"What is death, but a new beginning," replied the phantom form of Halthor.

Bregolas remained still, completely shocked by the sudden appearance of his father. His baffled mind tried to process what he was witnessing. A part of him was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing his late father, but deep down, there was also a nagging feeling of doubt. How was it possible that Halthor was here, now, in Middle-earth, when he had died years earlier?

"You have misgivings about me, that I can see clearly enough," remarked Halthor, who scrutinized his son with his keen ghostly eyes. "I assure you, my son, it is me."

The warrior remained frozen, confused over his desire to see his father and his belief that this apparition was the work of the Dark Lord.

"Perhaps I need to convince you that I am truly who I say I am, hmm. I think I can do that." He paused, his eyes locked with his son's. "Do you remember when you were ten, I believe, and ran through the house swinging your wooden sword and struck your mother's prized vase, shattering it to pieces?" The phantom form of Halthor chuckled under his breath. "You were horrified because that had been an heirloom of your mother's house. Do you remember what I did?"

Bregolas slowly nodded. "You… you told mother that you had accidentally knocked it off the table."

"Yes," he answered with a grin. "And it was I that was on the receiving end of her wrath."

To hear something that had happened from his childhood, something that only Halthor had known other than himself, convinced Bregolas that this had to be the apparition of his father. "But… but how is this possible?" queried the confused young man. "How is it that you were set free from Mandos? That is something that never happens."

"That is not true," replied Halthor. "There have been some that have been freed, if only for a while, as in my case." He moved closer to his son, proudly looking him over. "Look at the man you have become. And such a great warrior, no less. You have proved your quality by rescuing Miriel from the blight of Denethor. That was such a noble thing to do." He turned. The fog seemed to dissipate, revealing a sleeping Miriel curled up beside the fire. "She's a lovely girl. And a Slayer! How remarkable it is for one to be chosen from amidst our people. It has been many long years since such a thing has happened."

"I had never heard of the lore of the Slayer," revealed Bregolas. "Why is it that you had never spoken of it?"

"Very few spoke if it, even in my day. It had been so long since a Slayer had been Called that those who had any remote knowledge of that had written it off as old wives' tales." Halthor chuckled softly. "I'm of the belief that there is a segment in our society that desired to quell the myth of a girl with supernatural powers."

"Why?"

"Why?" he repeated with a humorous glint in his eye. "Out of fear, I suppose. Men do not desire being usurped by women. The legend of a girl with supernatural powers would embolden the women of Gondor; give them courage to stand up to their oppressors."

"The men of Gondor are honorable and decent. They do not oppress their women!" protested Bregolas.

"Ah, perhaps it's my poor word choice. Maybe suppress is the better word," replied Halthor, correcting himself. "You cannot deny, my son, that the men of Gondor have suppressed their women. Or have you forgotten the laws of Númenor and how we men took away the power to wield the scepter from the firstborn child of the King, whether they be male or female. I would think that the women of Gondor would harbor some resentment for that, even in this day and age."

"I never knew that you had thought such things," said Bregolas, slightly taken aback.

"I loved your mother," answered his father. "And I treated her as my equal, my partner in life." A somber expression came to Halthor's phantom face. "She was always saddened that the annals of Gondor had never paid any great respect to women, many who were quite noble and gifted. Who is it that legend speaks of the most, hmm? Queen Berúthiel," he said with a derisive snort, answering his own question. "A woman with a dark heart who gained infamy by using her cats to spy upon the good people of Gondor. That is the woman that the men of Gondor chose to speak of mostly, one who ended up being banished, in disgrace, from the kingdom."

"I had never thought about that," remarked Bregolas thoughtfully. "Yet it is true. Queen Berúthiel is the only woman spoken about from bygone days. How degrading that must be for the women of Gondor."

"Indeed," answered Halthor, turning his gaze back to Miriel. "The Slayer represents the strength of women. She is the hope of the future, not just for women, but also for all the peoples of Middle-earth. That is why I am here, to help protect you both." He shifted his eyes back to his son. "You're being hunted, my son, hunted by both the enemy and those whom you once called friends. There is a bounty on your head. A great reward Denethor will pay for your demise, for you have taken his greatest treasure. I will do all that I can to see to it that that does not happen. Yet I must ask, where is that you will go? Where do you plan to take Miriel?"

Trusting that his father had been sent by the Valar to help protect both him and Miriel, the warrior confided in Halthor, telling him of their plan to find the Watchers in the north.

"So you seek Arnor?"

"Yes, Father."

"But surely you know that the Northern Kingdom was destroyed long ago," countered Halthor. "There is naught left there."

"Miriel says that a remnant of the people have survived and still dwell in those parts," answered Bregolas.

"Or so the rumors say," remarked his father rather skeptically. "And the course you have chosen is to follow the river to the Old Forest Road, I take it."

"Yes."

"Hmm," sounded Halthor, turning toward the north.

Though his eyes seemed fixed on the hillside, to Bregolas, it looked as if his father could see beyond the grassy slope. He wondered if the Lords of the West had granted some special gift of perception to his forebear. Why else would he appear to be studying the hillside?

"Father, what is it? What is it you see?" queried a curious Bregolas.

Halthor shifted his gaze back to his son. "Come morning, Miriel will be eager to continue the journey. See if you can convince her to tarry here for a day or two."

"Why?" asked the young man.

"I wish to search the lands to the north, to make sure there are none hiding in wait, to ambush you. I do not want any harm to befall you and the Slayer. Give me time to inspect the road you plan to travel upon. I will return as soon as I may."

"Alright, Father. I will do as you say," replied his obedient son.

"Fare you well. I will try to return about this time tomorrow." Halthor then gave Bregolas a reassuring smile before heading north, disappearing in the thickening fog.

After a moment or two, the warrior took off in pursuit of Halthor. So many questions suddenly came rushing to his mind, questions that he knew only his father could answer. He sprinted up the hillside, heedless of the pain in his leg. By the time he reached the top of the hill, he could see no sign of his father's ghostly form. He had seemingly vanished in the mists that lay about the land.

Bregolas stood there for several minutes. Without thinking of what he was doing, the warrior reached under his mail and pulled out the braid of Miriel's hair that he kept in his breast pocket. For some reason, he had begun to pull out her lock of hair when he needed comfort. As he fingered the twisted strands of hair, his mind tried to digest all that had just happened. It all seemed so dream-like, so surreal. He, like Miriel before him with Ecthelion, would keep the meeting with Halthor's apparition to himself. It was too personal to share with anyone, including his beloved.

The warrior remained on the hilltop for another hour before he finally returned to Miriel's side, feeling such joy that he could hardly contain himself. After having spoken with Halthor, he knew that he had done the right thing, that he was on the right path, and that one day, he would be rewarded for his good deed.

As the hours ticked by, he continued to ponder the words of his father. He and Miriel would need to remain where they were until Halthor deemed it safe for them to resume their trek. He then thought of his impending conversation with Miriel and his need to come up with a reason for them to stay. While he hated the idea of lying to her, he was able to justify it - since he was trying to protect her. He decided to try his hand at fishing again. What better way to welcome the new day than with a treat of another hot meal? He was sure that would please Miriel.

Miriel awoke to the smell of cooking fish.

"Good morning," said Bregolas cheerfully. "Did you sleep well?"

"Like a rock," answered the young woman with a yawn.

"What a strange way of putting it," laughed the warrior. "I take it that is a good thing, no?"

Instead of answering, Miriel eyed the simmering pot of fish. "What's this?" she asked, nudging her head toward the pot sitting atop the flat stones amidst burning embers.

"I thought I would make us breakfast."

"You're spoiling me, Bregolas," she said, smiling. "A girl could easily get accustomed to this."

"Well, I daresay you deserve it. We've been on the run for days now. I think we've earned a second feast."

"You won't hear me complaining, that's for sure," she answered with a chuckle.

"I was thinking Miriel," began Bregolas, having spent the last few hours pondering this conversation in his mind. "My injury has been aching all night, and this place seems wholesome enough… What do you say we stay here another day or two - so that my wound won't be aggravated by marching all day?"

"I didn't know that it was hurting so badly," she said with concern. "Why have you not told me this before?"

"Men should not to complain about such things."

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed. "If you're in pain, of course we'll stay put. But I would like to look at your wound. Perhaps more salve will help."

"Maybe," he answered, delighted by how easily he had swayed Miriel into staying. "After we eat, you can take a look and prescribe whatever remedy you deem wise. And I think, since we'll be remaining here, that we should wash our bedding today. We did not do that yesterday and they could use a good washing."

"Agreed," she replied with a smile. "How much longer before we eat?"

"Not much longer," said Bregolas.

After they had eaten, Miriel examined Bregolas injury. The skin had healed closed, but the area was still reddish and sore to the touch. She agreed with her companion, that long marches would more than likely aggravate the injury and prevent the ligaments from healing.

Once they had determined that there was nothing they could do to help quicken the healing process, they began their chores. Bregolas showed Miriel the proper way to wash, using a lot less soap than she had the day before. With their bedding now hanging on tree limbs to dry, and their cooking utensil scrubbed clean, the couple decided to do a little exploring of the immediate area.

The day was beautiful, warm with clear blue skies. Songbirds sang their sweet songs from the treetops and squirrels played chase, running and leaping from tree to tree, one after the other. This was the couple's first leisurely day since departing Minas Tirith over a week earlier. They climbed atop the northern hill, and looked upon a field of wildflowers amidst the tall grasses.

Bregolas picked a bouquet of purple and white flowers for his beloved, which she, in turn, wove into crowns for the each of them. As she placed the wreath of blossoms upon her companion's head, she said in a mockingly dignified voice, "I crown thee, Bregolas, son of Halthor, Lord of the Wilds."

"Humph," he sounded, frowning. "I would think the Lord of the Wilds would have a manlier crown than one of flowers!" he said sardonically.

Miriel laughed. "If wearing a crown of flowers diminishes your manhood then I'd say you have bigger problems. Would you prefer that I make you some type of headdress from the skeletons of the fish?" she asked teasingly. "You would stink, undoubtedly, but perhaps your manhood would not be called into question." Her smile widened. "You could be the Fish-king of Middle-earth."

"The Fish-king?" he queried, cocking his brow.

"Oh, but you would be looked upon as a bad king," she added.

"And why is that?" he asked.

"Because you eat your subjects!" she laughed. She playfully pushed him backward onto the soft ground. "Flee from the Fish-king! Flee from the Fish-king!" she exclaimed, taking off, running through the field. For the first time in a long while, Miriel felt no fear, and freedom, freedom, as she had never known it. She laughed, glancing over her shoulder, seeing that Bregolas was chasing after her. Laughing even more, she continued to run, as her companion closed the gap between them. Suddenly, she halted before thorny bushes laden with blackberries. Her eyes widened at the sight. Not a second later, Bregolas collided with her, sending her flying into the thicket. Trying to break her fall with her hands, she let out a painful cry as the pointy thorns bore into the flesh of her palms.

"Oh, Miriel. I'm sorry," Bregolas apologized, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her free.

"Ow! Ow! Ow!" she howled, noticing the many thorns protruding from her hands.

"Here! Sit!" he said, placing her on the ground. "Let me see."

Miriel continued to whimper as Bregolas began pulling the thorns from her hands one by one.

"See what happens when you flee from the King," he said lightheartedly.

"You're the one who ran into me! You should pay more attention to where you are going!" she countered, holding him to blame for the entire incident.

"Well, you're the one that stopped suddenly," the warrior refuted, as he continued to carefully pull the miniature spikes from her flesh.

"That's because there was a thicket of blackberries in front of me!" she snapped back, her eyes immediately darting to the bushes. "And they look so deliciously ripe too."

"There," said Bregolas. "I think I got them all."

Miriel then pulled a blackberry from the bush and popped it in her mouth. She found that burst of sweetness to be absolutely delectable. "Try one," she said, placing a berry in his mouth. "Is it not divine?"

"Mmm," he sounded. "Juicy."

Though Miriel's hands stung a little bit, the whole incident was quickly forgotten. A multitude of fruit would have a way of doing that. The couple sat there, eating to their hearts' content.

They soon returned to their campsite. As the afternoon waned, Bregolas felt the need for sleep. He placed his bedroll underneath the shady limbs of an oak tree, and swiftly drifted off. While Bregolas slept, Miriel wanted to do something productive and sought sticks that could be whittled into stakes for their tent. That helped pass the time until her companion woke later that evening.

They spent the rest of the night talking and stargazing. Though Bregolas encouraged the Slayer to go to sleep early, she declined until past midnight. Much to the warrior's disappointment, Halthor did not return.

The couple spent the following day much as they had the previous one. After a breakfast of fresh fish (courtesy of Bregolas), they went off exploring the area north of their encampment. That afternoon, the warrior sharpened Miriel's sword, and together, they finished whittling new stakes for their tent. At the Slayer's insistence, they would resume their journey the following morning. She had no desire to delay the trip any longer. To that, Bregolas had reluctantly agreed, hoping that his father would return that night, as promised.

Halthor did indeed return around midnight.

"Why did you not come last night?" queried Bregolas in a pained voice.

"I could not," answered the ghost of Halthor. "I had discovered a band of Orcs lingering southeast of Gladden Fields and did my best to lure them away, into Mirkwood, and far from the river." He chortled softly. "I've sent them many leagues out of the way, on a wild goose chase, some call it. The way is clear, at least, for now." His tone and expression became grave. "You must be vigilant on the road, Bregolas. The enemies' numbers are great, even in these parts. I do not have the power to watch all roads, save the one you have chosen to tread upon."

"I am ever grateful for that, Father," answered his son with a slight bow of his head. "It is a great relief knowing that you will help me and my beloved on our journey."

"Beloved?" queried Halthor, raising his spectral brows. "You and the Slayer are lovers?"

"Well," he began with some hesitation. "It is complicated."

"Either you are or you are not," replied his father. "Which is it?"

Bregolas was slightly taken aback by his forebear's remarks, or rather, the insistency of his query. "We are. Although, we've… slowed things down a bit since we left Gondor." He tried to choose his words carefully. "After finding out what Denethor had been doing to Miriel… I-I felt the need to pull back some… to give her space, and time to heal from her… torments."

"Once again, you have proven your quality," said Halthor proudly, offering his son a smile. "Yet, I must say, I could have sworn that I heard Miriel's laughter traveling on the wind earlier today." When he spoke, he emphasized the word 'sworn' for some reason.

"You did. For there are times when she is like her old self again, when her anguish is less and she is as joyful as any maiden." He paused. "She suffers from melancholy," Bregolas added, almost as an afterthought.

"It is no wonder, considering what she has been though. She would, for obvious reasons, show the outward signs of her abuse. It is to be expected," Halthor responded with a heavy sigh. "However, I would think the further north you travel - the more miles you put between yourselves and Minas Tirith - that that pain would not only lessen, but would dissipate altogether."

"Perhaps in good time, it will," replied Bregolas, shifting his gaze to his beloved, who lay sleeping several feet away. "I do not want to pressure her. Miriel's life has changed drastically and I am amazed at how well she is doing." He glanced at the ghost of Halthor, adding, "She has given up a lot," before returning his gaze back to the Slayer.

"Hmm," sounded his father. He too was staring at Miriel.

Bregolas eyes swiftly darted back to his father. He studied his phantom face closely. Though Halthor merely made a sound, to the warrior, it reeked of doubt. "What is that you mean?" he queried warily.

"Huh?" replied Halthor, his gaze still fixed on the Slayer.

"That sound. That 'hmm' sound you made not a moment ago. Your tone sounded as if you were implying something, something that I do not clearly understand."

"Oh, well," began Halthor uneasily, "it is not just Miriel that has given up a lot." He shifted his ghostly eyes to his son. "Have you not considered what you have sacrificed for her?" he asked. "I daresay, you, my dear son, have lost more than she."

Bregolas narrowed his eyes.

"Do not get wroth with me, Bregolas," continued Halthor, holding his hands up in submission. "I am only speaking my thoughts. If that troubles you, then I shall say no more."

The young man's expression softened, becoming somber. He returned his gaze back to Miriel, uttering, "I love her."

"I do not doubt that," remarked his father. "But, you must face reality, my son. Slayers are not long lived. They - "

" - I will hear no more of that!" interjected Bregolas angrily.

"Alright, my son. I will speak no more of it."

Miriel stirred in her sleep. Bregolas hoped he had not spoken overly loud, as to wake her.

"I had best be on my way," said the ghostly form of Halthor.

"So soon?" queried his son in dismay, looking pleadingly at his father. "You have only just arrived."

"Alas, the enemy never sleeps. I think it best that I return to the road. You are still ever too near to the borders of Dul Guldur. I would like to travel east tonight and make sure that the enemy is not following your path along the eaves of Mirkwood."

"When will I see you again?" asked Bregolas, wanting to spend more time with his late father.

Halthor smiled. "I will return again tomorrow night. Be vigilant, my son, for the spies of the enemy are numerous." In an even more serious tone, he added, "And, I implore you to heed my counsel: if you hurry on your journey tomorrow, your injury will worsen. Travel slowly, but continuously. Rest when your body calls for it. I will harry any that attempt to follow you and… Miriel."

"Thank you, Father," said the grateful young man.

"You take care, my son." Halthor gave a slight nod of his head before turning and disappearing into the night.

Bregolas immediately returned to Miriel's side. He sat there, watching her sleep, and thinking of the last words his father had said about her: "Slayers are not long lived." He had never given much thought to that. He assumed that Miriel was just like any warrior, but better, and that she would live a long life.

Yet how many of your kinsmen have fallen on the battlefield? reminded that irritating voice in the back of his mind. You know nothing of the lore regarding Slayers, the voice continued. She is considered a threat to the enemy - and they know she walks in these parts. They know who she is and seek to destroy her. Halthor was correct in saying that Slayers are not long lived, Miriel included.

The voice went silent, leaving Bregolas to his own thoughts. His heart ached for Miriel, wondering how she would meet her end. Would he be at her side, defending her to the death, as he thought? Or, would something else happen, something altogether different?

"Why am I thinking such morbid thoughts?" he whispered in alarm. He looked down at his beloved, eager to push such gloomy and dark thoughts from his mind. He lay down beside her, curling his body against hers. He wrapped his arm protectively around her, burying his face in her short, dark hair. He inhaled deeply, smelling the lilac that continued to emanate from her soft locks. When he felt her hand slide on top of his own, he felt more comforted and at peace. In his contentment, Bregolas soon drifted off to sleep.

They had both slept later than expected, waking well after sunrise. There was no feasting on delectable fresh fish as there had been the past two mornings. Instead, they each ate a bruised apple and planned to pick more berries as they journeyed north. Once their bags were packed, and their water skins topped off, the couple resumed their trek.

Miriel was a bit surprised by the lack of urgency of their march. To her, it seemed as if they were taking a leisurely stroll through Middle-earth, albeit with heavy packs on their backs. Bregolas was no longer yapping at her to keep up, as he had been since they had lost their horses. She thought it was a pleasant change of pace. They talked a lot and even sang some, though not in a loud, boisterous way. They took several breaks, usually after Miriel had begun to groan from the excess weight on her back. By late afternoon, they had stopped and set up camp.

With their food supplies rapidly depleting, Bregolas took out his fishing gear and caught their supper.

"I think it's good that we're traveling along the Anduin," he mentioned while fishing from the banks of the river. "We have a constant water supply and are able to eat more heartily."

At their new campsite, the warrior actually discovered some turnips. They were added to the pot, which gave their fish more flavor than before. They made a point to collect as many of the rooted vegetables as they could. If worse came to worse, they could eat the turnips on their own.

With her belly full, Miriel drifted off to sleep around ten thirty. As it neared midnight, Bregolas began to pace restlessly around their campsite, anxiously awaiting his father's return.

"Good evening, my son," said the phantom form of Halthor, appearing seemingly from out of nowhere.

"Father," said a beaming Bregolas. "You have come back."

"I told you I would, for I am one who keeps a promise!" answered Halthor.

"What news do you bring? Is the enemy following? Are the Uruk-hai - "

"One question at a time, my boy," interrupted his father with a chortle. "There are a few Uruks lingering by the western eaves of Mirkwood. But they are close to their realm and their eyes seem more fixed on the elven realm than anywhere else."

"Lórien?" queried the young man in surprise. "Why Lothlórien?"

Halthor shrugged his spectral shoulders. "Who knows? I am not concerned with the Elves, only you and your Slayer." His eyes immediately shifted to Miriel. Bregolas followed his gaze. After a long pause, he asked, "Have you given any more thought to what I told you last night?"

"About what?" asked the warrior, feigning ignorance.

"About the life span of the Slayer… and the sacrifices you have made for her."

A scowl came to Bregolas' face. "Why do you feel the need to bring that up?" he questioned in his annoyance. "What is this need to speak of my sacrifices? Whatever I have done, I have done willingly. It is no burden to me."

"No?" replied Halthor skeptically. "Hmm."

"There you go again," hissed the young man, shifting his narrowed eyes to his father's ghostly form. "You will not give me peace until you speak your mind, I gather."

"No need to be hostile," responded Halthor. "I am only looking out for your best interests, my son."

The young man grumbled under his breath. "Then get on with it, will you?"

"My concern is for you and your feelings. Does this Slayer love you as you love her?" he asked point-blank.

Bregolas hesitated a moment before answering with, "I- I think so."

"You think?" his father said, his tone riddled with doubt. "Either she does or she doesn't. Which is it?"

"Yes. Yes, she does," he huffed in reply.

"Then why is it that you two have not wed? Surely, if you're both in love, you would make a commitment to one another, no?" remarked the phantom form of Halthor. Before Bregolas could answer, he continued. "As I have said, the life span of the Slayer is short. Every day is a precious gift. One can be here today, and gone tomorrow. Why put off your marriage any longer? I would deem that now is the perfect time for you to take a wife. You're not getting any younger, my son, and I would so very much like to see my line carry on. You are my only child, after all."

The young man stood there for several minutes, thinking. His animosity began to diminish, as he thought of the points his father had made. "How short is a Slayer's life span?" he finally asked, his face grave. "Do they really not live that long?"

"If that girl makes it to the age of nineteen, that would be some feat. Most Slayers do not last a year after they've been Called."

"A year? A year?" repeated Bregolas in dismay. He was stunned by that revelation. He had never considered that Miriel would not survive long, Slayer or not. The young warrior had always pictured him and her growing old together. The thought of his beloved dying in a year's time was gut-wrenching. Bregolas fought back his tears. Such news left him devastated.

"It is not my intention to cause you pain, my son," continued Halthor in a sympathetic voice. "I felt that you needed to hear the truth, to face hard facts about the Slayer."

"My life would be over if I lost Miriel," whispered Bregolas, a tear trickling down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away, not wanting to show weakness in front of the phantom form of his father.

"Perhaps you could change things, for nothing is etched in stone."

"What do you mean?" asked the young man, looking hopefully at his father.

"Well, if you could convince Miriel to turn away from her Calling, to avoid this slaying business altogether, then perhaps you could have the life you've dreamt of, one where you both live a long, happy life, in peace."

"And how do you propose I go about doing that?" queried the son of Halthor. "Miriel is determined to find these so-called Watchers and fulfill her destiny."

"You are a man. Your voice matters more than hers," replied the specter.

"What happened to marriage being a partnership?" he asked, raising a brow in question. "You said that yours and mother's marriage was a partnership. Why would mine be any different?"

Halthor was becoming frustrated. "Because Aerin never gave any thought to killing. She knew her place was at home, rearing you and tending to the household. That is a wife's duty. They do not belong in battle." Realizing that he was coming across gruff, the apparition continued in a more calm tone. "Miriel has revealed herself to be the Slayer. The enemy now knows this. If you could take her to some isolated place - far from others - your chance at having a quiet life together would become greater."

Bregolas pondered his father's words for a long while. It seemed that everything Halthor was saying conflicted with the young man's beliefs, with his conscious. It didn't make any sense to have Miriel turn away from her Calling, and he couldn't understand why his father thought that she should. Wasn't being Chosen a gift from those in the West? Miriel was mystically enhanced by the Valar with great strength and amazing agility, greater than any man. Should she throw that gift away in order to make a life with him? It just didn't seem right in the great scheme of things. Bregolas wanted to help her, to fight at her side, to be a team, combating the dark forces in Middle-earth. He assumed that their relationship would pick up where they had left off in due time. The torments she had suffered at the hands of Denethor were not so long ago. Shouldn't she be allowed some time to get over that?

The young warrior's eyes narrowed, his facial expression hardened. He slowly turned to his father and said, "No," with an air of finality to his tone. "I will not put my desires before those of Miriel." Despite Halthor's pleas, Bregolas turned his back on him, and returned to his beloved's side.

Night after night for several days afterward, Halthor returned to Bregolas badgering him about marrying Miriel and having her turn away from her life as a Slayer.

Miriel began to notice the subtle changes in her companion's behavior. As the days passed by, he seemed to become moody, sullen even. There was a time or two when she had awakened in the middle of the night and thought she had heard him talking to himself. She was beginning to think that Bregolas was suffering from melancholy too, and no matter how hard she had tried, she couldn't get him to talk about what was troubling him.

Her concern escalated, when, at times, she felt the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end, and that tingly sensation coursed through her body, foreboding danger, even when she saw no apparent sign of the enemy. It seemed to Miriel that there was some ominous presence following her and Bregolas on their journey. She could feel it, but couldn't see it. She was beginning to wonder if this "thing" was affecting Bregolas' moods. And if it was, why did it have no effect on her? Was it because she was a Slayer? She wished someone could advise her on this matter. If only she had a Watcher. She was sure that he would know what to do.

She shared her feelings with Buffy, hoping that the older and more experienced Slayer could impart some of her knowledge about such things.

"There're lots of evil creatures in the world," Buffy had told her. "Not all of them can be seen with the naked eye. That's why I've been teaching you about honing your other senses. Trust your gut, Miriel."

"But what am I to do against unseen forces? How do I fight that which I cannot see?" she asked, frightened and anxious by what she perceived to be a sinister presence.

"I don't know," answered Buffy grimly, shaking her head. "I've always had others to help me in that department. I don't know what you're dealing with. Just… just stay on your toes. Be alert. Maybe I'll figure something out."

Buffy's advice wasn't very helpful.

The tragedy of it all was that the answer lay before Miriel, though she didn't know it. She, like Faramir and Denethor, was well versed in ancient lore. However, there were some things that she had overlooked. While she loved to read about the Elves and the Elder Days, she had glossed over the wicked abilities of the villains, particularly Sauron. It was common knowledge, in Gondor at least, that the evil Maia was referred to as the Necromancer, but Miriel didn't wholly know what that meant. If she did, perhaps she would have had a better understanding of what was happening, for the Dark Lord of Mordor had the power to command those spirits that had refused the summons of Mandos, and had chosen to remain in Middle-earth, bodiless and bitter at their misfortune.

Before the couple knew it, the month of June had ended and July had arrived, bringing with it even hotter weather. They had now been traveling for weeks instead of days, and it seemed that they had hardly made any progress on their journey since the loss of their horses. They had started out well, putting many, many leagues behind them in a single day. But now, whenever they settled down for the night, Bregolas would whip out the map and show Miriel their approximate location. Even though they had spent the better part of each day walking, it didn't seem as if they had gone very far. The Slayer found that most disheartening, to say the least.

On top of that, they had eaten all the rations Bregolas had brought from Minas Tirith, forcing them to forage for food. While Bregolas continued to supply them with fresh fish, which had become the staple of their diet, the young woman found herself losing her taste for fish. She would have given anything to eat real meat - beef, pork, lamb or chicken. Anything other than fish. And wine, o' how she'd love a tall glass of wine. Any kind would do, as long as it wasn't plain old water. Their only treat was the occasional patch of wild berries they stumbled upon. And even those seemed no longer as delicious as they had been.

Due to the lack of conversation, and to help pass the time, Miriel often thought of the future. She wondered what her Watcher would be like and if he would be impressed that she had come so far in search of him. She longed to talk with Bregolas about these things, but every time she mentioned the word "Watcher", he got this angry look in his eyes that made her uneasy, so much so that she no longer brought the subject up. She tried to think of what could have possibly caused this radical change in his behavior. He had been such a jovial soul before they left Gondor and now he seemed to be the complete opposite. She wasn't sure if it was simply a case of melancholy, or, if he was suffering from something much worse. Whatever it was - she hated it. She longed for the old Bregolas.

During their long, miserable treks across the plains, the Slayer often found herself fantasizing about times past. For some odd reason, she found comfort in those tales of old, even if most of them didn't end too well. She thought of Beren and Lúthien, how their love for one another had sent them on their epic quest for the Silmaril, and how Finrod Felagund, ever a friend to Man, had aided Beren, costing the Elven King his life. How spectacular times were back then, when Man and Elf lived and died side-by-side. She wondered if she would ever go on some journey such as that, one where she would actually make a difference, and people would sing songs about her deeds of glory.

Without thinking, she began to sing the Lay of Lúthien softly under her breath. That song made her think. While there were a few stories of mortal men marrying elven women, there was none (that she could recall) regarding mortal women marrying elven men. Miriel wondered why that was, and how strange that seemed to be. Did elven men find mortal women undesirable, or, perhaps, beneath them?

Of course, thinking of such things made her wonder if she'd ever meet an Elf. That would be a dream come true, especially after reading so much about them. But, Miriel had little hope of that ever happening. Elves and Men no longer mingled together, neither socially nor economically. From what she remembered, the sundering between the two races went back centuries, to the early part of the Third Age. She wasn't sure if that was due to the deaths of Elendil and Gil-Galad, each who was considered the mightiest and lordliest of their races, and had perished in the Battle of Dagorlad, or if it had been the shortcomings of Isildur and his failure to destroy the One Ring. Whatever it was that had happened, the unfortunate outcome was that the Children of Ilúvatar lived in their separate worlds, and, sadly, no longer interacted.

Therefore, Miriel spent her waking hours day dreaming about Elves, and at night, when it was her turn to sleep, she enjoyed the company of Buffy. Neither Slayer knew of the torments that Bregolas endured each night, that a phantom claiming to be his father, was doing all he could to drive a wedge between the warrior and the young Slayer. The apparition had been following the couple, watching and listening intently, learning all he could in order to coerce Bregolas to act in the manner prescribed by his master. Under the advisement of Sauron, the specter was told to change his tactics somewhat. The Dark Lord believed he had discovered the way to convince the young man to step into the role that he had designed for the Gondorian warrior.

In the wee hours of July the 4th, Halthor returned, confident that his latest ploy would sway Bregolas to carry out his master's plans. Instead of materializing at the edge of camp, as he had always done before, he appeared beside the sleeping form of Miriel. He fixed his phantom eyes on the girl, while waiting for his son.

When Bregolas spotted Halthor, he hurried to his side. "Is it not best to talk over there?" he whispered, pointing to an area several yards away from his beloved. "I do not wish to wake Miriel."

"She will not wake," answered Halthor softly. "She has found contentment in her dreams. Do you not see the smile on her face?"

Sure enough, a small smile graced the Slayer's fair face. In her dreams, she had just successfully delivered a drop kick to her mentor, sending Buffy flying to the ground.

"Do you know why she smiles, my son?" he asked, his eyes never leaving the Slayer.

Bregolas shook his head.

"She dreams of the future, a future… without you."

The young man's eyes darted to his father. "How do you know that?"

"I have been watching, watching and listening to your beloved Miriel for many days now," replied the phantom form of his father. "When she sings, I can read her mind, her thoughts, see her future." He paused for a moment, wanting his words to have the desired effect on the warrior.

"You can see Miriel's future," whispered Bregolas in awe, shifting his gaze back to a sleeping Miriel. "How?"

"When I was freed from the Halls of Mandos, those in the West granted unto me certain… powers," he answered without missing a beat. "When Miriel sings, I am able to have visions, visions of her future… " He paused once again. "Did you know that it is her heart's desire to see the Elves, that she dreams of that day?"

Bregolas did not answer, but he knew that to be true. How could he forget her singing that elvish song as they traveled along Lothlórien's borders? That stunt of hers had resulted in the attack by the Uruk-hai later that night.

"So great is her infatuation with the Firstborn, that she will forsake you, for them."

The warrior's head spun around. He stared at his father in stunned disbelief. "No," he uttered, shaking his head. "Miriel would never do that."

"No?" repeated Halthor, his tone riddled with doubt. He locked eyes with his son. "The Elves seek to harness the power of the Slayer, to command her to do their bidding. It is not everyday that a Slayer walks in their midst. They care nothing for her well-being, for her safety. She is a tool, a toy for them to play with… in more ways than one," he added in a tone that sent chills down Bregolas' spine. The ghost looked back at Miriel, hiding his delight. "The Slayer is young and naïve. She will be blinded by the tales of old, and how goodly the Elves are." He shifted his eyes back to his son. "She is not like us," Halthor hissed. "She does not see that the Elves have become an evil breed, wroth and resentful at all they have lost. And you, my son, are the obstacle that stands in their way. They will kill you to get to her." He motioned toward Miriel with his head.

Bregolas was left speechless. He was falling for the phantom's ploy, hook, line, and sinker. He had already been deceived into believing that the specter was his father, and had no reason to challenge Halthor's prophetic words. The young man's eyes welled with tears, as hope of a future with Miriel began to diminish before his very eyes.

"But it is not too late," continued the ghost, with an air of hope to his voice. "The future has not yet been written in stone, and can still be changed - for we men have been given the gift of freewill. We can change the course of the future, but time is not our friend, and you must act swiftly if you wish to alter what I have seen," remarked Halthor rather urgently.

The warrior's mind seemed to be spinning with so many thoughts. His heart pounded frantically in his chest. He didn't know what to do, what to think. Confusion had set in.

"Steer her away from those she seeks, my son," encouraged the specter. "And do not forget all that you have sacrificed. You gave up everything for Miriel. You should be recompensed for all that you have lost. And if Miriel is what you desire - then make it so!"

In his anguish, Bregolas responded with, "I will not force myself on Miriel."

"Who said anything about force, hmm?" answered Halthor, searching his son's eyes with his own. "I can help. That is, if you will heed the counsel of your father."

Bregolas stood there, in silence, pondering his father's words. After several minutes, he nodded in reply. Halthor drifted closer to his son, whispering his advice in the young man's ear.

Miriel awoke the following morning only to find thick, grayish-black clouds lingering above. It was the first sign of rain since they had passed through Rohan a few weeks earlier. "Oh, great," she groaned, dreading the thought of marching in a torrential downpour.

Little did she know that that was a sign of things to come.

She stretched her stiff limps, causing her joints to pop to life. After rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she sat up, looking for Bregolas. He sat, grim-faced, against the bole of a tree, watching her. She offered him a quick smile. Unfortunately, by the looks of it, his mood looked as foul as the weather.

"Looks like rain, eh?" she said in an attempt to start a conversation. She always tried to speak to Bregolas even if he wouldn't answer. "I hate the thought of walking all day in the rain," she added with a shudder.

"Perhaps we should set up the tent, and stay inside today," suggested Bregolas bleakly.

As Miriel rose to her feet, she clutched her heart in an over-dramatic fashion, surprised that Bregolas was actually talking today. "He speaks!" she exclaimed. "My Valar! Has the Lord of the Wilds returned to me at last?" Her smile widened, as she bowed several times before the warrior.

"Why do you mock me?" he scoffed.

"Oh, come on, Bregolas. Snap out of it!" she said in a cheerful voice, as she rolled up her bedding. "Can you not see that I jest? I really wish you would find your sense of humor. I miss it. You've been surly for far too long." She crammed her bedroll into her pack. "I miss the old Bregolas, the one who laughs and enjoys life." She glanced upwards, as several flashes of lightning lit up the darkening sky. "We better get the tent set up then. It looks like it's going to pour any minute." When Miriel turned around, she let out a small cry, startled to suddenly see Bregolas standing behind her. "Don't creep up on me like that!" she screeched reproachfully. "You nearly gave me heart failure!"

Murmuring under her breath, she took off to tend to her morning business. Bregolas followed her with his eyes. When he saw Miriel squat behind a tree, he began the task of setting up their tent. As he worked, he heard the words of his father echoing in his mind.

When the Slayer had finished her morning ritual, which included washing her teeth and face, and brushing her hair, she helped Bregolas finish setting up their tent. Much to Miriel's dismay, the warrior fell quiet, again. She stood by, watching him toss their bags inside the tent, thinking of how miserable the day was going to be. Not only would they be sequestered in the confines of their small domicile, but they would do so in stony silence. She was beginning to wonder if they'd be better off spending the day marching, rain or not.

Only minutes after the tent was erected, the first few drops of rain began to fall. "You better get inside," instructed Bregolas.

Miriel climbed inside. She immediately re-arranged their bags so that she and Bregolas would be more comfortable within the canvas shelter. Bregolas then squeezed in behind her. They sat there, listening to the heavy drops hitting the roof of the structure. Ear-splitting cracks of thunder followed flashes of lightning, causing the earth beneath them to tremble.

"Looks like it's going to be one hell of a storm," she said, breaking the silence.

The warrior remained quiet, absently fiddling with the ring he wore on his left forefinger.

The minutes ticked by slowly. Soon, heaven unleashed its showers and the sound of the rain pounding against the canvas drowned out the silence.

Then, out of the blue, Bregolas asked in low voice, "Do you love me?"

"What?" Miriel asked. He had spoken so softly, she was unable to clearly hear him over the downpour.

"I said, do you love me?" he repeated louder.

"Oh," she replied, slightly taken aback by his question. "Why, yes. Of course." As soon as the words had left her mouth, she felt a prickly sensation all over her body, followed by chill bumps. She pulled her cloak around her more tightly, to ward off the sudden chill.

"Then I want you to become my wife."

Miriel's brows shot up in surprise. "What?" she exclaimed, shocked by his unexpected proposal.

"You heard me," he said in that same monotonic voice.

"I - I don't know what to say," she stammered, shifting uncomfortably. "I mean, where is this coming from?"

"I love you and you love me. Why should we deny our feelings any longer? Denethor has no say-so any more. We are on our own. This is our life now," he reasoned.

"I'm - I'm… " Miriel didn't know what to say. She had been afraid something like this might happen. She had, unquestionably, lead Bregolas to believe that they had a future together when they were back in Minas Tirith, and now it looked as if he wanted her to make good on that promise. She had been stupid, foolish, playing with his heart when she shouldn't have. A part of her now regretted that she hadn't left the White City on her own. Truth be known, she had never really considered a future with Bregolas. At least, not as his wife. Now, here they were, in the middle of nowhere, and he was making the ultimate demand on her.

"You lied to me," he sneered, noticing her face becoming paler and her apparent uneasiness. "It was all lies, wasn't it? You used me. You used me to get away from your father and plan to desert me when you find your Watcher - "

" - NO! That's not true," she interjected, her heart racing in her chest.

"Then marry me, Miriel. Marry me on this day!" he shot back.

"I'm - I'm not ready to get married," she stammered in reply.

"Is that so?" he replied, his eyes narrowing. Bregolas spoke in such a derisive tone that his words pierced her heart like daggers. "Only a few weeks ago you were willing to become my wife. Tell me, Miriel: what would have happened if Denethor had given his blessing? What would you have done? Played with me some more until you tired of me? Or was it your plan to flee in the night, leaving me behind to suffer?"

Miriel felt her mouth go dry. How could Bregolas possibly know such things? How could he know what she had thought? Despite the chill in the air, she felt beads of sweat forming on her forehead, and her body began to tremble uncontrollably. This was like a nightmare; her worse nightmare come true.

"So, it is true," he continued in that same contemptuous tone. "You have deceived me, played me for a fool. I sacrificed everything for you, Miriel, threw it all away, thinking that we had a future together." The warrior slowly shook his head, saying, "I'm a fool no longer. Either you marry me today or I am leaving. False hopes will no longer carry me further on this journey."

The Slayer could feel her eyes burning with tears. "Don't do this, Bregolas," she pleaded, her voice cracking as she spoke. "This is not you. Can you not see that? Some madness has - "

" - So now I'm mad, huh?" he interrupted with a hiss. "Then there is nothing left to say." The warrior began grabbing his bags.

"Please, Bregolas!" cried Miriel, tears streaming down her face. She grabbed hold of his arm, pleading with him to stay.

"Are you ready to become my wife?" he asked, ready to leave if he did not hear the answer he wanted.

Miriel found herself unable to speak. She remained seated on the floor of the tent, sobbing, in near hysterics.

"Then that's it! Good luck, Miriel. You'll need it," Bregolas growled. He yanked his arm free from her grasp and stormed out of the tent.

"Bregolas!" she cried out. "Don't leave me!"

Miriel went numb. Her heart pounded with such a ferocity that she could feel the blood rushing throughout her entire body. Her stomach became queasy. The Slayer was terrified at the notion of being abandoned in an unknown land, having to fend for herself. How would she survive without Bregolas? She couldn't. She'd die without him. That thought alone frightened her beyond belief.

The Slayer had no other choice but to cave in to his demands. She bolted out of the tent and into the cold, lashing rain. She spotted Bregolas, already some distance away, heading south. Weeping, she chased after him. In a shrill voice, she repeatedly cried out his name…