They were all hungry by the time they made it back to the village, two days later on a rising wind that promised storm. A bruise darkened her cheek, and the trainees ribbed her about getting in a fight with a Ranger, and the Rangers ribbed Halbarad for punching a girl. But they did not speak to each other, not even a word in passing, and it seemed to her that he avoided her eye.

She knew him, by reputation at least. He was young still, less than ten years older than her, if she had to guess, but his name was spoken with respect bordering on awe. Deadly with any weapon or none at all, fierce and unsmiling, rarely seen in the village for he was almost always on patrol, cousin and oath-brother of the young Chieftain who was gone now five years, and still when pairs fought together with particular skill, someone would remark, "That was good, but you should have seen Aragorn and Halbarad." But now he limped in stolid silence, and she kept away from him.

The bell rang out as they approached the gate, and she felt more than saw the Rangers straighten, striding now as though weariness and hunger and wounds were nothing. And then Mahar's voice, hoarse but strong enough to carry over the frozen fields. Alone at first but soon joined by the others, and at a nod from Faelon the trainees sang too, for though they had not been taught it, they all knew.

O-yo, calling home the hunters
O-yo, calling home the hunters
O-yo, calling home the hunters
Bright fire and feast await you

Cold the frost on the firs at sunrise
Clear the lake in the hills at evening
Bright the stars shining out in darkness
To guide the hunters home

No more shall you feel the snowfall
Driven in your eyes on an icy night wind
No more feel the empty hunger
To warmth and rest be welcome

And as they neared the gate, the villagers gathered inside raised their voices, old and young, men and women and children, ragged but strong in the cold air.

From the mountains home we call you
From the high moors home we call you
From the Wild home we call you
The strong arm of the Northlands

She had heard it hundreds of times, whenever Rangers returned from the Wild, and she had sung the villagers' verse, calling home the patrols who protected them. But now she sang as a Ranger, and she remembered that singing to the end of her days.

There was joy in the Hall that night, and despite aching muscles and sore feet, the trainees stayed up late with all the rest. Faelon sat with the Rangers and ignored his charges, save for an occasional glance or gesture. By that they knew he was pleased with them, knew also that he was talking about them, and they carefully avoided his eye.

He let them rest the next day; none of them had slept well in the cold, and they were grateful for the reprieve. But she found herself wide awake and aching with hunger halfway through the morning, and so she slipped quietly from her bunk, careful not to wake Hannas below her, and wrapped her cloak tightly around herself as she hurried through windblown snow to the Hall.

Just inside the door she stamped off her boots and shook out her cloak, and was not surprised to find the large, shadowy space crowded. It always was on stormy days, regardless of the season, and even more so in winter, when the blazing fires and the press of bodies kept it warmer than many a home. She found Calen and Lain and Meren at the trainees' table, poking desultorily at mostly finished plates of food.

"Want the rest of mine, Mir?" Meren grinned and pushed the plate toward her, gesturing to the ham rind and half-eaten piece of bread. "Wouldn't do to waste food."

"Eat your own scraps." And then, with a sideways glance and an air of innocence, "But you could get me a plate, if you need something to do."

"Could. Won't."

"Always knew you were useless."

Calen leaned over and pulled the plate toward him. "I won't say no to scraps. Not after watching them." His voice lowered, and he gestured with his chin toward the Rangers, gathered close together at the table nearest the fire. Without their layers in the warmth of the room, the trainees could see clearly how gaunt they all were.

Good humor slipped away, and the words from last night came back to her, and she found herself singing softly, "No more shall you feel the snowfall driven in your eyes on an icy night wind, no more feel the empty hunger…."

Calen shook his head. "Wishful thinking, that is," he said, with a wry smile.

"Look no farther than the next meal, eh?" But there was a sober edge to Lain's chuckle, and they were suddenly, intensely grateful for warmth and food.


The storm went on for two days, alternating between snow and cold rain, and wind hissed and howled through every crack. But on the third day they woke to quiet, and long blue shadows in the dawn. Faelon had them out before sunrise, breath hanging white in the stillness, and they felt an echo of the joy of children making first tracks in fresh snow. But they were not alone long. One by one, Rangers joined them, moving stiffly in the cold, slow and cautious at first, testing body and ground, for neither was the same from one day to the next. Quicker then, smoother, warm-up forms sliding one into another, alone and then together, and hardly a word was needed, so often had they done it.

Silevren was one of the first, as she nearly always was; she spoke to Faelon and then gestured Miriel and Calen to a clear patch of snow. "One will fight. The other will watch, and tell us at the end what they saw. If it is correct, you switch. If not," she flashed a merciless smile, "on your faces."

There was no game, really; they both knew that. No matter what flaws each found in the other's fighting, Silevren would find one they had not seen, and it would be pushups in the snow. But still they tried, and warmed so with the effort that their heaving breath melted small depressions beneath them as they counted out the repetitions, Silevren braced, grinning, beside them.

Footsteps on the snow, but Miriel dared not turn to look, only held her body straight on shaking arms. But Silevren's smile faded, and she jumped her legs in and stood. "Up," she snapped, but as they scrambled to their feet, still breathing hard, she turned from them to face the newcomer.

"What are you doing here?"

"Training."

"Don't be an ass, Hal."

He did not reply, but continued wrapping his blade.

"An ass," continued Silevren, with deliberate clarity, "is, among other things, a Ranger who won't rest when he's hurt. He falls on his ass, or gets it handed to him, or both."

"Both? How does that work?" he growled, though a corner of his lip twitched.

"I don't know. Find out and report back."

"You don't know, and I'm the one who's supposed to find out?"

"You're the ass. I'm not."

Miriel bit her tongue to keep from laughing, but she could not keep her face completely still, and Halbarad rounded on her with a glare. "Something funny, girl?'

"No, sir." Her best deferential voice, and she stared straight ahead past his shoulder.

He watched her for a moment, then nodded sharply and turned back to Silevren. "As you wish, then; I won't fight you." Jerked his chin at Miriel, though he did not look at her. "I'll give her a try."

Shit. Her eyes flicked to Calen, but he gave a tiny shrug and said nothing. On my own now, eh?

There was surprise on Silevren's face, but also a thoughtful smile, and she nodded slowly. "This ought to be good." And she stepped back to lean against the fence, arms crossed.

Miriel picked up her practice blade from where she had laid it, held it loosely in her hand, and watched Halbarad warily, her arms still trembling slightly with exertion.

Halbarad barely glanced at her, finished wrapping his sword and then moved slowly through the first form, clearly testing body and blade. Silevren watched him with narrowed eyes; when he finished the form, she gestured him over. He limped, but not as badly as he had done days ago on the downs. She spoke quietly to him and then nodded, seeming to give her approval, and such was their ease with each other that Miriel found herself thinking, She must have trained him, too.

Silevren touched his arm, and he straightened, and the faintest of smiles flickered across his face. But when he turned back to Miriel it was gone, his expression flat and closed. He set himself opposite her, met her eyes and bowed slightly, formally. "First form. Half speed." She returned the gesture and raised her sword.

She felt more than saw the change in him. He no longer limped, moving smoothly from one stroke to the next, light and confident on the icy snow. He could do this in his sleep, she thought. But he seemed indeed somehow more awake, more alive than she had yet seen him. There was no other way to describe it. He belongs here.

So do I.

She knew it was a test. Don't think about that. Just training. Do what you've been trained to do.

And she did. Slipped into focus, aware of nothing but the man before her, and the snow beneath her feet. Don't think about who he is. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the sword. And so she watched the sword, watched the body too, but after a short while gave up on the face, for it showed nothing. Not strain, nor pain, and certainly not intention. He's too good for that.

She was soon gasping for breath, but just when she was sure she could not match another blow, he seemed to back off, slowed down, became almost lazy in his strokes. Want to see what I do now, eh? She glanced back at his face then, saw him watching her intently. Fine. I'll play your game. And as she sprang forward, she kept her eyes on his face, and thought perhaps there was a flicker of a smile as his sword rose to meet hers.


"Like Silevren, but worse." They stood in the dimness of the weapons shed, unwrapping blades and reordering all as it should be, moving slowly with slightly shaking hands.

"Worse how?" asked Morfind.

"Longer. Silevren will let you go when you can still stand."

Meren chuckled. "I saw that."

"I'm sure you did," she said sourly. "Me on my ass in the snow is about the most amusing thing that's happened all winter, eh?"

"Nah, not the most. That was Calen on his ass in the snow. That I've never seen."

"Glad to be of service," said Calen genially, though his voice was hoarse. "Snow's softer than dirt anyway. At least I won't have a bruise."

They all laughed, as much from surprise as anything. "Not sore about it, then?" asked Meren. "No pun intended."

Calen smiled. "Not with him. If Halbarad deigns to knock you on your ass, it's a compliment. Otherwise he wouldn't bother."

"Silevren tell you that?"

Calen nodded. "Not that it'd matter to her if I was sore or not, but for some reason she cares about Miriel." He glanced at her sidelong, and even in the dimness she saw his smile. "Mind you, I'm not sure that's a good thing…"

"Definitely not," she cut in, grinning. "Much easier to be ignored."

"Ah, but…You don't get better by doing what is easy." Meren's imitation was not nearly as good as Calen's, but they all laughed, and then stiffened abruptly as a shadow darkened the door. But it was only Falaran, one of the younger Rangers, and he was grinning. "I'd keep it down if I were you. The Master has sharp ears. Believe me, I know." They laughed a little, nervously, and quickly finished their tasks and filed out into the brightness.

The noon meal was almost jovial, and they hardly resented the run Faelon took them on after, boots crunching and slipping on icy snow. They arrived back in the village as the winter afternoon faded to early dusk, exhausted and hungry and red-faced with cold. There was little talk around the table that evening, the trainees sleepy with warmth and food.

Miriel had finished eating, and was contemplating the walk back to the barracks on stiff, aching legs, when movement caught the corner of her eye. The small side door to the Hall opened and closed, letting in a cloaked figure with a heavy pack. Hood pushed back in the sudden warmth of the Hall, pale hair red-gold in the firelight, a star gleaming faintly at her throat. Abruptly one of the Rangers rose from the table by the hearth and strode to meet her. Almost ran, and Miriel saw to her surprise that it was Halbarad. He met the woman halfway from the door and embraced her, fiercely and without a word. After what seemed a long time, he let her go and stepped back, looked into her eyes. She reached out a gloved hand, touched the fresh scar on his neck, cocked her head in question. He shrugged, smiled a little, said something Miriel could not hear. Then he gestured with his chin, and many eyes followed them as they made their way, he limping, she steady but slow and clearly exhausted, to where the Rangers had made room for her by the fire.

Hannas frowned, asked in a low voice, "Who is she?"

Miriel knew her, as she had known Halbarad, though she had never spoken to her. "Her name is Anna," she said quietly, and saw that several of the other trainees who were not from Elenost listened as well.

"Anna?" asked Lain doubtfully, though he too was careful to keep his voice low. "That's not a Dunedain name."

"Nor is she. I—I don't know where she's from…."

"Rohan." They all turned to Calen in surprise. He shrugged. "I asked her, when I was a child, and that's what she told me." His eyes flicked to Miriel's and then away, and she thought suddenly that perhaps she knew when he had asked, and why a young outsider might answer a little boy's question. 'She was the one who found me….Silevren and her methorneth….'

"Then are she and Halbarad…."

"No," said Calen at once, with a brief, dry laugh. "They are gwethir." At Hannas's blank look, he explained, "Brother and sister by oath. Do you not know of it?"

Hannas shook her head, and her confusion was echoed on several other faces around the table. But not all. And Miriel remembered what Faelon had said, in the blacksmith's yard in Ladrengil. 'We are bound to each other in many ways, we who wear the star, and this is the highest, save one only.' And she remembered also her father and Belegon. 'The Shield of the North, gwador nin.'

"Ir cuian ech natho alerui," said Meren softly, unexpectedly. "That is what they say. While I live, you will never be alone." And out of sight below the table, so gently she hardly felt it, his fingers brushed her hand.


Anna was in the yard the next morning, running the balance logs with Halbarad. First one ran and then the other, sure-footed, even graceful on the icy wood. Or almost – as the trainees filed out of the weapons shed, sullen and shivering, Miriel heard a muffled cry of surprise, and then a burst of laughter. Startled out of sleepiness, she looked over to see that Halbarad had slipped and landed face-first in the snow. But even the fall was controlled, and though he must have been winded, he scrambled back up almost at once and launched himself at Anna, cutting off her laughter. But she seemed to have expected it, slipped sideways so that he only caught one leg, and she managed to end up on top when they both landed on the ground. No laughter now, and they wrestled with unbridled ferocity. It went on for far longer than she would have expected of a woman fighting a man, especially a man as strong as Halbarad. Though he nearly pinned her twice, at last she managed to slide out of his grasp, his gloved hands slipping on her leather jerkin. She scrabbled away on the snow and then pushed herself to her feet, gasping and eyeing him warily. Slowly, stiffly, he too stood, careful to keep weight off his injured leg. She raised a hand in truce, and when he nodded, she stepped close, concern on her face.

"I shouldn't have gotten away." Quiet despite her heaving breath.

"No." A brief, dry laugh. And then, "I'm all right, Annie."

"Wanted to show me, eh?"

"I knew you wouldn't believe me unless I did."

"With good reason."

A true smile then. "Fair enough."

A shrewd look. "And you were testing me, too."

"I was."

A pause, and then, almost gently, "Thank you. For this and everything, brother."

He looked in her eyes, and she did not look away, let him feel the truth of her words. At last, very quietly, "Gwethor nin."

Silevren had arrived, unnoticed; now she pushed herself off the fence and came over to them, spoke to Halbarad and then gestured to the trainees. Halbarad looked slightly surprised but nodded, and Silevren raised her voice.

"Faelon."

The Master looked over at her, a small, knowing smile on his face. "Want to borrow one of the children, do you?" At Silevren's nod, he turned back to them. "Calen," he barked, and gestured with his chin. That was all, but it seemed to Miriel that there was amusement in his eyes.

She couldn't watch them, not really, for she had her own training to attend to. But she and Meren edged closer, as close as they dared, and in the pauses in their own match, rather longer than usual, they watched Anna and Calen.

She was better than Silevren, that soon became clear. Not more skilled, perhaps, but younger and stronger, for all that she had just come in from the Wild. "You'd think she'd been resting for a week," Meren murmured at one point, when she had pushed Calen back so that he staggered and nearly fell, gasping for breath, while she stood solid and hardly winded. "She's enjoying this."

Miriel knew it was true, though at first she could not tell why. Anna said nothing, and did not smile, gave no hint by word or gesture of what she was thinking. But there was a poised intensity about her that Miriel recognized, for she knew it in herself. Everything is here, in this moment. This is where I am meant to be.

At last Calen slipped on the snow, weary body unable to catch himself, and fell heavily. Anna lowered her sword at once, stepped forward and reached down a hand to help him up. He took it, struggled to his feet and bowed shakily, and then stood before her, still gasping for breath. Miriel was close enough now to hear, though she did not dare look at them, pretended to be rewrapping her sword before resuming her fight with Meren.

Anna looked him up and down, and the hint of a smile flickered briefly across her lips. "You've grown up, boy. Not half bad." She jerked a nod, then turned to Silevren. "Ride later?"

Silevren smiled, broad and unguarded. "Need you ask?"

"Wasn't sure how long you'd spend on these children." Anna's voice was dismissive, but her eyes laughed.

"Get out of here." And then, still smiling, "Have the horses ready before the noon bell."

Anna bowed and turned away, and Silevren waited until she was well out of earshot before saying quietly to Calen, "I've never heard her say that to a trainee. Never."


They did not return until dusk, flushed with cold and grinning, horses plodding wearily on the icy road. Dark hair and light close together as they spoke, and Belegon let Gaileth and Toldir and stay late in the Hall that night, and made it seem as if the children had convinced him.

Silevren rolled and propped herself up on an elbow, her eyes suddenly thoughtful.

"What? That look means you've got an idea."

Silevren chuckled. "So I have." Her voice sobered. "Miriel needs a maethor."

"So?"

"She's good. Very good."

"Better than I was?"

Silevren eyed her steadily. "A better archer, hands down. And I think she could have outrun you at sixteen, at least over a distance. Not as strong, though, not nearly as strong." A pause, and then, "I've been training her."

"So I heard."

"And she's…clever."

"Meaning I'm not?"

"Oh, shut up. You know what I mean." Silevren sighed. She seemed suddenly older, and tired. "We need her, Annie."

"And a hundred more like her."

"But she is only one, and she needs the best training she can get."

"And that's me."

"Yes. That's you." Silevren fixed her with a piercing look. "You say you're one of us—"

"I am one of you."

"Yet you will never marry; you will give us no children. Let her be the one you give to the Rangers, to carry the burden when you are gone. You owe us that much at least."

Anna scowled, and there was a hint of anger in her voice. "Was Talien not enough?"

"No," said Silevren shortly. "Miriel is better now than Talien will ever be. Annie, she'll be a captain, if she lives."

Anna frowned. "How do you know? There's been no woman given the eagle in half a hundred years."

"I have…a feeling about it."

"Huh. You and your feelings." But her face softened in a grudging smile. "I've never known them to be wrong. Well. I'll think about it."


Notes:

The last scene is not from Miriel's perspective, obviously, and she would have no way of knowing that it occurred. But it's important, so I kept it in. Any ideas for how to do this more naturally?

The song "Home the Hunters" is mine, but inspired by and written to the tune of the Irish song "Oro Se Do Bheatha 'Bhaile." I recommend the Screaming Orphans cover, if you're interested; there are several others out there, but that's the one I heard first and had in mind when I wrote this.

Ir cuian ech natho alerui - lit. While I live, you will be not alone. Probably dodgy Elvish grammar, but it's the idea that's important.