So the days went, one so much like another that she would have lost count had she not made a small mark on the wood of her bunk every evening before she fell into bed. One more day. Roused by Faelon before dawn every morning, they were quicker and quicker to get ready, learned the small efficiencies that saved moments, for every moment counted. Faelon took to timing them with a sandglass, from the moment he shouted to the moment they all stood before him in the gray light. And they learned how to move so they did not hinder each other, sliding swiftly around shadows in the crowded dark, one catching another when he stumbled, folding blankets in pairs. There even emerged an order to using the outhouse, so that time was not wasted waiting in line. And Miriel stood by the door, as she had first morning, counting silently as each came to stand by her, and when they were all there, they went together out into the dawn.

Some days they trained early on the practice ground, climbing over walls and hefting stones and leaping from log to log in a test of balance. These mornings were exhausting, and they were soon gasping and dripping with sweat, and aching from falls and strained muscles. But at least they were allowed to eat afterward. When the bell for the morning meal rang out from the Hall, Faelon called a halt, and though they were dirty and stank of sweat, wry smiles, quickly hidden behind a hand or turned head, greeted them as they trooped wearily into the Hall. Faelon did not allow them to talk to anyone, and they sat at a table apart from the villagers. But though he gave them little time and they became accustomed to eating quickly, he left them alone, and they were allowed to talk in low voices between bites. Faelon sat at a table near the hearth with any Rangers who happened to be there, for though it was not formally reserved for them, no others would dare sit there. But at this time of year it was nearly empty, for most Rangers were on patrol.

On these days, they went back to the practice ground afterward, and Faelon taught them the maintenance of weapons, or the tending of wounds, or sewing or leatherwork or any other of the many skills they would need to sustain themselves in the Wild. And he began teaching them also the speech of the Druadwaith to the North, and the men of Wilderland across the mountains, and the Dunlendings in the South, and even the mountain people who were few and seldom seen but spoke a tongue all their own that bore no known relation to any others. For though all spoke the Common Speech to some degree, at least those travelers and traders they would be most likely to meet on patrol, still it was well to be able to address a man in his own language, and those who did not have frequent contact with outsiders spoke only their own tongues. "And it may be," said Faelon, "that at an inn, or with a group on the road, you will hear something you are not meant to understand, and it may serve you well." There was a story behind that, they all knew, but they dared not ask.

And he taught them also the old speech that had belonged to their own people in the days before the kings failed. Though certain words of it were still in common use among them, the language itself was known now in its entirety by few, for in the years of exile and hiding it had been dangerous to use, and so the people had taken the Common Speech as their own and taught it to their children.

But the Rangers still learned the old speech. Not for everyday conversation, for in this they followed the habit of childhood and the ways of their people. But many were the times when they wished to speak in confidence with outsiders present, and also many of the terms of arms and fighting were passed down from the days of the kings.

Miriel loved it. This surprised her, and the others who had known her since childhood. She had learned to read and figure, as did all children of the Dunedain, but beyond that she had steadfastly refused, and she and Meren had made life so difficult for the schoolmistress that the exasperated woman had at last lashed their hands with a birch rod and bade them begone and not return. The other children had watched in silence, and some were aghast. But others hid smiles behind their hands, and when the morning's lessons were over and they all gathered in the Hall to eat, there was incredulous examination of their bruised and bleeding hands, and resentful, rueful admiration.

Both their fathers had punished them again that evening, and set them to work early the next day. "If you will not study as a child ought," growled Sirhael, "then you wish to be a grown woman, and this is what women do." But his heart was not in it, and there was no true anger in his voice, only some slight embarrassment that this child of his had caused difficulty for an old woman who was only doing the best she knew how to ensure the children of the Dunedain did not grow up ignorant. And so Sirhael did not send her to do women's work, sewing and spinning and weaving, for that would have been punishment indeed. Instead he took her with him into the forest.

He taught her the best wood for bows, how to choose and split and season it, how to turn and fletch arrows, how to twist bowstrings that would not break and would retain some power even when wet. And of course they had to test what they made. Hers were at first very poor indeed, and so she became accustomed to shooting not only with her own maloseg bow that he had made her, but also with those she made, lopsided, too short or too long, too flexible or too stiff, and arrows that would not fly straight. He forced her to use them despite their faults, to feel them, to compensate for them, and not until she could shoot accurately with each one would he let her move on. It was frustrating, infuriating even, but he had only to remind her once that she could be in the school room, and after that she did not complain. And when at last he handed her back her own bow at the end of each day, it felt like magic in her hands. But she never again returned to school.

There was thus much chuckling among the Elenosters when she asked Faelon, quietly and tentatively as the others rose and stretched after a lesson, if there was a way she could learn more of the old speech. He raised his eyebrows, for he knew the story as well as any. But he said nothing of it, only nodded after a moment's thought and said, "Ask Silevren. She knows more of it even than I." And the smile that twitched at the corners of his lips told her he knew about her evening sessions, though he had never spoken of them. Of course he knows, she realized, and was surprised she had not thought of it before. She must tell him everything, and then she was a little embarrassed, though she could not have said why. But she nodded, and to her surprise she found him standing that evening with Silevren on the edge of the practice yard. He smiled – actually smiled – when he saw her and Hannas approaching, and said in a louder voice, "Your girl's got something to ask you, Sil."

Silevren turned to her, and though her face was stern, Miriel thought there was a gleam of amusement in her eyes. "Well, what is it?"

Miriel took a deep breath, forced herself to speak slowly, "I wish to learn the old speech, more than the Master is teaching us, and…and he said you know it well…" She faltered and looked at the ground.

But Silevren laughed. "So I do. That is what we shall use then. And you?" She turned to Hannas. "Are you willing? You did not ask for this, but it will do you good."

And Hannas said quietly, "Yes, mistress. I would learn it as well."

"As you wish." And then to Faelon, with a sidelong grin, "Like I would say anything else."

Faelon held up his hands. "I wanted her to ask."


But the days that they spent in the village were few. Most mornings Faelon led them out through the gate before dawn, food and waterskins distributed among them, and they did not return until the evening meal or after. After that first day they walked mostly, but over time, as summer ripened around them and fields and woods turned dark green, and then dry in the heat, he moved them faster and farther, until they were traveling twenty miles in a day without complaint. They came to know the country around Elenost so well that one day, when the food pack was heavier than usual but they dared not ask why, and he kept them out in the hills to the north until nearly sunset, they were able to find their way back in the dark. Hannas led again, and Miriel and Lain walked with her, for of the Elenosters, they knew the land best. Lain's father was a forester, and his mother skilled in the gathering of wild plants for the healers, and he had gone out with them many times when he was young. But Hannas needed little guidance, and when at last they dragged themselves back through the gate in deep night, summer stars bright above them, Faelon said quietly, "Well done."

They gathered around him, lightheaded with weariness and thirst, and there was no sound but their breathing and the voices of frogs and insects in the stillness of the night. He did not say it, but they knew it had been a test. Though there had been quiet, routine cursing as they stumbled through the dark, there was no true ire in it, and now they glanced at one another in pride at what they had done.

He woke them as usual the next morning, but they did not go as far, spent most of the day in the forest, climbing trees, learning the names and uses of each, clumsily starting small campfires and then gleefully dousing them. This was something new, for they had not before stopped to cook food, but had eaten the fresh bread and cheese, meat and fruit that Raeneth and the kitchen women provided them. But they found that their food today was dried meat that would soften only with hot water, and meal mixed with salt to be made into porridge. And so they began to learn to feed themselves in the wild. Berries they all knew how to find, but Faelon taught them which plants were good to eat, leaves and stalks and roots, and which would provide sustenance in dire need – unpleasant and meager, perhaps, but it would keep them from starving – and which were poison.

Some of these last were useful in small amounts for healing, and Miriel found herself paying close attention, though a part of her shied away on instinct, for this was Mother and Darya's realm, not hers.

Darya's Gift had shown itself early, as the strongest often did. It had seemed that she was relieved by it, and that was strange, Miriel had thought at the time. Though she was still a child, only ten to Darya's thirteen, she knew well enough that the Gift, though a matter for great respect and even reverence, was also a burden, for using it meant a life of intimate acquaintance with death and pain. And indeed Darya seemed to feel the honor less than others did, and the burden more. But she welcomed it, seemed almost eager to leave young womanhood behind and apprentice herself to the healers. Miriel did not understand it, for already men spoke admiringly of Darya's beauty, and boys several years older than her offered to carry her water and asked her to dance. She smiled shyly, and sometimes she accepted and sometimes refused, but she seemed to take no joy in it, and some of the girls began to call her proud, and cold.

Miriel shrugged when they asked her about it, for Darya was a mystery to her and always had been, and the only thing that had always been clear was that she did not approve of Miriel's wanting to be a Ranger. She knew their value, their necessity, and it was not as though she did not understand one who would give up the comforts of family and home to serve the North. But she did not want Miriel to do it, scoffed at her almost, and there were times when Miriel hated her for it. But mostly she ignored it, went about her own way and let Darya go about hers, and by the time she was ready to begin her own training, though they lived in the same house, they rarely spoke.

But now she found herself curious about the healing herbs. In spite of her misgivings she asked many questions, and when Faelon reached the end of his knowledge he sent her and Morfind, who showed like interest, to learn from the healers. And so on some evenings she and Hannas trained with Silevren, and on others she and Morfind sat in the kitchen of the healers' house. It was most usually Meloreth who spoke to them, sometimes Darthan or Iorlas, but not her mother nor Darya. She tried not to resent it, tried to tell herself that surely they knew and approved. But still there was the surge of anticipation as she stepped into the kitchen, and still the disappointment, quickly smothered, when they were not there.


What the trainees did not do, though they all longed for it, was train with weapons. This was the way it always was, and they knew it, had heard it from fathers and older brothers and friends, but still it rankled, and they were bitterly impatient. Surely Faelon knew it, and so when he brought them one morning towards the end of summer not to the practice ground but to the weapons shed, excitement hummed through them all. But there was a hard edge to his smile, and when he said, before passing out bow staves, "You will carry these, but not string them nor use them," she was not entirely surprised. And carry them they did, slid into loops beside quivers that they slung over their backs. They carried them everywhere, on the balance logs and the climbing walls, walking and running, up trees and across rivers, and though at first they were terribly awkward, soon they hardly felt them, and when they did not have them, it seemed that something was missing.

Several days of this, and then one morning when he had given them their bows he went back into the shed, and they heard muted clanking, and then he came out with an armful of swords. They were ugly things, dull and notched, used only for practice, their leather scabbards cracked and peeling. But the weight of them was real, and when Miriel felt it settle on her hips, the heavy leather belt at last doing the duty it was meant for, she straightened and felt a seriousness and calm descend on her, as though the weight were a signal bell. It was familiar, for she had felt it many times before during training with Arondir, but this somehow was different. They were no longer children, training in the morning before running off to play or to help in workshop or field in the afternoon. We will be Rangers. And they trained now in deadly earnest.

Still they did not use the swords for some days yet, accustoming themselves to moving with them as they had with the bows. This was harder, for they jerked with each stride, threw off balance and got tangled in legs, and Faelon smiled grimly as they cursed the weapons they had longed for. But they knew now what was expected, and they did not grudge it, not too much at least. And one morning, with the first chill of autumn in the air, he gave them their weapons, looked them all over slowly, deliberately, jerked a nod, and said, "Now you will learn to fight."

Miriel's first thought was, I already knew how to fight. We all do. The village armsmasters had taught them well, as they had proved in the trials, or they never would have come this far. But that was not what Faelon meant, and she knew it. They had learned the basic forms, the sequences of striking and blocking, and they had learned how to move, how to watch an enemy's body, to see what he might do before he did it. But it had been slow, and they had used mostly wooden practice swords. But now they drew the steel blades, gleaming dully in the early sun, and could not resist touching them before they wrapped them in cloth. It had been months, and the sword felt clumsy in her hands. But Faelon lined them up, spaced well apart, and led them through the warm-up forms, and then all three fighting sets. Her body knew them, had known them since childhood, and soon the hesitation slipped away. She paid no attention to those around her but only felt her own motions, and imagined an invisible other in the space before her, countering each move with one of his own.

That was the way to do it, her father had told her long ago, and she remembered it now. 'If you fight with the air, you will be prepared to fight air. If your mind sees a man, you will be ready for him when he comes.' And, 'If you're alone, it's only dancing with a sword. Takes an enemy to make it fighting.' This last with a grin, and he would take a few dancing steps, clumsy on his lame leg, and she would growl and turn her back, and then turn again, laughing.

And so now she imagined a man before her. Or a man's body, at least; she could never see a face, not with any clarity, and she did not try too hard, and did not question this reluctance, though deep down she knew perhaps she should. For without a face, he is an animal, not a man. And we kill animals every day.

When they were warm and panting in the cool air, Faelon paired them up. This first was random, each with one who happened to be next to them in the line, though they knew later it would be deliberate, to match strength and strength—or strength and weakness. But now Miriel turned to Morfind, and she smiled and stepped out of the line in front of him. They were nearly the same size, and they fell into an easy rhythm as they walked through the forms together. The sets were ordered such that if one partner started on the first move and the other on the second, they formed a matched sequence of strikes and blocks, and so Miriel called, "One," and Morfind, "Two," and they went through the first set, and then the second and the third. By the end of it Miriel felt comfortable, and as sharp as she ever had, for all that she had not held a sword since midsummer. But Faelon did not let them go on long. He walked up and down the line, watching, assessing, and then called a halt and gathered them around him.

"That was easy," he said flatly. "If it wasn't, you wouldn't be here. But you don't learn from easy." A pause, and he looked around the circle. "Hannas, why was it easy?"

"Because we've practiced it. We've done it before," she answered at once.

"True. Calen, why does that make it easy?"

He frowned. "Your body knows it. It's predictable, you don't have to think."

Faelon nodded. "And not thinking in a fight will get you killed. Your enemy won't be predictable, not if he's any good. So, back to your partners." And when they had done so, he called down the line, "Those facing me, attack, any strokes you want. Partners defend."

They had done this before, of course, but it had new urgency and realness now, with the Master of Trainees watching, and they knew it was a test. A long one, and they were all breathing hard, arms aching by the time he finished watching the last pair and again called a halt.

"Get a drink if you need it." He gestured to the bucket by the shed, and they all knew enough now to drink even if they did not feel thirsty, for there was no knowing when the next chance would come. "Back to your partners, and switch."

Miriel had been defending before, and though she knew it was coming, she bit back a groan. Despite Silevren's training, she was tired—though not as tired as I would have been without it, she thought with some satisfaction—and it took more to attack than to defend. But she shook it off and straightened, hearing the older woman's voice in her mind. 'If you're tired, your enemy is too. You'll want to ease up. Don't. The one who gives up first is the one who dies.'

Her lips tightened, and she looked at Morfind. It was hard to see him as an enemy, to imagine the desperate feeling of strength slipping away, with no knowing how much longer it would be needed, knowing the only quick and sure ending was death.

Give up and let it end now.

Or keep fighting.

And put that way, of course, there was no choice. She met Morfind's eyes, nodded, and raised her sword.

He was as tired as she was, that was clear, and the knowledge of it gave her new strength. She drove forward, and he stepped back and back, blocking wildly, desperately, and before she knew it they were well out of the line. She paused, lowered her sword and gestured him back, though she was breathing too hard to speak. But when she turned back to the line, she found Faelon watching them, standing where she should have been. She froze, but he smiled thinly and nodded. "Come on." He stepped back, and she returned quickly to her place, and so she did not see the smile widen to a grin as soon as her back was turned.


Note: The Rangers of Ithilien use Elvish, so it makes sense to me that the Rangers of the North would as well. Of more questionable canonicity is the idea that other Dunedain besides the Chieftain have some version of the healing skill that Aragorn displays in the books. If I'm being honest with myself, I don't think it follows Tolkien's intent. But it's an interesting thing to play around with, and it becomes important later on, so with apologies to the purists, I'm going to keep it. :)