A/N: Light editing done December 4, 2017

When Merry and Pippin finally found her, Míril was lying on the ground. Dirt and grass matted together in the blood that soaked her hair. The hobbits cringed as the torch light illuminated her face and they found that half of it was red with the scarlet liquid.

"Strider! Strider we found her!" Merry called out.

Aragorn nodded, finishing his initial inspection of Frodo's wound. He stood up and quickly made his way to where the two other hobbits stood.

"Míril, it's Aragorn. Can you hear me?" He placed a hand on her cheek to see how badly it was bleeding. He found it mostly slow and thick, and knew she was in no immediate danger. He put his other hand on her forehead. "Miril?"

After a few moments, her eyes flickered open. "What..."

"Come on. Let's get you by the fire," Aragorn helped her stand and together they made it to the campfire. He sat her down, back to the wall. He lowered her head gently down as she tried to become more aware of her surroundings. But her head spun and her face hurt.

"Sam, come here," he beckoned to the hobbit. Aragorn took him aside. "Frodo was stabbed with a morgul blade. It slowly turns the victim into a shade, similar to the Nazgûl. I need a special plant to help him."

"Will it cure Mr Frodo?" Sam looked terrified as he glanced from Aragorn to the injured hobbit.

"No. But it might be able to keep him with us at least until we can reach Rivendell." He glanced around, feeling the pressure of time. "The problem is that athelas grows only in certain places. Watch over Frodo and Míril, and the others. I'll come back as soon as possible."

Aragorn disappeared into the night, leaving Sam, Merry, and Pippin alone with two injured companions. Míril at least was conscious, obviously a bit out of sorts still but beginning to come 'round. Frodo was unconscious, twisting and turning in pain.

"Aragorn," she mumbled, trying to find her friend. She groped with her hand, trying to find something familiar.

"He's not here right now," Pippin told her, coming over.

"Course not," she groaned. Her eyes slowly began to adjust to the faint light, and her mind cleared as she muttered again. "Never is."

"Are you alright?" Merry asked her.

She grunted but pulled herself up into a sitting position. Míril assured them she was fine. The two hobbits sat before her and looked stressed.

"Anyone else injured?" She asked hesitantly, not wanting to know the answer to the question.

"Mr Frodo," Sam replied from where he came walking towards them.

Míril suddenly was wide awake. Her eyes darted around until they landed on the ring-bearer. She tried to jump up, to rush over, but she felt light headed immediately and decided to remain where she was. Instead she looked to Sam again. "How?"

"Strider said something about a morgul blade." Sam's face echoed her own

Eru help us all, she prayed, eyes wide in fear. Aloud, she spoke and nodded. "No wonder Aragorn isn't here. Is he out gathering athelas?"

Sam nodded and Míril took the time to look herself over. She felt around the bandage to her cheek, trying to recall what had happened. Why did the Nazgûl go for her face? The others hadn't even been attacked, and only Aragorn briefly after he had gone after the black riders. Why had she?

Míril quickly took up guard and let the hobbits sleep. Her head grew clearer with every passing minute and she eagerly wanted to help. Though injured she was perfectly fine with this arrangement. She noted that Sam did not sleep more than a few hours, and that was only after Míril threatened to send him back home. Frodo was lucky to have such devoted friends.

When Aragorn returned he found Míril kneeling by Frodo, a wet cloth in hand, wiping his wound. Her own face was drawn in concern as she checked his temperature by feeling Frodo's forehead. With a sigh, she sat back.

"Míril! I'm glad you're up," he flashed her a tight smile.

She nodded in thanks, moving away from Frodo to allow Aragorn to work.

Míril went to sit by Merry and Pippin. The two hobbits were still sleeping. She thought about how much bloodshed she had seen in her life and frowned. She didn't want these hobbits to suffer like many of the Dunedain had. Peregrine Took wasn't even an adult yet! He was still in his tweens! Merriadoc was barely of age. At least Frodo was fifty, and Sam... Well Sam was devoted to his master.

Aragorn finished with Frodo's wound and wrapped it. Sam had woken up and listened as Aragorn explained what he had done. The sun pepped over the horizon and the older ranger motioned for Míril to wake the other hobbits. They had a quick breakfast before packing up their gear. Frodo was too weak to walk so they unloaded Bill the pony and let the hobbit ride him. Míril and Sam took a good deal of the extra baggage and the rest was distributed to the others.

"Let's be off," Aragorn insisted.

The uninjured hobbits asked him where they were headed. Míril glanced at Aragorn. He nodded.

"Rivendell," she smiled at them. "The Last Homely House."

This caused much excitement among the little people. Apparently Sam had a sort of fascination with elves. He'd always wanted to see them. Merry had yet to meet one, and remained incredibly jealous of the other three who had.

"Never met an elf?" she asked Sam, confused.

Sam shook his head, "Well, miss, I did meet that Gildor fellow and his company. But I meant elves that live in grand halls and cities, you see."

Míril smiled happily, "Elvish cities are a wonder to behold. There are few left in the world, at least of ones that are as grand as Rivendell. There's Thranduil's Halls in Mirkwood, and Caras Galadhon in Lothlorien. Oh, and perhaps one could count the Grey Havens far to the west."

"Where'd they all go?" Pippin pressed, confused.

Aragorn answered this time. "Most were lost beneath the Seas a long time ago. Many years before Rivendell or Mirkwood or Lothlorien were founded. Others fell into ruin after many battles."

This silenced them for a long while. The hobbits mulled over the melancholy news, trying to understand it. How could cities be sunk under the seas? It made very little sense. That day they walked quite far, crossing the South Road and heading into the thickets. They camped there that night.

The next few days passed without any problems. Frodo's wound was healing well, but the hobbit continued to regress.

It was exactly a week later when they came to a halt. Frodo's wound had healed over but the hobbit was slowly getting worse. He seemed to drift in and out of consciousness. They had reached the South Road by mid morning.

Aragorn decided it was only safe for one of them to scout the bridge. He insisted on doing it himself. The two rangers had a heated exchange in elvish before Miril appeared to relent.

He nodded and placed a hand on her shoulder, "Watch over the hobbits."

With that he slunk off into the undergrowth, all but instantly disappearing into the green thickets.

"What was that about?" Pippin asked her quietly.

"It should be me checking the bridge," she muttered. "I am less important than he."

The hobbits said nothing, not fully understanding what she meant.

Meanwhile, Aragorn looked from behind his tree out at the bridge. It seemed calm enough. His heart raced, but he knew he had to try. Leaving his hiding spot, Aragorn crept out onto the bridge. Suddenly the glinting of a jewel caught his eye.

Bending down, Aragorn picked up what he realized to be an elf-stone. It was a beautiful beryl, perfectly carved and polished. Suddenly his mind raced as he remembered another elf-stone.

"Please. Keep her safe, Ada."

Aragorn and Halbarad stood on Elrond's balcony, the elf pacing back and forth. His twin sons sat on a bench, watching.

"You do realize who she is?"

The two rangers nodded. They knew only too well why Elrond held reservations about having her in Imladris.

"My lord, she is but a child. And we told you what the orcs did to her brother," Halbarad insisted.

"Father," Elrohir added, "She is almost like kin to us. You have told us of Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë, and how they fostered you."

"This is true," Elrond nodded, "But I was no friend of their brothers. They were dangerous."

"Please, my Lord. At least allow her to stay for some while, until we can track down whatever enemies have been sent to destroy her."

Elrond looked out, down into courtyard below. He saw Lindir there, and Oreleth, talking with a young girl. Her brown hair was straight, reaching her lower back. It complemented her greyish blue eyes.

"She is innocent of the deeds of her forefathers," Elladan said softly.

Elrond exhaled and turned to face the two Dunedain rangers, "Very well. She may stay."

They smiled and all five went down to the courtyard below to meet with her. When they came out onto the grounds, Míril ran up to them with a huge smile.

"Look what Lindir gave me!"

She showed them a beautiful aquamarine beryl that was suspended from a necklace. Halbarad knelt down in front of her.

"That's beautiful, Míril. You thanked him?"

"Of course I did!"

"Listen, sweetie, we need to talk about something."

Aragorn shook himself from the memory of those years long since past. He pocketed the beryl from the bridge and, glancing around to be sure it was safe, quickly made his way back to where Míril and the hobbits were hiding.

A sword pierced the bushes. "Halt!"

"Peace, friend," Aragorn replied.

Míril lowered her sword and stood aside.

"What news of the bridge? Is it safe?" she asked concernedly.

Aragorn drew out the beryl, "I found this lying on the bridge. I think I will take it as a sign that it is safe to pass. But we should hurry."

They quickly set off towards the bridge. They were all uneasy while traveling along the main road. It felt too exposed, too vulnerable, too predictable. Nevertheless, there was no other way across, unless one traveled way up north into the Ettenmoors.

The Ettenmoors were even more dangerous than the Trollshaws. Despite its name, the Trollshaws didn't have nearly as many trolls as the Ettenmoors. Rumors of orcs and trolls in that northern area remained widespread.

They reached the bridge without any trouble. Now came the crossing. Bill's horseshoes made what seemed to everyone else incredibly loud foot falls across the stone bridge. They hurried as fast as they could, eager to reach the cover of the trees.

Míril heaved a sigh of relief as they set foot on the other side. The river Mitheithel, also known as the Hoarwell, was behind them now. Turning north, the company made for the hills of the Trollshaws.

"Aragorn," Míril whispered, jogging up to be even with him, "shall I press on ahead and scout out the path? Frodo will need a rest soon."

"No. For now we stick together," he insisted, "But when we do stop, I need you to find us some food."

She nodded and dropped back to take up the rear. Pippin panted as he climbed up and up. Merry needed some water. Sam stayed silent, leading the pony carefully along, trying not to bump Frodo.

"These towers," Merry murmured, "they make me nervous."

They all looked where he was pointing. Great ruined towers loomed up from the rock, their walls crumbling into oblivion. Grey stone covered now in mosses and vines, created shadowy hideaways for any number of creatures. Míril nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Those are ruins from a time when our kin," Aragorn motioned to Míril and himself, "ruled these lands. However an evil power came down out of Angmar, and destroyed these defenses."

The hobbits looked in wonder upon the ruins. They found it difficult to imagine these old and crumbling towers once being home to men like Strider. They stopped at the top of a hill that night in a circle of trees. Aragorn permitted them to make a small fire. Sending Míril out to get food, he set to looking after Frodo.

Míril's bow was out and she had an arrow notched on the string. Ahead of her in a small clearing was a stag, large and beautiful. Beside him where three does, two with fawns. She would not shoot the only male, nor would she shoot fawns or their mothers. Therefore she aimed her shot at the final doe, carefully pulling back her arm and then letting the arrow fly.

It struck the beast right in the neck, causing it to stumble. Quickly she notched a second arrow and sent it flying, this time killing the animal. The other deer fled, running off into the trees. She thought of Oromë in thanksgiving for the successful hunt.

Míril grabbed hold of the doe and slowly heaved it up. She went as quick as she could back to camp, which wasn't far, panting the entire time.

"Here," she grunted, dropping the carcass down. Aragorn chuckled at her frustrated, exhausted look.

"Heavy?"

She rolled her eyes. Miril and Aragorn got to work skinning it and cooking the meat. After the meal, Míril fell asleep quickly as Aragorn took watch.

The next four days were filled with solid climbing. The weather had turned miserably cold and wet, making it even more difficult going. Frodo was shivering and miserable. Míril and Aragorn had given up trying to keep the hobbits' spirits high. They'd had to climb up a ridge when the valley they had entered turned into a cliff face. Poor Frodo was forced off the pony, and supported by Sam, climbed on foot.

Then finally the rain stopped. The sun was out and the ground was more flat. As they continued along their way, the company began to notice that they were following a path. Merry and Pippin were farther ahead now, eager to find where it led to.

Suddenly Míril, Aragorn, Frodo, and Sam heard two screams and then the panting of feet against the ground. Merry and Pippin all but crashed into them, shouts of 'trolls!' coming from their mouths.

"Trolls?" Sam squeaked.

Aragorn and Míril looked at each other in surprise. They snuck forward, hiding behind a rock. But Aragorn laughed quickly and walked straight up to the trolls and whacked one with a stick, "Get up, old stone!"

Nothing happened. The first to realize their mistake was Míril, who started chuckling. Then too Pippin realized what had happened.

"They're stone!"

"Well! We are forgetting our family history! These must be the very three that were caught by Gandalf, quarrelling over the right way to cook thirteen dwarves and one hobbit," Frodo smiled softly.

Everyone turned to him in surprise. He had spoken!

"Are you alright, Frodo?" Aragorn asked.

He nodded, "I'm feeling better here than I have so far. Let's stay awhile."

Aragorn agreed, "You're not only forgetting your family history, but all you ever knew about trolls!"

They ate some of the meager amount of bread and cheese that they had left underneath the shade of the big stone legs. Merry and Pippin wanted a song.

"How about you, Frodo!"

"Oh no. I'm not well enough to sing. But perhaps Sam would give you a go."

Sam blushed but finally agreed.

"Troll sat alone on his seat of stone
& munched and mumbled bare old bone
For many a year he had gnawed it near
For meat was hard to come by..."

And so he sang for a while. It was a merry tune, and lifted their spirits. Everyone gave Sam a round of applause when it was finished.

"How about you, Míril. Why not grave us with one of your tales," Aragorn smirked. He was sharpening his dagger on a rock.

She nodded and began to dive into the tale of Fingon the Valiant, a great elf of the first age, and his final stand upon the battle field during the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. She described how his hair, dark and woven with golden ribbons, showed his kingship.

"He of all elves is held in most renown, for his valor was as a fire and yet steadfast as the hills of stone. He was wise and skilled in voice and hand. Truth and justice he held in high regard, and bore he bore good will to all, both elves and men, hating the Darkness only." She paused for emphasis before continuing. "He never sought his own power nor glory, and yet... death was his reward." She fell silent and pondered her own words.

Though it was sad tale, both Sam and Frodo appeared enraptured. Merry and Pippin slightly less so, and yet still they enjoyed it. As Frodo seemed more keenly aware, though why was a mystery, they headed towards the road. Another few hours of walking ensued before they decided to look for a spot to camp for the night. All of a sudden they heard the noise they had all been dreading: horse hooves.

Aragorn pushed them all down to the ground. Soon the hoofbeats got louder and louder and were now accompanied by the tinkling of bells. Then it stopped all of a sudden.

The hobbits heard as something was shouted. They could not understand what was said, for it was foreign to them. Sam could tell in his heart it was Elvish merely by the sound of the man's voice.

Aragorn and Míril both seemed to smile. They leapt up and Aragorn ran to the stranger. Tall and fair he was, with golden hair that flowed in the slight breeze. His horse was white as snow, and it seemed to them that he had an aura of serenity about him.

"Na vedui, Dùnedan!"

"Mae govannen, Glorfindel!"

Míril, after helping the hobbits up and now down the hill, bowed to the elf. He had dismounted and now spoke quickly with Aragorn.

"This," Aragorn told the hobbits, "is Glorfindel of Rivendell."

Glorfindel bowed slightly to the hobbits.

"It is fortunate I found you here," he chimed, "for we have been looking long!"

"Before we go, you must take a look at Frodo. He is injured," Aragorn insisted.

Glorfindel nodded and placed a hand on Frodo's chest. His face hardened in pain and concern as he felt around.

"He must be brought to Lord Elrond at once. All the more reason for us to make haste, Aragorn!"

They agreed upon this and began what turned into a multi day march. It was arduous and taxing, and by the end even Aragorn was feeling tired. They marched the rest of that day, and the next.

It was the third day with Glorfindel when the company found themselves stumbling along the road. Pines were on all sides and the going was tough. Frodo was told to ride Glorfindel's horse, Asfaloth. As they exited the trees, Glorfindel hushed them.

"RUN!"

They took off as fast as they could. Soon they heard hoofbeats behind them, and out of the trees rode five black riders. Glorfindel shouted again, this time to his horse.

"Noro lim! Noro lim, Asfaloth!"

The horse took off as fast as he could. The company watched in dismay as ahead of them, out of the trees, four more riders appeared. They thought for a long while that Frodo wouldn't make it to the Forde.

But that fear proved to be unfounded. The elf's horse pushed in front of the black riders and pulled across the Ford of Bruinen. As the Nazgûl halted their steeds at the water's edge, and they saw Frodo draw his sword in defiance, Míril, Aragorn, and Glorfindel drew their own swords. They rushed forward as Frodo fell from the saddle.

The Ringwraiths moved into the river, slowly at first but then quicker as nothing happened. Then all of a sudden a roar was heard as the waters rose and turned into a raging flood. Míril fancied she saw white horses with white riders at the head of the torrent. The black riders were washed away, pushed into the roaring force of the waves and pulled downstream.

The company panicked at first, fearing Frodo had been washed away with the riders. But that fear was satisfied as low and behold, from out of the trees on the other side there came six elves. They rushed to Frodo and picked him up and bore him deeper into the woods, while one led Asfaloth behind them.

Glorfindel smiled at the panting hobbits, "Fear not. For we have done all we can for your friend. It is up to the Lord Elrond to save him, if that is possible. My kinsmen shall take Frodo to him. Let us breathe for a moment before following them."

Pippin fell to the ground, exhausted. Merry sat down beside him and Sam stated after the quickly fading elves. Aragorn and Míril chatted with Glorfindel. After several minutes, Aragorn roused the hobbits and they set off.

"How far is Rivendell," Pippin asked Glorfindel curiously.

"Not too far," he smiled down at him, "not too far at all."

"Good," Merry huffed.

Míril led the way in front, eager to see her old home. She had been away so long, her feet yearned to walk again among the beautiful halls of the Last Homely House of Lord Elrond. Aragorn was in the rear, laughing to himself as he watched the spring in his friend's step. He remembered how keen she had been as a child when they first brought her here, barely a month after her brother's death.

All of a sudden, at the top of a hill, Míril stopped. The hobbits went to see why and suddenly before them they saw a sharp drop. At the bottom was a river that was fed by multiple waters falls. Beautiful houses lined the small hills on the other side.

"Welcome," Aragorn smiled, "to Rivendell, the Last Homely House west of the mountains."