Author's Note: This is a story about growing up, and my writing grows up as well. I hope you enjoy the first few chapters...but on the off chance that you find them a bit juvenile, I would encourage you to stick with it. Things start to get a bit more interesting in Chapter 5, and the pace picks up from there. I've gone back and forth about cutting back the initial sections, but I have rather a sentimental attachment to them. If readers tell me I should, though, I might just get over myself and do it. :) So please leave feedback in the reviews, about that or anything else. I've been writing this for my own entertainment for at least eight years (yep, that's how long it took for me to work up the courage to start posting it!), but I'd love to know what other people think.

A Note about Warnings: I've tried to make this story as real as possible. Bad things happen, often to good people. Sometimes good people do bad things. It may be painful (there are parts that are still painful for me, no matter how many times I've read them), but it is never gratuitous; there is a reason for everything I write. However, I find that the dramatic effect of difficult things, and therefore their emotional impact on the reader, is lessened by foreknowledge. I have therefore decided NOT to post chapter-specific warnings about potentially troubling content. So, this is a one-time warning that you will encounter the following things in this story (in no particular order): violence, blood, death, grief, cruelty, and foul language. I do want readers to feel comfortable engaging with the story, so if you would like to be warned in advance of anything specific, please send me a PM and I'd be happy to accommodate.


I will tell you this tale, because some tales must be told aloud. There are those that belong around the fire on a clear night in summer, with stars blazing overhead and the green smell on the night breeze. There are others for telling in the dead of winter, huddled around the hearth as snow piles against the shutters and the luminous moon through breaks of cloud wears a hazy halo of ice. There are some that belong to the springtime, when the blaze made of winter's deadfall throws dancing light on new-opened leaves. This tale is all of those. Yet more than any, this tale belongs to autumn – to the yellow aspen leaves gleaming against blue sky, and the cold rain that brings them down to lie waterlogged on sere grass, and that bite in the air that hints of snow. Not yet, but soon, the snow will come, and woe betide any then who venture alone into the wild. But you are not alone by the fire tonight. Food is shared round, meat and bread, and laughter too, as the impatient young one burns his tongue, and those older and oh-so-much-wiser avow they never did the same. The laughter drifts away, and for a time all is silent, save for the soft snap and hiss of burning. She begins quietly, as she always does. "Listen! In the days of our fathers, when fear walked the night wind, there stood one among us the star bore in honor…" And the warmth on your face makes you forget the cold at your back as the teller spins the tale.


She woke early, sitting up suddenly without knowing quite what it was that had awakened her. The house was quiet; her sister lay asleep still on the pallet beside her, dark hair tousled and arms clasped tight around her doll. Miriel smiled – with ten winters now behind her, Andreth had begun to fancy herself a young woman, pulling her hair back in grown-up fashion and disdaining childish games. Yet behind closed doors, in the safe space of their little room, she still clung to her rag doll. It had been Miriel's once, cherished and dragged everywhere until her mother had informed her one day in her seventh summer that, no, dolls do not wear swords. That very night, Andreth's toddler eyes had grown wide as Miriel placed the doll in her arms. "You have to take care of her now," she had admonished. "Make sure she gets enough to eat, and don't let her wander outside the village – there are wolves out there, and robbers, and…and bad things!" At Andreth's look of fear, Miriel had smiled and patted her shoulder. "But don't worry, I'll protect you." She gestured to the stick she had shoved into her belt. "That's why I can't take care of her anymore, see? I can't carry her and fight the bad things with my sword at the same time." Andreth had stared wide-eyed, uncomprehending, and Miriel had hugged her and run outside to spend the afternoon smacking hay bales and fence posts with her stick.

She had not noticed the resigned, almost pained look that passed between her mother and father as she recounted her triumphs at the table that night, had not understood why her father had risen of a sudden and gone to hug her mother. She barely heard the murmured words:

"I am sorry, Mirloth. We knew it would be so."

Her mother had nodded, her eyes too bright. "It's nothing, child," she had said, in response to Miriel's look of concern. "Just bit my tongue is all."

Miriel had laughed then, and gone on chattering about her sword. She winced now at the memory. I never wished to cause her pain. But I must do this.

She pushed back the covers and rolled quietly out of bed, careful not to disturb Andreth sleeping at her side. She pulled on boots and tunic, and with one last, fond glance at her sister, she slipped out the door. Though gray light filtered through the gaps in the shutters, the kitchen was empty. Dawn came early on this longest day of the year, and even her mother did not rise early enough to greet it. Her stomach rumbled, but she ignored it. 'Discipline your body, girl,' her father had said, many times. 'If you want to be one of us, you must learn to fight on an empty stomach.' One of us – once a Ranger, always a Ranger, it was said, and though Sirhael had long since left the patrols, lamed by a leg wound when she was a young child, it was still so with him.

And she did want it, had wanted it for as long as she could remember. She wanted it more than anything, though the child's single-minded desire had long since matured into sober, open-eyed commitment. She had seen the broken bodies come out of the Wild, seen the grief of widows and children to whom no body would ever come, seen the ragged, gaunt men who slipped into the village at dusk, stayed the night in the barracks, and left again with the dawn. And she had heard the stories in the Hall after supper, crouching in the shadows listening to those grim men, and the occasional woman, speak of what they had seen and done. Her heart flared with desire so fierce that her hands trembled and her breath came fast, and she longed to be one of them.

Moving quietly, she stepped over to the weapon rack, placed just to the right of the door for easy access in time of need. Her father's sword hung there – despite his injury, he kept himself in practice as well as he could. There were not enough able-bodied Rangers to spare a permanent garrison for the village, so the defense rested with tradesmen and farmers, older men like Sirhael, and women. All children of the Dunedain, girls and boys alike, were trained in the use of sword, bow, and knife. They lived in a dangerous land, and a woman who could not protect herself and her children at need was a risk they could not afford. Their numbers had dwindled over the years, but their land and the dangers it held had not. Those who remained were stretched so thin that they could not afford to refuse help, and they were grateful to any, man or woman, who took a share in the burden. In the days of their greatness, the Lords of the North had not needed to resort to such measures, but those days were long gone.

Her sword hung by her father's. It was smaller and lighter, for she had not yet grown into her full height and strength. But it was not a toy. At Sirhael's insistence, she kept the edge slightly blunted for training, but it could be sharpened at need, and its form and balance were true. She lifted it down from its peg and fastened the belt around her waist.

As always, the blade felt awkward at first, and the cold metal clanked faintly as she moved. But a strange sense of calm descended on her, and she felt suddenly older. It was always thus with the sword at her side, as if its very presence gave her power. She found her back straightening, her expression suddenly hard and stern. She was not entirely comfortable with the feeling, knew that a sword by itself meant nothing, that it was only as powerful as its wielder was skilled. But heart and gut said otherwise, and she felt herself strong. She lifted her bow and quiver from where they rested in the corner and slipped out the door.

The morning was cool and damp, though it would warm quickly once the sun rose. Too warm. Just as well the run comes first.

The soft thud of arrows greeted her as she came into the practice yard. Despite the early hour, two figures stood there, cloaked against the morning chill. The nearer of them turned as she approached.

"Morning," said the young man amiably. "Couldn't sleep either, eh?"

"Didn't think you and early mornings were acquainted," she grumbled; she had rather been hoping to be alone.

He grinned. "Just had to do a bit of warming up, to make good and sure I beat you today."

"Good luck with that."

"You know what happened last time."

"I do. And you know what happened the time before that. And the time before that. And the…well, I wouldn't want to dint your confidence." She sighed, a grin twitching the corners of her lips. "You got lucky last time – maybe you'll get lucky again."

Meren laughed. "Maybe. Or maybe I'll just be clever, and ask a certain brother of mine to stand in the front row when you're shooting. Just for encouragement."

"You'll do no such thing," she muttered, blushing furiously. "That's not fair."

"Fair? Who ever said we were playing fair?"

"No one," she answered promptly, grinning again. "Bastard's rules it is, then." They both laughed, and felt a little less uneasy.

"Who is that?" she asked in a lower voice, gesturing with her chin to the man standing at the far end of the range. He had continued shooting throughout their conversation – good, but I'm better – though a slight twitch of his head showed he was listening.

Meren shrugged. "Not from here, that's all I know."

She raised her eyebrows. "Well, let's find out." She turned on her heel and strode over to where the young man stood, eyeing the target thoughtfully after finishing a set. He turned as she approached.

"Welcome," she said with a smile and a slight bow. "I'm Miriel."

He seemed taken aback, swallowed and jerked a nod in reply. "Calen." His voice was deep, and a hint of stubble darkened his chin. A bit older than we are, then. Why? And where have I seen him before? Her eyes narrowed in thought, but then she smiled.

"You're from Celethring." At his look of surprise, she went on, "My cousins live there. I must have seen you when I visited them last summer." And then she stopped suddenly, for she remembered seeing him indeed – and remembered what her cousins had whispered behind their hands, glancing at him sidelong from across the road. He is an Outsider. Understanding and pity flashed through her, as she realized why he was older that most who undertook the trials, and why her gesture of welcome had taken him by surprise. I wonder who taught him? Doesn't really matter. He is here, and alone, most likely. She smiled warmly.

"That's not bad," she said, gesturing to his target. "Are you here for the trials?"

"Yes."

"Where are you staying?"

"No. I slept on the floor of the Hall last night. The barracks was full," he added, by way of explanation.

"Well, you must come and eat with my family. Mother's cooking is better than old Raeneth's any day." She smiled encouragingly, but he looked taken aback and shook his head.

"No," he said rather stiffly, almost as if he were offended. "I'll not trouble you. The breakfast in the Hall will be more than enough."

"It would be no trouble," she said with a frown. "But suit yourself."

He nodded abruptly and then strode off toward the target to retrieve his arrows. She stood for a moment looking after him, then she shrugged and returned to Meren.

"Well? Who is he?"

"His name's Calen, he's from Celethring, and he's here for the trials. That's all I got out of him." She decided not to pass on the rest; Meren would find out soon enough.

"Not very friendly, is he?" grumbled Meren.

"Nervous, most likely, and he wouldn't be the first to show it by being irritable." She flashed Meren a rather rueful grin.

"Well, if he's no better with a sword than with a bow, we've nothing to fear from him," said Meren dismissively.

"We've nothing to fear in any case. The trial's a competition."

"Of course is." Meren grinned, his good humor seemingly restored. "Or why else were you making such ridiculous boasts just now?"

She laughed. "Not boasts. Statements."

"Of course. And were you planning to continue making statements all morning, or did you actually intend to shoot? Your bow's very nice – though it might be even prettier with ribbons or something – " He stepped swiftly out of the way as she lunged at him.

"Pretty my ass." She turned from him and strung her bow. He grinned and did the same. When they both stood ready, bows held loosely in their hands, she said crisply, "Ten arrows?"

"Aye."

"Very well." She paused, flashed him a grin, and then, "Go!"

They flowed into motion, hands moving swiftly in the sequence they had followed thousands of times before. Nock…draw…aim…release…nock…draw…aim…release. She breathed slowly, mind focused and calm, all trace of jest gone from her face. She counted the arrows they went, was vaguely aware of Meren beside her, but she spared no thought for him. Nock…draw…aim… nine…nock…draw…aim…ten. When the last arrow was gone, she stood still. He finished a moment later.

"Clear?"

"Clear."

They walked to the targets and assessed without speaking. At last, he said grudgingly, "Yours, by a hair. If this one had been half an inch to the left…" He sighed, and then grinned. "Go again?"

She smiled back. "Of course."

They shot three more rounds, Miriel winning two of them and Meren one. As they pulled arrows from targets for the fourth time, she said, "Well, that's a bit better now. You?"

"Yes." Suddenly sober, he looked her in the eye. "Thank you."

She nodded and smiled, squeezing his shoulder in wordless reassurance. She glanced at the newly risen sun and then back to her friend. "I'll be expected home, but not yet. Swords?"

They both unstrung their bows, leaning them carefully against the rail, and then moved to the shed where the wooden practice weapons were kept. There also were cloth wrappings for padding the edges of real swords. The swordwork in the trial would be conducted thus, so without a word, they each took wrappings and prepared their blades.

She noticed Calen watching them with interest. There were others filtering in now, both youths like themselves and men full-grown. And one woman. Miriel watched covertly, trying to avoid the appearance of staring as the woman took a wooden practice sword and began moving slowly through the warm-up forms. She was lithe still despite the beginnings of gray in her hair, and the level rays of the early sun glittered on the star that fastened her cloak. Silevren had been a Ranger in her youth, and though she had left the Grey Company when the children started coming, still she moved with such grace that the sword seemed almost a part of her own body. Miriel shivered a little. I'll never equal that…

"Mir." Meren's voice snapped her out of thought. "Are we going to do this or not? I'm hungry."

"Makes you lighter on your feet. Though if you get any skinnier you might just blow away…"

She grinned and then stepped back, and extended her sword out and down in gesture of readiness. He returned the gesture and gave a sharp nod to commence.

They were well-matched in size and skill, but Meren was stronger, and he usually won if they went on for any length of time. So it was today, and it truth she did not fight as hard as she might have, and was not disappointed nor surprised when at last Meren knocked her stroke aside and, before she could recover, slipped his blade in to touch her ribs.

"Hit." She stepped back, panting a little. "That's enough."

She was about to unwrap the padding from her sword she heard her name called from across the yard. She swallowed, glanced quickly at Meren, but he flashed her a look that said as clearly as if he had spoken it, You're on your own, Mir.

Silevren was kind enough with the younger children, but she spared no mercy for the older ones. "If you can't handle me," she often said, "you'd best not even think about joining the Company." She had defeated Meren, soundly and repeatedly, a few days before; he was evidently still smarting from it. Miriel walked over to her reluctantly, though normally she would have leaped at the chance. Silevren never did anything by halves – a fight with her was always exhausting, for she viewed it as a teaching opportunity that was best served by keeping her opponent at the very edge of their skill for as long as possible.

Not what I need this morning.

"You weren't even trying." Silevren's voice was hard.

"Good morning, mistress," said Miriel evenly, bowing just as much as respect required and no more. "I did not wish to tire myself unnecessarily before the trial."

"Half-assed preparation is worse than nothing at all. Gives your mind and body bad habits. Come." She stepped into a clear space of ground. "Now show me what you're going to do today." She gave the signal for the fight to begin and then sprang forward before Miriel had a chance to draw breath.

Miriel's body responded on instinct, bringing her blade up sharply to meet Silevren's first attack, parrying blow after blow. Irritation vanished like smoke, and with it any thought of holding back. Dull smacks echoed across the yard as their blades came together, cloth on wood. Miriel was vaguely aware that a small crowd of onlookers had gathered, but she could spare no thought for them. True to form, Silevren pressed her hard, and in the heightened state brought on by nervousness about the trial and the audience, Miriel found herself fighting as she had rarely fought before. Awareness narrowed to the small patch of dirt and the adversary in front of her. Her blade moved as if of its own accord, sweeping up and then down, left and right as she parried Silevren's blows. She managed a few attacking strokes of her own, and though Silevren blocked them easily, a tight smile of satisfaction appeared on the older woman's lips.

Miriel felt herself begin to tire, her arm and shoulder burning and her breath coming in gasps. Silevren let the match go on a little longer, but soon there came a series of lightning-fast strokes and then her sword was at Miriel's throat.

"Hit," gasped Miriel, lowering her sword with a shaking arm. Silevren nodded and looked at her hard for a moment before stepping forward to grip her shoulder.

"That was better," she said in a low voice. "I'll be judging today. If you do anything less, I'll know." She held Miriel's eyes a moment longer, stern and challenging, but suddenly her face relaxed into a wide, sincere smile. "Not bad at all, Mir."

Miriel nodded, a bit shakily, but elation flooded through her at the rare praise. She straightened and bowed.

"My thanks, mistress," she said, still gasping a little.

Sileven grinned, her eyes flashing, and Miriel had a sudden thought that she would not want to face this woman in battle. "Now, go eat. But not too much – you don't want it coming back up on the run."

"Yes, mistress."

Silevren nodded abruptly, her smile vanishing, and turned away to continue her own drills. Miriel heard footsteps behind her as she bent to unwrap the padding from her sword.

"You would've beaten me if you'd fought like that," said Meren quietly.

She frowned a little. "I don't know, maybe. But you would've fought harder, too."

Meren shrugged. "Probably. We'll find out soon enough." Suddenly, his elbow jabbed her ribs. "Look there." Across the practice yard, Silevren was talking to Calen.

"Do they know each other?"

"How should I know? Maybe she's just being friendly. People do that, you know."

"People do. Silevren?" Meren's raised eyebrow showed that he thought the chance of Silevren being gratuitously friendly somewhat less than that of snow in high summer.

"Oh, come now. She's certainly no worse than Arondir. You're just tender because she defeated you."

"She defeats everybody. She massacred me."

"Well, that was your own fault." She grinned. "You know what she thinks of 'cocky youngsters.'"

"Cocky—I didn't say anything I hadn't said a dozen times before, or you, for that matter. It was a joke."

"Well, there's your problem," said she promptly. "Tactics, my friend – time and place. You can say whatever you want, but if you're so unforgivably stupid as to say it in her hearing, you deserve what's coming to you."

He snorted but made no reply. Across the yard, Silevren smiled and patted Calen on the shoulder; he bowed respectfully and turned away in the direction of the Hall.

"Hmph," grumbled Meren, incredulous. "How did he get on her good side?"

She shrugged. "Maybe by not being an arrogant little ass?" She danced back, but not quickly enough – his bow caught her across the knees, and she gave a yelp of pain.

"If I can't run today, it'll be your fault!"

"Oh, stop whining. You wouldn't miss the trials even if you had a broken leg."

"Probably true," she said amiably. "Well, I'm still going to beat you on the run."

"Really? Good luck with that."

"Thanks, but I won't need it."

"You're insufferable."

"So are you."

"And yet somehow you suffer me anyway."

"No idea why. Can't be your charm or your good looks."

"My what?"

"Exactly."

He rolled his eyes and chuckled, and with a grin and a wave they parted, anxiety not forgotten but at least pushed into the background.