For now, the plains of the North Downs - Mostly Esteldín
Hithfaerwen was born in a summer month, thirty-one years prior to the War of the Ring in the third age. She was the pride of her mother, Mithrileth, who cherished her for the first hours of her life - until her untimely passing due to a complication of the birth.
Due to the complications of her father not knowing of her birth or his lover’s death, Hithfaerwen was left between two peoples: The Dúnedain and the Bree-Landers.
(Her mother was half and half, her mother’s father a Dúnedain and her mother’s mother was a Bree-Lander. When her mother conceived her, her sire was a full-blooded Dúnadan. Hithfaerwen is three-fourths Dúnedain, resulting in her eyes being a mix of green and grey and her hair having brunette tones when it should be pitch black.)
With her Aunt, Edwenthel, Hithfaerwen was placed with. Torn between her sister’s wishes to keep the child in Bree and her own wish to train the child amongst her People, Edwenthel took the young infant to Evendim.
Here, in the mountainous hills and the remnants of Arnor, Edwenthel raised Hithfaerwen as her own. The young daughter learned the skills of a Ranger, the discipline of their procedures, and the militant ways they ran their communities. By the age of ten, her niece was skilled in hiding. This was a disaster for Edwenthel but a chuckle for the older community. A scolding always followed when she was found, but she could not help but praise her skill. By the age of fifteen, her skills of the bow and arrow were close to perfection. Hithfaerwen had grown not much taller than a longbow, the one-fourth of her muddied blood showed. The grey of her eyes finally showed by this time of her life, mixing with the green, as if it was dusted onto her iris. Edwenthel was coming closer to the age of seventy, but she had not slowed down in the training of her niece. By the time Hithfaerwen was of age, and the name of Ayliyn given for her to use with the common Men of Eriador, her skills were honed and ready for proper use. With an embrace to her Aunt, the blessing of the Elders, and a purpose to protect her People, Hithfaerwen left for the wilds.
She remained in the wilds of Evendim and the North Downs for eleven years, perfecting her skills and protecting the many ruins of the Dúnedain. Her gear became weather-beaten, the ruins started to fade, and the stench of a greater Evil sent her back to Evendim. She found her people, those she grew up with swamped by the sudden collapse of Annúminas, and the Angmarim holding it as a seat of control. Her return, when something like this:
“Gúrhebnir! Where is…? What’s happened?”
“Edwenthel is fine, she holds the outskirts with our brethren!”
“Gúrhebnir, we have scouts returning!”
Upon the turn of her head, a bloodied hand held her shoulder. Grey eyes, bloodshot from tears, lack of sleep, looked to her. The lip formed to a smile and she was embraced.
“Oh, my sweet Hithfaerwen.”
“Aunt… Shhh. Shhh. You’re hurt.”
As Hithfaerwen tended to her aunt, she knew the time she had with her was limited. Her aunt spoke in slow sentences. Her words slurred, squeezing her hand as she managed to speak words of her father.
“Your father, my dear… I… Guess it is time you knew. He is oblivious. He does not know… I… feel that it is your time to find him.”
Edwenthel patted her hand slowly, closing her eyes. Hithfaerwen was asked to leave as an Elder tended to the deep stomach wound. Edwenthel did not wake.
With her heart steeled at the loss of the woman she called kin, her voice and question rose to the Elders and most traveled of the Rangers. Speaking the name “Athran” until she was guided toward the Halls of Thorin, in Ered Luin. Making the two-week journey on foot, alone, she entered the Hall. Again, she asked around. A dwarf guided her to a group of Fateless Wanderers and inside the large hall is where he stood. Tall, with a bearded face, dark hair and grey eyes. When one would look closely, she had the setting of his nose and the height of his cheekbones.
At first, any man would be skeptical but the past had come to him as Hithfaerwen explained. She announced herself as Ayliyn, as she did not trust her “father,” known as Sigfread to the Bree-Landers he gathered with, and traded her story for information on her mother, and what caused him to leave her. All was explained, and she finally had someone to call “Ada.”
They were close, as thirty-one years had passed that he had missed. Both fought in duels to test the other, her father’s were aged and well practiced while her’s lacked the discipline of constant use.
All was calm. All was right. Life was perfect for months.
After multiple journeys with her father, Hithfaerwen decided to go on her own once more. She left no note or reason, she simply wanted to enjoy her own eyes and the world they viewed. As she hunted for her midnight snack, a rabbit is what she was after, the breeze of mid-autumn chilled as she crossed weathered stone. Her eyes were focused on the trap she set, checking for the little rabbit it may have caught. Down on her luck once more, she made her way to stand.
It was sudden, as lightning in a thunderstorm. The pain was great, the blood seeped down her face and she was down on the cold stone. Blinking did not clear the darkness she saw, but the figure above her had a sickening smile and the blade he bore was covered in her blood. On the ground, a small orb, the backside of it white. The attacker moved closer, to which Hithfaerwen fought blindly. Her body kicked and her mind panicked, and the man was no longer there. Moments passed before she reached into her satchel on her hip, staunching her bleeding face with a cloth. With her hands shaking, her gear was gathered and she stumbled. Bumping into all objects, the right side of her world black. Her whole world went black.
She woke in the care of a middle aged farmer and his wife. He spoke of her nasty wound and the hole of her eye socket. Her eye. Her eye was gone! The farmer’s wife, helped with the guidance of Hithfaerwen, closed and bound her eye, the right side of her face and any other wound she may have received. She remained with them for three months, before she was briefly taken care of by a skilled Healer. Her body stumbled, her arrows never hit their mark again, and grabbing items were difficult, but the farmer aided her as best he could - and for a year he tasked her with taking down the wash, feeding chickens, and guiding cows to the pasture. Soon, she was working equipment, running to Trestlebridge, and gathering crops. By the end of the fourteenth month, she regained most movement, but her years of training seemed to suffer the most. Only recently has she returned to the Rangers of the North. With her past on her mind, she wrote to the Dúnadan she trusted most - Nethdir. He received her appearance as seeing a ghost. He explained through sorrow that she had been thought dead! Clearly, she stood before him, well and intact. Hithfaerwen took him by the arms, shaking him gently.
“Where is my father?”
Her dead eye, wolves, and really high heights - such as mountains.
The night sky, and climbing tall buildings
Not being able to shoot her bow properly...
To learn to shoot straight again, and not be a burden to anyone.
"Please, I can help!"