With her mind still reeling from battle, and her adrenaline rush finally beginning to wane, Miriel focused all her attention on Bregolas and the mending of his wound. She had him lay face down on her cloak so that she could more closely inspect the injury at the back of his knee. Blood had soaked through the leg of his breeches from the knee down. Finding it nearly impossible to examine the wound through the thin slit in the fabric of his pant leg, she said, "I'm afraid I am going to have to tear your breeches, Bregolas."
"Just ease the pain, if you can. It burns like the fires of Orodruin!" he moaned.
The Slayer carefully tore the material with the warrior's dagger. She could see that a gash ran across the entire back of his knee. Bregolas winced as she gently pulled the skin apart, checking to see if any foreign object remained left in the incision. While the injury could have been much worse, the ligaments had indeed been cut, but thankfully, not all the way through. Miriel would need to bathe the wound with hot, clean water before applying the salve she had brought for such an occasion.
With blood still trickling from the gash, she had no clean cloth to cover the wound. She wasn't about to use any of her soiled garments on her friend. She rushed over to their former campsite, jumping over the many corpses that lay about the place. Stopping beside their tent, she sighed heavily. Most of their belongings were housed inside. She grabbed hold of the dead Orc's ankles that lay dead on their shelter and pulled his body off the canvas. Once she had found the opening, she climbed inside, retrieved their bags, and swiftly returned to Bregolas' side.
Miriel dug out a pot, one of the two cooking implements that they had brought with them. She then grabbed a blazing branch from the fire, using that to light her way down to the river's edge. Scooping up a potful of water, she then hurriedly made her way back up the bank. She carefully adjusted the burning timbers so that she could lay the pot in the center of the fire.
"No, no, no," spoke up Bregolas suddenly. "Do not place the pot directly in the fire."
Miriel quickly pulled the container from the flames, sloshing out nearly half of the contents. With a look of bewilderment on her Orc-blood splattered face, she did not wholly understand what she had done wrong. "Am I not supposed to heat the water?" she asked in her confusion. She was by no means a healer, but had been to them enough in Minas Tirith to know that hot water was used to clean wounds.
"Yes, but not that way," Bregolas answered in a more gentle tone. "See if you can find two flat stones. Place them side-by-side, leaving a several inch gap between them. Then place the pot on top of the stones. That will prevent our cookware from corroding."
"Oh," she replied, hating the fact that she was ignorant of such simple things. Yet, how was she to know? She had never heated water on a campfire before. Miriel got back to her feet, grabbed her makeshift torch from the fire once again, then set off in search of rocks that fit the description that Bregolas had given her.
Her mind wandered back to the battle and how successfully she had fought. She never thought that slaying would be so exhilarating, that it would make her feel so powerful. She was quite grateful to have made it through the skirmish virtually unscathed. While her cheek continued to sting and the throbbing along her scalp had not yet stopped, she deemed that that was a small price to pay for victory. Miriel was eager to talk about everything that had happened with Bregolas, but wanted to wait until after his wound was dressed.
After she had placed the pot on the rocks she had unearthed, she plopped down beside Bregolas, waiting for the flames to heat the water.
The warrior shifted to his side, keeping his injured leg outstretched. Propping his head up on his hand, he scrutinized Miriel, who stared at the flickering flames of the fire. "Are you alright?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the scratches on her cheek.
"I'm fine," she answered, noticing now that her head ached more than her face. She instinctively reached for the back of her head, where the throbbing was worse. "One of those Orcs pulled out a lot of my hair," she revealed, wincing as she touched her scalp.
"Those were not Orcs," Bregolas divulged. "Those were Uruk-hai."
Miriel turned her widening eyes to the warrior. "Uruk-hai! Those were Uruk-hai!" she said in disbelief.
"Yes," he answered, his lips gradually curling into a smile. "And you did well against them. You held your own, Miriel. I'm impressed. You fight as well as any Captain I've ever seen. I daresay you could give Boromir a run for his money," the warrior chuckled.
"I cannot believe those were Uruks," she said. "Is it true that they are larger than Orcs?"
"Not only are they larger, but they are also much stronger. They can endure the sunlight whereas your average goblin cannot. It is said that they were bred with Men."
Miriel's brows shot up upon hearing that and a cold shiver ran down her spine. The words of that one Uruk echoed in her mind. She couldn't help but think that he intended on her becoming one of those "breeders" if she had not killed him.
"The Dark Lord's malice knows no bounds, Miriel," he said, noticing the expression on her face. "He is the epitome of evil. I deem he has learned well from his master."
"Morgoth," she uttered under her breath.
"Do not speak that name, especially in the dark!" scolded Bregolas, a flicker of fear flashing in his grey eyes.
At that moment, the leaves on the surrounding trees fluttered in a sudden breeze.
Her companion gasped, "What's that?"
The Slayer jumped with a start. She looked all around, half expecting Morgoth to leap out of the shadows.
Bregolas then laughed, finding her reaction quite amusing.
"Why do you like to frighten me?" she said angrily, narrowing her eyes at the warrior. If he hadn't been hurt, she would have given him a good smack.
"Ah, it is but too easy," he chortled. The warrior then became serious. "It is best not to utter that name, even in daylight."
They fell quiet for a moment, the air around them becoming still once again.
"Do you think, Bregolas," began the Slayer in a soft voice, "that He-who-must-not-be-named has found a way out of the Void, that he has returned to Middle-earth?"
"I would hope not," he answered, grim-faced. "Though one cannot underestimate his powers. Look at how perilous it had been for the Valar to take him down. If there were a way to escape, I am sure he would find it." He paused. "Let us pray that will not happen."
"Or hasn't already," added Miriel bleakly.
"What makes you think he has?" queried her companion.
"I am not saying that he has or not. I just find all of it… I do not know. Mor- er, he ruled for such a short time when compared to the Dark Lord of Mordor." Miriel shifted her gaze back to the fire, her forehead wrinkled in deep thought. "It seems strange that Sauron - "
" - Speak not that name in the dark either!" warned Bregolas.
She turned her eyes back to the warrior. "Do you find it strange that the Valar have allowed the Lord of Mordor to remain in power so long? Would you not think that they should have done something by now? I mean, I know that the likes of Mithrandir and Curunír were sent to Middle-earth to contest his might, but what have they done, really? They have been here for centuries, yet his power has grown! It makes no sense to me."
"I am not fond of Wizards by any means, but one cannot clearly say what they are doing without our knowing. You are on friendly terms with Mithrandir. Have you not spoken with him about such things?"
"I have not thought of such things until after I was Called," replied Miriel. "I have not seen hide nor hair of Mithrandir since then." She sighed heavily. "Though I must admit, Mithrandir never liked to talk much about the Dark Lord. I think he fears him. And I cannot say that I blame him. I do not know whether it is the task of the Istari to take him down or not. Buff - " Miriel bit her lip, stopping herself from speaking Buffy's name in its entirety.
"Buff? Buff? What is that?" Bregolas asked with a bewildered expression on his face. "I do not understand what that is."
"It's… it's nothing," she stammered, quickly shifting her gaze back to the fire. "Oh, look at that. Steam is rising from the pot." Miriel was gladdened that she was able to change the topic of conversation, but unfortunately, not for long. She used the cloth in her hand to pull the pot off the rocks and set it on the ground beside her. The water was much too hot to submerge the cloth in, so she swirled it along the water's surface in an attempt to look preoccupied.
Bregolas eased up into a sitting position; his eyes locked on his beloved. "Miriel, do not tell me that you have thought of confronting the Dark Lord. Have you?" His eyes bore into her as he waited anxiously for her response.
"The thought may have entered my mind." Before the warrior could voice his protest, she quickly added, "But I swiftly pushed out that notion. I'm not foolish enough to confront one of the Ainur. That would be ridiculous, wouldn't it?"
"Indeed! And deadly! Just because you're the Slayer, doesn't mean that you have the strength to fight the Dark Lord. You best not let that idea enter your mind again, even for the briefest moment. Getting such ideas in your head will lead to a one-way ticket to Mandos. And I'll have none of that, especially on my watch!" The warrior then grabbed hold of her arm, stopping her from her task. "Promise me, Miriel: No matter what happens, you will not seek the Dark Lord. Promise me!"
She fixed her gaze on her friend, who looked sternly at her. "I would never do such a thing!" she replied. "It took everything I had just to face the Uruk-hai."
"Promise me," he repeated.
"Fine! I promise! Happy?"
The warrior let out a sigh of relief. The tension that had built up between the couple began to dissipate.
"Roll onto your stomach so I can tend to your injury," she finally said, no longer wanting to speak about the Dark Lord or any his followers.
The Slayer then bathed Bregolas' wound. Once clean, she applied a gob of salve to the incision before wrapping his knee with a dry, clean strip of cloth. She looked proudly at her handiwork. This was the first time she had ever properly dressed a wound.
"Thank you, Miriel," said the warrior, now sitting upright again. "It is good to know that I can depend on you in more ways than one. You just might have a future as a healer."
"I doubt that," she answered with a chuckle. "Why don't you rest? You have not yet slept and it shan't be long before the sun rises. I'll keep watch."
"I do like that idea. I am weary," he replied, settling back down on her cloak.
Only a few minutes had passed when Miriel heard Bregolas breathing deeply and evenly. She then washed the blood and guts from her hands and face, wondering when she'd get the opportunity to bathe properly. As much as she hated to admit it, she smelled, and not in a pleasant way.
Miriel remained vigilant throughout the remainder of the night. Right before dawn, she heard cawing from above. Shifting her gaze upwards, she could see a flock of carrion-fowl circling above. Gradually, they descended from the sky, landing on the ground, where they began to peck at the flesh of the dead.
The first thought that flashed in her mind was that they were spies of Sauron. She remained frozen for a moment, her hand on the hilt of her sword. When a few of the beastly birds landed on the horses, ripping at their flesh, she was driven to her feet.
"Shoo! Get out of here!" she yelled, running toward the carrion-fowl, waving her arms wildly.
The birds began to scatter, some returning to the air, while others ran several feet away, unwilling to leave such a bountiful feast.
Of course, Miriel's shouting startled Bregolas awake. He bolted upright, hastily rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He then noticed the Slayer chasing away the carrion-fowl. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"They're spies of Sauron!" she answered, still shooing away the birds.
The warrior chuckled under his breath. "They're scavengers, Miriel," he answered, awkwardly rising to his feet. "It's their nature to eat the dead."
She stopped, and turned toward her companion. "Did you not hear me? I said that they are spies of the Dark Lord. I do not wish them to be here."
"Just because you wish it, does not make it so. Before long, many more predators will arrive, eager for their morning meal," he informed the Slayer. "Whether they are spies or not, there is nothing we can do to stop them. This is how things are in the wilds of Middle-earth, Miriel. It is the cycle of life."
She stared incredulously at him. "What part of spies are you not comprehending?" she shot back indignantly.
"Perhaps you should have thought more about that when you decided to sing that elvish song of yours yesterday," Bregolas retorted. "I thought you would be smart enough to see that that's what got us attacked last night. Yes, Miriel, we are being watched. And you're the one to blame for that. If your concern is so great, maybe you will think twice before acting so foolishly again!" The warrior then limped off behind a nearby tree, where he proceeded to relieve himself.
The Slayer stood there, motionless and somewhat dazed. Bregolas' comments had not only been harsh, but had also rung true. It had been no mere coincidence that they had happened to come under attack hours after she had belted out her song. It was true. She was to blame. She felt as if her heart had sunk to the pit of her stomach. Why had she been so careless, considering their proximity to Dol Guldur?
She glanced down at the carnage that surrounded her, wondering if any of the Uruk-hai had escaped, or if their brethren, having waited to hear news and had not, were now sending out more troops. Her eyes darted to the carrion-fowl, who appeared undaunted by her presence, and had returned to enjoy their morning feast. None of the birds appeared to be flying off to share news with anybody. Instead, they landed on or beside their prey, zealously tearing away at the flesh of the dead.
Miriel was not about to break down, or wallow in her guilt. She was determined to learn from her mistake and do whatever she had to, to make things right with Bregolas. She immediately went over to their collapsed tent. There was no way she would leave it behind, even though the stakes had been broken during the battle. They could easily whittle new ones. The black blood pooled on the canvas had already begun to congeal. Now, eager to depart the corpse-covered campsite, she lifted the tent from the ground and took it to the river where she washed it clean.
Bregolas watched Miriel hard at work. He hadn't meant to speak so severely, but something inside him had snapped. Hearing her carrying on about how the carrion-fowl were acting as spies had proved to be too much. She was the one that had revealed their position to the enemy - no one else. If anything, he hoped that his words would stick with her and prevent her from acting so stupidly in the future. Miriel needed to learn fast that the wide world could be unpredictable and cruel, and that life was no fairy tale where Elves would come riding in on white steeds to save the day. Last night proved that. Where were the Elves of Lórien when the Uruks attacked? One would think that the Elves would have been motivated to act with the enemy marching so close to their borders. Last night only reaffirmed his belief that one could not trust the Firstborn of Ilúvatar.
The Slayer struggled up the embankment with the wet canvas in her arms. As she passed by the warrior, he grabbed her arm, stopping her.
Her eyes shot to his hand, which gripped her arm tightly.
"Your face," he said, stepping closer. His eyes widened in amazement to see that the scratches on her skin had nearly disappeared. "How is this possible?" he queried, lightly touching her cheek with his fingertips.
"What? What are you talking about?" she asked, her ire toward Bregolas for jerking her to a halt swiftly abating.
"The scratches, the scratches on your face are nearly gone. No scabbing, just faint lines," he answered in a bewildered voice.
Miriel felt her cheek with her fingertips. The skin felt smooth, no longer rough. "Slayers have the ability to heal faster than normal people," she replied. "Although, for some reason, that is not the case with my scalp. It's still very tender to the touch."
Bregolas laughed heartily. "Good. Let that be a reminder of your folly."
Her eyes narrowed in response, wondering how long she would have to endure the warrior's comments about last night.
"Now, now," Miriel," he said lightheartedly, slapping his hand on her back like he would a fellow soldier. "There is no need to fret! It brings me comfort knowing that I'm not the only one in pain."
Remorse instantly filled her heart. "Bregolas, I'm really sor- " she began before he placed his finger to her lips.
"I know, Miriel. I know," the compassion returning to his voice. "Let us eat before we finish packing up our gear. I'm afraid our journey will be much slower paced now that we are to travel on foot." He then ambled back to their newer campsite.
The thought of eating amidst corpses, carrion-fowl, and now swarms of flies was unappealing to the Slayer. How can Bregolas have an appetite with that stench lingering in the air? she asked herself. The odor was indescribable. As far as Miriel was concerned, the sooner they left, the better.
Refusing to eat, Miriel spent her time gathering and re-packing their belongings. Probably the most unpleasant task was removing the saddlebags from the dead horses. It wasn't difficult, just very unpleasant.
Due to her guilty conscience, the Slayer offered to carry more of the load since she was to blame for Bregolas' injury. He happily agreed, wondering how long she could endure the extra weight, especially now, without the aid of horses.
They began their trek nearly thirty minutes later, traveling along the Anduin as they had before. By the end of the first hour, Miriel's back was already aching from her burdens. She longed for relief, and hoped that Bregolas would be the one to call a halt to their march. As far as she could see, the warrior seemed to be going strong. Though he walked with a limp, his continuing long strides allowed them to put approximately three miles behind them each hour. Miriel surmised that that wasn't too bad, especially when one took into account all the gear they were carrying.
The heat from the morning sun soon added to their misery. Sweat poured from the couple, increasing not only their discomfort, but also their body odor. Trying to help pass the time while they tediously marched on, the Slayer attempted to groom herself by picking off the dried blood and guts that had splattered on her shirt of mail. To her dismay, flakes of Uruk entrails ended up lodged under her fingernails, making her long for a bath more than ever. The concept of time had become unimportant and the days seemed to blend together. Miriel couldn't even remember the last time she had had a proper bath. As they walked beside the Anduin, the river seemed to beckon to her, attempting to lure her into its cool, clean waters with a bar of soap.
After nearly five hours of constant marching, Miriel couldn't take it any more. Her gait had slowed down considerably, and she was trailing a few yards behind Bregolas. They had reached a very inviting part of the river where the land gently sloped toward the river's edge. Amidst the trees was an open area where a natural, flat rock shelf jetted out into the stream, resembling a stone dock. A few of the oaks that surrounded the area had limbs that were long and leafless, their barren boughs stretching straight out under its leafy green dome, basking in the sunlight. It looked like the perfect place to not only wash, but also to eat. By this time, the Slayer was ravenous.
As Bregolas began to climb the incline on the other side of the depression, Miriel finally spoke up. "Can we please stop?" she wearily asked. Before her companion could even reply, she was already removing the packs from her aching back.
The warrior stopped and scanned the scenery. He hadn't really paid attention to the terrain or its changes. All his energies were focused on the march and coping with the pain that continued to throb behind his knee. They were in a valley of sorts. To their north and south, the land rose into grassy hills, but to their east, the natural depression of the landscape continued on for some distance.
Bregolas was in agreement, though he didn't voice it. Instead, he descended the incline of the hill and joined Miriel by the rock shelf.
"I'm exhausted," she announced, stretching and rubbing the soreness in her lower back. "Can we rest a while? And perhaps bathe?" she queried, looking hopefully at her companion. She sniffed her armpits. "I stink! And my clothing is covered in Orc guts! I'll gladly wash your garments, if it's your will. I cannot bear the thought of wearing these much longer," she added, tugging on the soiled leg of her breeches.
A small smile came to Bregolas' ruggedly handsome face. "Alright, Miriel," he answered. "We have been wearing the same clothing for days now, and a good washing may be just what we need to rejuvenate our weary bones." His eyes shifted to the river. "Oh, how I'd like to eat something other than salted meat," he mumbled. "Perhaps I should see if I could catch a couple of fish. How would you like to eat a hot meal for once?" he asked, turning his grey eyes back to his beloved.
"A hot meal," she repeated, her stomach grumbling at the thought. "That sounds lovely, but I'd rather bathe first. If I'm to wash our clothing, it'll take some time for our garments to dry. Could we not fish afterward, while our things dry?"
"Aren't you hungry? You haven't eaten anything since yesterday."
"I'm famished," she admitted, "but I stink! I do not think I could savor a single morsel smelling the way I do."
Bregolas laughed. "Well, we cannot have that, I suppose. Go on, Miriel. Do as you wish. It looks like we'll be here for a while." He looked around, finding the area wholesome and appealing. "Maybe we should just call it a day, and prepare to camp here."
The Slayer liked that idea a lot. "That sounds wonderful." She grabbed one of her bags, digging through the contents in search of a bar of soap and clean clothing to change into once she had bathed.
"I reckon I'll get a fire going," said Bregolas before taking a chug from his water skin.
Ten minutes later, Miriel had stripped off her filthy clothing and leapt into the cool waters of the Anduin. She eagerly washed the dirt and grime that had built up over the last several days on her normally porcelain-like skin. The scent of the soap, a lovely floral fragrance, replaced the foul odor that had strongly emanated from her body. She was somewhat surprised that bathing proved to be so invigorating, and how she had taken such little things for granted in the past. She made a mental note to appreciate the little things in life, no matter how trivial they may seem.
With her body clean, she then turned her attention to laundering her clothes, something she had never done in her entire life. Being the Steward's daughter did have its advantages in life, and menial tasks had always been assigned to the servants of Denethor, not to his beloved Miriel. How difficult could it be? she thought. Even Bregolas washes his own clothing. That was easier said, than done. Since Orc blood was black and so were her breeches, she found it difficult to find the areas on her garments where blood had splattered. Not knowing what to do, she scrubbed her clothing with so much soap that her things smelled strongly of lilac. By the time she had finished, the bar of soap had dwindled to nearly half its size. After wringing the excess water from her clothes, she laid them out flat on the rocky shelf.
It suddenly dawned on Miriel that she was faced with a new dilemma. How was she to dry off with no towel and Bregolas so near? She wasn't too keen on his seeing her naked. Granted, he had seen her nude back in Minas Tirith, but the circumstances surrounding that were quite different and were warranted at the time. But now, the Slayer wanted to keep her nudity shielded from him. She was, after all, quite modest by nature. Before she dared to climb out of the river, she looked at Bregolas to see what he was doing. Much to her relief, he sat with his back facing her before the fire he had set ablaze, occupied with whetting the blade of his sword.
She carefully pulled herself out of the water, setting her bare behind on her now clean cloak, which lay stretched out on the stone outcropping. She made sure to keep her back toward Bregolas as she brushed the water from her skin. She hated the thought of putting on her clean garments while wet and hoped that the sun would do its job by helping to dry her skin. The Slayer leaned back, basking in the sunlight, as the water trickled from her hair and down her back.
Bregolas had been listening keenly. From the sound of it, his beloved had left the waters of the Anduin. He continued to sharpen his blade, but gave a quick glance over his shoulder, only to see her bathing in the sun. Not wanting to make her uncomfortable, he resumed his task.
After thirty minutes or so, Miriel deemed that she was dry enough to dress. She hastily slid into her clean garments, feeling better than ever. She then gathered up her freshly laundered clothes and draped them over the naked limbs of a tree. She then joined Bregolas.
"Feeling better?" he asked, sheathing his sword at last.
"Very much so," she answered enthusiastically. "I feel invigorated!" she added, before grabbing one of her bags and digging through the contents in search of her hair brush.
"I guess it's my turn then," Bregolas said, as he clambered to his feet.
"I left the soap on the ledge," she stated, brushing the tangles out of her hair.
Her companion pulled off his mail and left it beside his sword, which lay near the fire. He then took off toward the ridge, pulling off his shirt as he went. Miriel took the spot that Bregolas had vacated, wanting to show him the same respect that he had shown her. She then helped herself to an apple, savoring every delicious bite. She hoped that that would tide her over until they caught some fish, but instead, it made Miriel hungrier.
Wanting to push all thoughts of food from her mind, the Slayer leaned back with her eyes closed, basking in the sunshine, as her thoughts turned to the battle once again. She could hear the clashing of metal upon metal and smell the foul odor of the Uruks, as well as the stench of death. Picturing the intestines spilling from her foes' wounds helped stop the rumbling in her stomach.
Buffy was right, she thought to herself. After each kill, my confidence grew. Maybe it is my destiny to take out Sauron. If Buffy could succeed in taking out formidable foes, who's to say that I cannot do the same.
She then pictured herself confronting the Dark Lord of Mordor – he, wielding a mace, she, her sword. Though he was a Maia, she saw herself out-maneuvering him, thinking one-step ahead. Her lithe and slender body moved in ways she had never imagined until she delivered that fatal blow - slaying the one that had menaced the people of Middle-earth for ages. She then saw herself returning to Minas Tirith amidst crowds of adoring people, who cheered her name as she passed by. She had become the champion of all champions, ousting Boromir as the greatest warrior in all of Gondor. Her father would cower down at her feet, both in fear and admiration, surrendering the rod of his office to her, instead of his firstborn son. She would become Steward, no, Queen of Gondor, her reward for freeing the peoples of Middle-earth from the throes of Sauron. The Elves would pay tribute to her, singing songs in their sweet voices about her greatness. The Dwarves would bring her gold, silver and jewels that they excavated from their mines as an offering of their appreciation. And the Lords in the West would grant her the gift of immortality, as they had done for Tuor in bygone days, for her momentous achievement.
"This is some fantasy you got going on here," chuckled Buffy, suddenly appearing at Miriel's side. The young Slayer sat on the high throne at the Citadel, listening to elven minstrels.
Not realizing that she had fallen asleep, Miriel felt her cheeks flush as she faced the elder Slayer. "You must think this is silly of me."
"Not at all," answered Buffy, her eyes scanning the chamber, which was full of the younger Slayer's admirers. "You'd wig if you'd seen some of things I've dreamt about," she laughed.
Immediately, Miriel changed their surroundings, feeling highly embarrassed that Buffy had seen her as Queen of Gondor. Instead, they stood dressed as they were, (Buffy in her black leather outfit and Miriel dressed in tan breeches and a green tunic), beside the Anduin in Ithilien.
"Aw, you didn't have to change things on account of me," continued Buffy with a smile. "A little fantasizing is a good thing." They started to walk beside the stream. "By the way, good job with the fight… your majesty," she added with a playful snicker.
Miriel's face turned redder. She looked away from the more experienced Slayer, still mortified.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be teasing you. Who knows? Maybe all that stuff will come true. It's not beyond the realm of possibility."
The younger Slayer turned her gaze back to Buffy, her brow raised in disbelief.
"Okay, chances are that won't happen," the elder Slayer admitted. "But it was a pretty cool dream anyway." She offered a smile. "Let's put all that behind us. I wanna hear all about the fight. How did it feel stepping into the shoes of She-who-kicks-some-demony-ass?"
The young woman's cheeks began to return to their normal color. She thought for a moment, before answering with, "In a word - exhilarating. I never felt such power… It's… it's like some primal instinct that had lain dormant, awakened. I could feel this… this strength surge through me. It was unbelievable and phenomenal at the same time." She chortled under her breath. "Does that even make any sense?"
"Of course it does. I've been there too," replied Buffy knowingly. "How does your head feel?"
"It's still tender," answered Miriel, instinctively touching the sorest spot on her scalp. "I reckon it's a small price to pay for victory."
"Yeah. At least you made it out with all your parts intact. That's always a good thing," remarked the elder Slayer. "Though, I think you need to practice on honing in on your enemy. You should've felt them coming nearer - "
" - I was asleep, mind you," interjected the young woman, somewhat defensively.
"That's no excuse," said Buffy in Watcher mode. "Even when you're sleeping, you should be able to sense an impending attack. I think we should work on meditation, so that your senses can become more acute to their surroundings. Next time, I want you to be ready way before the enemy's on top of you. I don't want to see you blindsided - "
" - I wouldn't say we were blindsided. Bregolas was - "
"I don't give a rat's ass about Bregolas," interrupted Buffy. She stopped Miriel, locking eyes with the younger and taller Slayer. "I'm only concerned with you. Bregolas is a seasoned warrior, and you're not. You're… you're unseasoned, or mildly seasoned. You're still a Slayer-in-training, and with each bout, you need to become better, faster, and stronger. I don't want you to be one of those girls with an abnormally short life span. I want you to live a long life. And the only way you're gonna be able to do that is to keep practicing… and not get too cocky."
"You think I'm cocky?" queried a flabbergasted Miriel.
"No, not exactly," replied the elder Slayer with a sigh. "But that dream of yours better not put any strange ideas in that mind of yours. You're not the Queen of Gondor, you know."
"You can be a ripe bitch," spat the younger Slayer with disdain.
A smile came to Buffy's face. "Hey! You're finally learning modern slang. Good for you."
Miriel couldn't be angry with Buffy. She knew the elder Slayer was looking out for her best interests and didn't want to put a damper on that. Right now, she needed her.
"Let's get to work, okay?"
"Alright," answered Miriel in defeat. "Tell me what to do."
Buffy had Miriel sit on the ground with her legs crossed and eyes closed. "Concentrate," ordered Buffy, as she slowly circled her protégé. "Utilize your other senses." Gradually, she moved further away, but continued to circle the girl. She searched the terrain for small rocks or sticks that she could throw at Miriel, to test her acuteness and responsiveness.
The younger Slayer listened attentively. She could hear the faint sound of the grass being crushed beneath Buffy's feet, the sound her leather pant legs made when they rubbed against each other with each step that she took. She could hear when Buffy would stop suddenly and the sound of her muscles flexing as she bent over. When the elder Slayer threw the first rock in Miriel's direction, the hair on the nape of her neck stood on end, and her hand darted up, slapping the stone away before it struck her.
"Good," said Buffy, pleased that Miriel was able to stop the first rock. With each successive attempt, the young woman easily prevented the object from striking her.
Wanting to up the ante, the elder Slayer moved in closer, preparing to kick Miriel right in the face. To her surprise, the younger Slayer leapt onto her knees, grabbed hold of Buffy's leg mid-motion, and pulled her, not only off her feet but also laid her out flat on her back. Buffy groaned when she hit the ground.
"You alright?" asked a beaming Miriel.
"Yeah," answered Buffy, none too eager to admit that the younger Slayer had knocked the wind out of her. "Your reflexes seem to be in tip-top shape."
Miriel pulled her up into a sitting position. "What's next?" she queried, eagerly rubbing her hands together.
"Hold your horses," replied Buffy. "I need a second to catch my breath."
The young woman then cocked her head, listening intently. She felt a tingly sensation suddenly rush throughout her body and the hair on the nape of her neck stood on end again. The scenery became muddled, lost in a whirling of darkness. The tingling sensation became greater. She felt another presence. Instinctively, her hand shot upward, her fingers wrapping around someone's throat. Her eyes popped opened, only to see Bregolas leaning over her, struggling to free himself from her grasp.
"Oh, shit," she said, releasing her hold on him.
"What's wrong with you?" he said, shocked and angry by Miriel's actions.
"I'm sorry," she said, pulling herself upright. "I felt someone over me and… well, my Slayer instinct kicked in. Sorry."
"I called your name. Did you not hear me?" Bregolas said, easing back from his beloved and rubbing his throat.
"I'm afraid not. I'm really sorry, Bregolas."
"I… I guess it's alright," he said. "I should be thankful that you're on your toes. I can only hope you're that quick to act the next time the enemy approaches. I would rather see their throats crushed, not mine."
"Sorry," she apologized yet again.
"I came to see if you were ready to try your hand at fishing."
"Oh, alright."
Bregolas then dug out some line and hooks from the pocket of one of his bags. When he assigned the task of looking for worms to Miriel, she balked.
"I'm not digging in the dirt. That's man's work," she protested.
"Then you will not eat," he answered back with a sly smile. "We are a team now, Miriel. We have to pull our own weight. I did end up washing my own clothing despite your offer to do so… Finding worms is not that bad," he said reassuringly.
She reluctantly gave in. It took quite a while for her to find her first worm. Once she had, she used a stick to fling the nasty critter over to Bregolas, refusing to touch its wiggly body. The warrior was amused by the whole situation and couldn't wait until he instructed Miriel on how to scale a fish, another very unpleasant task he planned to assign to her.
They spent hours fishing, or rather, Bregolas did. Miriel mostly watched. He did manage to catch three fish. To the Slayer's dismay, he forced her to scale and clean one of the fish, telling her that it was a necessary skill when one lived in the wild. Though she whined and complained about getting fish guts and scales under her fingernails after having washed, Miriel did feel a sense of accomplishment when she filleted her one fish. She then spent the next twenty minutes scrubbing the smell from her hands.
Bregolas had tried to fry his catch, but without oil, the skin of the fish blackened and stuck to the pan. He then added water, deciding to poach the fish instead. Even though the meal lacked seasoning, Miriel considered it a Valinorean experience just to eat something hot.
With their appetites sated, and the afternoon waning, Miriel told the warrior that he could sleep first. He eagerly agreed. He pulled out his bedroll and within minutes, he was sound asleep. The Slayer kept watch until she found herself unable to keep her eyes open. Around midnight, she woke her companion, insisting on her need for sleep.
Now well rested, Bregolas would keep watch until sunrise. After being up for a while, the warrior felt the need to move around a bit. The stiffness in his joints demanded it. Guided by the dim, silver light of the moon, he wandered through the mists to the rock shelf. He stood there for some time, staring up at the night sky, lost in thought.
A voice then drew him out of his reverie, the source of which having crept up from behind, unheard and unnoticed. "Hail, Bregolas," said the deep, manly voice.
Bregolas spun around in surprise, gasping when he laid eyes upon the most unexpected visitor. His heart pounded frantically in his chest as he rubbed his eyes, thinking that he was dreaming. "This cannot be," he finally uttered, his mouth going dry. Dumbfounded, he shook his head. "Father, you're… you're dead," the warrior stammered…