They stayed in the village three days, and traveled slowly on the way home, so it was nearly a fortnight after they had left that they at last approached the gates of Elenost. It was afternoon, and the weather had warmed a little, so the snow was gone except for small patches on the north sides of slopes and rocks. But the clouds had been thickening since the middle of the night, the watch told them when they woke that morning, and there was a damp sharpness in the air that spoke of storm. They increased their pace, and arrived as the afternoon was darkening to premature dusk.
There was some stir at their arrival, and Faelon dismissed them with more than usual brusqueness. Released, they streamed eagerly toward the warmth of the barracks. But when she glanced back, she saw that he had given his pack to Belegon and was walking slowly toward the Hall, speaking intently to the brannon taid.
Winter began that night. It was always reckoned thus, not by a date or phase of the moon, but with the first storm. It might thaw again after, before the hard freeze set in, but the first deep snow was the end of autumn.
Even Faelon bent to the cold, and they stayed indoors while the snow fell. Once it had stopped, though, and lay white and silent over the ground, they resumed training. They were careful at first, working not on new skills but on adapting those they already knew to uncertain footing and gloved hands. It was harder than she expected, adjusting instinct and habit, accepting that her body could no longer react in the way her mind had come to depend on.
On fine days, the practice yard was almost crowded, for there were far fewer Rangers out on patrol in the winter, and the trainees watched and were watched with barely concealed curiosity. It unsettled them at first, for they knew they were being judged, knew that winter was the time many Rangers chose the trainees they would take as maethorneth. But before long they became accustomed to it, and there were times when Faelon asked one or another of the Rangers to demonstrate something, or take one of the trainees aside for instruction. It escaped no one's notice that Calen was most often singled out, for none of the other trainees posed any challenge for him with a sword. He said nothing, merely bowed and obeyed when Faelon called out his name, and let his face show nothing. But there was a way that he moved, when he was thus called to the Master, and she had to hold back a smile. Believe it now, brother.
But as the winter wore on, they all began to train with the Rangers more and more often, and it became more and more clearly a test. And not of skill alone, for that was not all that mattered in the selection of methorneth. To be with another unremittingly for a year took far more than matching weakness with strength. Certainly, a trainee who fell short in a particular discipline, be it sword or bow, running or wrestling, might find himself paired with a Ranger versed in teaching that skill. But the match of personality was far more important, and when maethorneth failed, it was more often due to this cause than to any other. No Ranger was forced to take a maethorneth, and there were some who never did, which was held on the whole to be just as well, for not all had the skill or the patience to teach.
She knew many of the Rangers well, for they were friends of her father, and knew others by sight and name, those who were from Elenost, or had family nowhere else and so spent the time when they were off patrol in the village. She trained with Belegon often, and sometimes turned from the sparring ring to find Sirhael leaning against the fence. He smiled when she saw him, sometimes wide and amused, particularly when she was caught out in a stumble or a wild, clumsy strike. But more often the smile was small and thoughtful, almost tense, and she knew he was thinking of the Wild.
And once she overheard them, as she stood in the weapon shed unwrapping a practice blade, moving slowly, arms and wrists aching, hands stinging where calluses had ripped.
"Well?" Her father's voice, muffled a little by the wooden walls.
"You saw."
"Not close enough. I didn't see her eyes."
A pause, and when Belegon spoke again, it was almost gentle. "Gwador nin, they are your eyes. As much as any child can be ready, she is ready." Silence, waiting, and then she thought he sighed a little. "Do you not trust me?"
"I have always trusted you, brother." Swift and fierce, and she could almost see the flash of his eyes as he said it.
"So?"
"But this…."
Belegon laughed softly. "Every man has something too dear to trust to another?"
"Something like." And then, "You know Mirloth."
"I do."
"She's known it was coming. For years we've known, but now…."
"Now it's real."
"She's afraid, Bel."
"So are you," said Belegon quietly. "And so am I. I was afraid every time Silevren went out. And if Gaileth turns out like her mother," he chuckled, and she could imagine him shaking his head ruefully, "I'll be just like you. Nothing else we can do, eh?"
And then, murmured so she hardly caught it, "The shield of the North, gwador nin."
"In life, and in death."
And she waited to come out of the shed until their footsteps were long gone.
Silevren was there nearly every day, now Belegon was home to keep an eye on Gaileth and little Toldir. She worked with all the trainees, but if she spent more time with Miriel and Hannas, no one grudged it. Indeed, it earned them more than a little sympathy, when they dragged themselves back into the barracks, so exhausted they could barely walk. But Miriel felt herself growing stronger, watched with deep satisfaction as Hannas did things she could not have even attempted a few months before, and they all knew the complaining was only another form of pride.
Midwinter came and went with bonfires and feasting, and the trainees had two whole days with nothing to do but sleep, eat, and be lazy. They almost expected it, therefore, and could hardly complain, though of course they did, when Faelon stomped into the barracks long before dawn on the third day of the new year.
"Get up, up, full packs and weapons, and dress for the cold. Get your lazy asses up!"
Much stumbling and groaning, curses and stubbed toes, but they were used to it by now, and when Calen muttered, once he was sure the Master had gone, "Get your lazy asses up," in near-perfect imitation, it called forth a chorus of groggy laughter.
When they met Faelon in the Hall, he gestured to a pile of food packets on a nearby table. "Stow it," he growled, mouth full of breakfast, "and eat fast. When I'm done, you're done."
"Three days?" she asked under breath, surveying their allotment of food.
"Maybe four," answered Calen, and then, with a wry smile, "Depends how much he lets us eat."
It was not their first time out in the Wild in winter, but the longest before had been two days, and it was colder now. They followed the road east, across the river, and camped the first night on the far edge of the forest. They crowded together to sleep, Miriel tucked between Meren and Hannas, except for a miserable stint on guard. They watched in pairs, more to keep each other awake, she was certain, than from any great danger, and she huddled back to back with Calen, and felt him shivering against her.
But the next night was worse, for they had trekked high up into the downs, through shin-deep blowing snow, and there was no shelter but a hollow in the bare hills. No one slept much; even huddled together like puppies, there was no getting warm. They were foul-tempered and bleary-eyed when at last gray light crept over the land, and Morfind and Valacar nearly came to blows over starting the fire. There was little to burn, only snow-crusted grass and a few dry branches of gorse from the bushes tucked into the side of the hollow. It was barely enough to melt snow, let alone bring the water to a boil, leaving their porridge chewy and full of lumps.
"Never thought I'd wish for more maloseg," grumbled Meren, to no one in particular. But a grin twitched at the corners of his lips, and Lain chuckled, and Miriel elbowed him hard in the ribs so that he nearly spilled his porridge.
"Shut up," she said, without heat.
Lain's chuckle became a laugh. "Prickly, eh?"
"Shut the fuck up." But she was halfway smiling now, and when Hannas nudged her shoulder and said in a loud whisper, "Better that than more of them," she too laughed. And then she had to explain it to those who did not know her father, and by the time that was done, they were making up botanical names for all and sundry, beginning with Meren as sneezewort. Faelon sat silently and said nothing, but had they been paying him any attention they might have thought that his eyes smiled.
They continued on all that day in the teeth of the east wind, over hilltops scoured nearly bare of snow, and through deep drifts between them. Faelon seemed eager to press on, and they wondered at it, for they had barely enough food to get home without going to short rations. But at last they came over the crest of a ridge and saw shadows lying blue before them in the pale afternoon sun—and in the valley below there was movement, dark figures, trudging in single file through the snow.
She flinched as Faelon gave a piercing whistle. But even before it could have reached them one raised a hand, and the others stopped at once. Faelon whistled twice more, and then an answer came to them on the wind. "We will wait for them here," was all he said, but his smile was pure relief.
They were Rangers, that was clear from their weapons and gear as they climbed the slope. There were seven of them, pale and thin-faced and clearly weary; one had his left arm in a sling, and two others were limping. But as they came up into the sun their stars glittered.
Faelon strode forward and embraced their captain. "Well met, brother," he said, and though she could not see his face, she thought his voice seemed unnaturally hoarse.
"Were you sent to look for us?" The captain smiled a little, and her eyes were caught by the silver eagle pinned above his star. And then his name came to her mind, in her father's voice. 'Mahar brought me home, carried me half the way himself. It's thanks to him that you still have a father.'
"No," said Faelon quietly. "Thought I might find you, though."
"Falaran got through, then?" Anxiety and relief were plain in the captain's voice.
"Don't know about that. But Arahael had a message from Bree that said you might be coming this way."
Mahar let out a long sigh. "That was him. I sent him on the road from Stonebridge three weeks ago. Bastard of a storm came in the next day. I thought he'd be all right, but…."
Faelon nodded and said nothing, and Miriel thought, These are the choices a captain makes. And then Silevren's voice in her mind, and she flushed in spite of the cold.
"Do you have food?" Mahar asked, with the barest whisper of desperation. "We could make it without—"
"But I might end up eating my boot leather, and then you'd have to carry me," interrupted one of the other Rangers, to hoarse chuckles.
"You can carry your own ass, boots or no boots," growled another, a smile flickering across his lined face.
"Have the trainees carry us," laughed a third. "Builds character."
Miriel pressed her lips together, not sure if they were allowed to join in, not sure if they had earned it, but then she caught Calen's eye, and her lips twitched into a grin.
"We have food," Faelon assured them, allowing himself a rare smile. "Not as much as these soft children are used to, but more than you've got, I'll be bound."
Mahar let out a brief, mirthless chuckle. "We have one day at half-rations. So yes, more than us." He shook his head ruefully. "Brought a week more than I thought we'd need. But winter makes its own needs, eh?"
"And the Wild doesn't care about your plans," said Faelon, and the trainees again held back smiles.
But Mahar laid a hand on his shoulder, met his eyes for a moment without speaking, and then, so softly Miriel hardly heard, though she stood not two yards from them, "But the Wild has forgotten, once again, that I have brothers."
Faelon gripped the captain's shoulder in return, nodded once sharply, and together they turned toward the west, and home.
Some of the Rangers seemed to know some of the trainees; Hannas walked beside the man with the wounded arm, talking quietly to him and glancing at him often, and Miriel recognized another as Meren's uncle. But she did not know any of them well enough for casual conversation, and so she only watched them as they walked, silhouettes against the early winter sunset. They were clearly exhausted, and she knew they must be desperately hungry, but still they kept a good pace. A little quicker, maybe, now they know there will be food tonight.
The man in front of her limped heavily, breath hissing through his teeth with every step of his right leg. He slowed as they went downhill, cautious on the packed snow, and she moved a little closer and hoped he would not see around his hood. He did not, and so when he slipped, his flailing arm caught her full in the face.
She gasped in pain but dug her heels into the snow. Braced against the slope, she did not fall, and neither did he, her arm holding him solidly against her. His hood had fallen back, and shaggy dark hair brushed her cheek as he pushed himself up and away from her. He got his feet under him, steadied himself for a moment on one leg and then shifted carefully to the other, breathing in hoarse, jerky gasps. She knew better than to say anything, only waited, noting with an inward wince a fresh scar on the side of his neck. That was close. And then, Whatever happened, you had a bad time of it. But still she did not speak, and after a few slow, deliberate breaths he half-turned to her, and said gruffly, "Didn't hit you too hard then?"
"No, sir." It was always a safe answer. Indeed the safest, Faelon had taught them, and so it was all she said. He looked at her for a moment, jerked a nod, and then turned away and continued limping down the slope.
Those near them had stopped; when they saw he could continue without help, they said nothing and kept going. But at the bottom of the long slope the patrol halted, and by the time she reached them, still walking a pace behind the limping man, they had begun to set up camp. She dropped her pack and joined in with the usual tasks, but still out of the corner of her eye she watched him as he sat down heavily on a rock, injured leg stretched out before him. Mahar came and crouched beside him, laid a hand on his shoulder, and she saw then a long seam on the thigh of his trousers where no seam ought to be.
Shit. It's a wonder he can walk at all.
The captain spoke to him quietly, and after a long moment, the wounded man grimaced and gave a grudging nod. Mahar smiled in the manner of a tolerant father, shook his head, and pushed himself stiffly to his feet. She turned back hastily to her allotted task of sorting the food the trainees had pulled out of their packs, and hoped she had not been staring.
There were thorny bushes and even a few stunted trees in the little valley, and soon they had a fire going, and the talk around the little circle was far more cheerful than it had been on either of the last two nights.
"Quick hands there, girl," said a quiet voice beside her, as she scooped snow into a pot for melting. She started and gasped softly, turned to find Mahar watching her, his lean face ruddy in the firelight. "He is not a small man."
"No, sir."
The safe answer again, and he smiled as if he knew, and answered the question she had not dared to ask. "We routed out a nest of orcs in the mountains above Stonebridge. Had to be done, but it was a near thing. He killed their leader. Nearly got himself killed doing it, but that broke them. He's a brave man." He shook his head, smiled ruefully. "And damn lucky, as brave men must be if they're to live long in the Wild." A pause, and then, "You're Sirhael's daughter, are you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not Darya…."
"She's my older sister, sir. I'm Miriel." A twinge of irritation, and she forced herself not to let it show on her face.
"Ah," said Mahar, smiling. "Your father was in my patrol when you were born. Couldn't stop talking about his little girls, though I never could keep the names straight. Suppose I'm getting old."
She laughed a little, as she was meant to, and he nodded and began to turn away.
"Sir?" He turned back to her, frowning a little. You've started now. See it through. Low and rushed, gesturing with her chin, "What's his name?"
Mahar raised an eyebrow. "That's Halbarad."
Note: And...mic drop ;) First (and only) canon character in this story line. And he is SO much fun to write!
Gwethor nin - my oath-brother (will be explained a bit more in the next chapter)
I'm making up some geography here. Filling in the blanks of the wild land north of the Road should be unobjectionable; Stonebridge, however, is entirely my invention, a hamlet in the foothills of the Misty Mountains where the Road begins to climb in earnest toward the High Pass. There clearly isn't a settlement there in Tolkien's world, but it's the kind of place where there might be, given geography and trade routes. It's plausible - and useful to the story - so I added it in.
