3018 TA

Míril's face contorted in concern as she wandered through the gate into the town. Gandalf hadn't been seen for a long time, but even more worrisome was his lack of contact. In fact, if not for the message Gildor Inglorian was spreading, she wouldn't even have known that things hadn't proceeded as planned.

What if Aragorn hadn't heard? She knew he was watching the roads but he couldn't be everywhere at once. The halfling was leaving the Shire without a guide. But the most dire of all the news was that the Nazgûl were on his trail. She'd heard whispers and rumors that four riders had attacked the Prancing Pony the previous night. That was why Míril was in Bree.

She found the town in an uproar. Stolen horses, disappearing hobbits, and black riders in the night. The stories being told by hobbits and men alike conjured all sorts of images in her mind that she did not need. And yet one piece of information brought her comfort.

"And that there Strider too! Those four hobbits taking up with a folk like that ain't right, I says. And I means what I says," a hobbit called Mugwort told three other hobbits.

Strider! She breathed a sigh of relief. At least Aragorn was with the halflings. Míril decided she had time to grab a pint at the Prancing Pony before setting off to find the little group. She threw back her hood, revealing brown hair that fell about her shoulders. As she did so, her hand caught on a twig she hadn't removed after a fall that morning. Miril pulled it from her hair with effort. She then stepped inside the inn and turned to walk into the common room when she was rudely interrupted.

"Get out, pointy ears," a man of normal height spat at her feet. He and his buddies were blocking the door way.

"Excuse me?" Míril blinked in surprise.

"We've had enough of you rangers. All you do is cause trouble," another patron of the inn exclaimed from behind the three men.

"I am sorry, but I need to ask you to leave before violence breaks out," Barliman Butterbur said from behind her.

Míril narrowed her eyes in thinly veiled annoyance. "Very well. But might I ask where Ar- Strider was headed?"

"I'm afraid I can't remember. Honest! Ask around. Maybe ol' Nob knows," Butterbur turned to a hobbit.

The shorter barkeep glanced over. His brown hair curled in ringlets on his head and he looked surprised to be addressed, but not unhappy.

"You needed me sir?" Nob asked.

"Where'd old Strider head off to?"

The hobbit spoke up with a nod. "Oh just follow the road past Bill Ferny's house."

Míril nodded and dropped a few coins on the counter for their services before leaving the inn. She followed the path out of Bree and towards Archet, scanning the road for tracks. They weren't too difficult to find, but Míril was surprised that they were on the road.

Laughter caused Míril to turn around as she passed Bill Ferny's house. There the old man was, grinning at her mischievously from his porch and laughing.

"Hello, Pointy Ears! Leaving Bree so soon?"

"Find something better to do, Ferny," she sighed. Then she chuckled as she looked him over. His head sported a large, purple bruise, about the size of an apple. "Fall into something, Ferny? Hit your head too hard?"

Ferny gritted his teeth and snarled as she kept walking. "Run to your boyfriend and the halflings!"

"Boyfriend? Really?" Míril rolled her eyes and said under her breath, "Aragorn might as well be my uncle."

She almost missed the point at which the faint trail she was following veered off into the woods. The trail had become less faint the farther they got from the town, but the depression in the grass and lack of continuing footprints pointed her that way. Towards...

"Midgewater Marshes," she groaned, "Of course he'd take them that way."

Straightening up, Míril put her hood back over her head and ducked into the trees. She had a job to do, and couldn't let her fear of the neeker-breekers stop her, no matter how much she hated them. She'd always been afraid of bugs, at least for as long as she could remember. Míril used to make Eldir squish any bug that was inside the house or near her. Yet now as a ranger she needed to steel herself and prepare to enter those infamous marshes. It took two days of walking before Míril exited the Chetwood and came upon the marshes. Suddenly her foot sank into the ground, water pooling around it.

"Found the swamp," Míril grumbled as she struggled to pull her foot out.

Grabbing a thick, long stick she used it to poke the ground in front of her. This way she hoped to avoid the stinking pools of marsh water and make quick time. She had no doubt that Aragorn knew these paths well, much better than she did, and therefore she was losing time on them.

A large fly buzzed past her ear, causing Míril to give a gasp and almost trip. Once more she prayed to Iluvatar for help.

"Lady Yavanna, help me endure you and your sister's creatures that abode in this foresaken marsh," Míril muttered, regaining her balance. She teetered on across a fallen tree trunk that she hoped led to more stable ground.

She decided to set up camp around midnight. The neeker-breekers were intensely loud, the gnats were simply intolerable, and she was tired. Míril decided that building a fire was necessary and worth any risk. Besides, she was so far out, who would see it? Aragorn? That would save her a lot of trouble anyways.

After another day of walking, Míril was relieved to find herself on solid ground. She'd gotten out of the marshes and figured it'd best to keep walking for as long as she could in the dark. Sticking to the faint but ever-present trail, Míril continued on. She wasn't worried about loosing the trail. She knew the path well that Aragorn was following. Unmarked and unrecorded, yet known to most rangers, it was specifically designed to be as obscure and secretive as possible. It provided quick passage to the Weathertop trail from Breeland.

After hours of walking, she fancied she saw a fire. Small and dim, but still present, it was next to a small stream and under some alder trees. Drawing her long knife, Míril krept quietly forward, her dark clothing shrouding her in the shadows. She didn't want to take any chances. Peering into the gloom she decided that if they were orcs, they wouldn't use a fire. She'd have to risk getting the men's attention.

"Well met," she spoke aloud.

Instantly the unsheathing of a sword was heard and a figure leaped up from behind the fire. In response, Míril also drew her shortsword and stepped out from hiding behind a lone tree. Bringing her sword up, she just had time to block her attacker's swing. Míril pushed back with all her might and managed to get free from her imprisonment between sword and tree. Swinging her sword at the man's torso, she found her arm exposed. Before she could pull it back, the larger man had pinned her arn against the tree trunk and knocked the blade from her grasp.

Using her left hand, Míril drew her long knife but before she could twist her right arm free, the attacker used his weight to crush her against the tree. As she crumpled to the ground she barely noticed that the man didn't finish her off.

Suddenly she felt bright light on her face as a torch was brought by some newcomer. She gave grunt and closed her eyes tight against the blaze. She vaguely realized that a sword was being used to push back her cloak hood. Certainly better than being thrust into her neck or chest.

"Míril?!"

"Yes."

"I had no idea it was you!'

"Evidently."

She opened her eyes and found Aragorn crouched down in front of her. He took her hands in his and smiled.

"Sorry about that," he grimaced, helping her up, "How bad did I hurt you?"

"Nothing too bad. Just a sore wrist," she assured him. It was a lie, of course.

"Good," he nodded, "Now. What are you doing here? I thought you were with the Tinnudir company?"

Míril smirked but then her face grew grave, "I was looking for you. I'd gotten word from Inglorian about the halflings."

"Strider! Who's that?" a new voice chipped in. Both rangers turned to see four hobbits all standing next to the fire, obviously ill at ease, two with weapons drawn.

"Míril, a friend and fellow ranger," Aragon told the four friends, "so you and Sam can put away your swords, Pippin."

Míril smiled and bowed to the hobbits slightly. She winced and slid back down the tree to a sitting position, grabbing at her side and struggling to catch her breath. The bark caused awkward indentations in her back, but she had too much pain in her side and hip to do much else.

"Guess I'm hurt a bit more than just a sprained wrist," she tried to joke lightly.

Aragorn frowned, "Come on, let's get you over by the fire. Halbarad would never forgive me if I didn't fix you up."

She nodded and, with Aragorn's support, hobbled over to the campfire. The hobbits watched carefully. Aragorn slid the other ranger's shirt up so he could examine her torso. There was already a nasty black bruise beginning to form on the side he had bashed against the tree.

"Could have been worse," she tried to remind a guilty looking Aragorn.

The older man gave her a raised eyebrow before reaching into a nearby pack and pulling out some torn rags. He used water from the heated pot they'd hung over the fire to soak these rags and then wiped her sore. As soon as it was dry, Aragorn took some longer, dry rags and wrapped them around Míril's torso.

"Thanks," she smiled.

Aragorn nodded and sat back, "I thought you were busy near Lake Evendim? Checking out leads on the matter we'd discussed?"

Míril nodded, "I was, with the Tinnudir company, but as of a few weeks ago the trail went cold and I lost sight of them. None of the residents around their had any useful information, so I alerted most of the local companies to keep an eye out. They know to send me word of any activity up there. Any news of my father?"

"I had Halbarad in charge of the Shire patrols while I was away. When I came back, he took a small group of men farther north. He wanted to scout out around Lake Uial since you were taking care of Lake Evendim," Aragorn explained to her. He waited for Míril to continue her tale.

"Well anyways, as I was on my way through the Shire, I ran into Gildor's party. They told me that Gandalf was missing, and that some hobbits were leaving the Shire. Worst of all," she lowered her voice, "he told me that at least one of the Nine had crossed the river. Is it true, Aragorn? I heard rumors in Breeland and near the Prancing Pony too."

"Yes, it is," he nodded seriously, "Four attacked us while we stayed there some nights ago. Fortunately I found Mr. Baggins and his company before that."

Míril turned to the hobbits once again and smiled, "I don't believe we've been introduced."

"Peregrine Took, those most call me Pippin," answered the young, sandy-haired hobbit that had spoken earlier.

"Meriadoc Brandybuck, or Merry for short," the brown headed one next to Pippin told her.

"Sam Gamgee, ma'am," said the slightly more plump one.

Finally a hobbit with dark hair and a serious expression spoke, saying, "I am Frodo Baggins."