Note: As mentioned in Chapter 4, all credit for the song "When I Go" belongs to Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer. I only wish I could write like that! I haven't been able to find a clear statement that the lyrics were inspired by Tolkien's work, but I can't imagine that they weren't. Just too many parallels in language and imagery to be a coincidence.


No one roused them in the morning, and the sun was streaming in the open door by the time she woke to Meren gently shaking her shoulder.

"Mir, wake up. They're nearly ready for the river."

The river? What— And then she drew a sharp breath, and tears stung her eyes.

She climbed clumsily down from her bunk, for it seemed that her whole body hurt, and her head was pounding. When her feet reached the floor she stood for a moment, forehead against the frame of the bunk, as the room reeled and bile rose in her throat. Yet she was not alone. She knew that even with her eyes closed, Meren's breathing by her side clear through the roaring in her ears. He put an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned on him until the floor felt nearly steady beneath her feet, and then she opened her eyes. Calen was there too, very pale, but he managed a faint smile.

"You look as bad as I feel."

She tried to laugh, winced and bit back a moan, and Meren's arm tightened around her.

"Do you think you can eat?" he asked. "Both of you, you look like you need it."

Miriel met Calen's eyes, held them for a moment and then nodded, though even that faint motion brought sickness surging in her throat. "I'll try. He nearly threw up on me yesterday. My turn now."

Calen smiled again, stronger this time, and together, slowly, squinting painfully in the sun, they made their way to the Hall.

They ate, and kept the food down, though Calen looked as though he managed it only by an effort of will. When they were done, he met Meren's eyes. "I can't. I'm sorry." And then to her, "Bid Gallach farewell for me."

Meren nodded. "I'll bring you back." And together, Calen leaning heavily on Meren, his eyes nearly closed, they made their way toward the door.

She watched them go, and worry whispered in her. She turned to find Hannas beside her, a steaming mug in her hand. "You look terrible, Mir," she said gently.

"Just tired." She forced a smile, and hoped it was convincing. "Tea will help."

Hannas eyed her skeptically but handed the mug over, and when Miriel had drunk it, she did indeed feel better. Maybe I just needed food.

Meren returned, and answered the question in her eyes before she had asked it. "The healers know he's there. He'll be all right until we get back."

A stir then, starting by the door and rippling through the crowded room, a scraping of benches and clatter of plates as nearly everyone in the Hall rose. The river. It is time. They went out with the crowd, Meren close by her side but not touching, and she glanced at him, rueful and grateful, and he nodded in answer.

Many times she had been to the river, and this felt less different than the Burning, for ashes are ashes. The morning was warm as they passed through the fields, but cold lingered still beneath the trees. As they came to the water, a breeze rustled the early leaves, and she shivered. Meren put his arm around her, and she was glad for it, but she stood steady on her own feet and did not lean on him. That at least I can do.

They gathered by the water, in a flat space by the ford that was kept clear for this purpose. At a sign from Arahael, those who carried the buckets of ashes stepped forward, and one by one they poured their contents slowly into the silent water, and slowly the water bore them away.

Arahael spoke quietly, to the river and not to the crowd, though those who were near him heard, and even those who did not hear knew what he said.

"All water flows to the sea. From water we came, and to water we return. May you find the sea, maethanen."

Tears blurred her eyes, and now she did lean on Meren, and did not much care when footsteps approached, for there was no shame in these tears. But she started at the voice, and hurriedly wiped her eyes.

"Miriel. Will you—can you…." A breath, and then, "The brannon taid wishes to know if you will sing." Belegon's voice was rough, and his eyes red, though he was not now weeping. He smiled a little. "She loved you as a daughter, though she would never have admitted it." A pause, and then, more softly, "Please. It is what she would have wanted."

And there was nothing to do but nod, and step free of Meren's arm, and follow Belegon down to the water's edge. Arahael acknowledged her with a somber smile. "This is the first time for you, maybe," he said quietly, "but it will not be the last. Such is your duty to the North, and to your maethanar."

"Yes, my lord." Her voice was steadier than she had expected, and that gave her confidence. And when the last ashes had been cast, he turned to her, and she turned to the water, and softly she began to sing.

"Come, lonely hunter, chieftain and king,
I will fly like the falcon when I go.
Bear me, my brother, under your wing,
I will strike fell like lightning when I go.
I will bellow like the thunder drum, invoke the storm of war,
A twisting pillar spun of dust and blood up from the valley floor.
I will sweep the foe before me like a gale out on the snow,
And the wind will long recount the story, reverence and glory when I go.

Sigh, mournful sister, whisper and turn,
I will rattle like dry leaves when I go.
Stand in the mist where my fire used to burn,
I will camp on the night breeze when I go.
And should you glimpse my wandering form out on the borderline
Between death and resurrection and the council of the pines,
Do not worry for my comfort, do not sorrow for me so.
All you diamond tears will rise up and adorn the sky beside me when I go."

Silence then, only the rustle of leaves, and the sounds of birds, and the faint purling of water in the stony ford. And in the silence, though she saw before her leaves and water and sunlight, she felt for a moment as though another stood there with her, not Arahael nor Belegon, but one who was as close to her as her own heart. And perhaps it was her heart that she felt, in this first bereavement as a Ranger. For Rangers we are, in all but name. We have fought and bled for the North, and already we bear the Shield.

Sounds behind her then, shuffling feet and soft voices. It was over, and the crowd began to break up and drift back toward the village. Yet still she stood, and stared unseeing into the water.

"Miriel." Belegon's voice, a heavy hand gentle on her shoulder. She turned to him, met his eyes, saw fresh tears on his lined cheeks, but he smiled, and pulled her to him. She leaned against his chest, felt the solid warmth of his body, of his arms around her, and when her heart was steady she stepped back. "Thank you," he said softly.

"It is my honor," and though they were the words of ritual, they were also the words of her heart.

And then behind her, voice even more familiar than Belegon's, "The Shield of the North,sellen."

"In life and in death," she whispered. And with her father on one side and Belegon on the other, slowly she walked back to the village.

They sang that night, and this also she had seen before, for there was a Singing at every death. And she had seen what came before, the hanging of the stars on the wall above the great hearth. It rose high above their heads, the wall of stars, hundreds of them, going back no one truly knew how long. It was said that the Hall had stood five hundred years and more, and some said the stars went back farther still, even to the days of the Great War, and the earliest had been worn by the men of the North who died in the last battle, when the armies of Angmar were utterly destroyed. And for those who believed the oldest stories, the star of Ellenen himself was there, that he had worn when he went alone into the enemy's camp to bargain for peace and never returned. It was said that his star had been found among the wreck of the Witch-King's tents, and thus was it proved that the Brave One had been killed in cold blood. But most thought this only a legend, and the oldest stars had no names.

They were taken down twice a year, at midsummer and midwinter, to be cleaned and polished, and then set back anew without order, and no family could tell which was their loved one's star. It was meant this way, for those who gave their lives to the North did not belong any longer only to their families, and the kinship of Rangers was as strong as any tie of blood. There was no pattern to them, no plan of columns or lines, and each hung on a small nail driven at random into the wood, so that in the shadowed hall the gleam of firelight and candlelight on silver was like a star-filled sky.

As Miriel came to the Wall and handed Gallach's star to Faelon, who stood on a bench to reach high enough for a clear space, she thought of the last line she had sung by the river: 'All your diamond tears will rise up and adorn the sky beside me when I go.' And tears stung her eyes and she was not ashamed to let them fall.

Lain was not there, but Calen sat beside her on a bench near the hearth. The Hall was full, but the trainees had been granted a place of honor, for they had acquitted themselves well, and amid the grief there was pride in the courage and hardihood of this new generation of Rangers. Darkness grows, and evil stalks mountain and moor, but there is hope for us yet if our women still bear such children as these.

Calen put his arm around her shoulders as she returned from the Wall, and though there was a trembling in him that she did not like, and she did not lean on him much though she wished to, still it was a comfort to have him there. But Hannas beside her leaned heavily on Meren and wept quietly but without ceasing, and by that Miriel knew what she had suspected of her and Gallach was true.

As the stars were hung, Belegon's voice rose over the rustle of the crowd, singing words of joy and homecoming, "O-yo calling home the hunters…", but they were slow now, not the proud rhythm of Rangers returning from patrol. And there was a last verse, sung only before the Wall. Tears slipped down his cheeks as he sang, and Miriel felt her breath come short, fear opening within her, a Ranger's dread of dying alone in the Wild.

"If I should fall in the cold and darkness
Far from home in the wild in winter
Send my body on water westward
And bring my star back home."

And though all before had been his voice alone, now they joined him, old and young, men and women and children, and abruptly the lonely hillside vanished, and she was with her brothers in the warmth of the Hall.

"O-yo calling home the hunters
O-yo calling home the hunters
O-yo calling home the hunters
To rest we sing you home."

That was the end of it, as it always was, the last song for those who had died. Belegon sat down, and Sirhael beside him laid a hand on his shoulder, and Belegon let his head fall so that his cheek rested on Sirhael's hand, and he closed his eyes, and for a brief space of time all was quiet, save for the shuffling of feet and the soft sounds of grief.

And then another voice, older, less strong than Belegon's, and the shuffling stilled until they could all hear the brannon taid, as he spoke of Ellenen. They knew the story, for it was told anew at the death of every Ranger. But as with the Burning, this time felt different, and a shiver ran through her. Not fear, nor grief, but a rush as of cold clear water, as Arahael told of the fall of Fornost, and the last parting of Arvedui and his gwador, in the hills above the ruined city.

"Brother beloved, bear my son
To safety and healing, the hope of my line.
Help shall you find at the Havens of Lindon,
But Last-King am I. The land of my fathers
Shall see me no more, nor shall you, brother.
Now go, my brave one, and my blessing on you.
And Ellenen wept, and gathered his warriors,
And weeping he rode into the west."

And so Ellenen fled with the wounded brannon taid, the Heir who must be kept alive at all costs, and Arvedui turned north with a small band of chosen men to draw off pursuit. Far too small, they all knew that. But there was no other choice, if the line of Isildur was not to be utterly destroyed. And Aranarth survived, nursed by the Eldar of Lindon, and so did many of the Dunedain, for Ellenen rallied them, held back pursuit with what men he had left, that the women and children might escape. Many times he faced death, but he did not die, and when the great host marched against Angmar, amid the gleaming companies of Elves and men of the South he led the small, proud remnant of Arnor.

When the war was all but won, and the Witch-King fled, Ellenen went alone into the enemy's camp under promise of safe passage, to talk of peace. But he did not return, and his body was never found, and when it was certain that he had been betrayed, the army of Arnor surrounded their foes and killed them to the last man. And still in after years it was said that the soul of the Brave One did not die with his body but remained in the land that he loved.

"And he will return, the hero of old
In time of great peril to succor his people
And Arnor shall be again as beforetime
Beauty and light by the lake in the hills."

Arahael's voice faded to silence. And many did not see the Hall before them, smoky light and mourning stars, but the city by the lake, long gone to ruin but still held in longing, Annuminas as it was of old.

At last, slowly, people began to speak again, low voices at first but growing to a subdued hum of talk, and they began to rise and drift out into the night. The trainees looked to Faelon, and he spoke softly to the brannon taid and then rose and came over to them. He looked at them for a moment in silence, and they looked back at him, and Miriel thought, At last we understand each other.

"You may stay here, if you wish," he said quietly. "We will resume training in the morning." A pause, and then, "It is not good to be idle." They knew what he meant: To be idle is to sink into grief, and from that sinking it may be hard to rise again.

Hannas remained, and Meren with her, and a few others. But Miriel's head throbbed, and she felt Calen unsteady beside her, and so she helped him up and walked with him back toward the barracks. She heard him breathing, slow and carefully controlled, and she laid a hand on his shoulder in the dark to steady him.

Quietly, "Do you want to go to the healers?"

"No."

She knew the answer, had to ask anyway. There is help they might give you, for I cannot. But of course he would not take it, and so she walked with him, caught him as he stumbled on the threshold, guided him to his bunk in the blind dark and laid his hand on it. "Here," she said softly, and then, "Sit." He sat, let out a harsh breath that was nearly a sob, and she said nothing more, only squeezed his hand and then knelt to take off his boots.

"Mir," he began, but followed it with nothing, and though part of her was glad he did not protest, for she did not have the strength to argue, still worry whispered in her. Were he himself, he would allow this. But she knew it must be all he could manage to stay upright in the dark, and when she was done, he lay down with a groan, and she pulled the blanket over him. Again she wished to reach out, to comfort him in that way she had only just touched, to draw something of his hurt into herself so he could rest. And again she thrust it down as foolishness, and did not allow herself to think what else it might be.


Notes:

Sellen - my daughter

Maethanar - comrade (lit. battle brother); I couldn't find an appropriate Sindarin term, so I created this one. For that matter, English doesn't have quite the right word either, at least not one that is gender neutral and doesn't have Communist connotations.

Again, the legend of Ellenen is entirely mine, though I don't think it significantly contradicts anything Tolkien wrote about the ending of the long war between Arnor and Angmar. Cremation, of course, is very much not in alignment with Tolkien's beliefs, but for a variety of reasons - practical, spiritual, and artistic - I've decided to make it the Dunedain custom in my version of his world.

I didn't realize until long after I wrote this that Silevren is a military reservist, in essence if not in name: She entered active duty as a young woman and was damn good at it, left to raise a family but kept a hand in the game, training and supporting the active force. And when the shit hit the fan, she was ready. I suppose it should not surprise me that there is a reservist in my story, because that has been my career trajectory as well. We all hope that the trial she faced never comes for us. But if it does, we intend to meet it as she did.