It was nearly noon when at last she woke. Her head ached fiercely, and her neck was stiff. At her side, Calen still slept, breathing slowly, face and body utterly relaxed. She eased away from him; he shifted a little and sighed but did not wake. She unfolded her legs and rose cautiously, felt a brief surge of dizziness but it passed, leaving her head aching but steady and clear. She stretched carefully, the muscles of her back and legs protesting at the abuse they had suffered from hard riding and hard ground. Yet aside from the headache, she seemed to have taken no hurt from the healing. That's a mercy, at least.
And with the word came the image – Silevren with the cup to her lips, then falling limp in Belegon's arms, her blood soaking the earth. Miriel crouched on the ground, knees hugged tight to her chest, and wept again, but less this time, and quietly. She died that others might live. As may you some day. Strangely, the thought strengthened her.
The day had turned warm. Though clouds were rising in the western sky, they had not yet overtaken the sun, and she realized she was sweating in Salharin's heavy wool shirt. She pulled it over her head, felt suddenly much lighter. With a last glance at Calen, she tucked the shirt under her arm and went in search of Lain.
As it happened, she found Salharin first, almost bumped into him as he came through the door of the healers' house.
"Here," she said, and held out the shirt, feeling suddenly awkward. "Thank you."
"You are most welcome," he answered courteously. Then his eyes narrowed, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentle. "Are you all right?"
She knew what he meant: How do you find killing, and seeing men die? Can your mind stand it? "Yes," she said quietly, looking straight at him.
"This was your first time, was it not? It was for all of you, I think." There was pity in his glance, and understanding, and not a little pride.
"Yes," she whispered. "It was."
He nodded. "We'll come for you tonight," he said quietly. "You will not have to face this alone." He bowed slightly and turned away, leaving her more confused than comforted. She stood still, staring after him, then she shook herself. No point in worrying over it now.
One of the healers brought her to Lain. He had taken an arrow in the shoulder early in the fight that had broken his collarbone. She found him lying on a work table in the house, groaning in pain as Darthan set the bone. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut and he gripped the sides of the table, white-knuckled and trembling. Without a word, she moved to his uninjured side and gently pried his fingers loose from the wood. His hand seized hers, grasping so hard that she felt her bones grind together. She winced a little but did not draw back, reaching out instead with her free hand to stroke his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. She murmured reassurance, though she did not know if he heard.
A whisper, against her will: You could help him. Darthan is skilled, but he is not what you are.
I am nothing. And then, fierce and angry, I am a Ranger, or will be.
'A Ranger does not lie.' Sirhael's voice, and she cringed in shame as if he stood beside her.
What am I?
There had been more of them before the Darkness, it was said. Some even traveled with the armies of Arnor, mostly men of the line of the kings, trained to fight, though they did not except in direst need. Even then a Gifted healer was too precious. And now there are so few that they hardly leave the villages.
A calculated risk, a choice made in the anguished years after the fall of Angmar, when Aranarth gave up the pretension of kingship, and slowly rebuilt his shattered people as a shadow of what they had been. To protect the women and children, the villages that were their food and their future, their very survival, the warriors of the North—Rangers now, for they had not the numbers to form armies—accepted more risk for themselves. And so they sang at every death, in invocation and in warding: 'If I should fall in the cold and darkness, far from home, in the Wild in winter'…for they knew no help would come.
They did their duty, and have done, down through the long years. Father did, and Grandfather. Swallowing hard against tears: And Silevren. As must you.
And what is my duty? It had always been easy, that question. So easy that the challenge now stripped her bare. I was ready to fight, suffer, even die in the Wild. But to live constrained? To live as Mother, and Darya? She shuddered. I cannot do that. I will not. And then, a thought for the first time, though not the last: Duty only goes so far; past it is choice.
And I have chosen.
She drew a shuddering breath, forced herself to let it out slowly, forced her hand that had clenched Lain's shoulder to let go.
Darthan glanced at her, felt her distress but misinterpreted its cause. He said quietly, his hands never ceasing their work, "Do not fear for him. There is pain now, but the shoulder joint is undamaged. Unless the wound goes bad, he will make a full recovery in time. And it calms him to have you here."
Indeed, it seemed that Lain had relaxed a little, and she nodded, glad to be of use in this straightforward way. To distract herself from pathways of thought she knew were foolish, she began to pay close attention to the healer as he worked. She watched him carefully ease the broken ends of bone back into alignment, flinched only a little at the welling of blood and torn flesh. Lain gave a sudden cry of pain and went limp. She started in alarm, but a quick glance showed that he was still breathing.
"Fainted," Darthan said quietly. "Easier for him and me both." She looked at him in surprise, but memory surfaced then: a well-loved face tight with strain; a weary voice dark with the chilling edge of defeat. Little Miriel, dozing in a corner by the fire, had known she was not meant to hear but listened anyway.
"A Gift, we're told," her mother had said. "What does that mean? That I must cause them more pain, in hopes of there eventually being less? And when I fail, the blood is on my hands."
"You know that is not so." Her father's voice was gentler than she had ever heard it. "No one blames you for the pain, or the loss, if it ends thus."
A sigh, almost a sob. "I know. I know."
"But that doesn't make it easier."
"No."
Glancing back up at Darthan's face, she realized that he seemed somehow more relaxed, though she had not noticed before that he was tense. There are costs to healing, dangers in taking another's pain, even his life, in your hands. This too is a battle, and one that may be as easily lost as won.
He worked quickly now, cleaning and stitching the wound. "Lift his shoulders," he said. "Carefully."
She did as she was bidden, and he wrapped bandages firmly around Lain's chest, binding his arm to his side. She frowned in confusion.
"Why—?" She broke off, suddenly fearful of causing offense. But the healer's intense concentration slackened for a moment as his eyes flicked up to her face, and he smiled.
"Mirloth's daughter, you may ask me anything. If I do not wish to answer, I will not." A pause and then, "Why do I bind his arm, if it is not injured?" She nodded. "It will keep him from disturbing the bone when he wakes. If he moved his shoulder, the break might slip and heal wrong." He tied off the bandage as he spoke, and gave Lain's unconscious body one more assessing look before nodding with grim satisfaction. "That will do; he will be in pain when he wakes, and for some weeks yet. But he should be back with you all before midsummer." He glanced around, and then said abruptly, "Stay with him for a moment." She nodded, and stroked her friend's hair, though she knew he could not feel it.
Darthan soon returned. "There is a place we can lay him until he wakes. Come, help me." She took Lain's legs, and together they carried him out the back door of the house, to the small enclosed yard that held the healers' garden. The scent of herbs was strong in the air; she breathed deeply, and felt some of the strain and fear and grief that shrouded her mind slip away.
They laid Lain on a blanket on the grass and covered him warmly, for the chill had returned with the clouds, and a thin breeze whispered through the fencing. Darthan brushed a caress over the boy's pale cheek and then stood.
"He'll be out for a long while yet; the pain draught often does that to the young."
Miriel, still crouching by Lain, nodded but said nothing. Dizziness had returned with the exertion, and she suddenly feared she might fall to the grass beside him.
Darthan's eyes narrowed. "Have you eaten?" he asked, a bit sharply.
She shook her head, not trusting her voice.
"Come, child." Gentle once more, and he reached down a hand to help her up. "You'll do him no good if you're too weak to stand." Grasping her arm, he held her steady until her head cleared. "There is food in the Hall; the others should be there." In answer to her questioning glance, he added, "Only Lain and Calen were wounded badly enough to stay here. And Gallach…" He broke off.
"Father told me." She met his eyes, remembering suddenly that that dead boy had been Darthan's nephew, his sister's youngest son. "I am sorry."
"So am I," said the healer softly. "But such is the way of the world. Come now." He unlatched a small gate in the fence that surrounded the garden. "I will tell your mother you are well. Return when you've eaten, if you wish." He squeezed her shoulder and smiled a little. "I'm sure he would rather see you than me."
In spite of grief, in spite of weariness and hunger, she found herself smiling in answer as she slipped through the gate.
Though the Hall was not far away, it seemed to take a long time to get there. The dizziness returned, and she was intensely, painfully hungry; she gritted her teeth and dug her fingernails into her palms. As she approached the great carved doors, she became aware of movement around her, people coming and going, the urgent hum of voices. The doors were open, the scent of bread and meat drifting out on the warm, stale air. She stumbled on the threshold, suddenly blind in the dimness. She stopped, fighting for balance.
But then it ceased to matter, for Meren was there, embracing her so tightly she thought her ribs might crack, murmuring her name over and over, his cheek pressed to her hair. Others followed moments later, Barahir and Hannas and Morfind, grasping her hands, patting her back, holding her and Meren both until she was so enclosed in the press of warm bodies that she could not have moved far had she tried.
She did not try. She laid her head on Meren's shoulder, and his shirt soaked up her tears. She leaned against him, felt them all holding her until there seemed little weight left on her own feet. Many voices, murmuring words that stirred her hair and wrapped her like a cloak. "Oh, thank the Valar, Mir. We feared for you…Faelon said you were here, but we didn't know…I saw you from the tower…Did you hear about Gallach?" This last from Meren, softly in her ear as he held her close.
"Yes. And—Silevren…" Still she could hardly say it, choked on the name, and he held her tighter.
"I know," he whispered. "I know, Mir. I know."
At last she took a deep breath and gathered herself, moved back a little to look in his face, let him brush the tears from her cheeks. "I was with the healers. Calen and Lain will be well." Murmurs of relief then, and the press slackened a little.
"You're pale as a sheet." Meren eyed her critically. "Are you sure you're not hurt?"
"I'm fine. Just hungry."
"Bullshit," he said gently, anxious eyes searching, fingering the blood on her sleeves.
"Not mine. Lain's, I think." She laid a hand over his, drew it away. "I just need food."
She could tell he didn't believe her. Knows me too well for that. But he shook his head, forced a small smile. "Then come eat. We're nearly done, but I've a notion we could wait for you." A firm arm around her shoulders guided her to a table, and they sat down around her, all talking seemingly at once. Food appeared before her and she ate, heedless of manners, need drowning all other thought. It was not until the plate was nearly empty that she at last looked up, drawn by a new scent. Smiling, Meren pressed a steaming mug into her hand.
"Might be a little hot," he said, making sure of her grip before letting go.
It was hot, but she didn't care. Dark and strong, thick with honey and spice, the tea scalded her throat but still she drank, reveling in the warmth that seemed to flow into every corner of her weary body. Her head cleared, the last remnants of dizziness fading. At last, the mug drained to the dregs, she turned back to Meren with a smile. But her reply was forestalled by Barahir's hand on her arm. "The Master," he murmured.
Faelon's face was gray, his unwashed cheeks still showing signs of tears. Though she never would have expected it, Miriel suddenly felt pity for him. Gallach was in his charge. And Silevren…Clear to her mind, an image from the trial: The two of them, heads close together, laughing – at our expense, I'm sure. How many friends has he lost? And then, like a trickle of chill water – How many will I lose? Gallach was the first; who will be next? She resisted the urge to look around but shuddered a little, fighting with a sudden sick dread. But into the fog of fear came warmth, Meren's hand gentle on her knee under the table.
"Steady, Mir," he whispered. "You all right?"
She nodded, felt the fear recede if not quite vanish. And then there was no more time to think on it, for the Master spoke.
"Finish up, and meet me outside." His voice was almost gone. She saw him suddenly in her mind, black against the torchlight as he led the defense, holding them together for hours, his voice and his will rallying them in the dark, pushing beyond grief, beyond fear, urging them to desperate endurance. As she watched him go, fierce love surged unexpectedly in her heart. And in all those around her, she realized in the sudden hush. Many eyes turned to him as he made his way back through the crowded hall; many hands reached out to touch him, quiet voices murmuring. He seemed to gain strength from them, his bent shoulders straightening a little, his head lifting to a fair approximation of his usual pride. Then he was gone, out into the brightness beyond the door.
She set down her mug without a word and swung her legs over the bench, rose cautiously, but the floor stayed steady beneath her feet. With a discordant scraping of wood on wood, the other trainees stood as well, stacking their empty plates and mugs in silence before moving as a tight group toward the door. The hall was still quiet, and over the muted hum of conversation, a voice rang out, level and clear: "The shield of the North."
In spite of it all, joy surged through her, the words she had longed to hear at last spoken aloud. The response rose immediately to her lips, unthinking, instinctive, so many times had she heard it in her mind: "In life and in death." And around her, the voices of her fellows, each giving his own answer to the call, and each answer the same. As they neared the door, many voices now, some soft, some strong, yet pride ringing in each: "So may it be." On the rush of that benediction, they came out into the light.
Faelon stood waiting for them just outside. They gathered around him, hearts pounding and flushed a little with joy amid grief. He stood silent for a time, meeting the eyes of each in turn, as if he would read their hearts and their strength. At last, he asked quietly, "Did you all get enough to eat?"
They nodded. "Yes, Master." And then, "Where do you need us?"
He sighed. "In many places. Yet for now – Miriel, Darthan has asked for you back with the healers."
Though she struggled for a moment with a visceral need to stay with them, she knew where her duty lay. "Yes, Master."
"Take care of Lain and Calen; I will come see them when I may." Though he did not smile, there was a hint of warmth in his weary voice. But it was gone in a moment, and his mouth set in a grim line. "The rest of you, come with me. Every Ranger must know how to build a pyre."
As she turned to go, Meren grasped her shoulder. He said nothing, but she straightened her shoulders and forced a faint smile. Do not fear for me. There is no longer any need. He nodded, and with a last convulsive squeeze, let her go and turned away to join the others.
Note: Making up more history and customs here; Aranarth and Angmar are canon, of course, but anything having to do with the healing Gift (in this story line, at least) is entirely my own invention. It also never quite made sense to me that the Dunedain became a "wandering people." The Rangers travel throughout Eriador, yes, but their children have to live somewhere, their food has to be grown somewhere, etc. You can't have that many working-age adults in a non-productive vocation without a significant support system.
