The rest of the afternoon she spent with the healers, tending to Lain and Calen, and others as well. Her mother was there, and Darya, both pale with weariness but moving still among the injured. The first rush was over; wounds had been stitched and bound, water and draughts for pain given to those who needed them, and most of the wounded were now resting. Those whose injuries were less severe had gone back to their own homes, helped by family and with strict instructions for their care. Yet of those who remained, several still hung on the edge of life, and it was to these most often that Mirloth went.
Miriel had sought her mother out when she returned to the healers' house, had embraced her silently, fiercely. Mirloth returned the embrace, ran her hands over Miriel's face and hair, kissed her on cheeks and lips. But her eyes were distant, and she did not linger.
Darya was less grim, though no less weary. Her apron was a bloodstained mess, her dark hair flying in ragged wisps where it was not plastered to her face with sweat. Yet her hands were clean, and her smile real if wry and tired.
"I've been hearing the strangest stories about you, Mimi," she said, lightly, though worry was plain in her eyes.
Miriel rolled her eyes. She disliked the pet name, and Darya knew it, but now it was a relief. She had seen little of Darya since she began training, and each time it seemed they had grown farther apart. She managed a brief, dry laugh. "Didn't think you put much stock in stories."
"No, you're right. They're always puffed up by half anyway."
Yet even as Darya spoke, the smile slid from her face. Her fingers dug into Miriel's shoulders, trembling despite the strength of the grip. They looked at each other for a long moment.
"I was afraid," whispered Darya at last.
"So was I."
She almost told Darya then. She imagined doing it, imagined the shock and wonder, and then perhaps kinship that had never been between them, for all that they were sisters. There had been a wall, always, more fundamental and unyielding than that between older and younger, and that she knew for it was not so with Andreth. But Darya was something apart, and there were times when Miriel felt she made no more impression than water dashing against a rock. But that was not entirely true, she knew, and it was not so now. And it seemed perhaps that Darya sensed something, a change in her that she could not name, and she held Miriel's shoulders and gazed at her intently, searchingly, before at last letting her go.
"Mir," she said, fingers still moving softly over hers, "are you sure you're all right?" A pause, and then, very quietly, "You don't have to be. Not now."
She almost let go. Almost let Darya hold her again, almost wept, almost poured out her grief for Silevren and Gallach, for Belegon and Faelon, for the ending of a thing that was not supposed to end yet, and the beginning of another born before its time. Almost, but she did not, only forced a false smile onto her face that fooled no one, certainly not the sister who had known her since the day she was born. And that smile resealed the wall.
"I'm fine. Just tired. Where is Lain?"
He lay in the garden where she had left him, and Calen was there too, dozing in the afternoon sun. Lain still slept, but Calen stirred as she knelt beside him, half-opened bleary eyes, then forced himself upright with a gasp. She caught his shoulders, for he could not have managed it on his own. He leaned against her, a hoarse edge of panic in every breath, and she took his hand to calm him. She did not reach out, could not let herself do it again, though a curious part of her wished to try, and another part wished to try for him. But she could not, and so she did not, only held his hand and shushed him softly, until he fell back into uneasy sleep.
She did not sleep, but she closed her eyes and rested, Calen's warmth against her, and let her mind wander. It was not wise, perhaps, for the mind goes where it will, and circles around that which has disturbed it, shaken its understanding of the world, round and round to make sense of it and bring it in from unknown to known, from darkness to light. Either that, or it shies away and will not look at the terrible new unknown thing, as if perhaps by not seeing it will cease to be, and the world will be as it was. But it is never as it was, and pain ignored will sit in quiet waiting, for it cannot be ignored forever.
She did not know this, not yet. But denial was not in her nature, and so her mind circled, seeing again and again the faces, laughing or angry, sweating or flushed with cold, in sunlight and moonlight and firelight, speaking and silent, awake and asleep. But always alive. And now they are not. She could see them together, though this she had not seen in life. Pale now, and still, blood washed from them by those who would prepare the bodies. One young and one old they lay together, as behind them men built the pyre. There were others, perhaps; she did not know, and did not want to know. Let me see them first, and know them. Later there would be time for the others. So her mind circled, as she rested in the garden of the healers' house.
Lain woke at last with a soft cry of pain, and she started and startled Calen awake. Gently, awkwardly, she let him down to the ground and moved over to lay a hand on Lain's shoulder.
"Be still now," she said, striving for the steadiness of a healer, for the steadiness of Darya or her mother. She did not have it, had not earned it, but still Lain seemed to relax a little under her touch, and he opened his eyes.
"You're all right," she said, in answer to the question in them, and he tried to speak, and coughed and moaned in pain. What do I do? was her first panicked thought, Where is Darthan? the second. But the third was more useful. Water. "Be still," she said gently, and her voice now was steady. "I'll get you something to drink."
She found a bucket and dipper in the kitchen; she knew they would be there, so often had she been in this house with Mother and Darya. At least I know my way around the place. Yet she did not stop to examine that though further, but brought water out to the garden. Calen and Lain both drank deeply, though Calen groaned and looked as though he might be sick again. "Lie down," she said, as he struggled to stay upright. "It's your head. It will heal in time, but until then you must rest." She would not let Lain sit but gave him the water slowly from the dipper, and much of it ended up on his shirt, but at last he sighed in relief and managed to smile a little. "Thanks, Mir." Measured breathing for a time, and then, "What happened?"
He had been wounded early in the battle, it turned out, clipped by an arrow, painful but not serious, but then stumbled backward in the dark and fell from the wall. The broken bone was from the fall, not the arrow, and a rueful grimace flitted across his face. "My own worst enemy, seems like." She laughed softly but shook her head, and told him what she knew of how the battle had gone. She would have asked Calen, but he lay with his eyes closed, and his face was still worryingly pale. Yet when she was done, though he did not open his eyes, he spoke, low and halting. "I—I don't remember…I was on the ground, by the gate. The swordsmen were there. They broke the gate, came through. Still mostly dark, I couldn't see much. Got one, I think. And then—must have been a club, never saw it coming. Then Silevren was standing over me. And that's—all. I don't remember any more."
And Miriel said softly, "She died."
And then she was weeping again, for saying it brought fresh pain, and Calen opened his eyes, winced but squinted through the light and found her hand. There was no strength in his grip, but it was warm, and it comforted her, and she fell silent and held his hand as the sun sank below the trees and shadows crept over the yard.
Meren found her there, eyes closed, knees pulled up to her chest, and not until he put his arms around her did she realize she was shivering. He said nothing, only held her, then at last took her hand from Calen's and helped her stand. Calen did not stir, but comforted a little by the steady rise and fall of his chest, she let him lie, and Lain beside him, and went with Meren. "The healers will take care of them," he murmured, his arm steady around her shoulders. "You should eat."
She nodded and said no more, and neither did he, for they both knew what would come next. In the evening after battle, as shadows crept over the land and all things faded into night, the light would blaze, small and flickering at first, but then stronger and brighter, fierce red light pushing back the dark, as the bodies burned.
They had seen many pyres, of course, even those for Rangers, for there were times when a wounded man made it back to the village, only to die there under the healers' care. They knew what was done, the words that were spoken and the songs that were sung. But this was not like the others, for this was for one of their own.
"They will give Gallach a star," he said softly, as they walked, and she did not wonder that his thoughts echoed hers. "He died as a Ranger would, and he will receive a Ranger's farewell."
She nodded, but did not trust her voice.
The Hall was crowded, and Meren sat her at the trainees' table and went to get food for them both. She told them what she could of Lain and Calen, slowly, for her head seemed muddled again, and her thoughts would not translate easily into speech. And they told her what they had done, but there was little to tell, for there was much downed wood after the winter, and the grim gathering was easy.
She ate what was set before her, and then Meren's voice was in her ear. "Calen and Lain. Are they well enough to come?" He did not say where, for there was no need.
She thought for a moment, thick and stumbling. "Calen, maybe. Lain should not. But ask the healers…"
"Of course." And then, very quietly over her head, though he must know she would hear, "Hannas, keep an eye on her."
What is wrong with me? Anger flared, and she felt a sudden, irrational urge to push Hannas away. I'm only tired, not hurt. No reason to be worse off than the rest of them. But then, as if another voice spoke in her mind: There is reason. Remember what you have done, whether you speak of it or not. 'The Gift takes its due.' That last in her mother's voice, resigned but not bitter. 'It is the way of things, for there is no gain without cost.' And now I must pay the cost. And there was a strange, hollow comfort in that, for she felt no longer alone.
They went out after they had eaten, all together. Faelon was not there, but they did not need him, for there was only one place to go. The burning-ground was set near the north wall, in a flat space carved into the edge of the hills that rose behind the village. It was ringed with stones, and the closest houses were set well outside the ring and roofed with slate to guard against sparks. There was a crowd gathered already, and they parted to let the trainees through. Faelon was there, with Arahael and Belegon beside him, and all three held torches. The crowd was quiet but not silent, waiting. At last, when the hills before them and the village behind had faded to gray shadows in the growing night, three strokes of the bell rang in the still air.
Arahael turned to face the crowd, torchlight flickering on his lined face. "They were the best of us," he said in a slow, clear voice, "and now they are gone. May their sacrifice give us courage; may their memory give us strength. May their spirits live forever, and may their bodies go in peace."
Faelon went to one side of the pyre, Belegon to the other, and at a sign from Arahael, all three brought their torches down. The dead wood was dry, and it caught quickly, and then there was only the sound and smell and heat of burning.
Miriel felt tears slip down her cheeks, felt Meren's arm around her, and then another from the other side, and that was Calen. Even in the firelight his face was pale, and the arm around her shoulders seemed as much to steady himself as to comfort her. But still he stood with them, and in truth there was no danger, for had he swayed, there would have been another at his side to hold him up. 'The Wild is not kind to a Ranger alone, but together, my brothers, we're strong.'
And looking across the open space before the fire she saw Belegon, his children on the ground at his feet, leaning against his legs, holding each other as they watched their mother burn. Tears slid unchecked and unashamed over his cheeks as he rested his head on Faelon's shoulder. Arahael was on his other side, and three stars gleamed in the firelight, and a fourth also that Belegon held in his hands. And then Arahael said something to him, and he lifted his head, gazed into the fire. And then he began to sing.
"Though the night be dark and cold,
Though the fire be ash and old,
Here lies body, but free flies soul,
My dear, my brave one, my hero bold.
A warrior born, hard ground his bed,
No crown but stars above his head.
We fight for our kin and our land, he said,
For honor long outlives the dead.
Now sing you loud, sing strong and clear,
Said Arnor's son, heed not your fear.
Though hard the loss of kinsmen dear,
In proof of life do we stand here.
In dark ere dawn he passed away,
And where he be now none can say
Though now in darkness kin we lay,
They will join him, rise, and greet the day.
Their bodies burn in fire's roar,
Their souls at last in freedom soar,
But still we stand and fight the war
Until our brave one comes once more."
It was the linnaidh, the warrior's farewell of ancient Arnor, held still by Arnor's descendents, though they were grown few, and the glory of the old kingdom was but a fading memory.
The Brave One. Ellenen. Oath-brother to Arvedui, he who with Aranarth had rallied the shattered people of Arnor after Fornost and Foroschel. He who had risked himself for peace, and been betrayed to his death. They all knew the story, would hear it again before the Wall.
But not now. It is no help now. Now there is only fire.
After a time, Arahael began to move around the circle, speaking to each grieving family, for eight had fallen all told. And when he came to the trainees, he held out his hand, and in his open palm a star glittered. "He was your brother," he said quietly. "Bear him to the Wall with honor."
For a moment, no one moved. Then Meren murmured, "Take it, Mir. You did more than any of us."
She thought to protest, but had not the strength, and so she obeyed. Stepping forward, she reached out and took the star from Arahael, and he met her eyes and nodded. It was cool in her fingers, but not cold, smooth and shining, and the firelight gleamed redly on its facets. She turned it over in her hands, saw the name etched in fine, perfect strokes, beneath three others who had also borne this star. Gallach son of Galen. Her hand closed around it, and she moved back to the comfort of her brothers, and together they stood and watched the fire.
Notes: Both the idea and the words for the linnaidh are mine, based (rather broadly) on the Irish song "Mo Ghile Mear." There are lots of covers out there; if you're interested, the one I heard first and had most in mind when I wrote this was The Chieftains with Sting on the album Long Black Veil. And nothing against Celtic Woman, but their version (which comes up first in a Google search) is emphatically NOT the right tone for this context.
Ellenen is an OC (historical/legendary OC, is that a thing?), though based on tropes and archetypes with which Tolkien would have been intimately familiar. And for those who care, the epithet comes not from Sindarin but from the Old English ellen (courage, strength, zeal).
