Into the Wild they went, passing north and east through the forest, thick and damp and green with summer. Anna had been nearly silent since they left Elenost. She was clearly used to managing alone, seemed almost annoyed when Miriel tried to help with tasks around camp, though she nodded approval when Miriel brought down a small deer in the woods. But in truth Miriel didn't mind, so exhausted was she at the end of each day. They trained every morning from first light to sunrise, regardless of place or weather, and sometimes again in the evening, and the pace Anna set during the day was faster than the trainees had ever managed. Miriel had thought she was fit, but she found herself gasping and struggling to keep up, pack straps digging into her shoulders and sweat pooling in her boots.

But her father had warned her, as had Faelon. "They will test you," the Master had told them. "They'll push you, to see how far you can go, how strong you are, when you will break." And Sirhael had taken her aside after the choosing, out of earshot of both her mother and the other maethorneth, and said quietly, "Anna can be…well, you'll see. There's no tougher Ranger in the company, and once you've earned her respect, she's loyal to the ends of the earth. But it takes a lot to get there, and she doesn't suffer fools. At all, let alone gladly."

On the third day they came to a river crossing, rocky and chest-deep, water still bone-chilling cold. Miriel shuddered as they stripped and waded in, carrying their gear above their heads. She nearly fell twice, numbed feet slipping on stones. But Anna did not halt or look back, and Miriel gritted her teeth and continued on. She found when she staggered up the far bank that one of her toes was bleeding, the nail ripped nearly in half. Anna glanced at it and then away, said nothing as Miriel dried it carefully and wrapped it in a small, clean cloth. It hurt, and hurt more when she put weight on it. But she had seen the long slanted scar across Anna's ribs, the round jagged one on the back of her shoulder, and another, still dark as though newly healed, on her thigh. And she pursed her lips, and forced herself not to limp.

They came to the edge of the forest, and the road began rising, climbing up into bare downs. The tree-clad slopes of the Ettenmoors rose on their right, rocky crests dark even in the midsummer sun. But the road swung wide around them and then again turned east, and at last the Hithaeglir began to appear, at first only whiteness glimmering above summer haze, but every day clearer and nearer. Soon not only the peaks but their great rocky flanks and wooded shoulders loomed against the sky. The road became narrower, but it had clearly been newly repaired, holes filled and rocks cast aside, and she knew the Thurinrim garrison had been at work. And at last one day they came over a rise and saw a valley laid out before them. Her eyes followed the road winding down to a small river, and then turning to follow it steeply up and out of sight into the mountains.

If the journey across forest and downs had been hard, the road up to Thurinrim Pass was something else entirely. Miriel had never been in the high country. She had heard of it, of course, from her father and others, and in the songs and stories of Arnor before the darkness came, for its people traveled often in the mountains, over them to trade and into them to hunt, and up to the high places where it was said a man could see his soul in the clear air.

Her legs ached, and her head was light, and there were times she felt she might fall. But she did not, only watched the rocky road before her, and Anna's boots beating out a steady rhythm, up and ever higher into the clear air. The nights were cold and uncomfortable, for the few flat places that were not rocky were wet. Anna's reserve bent a little, and she allowed Miriel to huddle against her, and wrapped them both in her cloak. They climbed up through dense forest, oak and birch and then pine, dwindling at last to mere bushes then disappearing altogether, and still the road climbed through grass and rock. But there were flowers in the grass, bright yellow and gold and white and blue, the colors of mountains and sky and sun, flowers she had never seen, for they did not grow in the gentle lands.

Anna said little as they climbed, and she cut their morning training short, and by that Miriel knew she too felt the strain. But she smiled a little, sometimes, and breathed deep and turned her face to the wind.

It took three days of climbing to reach the pass; wagons, Anna told her, reckoned to make it in seven or eight. Her legs felt like lead, but still she trudged behind Anna, on and ever up and up, until finally they rounded a turn in the road, and she raised her head to find not rock but clear air before her, a vast, empty space fading to dimness and green. The road under her feet flattened, and she almost smiled in relief.

It was called Thurinrim, 'secret lake' in the old language, for there was a cold pool high up above the pass itself, in a grassy hollow unseen from the road. A small stream spilled from it, clear as ice over sharp stones. The Rangers at the pass used the stream for water, but they seldom climbed up to the hidden lake itself, and only when one had a desire to be alone.

The road over the pass had been made long, long ago, even before the coming of Angmar, when Arnor's writ had reached all the way from Annuminas to the Hithaeglir. Even in the old days the Dunedain did not live in the cold, stony land between the Ettenmoors and the mountains. But they claimed it as theirs, and maintained the road over Thurinrim for trade with the Dwarves of Gundabad and Ered Mithrin and the Men of northern Rhovanion. Angmar forced them back, and the mountains became an evil place where the Dunedain dared not go. But all through the long years of war, Thurinrim lived as a watchword for their hope, the land they would one day reclaim.

Yet when at last that day came, it was bittersweet, for Arnor itself was destroyed, worn down along with its foes. The remaining Men who had allied with Angmar, those who had not perished in the war, were exiled beyond the mountains, and for a time the orcs were driven out as well, and the Dunedain reestablished their guard on the pass. But when the forces that had given them victory at last returned home, the Elves to Lindon and Imladris and Earnur's army to Gondor, the shrunken remnant of the Dunedain of Arnor were left on their own.

They tried. They patrolled the lonely, war-ravaged country, when they could spare the men, tried at least to maintain the pass and the road, and they established an uneasy peace with the Druadwaith, as they called the men who lived north of the mountains. It was never secure, menaced by mountain brigands descended from the survivors of Angmar and orcs that began to creep back to Gundabad, and there were times when they were driven from the pass entirely. But ever they strove to reclaim it, to hold it in defense against encroaching darkness.

So Thurinrim became a place of both honor and danger for the Dunedain, and many Rangers who were sent there never returned to their villages. In the youth of Miriel's father, orcs had surged out from Gundabad and their mountain tunnels to sweep away the guard on the pass, and later the High Pass east of Rivendell, and it seemed that darkness might retake the northern lands. But the orcs themselves overreached at last, lusting for the wealth of the dragon, and were destroyed in battle far to the east. Only vague rumor of that battle came back at last to the western lands. But a Ranger patrol sent the following spring to Thurinrim found the pass clear, and Gundabad nearly abandoned as well, only the barest hints of orcs still dwelling deep underground. The Druadwaith told them a great army of orcs had marched east at the end of autumn, and none had returned, only a few dwarves coming back to Ered Mithrin with tidings of victory and slaughter. And so the watch on the pass was reestablished, and there was again wary peace in the northern lands.

At the top of the pass, beneath a cliff that sheltered it from the north wind, there was a hut made of stone, windowless, with a thick, squat chimney and a heavy door of weathered wood that could be barred securely against mountain storms. But now it was open, and there were men outside. Two sat on flat rocks that served as seats, watching two others who sparred in the middle of the road, the smoothest patch of ground in that rocky place. They called out as Anna approached, and Miriel saw for the first time a true smile on her face, brief as a sunbeam through cloud.

Belegon gripped Anna's shoulders, lips pressed together, jerked a nod and then hugged her fiercely. When at last he let her go and turned to Miriel with a smile, his eyes were a little too bright, his voice not quite steady. But she smiled in answer, bowed as custom demanded, told him Sirhael was well. Yes, they had seen plenty of maloseg on the high downs, and no, she did not wish her father had chosen one of those bright little mountain flowers. Her face colored, and Belegon roared with laughter, and the other Rangers chuckled; even Anna allowed a thin smile. Miriel lifted her chin and tried to take it with good grace, for being the butt of jokes was as much a maethorneth duty as anything else she might learn.

She knew one of the other Rangers only slightly, and one not at all. But the last made her suck in a breath as her stomach turned over, and she hoped her flush would be taken for cold. Barahir, Meren's brother, three years older, who had always treated her with the forbearing indulgence of a younger sister. She knew she was foolish; Meren had told her so, in no uncertain terms, on every possible occasion. But though her mind knew it, and perhaps her heart, her body did not, and he made her breath come fast, and she thought her voice might tremble if she spoke. And so she said nothing to him, only a nod, a shy smile of acknowledgement, and something in her hoped he could see she had grown, that she was no longer a little girl, his younger brother's friend, but a woman, and almost a Ranger.

Stop that. Is this who you are? Is this really what you want? And something said No, but again something said Yes.

He spoke to her that night, as they all huddled close together in the hut, sheltered from the wind by its thick walls. They would build no fire despite the cold, for wood had to be packed up from the lowlands along with food, and so they were sparing with both. He asked her news of his brother, and of the other trainees, smiled when he heard that Brethil had taken Meren as maethorneth, and raised his eyebrows in wonder when she told him Halbarad had taken Calen.

One of the other Rangers whistled. "That I would never have guessed," he said, with a dry laugh. "Halbarad with a maethorneth. What's the world coming to?"

But Belegon smiled, thoughtfully. "Nothing but good, I'd say. Hal wouldn't take a trainee without a very good reason." He chuckled, jerked his chin at Anna. "And neither would you." Anna inclined her head, the smallest of smiles on her lips, and Miriel hoped the dim candlelight hid her flush.

But then the talk turned to news from over the mountains, and Anna's smile was gone. "I don't like what we've been hearing," said Belegon. "Three wagons up here in the last ten days, and all of them saying the same thing: the young prince is buying iron."

Miriel frowned, for she had no idea what it meant. But Anna's lips tightened. "The fuck he is. If he wants to try it, let him." She shook her head. "Just rumors, eh?"

Belegon nodded. "They all said they'd heard it from others. Perhaps they didn't want to own it, but I don't think so. I know enough of their speech to understand most of what they said among themselves, and it was nothing they didn't say to us."

Barahir said, "Perhaps it's nothing. Perhaps it's not what it seems."

"Perhaps," said Anna darkly. "Anything more?"

Belegon nodded, said slowly, in a tone that indicated he thought she would not like it, "They said he was selling horses."

Anna stared at him for a moment, then let out a breath and shook her head. "One might be rumor, but both together…."

Belegon nodded. "That's what I thought. A poor harvest and a hard winter, they said. And maybe it's true." His jaw tightened, and Miriel knew he was thinking of the Lossoth, and Silevren. He grunted, and shook his head. "And maybe not."

Anna pursed her lips, stared into the darkness for a moment, glanced at Miriel and then nodded sharply. "We'll go."

Belegon looked at her, said quietly, "Are you sure?"

"Someone's got to."

He gestured with his chin at Miriel. "With a maethorneth?"

A thin smile. "Why not? She should know their land. And it will give me cover. I can pass as one of them; she'll be my younger sister. Different father. Dunadan bastard, fucked my mother and left, and now I'm stuck with her."

Barahir chuckled; Belegon smiled thoughtfully but did not laugh. "It's a better story than we could manage." A pause, and then, "You'll have to leave your swords."

"I know. We've got knives, and she's as good with that bow as anyone I've ever seen." She shrugged. "It's a risk, but no worse than others. And there's nothing else for it."

Belegon nodded, and the conversation seemed to be at an end. Something had been decided, but Miriel did not know quite what it was. And for the moment she didn't care, for all she could hear in her mind was, 'She's as good with that bow as anyone I've ever seen.'

What had been decided, she found out the next morning, was that they were to be spies. No one put it quite like that, but it was true nonetheless. The young prince of the Druadwaith was selling horses and buying iron, fine iron from the Dwarves of Ered Mithrin, and they were to find out why. She knew little of the folk beyond the mountains, aside from the stories all Dunedain children knew, and that was enough for fear, but also for curiosity. They had fought for Angmar in the long wars, though out of true loyalty or sorcery or plain fear, none could say. Among the Druadwaith themselves, it was said that the Witch-King had given them land south of the mountains, warmer and more fertile that the plains to the north, and they were grateful, for they had asked it of Arnor and been refused. But the long years of war were dark on both sides of the mountains, and it was told among them that they had turned against him before the end. Ellenen sent emissaries to them in secret, during the bitter years when it seemed that Arnor might be pushed into the sea, for in their telling, his mother was Druad. The daughter of a chieftain captured by the soldiers of Arnor and brought to Fornost, in time she married a captain of Arnor and gave birth to a son, and she taught him her tongue and the ways of her people. And so many years later he was able to persuade some at least of the Druadwaith to trust him, and they fought against the orcs and trolls of Angmar in the final battle. But which stories were true depended on who was doing the telling, and when the history of that time was at last written down many years later, by scribes in the service of Aranarth, there was no mention of it.

When the war was at last ended and the Witch-King fled, the Druadwaith were pushed north of the mountains with all the other remnants of Angmar. Miners and herdsmen, they scratched out a bare living for their families in a harsh, unforgiving land. They herded long-haired cattle and strong, hardy horses, grew barley in land too cold and dry for wheat, and mined gold and bright stones in the hills. There had been mines on the southern side as well, long ago, and much of the wealth of Annuminas had been founded in their depths. But those mines had long ago been exhausted, and when at last Angmar was gone, and the Dunedain sought to restore their war-ravaged land, they thought again of the northern mines.

Aranarth and his son were content to rebuild their own shattered people, but his grandson looked again north of the mountains, and dreamed of making Arnor as great as it had been when Annuminas was still whole and shining, the envy of the northern lands. The effort was weak, when at last Aranuir made it, for he had not a tenth of the power of the kings of old. But he had enough to cause much suffering, and by the time his shattered force retreated back over Thurinrim, a generation of Druad children had been taught to curse the men of the Star. They in their turn raided south and west into the Dunedain lands, never in enough force to be a true threat but enough to cause loss and fear. And so it went, back and forth over the years, and while the stories of Ellenen were still told on both sides of the mountains, each claimed him as their own, and feared and distrusted the other.

The Druadwaith were kin from afar with the men of Wilderland; in their telling, the lord of Rhovanion had once had twin sons but favored one over the other, and the spurned son left the narrow land on the borders of the great wood in search of wider spaces of his own. He found them on the dry grasslands north of the mountains, and led there any who would follow him. They kept no written history, and it was all so long ago that one tale was as good as the next. But still there was undeniable kinship between the Druadwaith and the Beornings, and even the men of Rohan far to the south, and they could with only a little difficulty understand one another's speech.

That was how it happened that Anna could pass as Druad. "You will keep your mouth shut," she told Miriel. "You're mute, always have been. Must have been that Dunadan father of yours stole your tongue when he left us." Her voice was harsh, but she glanced sidelong at Belegon, and he laughed, for Sirhael was not known as a quiet man. Miriel nodded without expression, and tried not to let the instinctive, protective flash of anger show on her face.

The morning light was thin, and a cold wind whispered over the pass as they said their farewells. She felt strangely light without her sword, unsettled, as if she had forgotten something she could not name; over and over again she reflexively touched the bowstave that hung across her back. Belegon spoke quietly to Anna, and there was a softness in his face. She turned away from the others for the space of several breaths, and when she turned back there was a redness in her eyes that might only have been lack of sleep.

"Valar guard and guide you, Ranger," she said, firm if not quite steady.

Belegon gripped her arm, and then let her go. "Valar guard and guide."

Barahir yawned and clapped Miriel on the shoulder with a broad, drowsy grin. "Wish it was Meren who had to stop talking. Not sure he could manage it." In spite of apprehension, Miriel had to laugh, and then forced her body into a semblance of stillness when he pulled her into a hug. "Take care of yourself, right?" he murmured. "I wouldn't want to see his face if anything happened to you." She sucked in a breath as fear twisted her stomach, and heard again a voice like Barahir's but not his, a voice so familiar since childhood that it seemed almost her own. 'While I live, you will never be alone.' And she thought nothing more of Barahir, and hardly noticed when he let her go.

Note: Making up lots more history and human geography here, filling in blank places in Tolkien's lore. There have been (and will be) places where I deliberately change his world, but this is not intended to be one of them. This background will shape later events in the story, so if you catch any mistakes, discontinuities, or significant contradictions of canon, please let me know.