paused. It had been a long time since she’d seen him so agitated. Even in these past few days, with Frodo so wounded and time against them, he turned his anxiety to focus.

“I will go, Míril.”

“After all these years. Have I not proven my worth, that I am trustworthy! Why is it that you sometimes treat me like the child I was when Eldir died? Rangers die, Aragorn. You cannot protect me forever.”

Aragorn did not respond at first. In the night, the hobbits tossed in their sleep. Míril tried to calm herself. This helped nothing. This fire in her blood helped nothing.

“I trust you.”

His voice was soft, but tired. Sad. Just as it sounded every time she brought up her brother. Míril settled down with a sigh. She pulled out her own pipe but could not calm herself enough to smoke it.

“I will go,” he said. 

Míril did not object. She had said her piece. The fury burning in her chest became more like smoldering coals. It was not fair, to bring up her brother’s death to Aragorn in such times. In any time. It had not been his fault. Nor Halbarad’s.

“It is true,” Aragorn added a few minutes later, “that many die in this life we must lead. But I will do all I can to protect you from an Enemy that would see your life cut short.”

The moon climbed high in the sky. It was foolish for them both to keep watch. At the thought of sleep, she bristled. The dream still played in her mind over and over.

“Then I shall at least keep watch tonight, ” she said.

Aragorn nodded. He needed the rest. Far too many nights of sleeplessness, she guessed, even when not the one watching over them. And if he was to brave the bridge, he needed to be ready. 

Míril took up her silent vigil. With a quick glance skyward, she ensured Eärendil’s Star still shone. And there it was, one of the fabled Silmarils. Bright and hopeful amidst the dark. 

So she watched.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six | Elrohir

Elrohir focused on his breath. In and out, like the gentle ebb and flow of the sea at Mithlond, he centered himself. Falling into unbidden memory helped no one.

It had been many years since he last ventured into the Ettenmoors. Elrohir preferred practically anywhere but here. Culling the goblins of the Misty Mountains, patrolling the border with Angmar north of what was once Arthedain, even assisting the Dúnedain in preserving the ruins of Annúminas was better than this.

Late summer in the Ettemoors still produced cold winds. Even hiding in the depth of the pine forest helped very little.

Trolls disliked the pines in the rocky hills. Too tightly packed. They preferred the Ettendales. Some years, they crawled through the valleys like colonies of ants. Endless in number. But other years, they were few and far between.

Elladan called themselves lucky. But Elrohir disagreed. If it was not trolls killing the Dunedain in the Ettenmoors, what other enemy had crept down from Angmar into these cursed lands?

"Brother, you're too quiet."

Elrohir glanced over at Elladan. His brother flashed him a small smile as sunlight dappled them through the trees. Their horses followed dutifully behind, unaware or too loyal to worry about the dangers in the forest.

"That so?" He forced himself to smile back. "Well I shall have to remedy this. What would you like me to 'ramble on about' as Aragorn would accuse?"

"Don't blame our brother when he's not here to defend himself!"

Elrohir laughed. His heart lightened. Trust Elladan to always know the right thing to say. Everyone called him the quiet one, but in the moments that really mattered, it was Elladan who brought wisdom.

"But you are too quiet," Elladan said, lowering his voice. "Take heart. Whatever we find, we will find it together."

That alone allowed Elrohir to continue forward. What lay beyond the trees scared him. And not much scared him these days.

Goblins, trolls, even the wraiths of Angmar could be conquered. He'd lived for nearly three thousand years. In all that time, the strength of his sword arm had only improved.

What did scare him was the nightmares. His mother, blood stained and breathing erratic, as she lay in his arms in the goblin den. That scared him. Watching long ago as Lady Maedeth, the love of Elladan's life, chose the gift of Men and grew old before his eyes. That scared him. The moment he'd realized his dear friend, Rínior, had seen so much death that he willingly turned to serve the Witch-king just to end the war against Arthedain quickly.

That scared him.

They broke through the trees. At the top of a high cliff, they overlooked a large, deep valley with a hill at the center. Weeds and wildflowers had reclaimed it for nature. Beautiful, really.

Beautiful, except for the towering, old fortress on the hill. A shiver ran down his spine. Minas Eglan. The Tower of the Forsaken.

Elladan came to his side. They basked in the noon light. What had to come next scared him, too.

Perhaps more scared him these days than he had admitted to himself. Elrohir frowned. But his brother placed a hand on his shoulder with a small squeeze.

"Together, Elrohir."

"Always."

It took hours to find the way down. Always listening, always looking for the next threat, Elrohir allowed his brother to lead. He trusted him more than he trusted himself. Here, at least. Too many ghosts here.

This had been one of the staging grounds. From here Rínior had planned attack after attack after attack on the Dúnedain of Arthedain. Here, he had fallen further and further into despair.

His father assured him that nothing he could have said would have prevented Rínior's fall. But he knew Maedeth, his twin, had not believed it. She had held herself accountable.

But it had not been Maedeth training and fighting alongside the Hero of the North. Elrohir had. And somehow he had missed all the signs of his friend's despair until it was too late.

The rain started when they reached the valley. Just another layer of gloom. Elrohir felt the roiling pit of guilt and anger that had become second nature when he thought of the fall of Arthedain.

"Stop dwelling on your memories!"

Elladan had to shout through the rain. Their paths became slick with mud, and then turned to little rivers as it began to flood. They pushed on to the ancient Númenorean stronghold.

Signs of a larger settlement still littered the valley. Crumbling ruins of building foundations peeked through tall grass. Rusted blades abandoned long ago were half buried in dirt. But the citadel, Númenorean make and never assailed, still stood tall.

They reached the gate. The wooden doors had mostly rotted off their hinges. A gaping darkness greeted them. Elrohir paused in the entrance.

Elladan drew his sword. They knew nothing of what lay inside, only that three of Halbarad's Dúnedain had gone missing over the past few months in the Ettenmoors. They had found no evidence to point to trolls.

In the hidden outpost of Esteldín, the twins had met with Halbarad and Aragorn. Dolindîr, it had once been named, back when Elrohir had defended it against the raging tide of Hill-men and Angmarim at Rínior's call. No one else remembered the name of the Hero of the North who had turned traitor. It was safer for all that the living lineage of Fëanor remained secret.

Halbarad had to remain at Esteldín to coordinate the scattered companies. Aragorn, ever wandering, had his own problems to worry about away south. That left only the twins to investigate the fastness in the Ettenmoors. To ensure Angmar's blight did not fester here again.

"I hear little beyond the rain," Elrohir said. "And can see less. Let us find wood and light up torches."

In what little light broke through the rain clouds and in through the windows and wide open door, they searched the entrance way. It did not take long to find a stash of dry wood in the corner. Someone had been here. Recently? Perhaps.

Fire sprang from the wood, flint, and steel. Shadows dance along the stone walls. So far no one had come to attack. Perhaps even the goblins sensed the darkness that lingered in this place.

"We should go room by room," Elrohir said. "Stick together."

"Agreed."

Sword in his right and a makeshift torch in his left, he moved from the entrance into the main hall. Despite the hard rain, it was oddly quiet. Echoes of leaks in the age old stone work fill the hall with an eerie regularity. Over and over and over the drips fell into growing puddles.

Down the center of the hall there ran an ancient looking wooden table. Long ago it may have been grand. But after years uncounted left uncared for rot and mildew sit in. At the base of the legs toadstools grew, feasting on water and the carcasses of rats.

Beyond the long table, a throne sat empty. Piles of bones lay on the floor at its feet. They were old, and as he got closer and their torch light illuminated the remains, he noted they were not human. Orc most likely.

Good. The more dead goblins in the world the better. He kicked them.

"While I appreciate the sentiment, Elrohir, I'd rather not choke on bone dust," Elladan said. He smirked. "Come. Left or right?"

Left or right? A simple enough question. It should have been an easy decision. Just pick one. Partially rotted wooden doors let it either direction when facing the throne. But his feet wouldn't move and his lips wouldn't part. He didn't want to look further. He didn't want to think about what could have been.

His brother's voice softened. "Let us go to the right then. Come on."

Good. It was good that his brother was here. They never parted, but since their mother…

No. He didn't want to think about that. Turning from the throne he followed his brother in the direction of the closest door to the right. It's screeched on its hinges. Flakes of rotted wood fell at Elladan's touch.

The ground moved. Blood pounded in Elrohir's ears as he held up his sword. His torch lit the hall as rats skittered down a long, skinny hall.

"They should look into getting some repairs done," he said, catching his breath. "Their house is starting to fall apart."

Elladan gave a short, strained laugh in response. Good to know he hadn't been the only one scared by the rats. There were too many ghosts in these halls. He had never been here and yet it felt so familiar. Arnor's architecture changed very little from place to place. The citadels had all been built around the same time, in the prime of the North Kingdom.

Most of the rooms had been ransacked long ago. A layer of dust blanketed overturned furniture and torn open barrels. The occasional orc skeleton lay in an unceremonious heap. Nothing.

Until they came to one door. Just as dilapidated as the others, to their surprise the room still appeared perfectly put together. Dust lay just as thick over all the furniture but instead of lying at awkward angles or broken apart into pieces, the bed was still made and paper lay on the desk. Elrohir frowned.

"Here, look," Elladan said. He moved further into the room. On one side, a stack of firewood sat ready to fill the empty fireplace. "How many years have these stood here?"

The fire sprang to life as he tossed in his torch. A warm, red-gold light bathed the entire room. Elrohir tried to focus on his breath.

"This must have been his room," he muttered.

It took a moment to decide where to look first. Elladan still fussed with the fire, trying to find a way to light the handful of candles still waiting for a master who had never returned. Indeed, the whole room seemed to be waiting.

"I wonder why the orcs left this untouched," Elladan said.

With a light scoff, Elrohir continued through the room. He decided the desk made the most sense to start with. "I do not. You did not see Rínior at the end, Elladan. Madness had taken him. Though they served the Witch-king, I am sure very few orcs wished to be on his bad side."

"Fair enough."

Elrohir covered his nose and mouth with his cloak before he began to explore the desk. Even so, he couldn't help coughing at the dust thrown into the air. The top most parchment crumbled in his hands. Those beneath it lasted a little longer, but there were no words on their ancient pages.

"Elrohir, over here."

His eyes stung. So much dust had been kicked up that he felt tears streaming down his cheeks unbidden. He joined his brother at the foot of Rínior's bed. It had taken little for him to unlock the chest.

"I found this at the bottom." Elladan handed over an old tome, its red leather cover stamped with the Star of Fëanor.

He couldn't breathe. As he flipped through the pages, he saw his old friend's handwriting for the first time in a thousand years. The script was familiar. His words, strange.

"These are his notes," he barely managed to say, "from his time after he betrayed us."

"I keep seeing it. The Silmaril. Hidden in the water out of my reach. But Mírien, my daughter, I will win it for you. With the Palantír I find it. The Witch-king cannot steal this from us. We are Fëanorian. The spirit of fire runs in our veins. I have seen it. The Silmaril in your hands."

Elrohir couldn't read further. He felt the tight bonds on his wrists that Rínior had tied, dragging him North to Angmar. He remembered how the boy he had trained glared at him with such disgust at his refusal to give in to despair. And the dream, the one of his daughter reclaiming the Silmaril, rang again in Elrohir's ears.

"What does it say?"

He passed it over. Elladan's expression darkened the further he read. His brother's memories of the fall of Arthedain were no less dark. He had lost his love.

"We should bring it to Halbarad. Or Aragorn," he said. "We must decide what to do with it."

"Decide what to do with it? We decided that years ago. All knowledge of Rínior and his descendants was to be erased, except from the heirs of Isildur and the Wise!" Elrohir shook his head. He refused to take back the book. "To bring it to Esteldín is to invite discovery. And discovery brings danger."

Blood. He remembered so much blood. It was supposed to be a simple hunt, a way to gauge the skills of Eldir in the field. A hand full of goblins and nothing more.

He wasn't supposed to find out. They'd been careless. He'd overheard. But Eldir was not the only one to overhear news of his lineage. Somehow the enemy found out.

And then the enemy found him. The grass had been soaked with blood. The wargs tore into him. It had taken the combined force of he and his brother, Aragorn, and Halbarad to subdue the enemy.

"There's a reason they don't know," he hissed.

Silence fell. Elrohir would not voice anything further. The enemy had many spies.

"Then what do you want to do with it?"

Elrohir tried to get memories of the blood out of his mind. He ran a hand through his hair. It caught on the grime that had built up in the Ettenmoors. Rínior's wife had faded. Then an orc had butchered her.

"Elrohir."

His daughter, all but abandoned. Maedeth alone at her side. Oh Maedeth. Elladan's heart had broken that day, when she chose duty over love. Rínior had done that. If he had stopped him sooner. If he had said the right things, perhaps—

"Elrohir, look at me."

He looked at his brother. Steadfast, thoughtful, slow to anger but firm in wrath. Elrohir focused himself on the unshakeable grip of his twin's hand on his arm.

"She looks so much like her," Elrohir whispered.

The dark almost swallowed his words. But his brother heard. The grip tightened. Míril had Mírien's eyes, her same chestnut brown hair.

"Míril will be safe," Elladan said.

Safe. That was all he could ask. As they looked at one another, Elrohir could all but hear everything his brother wished to say. That he knew. That no matter how much her fiery spirit and unquenchable laughter made his heart skip a beat, Elrohir could not tell her.

He'd seen how loving Maedeth had ended. In pain, with his brother alone and Maedeth forever beyond their reach unless they too chose the life of the Edain. Elladan chastised him sometimes. He said it had been worth it. To love, even if only for a short time.

"All right," Elrohir said. "Let us take it to Halbarad."

The rain stopped. Evening sunlight beamed down on them, though the tall trees all around cast long shadows. Elrohir tucked the tome as carefully as he could into his pack.

They had found no sign of the missing Dúnedain. Perhaps it had been trolls after all. But Elrohir would not be caught with Rínior's journal because he pushed his luck too far. They could return to search further if needed.

As they messed with their horses' tack, pounding hoof beats filled the air. The twins drew their swords. Descending into the valley sped a brilliant black and white horse, all strong and proud. He knew that horse.

"Lord Gildor," he called, waving him over. As he approached, Elrohir looked him over. "My lord, what brings you here?"

Gildor did not dismount. He looked them over quickly before relaying his message. "I bring news that cannot wait. Gandalf is missing. A hobbit has left the Shire alone, bearing a powerful burden. I would guess you know the errand."

Elrohir's blood ran cold. They knew of it indeed.

"Gandalf is missing?" Elladan echoed.

"He has not been seen in many months. Míril left to find Aragorn, to bring him this news." Gildor tried to flash them a small smile, but it fell flat. "It must be my hope she succeeded. For the news only worsens."

"How so?" Elrohir asked.

"The Nine pursue the hobbits. Buckland and Bree were attacked," Gildor said. "Ever they push further. Seeking more."

"If Míril reached the hobbits, they will make for Imladris," Elladan said.

His heart pounded. He focused on his breath. One after the other, like the ebb and flow of a wave. Focus on that.

"We have no time to lose," he said. "Come."

Elrohir mounted up. Elladan followed immediately behind. But Gildor bid them farewell. Many in his company had sped off in search of aid. It had been his lot to seek places wild and dangerous but he wished now to return.

Gandalf missing. The Nazgûl on the road. Three hobbits escaping the Shire alone. Míril in danger.

"We will need help beyond just us," Elrohir said.

But Elladan needed no convincing. They would make for Rivendell. They had to make for Rivendell. Halbarad could wait. Míril and the hobbits, perhaps, could not.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven | Míril

Míril clutched the beryl to her chest. Cool October winds rustled the red and brown leaves above their camp in the Trollshaws. They had found the Last Bridge clear. And beyond that, Aragorn had discovered the beryl, the beautiful sea green elf stone, at the center of it.

Several elves of Rivendell carried beryls like this one. Aragorn wasn't sure it had been left on purpose. Such trinkets could fall off on accident, or so he had insisted, though he hoped otherwise. But she disagreed.

Someone had claimed the bridge for them. That meant they were not alone. As she sat up with a sigh in the early light of dawn, that brought her some comfort. Frodo needed help. Perhaps help was not far away.

"Míril," Aragorn said.

She glanced over at him. He sat with his back against a tree, smoking his pipe from under his hooded cloak. In the long shadows of dawn, he nearly blended in.

"Yes?" Míril eased herself over to him. "What do you need from me today? Hunting, scouting?"

He grimaced. But they both knew that no matter what either feared, the greatest threat was time. So he took his pipe back out and gestured far above them. The Trollshaws forests were full of rolling, boulder-filled hills and steep cut ravines. They sat half way down such a cut in the landscape.

"You know these trails nearly as well as I do," he said. "Find us a path that stays out of sight of the road but easy enough that the hobbits can manage a fair pace."

She glanced at the four hobbits. Sam managed well enough. It seemed he was used to hard labor, even if he was the largest of the four. Pippin had the energy of youth, and Merry did well enough. No doubt due to wandering the Shire with Pippin, as they had spoken of the evening before in an effort to cheer Frodo up. But Frodo, he was the real issue.

The Morgul wound festered, not physically but in the hobbit's mind. Míril had heard stories of fading. Ghost stories traded between dunedain children spoke of deadly spirits infesting Fornost, or Queen Beruthiel's return with her cats at her call. Míril remembered one ill-conceived game where children would be dared to go alone in the dark to any body of water, and staring into their reflection, say the name of the evil queen of Gondor three times. Every so often, someone swore she'd come back to attack them.

Nonsense. But as she stared up at the tall, crumbling towers of Rhudaur dotting the crests of the forested hills, a chill ran down her spine. Always better not to tempt fate. The shadow of Angmar still blanketed parts of the land.

"Right. I will find you again at noon."

Míril finished a meager breakfast. Well they still had rations that were not many to go around, and she did not have much need of them. Let the hobbits eat their fill.

At first it was not difficult to find a path. She left small marks behind that Aragorn could follow: little notches in tree bark, the occasional deliberate scuff mark in the leaf litter. While it would be slow going it would not be impossible for a pony bearing a burden.

When she said out from them again at noon, she decided to seek higher ground to get a better look at their surroundings. The dark trees smothered her down in the ravine. Always her eyes went to those towers, black against a darkening sky. She figured it would rain soon.

It would be difficult, but not wholly impossible, for Frodo to ride upwards. The further into the ravine they got, the harder it would be. But those towers chilled her to the bone. She was not sure it would be safe. Better for her to risk her own safety than to risk the safety of the ring.

She reached the top of one of the clefts as the sun waned in the sky. A ruined tower crowned this one, same as many others. The stones were dark, worn with age and not nearly as long-lasting as the architecture of the old North Kingdom in its prime.

These had not been built by men recently out of Númenor. They had been built much later, potentially only a few generations before Rhudaur fell into darkness. As she looked at it from a several dozen feet away, Míril's heart pounded. A twinge of fear and anger heated her chest even as the October winds blew cold.

How could Dúnedain have come to serve Angmar? Even if most had died by then in this harsh land, that did not excuse bowing to one of the Nazgûl. And to turn on their own kin—it reminded her disgustingly of the tales of Fëanor and his sons.

Of all the elven heroes of the first age, no redemption for saving Lord Elrond or his brother had meant enough in her eyes to make up for their evil deeds. It was their traitorous actions that had left the young peredhil without a family in the first place. Not that she would ever voice anything of the sort while in the house of Lord Elrond. No need to stir up any such feelings in the Lord who had taken her into his house as a child.

Míril crept forward. She could not deny a magnetism towards the ruined tower of Rhudaur. From the foot of it she could look further into the Trollshaws. But perhaps inside there would be some sign, some way to help decide their next course. Or perhaps even some sign of the Nazgûl's movements.

It struck her as incredibly lucky, too lucky, that the Nine had not found them yet. They had horses, and the ring called to them. Why did they not answer it? Surely they were not leaving it to a chance that Frodo would fade to the wraith world. She knew Aragorn agreed with her.

Whatever door had once held shut the tower had rotted off its hinges long ago. The bright light of late day shone into the entrance. The roof had collapsed centuries ago, so that piles of crumbled stone and crushed wooden planks rotting to nothingness made stepping inside treacherous.

Míril's skin crawled. Every shadow lengthened. Whispers echoed just on the edge of her hearing. What words they spoke she could not tell. But she knew this place did not welcome her.

She stumbled back. The palpable darkness faded as she stood in the sunlight. Desperately trying to catch her breath, she took a swig of water to cool her parched throat. This would not work. They could not bring the ring here, even if an easier path could be found. They had to stay in the ravine.

Aragorn agreed with her. And so they stayed, winding their way through pathless parts of the Trollshaws for days. It did rain. Cold and harsh, Míril watched as each morning she woke to see Frodo worsening, nothing they could do to stop it. She and Aragorn stopped talking about it. They knew Frodo could understand Sindarin, And though it appeared he was too far faded to concentrate on their worried discussions, it was better not to risk him catching wind of their fear. Nor did it serve the others, who could not understand Sindarin but certainly could read their tone.

On the tenth day from Weathertop, Aragorn told her to stay with the hobbits so he could scout ahead. She didn't argue with him. The rain had finally stopped, but days of hard labor alone in the cold and wet had drained her of heat and in some ways, hope. Her chieftain could have better luck perhaps. They had been unable to do anything but follow the winding ravines, though they both knew they had begun to go too far.

"Do you have any good stories, Míril?"

Torn from her musings, she turned to Pippin. The shallow cave they had found, mainly a scoop in the cliff far above them, protected them from the wind but also echoed their voices a bit. All four hobbits sat huddled together pushed against the rock wall.

"Strider is a good storyteller, but rather grim," Pippin explained. "Though in his own way I suppose he's good company."

"He's helped keep us alive," Merry reminded him.

Pippin waved him off. "Yes of course. But maybe Míril can also give us a good tale to chew on."

Míril smiled. She hadn't interacted with them much, spending her days far from their company and resting as soon as she returned with her report for Aragorn. But in that time she'd come to have rather a fondness for the youngest. Pippin had spirit that she hadn't realized was found in hobbits. A sense of adventure and youthfulness that reminded her so much of herself at his age.

"I'm not sure that I do, Master Pippin." But as she chewed the last bit of what little food she'd been allotted for breakfast, she smiled to herself. "I could tell you of Rivendell, if you'd like?"

"Yes please," Sam said.

His eagerness surprised her. He'd usually been quiet around her, focused solely on the health of Frodo or the dark surroundings they found themselves in. Stories of Rivendell, then.

"I spent much of my childhood there. My father would visit me, of course, but I learned much from the elves."

As she closed her eyes she remembered beautiful mornings in the hidden valley. Winter had always been her favorite, waking up to frost in quiet peacefulness. But it never got too cold there. Snow would fall, blanketing the valley of the Last Homely House, and there would be feasts of celebration.

"You will find whatever you desire there," she said. "There will be peace, and learning, and fellowship together."

"And food?" Pippin asked.

Míril laughed for the first time in days. "And food, Pippin. Such food as you can only imagine! They will throw a feast for us I'm sure, when we arrive."

"A feast for us?" Merry said. "Well now, that will be something."

She spent some time telling tales of the great feasts of Rivendell, celebrations of food and fellowship that accompanied the seasons and elven holidays. This seemed to brighten their countenances considerably. But when Aragorn returned, telling them that they had to get out of the ravine no matter how hard, it dampened the mood again.

Still, she agreed with him. If they had come so close to the Ettendales, the sooner they turned away the better. Troll country was not to be treated lightly. She stayed with them through the end of the day.

When at last they climbed out, Míril feared it had been too much for Frodo. Shivering, he collapsed to the ground. For much of the climb, he'd been forced to go forward on foot. And now he paid the price for it.

Míril didn't speak, even as the hobbits pestered Aragorn for answers about Frodo's well being. Merry had demanded they stop at nightfall. He sat beside Frodo as Sam whispered angrily with Aragorn, concern furrowing his brow. Pippin joined him.

She offered to take watch that night. Aragorn needed rest. It didn't matter how strongly the blood of Númenor ran through his veins, even he could not stay awake for so many days without suffering for it.

On the high ridge, the winds blew colder. They managed to find some small cover in a small shelf that seemed to have once been a place where they'd quarried stone. It at least kept their fire from petering out, even if it meant a cold, hard sleep to rest on.

The dawn came clear and bright. Míril's heart lifted at the sight. Dawn had ever been the hope of men. Perhaps it would prove the same amidst the Trollshaws.

They had to reach the road. Aragorn felt it was their only option, and though fear gnawed at her at the thought of risking it, she did not disagree aloud. That would be their only way to locate the Ford of Bruinen. So once again, she set out alone.

It was surprisingly easy to find a path within the first hour. She made her down an old troll path. It has been many years since anything had cleared it though, so she opted for speed rather than stealth. Before long she came to a glade where three stone trolls had been caught unawares when the sun rose.

Míril couldn't help but smirk as she took a moment to stare at them. When had they been turned to stone? The dumb servants of darkness must have lost track of time while devouring a late night snack.

Noon was still a few hours off. She sped through thickets, keeping her ears and eyes peeled for sign of either the road or their enemy. Though the clear sun warmed the air considerably, a creepy, crawling, tingling fear still held her in a vice grip when she wandered alone.

At noon, she found the road. Quiet and still, no sign of footstep or hoofbeat, it trailed on winding through the tree-covered hills. She settled herself in a thicket above. Míril would watch, and wait, until the others joined her.

It didn't take long. After about an hour, she felt rather than heard Aragorn join her in her hiding place. He grimaced.

"Any sign of our pursuers?"

"None. It seems clear, though I do not trust it."

"Nor do I. But there is no hope of finding the ford if we do not risk the road."

Míril nodded. She clutched the beryl from the bridge in her hand, holding it to her chest. Between the hope of the clear sunrise and the elven token on the Last Bridge, she would trust the risk worth it.

"I will bring up the rear," she said. "You have no need of me at the front, now. I want to watch the road."

Aragorn looked at her, even as the hobbits grew impatient around them. She could read his expression well enough without words: frustration, either because she continued to put herself in danger, or because he knew she was right to do so. Likely both.

"Be careful," he said. "If the Nine pursue, do not confront them. Seek us swiftly by other paths."

"I promise."

Before long, she stood alone in the middle of the road watching as Aragorn led the hobbits beyond her site at a great pace. At least Frodo had seemed markedly better. That was some comfort.

Míril did not want to stray very far down the path. There weren't many hours until dusk, so she would give the others time to get away while she staked out the road. Returning to the thicket a few feet higher than the road itself, she hid.

Her joints began to ache as she lay in wait. Mind wandering, it took nearly as much energy to concentrate while sitting still as it had to wander over hills and through dells these past few days. The wound on her face had healed, though it hurt still, and would likely need to be looked at by the healers in Rivendell. With nothing else to focus on, the pain grew.

Hoofbeats.

Míril's blood ran cold. She heard hooves pounding the road. But even as her hand drifted to the sword at her side, she paused.

Not just hoofbeats, but tinking bells. Míril's eyes widened. A joy she had known few times in her life filled her chest so she abandoned her post and slid down the small, graveling slope to the road. A powerful white horse turned the bend and came to a halt.

"Glorfindel!"

Tears in her eyes, she ran to him as he dismounted. The elf Lord's shining golden hair whipped into his face. Overcome with emotion, she grabbed him in a hug.

"Míril," he said, "it gladdens my heart to find you!"

He held her a few feet from him so he could look her over. Grimacing as he examined the scar on her face, Glorfindel just shook his head.

"Did you find Aragorn?" he asked.

Míril nodded through her tears. It was imperative she get control of herself. They would have time to rejoice later. She laid a hand on Asfaloth's neck, whispering a quick word of thanks to the horse, calming herself in the process. Míril turned back.

"He is down the road with the hobbits. If we hurry, it will not take long to find them."

"Then let us go. The Nine are close. I drove three from the Last Bridge seven days ago. Two more fled from me soon after," he said, helping her onto Asfaloth's back. "Where the other four are, I do not know, and I fear the five are on my tail."

Her head spun. All in moments, such joy and such fear vied for control of her heart. She was with Glorfindel, the Lord who had trained her for so many years as a child, who she knew could keep them safe from anything. But the Nine…the Nine pursued them nonetheless. She knew the ring errand must be known to him. So as Glorfindel mounted no as well, she spoke no words. They had to reach the others, and they had to reach them fast.