Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Link to recording on archive.org

The frozen river was perfectly smooth, covered in a thin layer of snow. No one spoke, but the same thought whispered through them all – Will it hold? We’ve been cursing the cold, but has it been cold enough? 

Halbarad stood still, gazing at the flat blank white. At last, turned back to the others. 

“We must go on.”

He moved slowly, and they followed one by one, steps as soft and careful as any woodland tracker. Miriel went last, tried not to think about the weight of men ahead of her straining thin ice. 

Skirling snow hissed around her ankles. Halbarad was halfway across now, moving more confidently as the ice proved solid. Miriel walked carefully still, but fear began to recede, and she lifted her eyes to the bare branches of trees crowded close to the further bank. At least there will be a fire tonight…

And then without warning – a creaking, weird, unearthly, as of some great creature stretching icy joints. A sharp crack, and she started, flinched back as the ice broke at Daeron’s feet in front of her. A cry, high and desperate, a splash and more cracking—and she plunged into icy water.

A month earlier

“I’m coming with you, Arya.”

“You don’t even know where I’m going.” 

“Doesn’t matter. North. That’s what Darahad came to tell you, yes?”

Aragorn sighed. “There are…troubling tidings from the Lossoth. Nothing clear, not yet. But they are uneasy. They feel a threat growing, they say. A shadow.” And as he said the words, he watched Halbarad’s face. 

But Halbarad did not flinch. “When do we leave?”

“Brother, you are not—”

“I’m well enough.”

“I—” Aragorn had been going to say, I don’t need you. But the words caught, and he found he could not speak them. For he had never been able to lie to Halbarad, even when it would have been easier for them both had he done so. He settled for a faint, wry smile. “You need rest, gwador nîn. And you won’t get it on the road north in winter.”

“I need you.” Low, and raw, “I need you not to leave me.”

Silence, save for the hiss of the fire and the sound of their breath. 

At last, Aragorn said softly, “In the end, brother, it is you who will leave me.”

Halbarad dropped his eyes, seemed almost to sway where he stood. “I know.” But then shoulders straightened, chin raised, and he met Aragorn’s gaze steadily. “Yet that end is not now.”

So the Chieftain would lead a patrol into the Lossoth lands, though Rangers rarely went so far north in winter. Whisper and rumor, nothing certain, food caches raided and strange footsteps in the snow. But something in it made him uneasy, a change in the pattern, a false note, a flaw in the grain. And so, though they owed the Lossoth nothing, they would go.

Miriel felt her heart sink a little when she learned where they were going, memory of the cold, empty northern lands she had traveled with Anna. And that was in summer. But it truth it was no choice. He asked me, and I will go. A thin smile. And Valya should see the North.

She found Falaran in the Hall that evening, for he was to go on the patrol as well, with his maethorneth Daeron. “How’s he doing?” she asked in a low voice, nodding to where Daeron sat a few tables away with Valya and two other maethorneth. 

Falaran shrugged. “Better. He was ill earlier in the winter; that’s why we’re still here. But he’s learning.” He glanced at her. “Slowly. I—” He broke off, shook his head and looked away.

Miriel waited, for clearly there was more he would say, given time.

At last, Falaran let out a long breath. “Maybe I was wrong. I wouldn’t have done it, of my own choice. But Daerthon asked me to, and he was my saethir. So I owed him, or thought I did…”

Miriel nodded, and swallowed down a sudden lump of grief as she thought of another of Daerthon’s maethorneth, remembered the story Lain had told of how Daerthon had saved him from wolves in the mountains. Saved him for the trolls. Hot, and bitter, and she blinked back stinging tears. And then, with abrupt, cold dread, “Does Daerthon know about Lain?” Will I have to tell it again?

“Yes,” said Falaran quietly. “He’s at the South Road now, but he was here when Amloth and Dalbarin returned. He…took it hard. He loved Lain, almost as a son.”

 “I know.” A pause, and then, “As he loves you. Which is why you took his son.”

Falaran nodded. “No one else was willing to. He’s…a good lad. Kind, and loyal, and he works hard. But Miriel, he’s just not strong enough. And—” He broke off, shook his head in frustration. “I don’t think he wants it. He says he does, and there’s no doubt he wants to please his father. But he doesn’t want it for himself. Doesn’t have the…the need, the fire. I—you know what I mean.”

“I do.” She remembered it, the fierce desire that had burned in her when she was young. She touched her star, and smiled a little. That burns still.  

Falaran saw both smile and gesture, and he nodded. “We all do. Each a little different, but we all have it. You can feel it.” He gestured toward the maethorneth again. “I can feel it in Valya, without even talking to her. But I…can’t feel it in him. Sometimes I wonder if it’s me, something I’ve done, or not done…”

Miriel gave a small, mirthless laugh. “We all wonder that, I think.”

Falaran smiled. “That’s what Daerthon said. Even him, and he’s had what, four, five maethorneth over the years? Apparently it gets easier, but it’s never easy.”

“But he was made captain, yes? So at least that’s over for him.” 

“Last summer, after you left. Gwainor decided he’d had enough, finally.” Falaran chuckled. “He was Master of Trainees for my father, and Fa said he was old even then, or seemed it. Daerthon was the clear choice to take his place, though there were voices for Arafion.”

“Voices?” Miriel grunted. “His father’s friends, you mean.” 

Falaran nodded, lowered his voice. “Arahur knows his time has passed. That was clear when the Chieftain came home. He’ll never be brannon taid now.” 

Miriel frowned. “How does he—”

“Halbarad. It’s clear as day the Chieftain favors him, trusts him above any other.” A small, wry smile. “And it is a trust well-earned, for all that our young captain can be…well, you know him.”

A rush of memory, so sudden and sharp it took her breath – the icy wind from the mountains, his fevered body in her arms, the desperation as he faded. And his eyes on her as he lay in Elrond’s house, and the name he called her by. 

“I do.”

“They said…” Falaran looked at her, then went on carefully, “Amloth and Dalbarin said you saved his life. And nearly lost your own in doing it.”

A slow breath, releasing the darkness. Calm is my soul…

“I did.” That is all he needs to know. 

All I can bear to tell.

Warmth then, Falaran’s hand on hers. "Galu edraith a cuil,” he said softly. And at her look of confusion and surprise, he smiled. “Meloreth is my aunt. She raised me, mostly, after my mother died. I…know something of their ways, the healers.” He squeezed her hand gently. “What you give, and what it takes.” 

She nodded, and said nothing, and it was enough.

He released her hand and straightened. “So. Darahad will be brannon taid for a long time yet, Valar willing, and Halbarad after him. Arahur’s chance is gone. But he still has hopes for his son, and so he wanted Arafion named captain. Do you know him?”

Miriel shook her head. “Not really. I patrolled with him once, years ago. Seemed a good enough man, but I wouldn’t have pegged him as a future brannon taid.” Not like Halbarad. And she found herself holding back a smile.

Falaran nodded. “And he knows it, though his father doesn’t. So the captains chose Daerthon, and the Chieftain sent him to the South Road after Midwinter. Aragorn wanted a captain there. After…last winter.” He glanced at her, and then away.

After Gilrath. 

“He is…a good choice,” she said quietly. “Steady.” She smiled. “And now you will take his son north.”

Falaran glanced sidelong at her. “Barahir is coming, too. He’s patrolled the north often, knows the Lossoth customs, and their tongue.”

“Ah. Has he?” 

“He likes it, can’t imagine why.” A short, dry laugh. “Finds it convenient, maybe? Makes for an easy answer, whenever a woman starts getting too insistent. ‘Have to go north, be gone months, wouldn’t want you to waste such beauty in waiting…’” He laughed. “You know him, too.”

“That I do.” And Miriel smiled, and somewhat to her surprise, it was not forced, or only a little. 

“Oh, come on. It’s not like he didn’t know.”

“He—what?”

“You were a girl, and Meren was not—is not—the most, ah, discreet of younger brothers.”

She flushed, in spite of herself, and allowed a shame-faced laugh. “Both true.” But Barahir has chosen his way, and I’ve chosen mine. And then, soft and warm in memory: ‘Dunadaneth.’

But Falaran was not ready to let it go yet. “So not Barahir, and lucky for that, I suppose.” He grinned. “But what about others? Come on, Mir, there must be someone. You’re not blind, nor made of stone.”

She let out an exasperated breath. "I don’t sleep with Rangers. You know that. You all know that; I’ve told it to enough of you.” And word had gotten round, she knew, for in recent years they had mostly stopped asking. And those who know about Girith won’t tell.

Falaran laughed. “All right, fine. But what about…” And he named the village cooper, a forester, and two farmers.

“In their dreams.” And she too laughed. But it had begun to grate, and she pushed back from the table and rose. “The Chieftain will want to leave early. We have gear to check, and farewells to make.”

But when she and Valya had finished packing, and made their way through the chill evening to the house Meren’s family shared with Hannas and Telhirion and the baby, she found that there would be one less farewell than she had thought. 

“We’re coming with you,” said Meren, “at least as far as the North Downs watchpost. The Chieftain wants the trainees to see the north, thinks it’ll be good for them.” Meren grinned at the dismay on Miriel’s face, glanced sidelong at Valya and winked. “Worse than anything Faelon did to us.”

Valya regarded him stone-faced, and said nothing. Miriel turned to her. “Want to reconsider, Val?”

“No.” Valya lifted her chin, voice expressionless, but the corners of her lips twitched. “I suppose I deserve it.”

Meren laughed, and clapped her on the shoulder. “So true, my girl.”

"I don’t,” Miriel growled. 

“You absolutely do,” said Hannas, from the corner by the fire where she sat, rocking Isilmir. “Or shall we ask Faelon?”

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” said Meren. “I remember it all.”

Miriel laughed. “Because you were even worse than I was.”

“Never claimed to be otherwise. It’s an asset, really – I’ve done it all, so nothing they do surprises me.”

Hannas raised her eyebrows. “Nothing?”

“Well, almost nothing,” Meren allowed. “Every trainee group has its own unique…”

“Personalities?” suggested Miriel.

“Stupidities,” said Hannas, with her mild smile.

Valya's lips twitched. “We’re all idiots in our own way.” She turned to Meren. “That was it, yes?”

Meren chuckled wryly. “At least you learned something.”

“Well, you said it enough times.”

“Only as often as it was true. Which was…” Meren glanced at Hannas. “Every day, more or less?”

“More,” said Hannas firmly. “Your memory’s slipping.”

“I’m trying to be positive. Optimistic. Encouraging.”

“Delusional.”

“Yes, maybe that too.” Meren laughed. “Don’t judge.”

“Who, me?” said Hannas. “Never.” 

“I, on the other hand,” said Miriel, “will judge you forward and backward and into tomorrow. It’s my duty. I’m being helpful.”

"Gwethor nîn, I knew I could count on you.” And there was laughter still in Meren’s voice. But his eyes spoke only truth, unquestioned and unwavering.

“Always, brother,” said Miriel quietly.

It was thus a large group that gathered before the Hall in the morning, breath clouding white in the cold winter dawn: Meren and the dozen or so trainees, Miriel and Valya, Falaran and Daeron, Aragorn and Halbarad and Barahir. The trainees grumbled and looked glum, and even Barahir grunted with effort and cursed under his breath as he hefted his pack. 

“Too heavy for you?” Meren’s voice was hoarse with cold, but a grin twitched at the corners of his lips. 

Profanity loud now, clear and deliberate in the still air, Barahir cursed the weight, and the winter, and younger brothers, and the trainees tried valiantly to hold back laughter. Even Halbarad cracked a smile, and shouldered his own pack with a single smooth movement. “Show-off,” Barahir growled, with a sidelong grin. 

And only Miriel saw, perhaps, because she looked for it – the tightness at the corners of Halbarad’s eyes, the slight stiffness in his hips. Why is he here? He needs rest, not winter patrol. She bit her lip, and thrust down a sudden flash of anger at the Chieftain.

They were all burdened, even the trainees, not only their own gear but also supplies for the North Downs watchpost, and food and goods to trade for information from the Lossoth. It was the heaviest pack Miriel had ever carried on patrol, and she glanced sidelong at Valya, as the younger woman shifted under the weight. 

“You all right?” 

“Fine.” 

Miriel grunted, not quite a laugh. “Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.”

“Something like.”

But sometimes it is the asking that is important.

The weather remained fair, though cold, as they journeyed north. They went slower than they would have without the trainees, but Meren had his charges stand the night watches, so the Rangers were relieved of at least that burden. Miriel watched Halbarad, as much as she could without seeming to, and after a time she realized Aragorn was as well. His face showed no emotion, no reaction, even when Halbarad stumbled on icy snow, staggered under the weight of his pack and nearly fell. 

He’s worried. 

So why bring Halbarad at all? There were other Rangers in the village; any could have taken his place.

And then, watching them, how they spoke, and how they were together without speaking – Perhaps the choice was not his.

But mostly she walked with Meren, and listened eagerly to all he had to tell – of his children and Tathar, Hannas and Isilmir, the trainees, and of course village gossip. But more than anything, it was a joy simply to be with him, his familiar stride, his laugh, his warmth at her back in the night. 

Slowly though they went, at last the downs on their left sank toward the plains, and they came to the North Downs watchpost. It was dug into a south-facing slope, stone-walled and roofed with sod like the South Road watchpost where she had spent the previous winter. Larger, though, for it served as the base from which the Rangers patrolled all the northern lands of what once was Arnor. 

Faelon had command of the winter garrison, and he greeted them and the supplies they brought with weary relief. “I thought we might see you soon. Hoped, anyway – though not them.” He cocked his head at the trainees. “Thought I’d gotten rid of ‘em. What happened?” 

Meren laughed, and the trainees shifted uneasily, for he had told them many times that they were lucky to have him as Master and not Faelon. “Just a reminder of all you’re missing.”

“Fuck. That.” But then Faelon turned to Aragorn, all jest gone from his voice. “Lossoth came ten days ago, half a dozen of them. Said their southern settlements had been raided, and most of their food stolen. I judged it true, seemed of a piece with what we had heard before, what Darahad told you. And they certainly looked lean enough. We sent all we could with them.” He shook his head. “Good thing you arrived when you did.”

“It would have been sooner,” said Meren, casting a hard look over the trainees, “if the children here were as strong as they should be.”

“Work to do yet, eh?” Faelon’s voice was harsh, but he glanced sidelong at Meren, and Miriel caught the wry amusement in his eyes. 

Meren and the trainees left early the next morning, with light packs and lighter hearts, for they had accomplished their task, and were headed home.

Barahir embraced his brother, gave Meren a loud kiss on the cheek and laughed as his face, already flushed with cold, grew even redder. “Take care of the children, dear,” he called, loud enough for the trainees to hear. 

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” But then Meren’s eyes brightened, and he smirked. “You’ll have to, unless you can find a Lossoth girl. Whereas I will go home to my lovely wife. What shall I tell your latest? Firien, wasn’t it? No, that was the one before—”

He jumped back out of range of Barahir’s half-hearted cuff, nearly slipped on ice but recovered and stood grinning in the cold. “Try harder next time.”

“I will, don’t worry your pretty head about that.” But then the laughter was gone from Barahir’s eyes. Quietly, with the fierceness of desire that is not truth, “And there will be a next time.” A small, wry smile. “Take care of yourself, little brother.” He glanced at Miriel. “And I’ll look out for your gwethor.” 

Meren nodded, let out a slow breath, white in the winter dawn. And then he turned to Miriel. He embraced her fiercely, held her for longer than he usually did; though he would not allow tears, not in front of the trainees, she felt his breath shaking. “It’s been too long, Mir,” he whispered.

She kissed his cheek, and forced a smile. “It has. At least we had this.”

“Take what we’re given, and do what we must, eh?” And then the words of ritual, pushing back fear: “Valar guard and guide you, gwethor nîn.”

She swallowed hard, gripped his arm. “Valar guard and guide.”

He stepped back from her, and turned to Valya. “Thank you for proving me right.” A sidelong glance at Miriel. “Happens seldom enough.” 

Miriel snorted, not quite a laugh, and Valya almost smiled. 

Footsteps on snow, loud in the dawn and then fading, and Valya gripped Miriel’s shoulder before returning to the warmth of the hut. But Miriel watched as they climbed the shallow valley, dark figures dwindling until they vanished over the crest, and the snow was again gray and empty. 

Footfall behind her. Heavy. Not Valya. She drew a breath, and composed her face. But when she turned, it was only Halbarad. “It is hard to watch your gwador go,” he said quietly. Nothing more, and he stood by her, gazing south.

That is why you are here. And her eyes blurred with tears in the cold winter dawn.

Chapter Text

Link to recording on archive.org

They stayed one day at the North Downs watchpost, a brief respite of warmth and companionship. But the tidings Faelon had given them lent new urgency to their task, and despite the comfort of fire and food and dry beds, they all knew they could not linger. 

They continued north and west, the ground still icy and treacherous despite the lengthening days. No folk now lived in this barren country, though of old it had been part of Arnor. Still they could at times glimpse hilltop ruins, and once in a valley a larger jumble of stone that might long ago have been a settlement. But even in the days of the kings this land had been thinly peopled, and now it was empty. 

Save for memory. She saw how Aragorn’s eyes lingered on the ruins, the lift of his chin, the slight straightening of bent shoulders. And there were nights when she dreamed of a voice, like his but not his, and she woke in the morning clear-eyed and renewed, though she could never remember the words.

The land slowly rose, and at last they crested the long ridge running west to east that was the southern border of the Lossoth lands. Miriel remembered it from years ago with Anna, though she had not been back since, and she recalled the wonder of the distant gleam of the sea. Unlike that long ago morning, the day was cloudy, the horizon soft with haze. She turned to Valya, about to gesture, to explain. But Barahir, who had lead that day and had crested the ridge first, gave a low whistle of warning. 

“Do you smell anything?” he asked when they reached him, searching the land below them with narrowed eyes.

Miriel frowned, breathed, glanced at Valya and shook her head.

But young Daeron, Falaran’s maethorneth, said quietly, “Smoke.”

And then Halbarad drew a sharp breath, and they followed his hand, down the long slope to the plain beyond, dotted with ponds and marshy pools, gray and white and brown now at the end of winter—and the black stood out like blight on a leaf. Alertness flared in an instant, and without a word being spoken, they turned and spread out, searching all the land they could see in the hazy light. But they saw nothing, and with another whistle, Aragorn gathered them back. “Weapons ready,” he said, though none needed the warning. Miriel and Falaran strung their bows, and the others freed knives and swords. 

Aragorn led them now, swiftly despite the weight on their backs, down the long slope. Daeron began to lag behind, and Falaran stayed back with him, but the others kept going. Miriel heard Valya’s breathing behind her, harsh and strained. But steady. And she allowed a small smile of pride. 

The afternoon was fading when they reached what was left of the settlement. “Winter camp,” said Barahir in a low voice, as they approached the smoking ruins. “They move with the seasons, south in winter, and north to Forochel in summer, to hunt seals and seabirds.” He gestured. “They dig shelters in the ground, and roof them afresh every autumn – the long bones of sea beasts, covered in turves and woven grass. Not much, but when the snow covers them, they’re snug enough.” He let out a long breath, blinked and looked away. 

For now there were only pits, choked with ash and charred bones. Most of the bones were massive, far larger than any Miriel had ever seen. But some were not, and there was a faint reek that was not smoke.

Aragorn looked round at them all. “Count the dead, if you can.”

They spread out. Miriel and Valya dug gingerly through the remains of a hut, and Valya drew a sharp breath but said nothing as they found first one skull and then another, charred and broken, beneath ash packed to mud by melting snow. 

“Two,” Miriel reported quietly to Aragorn. “One a child.”

Aragorn sighed, made two more marks with his knife on a scrap of wood. 

When all the pits had been searched, the dead totalled nine. Barahir glanced at Aragorn and then back around the remains of the dozen huts that had made up the winter camp. “Too few.” 

Aragorn nodded. “Search the ground.”

They fanned in a wide circle, moving methodically out from the center. Miriel let Valya go first, followed her as she paced slowly west. Abruptly Valya stopped, pointed. “There. That’s…something.” Miriel knelt, narrowed her eyes against the fading light. Two parallel furrows in the thawing ground, faint but clear enough. Drag marks? 

“Barahir,” she called. 

He came over to them, knelt and examined the marks only briefly, looked up with a nod. “This is often how they carry gear. And folk who cannot walk. Two poles, tied together at one end and braced at the other. They must have salvaged whatever they could. But these don’t look quite…” He frowned, knelt again. And then, straightening, “Animal bones. Of course. There was no suitable wood left. But bones do not burn so easily.” 

There were footsteps as well, perhaps half a dozen made by soft shoes, and more joined the trail farther out from the settlement. “Children?” asked Valya. “They’re smaller…”

Barahir nodded. “Sent away to hide when the raiders came.” And Miriel felt her gut clench, closed her eyes briefly at the memory of the children of Elenost, sobbing in torchlight, herded to the Hall for safety as axes hacked at the gate. Lossoth axes. Silevren…

That is long past. We made peace. She felt the weight on her back, thought of the tidings Darahad had brought. And we have held it, both of us. 

Falaran and Daeron, searching east of the village, found signs of a far larger group, booted and burdened, both going and returning. “Druad?” growled Halbarad.

Aragorn nodded, held out a hand. On his palm lay a metal clasp, broken and twisted, but worked with patterns Miriel recognized from dead left after the raid on the village in northern Wilderland two summers before. “Druad.” He turned to Barahir. “There is another set of tracks going north. Lossoth, only one but heavy.”

Barahir frowned. “Two walking in each other’s steps?”

Aragorn nodded. “I think so.” And then, “Why? The attackers came from the east. Why would the survivors not all go west?”

Barahir thought for a moment. “Safety is west; that’s where most of them went, with what supplies they had left, and any wounded. But there are other settlements to the north. Two sent in warning, maybe?”

They all fell silent then, not meeting each other’s eyes, gazing round again at death in the dusk. Aragorn let out a breath. “We can’t track them in the dark.” His eyes narrowed. “Barahir, Halbarad, come with me. The rest of you, set up camp. But not…here.” He gestured back the way they had come. “Back there.”

They did as they were bidden, though Daeron was quietly sick in the bushes before he was able to be of any help. They gathered sticks for a small fire, and found a soft spot to lay their groundcloth so they could sleep dry. When the water was near to boiling, Aragorn returned with Halbarad and Barahir, and they huddled around the small fire, crouching on the wet ground. “We will go north in the morning,” he said. “If the track of the raiders was fresher, we would follow them. But it is days old. They are long gone by now. We must ensure the other settlements are warned, and see what aid we may give the survivors.”

“And perhaps defense,” growled Halbarad.

“Perhaps.”

“Just because they’ve left doesn’t mean they won’t come back.”

Miriel frowned. “We’re still far from the Druad lands, my lord.”

“We are. And they do not normally come this way. Or they have not.” He looked at her keenly. “But I am thinking now of what we heard from those we took prisoner after the attack in Wilderland, and…other things I have heard since. Their land is becoming harsher, it is said. And the reports Darahad brought back spoke not of killing or burning, but of taking food.”

“Then why kill?” asked Falaran. “They have no grudge against the Lossoth, as they do against us.”

“To discourage pursuit,” said Barahir quietly. “The Lossoth are not a warlike people. But they are…like a hive of bees. They will not attack unprovoked, but they respond fiercely to any injury. This”—he gestured to where the remains of the village lay in the dark—“This is to make it so they cannot, for that is the only way that they will not.”

They watched in pairs that night, for though it appeared that the raiders had gone, danger still felt too near for comfort. Miriel and Valya had the first watch, eyes and ears straining the dark. But the night was quiet, and as clouds slowly covered the misty stars, they woke Falaran and Daeron, and took their places on the groundcloth. Miriel was warm enough in her blankets, but her mind was unsettled, seeing again the blackened bones, smelling the faint stench of death. She felt Valya shift restlessly beside her, knew she was not asleep either. But on her other side Halbarad breathed slow and deep, and she felt his slight movement against her, and at last it lulled her into restless sleep.

The clouds in the morning were low and gray as they followed the trail north. It began to rain, not heavy, but cold, and the north wind drove in in their faces. Miriel pulled her hood low, and wrapped her scarf around her cheeks. At a time that might have been noon, though thick clouds hid the sun, the rain at last ceased. But the wind rose, cold and biting, chilling their wet clothes. Miriel shivered a little. As long as we keep moving, we’re warm enough. 

And when we stop? 

Deal with that when it comes.  

Valya trudged doggedly behind her, likewise wrapped tight against the wind. But Daeron in front of her was soon shivering visibly, his thin shoulders shaking. 

And on that cold north wind, they smelled the smoke long before they came to the next Lossoth camp. 

It was twice as large as the other, down in a hollow by a marshy pool between low hills. Guided by Barahir, they approached cautiously until they lay flat on a hilltop, eyes narrowed, gazing down.

Movement. Someone is alive down there. Moving slowly; they do not feel danger. And there are children… 

“They’re gone.” Aragorn’s voice, low and tight. “Barahir, come with me. Miriel,” he glanced at her, gestured. “Behind that bush. Cover us.”

She obeyed, stringing her bow and easing forward to where she had a more or less clear view through leafless branches. And then she watched as Aragorn and Barahir made their way down the slope. 

They walked with hoods cast back, hands held up empty. Slowly. Giving them time to think. She fitted an arrow to the string but did not draw, forced her tense limbs to relax. By the time I could get off a shot, it would be too late. This is on them. And then, He chose this risk. And she remembered snow in a mountain pass, his frost-bitten hands in hers. Beware of that burden, my lord. 

Though a few of the dugout huts were smoking, the rest looked undamaged. But there were shouts of alarm, high-pitched cries and weeping as Aragorn and Barahir drew near. Just outside the ring of huts, the Rangers stopped. Carefully, deliberately, Aragorn raised his empty hands, palms outward. Silence, save for the wailing of a child. And then, slowly, a woman stepped forward. 

She halted a few paces from the Rangers, looked them up and down, and then she spoke. The watchers on the hill could not hear what she said, nor Barahir’s answers, but a conversation followed, word and gesture, and gradually the fear left her face, and her shoulders straightened. 

At last, Aragorn whistled and waved them in, and the Dunedain came down the slope. “Slowly,” said Halbarad. “Hands away from your weapons.”

The Lossoth who had gathered behind the woman stepped back as the Rangers approached, but she said something in the Lossoth tongue, and they halted. Miriel had learned a little of that tongue as a trainee but had not used it since, and so while she recognized the sounds, she did not know the words. But at her shoulder, Valya said in a low voice, “These are…South-king men. They not…hurt…or something like that.”

Barahir turned to them. “She is Nika, wife of the headman of this band. He is dead; the raiders killed him.”

“I am sorry,” Aragorn said quietly, in the Lossoth tongue. This Miriel did remember, heard it in Faelon’s voice, for he had made them practice it over and over. ‘You will make mistakes. But they need not lead to hard feelings, if you know how to apologize.’

Barahir went on, translating as the Lossoth woman spoke. “The raiders came at dawn, from the east. Ten, she thinks, though she’s not certain. And they were Druadwaith; she knows something of their speech. But the villagers were ready. They had been warned.” He gestured to another woman who stood nearby. “She came from the settlement to the south, with two others. Six Lossoth were killed, and three raiders. They tried to set fire to the huts. It had started raining, and many would not catch, and they gave up.” Then he drew a sharp breath, and his voice tightened. “But they took captives. Three, she says. Two women and a girl.”

Miriel bit her lip, felt her heart pounding. The game has changed. But before she could begin to think of a plan, what she would do were she in command, Aragorn’s shoulders straightened. “How many who can wield spear or bow are left in the village? Ask her.”

The woman looked around, pointed, said what perhaps were names, numbering them on her fingers as she went. “A dozen, more or less,” reported Barahir at last. “A few more counting the older children.”

“Will they come with us?” And as Barahir translated, Aragorn looked round slowly once more, lips tight, and at last his eyes came to rest on Halbarad’s. Eyebrows raised, head tilted toward the east, a wordless question. Halbarad let out a breath, and nodded. 

“They will come,” said Barahir. The thin ghost of a smile. “They have some fight left in them.”

“I will go north,” said Aragorn to Nika. “With two of your folk.” He paused to let Barahir translate. “Halbarad will take the rest of the Dunedain, and three of yours, to chase down the raiders. Will that leave enough to defend your old folk, and your children?”

A croak, the dregs of a bitter laugh. “Enough?” Barahir translated. “It is not enough. But there are not enough. It will be as you say.” Nika turned to her folk, and raised her voice. She pointed to Aragorn, and to Halbarad, and then the group broke up into a flurry of urgent movement, and low, anxious voices. 

“Those who are to come with us are gathering their gear,” said Barahir. “It won’t be long; they don’t have much.” 

Aragorn nodded. He turned to Nika. “I thank you,” he said in the Lossoth tongue, the words slow and careful, that they might be understood, and he bowed. That also Miriel remembered, though not what he said next. Barahir had gone to speak with one of the women who had come from the settlement to the south, but Valya translated slowly. “I…try…people, folk…you…good, well…” She narrowed her eyes. “I will try to keep your people safe. Something like that.” Miriel nodded, felt a brief, dry smile, though it did not come to her lips. As you always do, my lord. 

He turned to them. “Unpack the supplies we brought. Food, and any gear you can spare. They need all of it.”

“And more,” said Valya, and her voice shook a little. “It’s not enough. It’s not—they’ll—” 

“They will survive,” said Miriel quietly. “With what we brought, and what they have left. Look around. Not much was actually burned, not here. Nor stolen, I think. People are easier to grab than food. Stores must be found, and packed up. Captives need only be tied and slung over a shoulder. But they are more trouble later, and less sure use. If the raiders took captives, it was because they were in a hurry and could find nothing better.”

“That’s no help to those who were taken.”

“No.” Miriel laid a hand on her shoulder, and looked in her eyes. “But we are. Now, do as the Chieftain said. We don’t have much time.”

They set down their packs along with the others, and added what they had carried to the growing pile on the ground. Most of the Lossoth had moved off, but several stood by, watching, and Miriel thought perhaps Nika had tasked them with taking stock of the goods. Movement then, and from behind the fur-wrapped legs of an older man, a child’s head appeared. Perhaps three or four years old, face thin, eyes hollow, staring at them. Valya stilled, smiled a little. Then slowly she drew a piece of dried apple from a pouch, and extended her hand. At first the child flinched, drew back but then inched forward, one cautious step at a time, lunged and grabbed, and darted back behind the man’s legs.

“Careful,” Valya said in the Lossoth tongue, with a small laugh, as the child crammed the food into its mouth. “Slowly.” The child stared at her, chewing, then ducked again out of sight. Valya gave a soft, rueful laugh. “At least he took it.” 

“He? How do you know it was a boy?” Miriel asked. 

Valya raised her eyebrows. “Faelon didn’t teach you that?”

“Maybe he did. But it’s been ten years.” Miriel grunted. “I don’t remember.”

“The earring,” said Valya, with a small smile. “Left ear for a boy, right for a girl.”

Miriel glanced up, saw that the older Lossoth man likewise bore an earring in his left ear, a small loop of that same lustrous white ivory as the necklace the Lossoth chief had given Faelon so long ago. It had been a wonder to the Dunedain when they returned, for nothing of the kind had been seen in Elenost for years beyond count. A few families treasured ancient pieces, yellowed with time though still smooth and beautiful, but no one remembered where they came from. Yet in the years since, as cautious contact with the Lossoth resumed, sometimes they exchanged it for food, and it had become a thing of everyday beauty among the Dunedain.

They finished unpacking, and reorganized their own gear, packs now far lighter. But as they turned to go, a flicker of movement, and the little boy was back. Hesitant, then darting forward, he dropped something on the ground at Valya’s feet and again slipped away. A small bone fishhook, gleaming white on the muddy ground. Valya bent, picked it up and and tucked it in the pouch at her belt, looked up at the older Lossoth man and nodded.

“You’ve made a friend,” said Miriel. Valya smiled a little, shook her head, but as they turned away, she glanced back toward where the child had gone. 

When the Lossoth who were to go with them had returned with their gear, Aragorn turned to Halbarad. “You should catch up with the raiders in a day or two. Return here with the captives, and wait for me until the new moon but no longer. I do not know how long it will be; I must seek the chief of all the Lossoth people, and learn what I can.” He gripped Halbarad’s shoulder, said softly, “Bring them back, brother. I will return to you.”

Halbarad met his eyes, and his face showed nothing. But he embraced Aragorn fiercely, murmured something Miriel could not hear. Then he turned away and shouldered his pack, and they fell in behind him as he strode east. 

Chapter Text

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The clouds broke, and the level rays of the sinking sun turned the brown land around them briefly gold. But the wind grew colder, and when at last the dark forced them to halt, Miriel was shivering in her still-damp clothes. They made camp in near silence, for all were too weary for labored, translated speech. But the oldest of the Lossoth men pointed to himself and said, "Kalo," and then to the other two, "Sani, Savi." And then another word in their tongue, and Valya smiled. "Brothers," she said.

They ate cold food, hard waybread and dried meat soaked in cold water, and the Lossoth a strange, gray-white thing that smelled faintly of fish. "Seal fat," said Barahir, when Daeron asked, and the boy shuddered and drew back. Miriel tried a little of the piece that Savi held out to her, found it oily and salty, strange and slightly unpleasant, but palatable enough with the dry waybread.

The Dunedain huddled together in the night, but the Lossoth did not seem cold, wrapped in their furs. They spoke little amongst themselves and less to the Dunedain, yet with three more to watch, their shifts were shorter, and despite the cold they all slept more. The ground had hardened again, and the frozen footsteps of their enemies were easy to follow. Around noon the next day, the clouds drew in again. It began to snow, but lightly, not enough to hide the trail. And late that afternoon, they came to the river.

Barahir spoke to the Lossoth, and then turned to Halbarad. "They think it's solid; the raiders clearly crossed. This river is shallow, and it flows slow in winter. Two days of cold is usually enough. They're not sure, but the closest ford is at least a day upriver. They're willing to risk it."

For their people. But they are not ours. Should we—

"We'll go," said Halbarad. "Spread out – keep at least four paces between you. And loosen your pack straps; if you go in, get it off or it will drag you down. Falaran, give me your bow." Falaran looked almost as though he was minded to protest, but the captain's tone brooked no dissent. Reluctantly, he laid the bowstave in Halbarad's hand. And perhaps Miriel only imagined Halbarad's brief glance, the lift of an eyebrow, there and then gone. I'm the better shot, and they both know it. If one of us has to lose a bow, better it be Falaran. But then Halbarad turned away, and stepped out onto the frozen river.

He prodded the ice ahead of him with the bowstave, but it seemed solid enough. The rest of the patrol followed, Miriel last of all. As she walked, she planned for the worst, to keep her mind from fear. If Halbarad goes in…If the man ahead of me goes in…If I go in…She shuddered, but made herself consider it calmly. Don't panic. Don't breathe water. Shed your gear. Get to solid ice. She unfastened the star that held her cloak and slipped it in her belt pouch. At least I will not lose that.

Cold wind blew, whirling the thin snow in her face. They were halfway across. It's solid. We're going to—and then the cracking. Without a word, the patrol surged forward over the slick, snow-covered ice. But it was not enough. A sharper crack, Daeron's panicked cry, and then the ice tilted beneath her, and she fell.

She clamped her lips shut. Don't breathe water. If you breathe water, you'll die. The air trapped in her clothes buoyed her, though her pack threatened to drag her down. Shrugging and clawing desperately at the straps, she managed to get it off, and felt suddenly much lighter. She allowed herself to breathe then, great gasping breaths as the cold knifed through her. That's the worst of it. Now just get to the edge. Cries and shouts but she ignored them, blinking water out of her eyes, searching for solid ice. The green water around her was choked with broken chunks, but they were no use. And then fear jolted through her again: Where is Daeron? Turning about clumsily, she saw him floundering, perhaps ten feet away. He had not managed to get his pack off, and even as she watched, his head slipped below the water.

Her clothes were now fully waterlogged, and she felt the weight of her sword dragging her down. Yet her mind was abruptly, strangely calm. If I go after him like this, neither of us will come up again. She managed to unbuckle her sword belt with stiff fingers, raised it as high as she could and hurled the sheathed sword like a spear towards solid ice. Valar, please—Relief flooded through her as it landed with a dull thunk. But she was already turning, swimming as strongly as her chilled limbs would allow toward the spot where Daeron had disappeared. There was no sign of him. But the river is neither deep nor swift. He can't have gone far. Taking two long breaths despite the racing of her heart, she plunged under.

The icy water burned her eyes but she forced them open, searching the murk for a deeper shadow that might be a man. Waterweeds loomed, brown and dead but still floating, slimy and ghostlike. She flinched, batted them away with frantic, breath-wasting motion. Calm yourself, girl. There's not much time. Yet in that freezing, unearthly void, calm would not come. Desperate for air, she strained her eyes, saw nothing but weed and rock, and she had lost all sense of direction. At last, she could stand it no longer. Twisting and pushing as hard as she could off the muddy riverbed, she clawed for the surface. Light grew rapidly, brown sediment swirling against the brightness, and then she was up, gasping and blinking in the sudden brilliance of the cloudy winter afternoon. From somewhere off to her right, a voice called her name. Halbarad, she realized dimly. "Miriel, here. Come—" But she ignored him. A few quick, gulping breaths, and she dove back down into the gloom.

Yet her limbs were becoming sluggish. Won't last much longer. One more try. Only one. In the brief respite on the surface, she had noticed a ruffled patch of water, downstream from where Daeron had fallen in. A rock, she realized suddenly. A big one. The eddies must have weakened the ice, and the current would sweep anything in the water to the far side. She saw the loom of a great, oblong boulder just downstream, felt her legs scrape against the smooth-worn surface—and there it was: a twitch of feeble movement, only a few feet away. Her lungs already aching for air, one swift pull and kick brought her to him. She grasped him around the chest with one arm and struggled upward. He seemed heavy as a lead weight by her side, and blackness began to gather at the edges of her vision. Yet they were in truth not more than a few feet down. With a last, desperate thrust, she felt her head strike something solid and push it aside. And then she was back on the surface, gulping lungfuls of frigid air.

Her thoughts came slowly. Edge…must find the edge…And then, clear into her muddled mind, a familiar voice, strong and commanding.

"Here, Miriel," called Halbarad. "Come here, swim to me." Turning, she saw a dark shape lying flat at the edge of the ice. Forcing her limbs to move, she swam clumsily, Daeron's limp body a dead weight at her side. He coughed feebly, so she knew he was alive, but he seemed too exhausted to struggle. A small mercy, she thought, as she crossed the last few feet of ice-choked water. When she reached the edge, she twisted awkwardly and thrust Daeron toward Halbarad's outstretched hands. He hauled, and she shoved, and between them they got the boy onto the snow, where he lay coughing and retching. Falaran had come up with Halbarad, crawling on the thin ice; he grasped Daeron's wrists and pulled him away toward the safety of shore.

Halbarad turned back to Miriel. She managed to get her arms onto the ice but found there was no more strength in them, nor in her legs. She kicked a little, feebly, but could not raise herself out of the water. Halbarad grasped her wrists and pulled, but it was not enough. Cursing softly, he inched forward, closer to the perilous edge, closer and closer as the ice creaked beneath him, until at last he seized her beneath the arms and with a swift, grunting effort, drew her from the freezing water. She lay beside him in the snow, gasping and shivering. Tired. So tired…She closed her eyes.

"No," rasped Halbarad, his voice close to her ear. "No, not here. Get to shore. Then you can rest. Can you crawl?"

I want to sleep…But something in her, deeper than conscious thought, laid hold of her limbs. Cold-stiffened muscles moved; she raised her body from the snow. On hands and knees she crawled, foot by agonizing foot, with Halbarad beside her, until at last the ice was firm enough, and then he stood. He dragged her up and drew her arm over his shoulders. It was well that he did so, for she found her feet clumsy and her balance gone. Walking like a drunk…A small voice within her laughed a little. If only Meren could see – he'd never let me live it down. The smile did not quite reach her lips as she staggered along, leaning heavily on Halbarad, until they reached the shore. She stumbled on the suddenly uneven ground and clutched at him.

"Steady," he murmured. "Not much further – do you see the fire?" Yet she was shivering so hard her vision blurred, and she could make little sense of what she saw. Sudden warmth on her face, and she blinked at the ruddy glow, but it seemed only to make her shiver harder. Halbarad still held her firmly with one arm; with the other, he began to fumble with the lacings of her tunic, growled in frustration as the sodden cloth refused to yield.

"Valya, help me," he snapped. Miriel felt herself lowered to the ground, heard soft, muttered curses, both Halbarad's voice and Valya's, as chilled fingers struggled to loosen her rapidly freezing garments. She tried to help them, but her numbed limbs would not respond, and in the end she fell back, shivering, as they stripped her like a child. At last the bite of cold air on her skin, and immediately after the scratchy, blessed shelter of a blanket. Then strong arms were around her, and Halbarad pulled her back against him. She shivered violently, arms clutching knees drawn tight to her chest. Halbarad held her close, the warmth of his breath on her neck.

"Will these serve, captain?" Valya's voice, worried, even afraid.

Do not fear—But she was shivering too hard to speak.

"Yes," said Halbarad. "She's not hurt, only cold." And then, close by her ear, "Valya's brought dry clothes, Mir. Can you stand?"

I don't know…She felt Halbarad lifting her up, and her legs held her weight, though still she leaned against him. It was awkward, and cold, and she knew the Lossoth men must be staring. And Barahir—But she brushed it off without so much as a grimace. If any man wishes to look on me now, let him.

The clothes did not fit perfectly; she was broader in the shoulders and narrower in the chest than Valya, and a bit taller, but they were close enough. She sighed in relief at the feeling of soft, dry cloth on her chilled skin, and by the time she was fully dressed, she had regained enough control to pull the blanket about her and sit on her own. Her face tightened and she bit her lip – feeling was beginning to return to her feet and hands, and pain along with it. But that's good. If they can feel, they're alive. And she thought of the snowstorm in North Pass, the small stone refuge that had saved their lives. My turn now, brannon mell. And then, with the faintest of smiles, Just as well you aren't here. I'd never hear the end of it.

Halbarad crouched on the far side of the fire, carefully pouring steaming water into a mug. He brought it over to her and held it out. Yet when she tried to take it, her hands shook so hard it nearly spilled. She hissed in frustration, but Halbarad said softly, "Here, I'll hold it." He brought the cup to her lips, and despite the urgent desire for warmth, she drank slowly, cautious not to burn her mouth. When it was gone, he brought her another cup, and then a bowl of porridge. As he lifted a steaming spoonful, pride reasserted itself.

"L-let me have it," and she grasped the spoon. He looked at her skeptically but handed it over. The first spoonful she almost spilled, and the second, but by the third, she had managed enough control that she reached out with her other hand and took the bowl from him. Still he crouched by her, and irrational though she knew it was, resentment flared, and she had to fight back the urge to push him away. She swallowed hard and looked him in the eye.

"Thank you, captain," she said slowly, carefully, wishing her voice did not shake. "I can manage now."

He looked at her for a moment but then nodded. "Very well." He stood abruptly and turned away, skirting around the fire to kneel by another blanket-wrapped figure who huddled, supported by others, on the far side. Daeron, Miriel realized with sudden, sinking dread. In her own misery, she had forgotten about him. Yet between the dry clothes and the warm food and drink, she felt herself reviving, and with it came the twinge of duty. Scraping the last of the porridge from the bowl, she set it on the ground and got shakily to her feet.

Daeron's eyes were closed, and he breathed in great, shuddering gasps. His entire body shook; it seemed that despite dry clothes and Falaran's warm body behind him, the chill still held him fast. She knelt by his side on the trampled snow. Falaran looked up at her, relief warring with surprise and concern on his face.

"He should have begun to warm by now. Was he injured?" she asked, grasping for calm despite the tremors that still shook her.

Falaran shook his head. "Not that I saw. He swallowed some water, but it came back out." He grunted. "Most of it on me."

The ghost of a smile flitted across Miriel's face, but it vanished in the next moment as she laid a hand on Daeron's pale, cold cheek. Stilling herself with an effort, she opened her mind.

Fear – cold, fluttering panic, desperate search for air, paralyzing terror of death by water. Not a rational fear, not persuadable, deep-rooted in the core of him. She remembered a sunny day, hot for the season of the year – and the panicked shrieks that rent the air, the sudden splash, the terrified, hiccupping cries of a child barely saved from drowning. That fear holds him still.

Gently, deliberately calm, she called to him, more thought than words, thoughts of safety and warmth and rest. She felt weakness wash over her, but she pushed it back. Not yet. Please, not yet.

With a swiftness that was startling, the boy's thin body stopped shaking. His breathing calmed, and his head fell back against Falaran's chest. Falaran drew him closer, murmuring soft words Miriel could not hear. Daeron's eyes remained closed, but the sudden, familiar ache at the back of her head warned her that she was nearing the end of her strength. As gently as she could manage, from the bare edge of control, she broke off and withdrew. She straightened a little, and met Falaran's eyes.

"See—" A hoarse croak; she cleared her throat and tried again. "See if you can get him to drink something hot, and maybe eat a little."

Falaran nodded, and then reached out to lay a hand on her arm. "Miriel—" he began, but she cut him off.

"Just look after him." Without waiting for a response, she rose – more swiftly than she should have, for her vision abruptly darkened. Breathing hard, she stumbled forward, groped blindly at a tree trunk for support, leaned against the cold, rough bark and tipped her head back, staring up unseeing into the darkening sky. She did not move when she heard the crunch of footfall on snow behind her, not even when the man came so close she could hear his breath. But the deep voice could not be ignored.

"You disobeyed my order," said Halbarad quietly.

She rolled her head toward him but made no response; speaking seemed a monumental effort.

"You might have died, Miriel." His voice, though pitched low enough that the others could not hear, now had a hard edge. "Once was brave, but twice? Twice was reckless."

She straightened, shoved free of the tree trunk and turned to face him. "I might have died." Still her voice shook, but she didn't care. "Daeron would have. I had the strength; I had no choice but to use it." She shrugged. "'Here do I swear myself to my maethanar.'"

"And if your brothers are fools?"

"My oath is not contingent."

"Perhaps it should be."

"I've acted foolishly before; I will surely do it again." A soft, bitter laugh. "Would you leave me to my fate, captain? Should I have let Daeron drown?" It was unfair, and she knew it, knew also that she skirted the edge of disrespect, but she was too tired to care.

Halbarad let out a long breath. "No, and no. But there is a reason all Rangers must learn to swim. There is a reason for every demand, and more often than not that reason is written in blood. Miriel, he's going to get someone killed." Halbarad shook his head. "He doesn't belong among us."

She was silent for a long moment. At last, quietly, "Perhaps not. But he is still worthy of life."

Halbarad gazed past her into the gathering dark, firelight throwing black shadows across his face. She shivered, and not entirely from the cold. His expression softened, and he laid a hand on her arm. "Are you sure you're all right?" Concern flickered in his eyes – concern, and something almost like fear. "Aragorn would never forgive me if I let you come to harm."

She stiffened, suddenly angry again. Exhaustion as much as anything else, she knew, but still it rankled. "Let me? You're not letting me do anything, captain, aside from my duty." She shook off his hand and stepped back. "My oath is his, and he may judge me for it. Not you."

He flinched. Very softly, "I know." And then both were silent, as they remembered whose life it had been last time, and why. "We choose, all of us," he said at last. "And we must accept what comes." He reached out, gripped her hand, looked in her eyes. "I will lose others. I know that. But not today. Thanks to you, your courage," a raised eyebrow, "your disobedience, not today." He nodded, and released her hand. "Now come, you must rest. You're off the guard rotation for tonight."

She inclined her head in grateful acknowledgement, so that she missed the smile that flickered across his lined, weary face.

Valya was already wrapped in her blanket by the fire. Miriel laid herself down close beside her, and Valya shifted toward her with a sleepy grunt. Despite the cold, Miriel felt herself falling into sleep almost immediately, disjointed thoughts drifting away into silence. Yet when an unexpected third body settled against her back, she stirred.

"Hush," whispered Halbarad. And then, so softly it might have been a dream, "You'll sleep warm tonight, ellenen." And she did.

Chapter Text

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When she woke, dim light filtered through the trees. Thick clouds had rolled in during the night, scudding low across the sky on a gusty wind. Branches rattled and tossed, and she felt the wind cold on her back, for Halbarad had gone. Valya was gone as well, though when Miriel sat up, stiff and aching, she caught a glimpse of her slipping into the trees on the far side of the clearing. Miriel rose awkwardly and stretched, careful not to strain the seams of her borrowed clothing. Her head still ached, but aside from that she felt no ill effects from the previous day. She squatted and stood a few times, both to loosen her legs and to generate a bit of warmth. Yet the cold had moderated during the night, and the wind that gusted around her was less biting. And less dry. These clouds will bring snow before evening. She scowled. No help for it – if it snows, it snows. And if it snows, Valya will want her spare shirt back. She now saw, though she had not noticed the night before, that her wet clothes and Daeron's had been spread to dry on branches near the fire. And someone retrieved my cloak. Oh, thank the Valar. Her pack was gone, but it was not a dangerous loss; the others carried enough food and gear, and there were extras of nearly everything, especially in winter. A wry smile. And this is why we do not bring things of personal value on patrol.

Her clothes were still damp, but she gathered them up anyway, slipped behind a thicket of leafless brambles and stripped off the borrowed clothing. Her own was clammy and cold, and she was shivering insistently by the time she finished. Yet she knew they would dry by noon from the heat of her body, though the boots would take longer. Cold feet today, then. She smiled mirthlessly as she folded Valya's clothes. I've had worse.

They broke camp swiftly and in near silence, long habit needing few words. As Miriel finished dressing, she looked up to see Valya striding back through the trees, three rabbits slung over her shoulder. Valya came and squatted beside her, setting the rabbits onto the ground. Miriel grunted. "Three rabbits among nine? You just remember, come tonight, who taught you to lay snares." Their eyes met, and she managed a straight face for only a moment before they both smiled.

"Aye, I'll remember," said Valya, taking the stack of folded clothing that Miriel held out to her and tucking it into her pack. Her face grew serious again, and she eyed Miriel up and down. "You all right?"

You do not—Instinctive resentment, but Miriel thrust it down. She's earned it. "Fine. Slept like a log. Thanks for the clothes." Valya nodded, but still there was worry behind her eyes. Miriel reached out to grasp her hand. "I am well," she said quietly. "I took no hurt from it."

Valya looked at her searchingly for a moment longer before pursing her lips and nodding sharply. "Good."

They both rose, waited in silence for the others to be ready to move. Daeron and Falaran were the last, and it seemed to Miriel that Daeron's pack was less full than it ought to have been. Falaran took some of his gear. Miriel ground her teeth together. Have you no pride, boy? But then, noting his pale face, his hoarse cough as he stood dejectedly in the snow behind Falaran: He's still on his feet. That's something.

After a low, tense exchange with Barahir, Halbarad let Kalo lead. "They are better at tracking in snow than we are. And they know this land."

The Lossoth man led them without hesitation through the trees, swiftly despite the chill wind and the now-slushy snow that slipped under their feet. In the middle of the morning, the trees began to thin and the light grew brighter. Abruptly, at the edge of a small clearing ringed with bushes, Kalo stopped. Signaling with a raised hand for the others to wait, he went forward alone.

At the back of the line, Miriel could see nothing. Yet they did not have to wait long, for Halbarad soon gestured them forward. There on the far edge of the clearing, pressed close against the bushes for shelter against the east wind, was a wide trampled space in the snow, and a clear path leading away through the trees. They were here last night.

"Well done," said Halbarad to Kalo. Barahir translated, and the man nodded, said something in reply.

"They are alive," Barahir said. "The captives. He found footprints in the snow on the edge of the clearing. Left for those who might follow, he thinks." And then, more quietly, "His sister is one of them."

Halbarad nodded, gripped Kalo's arm. "We will find them. Lead on."

Their pace was even faster now with a clear trail to follow, alternately striding and jogging over the slick snow. It was an exacting, exhausting way to travel, but there was no word of complaint, and they pressed on until full dark, all hint of starlight and moonlight blotted out by heavy clouds. When at last Kalo halted, unable any longer to make out the trail in front of him, they were all bone-weary. Daeron collapsed on the ground, coughing and shuddering. As the others set about making camp, Falaran drew Halbarad and Miriel aside.

"He'll slow us down tomorrow," he said in a low voice. "If he can travel at all."

Halbarad growled in frustration. "We can't leave him here, and I won't slow down." A considering pause, and then, "If he can't keep pace, will you stay with him?"

"If I must. We could hole up somewhere under the trees, though how much healing he'll find in the cold and snow…" He shook his head.

Silence, and they did not look at each other, and Miriel knew they would not ask. And so at last, she said quietly, "I'll do it."

Halbarad let out a breath, lifted his eyes to hers, bit his lip. But then the ghost of a smile, and he inclined his head, and she heard what he did not say. Brave one.

Falaran eased the pack from Daeron's shoulders and drew from it a blanket. Laying it on the ground, she sat cross-legged upon it and pulled the boy's head gently down to rest in her lap, and took his hand in hers. In the flickering glow of the fire, they saw her close her eyes. Then she sat very still.

Halbarad cast an unreadable glance at Falaran, and then without a word he moved back toward the fire, dropped his own pack and began to search inside.

Valya sat on a log a little away from the camp, bent in concentration over a half-skinned rabbit. The sudden approach of booted feet brought her head up. Halbarad looked down at her for a moment in silence before asking, "Have you made up her sleeping place?"

Valya frowned. "No, not yet…" She nodded to the task at hand.

"Do it now."

He gestured, and she followed his hand. And then she saw them, dark against the glow of the fire. Her lips tightened. "She shouldn't risk—"

"No, perhaps she should not," said Halbarad. "But she is. And when it's done, she probably won't be able to see, let alone stand."

Valya nodded in weary resignation. "I'm nearly finished here. I'll see to it."

"Good. And here – use this as well." He handed a bundle over and turned away. Valya unfolded it, then stared after him in astonishment. He had given her his own blanket.

Halbarad forced himself not to hover, moved quietly around the campsite to attend first to the tasks that needed doing, and then to his food. Yet before any had eaten, he drew his belt knife and cut a portion from the largest rabbit, wrapping it in cloth and setting it aside without a word.

There was very little speech around the fire, from him or any other. Between weariness and worry, and furtive glances at Miriel and Daeron, silent and still in the firelight, none had the heart for talk. Halbarad did not stare, yet he watched her out of the corner of his eye with growing concern, as night deepened and still she sat with Daeron's head in her lap and made no sign. So tense had he become, without even realizing it, that when at last she moved, sliding her hands down and drawing in a shuddering breath, he almost jumped. Then he was at her side, arm around her shoulders as she eased back and lowered the boy's head gently to the ground. He felt her shaking; it seemed that without the support, she might well have fallen.

"Can you hear me, Mir?" he asked softly.

She nodded.

"Can you stand?"

"No." Her voice was a hoarse whisper. "Dizzy…"

His heart beat fast, but he forced his voice calm. "It will pass. Here." He raised a mug to her lips. Despite her exhaustion, the faintest hint of a smile flitted across her face at the comforting scent of mint tea. She sipped carefully, and then finding it not too hot, downed the entire mug in a few desperate gulps. The shaking eased, though still she seemed none too steady.

"Do you want to eat?" He knew the answer but had to ask, hoping against hope that he was wrong.

"No. Not yet…rest first…"

"Of course," he said, though a voice inside him protested, She is too weak. She must eat. Aloud, he said, "Come, over here…" He slipped his other arm under her legs and half-lifted, half-dragged her to where Valya had scraped away the snow and spread blankets on the ground. The younger woman was there already, unfolding Halbarad's blanket as well as her own. She helped him lay Miriel on her side and then lay down in front of her, pressing her back close against Miriel's chest. Halbarad drew the blankets over both of them, tucking the edges in against the cold night wind.

A moment longer he crouched there, his hand on Miriel's shoulder, and then he rose swiftly and went away. Yet as soon as he had seen that Daeron was being cared for, he returned. Again he laid himself against her back, slipped an arm around her to pull her close. "Rest now," he murmured, not knowing if she heard. Gradually her shaking died away, and it seemed that she slept.

Halbarad did not sleep, not for a long while. He was weary enough, to be sure, and if not exactly warm, then not too cold. Yet his mind found no rest. Worry about Daeron and concern for Miriel and the ever-present fear for the fate of the captives swirled in his mind, combined with a strange uneasiness that he could not name. Miriel cried out once, softly, and stirred a little.

But as she subsided back into sleep, his eyes were wide in the darkness, for the turmoil in his mind had begun at last, reluctantly, to take on a name. And bold man though he was, he feared that name.

Morning came under low clouds, gray and cold and cheerless. In the dim light before dawn, Miriel woke to Barahir's voice.

"Captain."

Movement behind her, soft rustle of cloth and creak of leather, and then sudden cold on her back. Footsteps on snow, and then low voices, a few feet off.

"Anything to report?"

"Nothing. Quiet night."

"Good. Rouse the others. We eat on the march."

Even the dim light pained Miriel's eyes, and she longed to drift back into sleep. But hunger, as much as duty, forced her awake. Others were beginning to stir, groans and coughs and soft curses drifting in the still air. She laid a hand on Valya's shoulder, but before she could speak, the younger woman rolled onto her knees and sat up, no trace of sleep in her eyes. Miriel had to fight back an urge to shrug off the hand that slid under her shoulder, steadying her as she pushed herself upright. Yet in truth she was glad of it, for her head felt light, and the ground seemed to waver under her. Her mouth was dry, and she was achingly hungry. Fool – you know what happens if you don't eat after healing. Yet before she could do more than begin to grope among the blankets for her waterskin, Valya laid it in her hand. She drank greedily, heedless of the shards of ice in the water. Her head cleared a little, and she lowered the skin to see Halbarad approaching.

"Daeron?" Rough, almost a croak. She coughed and cleared her throat.

"Better. He'll be able to travel, I think." Halbarad's deep voice was expressionless, but a tightness in eyes and lips betrayed his concern. Irritated, though she knew it was unjust, she shook off Valya's hand and rose unsteadily. Dizziness swept over her, but when it passed she was still on her feet. As her sight cleared, she was aware of Halbarad's hand extended in front of her.

"You didn't eat last night." He held out a small thing wrapped in cloth.

As she took it, his fingers brushed hers, and he turned abruptly away. But she gave him no more thought, everything in her intent on the food. The rabbit meat was cold and hard, and she tore at it with her teeth. Her mouth tingled uncomfortably with the abrupt relief from hunger, but the pain soon faded, leaving only the rich taste of meat.

As she ate, she was aware of Valya folding blankets and arranging packs; a small voice of guilt said she should be helping, but the much louder voice of hunger drowned it out. Yet when Valya at last was done and came to crouch before Miriel, a piece of waybread in her hand and worry on her face, Miriel forced a pinched smile. She took the bread but then caught the younger woman's hand before it could withdraw.

"Thank you, Val," she said quietly. "For this and everything."

Valya's face, reddened with cold, became a little more flushed, but she met Miriel's eyes steadily. "You would do the same for me."

"Of course."

Miriel finished the food quickly; even as she ate, she felt strength returning to her chilled limbs. Her hands and feet were nearly numb, but she stamped her feet and swung her arms, and feeling began to return with stinging pain. There is good pain and bad pain, she reminded herself with a grimace. This is good pain.

She came over to where Daeron stood, chewing waybread and talking quietly to Falaran. Hearing her footsteps approach, the young man turned. For a long moment, he met her eyes without speaking. Then he clasped his hands to his breast and bowed, slowly and formally.

"I have been remiss," he said, quiet but clear. "I beg leave to atone for it now. You risked yourself to save me, not once but twice. I hold myself in your debt. Ani luciel min cuil, Miriel."

The boy looked so grave that, in spite of cold, in spite of weariness and pain, Miriel had to smile. She stepped close and put an arm around his thin shoulders. "Live, and be proud," she said quietly, her lips close to his ear, "and do not fear. Live your life, whatever it may be, and I will hold the debt fulfilled." Eyes flashed toward her, hardly daring to hope yet suddenly hopeful nonetheless. She nodded and squeezed his shoulder. He said nothing more, yet as she turned away, a weight seemed to lift from her heart.

Light grew slowly under leaden clouds. All was quiet save for the crunch of snow and muted clank of metal. Miriel watched the bent backs in front of her, hoods drawn tight and shoulders hunched against the cold, on and endlessly on in that lifeless world of white and gray. Time seemed to stand still. Perhaps she fell asleep on her feet, weary as she was; perhaps her attention wandered for only a moment. But she came back to herself with a start, face only inches from Valya's motionless back. They had stopped, and stood stock still in the snow. Only Kalo moved, pacing a wide circle and then bending to study the ground.

At last he straightened, and spoke to Barahir. "They're close," Barahir reported. "They camped here last night. He thinks we will overtake them before midday." He glanced at the sky, then at Halbarad. "But we must be swift. He says there's snow coming."

They surged forward, hobnailed winter boots biting into the icy ground. Soon. A breeze rustled bare branches; Miriel glanced up at the low clouds and bit her lip. Which will come first – the battle or the snow?

The snow came first. It began as an almost imperceptible softening of the stark winter land, black and brown fading to shades of gray. She felt the cold on her cheeks as flakes fell and melted, icy water beading on her eyelashes, rising wind sharp on wet skin. The snow thickened, feathery clusters dotting the hoods and shoulders of the men in front of her and blotting out the landscape. Every so often, a clump of low bushes or an isolated stand of trees would loom suddenly in front of them, ghostly in the muffled world. The ground became slick as the snow thickened, and she was forced to pay more and more attention to her feet. Yet as her body moved, her mind kept circling back to the same question – How long until we lose the trail?

The snow deepened. Yet still Kalo led them on without faltering, as swiftly as if he followed a clear road. If they have stopped for shelter from the storm, we may yet catch them…She felt her heart sink a little at the thought of a fight in the snow, a fight in which bows would be useless and chilled hands unreliable on snow-slick hilts.

Even as she struggled against the tendrils of fear that seemed to creep in from the storm, the muffled beat of footsteps in front of her ceased. Tugging his hood down against the swirling snow, Halbarad motioned them close.

Kalo gestured, spoke to Barahir. "There," Barahir said at last, gesturing to a faint, formless shadow that seemed to huddle at the bottom of the gentle slope before them. Trees, maybe? Her mind was suddenly clear and alert. Too big for bushes. And is that—"Stone walls, one room. Door faces south, windows west and east. It's ancient, he doesn't know who built it. But hunters use it now, Lossoth and Druad both. Many deer here in autumn, he says. The roof is half-ruined, or was when he was last here, but it's better shelter than anything else for miles." He did not need to say the obvious – if the raiders had reached such a shelter with their captives in the storm, they would go no further.

Halbarad's lips tightened, gazing into the snow. At last he nodded, looked round at them all. "I'll take the door; Barahir and Falaran, follow me. Kalo," he turned to the Lossoth tracker, "wait for a count of five, then go through the near window with Sani and Savi. Miriel, far window. Don't bother with what's happening at the door – go straight for the captives."

She nodded. "Yes, captain." And then in a low voice, "With me, Val."

"Of course," came the quiet reply.

They set their packs together in the snow. Miriel left her bow as well, knowing it would only get in the way but still reluctant to let it go. Shaking off unease, she checked her sword and belt knife, and the blades in her boot and sleeve.

"It'll be close," she said softly to Valya, who stood beside her. "Knives ready."

"Aye." Valya nodded, curt and tense.

"Steady, Val."

"Aye."

Though there was no mirth in her, Miriel forced a tight smile and was relieved to see an echo of it on Valya's wind-reddened face. And as she waited for the others to ready themselves, she began softly to sing. "Come, lonely hunter, chieftain and king; I will fly like the falcon when I go…" Low beneath the swirling wind, muffled in the snow, yet as the men finished their preparations, they came one by one to stand by her, and they sang. "Bear me, my brother, under your wing…" She met Halbarad's eyes, knew they both thought of another night, on a windy ridge south of the Trollfells. Even worse weather this time, but at least the odds are better. "I will sweep the foe before me like a gale out on the snow," and she lifted her head and smiled a little in spite of herself. An answering smile on Barahir's face, and Falaran's, though Halbarad made no sign, and Daeron, standing next to her, shivered in the snow. "And the wind will long recount the story, reverence and glory when I go." Yet even he seemed to take strength from that, his thin shoulders straightening a little. His eyes met hers, and he nodded.

They stood silent in the wind, snow swirling around them. And then Halbarad turned, and they followed him down the slope.

Chapter Text

Link to recording on archive.org

They went in single file, as quietly as they might, though in truth the wind was enough to mask any sound their footsteps might make in the snow. As they came close the stone structure grew clearer, dark and hard-edged against the storm. Miriel smelled woodsmoke; a faint light showed through a crack between the crooked door and its frame. Her stomach churned, and she realized that until that moment, she had half-expected to find the place empty. She took a deep breath, wiped the snowmelt from her face, and stepped away from the line.

With Valya close behind, she made her way around to the far side of the house where, as Kalo had said, the solid stone wall was broken by a window. It was larger than she had expected, though not as low to the ground as she would have liked. Obstacle course. And this is why we run it with weapons. She crept close, until she stood flat against the wall. Faint sounds came through the cracks, male voices and the dull clang of metal on metal. Cooking? Or tending to their weapons. Hope not. And then she stiffened as, with a wordless roar, Halbarad burst through the door.

Shouts, screams, the clash of steel. She felt Valya move but thrust back an arm to check her. “Wait,” she hissed. Wait, for an agonizing count of five, until she was certain all the men inside would have rushed to the door…and then, with a single, violent motion, she kicked open the shutter and vaulted inside.

Her sword banged on the window frame, but she came down on her feet, moving instinctively toward the hearth on the north wall. Warmest part of the room, farthest from any danger – and there they were, a woman and a girl, cowering in the corner. Miriel moved to cover them, Valya just behind her. The captives shrieked and cringed, but she ignored them, turning back to face any threat. Yet even as she did so – Only two. Where is the third?

Grunts and cries filled the small room. In the dim light of the fire, the shapes of men threw long shadows as they grappled and slashed and stabbed. And died – two Druadwaith already lay motionless on the floor, and in a matter of seconds three more fell, and one of the Lossoth men. Yet even as her eyes at last found a small, limp figure huddled on the floor, half-under a table, metal glinted in the gloom. The last of the raiders pulled the woman’s head back, and held a knife to her throat.

Halbarad saw it at the same moment. “HOLD,” he roared. All movement ceased. Miriel, who had been about to spring toward them, stood stock still, breath loud in the sudden stillness. Halbarad moved half a step forward.

The man jerked his head. “You move, she die,” he snarled in the common tongue. The point of his knife pricked the woman’s throat, drawing a thin trickle of blood. She whimpered, but did not open her eyes. The man heaved her up, began inching toward the open window.

Halbarad stopped, white-knuckled hands gripping sword and knife. “If she dies, you die.”

And she will die in the storm regardless. He knows he’s dead. He’s playing for time.

So give him what he wants.

“I am a healer.” She breathed slowly, steadying voice and hands. “See, I lay down my weapons.” Her sword and long knife she set carefully on the floor, and her boot knife with them. She straightened, met the man’s eyes. “She is hurt; she will not live long in the cold. If she dies, what then? You will be left with nothing.” She paused, let the question hang in the air.

The man seemed to be fighting with himself, face working, eyes darting from Miriel to the Rangers to his captive and back. At last, he growled, “What you want?”

“I want her to live,” said Miriel. “Let me care for her.”

“And then?”

“We will let you go.”

Disapproving growls from the Rangers near the door, but Halbarad stayed them with a movement of his hand. Barahir had better not be translating…

The man turned to Halbarad. “You agree?”

“I do,” said Halbarad, deep voice impassive.

The man hesitated a moment longer, but at last he nodded, pushed the table aside and laid the woman on the ground.

Miriel moved slowly, heart pounding, every muscle tense, feeling threat yet unable to respond. Closer she came, closer, and still the man did not move, his eyes locked on her. Five feet, four, three – in arm’s reach – she paused only a moment before bending to the woman who lay on the floor.

His knife flashed in the firelight, caught her arm and she gasped in pain. But the instant he moved, she moved too, ramming her knee between his legs as her right fist slammed into his jaw and her injured left arm grappled for the knife. He groaned and staggered, knife swinging wildly. She dodged a swipe at her throat, felt the knife cut her cheek but grabbed the arm that held it with both hands, twisting it so that the man screamed in pain and his body bent toward the ground. And then Halbarad was there, slamming him to the floor and driving a blade into his back. The man let out a hideous, gurgling groan and lay still.

Miriel crouched over him, gasping, her own breath loud in her ears. 

“Are you all right?” Halbarad’s voice, hoarse with strain, rasping in the stillness.

“Yes.” She nodded shakily. “Yes. Fine…” The wound on her arm burned, but it didn’t feel deep. Can’t see in this light… Yet even as she twisted, trying to take the measure of it, Halbarad pulled the scarf from his neck and bound it tightly around her arm. She felt blood running down her cheek, wiped it away with her other sleeve. Halbarad looked up again, met her eyes. But before he could speak, a soft moan broke the hush. 

The injured woman, captive no longer, lay unmoving on the floor, tangled hair caught beneath the dead man’s boot. Her face was slack and yellow-gray, her breathing labored, and when Miriel took her hand, she gave no sign of recognition. No, please no. I saved you… Slowly, cautious of the danger, she reached out – and drew back with a gasp, mind flailing as if on the edge of quicksand. Clawing for control against darkness and pain, back and back, inching away from the abyss, hardly conscious of breath coming harsh in her throat as strain took its toll. 

And then, soft and clear, a hand on her shoulder, a voice in her ear.

“Miriel.” Steady, utterly unwavering. The darkness seeped away, and she opened her eyes. Blurred through tears – Halbarad’s face, lines of concern giving lie to his tone. The hand on her shoulder tightened, but there were no words, no demands, until she had blinked away the tears. Even then he did not speak, the question only a raised eyebrow, and the answer a slight shake of the head. Halbarad sighed, nodded, released her shoulder and rose.

Miriel closed her eyes, leaned back against the table and breathed slowly. She heard him speaking to Valya, could not make out the words, knew what they must be. 

“Falaran, Daeron, go with her.” Halbarad’s voice, raised a little in command. 

They’ll be bringing all the packs, she thought vaguely. It’s over. Pause for a beat, and then, But not for the healer. Is anyone else hurt? I must— She began to push herself to her feet. But dizziness swept over her, and she sank to the ground again.

“Miriel.” Halbarad again, low now, almost gentle. “Your face is covered in blood.”

She had felt the knife slash her cheek, and the stinging pain, but it had not really registered. “I—I’ll wash it…” She forced her eyes open, but again the world reeled, and she fell back, fighting panic.  

“Brave one.” More breath than words, so low she hardly heard it. But she felt Halbarad’s arm around her shoulders, matched her breath to his, and slowly her head steadied. He laid a hand on her knee, looked in her eyes until he was sure she was lucid. “You can’t care for others if you’re bleeding all over them.” A faint, wry smile. “Let me clean it. Then you can do…what you must.” Miriel drew a slow breath, and nodded.

There was water already on the fire. She closed her eyes, and breath hissed through her teeth as Halbarad wiped the blood from her cheek. At least the water was warm, but it burned in the raw wound, and she gritted her teeth, and forced herself not to flinch. 

“It will be easier if she’s lying down.” Barahir’s voice, and Miriel felt hands on her, an arm again around her back. Instinct resisted, but she forced it quiet, let herself be guided down until she lay with her head in Barahir’s lap. Flicker of candlelight against closed lids, and then the needle, and Barahir held her steady as Halbarad closed the wound. She thought of Anna sitting on a rock in the summer sun, and Halbarad’s hands, swift and sure. She trusted him. And a little of the rigid tension left her. 

“That’s the last one.” He laid a hand on her uninjured cheek. “Miriel.”

She opened her eyes, blinking against the brightness of the candle, saw his face leaning over her, anxious in the flickering light. 

“I—I’ll be fine.” She struggled to sit, and he helped her up, and she felt him warm against her. But then he let out a breath, and his arm was gone.

He returned with water, and she drank, and felt steadier. 

“Can you stand?”

“I…think so.” Slowly, carefully, but without help, she did. And then she saw – Kalo, the tracker who had led them so swiftly and so well, held the injured woman in his arms. ‘My sister is with them.’ 

Abrupt, jolting memory – kneeling on bloody ground outside a village in northern Wilderland, a young man holding his father’s body. 

Not again. 

You have no choice.

Stamping boots outside, and a gust of icy air. Miriel looked up, met Valya’s eyes, dropped her gaze to the small wooden box in Valya’s hands. “Captain…” Valya began. But Halbarad was already taking in from her, and Miriel knew he would show her how it was done. She must know. As with all else, she must know this. 

“Barahir.” He came and knelt by them, and she met his eyes, and then Kalo’s. “Tell him. But…it is a choice. He must know that.” Not the death. But the manner of it. And perhaps if the choice is his… But even as hope flickered through her, she knew it for a lie. The choice is mine. Always and only mine. And so also the payment. 

Weregild, Girith called it. The gold for the man. Suffering for release from suffering, for there can be no gift without cost.

Barahir spoke, and for a long moment Kalo sat still, watching her sister’s face. When at last he answered, his voice was little more than a whisper. And though Barahir translated, there was no need, for it was one of the few words she remembered.

“Yes.” 

Valya brought her the cup, and a small part of her marveled, as it always did, at the sweet scent of the deadly draught. 

Miriel almost reached out to the woman, almost touched her one more time, but she knew it was no use. Save your strength. She met Kalo’s eyes.

“Lift her head a little.” Gesture made translation unnecessary; even that small movement made the woman groan in pain, though still she did not open her eyes. 

Go in peace. 

Despite its pleasant smell, the draught was bitter, and the woman choked a little, but she swallowed it. A breath, a shudder, and then she lay still in her brother’s arms.

Miriel fell back, rigid, the wrenching anguish no less terrible for being expected. She bowed her head, eyes shut tight, shaking as pain flared through her. Pain without end, without relief, always and forever—

“Miriel.” Valya’s voice, soft in her ear, and she returned to herself, and knew that it was not forever. 

Valya had seen it before. It had shocked her then, but now she knew. She drew Miriel close, said nothing more but only held her, calm and warm and solid, until at last the trembling died away. Miriel lay back against her, eyes closed, desiring nothing more than to stay where she was, cradled and safe, in the peace that comes with relief from pain.

No. Get up. There is work to do.

Sani and Savi were speaking quietly with the surviving woman and the girl. Yet they tensed and moved in front of them as Miriel drew close. She remembered the suspicion, even fear in the eyes of the Breelanders. They do not know. All they have seen is that the woman died. I made her die. And she trembled again at the echo of anguish. You would be the same way, were it your kin. 

But they also saw Daeron. 

She knelt, just outside arm’s reach. “Are they hurt?” she asked quietly.

The men glanced at each other. At last, slowly, Sani spoke. 

“They are not sure,” Barahir translated. “They—” He frowned. “They think so, but the woman will not tell them, and the child has said nothing.”

Bitter realization, and she let out a soft breath. Not to men.

She moved closer, met the woman’s eyes, wide and fearful in the firelight. “What is your name?” Miriel asked gently. Barahir translated, and after a moment’s hesitation, the woman murmured, “Eira.” And then indicating the girl, “Lani.” 

Miriel nodded, drew a breath. 

The captain won’t like it. 

Doesn’t matter. Not now.

“If the men leave, may I help you?”

Eira’s eyes narrowed, and she said something in a low voice to the Lossoth men.

“She asks if you are really a healer,” said Barahir quietly. “He is telling her about Daeron.”

At last the woman turned back to her, held her eyes for a long moment, and Miriel made no move and did not look away. And then that same, single word. “Yes.”

There were a few disgruntled glances but no words of protest, and the men went out into the snow. And by the flickering firelight, Miriel reached out, and took Eira’s hand.  

The Lossoth woman stiffened, gave a small gasp as Miriel found and soothed the pain of bruised knuckles and frost-stiffened joints. She fixed Miriel with a hard stare, said something in a low, hoarse voice; Miriel glanced at Valya, but the younger woman shook her head. “Too fast. I can’t understand her.” Miriel nodded, shrugged. I do not need words.

Not words, no. She had all she needed. And the words she felt, the anger and curses, were just as well not shared. 

Eira was not badly hurt; she flinched and tensed when Miriel touched her, but she allowed it, though afterward she would not meet Miriel’s eyes, rolled away from her and lay curled on her side, blinking sleepily, and tears shone on her cheeks in the firelight. Miriel wondered a little that she made no move to comfort Lani. But perhaps it is all she can do to hold onto herself.  

The girl’s eyes were wide, and she still spoke no word. But when Valya knelt and slipped an arm under her knees and another around her shoulders, she did not resist. Valya lifted her easily and laid her down on a blanket.

Miriel laid a gentle hand on her cheek and reached out, felt the fear, soothed it as one would stroke a frightened animal, and she was glad Halbarad had insisted on tending her own wound first. The child has seen enough bloody-faced monsters. She breathed slowly, her eyes never leaving the girl’s, until at last Lani’s shoulders relaxed, and she closed her eyes.

“Peace, child,” said Miriel softly, though she knew the girl could not understand.

Valya had taken Lani’s hand, and Miriel saw the girl’s knuckles tighten and whiten, but she did not resist, not even the needle, whimpered and tensed but did not move, and when it was done, she let out only a long, shuddering sigh that ended in a sob.

Miriel laid both hands on her then and took her pain, took and took until her own body burned with it, pain of a kind she had never felt, took still more until she felt the blackness creeping into her mind, and only then did she let go. She leaned back heavily against the wall, her head reeling, heard sounds of feet, the scrape of wood on wood, muffled voices. But she paid them no heed, sitting with her eyes closed, knees drawn up to her chest. No. No. I must—I can’t—No…

How long a time had passed she did not know, when she felt Valya’s hand close over hers.

“Please eat. You must eat.”

Miriel shook her head, still sunk between her knees so that Valya could not see her face.

“Miriel—” Voice tight with concern, Valya laid a hand on her back.

Muffled, but unmistakable, “I’m fine. Go.”

Gwethor nîn, you are so far from fine —But the words were not hers, not to speak aloud, not yet. Valya’s lips tightened, but she said nothing, and she obeyed.

As though Valya’s presence had been a dam that held it back, Miriel felt sounds rise almost palpable around her: voices of men, clink of metal on metal, stamp of feet, rasp of a knife on a whetstone, rattling in her, swirling and echoing off each other. She squeezed her eyes tight as if to shut them out, but it was no use, the jumbled noise pulsing with the pain in her body until she could stand it no longer. Forcing her eyes open, she rose unsteadily, hand on the wall. With staggering steps, she made her way toward the door. The voices ceased abruptly. She knew they were looking at her, but she ignored them, all her strength bent on reaching the door, and the cold, silent winter night beyond. She found it at last, wrenched it open, and stepped out into the dark.

Valya had returned to where the men were gathered around the table, eating and talking in low voices. She leaned against the wall and took a bite of bread, closing her eyes as weariness swept over her. Yet she opened them when the voices went silent, watched as Miriel crossed unsteadily to the door, watched as it closed behind her. Then she shut her eyes, and the bread ground to crumbs in her hand.

Boots on the dirt beside her, and she opened her eyes to find Halbarad there, lips tight, hand clenched at his side. But before he could speak, she read the look he cast toward the door, and knew what he would say.

“Leave her be, captain. She wants to be alone.”

“Her wounds were small. Has she another hurt?” Low and controlled, but she could feel the tension in it.

“No. Not her own.” She met his eyes. “But her own are not all she bears.” You know that better than I.  

Sudden memory, so palpable it seemed almost real, the echo of weakness and fear. And the strength that called me back. “I know.”

“Then you know she must wait out the pain. It will end, eventually.”

He nodded, his lips bloodless.

“She’s been here before,” said Valya quietly, reassurance as much for herself as for him. “She knows the way back.” 

Halbarad turned a penetrating gaze on her. Yet Valya withstood the challenge, and it was the captain who first looked away. He turned stiffly, all grace gone, stumbling a little as he crossed the uneven floor. Thrusting down fear at having defied him, Valya went back to sit in the corner by the fire with Eira and Lani. Yet before long a sharp movement caught her eye, and she looked up to see him rise abruptly and slip out the door.

When the cold hit Miriel’s face, it was as though she woke from a fever dream. She stood still, wide-eyed, blind for a time until her eyes adjusted to the darkness and saw that it was not so dark after all. The snow had stopped. The clouds lifted, lightened, and began to drift apart, outlined in moon-pale strips of light. Stars glittered in the widening gulfs between blank shores. She watched the moonlight come, the blue-white tide creeping over snowy hills as wind rolled back the clouds. Closer, and still closer, and then it was upon her, a ghostly light that glittered on the drifts. She shivered.

Creak of the door opening behind her, and closing, and then uneven footfalls, breath harsh with strain. She saw him at last, a shadow, a flicker of movement on the edge of sight though she did not turn her head.

“Miriel.”

She did not move.

“Valya told me not to come.”

She did not answer.

He was silent for a time, his breath gleaming palely in the moonlight.

“Did you know?” he asked at last. “That he would try to take you?”

It took her a moment to make sense of his words. Then she nodded. “No reason to trust me. No reason to let me close aside from that.”

Halbarad looked at her for a long moment. “ Ellenen.” He reached out and touched her uninjured cheek, and it was only when she felt the sudden cold that she realized he brushed away tears. His fingers were bare, and warm on her skin, and it was that warmth at last that brought her back to herself. She turned to him.

“Put your gloves on. No sense freezing your hands.”

“And what about you?” But the barest hint of a smile twitched the corners of his lips. He reached out and drew her own gloves from her belt and handed them to her. She took them without a word and put them on. He did the same, and then they stood in silence, watching the play of moonlight and shadow on the snow. At last, he said quietly, “Valya says the woman was bruised, but no more.”

Miriel nodded. “There was worse damage to her hands. She tried to fight.”

“And the girl?”

Silence. And then, softly, “As one might expect of a child used by men.” Her eyes found his. “I’d like to give her a day to rest before we move.”

After a moment, Halbarad nodded. “Very well.” A pause, and then, “You must rest, too.”

She ought to have been angry. At another time, she would have been. But now weariness swept through her, bone-deep, soul-deep. Tears blurred the moonlight, and she swayed. And here where there were none to see, she leaned against him, heard his breath catch, felt him shift his weight. Then his arm was around her shoulders, and they steadied each other. 

“I’ll rest,” she said softly, “if you will.” She felt him stiffen, did not look at him. “You can tell me, or you can let me see.” Or you can do neither. That also is a choice.

A long, shuddering breath, and his arm tightened around her. “It’s…not bad,” he said at last. “Hurts, but I can fight.”

She grunted. “I know that.” You shouldn’t be here. But that she could not say. “What happened?”

He shrugged, instinctive, dismissive. “Nothing…new.” 

At least he didn’t say nothing.

“I—” But then he growled, shook his head in frustration, pulled off his glove and hers, and took her hand.

He told the truth. There was no new injury, only strain on his barely-healed wound from the Trollfells. And weariness, anxiety, fear…

That was not what he meant me to see.

But I cannot unsee. He must know that.

And gently, she touched the fear, the weariness and grief, let him feel her own. I know, brother. I know.

He had not asked for healing, did not truly need it, and so she did not. But she felt his ragged breath ease, felt the fear recede. Sometimes it is enough to be known. That at least I can give.

At last he lifted his eyes to hers, released her hand and almost smiled. “Come inside, Mir. It’s cold.”

Without willing it, she found herself smiling a little in return, and when he turned back toward the house, she followed him, leaving the winter night to the shadows and the moon.

Chapter Text

Link to recording on archive.org

They rested two days, for in truth they all needed it. Kalo also was wounded, though he had said nothing the night before in his grief. Miriel woke to his groan of pain, though he tried to muffle it, pushed herself up and squeezed her eyes shut against the pounding in her head. It will pass. Water, and food, though her stomach rebelled at the thought. But then the memory of Valya’s voice, and a faint, rueful smile. She was right. I should eat. 

Creak of knees, and a soft grunt, and she opened her eyes to find Eira crouched on the dirt, just out of arm’s reach, a bowl and cup set before her. She met Miriel’s eyes, slowly held out the bowl, face expressionless. The movement was stiff, and she winced a little. Miriel remembered the bruises, the damage to her shoulders that had clearly been wrenched behind her. And still she is caring for you. Miriel straightened, made herself smile despite the pain. She took the bowl, curved her hands around the steaming cup. “Thank you.” The only other phrase she remembered in the Lossoth tongue, and Eira nodded. 

The tea was bitter willowbark, and she looked around in gratitude for Halbarad. ‘I have seen it enough times with the Chieftain.’ Of course he knows what to do. Memory of a hot summer day in Bree, and that first, reluctant request, the offer she had been nearly certain he would refuse. But he did not. He can be sensible, when he chooses…

He was not there, nor was Valya. Nor Barahir, which meant she could not communicate with Eira beyond gestures. But she drank and ate, and her head cleared, and when at last she stood, her feet were steady on the floor. Lani was still curled by the fire, breath rising and falling in sleep. But Kalo’s eyes were shut tight against the pain as Falaran cleaned a deep stab wound in his thigh. Falaran looked up as she approached, moved aside to give her room. Cautious of her fragile strength, she laid a hand on Kalo’s leg and reached out, searching, seeking any fragment of cloth or dirt that would make the wound fester. At last she sat back with a gasp, allowed Falaran to steady her. “It’s clean. Shall I—” But movement then at the door, stomp of boots and rush of cold air, and Halbarad came in, followed by Barahir, Valya, the Lossoth brothers, and Daeron. 

To Miriel’s relief, the boy looked far stronger, face flushed with cold, movements smooth and deliberate. Always a careful child. Taking care. And so she was not entirely surprised when Falaran gestured him over. But Falaran said nothing, only glanced from his maethorneth to Miriel with cocked head and raised eyebrows, and after a moment Daeron said, quietly but with certainty, “I would learn what you can teach me of healing, if you will.” 

Relief flooded through her, abrupt and unexpected, and she smiled. “Of course.” 

His hands were steady and his eyes keen, even in the dim light, and after she had set the first three stitches, he did the last two himself, slow and cautious, but certainly no worse than her own first efforts. Careful. And there are times when care is what is needed. 

They had taken the Druad bodies to a wooded area, Valya told her in a low voice, perhaps a quarter mile from the shelter. “Wolves will find them tonight, and we don’t need to hear that. Though perhaps,” she glanced at Eira, huddled by the fire, knees drawn up to her chest, “it would do them good.” 

Miriel allowed a grim smile, but then shook her head. “Perhaps for Eira.” And she knew abruptly that the Lossoth woman would relish it. “But not for the girl.” 

Lani was stirring, stretched a little in her blankets, raised her head and looked at the fire but then hid her face again. Eira watched her, but did not move. Should I…? No. Not me. She glanced at Valya, then at the girl. Valya let out a breath and nodded, and crossed the room. 

But Lani flinched when Valya spoke, moaned softly and curled in on herself when Valya put a hand on her shoulder. Valya laid another blanket over her, and retreated. 

“It will take time,” said Miriel. “Strangers hurt her, and you are still a stranger.” 

Valya jerked a nod, pursed her lips, let out a slow, trembling breath. “They deserved worse than death,” she hissed. “We should have…”

“What?” Miriel questioned softly. “What should we have done? Eira and Lani are safe, and their captors will do no more harm.” She remembered her own anger after the Lossoth attack on Elenost. After Silevren. Remembered Arahael’s mercy—and Halbarad’s knife, red in the sun. She met Valya’s eyes. “We do no less than we must. And no more.”

They burned the dead woman, Kalo’s sister. It was what the Lossoth preferred to do, Barahir told them, when there was wood available. “Like us. But they do not speak the name, until it has been given to a child. The next girl-child born to her people will be given her name.” And he blinked, and turned away from them. 

You loved a Lossoth woman. She knew it suddenly with certainty, knew also that she would never ask. And somewhere a child now bears her name. 

Kalo was silent, leaning on Savi. But Eira stepped away from Sani who had been supporting her, and stood on her own, facing the flames, and she sang. Low, and rough, shaking with the effort, but she did not falter, and when it was done, they all said something together, and then they stood silent in the snow. Barahir did not translate.

Halbarad nodded toward the shelter, and they left the Lossoth to their grief. But glancing round at them, grim-faced and pale in the thin winter light, Miriel realized Daeron was not with them. Where… But then she opened the door, and saw him, dark outline only against the glow of the fire. Sitting on the floor by Lani, her hand in his. 

“She was cold,” he said quietly, when Miriel asked. “I—I was going to follow you all outside, but I saw her shivering…”

“And she let you touch her?”

“I—yes…should I not have? I spoke to her first, though I…I don’t know how much she understood. I—” He swallowed, dropped his eyes, then looked back up at Miriel. “I think she was lonely. She knew you were going outside, knew what you were going to do…and she wanted to come, but she couldn’t—couldn’t make herself do it.”

Miriel frowned. She’s injured, no doubt in pain… but that did not seem to be what Daeron meant. “Why not?”

And now it was Daeron’s turn to look surprised. “The woman who died was her mother. Didn’t you know?”

She had not seen either of her parents die. I wasn’t there… On patrol, walking the Wild in the Chieftain’s name, when Sirhael fell to that terrible sickness, and Mirloth, weakened by healing and by grief, to winter fever a year later. An awful burden, regret never entirely assuaged… but maybe easier, in a way. When I learned of it, it was already done. And I did not have to see them burn. 

She found Barahir outside, breaking dead branches into firewood. 

“Did you not think to tell me?” Furious, far more anger than was justified, she knew, but she was too exhausted to curb it. “Would that not be an important…detail for the healer to know?”

“I—I’m sorry, Miriel.” He frowned. “I didn’t…” And then he sighed, as realization dawned. “Kalo told me, when we were outside, when you were…tending to them. And I told the others. I’d forgotten you weren’t there.” Again, more softly, “I’m sorry.”

Anger died as quickly as it had flared, and she sagged, leaned against the rough stone wall. “No wonder she’s afraid of me.” She let out a breath, shook her head. “But there was nothing else to do.” Her mother had spoken of that burden as well, the burden of guilt, of blame. Justified or not, it was no less real. I was lucky with Kir. She swallowed hard, as sudden tears stung her eyes. And with Lain. 

But then she straightened, frowned. “Why didn’t Kalo tell us earlier? He said she was his sister, but he didn’t say the girl was his niece.”

Barahir’s lips tightened, and he looked away from her. At last, in a low voice, “Her father was not Lossoth. Lossoth and Druad hunters sometimes encounter each other in this land in autumn. Usually enough game for them all, so there’s rarely conflict—at least until now. Lani’s father was Druad. Such children are…not welcomed among the Lossoth, and the women are shamed. They live on the edges of villages, shunned, disowned by their families. Many die.” A small, bitter smile. “Kalo was unusual in that he still acknowledged his sister, brought her food so she and her daughter didn’t starve. But he bears no love for that girl.” 

No wonder she fears strangers; even her own people rejected her. And then soft, cold realization: “What will happen to her now?”

Barahir sighed. “I don’t know. I tried to ask Kalo, but he wouldn’t talk about it, pretended not to understand me.” He shook his head. “Surely you’ve seen – even Eira avoids her.” 

She had seen, and wondered. And excused it as exhaustion, lingering fear. Not rejection of an injured, motherless girl. And she ground her teeth as anger flared again. Fear as well – What will happen to her? Have we saved her only to die? Now that his sister is gone, will Kalo…

“Miriel.” Barahir’s voice was soft, and the hand he laid on her shoulder, and she realized she was trembling. He stepped close, and she did not pull away, let him draw her to him, let her head rest against him. I am so tired…

“I—” He stopped, and she heard him swallow, felt him tense a little. “I must tell you this, so you will understand. So you’ll believe me.” And it seemed that he was convincing himself as he spoke. “I…met a Lossoth woman, the first summer I spent in the north country. I loved her, Miriel. You—you must believe me. I know you think me incapable of love—”

“I do not think that,” she whispered.

Silence, and then a soft, mirthless laugh. “You would be justified. But I loved her, and I caused her death. Our—” His voice broke. “Our child, it came too early, and…they both died.” Now it was she who felt him trembling, moved her arms from where they had been at her sides and put them around him. As I had wanted to so long ago. But not like this. Not like this. “But if she had lived? If they both had lived? What then?” Anguish in his voice, but muted, worn smooth by time. “She would have had to leave her own people, or be rejected like Lani and her mother.” Again, that soft, bitter laugh. “And would the Dunedain have accepted her? Only a year after her people attacked us? I think not. So you see, it was not only you. I am not fit to love any woman. I only cause pain.”

She could think of nothing to say. It was too much, too many memories, too much grief. And I am so tired…

“We will bring Lani back with us.” Still soft, but the trembling was gone, and she heard a finality, a certainty in his voice that had not been there before. “There is no other choice. I will not leave her to die. Maybe Meren and Tathar…”

That would be asking much of your brother. He might do it, though… And then she knew, with quiet, unwavering certainty. “Darya will take her.” Darya, and Anna. 

“Would she?” Hope suddenly, in eyes still bright with tears.

And in spite of it all, a smile spread over her face. “She already loves one orphan outsider bastard. She can take another.” 

Barahir pulled back, looked in her eyes and smiled. “They will take another. Might even keep Anna in the village a bit more. Darya would be grateful for that.”

Miriel managed a small laugh. “Don’t count on it.” And then, sobering, “Where is Halbarad?”

He had seen them. Watched them. From the shadow of trees, where he had been gathering wood, he watched them talk. Watched Barahir embrace her, and then she him, watched them smile, eyes on each other. 

Forced his jaw to unclench, his hands to ease out of fists. Stop being an idiot.

Forced himself to step out from the trees, walk across the snow toward them, listen impassively as Barahir described the problem, the proposed solution. And in the end, grudgingly, he nodded. “Anna will…have to get used to it. But she’ll agree.” And he remembered another girl-child, older than Lani, bigger, stronger. But alone, like her. And afraid. She found a place with us. And this child will, too.

Our task is done. It was time to return to the Lossoth village. With three injured, they would have to travel slowly, their supplies stretched thin. 

It does not feel done. We’re missing something.

That last man…  

Halbarad shook his head. You’re imagining things.

Breath of cold, hiss of fury, whisper of dread as the knife slid home. He had felt it before without knowing. But now he knew. 

“Barahir.” Voice carefully level, “Go talk to Eira. Or get one of the Lossoth men, if she won’t talk to you. Everything she remembers about her captors. She won’t want to talk, but I need to know.”

Barahir’s lips tightened, but he nodded, and returned to the hut. 

When the door had creaked shut behind him, Halbarad turned to Miriel. But the words would not come, and he only looked at her, until at last she asked, barely keeping the weariness from her voice, “What is it, captain?”

“You can see what is in a body.” Quiet, almost tentative, “Can you also see…feeling, memory? I—” He swallowed. “He can, sometimes. That’s why I—maybe you…”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Sometimes.”

“What must I do?”

You? Since when do you—It doesn’t matter. He’s asking now. “Think of it with your whole mind,” she said. “Remember, as if it were happening now. And it would help me to know what I’m looking for.”

He drew a breath, held her eyes for a moment. Strange, and unexpected: I’m sorry, Miriel… “The moment the last raider died.”

She did not flinch, a flicker of her eyes the only reaction, and she nodded. “Very well.” And then, with a faint, wry smile, “Thank you. Can you tell me why?”

I would not spring that on her unawares…but that is the test. Was it really there? “No. I’m sorry, but…no.” And then, low and rushed, “I am grateful to you, Miriel. For everything. Just…know that.” And then he closed his eyes, and filled his mind with the memory, and held out his hand.

Her hand was cold. He felt her grip his hand, heard her soft gasp, felt her flinch and with his other hand reached out to steady her, though still he did not open his eyes. But at last her grip eased, and she released him, though still she held his hand. 

“Yes,” she whispered.

He swayed, his hand on her shoulder now an anchor for himself, she now the rock. It was gone. How is it here? It was gone…

“I don’t know,” she said, voice shaking only a little. “What it is. They…they never told me.” Fool, why did you not ask?

He grunted. “Perhaps the Elves do not know all.” Or perhaps they choose what they tell us.

And she said quietly, “Even Arwen never made that claim.”

He forced a wry smile. “Ah, the vaunted Lady, the Evenstar, the image of Luthien herself—”

And in spite of it all, Miriel laughed a little. “You sound like you’re jealous of her.” 

Jealous? I was. For she may someday have what I never will. 

Sobering, Miriel shook her head. “I do not think she told me all she knew, or guessed. And I was so glad it was over that I didn’t even think to ask.”

Glad I was no longer a burden. No longer dragging you down, draining the very life from your body. A burden I can never repay…

‘She did her duty, and you did yours, and you are both here.’

He drew a soft breath at the keenness of the memory, and she felt it, though she did not know the cause, and she lifted her free hand to place it over his where it lay on her shoulder. “We both survived that,” she said softly. “And we will survive this, whatever it is.”

Or we will not. But neither said that.

Chapter Text

Link to recording on archive.org

The journey back took seven days, for neither Kalo nor Lani could travel quickly, and they had to go out of their way north to find the ford in the river. The weather had warmed enough to break up the ice, but still large pieces floated and bobbed in the current. Even at the ford, the cloudy, swift-flowing meltwater was higher than their boots, and they had to feel their way across barefoot. The Lossoth brothers went first, for they knew this crossing, followed by Kalo with Barahir at his side in case he stumbled, and then Eira with Falaran and Valya. 

“She must let me carry her,” said Halbarad in a low voice, nodding toward Lani. “She’ll never make it across on her own.” 

Miriel bit her lip. Lani had allowed her to take some of the pain each day, but nothing more. She would not look at Miriel, and flinched away from the men. Eira gave her food, but aside from that all four of the Lossoth ignored her. But she is not afraid of Daeron. He walked by her each day, and slept next to her each night, her small, thin body pressed against his for warmth. “He has a younger sister,” Falaran had told Miriel in a low voice, on the first night of their journey. 

Careful. Taking care. And in spite of cold and weariness and pain, she had smiled. 

But Lani had allowed no one else to touch her, and now she shrank away from Halbarad. He sighed. “Child, you must—” But she let out a small noise of fear, eyes wide and staring. He lifted his hands and stepped back, shaking his head in frustration.

“I will take her.” Quiet but clear, certain, and Daeron met the eyes that turned to him without flinching.

Can you? But Halbarad did not ask the question. 

Daeron raised his chin. “It is the best way. The only way that won’t do her more hurt.”

Rush of water over stones, a soft cry as Eira slipped and Valya caught her. At last, Halbarad nodded. “Very well.” 

Lani gasped in pain as Daeron lifted her, but then she clung to his back in rigid silence. And with Halbarad and Miriel on either side, they stepped into the icy water. 

Miriel’s feet ached with cold before they were a quarter of the way across, and by halfway they were nearly numb, clumsy on the slippery rocks. She heard Daeron’s breathing beside her grow ragged, the hiss of breath as his foot caught a rock and he stumbled. But he did not fall, as swift water rose above his knees and chunks of ice floated past, and at last, step by step, he reached the shallows, and finally the muddy river bank. He let Lani down, and sank to his knees, gasping. 

He does not lack courage; he does what he can do. As do we all. Miriel met Halbarad’s eyes, and he gave a small, weary smile. 

She had watched the captain, as they made their way over rough country, rock and mud beneath the thaw. Watched the slight stiffness in movement, carefully hidden but not from her, who knew where to look. Watched him sit behind Eira around the fire at night, to shelter her from the wind. Watched more than once as he slipped Daeron his share of their dwindling food, indicating with a slight tilt of the head that it was for Lani. His weathered face was pale, and far too thin. As we all are. She bit her lip, and said nothing.

They approached the Lossoth camp not long after noon on a raw day of low clouds and wind from the north. Kalo quickened their pace, eager for home. But before they reached it, perhaps a quarter mile out into the hills, a Lossoth woman stepped from behind a large rock where she had clearly been on guard, a short bow slung over her shoulder. She exchanged a few words with Kalo, embraced Eira and then waved them on. She did not look at Lani. When they were a little way past her, Kalo spoke to Barahir in a low voice. “Posting guards is…not something they have done, not for a long time,” Barahir told Halbarad. “He says the last time they did it was when he was a child, when orcs came across the plains from the mountains.” He shook his head. “He remembers the fear of those days.”

Yet when they arrived at last at the Lossoth camp, they found the scars of the attack nearly gone. The damaged shelters had been repaired, and the people moved without the caution Miriel had seen earlier. Two men were skinning some small animal, and wet clothing hung drying in the wind, and children played between the huts. Cries rose at the travelers’ approach, but this time they were not cries of fear, and Eira and the three men were welcomed home.

Lani hung back, close by Daeron’s side, her eyes on the ground. But Daeron raised his chin, met the gaze of any who looked their way. And then carefully, deliberately, he put an arm around her shoulders. 

Amid the happy clamor, Barahir spoke to one of the villagers, and then turned to Halbarad. “The Chieftain is here.” Halbarad let out a sharp breath, and bowed his head in relief. “He went out hunting early this morning, with Nika and two others. They should return—ah!” A rare, broad smile, and he gestured, and they turned to see four figures coming down the hills from the west. 

Aragorn slung the small deer he had been carrying down to the ground, and gripped Halbarad’s shoulders. Yet he asked only, softly, “Are you well, brother?” Halbarad nodded, said nothing, and Miriel could not see his face. But his back shook with every breath, and she looked away, for it seemed an intrusion. 

Yet joyful relief bubbled in her heart, as it always did upon seeing Aragorn after an absence, and she found herself smiling in spite of weariness and lingering pain. And when at last he stepped away from Halbarad, he turned to her. “Maloseg.” Nothing more, but he embraced her, and she heard the name he did not say.

The Lossoth brought them to an empty hut and gave them food, and they ate gratefully, the hospitality in late winter dearth truly generous. But after they had eaten, Aragorn gestured to Halbarad and Barahir, and they went out.

Lani would not enter the hut, sat on the ground outside with her arms around her knees, and Daeron sat next to her. “I think she is not allowed,” he said, when Miriel asked. “It is…something Kalo said.” An undercurrent of anger in his voice. “She and her mother had their own hut, away from the others. She cannot enter one that is not hers.” He turned, met Miriel’s eyes. “And hers was burned.”

She truly has no home.

Miriel brought her food, set it back in her hands when the girl pushed it away. At last Lani consented to eat, but her hands shook, and her eyes were empty. Aside from Halbarad, Miriel and Barahir had not spoken to the others of the plan they had made, for they needed Aragorn’s agreement, and false hope would be worse than nothing at all. She thinks there is no other way… “Daeron, stay with her.” 

He frowned, cocked his head in question. “I…of course.”

“I mean it. Do not leave her. If you go to piss, have Valya sit with her.”

A moment, and then he let out a breath, and nodded. “I will not let any do her harm,” he said softly. “Even herself.”

Miriel laid a hand on his shoulder. “Good man.” And without waiting for his reply, she pushed herself to her feet and turned away. 

She found Aragorn with Nika and Kalo, and Halbarad and Barahir, a little away from the activity of the camp, deep in conversation. Despite her weariness, she stood, and waited. At this moment, there is nothing more important. Aragorn saw her, she knew, though his face did not show it and he kept his eyes on Nika and Halbarad. But when at last the conversation ended, and the group broke up, he came straight to her. 

“Lani will come with us.”

Miriel let out a breath of relief, felt herself sway a little, as at the lifting of a burden. She met Halbarad’s eyes, and he nodded. “Darya and Anna.”

“It will be hard, for all three of them.” Aragorn allowed a brief, sober smile. “But your sister is as strong as you are, in her own way.”

“Well do I know it,” said Miriel softly. And for a moment she did not see the Chieftain, nor Halbarad, but an image of a woman, prematurely aged by sacrifice and grief, rocking and rocking in her chair by the fire.

Lani wept, and hid her face, and Daeron put his arms around her and held her close. Barahir explained it twice over, but then he withdrew, leaving Daeron with a single phrase in the Lossoth tongue, that he repeated over and over. “You are safe.”

Aragorn turned to Miriel, question and concern both in his eyes. “Should I…?”

“Not yet,” she said, after a moment. “Later. She…” A small, wry smile. “You are a stranger. Let Daeron try to convince her that you are a friend.” 

He nodded, lips tight, and she saw the pain in his eyes. You want to help, and you cannot. And caring not who saw them, she reached out and took his hand. “Brannon mell.”

He spoke to her later, and she told him everything, let him feel what she could not say. And she wept, and he let her weep and did not try make her stop, only held her hand and let her feel him with her as she poured out weariness and anger, frustration and grief. When at last her tears were done he dried her cheeks, and looked in her reddened eyes with that familiar, quiet intensity that always took her breath. “Ellenen.”

They left at first light the next morning. Despite the early hour, most of the village was there to see them off, silent in the chill wind. Eira bowed to Halbarad, touched her brow and and chest and belly in what Barahir told them was a gesture of deepest respect and obligation. “It means…all that is mine is yours, or close enough.” 

Daeron glanced at Miriel, said softly, “Ani luciel nin cuil.” And Miriel smiled. “Something like that.”

Then Eira embraced her, and handed her a small, smooth thing that gleamed even in the gray of morning. “The tooth of a sea beast,” said Barahir quietly. “Carved with the stars of the hunter, that shine brightest over the northern lands.” She ran her fingers over it, and slipped it into her belt pouch, and tears briefly blurred her eyes. 

Nika spoke to them all, words of gratitude that Barahir translated as best he could, and she made the same gesture to Aragorn that Eira had made to Halbarad. “They will watch the north for us,” said Barahir. And then, in a lower voice, “Better than we could ourselves.”

As these formalities were being spoken, a flicker caught Miriel’s eye, and a small child darted out of the crowd of villagers. Movement familiar, bone earring in his left ear: The boy Valya— And even as recognition dawned, he spoke in a small, high voice, and Lani turned, and he pressed something into her hand before slipping back behind the legs of the villagers. 

And last of all, as they turned to depart, Kalo spoke Miriel’s name. Quietly, haltingly, in the common tongue, gesture clear where words were uncertain, “You sister…help…me sister child.” He handed her a small deerskin bag. “This belong sister. Now belong…Lani.” And then, very softly, “Thank you.” He bowed, and turned away, and perhaps she only imagined the brightness of tears in his eyes. 

They traveled more slowly than usual for Lani’s sake, and stopped well before dark. As the others set up camp, Aragorn gestured to Miriel and Halbarad, and they followed him, just far enough that they could not be overheard.

“Tell her,” said Aragorn quietly. 

Halbarad turned to Miriel. “It’s not there.” He swallowed. “The…memory. I know it, but I can’t see it, can’t feel it.” A wry grimace, and he shook his head. “I ought to be glad. But it’s…wrong.”

Miriel felt a sudden, soft dread, bit her lip, steeled herself and then reached back in her own memory, seeking what he had showed her. Faint, faded… but the whisper of fear touched her heart, and she shuddered with cold that was not the wind. 

“Calm is my soul,” said Aragorn softly, his hand warm on hers. 

“There was no reason to take captives,” Halbarad growled. “It makes no sense. They would have to be watched, they’d travel more slowly…And if the raids were for food and supplies, bringing home more mouths would make the problem worse.” A soft, bitter grunt. “For all their faults, the Druadwaith are not slavers.”

“No,” said Aragorn. “There have not been slaves in the northern lands for many long centuries, save those taken by orcs.” His lips tightened, and he looked away from them, toward the east. “And the Druadwaith hate orcs nearly as much as we do, for orcs from the mountains raid their lands. The captives they take are most often Druad.” He shook his head sharply, glanced at Halbarad. “For all their faults, the Druadwaith would never take orders from orcs.”

Halbarad shrugged. “Maybe it was his own choice?” But Miriel could tell he did not believe it. “He was the leader, I think. He reacted first, commanded the others. Maybe in anger at being denied what they wanted in the village…?”

“Perhaps,” said Aragorn quietly. “If not for what you felt. I believe it was real, and I do not believe it was chance.” He fell silent, again gazing east, and north. At last he turned back to them. “There is…a will that opposes us. I can feel it.” He met Miriel’s eyes. “As, I think, can you.”

Again the cold dread that caught her breath, the flicker of fearful memory. But a little less terrible, perhaps, for being named. “Yes,” she said softly. And shared.

Aragorn reached out, touched the livid scar on her cheek. “My brave one,” he murmured. But in the touch she felt his fear, caught his hand before he could withdraw. And the words she spoke then were not hers, and she wondered a little to hear them. “Have courage, brannon mell. Dark may be your path, but you do not walk alone.” The feeling that surged through her as she spoke had no name. The keenness of it caught her breath, and she shuddered as her sight went dim, and all she could see was his star.  

But then his hand cupped her cheek, and his warmth was in her, and Halbarad’s arm steady around her shoulders. They did not speak, but she felt them with her, body and heart, and also that other that was like both but was neither. 

What are we three? But then she smiled a little, and straightened. “The shield of the north,” she said softly. “In life, and in death.”

The slowness of their journey was a frustration to Aragorn, she could tell. And there was reason for it. They had little food, far less than Rangers liked to carry, especially in winter. The patrol had already lasted longer than he had expected, and he would not accept more than barest need required from the Lossoth. They offered, but he had refused, calculating that they had enough to last them home. The next day he took the lead, by instinct and long habit, but whenever his mind wandered, his legs fell into their accustomed long stride, and Lani fell behind. After the third time, as they waited for Lani and Daeron to catch up, he shook his head and looked around at them with a small, rueful smile. “Valya, you’re better at this than I am. Take us home.”

Valya looked startled, but she did not question, and she obeyed. Day after day she led them south, over brown hills and muddy valleys and streams swift with snowmelt. Their food dwindled, and they grew thin, and Miriel dreamed of bread and apples and roasting meat. But at last, on a morning of sunlight and clear air after two days of rain, they crested a low ridge to find the North Downs blue on the edge of the sky before them. Valya halted, gazing ahead, and said nothing. But Aragorn stepped to her side, looked at the Downs and then back north the way they had come, and then he met her eyes. “Well done,” he said quietly.

Miriel felt relief flood through her, and she remembered her own journey with Anna, slogging through snow in the midwinter cold, and she smiled. She heard Daeron speaking quietly to Lani, knew he must be telling her they were nearly home. He had learned enough of the Lossoth tongue, and she enough of the common speech, that they could make themselves understood on most things, though there were still times when Barahir was called to help. But when she woke in the night it was Daeron who held her, murmuring over and over that first phrase he had learned: “You are safe.”

When they reached the watchpost, Faelon was not there. “Went east with three others, just after the new moon,” the two Rangers who were there told them. “Heading for the Thurinrim road, he said, though he didn’t say why. He left word for you, my lord.” The man handed Aragorn a small leather pouch. “And you just missed Darahad; he left for Elenost two days ago, when the weather cleared. Said he would check for messages, and return if all was well.” Aragorn nodded, for that had been his direction when they went north. In better days, it had been the custom for either the Chieftain or the brannon taid to remain in Elenost, to see to the direction of the patrols and the governing of their people, and to deal with any crises that might arise. But since Arador’s time it had been honored more in the breach than the observance, as their numbers had dwindled and the threats had grown. It was a risk, they all knew. And Aragorn knew it better than any. 

“We should meet him as he returns,” he said. And then, with a small smile, “Your reliefs will be on their way as soon as the planting is done. It has been a long winter, brothers. But spring will come.” 

They did not stay even a night at the watchpost, for the weather was clear, and they were all eager for home. They took the track along the eastern edge of the downs, not well-worn but clear enough for Rangers to follow, up and down over the rounded ridges and shallow valleys, the first pale green of spring beginning to show on south-facing slopes. 

The clear weather did not hold, and the last day it rained, cold wind whipping the water in their faces. Lani was drier than any of them in her seal-skin cloak, but she was far too thin, and she shivered and huddled close to Daeron. He kept her moving as the rain fell and the light faded, but she stopped dead when at last they came in sight of the village. Miriel, walking just ahead of them, heard their footsteps cease, and then Daeron’s voice behind her, low and gentle in the Lossoth tongue. She looked back, sighed, thrust down irritation. We’re so close… “Val,” she called, voice raised against the wind. Valya glanced back, and they all halted, backs to the driving rain. 

“She must be afraid,” Miriel said softly, in answer to Aragorn’s questioning look. A small, wry smile. “I would be.” The wooden walls, stone houses, wide fields, even the cattle wandering the pastures in search of the first grass – all were new and strange and frightening to this child of the far north. He nodded, laid a hand briefly on Miriel’s shoulder, and she felt the gentle pressure of reassurance. 

He approached them slowly, and knelt on the wet ground before Lani, so his face was level with hers. She did not look at him, and Miriel could not hear what he said. But at last he reached out, carefully, slowly, and took her hand. She stood stock still, but she did not flinch nor cry out, and gradually the rigid tension of fear left her shoulders, and she lifted her chin and met his eyes. And as he rose again to his feet, he spoke just loud enough that Miriel caught the last word, that same, small word in the Lossoth tongue: “...safe.” 

Even in the rain they sang as they neared the gate, and Miriel felt her heart leap as the bell sounded, and she heard Valya’s voice with her own. And Aragorn, Halbarad, Barahir, Falaran… she heard them all, each a little different, but together they rose above the storm. 

They found only Darahad and two others waiting for them, as the light faded and the wind rose. But one of them was Meren, and he ran to her, embraced her fiercely in spite of the wet. “I’ll get you soaked,” she protested, muffled at little against his chest. 

“So?”

And that was all, and she let him hold her, felt his solid, familiar warmth, and tears mingled with rain on her cheeks. But at last she drew back, looked in his eyes. “All well?”

He nodded, and smiled. “Now that you’re here.”

She laughed softly, and kissed his cheek. But then she stepped back and cocked her head toward Lani. “I’ll come find you later; I need to see Darya. Val can explain.” He raised his eyebrows, but asked no questions, and she spoke briefly to Valya and to Aragorn, and then slowly she approached Daeron and Lani. “It is cold,” she said, and though she knew Lani could not understand, she spoke directly to her, held her reluctant gaze while Daeron translated. “My sister’s house is warm. Will you come?”

Daeron spoke far longer than she did, and she knew he must be saying things she had not. Trying to convince her that this new person, this new place also are safe. And Miriel said quietly, “She is a healer. Like me.” 

Daeron glanced up at her, a faint smile on his pale, tired face. “I already told her that. She has agreed to come. It’s just…give her a moment. This,” he gestured round with his chin, encompassing everything around them, “this is…much for her.”

Miriel nodded. “I know.” And she stood shivering in the rain, until at last Lani let Daeron take her hand, and lead her toward the healers’ house.

Chapter Text

Link to recording on archive.org

Darya watched them come. She had not gone out in the rain, but from the door of the house she watched them, saw one of the cloaked figures embrace Meren in that fierce, full-hearted way that only Miriel did, and she felt a wave of relief wash over her. Anna was still at Sarn Ford, as far as she knew. If anything had happened, I would know. They would send word. Eventually. Patrols could—did—sometimes simply disappear, nothing certain ever known. But not the Chieftain and Halbarad. Not them. And not my sister. 

Not this time, at least. 

But Miriel was not alone. The girl’s Lossoth garments were pale in the fading light, sharp contrast to the gray cloaks of the Rangers. Darya had a sudden, powerful flash of memory, so strong it nearly took her breath, of the last time she had seen Lossoth clothing. Lossoth faces. Lossoth weapons. And she breathed slowly to steady her heart. She had seen much since then, many terrible days. But never so much at once. So much blood, so much death. I was so young then. And Mother… She shook herself. Not now. If Miriel is bringing her here, she needs help. 

The girl walked slowly, tentatively, but her steps were steady and her body straight, no obvious sign of injury or illness. Yet her grip on Daeron’s hand was rigid, her eyes wide and darting. She’s terrified. Memory vanished then, and reluctance. Darya threw a cloak over her shoulders, and stepped out into the rain. 

She did not at first address the girl, but embraced Miriel, touched the scar on her cold, wet cheek with gentle fingers. “Tell me later. Come in and get warm first.”

“The girl isn’t hurt,” said Miriel in a low voice, slipping an arm around Darya’s waist to pull her close as they walked toward the door. 

So we can talk without being overheard.  

“Not in body, at least. Not anymore.”

Not—later. Simple things now. “What is her name?”

“Lani.”

“What does she need?”

“Warmth, and food. Dry clothes.” Miriel’s eyes met Darya’s in the candlelight as they stepped through the door. “And somewhere that is safe.”

Ah. Several possibilities, but all similar enough as to make no matter. At least not yet. 

“Does she know the common speech?”

“Some. Enough.”

“Will she let me touch her?”

A pause, and then, “Probably not.”

Ah. 

“Daeron should stay with her. He’s the only one she trusts.”

Darya raised her eyebrows in question. “And you?”

Low, and flat, “I mercied her mother.”

Darya had done it many times, seen their mother do it. Memory of pain, and an old woman rocking, rocking, and at last burning with fever until there was nothing left. She told me not to. Not for her. She would not let me take that on myself. Without willing it, her arm tightened around Miriel. “We do what we must, nethanin,” she said softly.

Miriel nodded, throat suddenly tight. From generation to generation, we do what we must, that our people may survive. And then, abrupt and unexpected, but clear in her mind as if he stood before her, another face. Another fatherless child. But strangely her heart was eased, and she almost smiled. Brannon mell. 

They were in the kitchen now, at the back of the house, the warmest room for the great open fireplace that Darya kept always burning, never knowing when she might need hot water. Lani and Daeron had followed them, and now stood dripping and shivering in the sudden warmth. A last glance at Miriel, and then Darya stepped away from her, spoke to Daeron though she did not approach them. “Do you think you can get her to take her wet things off, if we leave you alone?”

Daeron glanced round, then down at Lani. “Is there a smaller room? She…is not used to houses so large.”

Darya nodded. “Of course. This way.”

When she had given them dry clothes and water for washing, food and candles and extra blankets, Darya gestured Miriel back to the kitchen, “You can tell me all of it later. But tell me what I need to know now.”

It was easier than Miriel had thought it might be. In the warmth of the fire and the comfort of her sister’s presence, the bleak north seemed far away, the burned camps, the stone hut, the pain of all she had done and seen. “This was her only chance,” she said at last, looking into the fire. “She would have died if we had left her there.” 

“She may yet die,” said Darya softly.

“I know.”

“I’ll do all I can.” Darya swallowed. “As will Anna. Whenever she comes home.”

Miriel nodded, met Darya’s eyes, managed a small, sober smile. “I know. That’s why she’s here.” She shuddered with cold, despite the heat of the fire. 

“I’ll take care of them,” said Darya, laying a hand on her shoulder. “You take care of yourself. They’re using all my hot water, but there will be plenty in the bath house.”

“And only Valya to share it with,” said Miriel, smile wide now, and true. “There are on occasion advantages to being a woman.” 

As she had expected, the men’s side of the bathhouse was loud and crowded; she heard Falaran’s voice, and Barahir’s, and occasionally Halbarad’s, along with others she did not recognize. But the women’s side was empty save for Valya, who sat on a wooden bench, washing her hair over a basin. Miriel felt a sudden, sharp longing for the deep pools of Rivendell…and a body, slender and pale and beautiful in the steam…She flushed, and was grateful for the dim light. A raucous laugh then, Barahir’s voice, and Halbarad’s answering, low and fierce. 

Another body, burning with fever, trembling in her arms. But later, warmth at her back in the night, and strong, scarred hands nearly gentle—

She shook her head sharply. Valya looked up, caught the gesture, frowned in concern. “Are you all right?”

Miriel nodded, made herself smile. “I thought someday they might grow up.” 

Valya laughed. “Never.”

When they were clean and in dry clothes, damp hair hanging loose down their backs, they made their way around puddles and ruts to the Hall. The rain had ceased, and the night was quiet, clouds drifting apart as the moon rose. Miriel paused before the door, turned to Valya as moonlight fell on their faces. “I will be proud on the day I can call you sister,” she said softly.

Valya dropped her eyes, shifted her weight. But then she lifted her chin, met Miriel’s eyes and smiled. “So will I.” And together they went into the warmth of the Hall. 

He was not looking for her. Of course he wasn’t. She’s with her sister. Darya will take care of her. There’s nothing—The door opened, not the great carved doors that were only opened in the warmth of summer, but the small side door to the enclosed entryway that was for everyday use. People had been coming and going all evening; it was only happenstance that he had placed himself in such a way that he could see them, as he sat by the great hearth with Aragorn. He ate and drank, but spoke little, and let himself fall into a haze of warmth and food and mead after so long in the Wild. There were many who wished to speak to the Chieftain, a constant stream coming and going, but Halbarad let their conversation wash over him unheeded. If he needs me, he’ll ask. Yet his gazed slipped sideways every time the door opened…and every time, he pulled it back, and pushed away—What? There’s nothing there. Stop being a fucking idiot. 

He let out a sharp breath, straightened and shook himself, elbow knocking a plate so it clattered against another, would have spilled a mug had he not caught it.

“Hal?” Aragorn’s voice, soft, concerned.

Halbarad turned to him. “What?”

Aragorn looked in his eyes, let out a breath and laid a hand on his shoulder, then shook his head with a small, wry smile. I won’t tell you to go to bed. But you should.

Halbarad grunted, looked away from him. What are you, my mother?

The hand on his shoulder tightened. Your brother. 

At last Halbarad turned back to him, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. So I can’t outgrow listening to you? 

Aragorn gripped his shoulder, then let him go. No, gwador nîn. You cannot. 

Halbarad shifted, stretched, felt his head reel a little. Shouldn’t have drunk so much straight off patrol. “Suppose I’ve had about enough. I’ll—” And then the door opened once more. 

He almost didn’t recognize her. Don’t lie.

He had seen her with her hair down before. I must have…

But if so, he had no memory of it. 

She was smiling, turned to Valya and said something, then cast her eyes over the tables, looking for friends in the smoky lamplight. Meren rose, and she saw him, and her smile became a broad, joyful grin. 

Aragorn said nothing, only watched Halbarad’s eyes, and his face. Perhaps if he had not known them so intimately, he would have seen nothing. Mild interest at the unexpected, nothing more. That is what others saw, if they saw anything at all. But he knew those eyes.

She slid onto the bench beside Meren, bumped her shoulder against his and took a slice of bread off his plate. “I know you got that for me.”

He laughed. “Of course.” But then, pushing the plate toward her, “You’re too thin, Mir.”

She shrugged, met his eyes briefly. “We’re here.”

He looked at her, really looked at her in the warm, flickering light, and his hand lifted, and fingers brushed the scar on her hollow cheek. She flinched, just a little but he felt it, and withdrew his hand. He gazed at her, long and searching. Then carefully, deliberately, he put an arm around her shoulders, drew her close and laid his brow against hers, felt bones beneath her skin despite thick winter garments. “Gwethor nîn.” 

Only a moment, then he straightened, managed a wry smile and pushed himself up from the bench. “I’ll get another plate.”

She ate with him, listened with pleasure to all he could tell of the children, both his own and Isilmir, and smiled to see Valya and Daeron with two other maethorneth, at their own end of a table. But she spoke little, of their task said only that it was completed, and without loss. Not to us. “And we brought a girl back with us. An orphan. She’s with Darya.” 

Meren glanced at her sidelong, looked down at his hands where they lay on the table. Ask Barahir. She doesn’t need that now. He straightened, nodded toward the maethorneth. “How’s Valya?”

Miriel smiled without thinking, as he had know she would. But she did not answer at once. She knew the answer, had decided for certain as she watched Valya guide them home from the north, confident and unerring. But it was a heavy thing, more even than the choice to take her in the first place. If I’m wrong…

I’m not wrong. 

“She’ll be ready by midsummer.”

Meren raised his eyebrows, but then he shook his head and smiled. “I thought so.”

“I’ll miss her,” said Miriel quietly, after a moment. “But she doesn’t need me anymore.” She swallowed, throat suddenly tight, and looked away from Meren. Why am I—

He laid a hand over hers, caressed her lean, chapped fingers. But he felt a sudden reluctance to speak.

This is what you hoped. You cannot always be there for her. None of us can. But perhaps all of us together…

He nodded, and squeezed her hand. “She will always need you.” He met her eyes. “As you will need her.” He drew a breath. You believe it, and she needs to hear it. Slowly, willing her to understand, “It takes nothing away from us.” He swallowed. Say it. “If you make the oath to her. It is not…the usual way of things, but it is done.” He smiled, small and sad. “My father had two oath-brothers.”

“And all three of them died.” A whisper; she had not meant to say it aloud, flinched to hear the words. Far from home, in the Wild in winter…

“But the brannon taid survived,” he said softly.

Her first clear memory: Arahael riding through the gate with her grandfather in his arms. And even in her own shock and grief, she remembered the expression on Meren’s small, round face when the brannon taid told him his father had died. Arahael had said it plainly, too exhausted and grieved, perhaps, to soften the blow for a child. Or perhaps not. There is no use in pretending the world is otherwise than it is, if a child is to grow up strong enough to face it. She put an arm around his shoulders, as she had done then. She had not really understood it, knew only that her friend was crying, and his mother standing rigid, unseeing, unable to comfort him. And so she had held him, while her own mother knelt in the mud and reached out to her grandfather, and made the grim, irrevocable choice. 

I cannot heal him. But I can make his death easy. 

Miriel had not understood her mother’s pain then, had thought it was only the anguish of grief. I know better now. 

But Darya had stood with her mother, and so Miriel stayed with her friend. My brother.

“They fulfilled their oaths.” Older, deeper, rougher, but it was the same voice. “To the brannon taid, and to each other. Arahael told me later that if they had not done what they did, he would not have escaped.” 

A disaster mercifully rare, four Rangers killed in one fight. They fulfilled their oaths, and they died. 

And now Valya will take that oath. Because I said she was ready. 

She is ready. 

“Courage is not the absence of fear.” Meren’s voice, soft, and he looked in her eyes. Slowly he reached out, touched the scar on her cheek. And his hand trembled, just a little. “Gwethor nîn, I almost lost you. A little lower, or higher…” He swallowed hard to steady his voice. “Perhaps one day I will. Or maybe, one day, she will save you, and you will return because of her.” But then he smiled, and his hand moved down to gently shake her shoulder. “Don’t overthink it, Mir. Come on, looks like Barahir’s about to start singing. I have to be there for that.” 

She laughed a little, more to reassure him that from any feeling of mirth, but she rose, and followed him to the benches by the great hearth. Falaran moved over to give them room just as Barahir, clearly several drinks in, let loose with a song involving a young woman, an old horse, and a barrel of beer. He sang with great enthusiasm, if not great skill, and whenever the pretty lass was mentioned, he gestured floridly at Meren. 

“I suppose that makes me the horse?” Miriel murmured, and Meren laughed, and pulled her close.

He almost left then. Barahir’s drunken shouts—that is not singing—and the smoky, stuffy air, his own less than steady head and overfull stomach, the dull ache in his hip, stiff after so long sitting on the hard bench…

Don’t lie. 

For that had all been tolerable, until—

He’s her gwador. They’ve been best friends since they were children. He’s married, and to a woman far more beautiful than—

He knew Tathar was beautiful. He could appreciate the beauty of women. The occasional pleasure as well, though never with women of his own people. There were many who had sought him over the years. But he was not Barahir, could not do what Barahir did, without love and without remorse. He knew why Barahir did it; he was one of the few who knew, for he had been in the north that summer. He had seen it play out, both the joy and the breaking. A bitter, mirthless smile, as he watched Barahir’s drunken antics. We are alike in that. 

Barahir had approached Meren again, reached out to caress his hair as he sang of the maid’s lovely locks, and Meren slapped his hand away, and everyone laughed. 

Everyone else was looking, so he could look. He saw their smiles, their closeness, their joy in each other. What would it be to be unbroken?

He was aware of Aragorn beside him, was always aware, whenever he was near. And he wanted to be near, still, though he hated himself for it. Comfort, reassurance – It is right when I am with him. That had always been, since the beginning, since the day he had come to them, standing between Elrond’s sons in the morning light, his face fair and unlined and open in wonder as he took in his true people, his true home. Who did not love him in that moment? 

Halbarad let out a long breath. It was my fault as much as his. I knew what I was doing. A faint, mirthless smile. My gwethor made sure of it. 

He remembered it with perfect clarity, though twenty years and more had passed. She had brought him into the hills behind the village, where they were certain to be alone and unobserved. And then she turned on him. 

"What the fuck are you doing, Hal?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. What are you doing with him?"

He looked away, and said nothing. 

She grunted, shook her head. "Perhaps I must be clearer. Why are you fucking the Chieftain?”

He brought his eyes back to hers, lifted his chin. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Jealous?"

Silence. And then, soft and cold, "That does not deserve an answer."

"Then why do you care? It’s not hurting you. It’s nothing to do with you." Even as he said it, he regretted it. He felt the blow, saw it land. A blink, the slightest flinch, a brief flicker in the fierce set of her lips. "Anna, I—"

"You’re going to make me say it." Flat, and furious. "I care about you. Don’t give a shit about him. Oath, yes. He’s my lord. But him as a man?" A thin, mirthless smile. "Hasn’t earned it." Her eyes bored into his. "But you have. And he’s going to hurt you."

"He would not—"

"He’s going to break you, Hal."

"You don’t know him, not like I do."

"Don’t I? Three words: Heir of fucking Isildur."

He laughed. "That’s four words, Annie."

She did not smile. "You know what I mean."

"I don’t."

"Don’t lie. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it."

"I don’t know what you mean, Anna."

She clenched her jaw. "And here I thought you were a man, and knew how such things worked." Slowly now, as if to a child, "The Heir of Isildur must have a son, to pass on his precious name, and his useless broken sword. He will leave you, Hal, and marry a woman."

"He would not leave me."

Bearing on, as if she had not heard him, "And what would you be then? His mistress? You wouldn’t stand for that, and you know it. Don’t lie to yourself."

"You think I spend too much time with him."

Her eyes flashed, hands tightening to fists. "Don’t. Listen to yourself, if you can. If love, or whatever the fuck it is, hasn’t blinded you. I’m a mirror, Hal. I show you what you need to see. He will leave you. And it will break you.”

He wanted to deny it, both the leaving and the breaking. But the words would not come. Even the thought of it, the image of it in his mind, made his heart break a little, and he shied away. Anna watched him, knew him, read his face. He could not hide it, not from her. 

At last, quietly, “You know it’s true. You can choose what to do with it, and I will pick up the pieces. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Chapter Text

Link to recording on archive.org

Barahir’s song wound at last, mercifully, to its end, amid clapping and whistling and laughter. Tathar came in, and Miriel slid over to make room for her next to Meren. Tathar’s eyes widened at Miriel’s pale, lean face, and the livid scar, but then she smiled, touched Miriel’s hand, said only, “It is good to have you back, Mir.” 

Miriel felt their warmth, their care, their love for her and for each other, and her throat tightened, and she blinked back tears. What have I done to deserve this? And when the next song was done, she laid a hand on Tathar’s knee, and rose. “For my gwador,” she said looking down at them. And then, with a grin, “and for his truly lovely, patient, forbearing wife.” Some laughter, but she did not laugh, and she turned to the fire, and began to sing.

“I will go to the hills in the dark of the morning…”

Chatter died away, and there were only the soft sounds of burning.

“...I will go with my love beside me…”

After a time, when she was sure of herself and the song, she allowed her eyes to drift away from the hearth, over those who sat gathered around its warmth, close to the fire and close to each other. Amloth and Dalbarin were there, and Falaran and his wife, pressed close after so long apart. Meloreth and Darthan, the healers who had trained Mirloth and Darya and so many others. And in a corner, on the edge of the crowd – she smiled as her eyes found Hannas and Telhirion, little Isilmir asleep in his lap. 

“Many paths, love, there be, through the dark to the morning light…”

But there also was Lain’s sister Alethil, who had lost both brother and husband to the Wild. 

“…many road, many fears, many miles hard as stone.”

Darahad, who had lost his son to the Wild and his wife to grief. 

“Through the years, through the trials, on the dark ways I will walk with thee…”

Belegon with his children, Edeneth looking more and more like her mother as she grew older.

“…and it may be, at last, I must walk them alone.”

And without thinking, she raised her eyes to the Wall. Silver in the dark they shone, the stars of the fallen. Silevren is there. And Lain, and Meneldir. Faron and Brethil and Gallach. And Gilrath. He is there as well. Arathorn and Arador…

“But though long be the road and hard be the winning…”

And perhaps another, if the oldest stories are true. No name on his star, but it was his, and it is here. With us still, on our long road. And then her gaze shifted away from the Wall, to one who sat beneath it. 

She had avoided Aragorn’s eyes until now. She remembered his tears on that night under Amon Sûl and feared their return, for she knew then she would weep also. Not while I’m singing. But now with the song almost done, she dared it.

“…there will come a bright day when at last it is won.”

There were tears on his cheeks, and she felt a soft shock as his eyes met hers, a flash of joy tempered with grief. Her eyes widened, but her voice did not falter, for she was almost used to it now. It will be what it will be. Whatever it will be. And she inclined her head, and he smiled.

But it was not only the Chieftain’s eyes she had been avoiding.

“On that day, oh my love, on that day I will come to thee…”

She remembered Halbarad’s face that day. With vivid clarity she remembered it, and later in the Hall, when she sang for Húrin’s widow. Grief, anger, longing. Desperation. Who it was he had thought of, she did not know. And it doesn’t matter. Even as she at last allowed her eyes to find his, she felt regret. I would ease your pain, not add to it. Perhaps I should not have—

“…and together we’ll dance the return of the sun.”

The last note almost broke. She held onto it, but barely, and then her breath caught in her throat. 

There was pain, yes. There was always pain; it came to her then that she had never seen his face truly joyful. But his eyes were bright, and his back straight, the hands on his knees relaxed. And when her eyes met his, his face softened. Not quite a smile, but so far from what she had expected that relief washed over her, and a strange lightness, and she felt an abrupt, incongruous urge to laugh. She looked away from him, suddenly afraid to be caught staring. 

She sat down heavily, smiled a little to acknowledge the applause but then leaned into Tathar’s arm that pulled her close, and turned away from the crowd. 

Yet still she saw his face, that not-quite-smile…

“Mir.” Meren, soft and concerned. “Are you all right?”

She straightened, nodded. “Yes.” Shifted a little away from Tathar. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking,” said Tathar quietly. 

“Just tired.” A faint, wry smile. “Should have gone to bed earlier.”

But her hands were trembling, and her breath. Singing did that, sometimes, especially with so large an audience. Just tired…

The singing would continue long into the night, she knew, in joy at the patrol’s return. The Chieftain’s return. And she lifted her head, turned instinctively to seek for him. He was there, sitting where he had been, head bent to talk to Darahad. But the space beside him was empty. 

She felt abruptly, overwhelmingly weary. She pushed herself up from the bench, steadied herself for a moment with a hand on Tathar’s shoulder. 

“Thank you,” said Tathar softly, looking up at her. “We—” She glanced at Meren. “Thank you.”

“Notice that I’m staying here,” said Meren, with an arch smile. “Letting you drag your own stubborn self through the dark and the mud. Notice how I’m not embarrassing you with more questions about whether that is a good idea.”

She grunted, shook her head. “The soul of subtlety and tact.”

Tathar frowned. “Who exactly are you talking to? If you’re seeing things…”

“Me.” Meren lifted his chin triumphantly. “I’ll remember that.”

“And ask the schoolmistress what those words mean,” Tathar grumbled. “You obviously don’t know.”

He grinned. “Yes, maybe she’s forgiven me after all these years.”

“I’ll leave the two of you to figure it out.” Miriel shook her head. “Good night.”

She almost fell several times, as she made her way slowly around puddles and rutted mud to the barracks. The moon had set, and the night was very dark, and in truth she would have felt steadier with Meren by her side. She smiled ruefully. Let them have their night. 

The barracks was pitch black, and she made her way to her bunk by feel, stifling a gasp as she barked her shin on a doorframe. With a grunting effort she pulled off her boots, rolled awkwardly onto the thin straw mattress that felt like softest down after so long on cold, hard ground, pulled her cloak over her, and fell at once into exhausted sleep. 

He heard her come in. Even in the dark he knew her breath, the sound of her pain. And he wished to—What? What could I do? 

‘Take care of her.’ Aragorn’s voice, but he felt the truth of it, deep and warm. That is what I would do.

And he remembered his reply. ‘She can take care of herself. And any others who happen to be near.’

‘Well do I know it. But even the best of us need a brother at our backs.’

A brother. Yes. 

Don’t lie. 

She woke still exhausted, muddle-headed and aching. Stifling a groan, she slid out of her bunk in the gray light. Tired as she was, she knew she would not be able to sleep more; she never could, once she woke, or not well. Restless tossing at best, and strange, unsettled dreams. And at worst—She shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking what she might dream now. Now I have seen, and felt… She had learned long ago not to go back to sleep.

She shivered as her feet found the cold floor, careful not to wake Valya below her. Let her sleep. She’s earned it. She knelt carefully by Valya’s bunk, drew back over her a blanket that had fallen away in the night. Oh, my girl… And there was another name, and she turned it over in her mind, looked at it and all it might mean. ‘It takes nothing away from us.’ You saw what I would not let myself see, brother. She smiled a little. Be patient. There is time.  

She stepped carefully, most of the bunks around her still full, slipped out the door and closed it softly behind her. The cold, raw air caught in her throat, and she coughed, shivered a little and drew her cloak tightly around her. White mist clung to the ground, and dewed webs hung still and gray. But the sky above was clear, the west still deep blue but already pale in the east. It will be dawn soon. She drew a breath, let it out slowly. It is time. Before anything else, I must do this first. 

The lilacs were still leafless, though buds swelled on every branch. The scent of cedar hung in the air, and she broke off a small sprig, crushed it in her hands and inhaled. Fresh, and pure. Alive. That was why she did it, always. They are not. But I am. And she stepped between the trees, and came before the Stone. 

Gray and massive it stood, dark with dew. ‘Age-old and unchanging, while all else fleets by.’ The words came to her, those words she had heard so many times. ‘And those who are here remain in our hearts, though their bodies are long gone to ashes.’ But not Lain's body—

And then she drew a soft breath, and halted. She had expected to be alone; that was why she had come now. But another stood in the early light, cloak the same gray as the stone. He heard her step, and stiffened. She saw shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath. I should go. Whoever it is, he’s here to be alone. 

“Come. There’s room enough for us both,” he said, and turned—and his eyes went wide, and he stood still. “I should have known you’d come,” said Halbarad at last, softly. And then, when still she hesitated, “It is better not to be alone, Mir.”

Since when does he—But her feet obeyed, and she came to stand beside him. For a time they stood in silence. And then he took her hand, and lifted it, and reached out. 

Together they touched the names, sharp and fresh in the gray stone. Meneldir. Lain. 

“My brother,” she whispered.

One above them, but not far above, separated only by a summer. Gilrath.

Now his voice: “My brother.”

And one more, among those who had died the winter before. Mirloth.

“My mother.” And then she wept. 

Gently he released her hand, reached an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. It is dangerous to love, he thought, even as he did it. I cannot ask that of her. I cannot ask her to risk that. 

And then, with a soft, hollow shock, remembering the trolls, and all that came after: She already did.

She felt him warm by her side in the dawn, rested her head against his shoulder as she wept for her mother. He shifted, and then both his arms were around her, and she leaned into the comfort of his warmth. 

And for once she did not think, only let herself feel: his hands on her back, the movement of his chest as he breathed, the brush of his breath on her cheek. The strength of his arms as he held her, the press of his body against hers. I am so tired, and it has been so long…

I want…

No. 

Thought returned in a rush, and fear. Reason. It is reason, not fear. What would happen if…? How would they see me after…? Her mind flew ahead, over the thing to what might come after. Would come. There is no might. You’ve always known that. And she thought of a midwinter long ago, Calen’s face in the firelight. I cannot. I will not. It’s not worth risking…

Hannas did.

And Silevren.

No. Don’t even think about it. No.

He felt the change in her, the stiffening in her body, the catch of her breath. He longed to draw her closer, tighter, to shield and comfort her, even if only for a moment. Even if only from herself. ‘Take care of her…’

He let out a breath, and let her go, and stepped back. 

“Miriel?” Low and hesitant. “Miriel, I…”

But what would he say? ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘I didn’t mean to…?’ He swallowed hard. He was not sorry. He had meant it, all of it.

No. I cannot be the cause of another’s breaking. No.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks, straightened and settled her shoulders, steeling herself, fearing… What? I have done nothing. But she knew that was not true. What have I done? And it was with fear that she at last raised her eyes to his.

Yet they found no anger, nor hurt, only a gentle, melancholy smile. “I am glad you were here with me, Mir.”

She let out a breath, soft and incredulous. But then she shook her head, and met his smile. “So am I.”

They stayed a fortnight in the village, to rest and eat and recover, and then to help with the hard labor of the first spring planting. Everyone who was able took a hand, old and young, men and women, Rangers and craftsmen and farmers. Miriel and Valya worked alongside all the others, from sunrise to sunset; it had been several years since she had been in the village in spring, and she had almost forgotten the tedium of it, the ache of constant bending and the dirt that found its way into every fold of clothes and skin. But there was also the joy of being together, side by side across the fields, sometimes singing to ease the strain, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, but always together. The trainees mostly looked after themselves, sweating and grumbling under the direction of one of the farmers, and so Miriel worked alongside Hannas and Meren, weary and aching but content. For now, at least, we have each other. 

Only the healers were exempt, standing by for the inevitable cuts and strained muscles. But when Miriel came to the healers’ house late one afternoon, sweaty and dirty and pleasantly exhausted, she found Darya in the back garden, kneeling in the dirt with Lani, a small bag of seeds between them. 

“She’s eating,” said Darya, later that night as they sat by the fire. “And sleeping. Not as much of either as I’d like, but better than it might be.”

“And Daeron?”

Darya sighed, but then smiled wryly. “That boy…” She shook her head. “I think he’s as stubborn as you are, in his own way. He’s the reason she’s eating. He’ll sit by her for hours, won’t say a word. But she knows he won’t leave until she eats, and so she does. And she won’t sleep if he isn’t there.” A sidelong glance, and then, more quietly, “He talked to the Chieftain two days ago.” 

“And?”

“Aragorn released him.”

“Of course he did,” said Miriel softly. But still relief flooded through her. He knows when to push, and when to stop. “Will he stay here?” For his family was from Gaerferin, a small village two days’ journey to the east. Falaran said he has a younger sister, maybe they need him…

Darya smiled, let out a breath. “Yes. Perhaps he’ll go back some day; their healer is old, she could use the help. But I need to train him first.”

And Miriel let out a small laugh of relief. “Good. I thought he would…but I wasn’t sure…”

Darya met her eyes. Quiet and steady, “He is sure.”

She did not avoid Halbarad—Of course I’m not avoiding him, why would I avoid him?—nor did she seek him out. She saw him at morning training, and in the fields during the day, usually working side by side with Aragorn, shirtless in the spring sun as most of the men were. She greeted him whenever it would have been rude not to, and told herself the unmistakable softening of his face when he saw her was normal, after all they had been through together.  

Normal. Just be normal. 

It will pass. It always has. For Falaran had been right, at least to a point. She was not blind, nor made of stone. There had been others. But she had said nothing, done nothing, and at last they had been assigned to different patrols, and when she saw them again, months or even years later, it had faded to memory, and perhaps a wry, self-deprecating smile. What was I thinking? Not thinking, more like. 

And that is why I have the rule. 

It was her rule alone, of course; the Company’s only expectation was that a captain not have a lover in a patrol under his command, and even this was sometimes overridden by necessity. 

But the rules are different for me.

Why?

They just are. I don’t want to deal with the gossip. 

And even in the quiet of her own mind, she would not say the rest, would hardly admit to considering it. 

If I am made captain some day, and a Ranger is assigned to me who, at some point in the past…No. I can’t have that. There were men who did. And somehow they handle it. But I can’t. I won’t. Not for any man. 

But then, almost taunting: He is already a captain. 

There’s still the rest of it. Just imagine what would be said… And she flinched, physically cringed, as she thought of it. But then, the mind moving backward, inexorable, to what would come before the gossip…And her stomach tightened, and her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, one weak moment, she imagined it. Then reason reasserted control, and she thrust it away, and forced herself to think of something else. 

But reason could not control her dreams.

Chapter Text

Link to recording on archive.org

Aragorn sent them south when the planting was done. “You’ll go with the summer reliefs, down to Sarn Ford. Valya should see the South Road.” And then, more quietly, “And you need to talk to Anna. She will be coming back with the others, and…she should know. It will be better if she has time.”

Miriel nodded. “Will we be returning as well?” And she glanced sidelong as Valya.

“Yes.” He smiled. “But not with the patrol. You’ll go by way of the Shire, South Farthing and Buckland. Listen for anything there is to hear. You know who to talk to?” 

“Yes, my lord.”

And though still his words were for Miriel, he looked at Valya. “But don’t be too long about it; you need to be back by midsummer.” 

When they were outside, and alone, Valya turned to her. “Miriel—Did he mean…?”

“Yes.” Miriel laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll take the midsummer trials.” 

Valya drew a shaky breath, gave Miriel a long look. But she said only, quietly, “I won’t let you down.”

“Of course you won’t.” Miriel smiled, broad and warm. “Come, we should pack.”

“It needs to be you, Hal.”

Silence. And then, “I know.”

“You know…what you’re looking for. I’d send Miriel with you—”

Halbarad shook his head sharply. “She needs to be back by midsummer. I might not be.” That’s it. That’s all of it. A pause, and then, “She and Valya…”

A small smile, wry and weary. “It is a comfort to not always be wrong.” 

Halbarad grunted. “I’m not even going to respond to that.”

Aragorn’s shoulders sagged, and he shook his head. Quietly, “I shouldn’t have said it. Daeron is where he should be; Meloreth says he’ll do well. But I—” He swallowed, said nothing. At last he looked up, and met Halbarad’s eyes. “There’s been nothing from Stonebridge all winter.”

“I know.”

“It may not mean…It’s happened before…”

“I know, Arya.”

Aragorn stepped close, gripped Halbarad’s shoulders. “Be careful, gwador nîn.”

“You know I will be,” said Halbarad softly. “And you as well.”

“Always.” Aragorn embraced him, quick and fierce, and then let him go. “I’ll see you in Rivendell.”

It was the largest patrol she had ever traveled with, though in truth it was several patrols in one, not only reliefs for the Brandywine, South Road, and Sarn Ford watchposts, but also the summer garrisons for Hoarwell Bridge and the High Pass. Nearly two score, they would all travel together to Bree and then go their separate ways, to guard the borders of the North. Glancing round at them all, as they stood before the Hall in the early light, she felt her heart warm within her: Falaran and Telhirion and Hador, Amloth and Dalbarin and Morfind, Belegon to command the High Pass garrison. And Halbarad, face expressionless as Aragorn bade them farewell. He was to travel with the East Road contingent, but she knew he was not bound for either the Hoarwell or the High Pass, for others were to command both. Where is he going? And she felt an abrupt, absurd desire to go with him. To be with him. To be there if… She let out a sharp breath and bit her lip. No. Away. I need to be away from him. 

But somehow she found herself walking near him, as they traveled the rough road south to Ladrengil, and the rougher path along the eastern edge of the Downs to meet the Greenway. They spoke little, only what was needed in training and camp; indeed it seemed that he spoke more to Valya than to her. But she smiled to see it, the way he worked with Valya nearly every morning in training, his sharp-eyed patience. He is a good teacher. Her smile broadened. At least with so apt a student. With another it might be different. But Valya listened carefully, and learned quickly, as she had the summer before, though what he taught her now was far more difficult. 

They drilled as a pair as well, she and Valya, as they had in Rivendell, Halbarad instructing them both. She felt his eyes on her, and forced herself to think only of the calls, of Valya beside her, body and sword, forced herself to remain still when he touched her, correcting her movement. He said little to her, no more than bare necessity. That is him, she told herself. That’s how he’s always been. Just because we…What? Nothing. We did what we had to do. No more. 

But then the memory of his arms around her, the gentleness in his hand as together they touched the names. He did not have to do that. 

Even Halbarad is allowed to be kind. A small, wry smile. When there’s no one else to see it. 

They came to the Greenway, and then they went more swiftly, and at last they approached the Breeland. She had traveled this road many times, knew the landmarks. Three more days. Two. And then, at last: Tomorrow. We will go our separate ways tomorrow.

She had the middle watch that last night, standing silent in the shadow of a new-leafed oak, listening to the Chetwood in spring. She leaned back against the tree, breathing the damp, earthy air. The green smell, Girith had called it, and she felt a soft thrill run through her. 

A rustle then of grass and leaves, too regular to be an animal. A Ranger, not trying to be silent. She stretched, and shifted. About time. Morfind was to be her relief, and she smiled as she turned toward the sound, searching the dark for her friend. 

She watched him come, night passing over him in bars of silver and black as he slipped through the trees. Not Morfind. She knew him by the way he moved. Breath caught in her throat, and she stiffened. Why—? Stop it. Do your job. She whistled, a night bird but not a bird.

He lifted his head, and called back, low and soft. She knew she was invisible in the shadows unless she moved, and she did not move, but still he came straight to her.

“All quiet?” he murmured when he reached her.

“Yes, captain.” Be normal. Do your job. But then, unaccountably, she found herself smiling. “Crickets and bats.”

A soft laugh. “And frogs. Heard an owl too, a while back. I—” And even in the dark, she saw him turn away from her. “I couldn’t sleep. Told Morfind I’d take his watch.” 

Something strange in his voice, disquiet, or uncertainty. What is wrong? Sudden concern, and she almost reached out to him, almost asked—If he were any other captain, I would not ask. Be normal. Do your job.

But then she moved, reached out in the dark, laid a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

I am a healer.

You’re not doing this as a healer. 

Stillness, and silence, save for the sounds of the forest and their breath in the dark. Rustle of cloth, and he lifted his hand, laid it over hers.

“Miriel…”

She did not think, could not think, only felt, as his hand moved again, touched the scar on her cheek.

“Ellenen.”

And her hand moved, and she did not think, could not think, only felt, as her fingers touched the old scar on his neck. She remembered the day they first met, that icy morning on the moors, remembered his stolid strength, limping in the snow. Even then you took care of him. ‘I will catch you when you fall.’ Her hand slipped around the back of his neck, and she heard his breath catch, felt her stomach tighten. They were close, so close in the dark, and she felt the warmth of his skin under her hand, the warmth of his breath, fast and shallow. Her fingers moved over the back of his neck, and she felt him trembling, felt the warmth of his hand on her cheek, and they were close, so close in the dark. And then a breath, and the warmth of his lips on hers. 

She did not think, could not think, only felt, warm and rough and gentle and hungry, and close, so close in the dark. 

And then he gasped, and stumbled back. His hands dropped away, and her cheek where his palm had been felt suddenly cold. They looked at each other, in the dappled moonlight, and neither spoke.

At last he let out a long, shuddering breath. “Miriel. Miriel, I—”

“I should go,” she whispered, and she turned from him, and fled. 

She stumbled through the woods, skirted the edge of the camp, found her way at last blocked by a fallen log. She sat heavily, and stared into the dark. A breeze shifted the new leaves; moonlight flickered silver pale on a pool, and tiny frogs peeped in the night. 

‘Why do they do that?’ she had asked her father once, when he had taken her into the woods one night in spring. ‘They’re so loud. Doesn’t it hurt their ears?’ He had laughed quietly. ‘Frogs’ ears are not like ours. For them it is a beautiful sound. They do it to find mates, just like a rooster strutting.’ He grinned at her in the dark. ‘Or a woman dancing. Your mother was the loveliest dancer when she was young…’ She had groaned, as he had known she would, and he laughed again, deep and warm. ‘There will come a time, maybe, when you won’t find it quite so objectionable.’ But then the laughter was gone, and he laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Or maybe not. A Ranger makes her own choices, Miriel. Remember that.’

She had remembered. And I made my choice. 

So what was that? What the fuck was that?

And even as she thought back, running over every moment of it in her mind, elation flooded through her, and need so strong she groaned softly in the dark. I want…

So what? You can’t have. 

But he is—

What? You’ve wanted before, and done nothing. This is no different.

He wants it. 

He’s a man. Men are stupid, at least when it comes to—

Belegon was stupid? Telhirion? 

This is different. 

How?

He’s…he’s not just any…he’s Halbarad, for fuck’s sake. He’s a captain, likely be brannon taid someday. He’s the Chieftain’s oath-brother—Oh gods, what would Aragorn say?

But then, quiet and honest: He would be happy for you. For both of you. She knew it was true, knew it with certainty, though she couldn’t say why. She thought of them, of the way they were together, of the love so clear between them. He would want Halbarad to be happy. 

And this would make him happy? This? Me?

He clearly thinks so.

He’s not thinking. Not with his mind, at least. 

But memory pulled her back, inexorable, to all she knew of him, all she had seen, all she had felt. And she wondered then, and felt it strange that she had not wondered before. Why has he not…? Why has he never…? And then strange, reluctant recognition: He has done as I have done. Not for the same reason, certainly; he could sleep with whoever he wanted and no one would care. But whatever the reason, he has made the same choice.  

And now he is making another. 

Why?

‘Ellenen.’ Soft and low, almost reverent, a name but more than a name. He sees something in me.

Something that isn’t—

Don’t lie. 

She shook her head sharply. Doesn’t matter. This is still a bad idea. 

Maybe. In any case, he leaves tomorrow. She swallowed. There’s time to think. Before I see him again. Time to decide.

Decide what? I’ve already decided. I decided years ago. I decided when I refused Calen. She shook her head. If any man were to...That would have been…But it wasn’t. It was the right decision. 

Then, perhaps it was. And now?

You have time. 

She pushed herself to her feet, and went back to camp, and lay down beside Valya. But she did not sleep. 

He had not slept either, that was clear enough when she saw him in the morning. His eyes were red, face grim and drawn. I’ve seen him after sleepless nights. He didn’t look as bad as this. And in spite of it all, she felt a sudden, powerful urge to touch him, comfort him, ease whatever was troubling him.

Fool, you know what it is. You would only make it worse. 

Or I could…

No. Don’t even think about it. 

They reached the crossroads before midday, and found the gates of Bree open, the smell of the village strong in the sun. Valya wrinkled her nose. “I like the Wild better.”

Miriel managed a wry smile, and nodded. “So do I.”

Most of them stayed outside the walls, but Miriel and Valya and several others were sent in to buy fresh food, and Halbarad and Belegon went to the Prancing Pony to check for messages. 

“Is it safe?” Valya asked, nodding toward the door of the inn. 

Miriel frowned. “The Pony?”

“Leaving messages there, I mean. What if someone—I mean, not one of us…?”

“It is a risk, certainly. But we must have a way to communicate, and the letters are in code. No one who is not one of us would be able to make sense of them. The risk of this is less than any other way. Butterbur is honest. And he has his business to look after. He knows we could make things…difficult for him, if he betrayed us. And he is an important man in Bree. Respected. The danger is less to him than it would be to others.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Valya quietly.

“It is a risk for him as well. He doesn’t know all we do, but he knows enough to be willing to take that risk for us.” She smiled. “Remember that. Though it often seems it, we do not fight alone.” 

When the fresh food had been divided up, and the captains had read their messages, they made preparations to leave. She said farewell to Hador, who would patrol the East Road, Morfind and Belegon, bound for the High Pass, and Amloth and Dalbarin, who would guard Hoarwell Bridge. Dalbarin glanced at Valya, and then Miriel, and smiled. “Looks like you’ve done better with her than your father did with me. Mind you, she doesn’t cause half so much trouble as I did…”

Amloth rolled his eyes. “Nobody does.” With a sidelong grin, “Except maybe Meren.” 

Miriel laughed, and shook her head. “No competition.”

Dalbarin lowered his voice, and nodded toward Halbarad. “He might have been, though, from what I hear. You’d never know it now.” 

She chuckled along with the others, and did not look at him. 

Belegon embraced her, said quietly in her ear, “Good luck with Anna. You’re going to need it.”

“True enough.” A wry smile. “Though it’s more Darya’s problem than mine now.”

“She’ll be fine. They’ll both be fine.” He squeezed her shoulder. “You are your mother’s daughters, both of you. And your father’s.” And then, quietly, looking in her eyes, “They would not have left that child to die.”

Miriel swallowed, nodded. “I know. So does Dar.”

“Valar guard and guide you, maloseg.”

She did not look for him. She made herself not look for him. But still she was aware of him, always, out of the corner of her eye, and so she saw when he turned to come over to them, and she had time to make herself calm. Be normal. Do your job. 

“I’ll try to be back for midsummer,” he said to Valya. “If I’m not,” he laid a hand on her shoulder, “know that I know you’re ready. And I’d take you in my patrol any day.” Valya flushed and dropped her eyes, but then she looked back up at him with a smile of such warmth and gratitude that even Halbarad could not help echoing it. “Thank you, captain,” she said softly. “For everything.” 

He turned to Miriel then. But he said nothing, only looked at her, and she could not read his face. At last, softly, “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

He let out a slow breath. “I know.” And then he turned away from them, and did not look back, and she watched as the patrol dwindled into the dust of the East Road.

Chapter Text

Link to recording on archive.org

The South Road watchpost was as Miriel had remembered it. A year ago. It was only a year. Valya knew what had happened, of course. They all did, and sometimes Miriel imagined she could feel them watching her. But they said nothing, and only Valya asked, very quietly, after they had hailed the guard on the road and turned off toward the hut dug into the hillside, “Are you all right, Mir?”

Miriel bit back the instinctive ‘Fine.’ She deserves better than that. In truth she found herself shaking, breath coming fast and shallow. Fear. Terror. Shadow and cold and death. For here was where she had first felt it, seen it in Gilrath’s eyes, though she did not know then what it was. I still don’t. And then, abrupt, incongruous, Where is Halbarad going? Where did the Chieftain send him? And she thought she knew, though she had not allowed herself to think about it before. For she knew that if she allowed herself to think about the danger he was walking into…She felt a sudden, fierce flash of anger toward Aragorn. How could you? Do you not—

He knows. You told him. Halbarad told him. And he felt it. He does what he must do, what we all swore to let him do. He loves us. And he uses us. 

She bit her lip. At least I could have gone…And then, grim understanding. No. My task, my best use, is to train Valya. Remembering that bright, terrible morning in the village in northern Wilderland: You keep your tools sharp, my lord. 

“I’m all right,” she said to Valya, gentle, grateful. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

They were welcomed with joy and relief, the winter garrison weary and eager for home. But after the initial flurry of greeting, she saw Falaran draw Daerthon aside, and when they returned Daerthon’s face was grim.

“He will accept it,” said Falaran in a low voice, when Miriel at last got him alone on the edge of the firelight after they had eaten. “He’ll have to.”

Miriel met his eyes. “No,” she said after a moment. “He doesn’t.” He does not have to forgive his son for not being what he cannot be. 

He should.

But that does not mean he will.

“I think he will,” said Falaran, at last. “He has trained enough maethorneth. And he had one who…” Falaran swallowed. “The one before me. It wasn’t meant to be, he said. He never spoke ill of him.” 

“But he never spoke well of him either?” asked Miriel softly.

Silence. And then, “No.” Falaran let out a sharp breath. “Daeron is his son. He loves him. Once he’s got over the shock, he’ll remember that.” He shook his head, and gave a brief, grim smile. “And if he doesn’t, Darya will talk sense into him.”

“She’ll try.” Miriel met his eyes. “I think it is…good that he has Lani. That she needs him.”

Falaran nodded. And then, quietly, “I’ve thought that since the beginning.”

It was decided that they would rest the next day, before those bound for Sarn Ford continued south. But in the morning Miriel found herself unsettled, irritable, and when she overheard Daerthon say that the handle of their cooking pot had broken, and they were short on arrowheads, and a trip would have to be made to the smith in Bree, she said she would go. 

“Are you sure?” Daerthon asked, and glanced at Valya. 

“I’ll be fine. She can stay; show her how the South Road is run.” She smiled at Valya. “You’ll likely find yourself here someday.”

But in truth, she wanted to be away from that place, and she wanted to be alone. Valya was a comfort, of course, and a joy. But she was also a burden, her needs and her feelings and her questions, asked and unasked. Just for a little while, let me be responsible only for myself. She felt guilt, but also relief, and as she strode north, light and fast, she found herself smiling in the early sun. 

Alone, and free, she found that she could think more clearly. 

He is a man, like any other. All men have their moments of weakness. 

But not him. Not with Dunedain women. Or Dunedain men, for that matter. Not that I’ve ever heard. 

Just because I don’t know about it doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. 

Was that what it was then? A moment of weakness? 

She remembered it again, remembered every moment, every touch, every breath. Warmth…wanting…tenderness…hunger…

Weakness? That’s not what it felt like. 

She came to Bree late in the afternoon and went straight to the smithy. It stood near the south gate, a little away from other buildings to guard against fire, and the familiar, rhythmic clang of metal on metal grew loud as she entered the yard. The smith was bent over his anvil, his back to her. But it was not old Giles, that was certain, and she smiled. Jona. She leaned against the door frame and waited.

At last he straightened, set aside the thing he had been pounding, half-turned, caught sight of her and turned sharply the rest of the way. 

“Eh, how long’ve you been there?”

His face was already red and sweating from the heat, so she did not know if he colored more, but she could not help smiling.

“Not long,” she laughed. “I didn't want to disturb you.”

“Oh. Well…thank you.”

“I’ve a pot handle that needs repairing. Do you have time for it? And I’ll need fifty arrowheads as well.”

He frowned, but it was a frown of concentration, and she knew he was back on solid ground. After a moment, he nodded. “Owed this to Mr. Heathertoes yesterday, but it shouldn’t take much longer. Then I was going to start on a new harness for Will Rushlight, but he don’t need it yet. I can make the excuse of my master being gone. Will ain’t in a hurry.” He glanced back at her, and his lips curved slightly. “And I’ve a notion you are.”

She smiled. “More or less. Thank you.” 

He smiled too, and held out his hand. “Sorry, caught me by surprise. Been a day since I saw you last. How’s that knife?” 

She took his hand, hard and rough and calloused, then released it and drew the knife from her belt. Its polished blade shone in the afternoon light, the star dark against the smooth metal just below the hilt. “Where’s the master?”

He grunted as he fingered the blade. “Gone on business to Staddle. Or so he says.” He flashed a grin. “Business with Widow Rowan, more like.”  

She laughed again, and hoped that what came to her mind did not show on her face. “There’s business and business.” She set down her pack and pulled the heavy iron pot out of it. “Won’t take long. And you have arrowheads?”

He nodded. “Keep plenty of ‘em in summer. Always a need for ‘em, your folk and ours both.”

She gestured to the pot. “How long?”

He squinted at the sun. “Should be done by evening.” He handed her the knife and waved her away. “Go get yourself some food. Looks like you could use it.”

She grunted, but then shook her head with a sidelong smile. “You’re not wrong, boy.”

“Boy?” He straightened, squared his shoulders; they were the same height, or near enough as to make no difference, but he was broader, stubble now on his reddened cheeks that had not been there when she had last seen him. Two years? Has it really been that long?

She looked him up and down. “We-ell, look how you’ve grown. Hadn’t noticed.” 

He grinned again. “Fuck off. Go bother Butterbur, I’ve work to do.”

“And he’ll talk all the day long, work or no. Young Willie still there?

“He is, and none the worse for wear.” Jona raised his eyebrows. “That boy will be glad to see you, if no one else is.”

She laughed. “I’ll go where I’m wanted, then.”

“But see you come back by evening. I’ll be wanting payment.” He made a dismissive gesture toward the pot. “Boys are fools, maybe, but men don’t work for free.” 

“Never you fear. Rangers pay what they owe.”

Jona’s face softened, and shook his head. “Well do I know it.”

Old Butterbur grunted when he saw her, waved her into the common room, and a few minutes later brought a heaping plate of roast pork and turnips and carrots, and bread with butter, and a slice of pie. “You’ll be hungry, I expect. Your folk always are.” And then, eyeing her critically, “Winter’s not been kind to you.” And before she could deny it, manage whatever comforting lie he might believe, he shook his head and stepped back. “Not my concern, you’ll say, and right enough. But you look out for those who ain’t your concern, so to speak, so maybe I can do the same.” He gave a firm nod, and turned away without waiting for a reply. But then, over his shoulder as he pushed through the door into the kitchen, “I’ll send that boy round, long as you don’t mind horse smell.”

She laughed, quietly, and shook her head. “Not at all, my friend,” though she knew he could not hear. “Not at all.”

Willie Rushlight came in as she was finishing the last of her food. He did indeed smell like horse, though it appeared that he had at least cleaned the muck off his boots. The common room was starting to fill now, as afternoon drew toward evening, and he hesitated, peering round before he saw her at last in her corner. He came over to her, stood awkwardly before her table and gave a little bow. “Mistress-Miriel-I-hope-you-are-well,” all in a rush, and then he stood still, staring over her shoulder. 

“I am,” she said, and managed not to laugh. “Come, sit with me. How are your mother and father?”

His eyes widened a little, but he obeyed. He ate the last of her pie that she pushed over to him—“I can’t eat another bite, suppose you could help with this? The master would be angry if I wasted it.”—and with only a little prompting, he told her of all that had happened on the Rushlights’ farm and in the village, and Miriel smiled at the comforting sameness of it. Spring to summer to autumn to winter and back to spring again, planting and tending and harvesting. Children grow, and animals are born and die, and people are born and die, for that is the way of the world. She looked away from the boy beside her, cast her gaze around the dim, smoky room, loud and crowded now with tradesmen and farmers and travelers. This is what we protect. But then, with a wry smile, Better them than me. And she thought of woods and moors and mountains, sun and rain and snow and wind, and stars so bright they cast shadows. That is where I belong. 

Willie would, it seemed, have been content to talk all night, fear vanished before so patient an audience. But the light was fading in the window, and at last she laid a hand on his shoulder. “I must go,” she said, and smiled. “Give your mother my best, and the dogs. And tell your father I said you’re growing into a fine young man.” The boy flushed red, scrambled to his feet and gave her a brief, awkward nod then scuttled out through a door by the kitchen. Miriel shook her head. Time to be getting on.

But when she came out of the Pony, she found that the dimness was not from dusk alone. A gusty wind whipped the dust round her feet, and a glance at the roiling eastern sky told her the road would not be dusty much longer. Just my luck. I suppose I could stay here tonight, surely Butterbur has a room, probably wouldn’t even charge me for it. But something in her would not do that. Husband the favors, save them, so they are there when you truly need them. And a cold, wet night huddled under the meager shelter of tree or rock did not count as need. She hurried down the road. 

Jona had his back to her once again when she entered the yard, but this time she strode up to him, far enough that she was out of reach of stray sparks, close enough that she knew he could see her from the corner of his eye. He straightened, grunting a little at the stiffness in his back, but there was a satisfied look on his face as he handed her a cloth bag that clinked gently, far heavier than its small size would warrant. “Fifty. You can check if you want, but I counted ‘em twice. And this here,” he gestured to the pot, handle whole again, “is good as new, or better.” He smiled, full and broad, and it brought a sudden warmth to him that had not been there before, and she found herself smiling in return. But then she glanced at the sky. 

“I should go.”

He frowned. “It’s going to rain.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell,” she snapped, and was immediately ashamed. And though she did not apologize, she sighed, and the weariness in her voice was its own apology. “I’ll find somewhere dry enough. There are places in the woods, not far outside the village.”

“Can’t be comfortable. Could you not stay the night at the Pony?”

She shrugged. “Not worth the coin.” A wry smile. “I don’t melt in the rain.”

“Suppose not.” And then, before she could think of what to say in response, a response that ought to be a farewell though she was strangely reluctant to make it, his eyes flicked to hers and quickly away.

“You could stay here.”

Silence, and a distant rumble of thunder. 

“Your master wouldn’t mind?”

Now he did meet her eyes, and did not look away. “He don't need to know.” 

The first drops of rain, heavy and cold, made dark spots in the dust.

Need? Was that all it was?  

A measured breath, and then a slow smile. “Sure, all right.”

“You’ll stay?” He clearly had not expected it, could not entirely keep the incredulity from his voice.

She grinned. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

She stepped quickly under the shelter of the forge roof, and for a moment he seemed at a loss. But then he laughed, and shook his head. “Well, come in.” And she followed him into the house.

It was dim, for there were few windows, and the light was rapidly fading as the storm rolled in. But now that the decision was made, he seemed more at ease. 

“You can leave your things there if you like.” He gestured to a space by the unlit fireplace. “Are you hungry?” 

“I ate at the Pony.”

“Then you won’t want food for a while yet.”

She chuckled. “No.”

“Well, rest your feet. I’ll get us a drink.”

A drink? No, not a boy. 

She sat in one of the two chairs by the empty fireplace, pulled her boots off her aching feet and sighed. She was just beginning to think, They must smell, probably not something one ought to do when a guest in another’s house, when he came through the door, two mugs in one hand and a bottle in the other. If he noticed the smell, he did not say so. He set the mugs on the table and poured carefully, and his big hands shook a little from the strain of his work.

“Apple wine,” he said as he handed it to her. "Not bad. Last fall was a good crop.”

“It was for us as well.”

“Do your people grow apples?”

Time passed without notice, even as the storm rolled in and raged overhead. Rain drummed on the roof, and startling cracks of thunder shook the very air, and they laughed and continued talking. She told him of the Wild, and of life in Elenost, nothing he should not know, but there was much that was ordinary, simple, and she found herself smiling to tell it. And he told her of the village, its ways of life, and most of all its gossip. He seemed to know rather a lot of that for a man, she thought, until she remembered that as a smith, he would see nearly everyone. He would not talk, or not much, for he could not pause in his work, but the shopkeeper would stand there, or the farmer’s daughter, waiting for him to finish mending the tool or shoeing the horse, and they would tell stories that required no response. 

It was only once it had grown quite dark, so dark that she could no longer see clearly to refill her mug, that they seemed to come back to the room where they sat. And then there was quiet, sudden, almost unnerving, for the storm had moved away, and there was only the faint patter of rain. He shook himself. “I’ll get candles. Are you hungry?”

They ate, and it was good. Not as good as the Pony, but simple and filling. Yet when they were done he seemed again at a loss, and he glanced at her, and then away.

“Would you like to wash? There’s always hot water, whenever the forge is lit." A tentative smile. "You don’t get that in the Wild.”

It was the uncertainty in his voice that decided her. She laughed. “That we do not. I would like it, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No, no trouble.” They both stood, almost suddenly. “Basin’s just there.” He pointed to a small side room. “I’ll go fetch the water.” And when he had gone, she couldn't help smiling as she dragged the heavy wooden washtub into the center of the floor. There was soap in a wooden cup on the shelf, though she could not find anything clean to use as a towel. I’ve done without before.

He returned, puffing a little as he lugged the iron kettle of hot water, and set it on the floor by the tub. “There.” He straightened, looked around as though he did not know what to do next. “I’ll just go…”

“You can stay.”

Are you sure? Is this really what you want? All you want?

Only one way to find out.

She looked him up and down, slowly, appreciatively. “That is, if you wish to.” 

He stared at her a moment, then smiled, and visibly relaxed. “Suppose I do.”

She nodded, laughed softly. “Stay, then.” 

It is what I want. But it is not all I want.

Damn it. 

She woke early, slipped out of bed while he still slept, and she was dressed and eating breakfast by the time he stumbled blearily into the kitchen. He halted abruptly, and looked at her. At last, still hoarse with sleep, “Thought you were gone.” 

She took pity on him. “Not yet.” She smiled. “Food first.”

But she was soon done, and she stood, and shouldered her pack, heavier now with the arrowheads in addition to the pot. “I must go,” she said. For what else is there to say? 

But it was not a mistake. He should know that. 

She smiled. “Thank you.”

He shifted his feet, looked away from her and then back and then away again, and then he gestured. “Come out here.” She followed him out into the light, rainwashed and clear. He stepped under the roof of the forge, lifted something from the shadowed corner of a shelf and held it out to her, gleaming in the bright morning. A knife, smaller than the other, for boot or sleeve rather than belt. But marked as the other was with the Star of the North, small and perfect, incised just below the hilt. She took the knife, felt its balance, tossed it from one hand to the other, and was hardly aware of the smile that spread over her face. A sudden flick of her wrist, a flash of silver, and a dull thunk as it stuck in a wooden post. She laughed aloud in surprise and delight. “I’ve never felt a knife like this. What did you do?”

He shrugged. “Made it so it felt good in my hand.” 

And she sheathed the knife, and took his hand, and held it in both of hers. Again, very softly, “Thank you, Jona.” She let him go, stepped back and smiled, gave a small bow. And then she turned and strode across the yard and out to the road in the bright morning.

Chapter Text

Link to recording on archive.org

They left the South Road watchpost a far smaller group now, only the half dozen Rangers bound for Sarn Ford, and Miriel and Valya. They saw nothing of concern on the road, only the occasional trader going north, though none of them slept easily until they were past Tyrn Gorthad. They had all traveled this road before except Valya, and none questioned the pace Baranor set, nor his decision to start at first light, not even giving time to train, and continue on long into the night. Miriel felt it, a whisper on the edge of thought, a breath of fear, a shadow across the sun. Stronger than before, colder. Nearer. Or is that only my imagining? She breathed slowly, clasped her hands to still their shaking. Calm is my soul…And after a time, it was. But in that calm, she knew. No. It is not imagined. 

She said nothing, only met Valya’s eyes, saw the fear in them and laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll build the fire high tonight,” she said quietly. 

They did, and the night watches passed without incident, and the sun rose in the morning clear and warm. By the next afternoon, they were far south of the hills, and the uneasiness was gone. But I must tell the Chieftain. It may mean nothing, have nothing to do with…but he should know. 

They continued south to the ancient meeting of ways, where the road that led to the halflings’ land branched off from the great road of the kings. There were ruins at that crossroads, tumbled mossy stones and foundation holes now filled with brambles. “Of old the men of the north built a fortress here,” Baranor told Valya, as they set up camp in a clear space sheltered by the low, grassgrown remains of what once were walls, “for the watching of traffic on the roads. This land was not empty in those days, but peopled by many folk, men of Númenor, and of Dunland, even halflings, and the soldiers who stood where we now stand kept the king’s peace.”

“Until the kingdom was divided,” said Valya, quietly, unexpectedly, “and our people warred against each other. And then shadows came into the land.” Soft, empty, as a child reciting words she had been taught. Near a whisper, not quite steady, “Or so I have been told.”

Miriel felt her breath catch, saw Valya stiffen, knew their memories traveled the same fearful roads. 

Baranor gazed at them both. “I know what you’ve seen, girl,” he said at last, “or enough of it. More than most maethorneth, that’s for damn sure. Do you have your blade-mark yet?”

Valya blinked. “No, captain.” For there is no blood to be drawn from shadows. 

But Baranor shrugged. “Only a matter of time. And you couldn’t have asked for a better saethir. She’ll see you through.”

And Valya said, quiet and clear, speaking to the captain but looking at Miriel, “There is no better.”

As they approached Sarn Ford, Miriel remembered coming this way with Anna. Ten years, at least. Maybe more, I’ve lost count…And then, with a small, wry smile, I’m getting old. She glanced at Valya, walking beside her. ‘There is no better.’ I could have said the same, about her and Anna both. She frowned. I wonder if they know that?

The guard on the road waved them in, and Miriel smelled woodsmoke as they approached the camp. She remembered Anna’s words last midsummer, after she had sworn the saethir’s oath to Valya. ‘I wanted to see you with her.’ She smiled. And now you will see what she has become. She felt her heart beating fast as they came out of the thick, brushy woods and into the clearing, with its small stone hut dug into the hill. 

Anna was sitting on a rock, sharpening a knife with careful precision, while beside her Mahar stirred a pot over the fire. They both looked up at the same time, and Miriel saw the moment of recognition, the relief plain on Anna’s face, the tears that glittered bright before she could brush them away. Anna set the knife on the ground and rose slowly, eyes wide, hands clenched. An abrupt, almost desperate movement, and then Anna’s arms were around her, and she felt her shaking. She said nothing, for she could hardly draw breath, and even if she had, she did not trust her voice. Anna’s fingers dug into her back, breath harsh in her ear, and Miriel let herself be held, let Anna’s strength surround her, the warmth that had kept her warm so many long nights in the Wild. 

“Mir.” Harsh, breaking with tears, but that voice the same as it had always been. “Oh, Mir.” A slow breath, still shaking but less now, and Anna’s grip relaxed a little. Miriel felt her shift, felt warm lips brush her cheek. And amid it all, she felt laughter bubbling in her. That is not something you used to do. Darya’s been good for you. 

At last Anna released her and stepped back, a smile playing about her lips, slightly shame-faced at the strength of her own emotion. “It’s been a winter.” And then, more gently, “I’m sorry about Lain.”

So she knows. 

Still with that strange, unaccustomed gentleness, “Heard what you did.” She swallowed. “For Halbarad. Mir, I—” And her voice broke again. She pulled Miriel close, but gently this time, calloused palm rough on her hair, the other warm on her back. “Almost lost you both,” she whispered. “But not this time. Thank whatever fucking gods there are in the world, not this time.” But then, pulling back a little, frowning as her fingers found the scar on Miriel’s cheek, “This is newer than that.”

“I’ll tell you later.” Forcing as smile, “It’s a long story.” 

Anna eyed her skeptically. “Long.”

Of course she wouldn’t let that pass. “Complicated.” Miriel let out a breath, glanced sidelong at the Rangers crowded around them. When we don’t have an audience.

Anna pursed her lips, but nodded. “I have watch with Valacar later this afternoon.” A thin smile. “You can give him the good news.”

Valacar was indeed pleased, when he returned from a hunting foray to find that Miriel would take his watch. “Sure could use the sleep. Thank you, Miriel.” He smiled. “It’s good to see you.” But there was something in his face that was not joy, and so she waited. At last, he said quietly, “Tell me what happened.” He met her eyes. “I want to know.” 

He had been one of her training companions, though not one she had been particularly close with. But he was close with Lain, she now remembered. How close? She and Meren had wondered about it, though they had never asked. A lean, quiet boy, he had been a good archer, and one of the best runners. Nearly as good as Lain. In later years they had often run together, whenever they happened to be in Elenost at the same time. That it itself was unremarkable, for Rangers often had favored training companions. But there was something in the way he looked at Lain…She let out a soft breath. And not in the way Lain looked at him. At least that was what she and Meren had thought, and Meren, rather uncharacteristically, had agreed to let it rest. ‘If that’s the way it is, there’s no point piling on.’ 

She had no desire to tell it again. But I owe him this. 

She had told it enough times by now that her voice shook only a little. It is a little easier every time. More…distant. Strange, that. 

Valacar listened without expression, until she came to the end, to bodies left on a cold, windy ridge. And then he bowed his head, and covered his face with his hands. She embraced him gently, felt him shaking, though still he made no sound. But at last he shifted, and she let him go, and he rubbed at the tears on his cheeks. “At least he did not die in pain.” And then, near a whisper, not quite meeting her eyes, “I—I loved him. He did not—but I—and now he’s gone…” A slow breath, and he raised his eyes to hers. “I needed to tell someone.”

She nodded, laid a hand on his shoulder. “A burden is easier shared, brother.”

“Please, don’t tell…”

“Of course not.”

Once they had relieved the watch, and the two who had been on guard were out of earshot, Anna turned to her. “So how is it you let a blade that close to your face?”

And so Miriel told her, all of it, except for what Barahir had revealed. That is not mine to tell. Anna’s lips tightened when she heard what had been done to the captives, and Miriel could feel her anger. But when she spoke of how Lani was treated by her own people, Anna went abruptly still. And into that stillness, Miriel said quietly, “So we brought her back with us.” A pause, and then, “She’s with Darya.”

Anna said nothing, made no movement. Her eyes were distant; what she saw in her mind Miriel could not tell. But she could guess well enough. She wished desperately to reach out, to touch, to comfort Anna in the pain of memory. 

No. Not now. She’ll do this on her own, or not at all.

At last Anna stirred, drew a slow breath.

“So we have a child.” Softly, “What the fuck do I do with a child?” But then her head jerked up, and her eyes blazed. “Not what my mother did.” 

Miriel knew better than to ask. She did not know the whole of Anna’s childhood, but what little Anna had told her was enough. She knows what it is to be abandoned. To be betrayed by those who should protect.

They watched the road in silence, as the sun slowly set, and the wind died, and the first stars shone out. At last Anna said quietly, gazing into the deepening night, “Sometimes a child gets lucky.”

And Miriel asked then, for she knew Anna was thinking of him, “How is Mahar? I…didn’t expect to see him here.”

Anna sighed, shook her head. “He asked for it.” Slowly, still staring into the night, “He feels…close to him here. Being in the place, you can’t escape it. Can’t imagine, even for a moment, that it didn’t happen.” Silence. And then, softly, “How do you live when your brother is gone?”

Miriel thought of Belegon at her father’s funeral, the wrenching relief in Aragorn’s voice when they returned from Rivendell. And in hers…‘Not this time.’  

“It is the risk we take,” she said at last. She thought of Meren, and Valya. “All of us.”

And there is another risk. One she has taken, and I have not. 

Ask her. You don’t have to say—

It’ll come out, the name. His name. There’s no way it won’t. 

But even thinking of it made her smile a little in the dark. Halbarad. And then, soft and clear in memory, ‘Ellenen.’

Do it.

“Anna. I—can I—” She swallowed. “I would ask you something.” Stop stalling. But she found she could not go on.

Anna grunted. “Ask. Might not answer.” But then, gentler than she had expected, when still she did not speak, “What is it, Mir?” 

“Why…” Say it. “How—how did you know you were in love with Darya?”

Silence. 

At last Miriel mumbled, “Forgive me, I—”

“I’ll answer,” said Anna slowly. “And then you’ll tell me why you’re asking.” But when she spoke again, Miriel could hear her smile in the dark. “Well, I wanted her the moment I saw her—”

“This is my sister you’re talking about.”

“You asked. Don’t interrupt.”

Miriel raised her hands. “Go on.”

“She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

Darya had always been the beauty of the three of them. Miriel had been resentful of it, when she was a child, resentful of the attention it earned her, and baffled by her lack of interest, indeed it seemed, at times, her discomfort, even revulsion. In hindsight, of course, it was painfully clear. But she did not know that, as a child. All she knew was that girls were supposed to want attention from boys, and Darya got it, and she never did. 

But Anna was still speaking. “That’s how it started. But as I watched her, heard others speak about her…what she does, what she gives, the strength it takes to give it…She’s so fucking strong. I couldn’t do what she does. I’m in awe of her, Mir.”

Miriel had never heard Anna’s voice like this, this soft, naked honesty. She smiled. “Sometimes I’m in awe of her, too.” 

“But that’s not the whole of it. Her…her kindness, how gentle her hands can be, her caring for others, the duty, devotion…” A soft, dry laugh. “I sound like a fool in love. Which I am. And it doesn’t come close to—there are no words, Mir. To be with her, hold her, protect her, care for her, and be held by her, protected, cared for…And if you tell anyone I said that…I want to give everything for her. And of course, I want to fuck her until—”

“This is my sister… ”

Anna laughed. But then, abruptly, the laughter was gone. “Now. Who is it, Mir?”

Yet in spite of the agreement she had made, Miriel found that she could not speak. 

Anna grunted. “Well, it’s not Girith. You’re too wise for that.”

“No,” said Miriel softly. “Not Girith.”

Silence again. At last, “Won’t hold you to it, Mir. But there’s a reason you asked me.”

‘Brave one.’ Courage is not the absence of fear. She lifted her chin. “I won’t ask you not to be angry with me. Or even to forgive me.” And then she said into the dark, said it aloud for the first time, “Halbarad.” 

She was ready for fury, or incredulous laughter, or anything in between. What she did not expect was for Anna to let out a long breath, and then say quietly, “Thought it might be.”

“What?”

Anna shrugged. “Couldn’t think of anyone else. Anyone worthy of you, Mir.” A dry, mirthless laugh. “Except Aragorn. Glad it’s not him. He’s his own sort of fucked up, wouldn’t want you to have to deal with that. So. Tell me.” Again Miriel could hear her smile in the dark. “And remember this is my oath brother we’re talking about. Have you—”

“No! But he…” Miriel hesitated, felt a smile tug irresistibly at her lips in the dark. “He kissed me.”

“When?”

“A few days ago, the night before he went east.”

“Kissed. That’s all. And after? What did he say?”

“I—I didn’t give him a chance.” And she told Anna, shame-faced, what had happened. “He seemed upset, almost…angry. But he clearly wanted it, so I don’t know why…”

Crickets and frogs, and the night breeze soft in the grass. At last, Anna said quietly, “Fear. Not anger. He’s terrified.”

“What?” That’s impossible. Why on earth would he be… But then she thought of his face, saw it again before her, felt the trembling in his hands. And she asked softly, “Why?”

Anna did not answer at once; Miriel heard her slow breath in the dark, heard her turn away, feet shifting in the grass. At last, in a low voice, “Wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t mean it. And he must have known you might ask me.” She turned back to Miriel. “I’ve told no one this. Swore to him I never would. But you need to know.” A slow breath. “He fell in love, once. Long time ago. Fell with all his heart, and when it…it ended badly. He’s never been the same. And he’s terrified of it happening again. So am I, for that matter. It was…the darkest time of his life. I feared for him. And I was so angry at—” A low growl, and she shook her head. “Who it was doesn’t matter. Though he’ll have to tell you eventually. But Mir, be careful. I think you are sure. But be sure.”

And strangely, Miriel found that she knew it, had known it. ‘I will go to the hills in the dark of the morning…’ She had seen his grief, his anger, desperation, longing and fear. In the camp below Amon Sûl, and later when she sang for Húrin’s widow, and for her father, and all who had died then… But not the last time. She remembered the softness in his eyes, the edges of a smile that played across his lips. She thought of him, and of all Anna had said about Darya. That. All of it, and more. All that cannot be said. And she said at last, quietly, “I am sure.” 

Chapter Text

They stayed two days at Sarn Ford, to let Valya learn the ways of the place, Miriel said, though in truth she mostly just wanted more time with Anna. Mahar knew it, she could tell, and let them keep watch together, while he took charge of Valya. Let her learn from others. But then, smiling a little, as she watched him watching Valya spar with Sirion, ‘There is no better.’ 

She spoke no more of Halbarad, and Anna did not ask. But she often caught Anna looking at her, normally impassive face thoughtful, assessing. At last, as they sat on watch the second afternoon, concealed behind a stand of trees near the road, Miriel grimaced, and shook her head. “Just ask. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

Anna shrugged. “Don’t need to ask.”

“What?”

Anna turned to look at her. “I know you both. Everything that’s important.” A thin smile. “You want to talk, I’ll listen. But I know you, and I know him. Remember what you said, when you found out about Darya and me?”

A moment, and then Miriel nodded, smiled softly in memory. “I said I should have known, should have seen it, since I knew you both so well.”

Anna nodded. “I know you both, so I know why.”

Why we love each other. Clear in her mind then, the rest of the thought. The word she had not let herself think, let alone say. She turned it over, looked at it, thought of all that Anna had said about Darya. Felt it strange now that she had not asked Meren, nor Hannas. But then she smiled. There was no need. It felt so right, so natural, for both of them. What would I ask? She shook her head, the smile widening to a rueful grin. I already knew. 

“What?” Anna asked.

“You’re right.” Miriel laughed. “Never thought I’d say that.”

Anna grunted. “Wonders never cease. Won’t get used to it.” But she too was smiling. 

Mahar embraced her as they made their farewells, murmured in her ear, “You’ve got a good one there. Take care of her, and she’ll take care of you.”

Miriel nodded, eyes suddenly stinging. “I know.” Gwethor nîn. And then, Another thing I cannot not say. Not yet. But then she thought of Faron, looked in Mahar’s eyes. Quietly, “It is the risk we all take.”

“I know,” he whispered. 

She touched his hand, let him feel comfort, if only for a moment. “And you show us how to bear it, captain.”

“I know.” He blinked, shook his head. “Damn it, I miss him.” But then he smiled, cocked his head at Anna. “It was my patrol brought her in, did you know that? Twenty years ago, or near enough.”

Miriel nodded, smiling at the memory. “She told me. Said you took a chance on her. I’ve never forgotten that.” 

“I’ve had an eye out for her, all that time. Thought of her as mine, in a way. As that Lossoth girl is yours.” He shook his head. “And in all that time, I’ve never seen her happy. Until now. You’ll see Darya before I do, most likely. Tell her…” And again his voice broke, and Miriel wondered at it, for she had never seen him this way before. He has been, surely. But not with me. “Tell her how grateful I am.” 

“I—of course, captain,” she said softly. “I’ll tell her.” 

He smiled. “And tell her I’ll do my best to keep Anna out of trouble. Though she knows as well as any how hopeless a task that is.”

“She does. But Rangers love hopeless tasks. She knows that, too.”

They left on a clear morning, crossed the ford and headed north under the warm spring sun. It was near dusk when they came to the first farms, outliers of the South Farthing, low stone houses and thatch-roofed barns, circled with head-high walls of earth and stone. Well, head-high to a halfling, she thought wryly. Yet still they approached with caution, for it had been years since she had last come this way. But she smiled a little, in memory of a journey long past. The child will be nearly a young woman now. What was her name? She shook her head, could not quite bring it to her mind. But surely Iris will remember Anna.

The gate was shut, a solid expanse of thick iron-bound planks, but she heard dogs barking behind it, and then the voice of the farmer, shouting them down. When they had quieted, the voice was raised again, but not in greeting. 

“Whoever you are, we’re not interested. Come back in daylight, if you’ve a mind for trading. But we don’t need nothing, so you’d best be on you way.”

“Tom?” she called back. She did not remember the voice, but it seemed likely enough. 

Silence, save for the soft whine of a dog. And then, low and cautious, “Who are you?”

She glanced at Valya. “Rangers of the North.” Making her voice as friendly as she could while still pitched to carry, “Miriel daughter of Sirhael, and Valereth daughter of Vinyar.” She paused, thinking. “When I was last here, Lily showed me her cat who had had kittens. Gray and white, if I remember correctly.” She smiled, though she knew the farmer could not see it. “She was very proud of them.”

Silence again, and then at last, the clank of a bolt being withdrawn, and the slow creak of hinges. The dogs came out cautiously, padding around them, sniffing their hands and boots. Miriel stood still, but Valya, with the instinct of a farm girl, began stroking their heads, scratching them behind the ears, and soon they were all gathered around her, pushing each other and whining for her attention. 

Miriel raised her eyes, met the farmer’s, and he allowed a grudging smile. “Come on in, both of you. I remember you now. Came first with the tall, yellow-haired one, years ago. Anna. Strange name, that, and a strange one she is.” He shook his head. “But Iris likes her. Been here a time or two this winter, looks to be doing well enough.” He squinted at Valya in the fading light. “And this young one here now, no star yet, eh? She’s yours, is she?” 

Miriel nodded, a little unnerved by the farmer’s sharp memory and shrewd observations. “She is, as I was Anna’s when I first came here.”

He chuckled. “Time moves on, eh? Well, the dogs like her, so she can’t be all bad.”

Miriel laughed. “Only a little. She is still young, after all. Valya, if you could spare a moment…” For Valya was now crouched among the dogs, smiling broadly as they nuzzled her neck and licked her face. She stood, a little sheepish, and glanced from Miriel to the farmer and then back. Miriel shook her head in mock resignation, gestured. “This is Tom Whitfoot.” But her smile in the dusk was warm, and true. “A friend.”

The farmhouse kitchen was warm, a welcome relief from the evening chill, and thick with the smells of cooking. Iris Whitfoot did not turn from the hearth when she heard the door open, only reached carefully into the oven and pulled out a dark brown loaf. “Get your father his tea,” she said quietly, to a small boy who stood beside her. “And bread’s ready, though the rest of supper will be a bit yet. Where are your sisters?”

“Ma.” The boy stood still, staring at the strangers. 

“What, child?” Iris had turned from him to stir a pot hung over the fire. “Do as you’re bid.”

“Ma, who are they?” And then, as if recalling his manners, he straightened. “Do they want tea?”

Iris turned, and her eyes widened. But then a small smile curved her lips. “Yes, tidbit. I think they’ll want tea.”

“Don’t call me that.” The boy grimaced. “My name’s Tommy. Like papa. I’m not a baby.”

“And thank the stars for that,” muttered Iris, meeting her husband’s eyes with a sidelong smile. “No more babies.” But then she turned back to the boy. “As you wish, I’ll not call you tidbit. At least in front of strangers.” Even in candlelight, Miriel could see the boy’s flush, and she bit her lip to hold back a grin. “But you’re my youngest, so you’ll always be my baby. Even when you’ve grown taller than your father.”

“Which he’ll never do if he don’t mind his ma and do as he’s told,” grumbled Tom, with a pointed look at the teapot, steaming gently on the side of the hearth. 

Tommy’s little jaw tightened, and his fists clenched. But then, with what Miriel thought was admirable self-restraint for a child so young, he raised his chin, and looked directly at her. “Would you like tea?”

The girls came in as Miriel was sipping the dregs of her cup, with a basket of eggs and another of greens from the garden. “Still early yet,” said Iris, gesturing to the latter. “But it’s been a warm spring. Looks fair for a good summer, if this keeps up.”

“And we found these,” said the oldest of the three girls, bringing something from behind her back, and holding it out to her mother with a proud smile. “Down in the hollow by the stream.” 

Iris’s mouth fell open. And then she laughed, delighted, her face broad and open for the first time. “Well, it has been an early spring. I’d not have thought to look for them for a fortnight yet. Lily,” she turned to the youngest of the girls, “get a pitcher of water.” 

“I’ve already got one,” said Tommy, grinning and holding it out to her. Turning to his oldest sister, “Told you I’d remember.”

The girl laughed. “This once.” 

Tommy rolled his eyes but did not protest as his mother set her namesake flowers, blue and purple and white, in the pitcher he held out to her. “Irises,” she said, turning to her husband with a smile. “It really is spring.”

Little Tommy went to bed soon after dinner, though not without protest. Gesturing to his sisters, “Why do they get to stay up?” He crossed his small arms across his chest. “It’s not fair.” 

Again Miriel held back a laugh, reminded of Andreth when she was young. And I’m sure I was worse than Andy. A soft, wistful pang, as she watched Iris gather her son in her lap. Perhaps Darya remembers. But I’ll never be able to ask…And her eyes blurred, and she was grateful for the dim light. She thought of Hannas and Isilmir, Meren and his children, and Andreth – my little sister – with three young ones of her own now. What would it be to hold a child? My child? Could I—No. She flinched, enough that Valya glanced at her in concern. She forced a smile, though she doubted it looked convincing. 

Valya’s lips tightened, but she said nothing, only held Miriel’s gaze and at last gave a small, exasperated shrug. She turned to Iris. “I’ll bring him to bed, if you like.” And then to Tommy, with a broad smile, “Would you like a story about the Wild?”

The boy’s eyes widened, and he fairly jumped from his mother’s lap and took Valya’s outstretched hand. “Come on.” He laughed. “But mind your head.”

When they had gone, Iris turned to Miriel with eyebrows raised. Miriel smiled. “She has two younger brothers.”

“Ah.” Iris shook her head, and glanced at her girls. “Thought I’d seen it all with those three, but he’s…something else.” 

“He’s a pain, is what he is,” grumbled Lily, and her sisters giggled. 

“So were you,” said Holly, the oldest, with an arch smile.

“Still are, if I’m honest,” added Daisy. 

“Ma…” But Lily was smiling. 

Tom turned to Miriel. “Look at my fine, upstanding daughters.” He grinned. “Always telling the truth.” 

And Miriel laughed, and thought again of her sisters. But then, abruptly, Lani was alone. Always. Dar…

Iris must have seen something in her face, for she touched Miriel’s hand, question and worry clear in her eyes though she said nothing. 

Miriel smiled, turned to Daisy. “I am the middle of three sisters. And my older sister most certainly still thinks I’m a pain.”

All three girls laughed, and Iris shook her head, smiling gently. But then she glanced at her husband, eyebrows raised in question. He let out a breath, pursed his lips, but at last he nodded. “Aye, they can stay.” He turned to Miriel. “What do ye hear, out there in the world outside?” And there was an unmistakable note of wistfulness in his voice. She was surprised, for when she was last here, it had been Iris alone who seemed interested in news from beyond the borders of the Shire. 

Tom shook his head, chuckled dryly. “Wish I didn’t need to bother with it, but it seems I do.” 

“More travelers on the road,” said Holly quietly. “We stay away when we hear them coming.” 

Tom grunted. “Most seem honest enough, though too many try to sell me things I don’t need. But some of them…” He shook his head. “We came down here to get away. Mind our own business and let others mind theirs. Seemed safe enough, but now,” he glanced at his wife. At last, in a low voice, “I don’t know.” 

Iris huffed out a breath. “And would you be happier there, up among all your relations and mine? And now your brother’s elected Mayor, his head’ll swell to the size of the rest of him.”

“Mother!” Holly gasped, but she was grinning. 

Iris shook her head, a shamefaced smile twitching her lips. “Shouldn’t have said that. Sorry, Tom.”

“Oh yes, you should,” said Lily, giggling. “Uncle Will the Mayor, lording about the Town Hole—"

“Lily…” Warning clear in Iris’s voice, but Lily ignored it, rose and waddled about the room, continued in a deep voice, “I’m Will Whitfoot the Mayor, and you all must do as I say.” Arriving in front of her father, “And you, little Tommy—”

“That is quite enough, Lily.” For a moment, Tom’s face looked almost fierce. Lily quailed and deflated, returning to her seat with a disappointed snort. 

“Not as though you haven’t said the same, you and mother both,” she grumbled, under her breath but loud enough to carry across the small room. 

Tom glanced at his wife, and sighed. “You’re not wrong, child. But there are things I can say, because he’s my brother, that you can’t.”

“Humph. Fine.” Lily’s eyes flashed with mischief. “Say them, then.” 

Tom’s brows furrowed, and again he looked at his wife, seemed as if he might speak but said nothing. 

“Well,” said Iris at last, “If you won’t, I will. The girls should know why we’re here.” 

Tom gazed at her a moment, then shrugged. “Suppose you’re right.”

Iris raised her chin. “Of course I’m right.”

Tom shook his head, allowed a wry smile. “My wife,” he said, glancing at Miriel, “is a Took. That may not mean anything to you…”

Miriel shook her head. “I am sorry, but it does not.”

“Well, it means many things, but now it means she speaks her mind, and woe betide any man who tries to stop her.” The girls giggled, and Tom flashed them an exasperated look. But he shook his head, and sat back in his chair. “Go on, then,” he said to his wife. “Tell them about Will.”

The passionate devotion halflings hold for their family history was well-known even in Bree, and Miriel listened patiently as the tale unfolded, of how a young Will Whitfoot, eldest son of a wealthy Westfarthing family, had courted Iris Took, but she was put off by his air of genteel self-importance, preferring to keep company with his younger brother. Quick-witted and irreverent the both of them, they took to each other at once, and when Iris’s father would not grant them permission to marry, still holding out hope that his daughter would make what he thought to be a more advantageous match with the eldest son, they left. 

“In the middle of the night,” Tom confirmed, laughing. “Not sure that was necessary, but we thought it was. And anyway, we liked the idea of it, young as we were, running off in the dark together.” He shook his head, winked at Valya, who had come back from putting Tommy to bed, took his wife’s hand and kissed it. “It was quite the talk of the Shire at the time. The gossips of the West Farthing should be grateful to us, really. The entertainment we gave them…” But then his voice sobered, and he glanced at his daughters before turning back to his wife. “We can’t go back. Where would we live? Certainly not Michel Delving.” He grunted in disgust. “Can you imagine Will’s face? And you never liked Tuckborough, even as a girl. Too crowded, too many eyes and ears and whispers.”

Iris visibly shuddered, shook her head. “No,” she said at last. “We can’t go back.” She turned to Miriel. “Unsettling, it’s been. But not dangerous, not yet.” 

Miriel nodded, thought of Faron, bit her lip and said nothing. 

But Iris’s face softened, and she reached out, touched Miriel’s hand. “Because of you,” she said quietly. “Your folk, your fathers and mothers who give their young ones up to the Wild.” She glanced at Valya, and then at her daughters. “Because of you, my daughters are safe, at least for now.” A soft, wry laugh. “And that little son of mine can cause trouble to his heart’s content, knowing no real trouble will come for him. At least not yet.” 

Miriel pursed her lips, looked round at them all, settled her eyes on Tom. “Have somewhere you can go,” she said at last. “Somewhere you can hide. You may not need it. I hope you don’t. But you should have it.” 

Tom gazed at her, nodded reluctantly. “Aye. That we should. Don’t like it, but it’s not my likes that matter.” 

Iris gave a slow smile. “And I’ll teach my daughters to use a bow, shall it? It’s a Took family tradition, after all.”

“Is it now?” said Miriel. “Well, traditions are important, you must pass it on.” And she thought she had never seen such eagerness as she saw then in Lily’s eyes.  

Chapter Text

From Whitfoots’ farm they traveled north, along the road but slipping off it to avoid the sight of other travelers. “We are not unknown,” Miriel said, when Valya asked. “Most halflings have heard rumor of us in tales, and some who go near the borders have seen us, at Sarn Ford or the Brandywine or the North Farthing downs. They know we are not foes. But they don’t know what we are—and most don’t want to know. They don’t want to think of the vastness outside their land, the mysteries and perils it might hold. But we are of that wider world, that they know, and they distrust us, most of them.” She smiled. “But not all.” 

The land became more thickly settled, many of the fields along the road planted with a crop Valya had never seen, dark green leaves and small, white, star-shaped flowers that scented the warm air richly. “Pipe-weed,” Miriel said, smiling. “We buy it in Bree, but this is where it grows best. The Sackville family has become quite wealthy from it in recent years, much to the annoyance of some of their northern neighbors.”

Valya wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never understood why one would willingly breathe smoke.”

Miriel laughed. “Nor I. But the Chieftain likes it.”

“Huh. He’s welcome to it.” Valya glanced sidelong at Miriel. “He’s a strange man.” She frowned, searching for words. “Admirable,” she said at last. “I’d swear my life to him without a second thought. But…strange.”

“That he is, in more ways than this.” And she smiled, as if to make light of it. But then that feeling again, fierce warmth both comforting and unsettling, and the voice that was his and not his. Ellenen. 

“He trusts you,” said Valya quietly.

Miriel frowned. “He trusts all of us. He must; that is the meaning of the Star.”

“No.” Valya shook her head. “More than that. The way he looks at you, listens to you.” Valya stopped, turned to her. “The men say Halbarad will be brannon taid after Darahad, that the Chieftain trusts him above any other. But he also trusts you.”

Miriel felt her face flush, hoped Valya would think it only the afternoon sun, forced an unconcerned shrug. But denial would ring false, and she could not lie to Valya. “I am honored by it,” she said quietly. “As we all are. Now,” glancing round then stopping at the entrance to a lane that branched off from the main road, plunging down into a wooded hollow, “here lives one who does not care that we are of the wide world. The village of Longbottom lies ahead, just over that rise,” she gestured north along the road, “but we’ll not go there. We’ve no need.” She smiled. “Della will tell us all there is to be told.”

The lane ended in a small open meadow by a stream, bright with flowers in the afternoon sun. A round door opened in the hillside, and before it sat a halfling woman, white curls framing a wrinkled face brown with sun, bare dirty feet outstretched, puffing on a short wooden pipe. 

She had been leaning back against a rock, eyes closed in the sun, but she sat up as they approached, and pushed herself slowly to her feet. “Little older and stiffer every year,” she called out. “Don’t mind me.”

Miriel laughed. “I don’t. You’ll still outwork half the men in the village, and cook better than all of them put together.”

“Sure enough, and if that don’t get you asked to supper, nothing will.” The woman’s eyes sparkled, and she looked Miriel up and down. “Good to see ya, lass. And who’s the girl?”

“Valereth daughter of Vinyar, mistress,” said Valya, bowing.

“Hmm. And she’ll make a Ranger, eh?”

“That she will.” Miriel turned her eyes from the halfling woman to look directly at Valya. “And a damn good one.”

“Well, if Miriel says it, then it’s true.” The halfling woman returned Valya’s bow. “Delphinium Sackville, at your service. Just call me Della, everyone else does. Well, those meaning to be friendly. There’s some as call me other things, but they’re not worth bothering with. Now, you just stay here half a moment, I’ll see what I’ve got for tea.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and vanished behind the round door, with a quickness that belied her age. Valya turned to Miriel, eyebrows raised, but Miriel shook her head, smiling. “Sit. When she comes back, you can ask anything you wish. She’ll answer.”

Valya shrugged, and obeyed, dropping her pack to the ground and leaning against it, legs outstretched in the sun. Though the road made for easy walking, the days had been long, and they were both blinking sleepily in the sun by the time Della returned, bearing a tray with a teapot, cups, and three small loaves.

“Honey-cake, seed-cake, and my own speciality, lavender tea cake. Now, you don’t get that in the Wild, I fancy. Come on, eat your fill, child,” she said, turning to Valya, who had politely taken only a single slice. “When I’ve no one left to feed, I’ll likely die, and you wouldn’t want that, now would you?” Valya, clearly uncertain of the proper reply, made a non-committal gesture halfway between a nod and a shake of the head. But she took two more slices of cake, and busied herself with eating them. Della nodded approvingly. “Growing girl like you, you need more than you get, most likely.” She laughed. “I’d like to fatten you up, both of you, if you’d stay more than half a moment. But you have your own ways and your own needs, and little old me’ll just feed you and send you on.” She sipped her tea, and then grinned slyly at Miriel. “I’ll tell you all there is to tell of Longbottom, but you owe me a tale first, for the tea. What do the old wives of your folk talk about? Any men in your life? Well, of course there are, most of you Rangers are men, from what I hear, but you know what I mean. A man. No, you won’t tell me, of course you won’t. Valereth, does she have a man?”

Miriel knew she should have expected it. On the two previous occasions she had visited Della, it was the first question the old woman had asked. Heat coursed through her, and she knew she would not have been able to manage a convincing lie. And it is a lie. How many times have I been asked that question, the answer always the same? And now, for the first time, I must lie. And she could hardly hold back a smile. 

But the final question had not been to her, and Valya, disconcerted by Della’s rapid stream of talk, frowned and stammered, “N-no, mistress. Not that I know of.”

“Not that you know of, eh? And is there someone she doesn’t know of?” This to Miriel, but she had had time enough to compose herself, and managed to answer with a light-hearted laugh. “No, I have no man. Nor woman either, though you didn’t ask.”

“We-ell,” Della raised her eyebrows, “Didn’t know that was a thing done among your people. Thought you’d be more uptight, like some of our grand families up Hobbiton way. My sister married one of them, and a stuck-up lot they are, thinking they’re better than us Longbottom folk, just because they live in the center of things. She’s not been back here but twice in ten years, and that son of hers only once, with his sour-faced wife and their little whining boy. But let them do as they please, I’ve no need for ’em. Now, I’ve gone and told you a tale, or half a one, and you were supposed to tell first. So come on, what have you got for me?”

Miriel grinned, though she could not help but think that if this was the reception they got, it was no wonder Della’s nephew stayed away. She glanced at Valya. “What should we tell her?” Anna and Darya had of course come first to her mind…No. That tale is not mine. But Valya grinned, and turned to Della. “Well, if we’re talking about men, one of my brothers made rather a fool of himself last winter. Though it turned out all right in the end, and I’ll likely be an aunt by the time I return home.”

“Oh?” Della looked delighted. “Do tell.”

The gossip lasted past dark, and they sat under the stars, fireflies winking around them. But at last, Della repacked her pipe, settled back against the still-warm stone, and said, “Now. I know what it is you’ve really come to hear.” She blew a large smoke ring that rose nearly straight up in the still night air. “More strangers. Men from southaway. They’ll not say where, though they’re polite enough in all else. Buying pipe-weed, mostly, though sometimes it’s honey, or cider. But they ask questions. Nothing untoward, mind you.” A short, dry laugh. “Gossip, mostly, who the families are, who’s married to who, any tales of strange doings. But it’s…the way they ask. Like they’re looking for something, like they know there’s something to find but ain’t sure quite what it is. And they won’t say where they’re from. Strange, that.” She shook her head. “Camellia’s done a good deal of business with them, pipe-weed mostly, and her son stands to inherit a tidy bit, though of course he always wants more. But I don’t like ’em. Can’t really say why, when you come right down to it, but I don’t. And when you get to be as old as me, you trust your nose on such things. So. Not sure if that’s what you were looking for, but that’s what there is.”

Miriel thanked her, assured her there wasn’t anything they were looking for, only wanting to hear what there was to hear. “And I can only hope I’ll live to be as old as you, and sit out on a warm night telling tales with friends.” 

“Aye, that is a thing to wish for, right enough,” said Della. 

Though not a thing to expect. Not for us. But none of them said that. 

They slept on the soft grass of the river meadow, and Della fed them well again in the morning, and sent more with them. “Honey-cakes’ll keep for days, if you’re careful with them. Mind they don’t get crushed, and you can eat ‘em and think of me when you’re out in the Wild, or wherever your way takes you. Fancy that,” she laughed, “my honey-cakes out in the Wild. Just as well it’s them and not me. Well. Be on your way, then, and maybe I’ll see you again, and maybe not. I’m an old woman, after all, but there’s life in me yet. Fare you well.”

They turned to wave just before they entered the trees, saw her standing amid the bright flowers, white hair fairly glowing in the early sun. Then they entered the cool, damp woods, moss in the lane muffling even their footsteps. Valya said in an undertone, “It’s so quiet,” and Miriel couldn’t help but laugh. 

They left the road, and went east across uninhabited country, though there were signs that halflings occasionally came this way for hunting. On the second day they turned north, crossed a small river and came again to farmland, low and wet and rich, though wooded hills rose to the west. They went carefully now, and mostly at night, to avoid being seen, and Miriel thought wryly of the time she had spent in the Shire with Anna. At least there is a purpose for this. But then, There was for that as well. And well it has served me, as she knew it would. 

And indeed it did, for as they crept along a hedgerow at dusk, suddenly there were voices. Men, more than one. And a halfling. Miriel and Valya froze, crouching low, for the voices came from a copse of trees ahead of them, a little way off the lane that followed the hedgerow. But there was anger in the men’s voices, and fear in the halfling’s, and that was enough. Slowly, silently, they crept forward. 

There were two men, in appearance like traders, and speaking the common tongue. But one of them held by wrists and neck a struggling halfling boy. Not yet full grown, neither was he a child, and the anger in his eyes would have made even a Ranger take care. But abruptly he gasped, and went still, as a blade gleamed in the dusk. 

“Shut your mouth.” The boy obeyed, though tears glistened on his cheeks, and anger twisted his small, fair face. “That’s better,” the man holding him growled. And then, to his companion, “So what the fuck to we do now?”

“Kill him.”

The boy gasped, and began struggling again until a prick of the blade made him go limp. The man holding him frowned. “He’s only a—”

Knives, Miriel signed to Valya. Slowly, silently they made ready.

Jona’s knife. ‘I made it so it felt good in my hand.’

“He’s not a child. He’s small, but close enough to grown that they’ll listen to him.”

“How do you—”

“Because I’m not a fool. And I’ve been in this cursed land before. Sharkey says we’re not to be seen, not here. Which means we’re not to be fucking seen. Fancy telling him we failed to obey? And don’t even suggest that we lie.”

Throw, she signed. On me.

“But—but he’s not harmed us…”

“He’s fucking seen us. That’s enough. I knew you were too soft a fool for this. If you won’t do it, I—”

And they threw.

Whisper as steel cut air, and then gasps as it cut flesh. 

Miriel’s throw was true. The man who held the boy released his grip and fell back, clutching vainly at his throat. Valya’s was not, only glanced off the other’s face, but it was enough that he dropped his knife, staggered back, and then she was on him with her other knife. And then he was still. 

Harsh, rasping breath. Valya released the knife handle, staggered back, wiped her hand on the grass without thinking, looked at it and wiped again. “Here,” said Miriel softly, and held out a waterskin. And while Valya washed the blood of first death from her hand, Miriel went cautiously over to the halfling boy. 

He pushed himself back across the ground, away from her. She stopped, held out empty hands. 

“I will not harm you.” She glanced back at the bodies, black on the ground in the dusk. “Nor will they.” 

The boy trembled, eyes wide and white. “Y-you killed them.”

“They would have killed you.”

The boy said nothing, only breathed in great, shuddering gasps, and hugged his knees to his chest.

If he doesn’t stop that, he’ll pass out. “I am Miriel daughter of Sirhael.” Quiet, calm. “And this is Valereth daughter of Vinyar. But her friends call her Valya.” She made herself smile. “What can I call you?” 

The boy sat silent, shaking, though his breathing calmed a little. At last, in a small, quavering voice, “F-Frodo. Frodo Baggins.”

A real smile now, and she raised her eyebrows. “Baggins? I thought the Bagginses lived in Hobbiton. What are you doing here?” 

She had meant to put the boy at ease, to bring out a story of visiting family in the Marish, or hunting with friends in the Woody End. But instead his face crumpled, and he began to cry. 

Miriel felt Valya beside her, laid a hand on her knee in warning. But Valya asked softly, “How old are you, Frodo?”

“F-Fifteen,” he managed after a moment. 

“I’m twenty, so I’m a bit older than you,” said Valya, and Miriel thought she had never heard such warmth and gentleness in her voice. “But my youngest brother is fifteen. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No.” Soft, and empty, raw with tears. “And my mother and father are dead.”

Silence. And then Valya moved forward. He tensed but did not move as she sat by his side, reached an arm around his small shoulders. “I’m sorry, Frodo.” Nothing more, and after a time she shifted, and then both arms were around him, and he leaned into her, and she held him until at last he stopped shaking.

“They drowned,” he whispered. “Th-three years ago.” He shook his head. “It’s been three years. I shouldn’t cry anymore, that’s what the Master says.” 

“My father died nearly three years ago,” said Miriel quietly. “I still cry for him sometimes.”

Frodo raised his head, looked at her wide-eyed. “Y-you do? Rangers cry? That’s what you are, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She smiled gently. “We are Rangers. And yes, we cry. We are human, and we love, and so we cry.”

“The Master said it was his fault. My father’s. The boat sank because of him, and my m-mother…d-died because of him…” And then he was sobbing again, and Valya held him, and stroked his curly hair.

When at last his sobs eased, Miriel asked quietly, “Is that why you are here? In these woods?”

Frodo nodded. “I c-couldn’t take it anymore. So I left. I was g-going to take some food from Maggot’s, just a little, just enough to get me to H-hobbiton. My—” He swallowed. “My father’s family lives there. But then Maggot c-caught me, and his dogs nearly k-killed me, and I ran and ran, and then those…those men…” His voice trailed off, and he glanced back to where the bodies lay, nearly invisible now in the dark. “Who are they?”

“I don’t know,” said Miriel, after a moment. And it’s true. Though not likely I’d tell him even if I did. “But they’ll harm no one now. Is there somewhere you can go, just for tonight? Somewhere safe, and then you can go back to the Hall in the morning. The Master will be worrying.”

“No, he won’t,” Frodo scoffed at once.

“I think he will,” said Miriel. “And be that as it may, you need to talk to him. But not tonight. Where can you go?”

Frodo thought for a moment. “Uncle Saradoc.” And the thought seemed to give him strength. “He’s not my uncle really, he’s my cousin, but he’s old, so I call him uncle. Well, not old, really, but too old to be a cousin…anyway. They had a baby last autumn, and he’s the sweetest little boy…” And in the dark, Frodo smiled. But then abruptly the smile vanished, and he turned again to look toward where the bodies lay. “What about…what will happen to them?”

“We’ll take care of it,” said Miriel. “I know some folk around here. Your farmer Maggot, for one. We’ll deal with them in the morning.” A pause, and then, more quietly, “And we’ll keep your name out of it, if you like.”

“I—yes. Please, if—if you would. I don’t need any more…anything attached to my name.” A bitter edge, and once again Miriel felt pity for him. 

“Do you have other relations, another place you could live, if folk in Buckland are not kind to you?”

“It’s—it’s not that they aren’t kind, most of them are, and even the Master…” He trailed off, and when at last he spoke again, his voice was quiet, and more thoughtful than a child’s had any right to be. “Mother was his sister, his little sister, he said, the youngest of the family. And he’s the oldest, he’s supposed to keep the family safe…that’s what Uncle Saradoc said, anyway. Uncle Rory, that’s the Master, he’s Saradoc’s father, and Saradoc said he…” Frodo swallowed. Softly, “He blames himself that he didn’t keep his sister safe. That’s what Saradoc said. He said my mother was Uncle Rory’s favorite, of all the family…”

“He would not be the first to be unjust in grief.” 

Frodo nodded. “I know.” And if before he had seemed younger than his years, now he seemed far older. “I know he cares for me, he really does, and he tries to look out for me. But there are so many of us, and sometimes it feels like I’m…even in the Hall, with family all around me, I’m alone. Like they’re all looking at me and ignoring me both at once. I…” He shook his head. “I don’t know, I’m not making sense…”

“Feelings don’t make sense,” said Valya, softly, unexpectedly. “That’s what my mother says. They just are.” She hugged him again, and then let him go. “Where does your Uncle Saradoc live? Can we take you there?”

Frodo shook his head. “I—I’m fine. It’s just across the ferry. A little hole of his own, on the edge of the Hall. They moved in there when Merry was born, to have some peace and quiet, he said. Though that didn’t exactly work out.” A choked little laugh. “Merry is not a quiet baby. But he likes me. I can make him smile, even when he’s crying.” 

“Can you now?” And Miriel heard Valya’s smile in the dark.

“Yes, all right,” said Frodo, with another little laugh. “I take your point. I—” He swallowed. “Thank you. For…for saving my life.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Well, good night. I…perhaps I’ll see you again, someday.” And there was wistfulness unmistakable in his voice. But he said nothing more, only bowed and turned away, and they heard his soft footsteps fade across the field toward the road. 

“Yes,” said Miriel quietly, into the dark. “Perhaps you will.”

Chapter Text

When Frodo had gone, Miriel turned to Valya, laid a hand on her shoulder in the dark. “How are you, Val?”  

Valya drew a shaky breath. “Better when I had the boy to think of.” 

“That’s as it often is.” And then, quietly, “Last time you had me.” 

“And before that Halbarad.” Miriel felt a tremor run through her. “For all the horror of that, I did not…”

“No. Not then. But now you have. Your blade has drawn blood.” Soft, but clear. “You killed a man.” Her hand tightened on Valya’s shoulder. She must believe this. “It was your duty. You are bound by the oath, though you have not yet sworn it. He would have killed a child, and you and me if given the chance.” 

“I know,” Valya whispered. 

“There is a thing I must do. Now, while the blood is fresh.”

“I know.”

“But not here.”

They moved away from the copse of trees, found a hollow beneath a grassy bank, and Miriel kindled a small fire. She pulled the wooden box from her pack, found the needle, held the tip in the flame until her fingers were hot. Then carefully, needle held between fingertip and thumb, she pushed up her right sleeve. Skin glowed darker than in daylight, and darker also the thin black line, crossed with a shorter line near the inner end. “Anna was with me then,” she said quietly, running her fingers over them. I’ll tell her the whole story sometime. But one thing she must know now. She lifted her eyes, met Valya’s. “She gave me this.” And then, more gently. “Roll up your sleeve.” 

Valya obeyed, braced her right forearm across her knees, held it steady with her left hand. And she gasped and tensed, but did not flinch, as Miriel pricked the lines in her skin. 

“The hand that first drew blood is marked.” The words of ritual, passed from hand to hand, blood to blood. “It is not wrong; we do what we must.” Heard first on that night in Dunland, and many times since. “But it cannot be undone, the spilling of blood with intent to harm.” Yet I had not done it. And now I have. “And it must be remembered. The mind may forget; the mark is memory, bound in pain.” Soot from a half-burned stick, rubbed in the wound, dark smear of blood and ash. “This blade you carry always with you, and the blood you shed, marked in your blood. Do not forget.” 

Valya’s breath hissed through her teeth as Miriel at last rinsed the raw wound, and bound it with a cloth. 

“I will not forget.” She swallowed hard. “Not him, nor the boy.”

They slept in the hollow, wrapped in blankets and close together, for the spring night was chill. As the first light of morning turned mist gray in the fields, they covered the traces of the fire through long habit, though it hardly seemed necessary here, in this quiet country that seemed so safe. And then, with a soft emptiness in her stomach: Nowhere is safe. You know that.

I wonder when she earned her blademark. She had asked her father, long ago. But I never asked Silevren. Does Anna know? A small, wry smile. Silevren would have told her, even if she didn’t ask. But she had not asked Anna. And I won’t. It’s not worth…For she knew the first time Anna’s hands had shed blood had been long before she was a Ranger. Anna had not told her that either, but she knew. Has she told Dar? Abrupt, utter certainty. She told Dar everything. And there was a strange, almost painful relief in that thought.

“Val,” she said quietly. “Let me see.”

Valya winced a little as she pushed up her sleeve, but there was only the expected redness and slight swelling. 

“It will hurt for a few days.” And unspoken: It is the price to be paid. 

Valya nodded, lifted her head to met Miriel’s eyes. “Will you tell me now?”

And so as they walked, across misty fields and through hedgerows, and at last along a raised, well-kept road, Miriel told her: Darahad and the journey south, the small, ragged villages, the inn on the high plateau, and the men who had tried to kill them. She shook her head. “Fear made them foolish. Greed also, but mostly fear.” She had not thought that at the time, but she did now. Fear of those who are unlike. Those who are not us. And she thought of Lani, and was grateful, for the second time that morning, for her sister. 

They halted by a lane that ran down from the causeway. “It’s early still.” Miriel nodded toward the farm gate, just visible in the thinning mist. “But farmers rise early.” 

Again the barking of dogs, but a woman’s voice this time. The dogs calmed, and the gate creaked open. A young halfling woman stood in the opening, hands on hips, head cocked to the side. Her eyes narrowed, but then abruptly her face cleared, and she shook her head. “Up early, ain’t you?”

Miriel laughed. “So are you, Mistress Maggot.”

The woman harumphed. “I ain’t old enough to be a mistress.” She turned to Valya. “Just Hazel, and that’s flat. But be that as it may,” she gestured to the basket of eggs on her arm, “breakfast don’t wait. You haven’t eaten? Came early just for that, I’ll be bound.”

“I’d be foolish not to.” Miriel raised her eyebrows. “And you would be offended. Though there would have been second breakfast on offer, if we’d arrived later.”

Hazel shrugged, grinning. “There would be, at that. But come in now, it’s a chilly one. Be warm enough later, but now you’ll be glad for a fire and tea.”

They sat awkwardly in small chairs, knees brushing the table. But after an initial hush as the three Maggot children and two farmhands eyed the guests dubiously, a little boy began chattering about the frog he had found in the water bucket, and his sister giggled, and one of the farmhands made a frog face, which elicited more laughter, and then the Big Folk were all but forgotten. But Silas Maggot sat at the head of the table and ate without speaking. At last, low beneath the chatter of children, “There’s a reason you’re here, right enough. I can see it in your eyes. Eat now. But then we must talk.”

The table cleared, and the children set to washing dishes, the farmer glanced at his wife, and jerked his chin toward the door. Loudly, “New barn built since the last time you were here, Miriel. More space for Hazel’s chickens, and for the cows. Larger haymow too, makes feeding the beasts a sight easier in winter.”

Miriel nodded, playing along. “We’d be glad to see it.”

But as they stood in the empty barn, the cows all gone out to spring pasture, the farmer turned to her. Slowly, unsmiling, “Now, what brought you here so early? Not Hazel’s cooking, excellent though it is.”

“No.” A breath, and then, They must know. What they do with it is up to them. “Can you spare time for a walk?”

The halflings glanced at each other, and Hazel answered quietly, “For you, we can.”

Miriel nodded. “Bring shovels.”

Hazel gasped when she saw the bodies, already beginning to attract flies as the morning warmed. But she did not shy away, and she and Silas watched intently as Valya searched them. 

Miriel had insisted that Valya do it alone. “I know how. Show me that you do.” Carefully steady, though her heart beat fast at the name on her lips, “Show me what Halbarad taught you.” Valya swallowed, and nodded. 

And as she felt every seam, turned out every pouch and pocket, and at last stripped them to look for marks on their bodies, Miriel told Silas and Hazel what had happened. Not exactly as it happened; in deference to Frodo, she said the threat had been to her and Valya alone, confident that his small, light feet had left no marks obvious enough for farmers to notice. 

But the gist was clear, and when she was done, Hazel said thoughtfully, “They’ve been here before, or one of them had. And others like them.”

“In our land,” growled Silas. “There’s no call for Big Folk sneaking about. If they’ve any business to do, they’ll do it in the open.” His jaw tightened, and he looked round at the countryside about them. “Our Shire,” he said again. “Well. Let’s get ’em in the ground.” He glanced at Hazel. “And then I’ve some folk to talk to.”

They were all sweating and dirty by the time it was done, the ground smoothed over and covered with dead leaves and branches. “Just enough to keep any children from wondering what might be there.” Hazel grunted, not quite a laugh. “I know some as would dig up any likely spot in search of buried treasure.” She turned to her husband. “You’ll not speak of this?” And she gestured to the graves.

“No.” He shook his head. “No need to bring attention to it, and us. I seen ’em in the woods, is all I’ll say. Didn’t speak to ’em, and they went off south. But that I seen ’em, and heard ’em – folk should know.” He turned to Miriel. “Hobbit eyes and ears will be open.”

She nodded. “You know how to find us.”

“Aye,” said the farmer slowly. “That I do. You’ll be on your way, then?”

“Not yet,” said Hazel, before Miriel could answer, and she managed a small smile. “There’s elevenses to be had first.”

They ate until they could eat no more, and Hazel sent them off with more food even than Della had, including a pouch of leathery brown strips that looked distinctly like treebark. Valya frowned, sniffed one, bit off a small corner. But then her eyebrows lifted, and she turned to Hazel with an appreciative smile. 

“Tastes better than it looks, eh?” said Hazel, grinning.

“It does,” Valya laughed. “What is it?”

“Dried mushrooms. My own recipe, and no amount of coaxing or threats will get it out of me. Believe me,” she fixed Valya with a baleful stare, “half the Marish has tried. But it’s mine, and I choose who gets to taste it.”

“I am honored, Mistress Hazel,” said Valya, bowing formally, and the little boy and girl who had been watching burst into giggles.

The dogs escorted them to the causeway, and Valya gave their heads a final scratch before shooing them back down the lane. “Go on,” she said with a smile. “We need to be sneaky, as your master calls it, and you’re no help in that.” When they had gone, she turned to Miriel. “Where to now?” 

“The bridge. But not in daylight.” A small, dry laugh. “We’ve scandalized the good folk of the East Farthing enough for one day.”

They went north on the road until they were well past Maggot’s farm and out among fields and coppices. And then, looking round carefully to be sure they were unobserved, they scrambled down the bank and through the dense grass of a muddy ditch, and concealed themselves in the angle of a thick-growing hedge. Branches tugged at their clothes, and flies buzzed around them, but they were shaded from the sun, and the smell of growing things drifted on the warm air. They took turns sleeping, though Miriel found her sleep trouble by strange dreams: of the boy, grown older but running through these fields as if in fear; of Elves in the woods; of Farmer Maggot and his dogs, and a strange small man in a tall hat. Valya too slept restlessly, cried out and grasped her newly-marked wrist, half-woke with a gasp of pain. “Rest,” said Miriel softly, laying a hand on her shoulder. Valya sighed, and relaxed, and slipped back into sleep. Miriel smiled, and moved closer to her. Gwethor nîn.

When at last evening drew down, they ate the bread and greens and boiled eggs Hazel had given them. Valya gazed longingly at the pouch of dried mushrooms, but Miriel shook her head. “Not now.” A regretful smile. “We’ll be glad for them on the road home.”

They waited until full dark then took to the causeway again, skirting the village of Stock, slipping across the Brandywine Bridge and passing by the Buckland gate unseen. And as the eastern sky began to pale before them, they came once again to their own people.

To Miriel’s surprise, they found Darahad at the Brandywine watchpost. “My lord brannon taid.” She bowed. “I thought you were in the north.”

“I was.” No more explanation, and Miriel swallowed and accepted the implicit rebuke. He will tell you what you need to know, and nothing more.

But I want to know everything. 

It had been growing in her mind, that thought. The instinct to know, to see, to feel all the pieces, how they fit together and where they didn’t. The curiosity had always been there; she smiled to remember the many times she had questioned her father about snatches half-heard in the Hall and rumors that spread among the children. He had always been honest with her, told her all that she wished to know, and for once Mirloth had agreed. ‘If she’s to follow your path, she should know where it leads.’ And the unstated corollary: Maybe, just maybe, if she knows, she will not follow. 

But she knew better than that, in her heart. The more I knew, the more I wanted to know. Not school things, but real things. Things that mattered. 

And it all matters. The conviction had been growing in her since…When? When did it become more than curiosity? And thinking about it now, directly for the first time: Since the Chieftain returned. Quiet, and honest, strange though it seemed. Why? What did that change?

For him, I must know everything. 

Why?

To that she had no answer, only the certainty of truth. 

And a whisper, more breath than word, his and not his: ‘Ellenen.’

It is time to be home.

She told Darahad what they had seen and heard, or rather let Valya tell it and added what the younger woman forgot. Little enough that was, in truth, and Miriel could hardly hold back a smile of pride as Valya made the report. Clear and concise, all that was relevant and nothing that was not, confident in what was fact and what conjecture. A Ranger reporting to her captain. And again, with that same, quiet certainty: She is ready. 

When all had been told, Darahad was silent for a time, gazing west toward where the Shire lay, peaceful beneath spring sunrise. Then he turned to Miriel. “What do you make of it?”

She had expected the question, had thought of little else as they walked through the night. “It is not the Dunlendings.” Darahad’s face remained impassive, but surprise showed in the widening of his eyes. Trust yourself. Trust his asking. “Or not only them. It’s organized. Those two – they were under orders.” She shook her head, felt her heart beat fast at what she was to say, the audacity of her conclusion and the fearful implications should it prove true. “Why the Enemy would want information about the Shire, I can’t begin to guess. But it seems he does.”

Darahad said nothing, as sunrise glowed around them and birdsong filtered through the trees. At last, low and even, “And what should I do?”

This she had not expected. She had thought of it, of course, but had not expected to be asked. But he is asking.

“Strengthen Sarn Ford, my lord.” Go on. “Pull from the north if you must. The Lossoth are trustworthy. If you must take risk, take it there.”

Darahad held her gaze, and she forced herself not to look away. “There is always risk,” he said at last. “This is a matter of degree, not kind. But you may be right.” A thin, wintery smile. “If the Chieftain is in Elenost when you return, tell him I said that.”

She flushed, hoped he would think it only the glow of sunrise. “Yes, my lord.”

They did not detour through Bree, but cut straight across rough country, lush with the green of early summer. They had enough time, but no more, and Miriel decided to see how fast Valya could travel. “We don’t need it now,” she said, when she roused Valya on the third day, aching and footsore, long before sunrise. “But if you do it now, you’ll know it’s there when you need it.”

Valya nodded, pushed herself stiffly to her feet. “Go on then.” Wry ghost of a smile. “I’ll try to keep up.”

And she did, nearly. Miriel could have gone faster on her own, but not much, and satisfaction grew in her as the days stretched on and Valya did not falter. They came to the ruins of Fornost, gray and bleak even under midsummer sun, and joined the path that rolled over gentle ridges along the skirts of the downs. And at last, forcing their aching legs into a jog as a late afternoon thunderstorm boiled up from the east, they came to Elenost.

Chapter Text

“The Chieftain is here,” said the gate guard, in answer to Miriel’s question. “In the yard, I think.” He glanced at the darkening sky. “Though not for long.”

Her breathing calmed as they crossed to the barracks, set down packs and weapons, just inside the door in anticipation of rain, and turned toward the yard. But her heart beat fast, and she had to force face and hands to be calm, to betray nothing. I’m glad to see him. The Chieftain. I always am, he knows that. He will see what he expects to see.

Bullshit. He’ll see what there is. He always does. 

Perhaps he will be alone. 

But then fear flooded her heart, along with all the various terrible reasons why the Chieftain might be alone. Not. Fucking. Helpful. 

Calm is my soul…

She had never reached for it here, in the peace of the village, with no hint of threat. Why am I like this? Why am I letting him make me like this? 

So don’t let him. Make it nothing. If he is there, nothing. If he is not there, nothing.

But he is not nothing. 

And then they came around the corner of the Hall, and he was there. 

They stood together, leaning against the fence. Aragorn was speaking, staring at the ground, eyes narrowed. Halbarad laid a hand on his shoulder, said something, and Aragorn looked up—and then movement caught his gaze, and he turned, and a broad, joyful smile broke across his face. 

Whatever had been troubling him forgotten, he strode to meet them, clasped Miriel’s arm and pulled her close. “Maloseg.” Low, not quite steady, and she felt the tremor in his breath. Only a moment and then he pulled back, and blinked away the glitter of tears in his eyes. “It is good to see you, Miriel.” But his hand still held hers, and through it she felt the depth of his relief. 

“Brannon mell,” she said softly.

The first heavy drops began to fall, dark in the dust at their feet. Abruptly Aragorn straightened, and smiled round at them all. “I am sure you have things to tell me. But not in the rain.” He turned away toward the Hall. And then over his shoulder, as if in afterthought, “Hal, you’ll want to hear this.”

Of course I want to hear…He had dreamed of her voice. Other things as well, of course, but most often her voice. Speaking, singing, whispering, laughing. He dreamed of his name in her voice.

She heard his steps behind her, felt his gaze on her back. She turned as they approached the door, inclined her head, gestured for him to go first. “Captain.” He is senior; it is his right. 

It has nothing to do with…

Don’t lie. 

He knew she watched him. The flicker of her eyes, up and down his body, the soft indrawn breath…He had feared and hoped both, though not evenly. A gutting fear, and a wan hope: It will fade. She will forget. It will be easier thus. I can handle pain.

But fear and hope both were gone, swept away by her glance. And in their place another hope, and another fear. What of joy?  

She had thought she was ready. He had thought he was ready. To be calm, to face him, to face her, to betray nothing. Aragorn is watching. Valya is watching. If ever you were a Ranger, master of yourself before all else, show it now.

As she had before, she let Valya make the report. Aragorn listened, and asked nothing until Valya spoke of searching the bodies. “What did you find?”

Valya glanced at Miriel. Uneasily, though they had discussed it, “Nothing, my lord.”

Aragorn frowned. “Nothing.”

“Coins, not too many nor too few, various types though mostly Dunland. Food, clothing. They each had two knives, but no other weapons.”

“Too clean,” said Miriel, meeting his eyes as he turned to her. “Nothing identifiable. Nothing at all. And for where they were, and what they said…” She shook her head. 

Halbarad grunted, not quite a laugh. “Trying too hard to be innocent.” The corner of his lip quirked upward. “I know what that looks like.”

“Innocent?” Aragorn shook his head, and smiled. But it did not reach his eyes, and when Miriel told him the rest of it, ending with what Darahad had said, he glanced at Halbarad, and then bent to the map that lay spread on a table by the window. 

“We have received two reports already from the Lossoth,” he said quietly, not looking at her. “Both to say nothing was amiss, all as it should be for the time of year.” He raised his head. “You are right to trust them.” He looked from her to Halbarad, and then back. “Because of what you did, we can trust them.”

They did not look at each other. But they remembered: Her head slipping beneath icy water. The strength of his arms as he pulled her from it. What she gives, and what it takes. His hands gentle on her bloody cheek. The feel of her in him, of release from pain. His warmth at her back in the night.

Nowhere is safe. But now, for this moment, with her, with him, I am safe. 

They did not look at each other. Aragorn forced himself not to smile. Let them come to it in their own time. And he ignored the whisper of grief in his heart.   

They ate in the Hall as rain pounded on the roof, and Miriel laughed to see Meren’s obvious anxiety about the trials. “You know they’re ready. Whether they show it or not is up to them.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re almost done.” And then, with a sly smile, “Want another?”

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” 

“That bad, eh?”

Miriel shook her head sharply. “No, I—that’s not what I meant. She’s—” She saw the laughter in Meren’s eyes, flushed at how easily she’d been had. But she lifted her chin, and held his gaze. “There is no one like her,” she said quietly. “That’s what I meant.”

“I know, Mir.” 

Silence. And then, “Thank you. Both of you. I—” She swallowed, found her throat suddenly tight. “I would not have thought it could be. But it is, because you saw it.” A breath, and then, very softly, “Gwador nîn.”

Darya was alone in the healers house. “Anna took them to Gaerferin,” she said. A small smile. “Daeron wanted Lani to meet his family.”

“What? Really?” Carefully, needing to ask but not quite wanting the answer, “Has his father returned?”

“No,” said Darya. “I think he wanted his mother and sisters to meet her before his father…had any say in the matter.”

Miriel shook her head, gave a small half-laugh. “That boy will make his own way.” 

“He will. I’m not worried about him.” 

The obvious omission, and Miriel felt her heart sink a little. “And her?” she asked quietly.

Darya met her eyes. “It is…slow. We knew it would be. Forward and back, good days and bad.” She let out a breath. “But never all the way back. I have to remind myself of that, of what she was like when she first came to us.” And then a smile tugged at her lips, and Miriel knew what she would say before she said it. “Anna has been…I thought—hoped she would be…You have no idea, Mir. She knows exactly what to do. Every time. She…it’s like she knows what Lani is going to say before she says it.” And then, more quietly, “And even when she can’t say it, or won’t. Anna—I’ve never seen her like that.” Admiration, rueful wonder—But also pain. For when you see it, you must remember why it is. Why Anna understands this injured, orphaned child so well. 

“I love her so much, Mir. Sometimes it scares me how much I—” Crack in her voice, tears bright in her eyes in the candlelight. “It was easier, in a way, to be alone. To live without this fear. Every time she leaves…” A soft, wry smile, and she shook her head. “But then, I fear for you as well. And for Meren, and the Chieftain. All of you.”

“And now Lani, and Daeron,” said Miriel quietly. 

Darya nodded. “All of you.”

Miriel heard Valya shift restlessly in the night, knew she was anxious about the trials. No reason for it, but so was I. She’ll be fine. 

And you? 

She had known it, of course, in the way one knows a thing far off. When she earns her star, she will leave me. Or I will leave her. We will leave each other. It was always thus, to give the new Ranger a fresh start, a new set of companions to learn and learn from. But now it was real. She must step out on her own. She is ready. Wry truth: As am I. And it will not be forever. 

But still. I will miss her. 

The Ranger barracks roused early that midsummer morning, even the trials no excuse not to train. Miriel was glad for it, for the grounding of routine, for the exertion that settled her mind. And she was even more glad to see Hannas, fully as strong and fast as she had always been, and her endurance even greater, if that was to be believed. Miriel watched her, as they went through set after set, uncertain at first, then pushing, testing, finding to her astonishment that Hannas kept up better than she ever had. “I don’t know why,” said Hannas, shaking her head, a small, wondering smile on her lips. “But I’m not complaining.”

“Nor should you. What does Meren think?”

Hannas raised her eyebrows. “He said even for this, he wouldn’t go through childbirth.”

“Huh. Men.” Miriel shook her head, grinning, and they both laughed. 

He was there, of course, drilling with Aragorn as she did with Hannas. They had brushed past each other in the weapons shed, eyes met briefly but they said nothing, and she tried to put him out of her mind. No distractions today. She smiled, remembered having the same thought on her own trial day, so many years before. But then a soft breath, a twisting in the pit of her stomach, remembering who it had been then, and why. Where are you, brother? 

And despite the midsummer sun that touched her face, she thought of winter, how much colder it must be north of the mountains. Too early for word to come over the pass yet. If there had been, the Chieftain would have told me. But perhaps this summer…

I hope he has found what I could not give him. 

As the last dew faded from the grass, and the meal bell rang from the Hall in the still air, Aragorn called them all together. That was the way it went, always, at the end of morning training – whatever one might choose to do before, they ended in random pairs, numbered squares of wood drawn from a bucket, worn smooth by time and hundreds of hands. She stood with Valya, and avoided Halbarad’s eyes.

She managed to keep her face impassive, she thought, when he drew her number. 

Of course. Today of all days.

The Wild will give no choice. What they had all been told, and normally she didn’t mind. Looked forward to it, even, for the challenge of the unknown. 

But did it have to be him today?

No distractions. A new test, this. An exercise in control.

Ha. Good luck with that.

Yet she fought well, held her own, which she had hardly ever managed with him. Even before…though he seems a little off, reactions a shade too slow—There. She narrowed her eyes against the early sun. He’s trying to blind me. Won’t work. She feinted right and then slipped left, twisting her body as he cut the air where she had been a moment before. He overbalanced, managed to keep his footing but it was not enough. She pulled the blow at the last instant, but still he grunted in pain as the wooden tip of her practice blade dug into his side. 

Not the side where he—no, thank the Valar. For a moment only relief, as she watched him straighten, twist experimentally, breathing hard but steady on both feet. Bruised, but not hurt. And then triumph, hot and fierce, and she lifted her chin and forced back a smile. Cheers and laughter from the circle of watchers, and more than a little heckling, for Halbarad did not often lose. A flash of uncertainty, as elation faded. 

Perhaps I should not have—not in front of so many…

Fuck that. She had never held back to spare anyone’s feelings. Not ever. None of us do, because the Wild does not. If he can’t handle that… She swallowed, anxiety abruptly twisting her stomach. If he can’t handle that, he’s not who I thought he was. And if that’s so, best know now. 

Yet when at last he lifted his eyes to hers, the anger she had feared was not there. 

“Well played.” Still a little breathless, “I didn’t see that coming.”

“You didn’t? You taught it to me.”

A wry, self-deprecating grimace, sweat running down his face. “I know.” 

She managed a small laugh. “School Valya for me and we’ll call it even?”

“My pleasure,” he said, grimace softening to a rare, broad smile. 

Yet both smiles faded at another voice behind them.

“And the winner fights me.” 

She knew he had been watching, had seen him out of the corner of her eye as she and Halbarad circled. This was supposed to be the last one. It’s nearly breakfast. I’m tired. I won by luck. I—

But of course, what she said was, “As you wish, my lord.”

It was a short match. Aragorn normally played for time and for teaching in the yard. He’s like Silevren in that. And she remembered the morning of her own trial day, so long ago it now seemed, and Silevren’s eyes, fierce in the early sun. If she could have seen Valya…No. Now is not the time. For the Chieftain was not teaching, not now. He came at her hard and fast, his sword a blur, his eyes ice. She fought back as well as she ever had, but she was weary, and he was...well, he’s Aragorn. 

His blow caught her shoulder, and she staggered sideways. But she kept her footing and her sword, steadied herself and turned to face him, chest heaving.

His eyes bored into her. For a brief eternity she could not move, could hardly breathe, and her mind was blank. And then like smoke it vanished, and he smiled. 

“Not bad, maloseg. Get some food; you’ve had quite the morning.”

She returned the smile, a bit shakily, and turned away, unwrapping the padding from her sword as she walked slowly toward the weapons shed.

The others drifted off, a few to return to their own training, most toward the Hall for breakfast. 

Aragorn stood and watched them go, hands moving of their own accord to unwrap his blade. Footfall on dirt behind him. Without turning his head: “I’d say that answers it.”

“I told you she was ready.”

“You did. And you were not alone.” A pause, and then, “Would you take her to the Brandywine as your second?”

“No.” Halbarad drew in a breath, let it out slowly. “No, that would…not be…”

“Why not? You just said she was ready.”

“I—do not…” 

You love her. He had been going to say it. He had planned to say it. Here, now. I must say it. But he could not. It is true. But…not yet. Instead, he raised his eyebrows, and smiled. “You’ll not find a better, Hal. Not anywhere.” That I can say. 

Halbarad did not go to the Hall. Meren had asked him to assist with the testing, that was what he told himself. There were only three maethorneth who had been judged ready this midsummer, and so they would be testing alongside the trainees, necessitating additional preparation. There is not time for—we have to set up…

He managed to avoid her until the sword trial. I’m not avoiding her. Yet he found his mind would not focus, even as he stood in the ring facing an eager, fresh-faced boy. She stood easily among the gathered Rangers, and he heard her voice, time and again, higher than the others, joining with a will in the time-honored heckling. 

I would know her voice anywhere.

Laughter floated on the warm, dusty air, and he cursed silently and wrenched his attention back to the task at hand. If one of these children lands a touch on me…He narrowed his eyes in the midsummer sun, and made short work of the boy. 

Two more, and then last of all he faced Valya. This was unexpectedly easier. He knew her, had trained her, could focus on her and almost forget that Miriel was surely watching as closely as he was. Almost. This he stretched out, let Valya show her skill, and indeed it was more important for her, and the other two maethorneth, than for the trainees. They must see, those of the Company who are here, and tell those who are not. They must know this new Star can be trusted. 

And Valya showed them. He had known she would, and felt fierce pride in her skill. Some of that is because of me. Miriel mostly, and Meren, but some of it is what I taught her. 

Yet when at last he let it end, and she bowed to him, gratitude unmistakable in her eyes despite her heaving breath, there was more even than pride – an abrupt urge to sling his arm around her shoulders, commiserate with her aches, talk over every step of the fight. I would patrol with her. And he smiled a little, stepped close and said in a low voice, “Welcome to the Company, sister.”

Miriel watched them, saw the pride and felt it a mirror of her own. “What did he say to you?” she asked quietly, when Valya returned. Valya told her, the joyful incredulity of it clear in her voice though she tried to be calm. “You knew it,” said Miriel. “He told you before.”

“I—he did, but I…didn’t really believe it until now.” A small, self-conscious chuckle. “I guess now I have no choice.”

“None,” Miriel confirmed, grinning. And across the crowd she saw him, knew he was watching them, and she inclined her head, and he allowed a small smile. 

The testing ended with no failures, and though there were a few minor injuries, at the evening bell they all stood weary but proud in a line before the doors of the Hall. 

Miriel watched as Aragorn moved down the line with Meren, pairing each new maethorneth with a saethir. ‘To train them in our ways, to set them against man and beast, land and weather, so they may earn their right to join us…’ She smiled as the words ran through her mind, remembered stepping forward to stand before Valya. ‘I will take her.’ Only a year ago. How can it be… But then she looked to the end of the line, fingered the cool smooth silver in her hand. She is ready.

And when at last Aragorn stood before the remaining three, it seemed that he spoke to all the assembled crowd and yet to each alone. “Anta anna i hîn lin. In the name of all Rangers, then and now and yet to be, I honor the gift of your children.” And Miriel stepped forward, the other two Rangers beside her, and together they faced their new brethren.

“Valereth daughter of Vinyar.” Quiet and formal, but the name seemed strange, and she smiled. “Valya.” She lifted her hand, palm upward, and silver glittered in the sun. “This star belonged to Daeron’s grandfather, and to his father before him.” It would have been Daeron’s. “Now it comes to you, that you may remember, and keep faith with those who came before.”

He had found her in the Hall the night before, an old man now, walking haltingly with a stick. He had been a captain himself in his time, before injury forced him to leave patrol. Perhaps this is what Father would have become, had he lived. She pushed away that thought, and rose to greet him. “This is for your maethorneth,” he said, a quiet creak, gentle but certain. “My grandson will not need it now. He wanted her to have it.” A weary smile. “As do I. Our stars must be passed to new keepers, that they may live after we are gone. You are young. But perhaps this honor will be yours some day.”

Miriel bowed, found she had no words as gratitude welled in her heart. 

“Your sister will look out for him,” the old man said. “And my son…will come around eventually, I think. He is a good man, and loyal to the Company, as I raised him to be. But he too is still young.” A wry twinkle in the old eyes. “We all have things to learn.”

Valya stood unmoving as Miriel unpinned her cloak, and replaced the plain clasp with the Star. And then as Miriel had, as so many had, and would in years to come, Valya bowed to her saethir one last time, and replied, “I will keep faith.” 

There is another thing I would say. But not now, not in front of a crowd. This is for her, and for her alone.

Valya’s father had come to Elenost for the ceremony, though her mother and brothers had remained home, high on the moors south of Gaerferin. “Someone must look after the sheep,” was all he said, and Valya did not speak her disappointment. She had not been certain any of them would come, lambing season barely over and the small, wobbling creatures in need of constant care and guarding. But he had come to watch his daughter, his strange, strong, willful daughter who wanted nothing to do with sheep. He had delayed her as long as he could, hoping she would change her mind, hoping even that a lad might catch her eye, though they were few enough among the scattered moorland families, and mostly cousins to one degree or another. Not that he did not respect Rangers, even hold them slightly in awe, as most Dunedain did. “But they’d have no wool for their cloaks if there were no shepherds, and there ought to be risk enough on the moors for any daughter of mine. Wolves and floods and winter storms – why ask more trouble?” But when she steadfastly refused to show any inclination toward either men or sheep, he had at last bowed to the inevitable and allowed her to go to Elenost to train as a Ranger. 

And he was proud of her, that much was clear, in the way he grasped her arms, and reached out haltingly to touch her star. But he had little more to say, and would not stay for the feast. “Time I got on my way home.” He shook his head. “And who would I dance with, without your mother here?” But he smiled, and bowed to Miriel. “She says to thank you, my wife. For—” He swallowed, and then, more quietly, “for keeping our daughter safe. For teaching her to keep herself safe, and all of us.” He shook his head. “I’ll not deny she’s a strange one—” Miriel heard Valya’s sharp breath of exasperation, hoped she hadn’t rolled her eyes “—but we need more like her, more as are willing to do,” a gesture, encompassing the crowd, the practice ground, the detritus of the trials, “this. Just so long as it isn’t another of mine.”

He embraced Valya in farewell, stiffly and briefly, turned and strode toward the gate, disappearing into the crowd. 

“He’s that eager to get back to his sheep?” Miriel had not meant to say it aloud, immediately regretted it and was embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Val, I shouldn’t have—”

“My middle brother will be a Ranger.” Low and even, gazing toward the gate. “Father doesn’t know it yet. But he’s been training. In secret, with another boy, and the man who trained me. He’ll be ready for the trials next year.” She shook her head. “And he might just leave in the middle of the night, to avoid a row.” 

Miriel frowned. “Did you?” For Valya had never spoken to her of this, had indeed said little at all about her family, and Miriel had not asked. It is up to her, what I need to know. 

But Valya gave a dry laugh. “No. Foolishly. Would have been easier if I had, and I think he’s learned that lesson.” She sighed. “I understand Father, really I do. There is too much work, and not enough hands, always. It wears on him, and Mother. I—I feel…guilty about it, sometimes. But I couldn’t live that life, and they both know it.”

“And in that life,” said Miriel quietly, “you would have no sister.”

Valya drew a soft breath, turned to face her, said nothing. 

“Come. This is better done without a crowd.”

There was a place that would be quiet, she knew, on this day of joy. And as they stood before the Stone, young aspen leaves rustling in the wind, she laid her left hand on Valya’s shoulder, with her right touched Valya’s star and her own, and then her lips, and laid her hand on her chest over her heart. “Ir cuian ech natho alerui. While I live, you will never be alone.” 

Valya mirrored gesture and words, tears in her eyes. And then, very softly, not quite steady, “Gwethor nîn.”

Chapter Text

There was food, heaped on trestle tables in front of the Hall, and music, though the dancing would not begin until later. Valya disappeared into the crowd with her two year-mates, stars gleaming on cloaks they wore in spite of the heat, congratulations and drinks flowing in from every side. This night was a celebration for all: for a successful planting and first harvest; for a new crop of trainees, enjoying one last night free from Meren’s watchful eye; for the maethorneth, ready to venture into the Wild in earnest for the first time. But the new Rangers held a place all their own, shield and symbol and hope. They are the best of us. They make us more than ourselves, more than our struggle for survival. We carry on the lordship of Arnor, the burden and honor of protecting this land, because of them. In this darkening world, our children have a future because of them. 

Miriel ate with Meren and Hannas, held Isilmir on her lap and fed her small bits of soft food, marveled at her capacity for it. “Finally,” Hannas grumbled, though a satisfied smile tugged at her lips. “Until a few weeks ago, she wanted nothing but me.” 

Meren grinned. “Clever child.”

“Oh, shut up. Good thing Telhirion’s not here.”

“Because he would agree with me.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I know. But it’s what you should have meant.”

Hannas shook her head. “How much have you had to drink? You’re not even making sense to yourself.”

“Well, that’s the normal state of affairs,” said Tathar in an undertone, glancing at Miriel with a wry smile. “No need to waste the mead.”

“It’s not wasted,” said Meren loudly, and took another gulp. “I’m enjoying it very much. And you are enjoying me.”

“And she’ll enjoy you more later tonight,” put in Hannas, to general laughter, the more so because it was unlike her. 

Meren flushed, grinning, and leaned over to kiss Tathar loudly on the cheek. “She always does.”

“Definitely had to much to drink,” said Tathar airily. “He’s delusional.” 

“You married me. What does that say about you?”

“That you deserve each other,” said Miriel, with an arch smile. 

And they do. Unlike in some ways, but so alike in others. They fit together, they work together. As do Hannas and Telhirion, and Anna and Dar…each a little different, but they all work. 

And you? 

There are some Rangers who never…And the Chieftain has not…She shook her head. Not my concern. Though there are certainly enough others who are—

“Mir?” Hannas, quiet, beneath the continued back-and-forth between Tathar and Meren.

“What?” Harsher than she intended, startled out of thought. That was rude. She’s only being a friend. But just this once, just for a moment, Miriel wished that Hannas could be a little less observant.

Isilmir gurgled, and slapped a small, sticky hand on the table. “She’s done,” said Hannas. “Wet that cloth for me, will you?” Miriel obeyed, glad for the distraction, and held the wriggling child as Hannas wiped the remnants of food from her face. Hannas took her back, and met Miriel’s eyes, searching, but then she smiled. “Where is that necklace? I’d like her to see it.”

The healers’ house was quiet; even Darya was at the feast. But Miriel knew where the box was, in the small chest where she kept her belongings that were not needed on patrol. Little enough there was: spare clothes, the old knife she did not need now she had Jona’s, a few things of her father’s. And the wooden box of childhood keepsakes, with the necklace in its small soft bag nestled at the bottom. She drew it out, felt its weight in her hand, heard her mother’s voice in memory and blinked back tears. Silver and white, it gleamed in the sunset; too fine a thing, almost, in her calloused hand. Carefully, she clasped it around her neck, felt it cool against her skin, resisted the urge to pull the loose collar over her shirt over it. She would want it to be seen. A small, wry smile. And you are occasionally allowed to wear beautiful things. 

Isilmir noticed it at once, clapped and giggled, and reached for the shining pendant. Hannas took the child’s fingers between her own, moved them over the small white jewel set in curves of silver. “Isilmir,” she said, smiling gently. “The moon’s stone. Not a toy, though perhaps one day you will have your own.” She met Miriel’s eyes. Quietly, “Your mother would have been so proud of you, Mir.”

Miriel swallowed, nodded. “I know.”

She thought of the last time she had worn this necklace, years ago at Andreth’s wedding, of Mirloth’s joy, Sirhael’s quiet pride.

She would not want you to be alone. 

I’m not alone. Memory of Valya’s hand on her shoulder, Meren’s laughing eyes, Hannas and Morfind and Anna, Darya and Andreth. And the Chieftain…I am not alone.

She would want you to love. She loved, so deeply. 

And it killed her. 

You make your choice. Sirhael now, as if he stood beside her. Sometimes fate falls one way, sometimes another. You cannot know, only choose clear-eyed. Do not let recklessness choose for you, but neither should you let fear. Choose in courage, sellen, and you will not regret your choice, whatever may come of it. 

But how can I—

A great cheer then, and a rush of flame: the midsummer bonfire, started with winter deadfall and the driest of the new-cut hay, old and new burned together. And as smoke rose toward the first white stars on this longest day of the year, Hannas settled Isilmir in a sling on her hip, grasped Miriel with her other hand, and together they joined the dance. 

In the years since Miriel had earned her star, she had rarely been in the village at Midsummer; few Rangers were, unless they had had reason to be, every sword needed on patrol. Enjoy this night; there is no knowing when it will come again. If ever. Perhaps I will not—Stop it. And she danced, and did not think of death. 

She looked for him; she allowed the admission now. I want to see him. I want to dance with him. I want—

But he was not there. Disappointment tugged at her, beneath the joy of the dance. A rueful smile then, remembering the many times she had seen him on the edge of a crowd, watchful, ill at ease. Be here, now; time enough to find him later. 

But she too at last grew weary of it, the babble of voice and the press of bodies almost too much after so long in the Wild. She slipped out of the crowd and away from the firelight, leaned against a wall and tipped her head up to the midsummer stars. 

Another year. Hannas has a child. Valya is a Ranger. She smiled. Anna and Darya have Lani, and she has them. A slow breath. Lain is gone. Meneldir is gone. Memory of names beneath her fingers, sharp-edged and worn, all alike in gray stone. Who will live, and who will die? 

When will my time come?

She straightened, pulled her eyes away from the stars and back toward the fire. Enough. Yet as she pushed away from the wall, she heard a soft step approaching.

“Mir? Are you well?” Aragorn’s voice in the starlight.

She frowned. “Yes, my lord. Just…tired.” Why is he here?

He regarded her for a moment, his gaze penetrating despite the darkness. “You did well with Valya. I know it was…not your choice, and I am grateful for it. Though I think perhaps you are glad of it now?”

“I am.” Searching for the right words, “It was a gift, where I least expected it.”

“As so often is, with those that matter most. They are not asked for, not even hoped for. They simply are.”

To that she could find no reply; there was meaning behind his words, hanging in the air but she could not grasp it. Irritation began to whisper. I told you I was tired – can you not leave me be?

But it seemed he had no intention of letting her go just yet. A smile tugged at his lips, that rare, teasing smile that always put her on her guard. “Well, if you’re done with your maethorneth, does that mean you’ll consider taking patrol second?”

Teasing, perhaps, yet she knew he would not jest about such a thing. She flushed and bowed her head, glad the darkness hid her face. Patrol second. Not a formal rank, but a message, to the one so named and to all others. This one I trust. This one can fight, and think, and lead. 

And a test, they all knew that also. Does it all add up? The pieces are there. Welded together in the forge of the Wild, what shape do they make? Do they crack, and shatter? Or do they make a captain?

A long breath, and then she looked up, met his eyes in the starlight. “If my lord deems me ready,” she said softly.

“I do,” replied Aragorn, and there was no doubt now of his sincerity. “I need you on the East Road until autumn, but after that…Darahad would gladly take you, as would Mahar.”

“You—you asked them?”

He chuckled softly. “I asked Darahad. Mahar volunteered.”

The night seemed hushed, her breath loud in her ears, and it took her a moment to realize that the music had stopped. Aragorn’s smile broadened, and he gestured, as a drum began to pulse in the darkness. “Come, maloseg,” he said.

Yet when they entered the circle of firelight, he turned to her with a grin that on any other man she would have called sly. “The best of the new Rangers dances with the Chieftain tonight. It’s tradition. Valya,” he called out, “you’re with me.” Then he turned back to Miriel. Not taking his eyes from hers, he again pitched his voice to carry over the drum. “Hal.” 

She turned, and he was there. His face was unreadable, expressionless in the firelight. But after a moment of stillness he nodded, and reached out, and took her hand. 

Warm. That was her first thought. How is he always so warm? His hand closed around hers, and she lifted her eyes to his. “Captain,” she said softly, and bowed.

“Miriel.” And then, the words passed down through generations of Rangers, for this too was a ritual, as sacred as any other. “Liltha anin.” Dance with me.

She could have done it in her sleep, so many times had she danced the maethorlilt. And that was well, for she had little attention to spare for her feet. Her eyes were on him, on his eyes, could not seem to look anywhere else. The pairs gathered around them, boots pounding hard ground, in time to the drum as they danced. Each pair hand in hand, they circled the fire, stars gleaming red in the night: Aragorn and Valya, Meren with one of the other new Rangers and Hannas with the other, and half a dozen other pairs, all the Rangers who were in the village. At a call from the Chieftain, the ring broke and curved back on itself, half a circle now, facing the crowd, the Midsummer fire at their backs. They stamped and clapped, and a cheer went up as the first pair came into the center. The Chieftain and his partner, as it always was, and Valya matched Aragorn like she had been born to do it. 

She had not showed Miriel her steps, had worked them out on her own, only asking the occasional question: “Does this go with this? What about this? You know that step where you…–How do you do that?” And so Miriel had a sense of the pieces, some of them, at least. But the whole put together she had never seen. 

Every Ranger made their own sequence of steps, but sometimes one chose to honor another by bringing in steps of theirs. Miriel had steps from her father’s dance in her own, and fully half of Anna’s dance had been Silevren’s. As Miriel watched Valya, she saw steps that were hers, and a warm flush of affection flooded through her. Gwethor nîn. And then she let out a sharp breath of wonder, reached out without thinking and touched Halbarad’s arm, for some of Valya’s steps were his. 

“Did she tell you?” he asked, low, incredulous.

“No.” She shook her head. “I had no idea.”

“I have not—” He swallowed. “I have never been so honored.”

“No,” she said softly. “Nor have I.”

Valya and Aragorn ended their dance together, and stepped back into the circle. Another pair took their place, and another, then Meren and his partner, and Miriel watched and clapped and cheered. But running beneath, both joy and fear: With him, together, in front of the village. With him… And then Meren and his partner stepped back, and the space in the center was empty, and it was their turn. 

His hand on hers, lightly. She did not look at him, as they moved into the center. And then he let her go, and met her eyes, and began to dance. 

Some Rangers played to the crowd, others to their fellows. But he looked only at her. She had seen it before, seen him like this, when he danced with Aragorn, and with Anna. Like they were all that mattered. Like this dance was for them. Sudden joy flooded her heart, and all else fell away as she watched Halbarad dance. When at last he came to the final steps, the same for all, to signal the end, she straightened her shoulders, and smiled. And then she danced for him. 

Many times though she had moved through these steps, never had she been so aware of herself. Every turn and gesture exactly as she wished it, fierce and precise and powerful, music given body and breath. Never had she felt so alive. And his eyes on her, always, and when it was his turn again, she watched with awestruck pride as he combined his steps with hers. 

It was traditional, this call and response. Here is what I can do; match me if you dare. The challenge, for those who staked their lives on each other’s perception and quickness and skill: Remember, and choose, and blend, two into one as though they had always been. It was so difficult that some never tried it, or did only a step or two, at beginning or end. 

But his was half hers, and then hers was half his, and the roar as they finished was louder even than for Aragorn and Valya. They stepped back, flushed and gasping. Halbarad turned to her, gave a slow, deliberate nod, almost a bow, and there was another wave of whistles and clapping and cheers. This is how it is done.  

“I thought about that,” he said, breathless beneath the beat of the drum as the next pair began to dance. “When I was teaching you to fight with me. The way you picked it up so quickly, I—” His eyes flicked to hers and then away. Low, and not quite steady, “I wondered what it would be like to dance with you.”

A small, incredulous smile, brief, almost shy. “As did I.”

Nothing more, and they watched the final pairs. But always they were aware of each other.

At last the dance ended, a final roll of the drum and shout that shook the night. Dancers and watchers both, voices calling into the darkness: We are here. We are strong. In spite of it all, we live. 

She turned to him. Say it. Now. Before you lose your nerve. “We need to talk.”

The joy of the dance was abruptly gone from his face. Slowly, he nodded. Low, and guarded, “Not here.”

“No.” She drew a breath. “Let me talk to Dar. Then come to the healers’ house.” 

A silent moment, then he bowed, and turned away from her into the crowd. 

A familiar voice behind her, and she startled, realized she had been staring after him. Like a fool. Pull yourself together, girl. “Mir...” She turned to find Meren eyeing her with an incredulous grin. He glanced deliberately toward where Halbarad had gone, and then back. “Miriel. My friend.” His grin broadened. “Gwethor nîn. Is there something I don’t know?”

A whole world of things, she almost said. The instinct to turn him aside, to laugh and make light. To cover, to hide. 

She drew a slow breath. “Maybe. I…maybe.” 

His grin faded, and he gazed at her for a long moment. At last, quietly, “Take care, Mir. You know what you’re doing, you always have. You’ve always had a plan, a reason, for everything you do.”

She nodded, said nothing.

He shook his head, pulled her close. Gently in her ear, “Gwethor nîn.” And then he let her go, and the grin was back. “I don’t know what you have planned for tonight, but it’s Midsummer, and I need to find my wife.” 

She laughed, cuffed him gently on the shoulder then made a shooing motion with her hands. I need to find my sister.

And on the far side of the fire, faces turned half to the flames and half to each other, two men spoke.

“So?”

“So what?”

Aragorn sighed, a smile tugging at his lips. “Where is she?”

Why do you care? The instinctive response, anger and resentment that had held him for so long. Blunted, perhaps, by the passage of time, but at its heart the unchanged, soul-deep fear: What if I never find another? 

Yet now there was no heat behind it, no simmering core of truth. Soft, and wondering: I am no longer afraid. And then, his own thought and yet not his: Ellenen.

Laughing voices rose loud around them, but between them there was silence. He lifted his chin, met Aragorn’s eyes. “That, brother,” he said softly, “is none of your concern.”

Darya was less difficult to find than she had thought, standing by the food tables and talking quietly to Alethil. Lain’s sister. Miriel swallowed. And her husband died…this will be a hard night for her. And she felt a rush of gratitude toward her sister. But that’s not what I need from her now… “Dar.” But then abruptly she flushed, as they both turned to her. I can’t…not with Alethil listening… 

“Excuse us a moment, Alle,” said Darya, and Miriel followed her a few steps away, to where they could speak without being overheard. Then Darya turned her back to Alethil, and raised her eyebrows, and spoke before Miriel had a chance to. “Anna had the most interesting things to tell me about you, little sister.” A rare, amused grin. “And that was…quite a dance. I’ll likely be here a while yet; I find that I’m enjoying talking to Alethil. And then perhaps I’ll help Raeneth clean up the food. I’ll be in the Hall if you need me.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned away and went back to Alethil, leaving Miriel staring after her.  

And then there was nothing to do but go where she had said she would. She slipped into the shadows, eased along the wall, stepped over the low fence into the back garden. The kitchen door creaked softly, and then she was inside, door left ajar. I hope he knows to…A small, wry smile. He’s a Ranger. He knows how to avoid being seen. 

She lit a candle, and closed the shutters, and waited. 

There was no sound of footsteps, only the whisper of the door opening a little wider, and the same soft creak as it closed behind him. She rose, and he stood still, just inside the door. Two steps, and a breath, searching his eyes, dark in the candlelight. And then she laid her hands on his cheeks, and kissed him.

His hands on her shoulders, pulling back with an effort. “You said we needed to talk.”

She smiled, drew her fingers along his jaw. “Do you want to talk?”

A long breath, soft and ragged. “No.”

Chapter Text

What has changed? She is who she has always been. He is who he has always been. You have known him, you have known her, forever it seems, though you know it is not so. Snow on the moors, a wounded man falling. Your hand flung out, pain and lingering bruise. But you did not fall. She did not let you fall. His weight against you, but he did not bear you down. He did not let the trolls take you, though it nearly killed him. She did not let the poison take you, though it nearly killed her. His body in your arms, shuddering with fever; her body in your arms, shuddering with cold. Nowhere is safe. You know that. You have always known that. The body is not safe, nor the heart. But this body is warm, strong, wanting, giving. And the heart? You will not say it has no fear, for you will not lie. Not to him, not to her. But courage is not the absence of fear. You both know that. Tomorrow we may die, but now we are alive. Show me now, body and heart, that I am alive. 

What has changed? Nothing. Everything. 

They were careful. They left the healers’ house separately, he first, to the barracks, she a little later, to the Hall. She kissed him. “Halbarad.” Watched the little smile of pleasure curve his lips. “Say it again,” he whispered, and she did. 

Watched the door close behind him, sat in silence. Felt his hands, smelled him on her, heard his ragged breath. 

What is this? How do we do this? Where do we go from here? 

The night returned no answer. 

She rebraided her hair, and blew out the candle, and stepped into the midsummer darkness.

Darya smiled knowingly but asked no questions, and none of the few others left in the Hall seemed to think it strange that Miriel was still awake; it was Midsummer, after all. 

“You should get some sleep,” was all Darya said, “if you’re to leave in the morning.”

For that was what Aragorn had told her, during a break in the trials. “There is no indication of immediate threat. The Elves have sensed nothing, nor did we.” We. He and Halbarad, confirmation at last that that was where they had gone. “The garrison will go up to the High Pass when the snow melts; they may already be there. But I want you on the East Road, in addition to Hador. Two pairs of eyes and ears are better than one.” A raised brow, and a sidelong smile. “And I’ll be sending Darahad and two others down to Sarn Ford.” He laid a hand on her arm, and the smile was gone, utter sincerity in its place. “Your instincts are good, Mir. Trust them.” And then his head cocked to the side, and that smile again, slow and deliberate. “Halbarad will take his place at the Brandywine.” 

She had thought she showed no reaction. ‘The East Road runs from bridge to bridge…’ The child’s rhyme, that they had all learned, the lands of ancient Arnor. Stonebridge to the Brandywine, that is my charge. And he will be…

She slept, and dreamed, and woke wanting him.

It was early; most of the others were still asleep, for there was no training the morning after Midsummer. Valya lay on top of her blankets, breathing gently. Miriel smiled. She’ll have a head when she wakes up. Let her sleep. 

Straw rustling, quiet snores, the faint sound of birds through the open door, as she stepped quietly into the main room—and caught her breath, laid a hand on the doorframe, made herself step forward without break, for any who might be watching. 

Halbarad sat at the long table by the empty fireplace, carefully stitching the seam of a glove. He looked up when she came into the room, slowly, inclined his head as was only proper, as he would to any Ranger. But a smile flickered across his lips. 

He was waiting for me.  

“Good morning, captain,” she murmured. And then, indicating the glove, “What happened there?”

He shook his head. “Nothing, really. Just old. These gloves were my father’s.”

“You’ve taken good care of them.”

A moment. And then, quietly, “As we do with things that are precious.”

She had still been wearing the necklace, had nearly forgotten it was there. His fingers on the clasp, gentle and deft, surprising until she remembered: a needle, and small, careful stitches, his hand on her cheek. Silver shone in candlelight, and isilmir shadowy gold, the fine chain curled on his large, calloused palm. “It is beautiful,” he had said, soft, wondering. And then he set it carefully on a chair, and laid warm hands on her skin. 

She did not reach out to him. He did not reach out to her. Not here, where others might see. But he laid his hands on the table, and she knew it was to keep them from doing what they wanted to and could not.

A slow breath, and then, as though it were any other morning, “Have you eaten, captain?” 

She ached to say his name. 

To hear my name in her voice…“Not yet,” he said. “Nearly done.” Two more stitches, and then he cut and tied the heavy thread, and stood up. 

The scar on her cheek gleamed in the early light, still faintly purple but fading, a thin, smooth line. A reminder. What she gives, and what it takes. He did not touch it now, forced his hands to fold the gloves and put them away, tuck needle and thread back in their leather pouch. But he had touched it, before, gentle fingers feather-light, trembling only a little with desire. ‘Ellenen.’ My brave one. He did not say it now. But she heard it. 

They left the door open behind them to let in light, and walked a few steps in silence. Far enough at last, and he glanced at her, forced himself not to shift toward her. Quietly, though they were alone, “We do actually need to talk.”

Two Rangers, walking from the barracks to the Hall, and if they went more slowly than usual, it was after all the morning after Midsummer. Everyone had been up late, and drunk more than they ought. Even Halbarad, anyone who saw them would have thought. Even he can let go a little on Midsummer. But there was no one to hear, and so, quietly, not looking at each other, they talked. 

“Are you well?” The common greeting, that could mean anything. But she heard what he meant, what he could not say. I did not hurt you? I was not…entirely thinking…

“Yes.” A quick glance, the flicker of a smile, memory of what he was like when he did not think, when for a brief eternity he let go of control. With all the sincerity she could put into a single word, “Yes. And you?”

He bit his lip to keep from smiling too broadly. Slowly, every word distinct, “I have never been better.” 

It was the truth. He knew that now with certainty. He had not been sure in the night; he had done it anyway, chosen risk over regret, but he had not been sure. Never. Not even when…even then, I knew deep down that it could not last. Ignored it, denied it, with the willful blindness of youth. A subtle difference, that and this. But in the end, all the difference in the world. 

Joy flooded through her; she could have leaped in the air, shouted aloud. She could have danced. She said, softly, “Nor have I.” 

They walked in silence, wrapped in warm memory. But they were drawing near to the Hall, and at last she said, for it could not be avoided, “I am leaving today. Across country, then the East Road.”

“I know.”

Of course he knows. The Chieftain would have told him—

“The Brandywine captain must visit Bree.” Carefully, willing her to understand, “Once a month, or near enough. To hear the gossip, and check for messages.”

She had hoped, but not really believed. Softly, “I know.”

A slow breath, and then, “Around the new moon, most like.” 

Again the flood of joy, the urge to jump, laugh, pull him into her arms and whirl him around in the Midsummer dawn. She had thought, but she had not known for certain. And even now, though the desire was certain, its fulfillment was not. But if it does not happen, it will not be because I do not want it. He must know that. Putting aside thought of any who might be watching, she met his eyes. “If the Wild allows.” 

He held her gaze, nodded slowly. They both knew there could be no more certainty than that. I will come, if the Wild allows.

The Hall loomed before them, dark against the sunrise. One more thing. 

“I told Anna,” she said quietly. “Meren knows, and of course Dar. That’s all, I think.”

He looked away from her, let out a breath. “Aragorn. Hasn’t come out and said it, but he knows. My fault. He…knows me too well.” Leave it at that.

You will have to tell her, eventually.

Eventually. Not now. 

But she did not question, only shook her head with a small, rueful smile. “I thought he might. He knows us both too well.” 

They stood before the door, wanting desperately to touch but not touching, and at last he gave a soft, dry snort, not quite a laugh. “Probably just as well you’re leaving. If we went on much longer here…”

“No secrets in the village, eh?”

“None that last. And we’re far to old to be sneaking around like”—like he and I did—“a couple of trainees.” Did anyone know? Aside from Anna? We though we were clever enough, careful enough. But we were so young…He shook his head, and smiled at her, warm and open, a broad, profound relief he had not expected to feel. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter anymore. 

There were a few village folk in the Hall, and a small group of Rangers, Aragorn among them, at their usual table by the great hearth. Miriel and Halbarad joined them, sat at opposite ends of the table from each other, talked to those beside them and tried to avoid Aragorn’s eye without seeming to. If he asks me anything…If he so much as gives me that look…If he dares to…

But he did not, and somewhat to their surprise, neither did any of the others. None were her close friends…And it would be a very brave Ranger who would dare to jest with Halbarad, especially in front of the Chieftain…There had been a few glances, that might have meant anything or nothing, but that was all. For now, at least, that is all. And despite the ache in her chest: Good thing I’m leaving today. 

When she was done eating, she rose and bowed to the Chieftain, carefully, correctly, still not quite meeting his eyes. “By your leave, my lord. I must pack my gear.”

He smiled. “Don’t go without saying goodbye.” 

Bold. He had seen them come in, of course, casual, friendly, ordinary. Had been expecting them, for one of the other Rangers had mentioned that Halbarad was awake. He’s waiting for her. He knew that instinctively, knew that however they had managed the night, they had slept in the barracks. Clever. And then, Of course. He knows how to do this. 

A whisper, subtle emptiness that had not been there before, for now it was real. He had known it was coming. For months, he had known. And he was happy for them, truly he was, and grateful to them, for what they gave each other. 

And…relieved, though he hated to admit it. It is no longer my fault.

It will always be your fault. What you did to him, whom you loved most in the world…

But we were so young, so foolish.

Not the last time. Foolish, perhaps. But not young. 

It was my fault. Calm, clear, honest. It always will be, a debt I can never repay. 

Love them both. Be happy for them, do what you can for them. That is all you can do. And for now, that means leave them be. Say something to Hal, maybe. But not to her. Not yet.  

And it is I, now, who am alone. 

You have always been alone. Even when you had him. To be a lord is to be alone. 

Brutal truth, another he had long known. Elrond had told him, when he was young, and he knew it more and more the more he lived. 

But also less, for the web I build around me, strand by strand, face by face and voice by voice. My brothers, my sisters. My people. 

Yet it will always be there, that barrier that cannot be crossed. I am their lord. 

A soft breath. There is one who may cross it. But she is not here. 

Miriel did not look at Halbarad, knew he would not let himself watch her, as she returned her dishes and made her way across the Hall to the storeroom. But he wants to. Oh, he wants to. That also she knew. And with her back to the Ranger table, with no one there to see, she smiled broadly. 

Broad, yet also brittle, for she was leaving. Why today? Why must it be now? Another day, or two, or three…

And then I would leave. Today, tomorrow, three days from now – it would be the same. I will never want to leave him. And I will always have to leave him. This is the life we have chosen. 

‘It is dangerous to love.’ 

She had heard the Chieftain say it once, quietly, to another man. Had not been meant to hear, she knew, yet she heard it. She thought of her mother, of the tales she had heard of the Lady Gilraen, and then, unexpectedly—though why should I not expect it, now of all times?—of Girith. 

And of Halbarad. He has loved. That had long been clear, though nothing had ever been said. And she though that strange now, wondered that she had not wondered. Surely it would have come up, if he had lost a lover. The Chieftain’s oath-brother – that would be remembered. Perhaps it was not here. And then: Of course it was not here. There are no stories of him losing a lover, because there are no stories of him having one, at least not any that I’ve ever heard. 

But it happened. And someone must know. 

The Chieftain knows. 

Of course. Whatever it was, whoever she was, in Bree or Stonebridge—Or even Rivendell? No. A small, wry smile. Not an Elf. Not him.—whoever she was, the Chieftain knows. And he keeps his brother’s secrets. 

A whisper then, not uncertainty—for I am certain—but question, wondering. How long ago? If it was not long, is she still in his heart? The memory of her still in his hands? Does he think of her when he touches me? And if it was long ago, how deeply was he scarred, that it still holds him back? 

Or has, until now. For there had been no holding back. No hesitation, no uncertainty. No fear. She smiled. He loved me without fear. Now, afterward, there can be wondering, thoughts of what if, and what then. And later, sometime, we must talk. But we gave, and took, and for that brief time felt nothing but joy. ‘It was a gift.’ Is a gift, where I least expected it. She smiled. ‘Not asked for, not even hoped for…’ So that is what he meant. 

She gathered the supplies she would need, long habit requiring little thought as hands measured meal and oats, dried fruit and dried meat, salt and nuts and herbs for tea. This last a luxury, not really needed, especially in summer. But it weighs next to nothing, and it makes me happy. She shook her head. Take what you can get. 

The light dimmed, and she turned to find Valya standing in the storeroom door. She felt her heart sink at the immanence of this other parting. Thoughts of Halbarad had driven it from her mind, but now realization flooded back. I am leaving her as well.  

“I’ll miss you.” Valya’s voice was quiet, calm, a statement of fact. And of recognition. This is the life we have chosen. This is the risk we take, the pain we accept, when we choose to love. 

“I dreamed of this.” Valya touched her star, and even now an incredulous smile flickered across her lips. But then it was gone, and she said slowly, choosing words with care, “I dreamed of…belonging. Of being with others who understood me, who were like me. Who wanted the life I want. But I never imagined…” A small, helpless gesture, words abruptly inadequate to the task, “this. You, us…” Her voice broke, and she wiped at her eyes, a sharp movement, almost angry. 

Miriel took half a step forward, nearly reached out to her. 

No. That is not what she needs now. Let her speak. Let her say what she came here to say.  

Valya drew a breath, let it out slowly. “I do not…want, as others want. I never have, I don’t know why. I feared there was…something broken in me. That I would never have what others had.” Again her voice cracked, but she went on, soft, shaking, eyes on the floor. “I feared I would never love. That if I did not love in that way, there was no other.” Silence but for her ragged breath, as slowly she mastered herself. At last she lifted her chin, met Miriel’s eyes. Softly, “Gwethor nîn, I never imagined you. I never imagined this could be.” Wonder, and a flicker again of incredulous joy. But also a plea. And then Miriel knew what had brought Valya to this confession, the fear she would never speak, for she could not be so ungenerous, not to one what had given her so much. 

Have I found you, found this, only to lose you? He can give you what I cannot. Is there room for us both? Do I still have a place with you, with him?  

Overwhelming tenderness, such as Miriel had never felt, and her eyes blurred with tears. She stepped forward, pulled Valya to her, cradled her like a child, like a friend, like a lover. Like a sister. “I never imagined you,” she whispered. “I never imagined…any of this.” Heard her own voice breaking, held Valya closer, cheek against her cheek, heart beating against her heart, until at last, together, slowly, their shaking breath calmed. 

She pulled back, gently brushed tears from Valya’s face and her own, and she smiled. “It is a gift. You are gift, Val. I have been given…so much, so many gifts, far more than I deserve.” She took Valya’s hand, laid it on her chest and covered it with her own. Soft, almost grave, this oath as solemn as that other they had both sworn to the Chieftain: “Ir cuian ech natho alerui, gwethor nîn. I will strive to be worthy, to care for you, and for all I have been given.” 

‘As we do with things that are precious.’