At last she heard them. Tramp of boots on dry grass, muted clank of gear. The Druadwaith all had swords and knives, but only two bows; that was important. And they won't even be strung. 'If you can take them out quickly, they'll be no trouble.' A grim smile. 'And we can handle Druadwaith swordsmen.' She eased to kneeling, and set an arrow to the string.

Below, the strangers rounded the bend. They caught sight of Halbarad and shuffled to a halt.

"You cannot pass through our lands." Slow and clear. They would not all speak the common tongue, Anna had said. But their leader would, and likely some others as well. "They are closed to you."

Shuffling silence, and then a man stepped forward. "We will go where we want." Accent strange, but his words were clear. Or not so strange, Miriel thought, after a moment of trying to place it. Like Cerlan.

"The lands of Arnor are closed to you," Halbarad said again.

It was strange to hear them referred to in that way, for it was not strictly true, not now. But the man scoffed, and then she knew why Halbarad had used that name.

"Arnor is gone. Arnor is nothing. Your people are weak, and we will go where we want."

"You will not go this way." And Halbarad raised a hand.

She had been ready, tense with waiting, forced herself to relax so her hands did not shake. But she had already chosen her target, and the arrow flew true.

The man beside the leader cried out, blood staining his leg around the shaft.

"Her next arrow will kill you." Flat now, and menacing.

The man stared at Halbarad a moment longer, while his comrade grunted in pain. But Miriel knew what he would do before he did it, saw the stiffening of his shoulder. And as his hand went for his sword, she released.

He was moving, twisting, and so the arrow caught him in the back, not the throat as she had intended. But he jerked, stumbled to his knees, and Halbarad's sword slid into him.

His comrades were quick on the draw, but the Rangers were quicker. Arrows hissed down, and men began to fall. Halbarad leaped back, as they had planned, out of range of the arrows. But he was pursued, as they had also known he would be.

Four of the enemy had fallen, but the others remained, two of them wounded but still on their feet, and they closed in on Halbarad as he blocked the way out. This was the dangerous moment, as he faced them alone.

Miriel watched, ready for any that tried to flee. Two of them reached Halbarad at once; they would likely have got past him had they simply run. But they did not. Perhaps they thought they could take him down, outnumbered, and open the way for the others. But the way did not open.

Halbarad lunged, struck and then spun away, slipped aside like a dancer, made an off-balance thrust that should have gone wide but somehow it found its mark, whirled and stabbed a man he could not have seen coming up behind. And then Anna burst down on them, and Falaran two steps later. A few more moments of steel, and shouts, and screams, and it was done.

The Druadwaith lay on the ground, some clearly dead, others still groaning. Miriel slung her bow over her shoulder, feet placed carefully on the rocky slope, for she found that her legs were shaking. And as she came down, she watched the Rangers below.

Halbarad and Anna moved together. They went first to the leader, still breathing though blood bubbled from his lips. Anna kicked his weapons away, and put her foot on his right hand. Halbarad knelt on the left, and bent over the man's contorted face.

"Where were you going?" Harsh and loud, and Anna repeated it in the Druadwaith tongue, for perhaps a dying man would respond in the tongue of his birth. But he said nothing, only closed his eyes, and Anna ground her heel into his hand.

"Where were you going?" Louder, and the man open his eyes, growled out a single word.

Halbarad looked at Anna. "Nowhere," she spat.

He nodded, and drew his knife, and without pause cut the man's throat. And they left him, and went to the next.

Miriel felt numb. She knew what she had seen. And yet she did not know it, could not know it. He was wounded, dying. But they…And as she watched, the second man refused to answer, and died.

The third flinched and cried out as they came close. He was bleeding heavily from a swordstroke to the thigh, but still when he saw them coming he tried to crawl away. Halbarad grabbed his shoulder, forced him to his back. And this time, when Anna spoke the man answered. Halbarad did not take his eyes from the man's face, and Miriel remembered Faelon: 'Do not look away from the threat until you are certain it is gone.' And even as Anna translated, he did not look away.

"A village of men," she said. "He doesn't know what it's called. And then a road, south, to a land where people are kin to his own. Doesn't know what that's called either. But the men there will be—" She paused. "The men there will help."

"Help with what?" Halbarad growled.

She repeated it. The man's face tightened, and he ground out a few words, among them a phrase Miriel had come to recognize. "Help us fight the Dunedain bastards."

Halbarad grunted, almost a laugh. "Who's the bastard now?" And then, "Who sent you?"

The man said no more.

Anna repeated the question, but the man turned his face away. Briefly, Halbarad's eyes met Anna's, and she nodded, and his knife flashed red in the westering sun.

There was one more wounded man who could still speak, but they got nothing more from him, and he died like the rest. Halbarad wiped his bloody hands on the grass. And then he turned to Anna.

"Let me see."

Her lips tightened, and she glared at him. But she said nothing, and after a moment unbuckled her belt, and stiffly pulled her tunic over her head. She grunted with effort, and Halbarad helped her with the left arm. And Miriel did not see until it was off that the dirty white shirt beneath was stained with blood. That came off too, with more obvious pain.

Halbarad turned to Miriel. "Go back to the gear. Bring water and my pack."

She turned, and ran.

When she returned, breathing hard, Falaran had made a small fire of twisted grass and twigs, and Anna was sitting on a rock, Halbarad crouched beside her. But his drawn face relaxed a little as she approached and set down the gear beside him. "You know how to wash a wound?"

She swallowed, and nodded.

She tried to be gentle, though she knew it was no use. The water would burn, and every touch would be agony. But Anna did not flinch, sat straight and breathed slowly through clenched teeth. And by the time it was done, Halbarad had pulled bandages and needle and thread from his pack. The torn edges of flesh gaped, blood sliding down pale skin to drip on the ground.

"Wipe that away. Then hold the edges closed." His voice was calm now, almost soothing, and she realized with shame that her hands were shaking. But she made herself breathe slowly, and did as he ordered, crouched beside him on the bloody grass. Anna's lips tightened, and her breath hissed through her teeth, but she made no other sound as Halbarad closed the wound.

Miriel the healer's daughter watched with detached approval at his skill, fingers swift and sure and almost gentle, and she knew her mother could not have done better. When at last he was done, and the wound bandaged, he took Anna's other hand, and looked in her eyes. He said nothing, but she nodded, and the barest trace of a smile curved her lips. And then he breathed out, and said very softly, "Gwethor nin." He squeezed her good shoulder. "You should eat."

And while the others cleaned their weapons, and searched the dead for anything of value, and Miriel washed Anna's bloody clothes in the stream, Anna sat on the rock in silence and ate. When Miriel returned to her, she was still very pale, gasped and swayed and grabbed Miriel's shoulder for balance as she stood. But after a moment it was gone, and she stood steady on her feet, and took the wet shirt from Miriel's hands. "Dry faster on me than off," she grunted, and tugged it over her head, wincing.

They stayed no longer than barest need required, flies already buzzing thick around the bodies. They took all the coin and supplies and weapons worth taking, and thus burdened, they turned back toward the road.

The sun was already sinking behind the hills to the west, and they didn't go far before finding a place to camp, a grassy clearing beneath low trees around a spring. It was small, but cold even in summer, and they shivered a little as they washed away the rank sweat of battle. Anna was tight-lipped and silent, and she grunted but did not protest when Halbarad gave her a bitter drink of willowbark and poppy.

He said quietly, "You need to sleep."

Anna looked at him for a moment without expression, then reached for the cup with her good arm and drank.

Miriel did not know what to do, felt a strong and unfamiliar urge to comfort, and an equally strong warning against anything of the sort. And so instead she sat by Calen, a little away from the others, watching the stars as darkness fell. She ate a few bites, but then her stomach twisted as her mind returned to the bloody men on the ground, and the knife. She shuddered, despite the lingering late summer warmth, and Calen moved close, and put an arm around her shoulders. He did not speak, only waited. At last she said softly, "I know why he did it. But I—could not. If that is what I must do…"

Calen did not answer at once. At last, he said quietly, "Falaran did not. I saw Halbarad look at him, and he shook his head. He would not do it."

And then the next question hung in the air between them. She did not want to ask, did not want to know but needed to know. At last, very quietly, "Would you?"

"I don't know." Silence, and then, slowly, "I think so. If it was what was needed, to protect my maethanar, to protect my people." And then with more certainty, "I would do it, if it was what was needed to protect you. That I know. As for the rest," he shrugged, "I'll find out when the time comes. As will you."

"I would not. I would never—"

"You might, Mir. You do not know what you would not do, until the choice comes. And perhaps it will never come. But if it does, you will know then."

She nodded, laid her head on his shoulder, and after a time they lay down, side by side on the dry grass. And after a much longer time, she slept.


Halbarad sat with Anna by the remains of the fire, while she waited for the poppy to dull mind and pain so she could sleep.

"Your girl didn't flinch." Satisfied, almost, as if it confirmed something he already knew. "Not in the fight or after. Sirhael's daughter, eh?"

"That she is."

Silence for a while, and then, quietly, "What have you told her, Annie?"

"Nothing."

Halbarad grunted, glanced briefly at her and then back to the fire.

"What am I supposed to tell her?" An edge of anger now. "Why does she need to know?"

Silence, and then, carefully, not looking at her, "She doesn't. But she should." Halbarad let out a breath, and looked at her sidelong in the firelight. "Silevren would have wanted it."

Anna's lips tightened. She blinked, looked away, said nothing.

"She would never have only one purpose." A soft, dry laugh. "Miriel is not the only one being trained."

"I know. I fucking know, all right?" Anna shook her head. "Still can't half believe I'm doing this. Said I never would, you know that?"

"Oh, I know." And then his dry smile slipped sideways into a grin. "And maybe she had another reason?"

Anna looked at him. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"I don't know what you mean," she said flatly.

"You do."

"You don't."

"Yes, Anna, I do."

"Might have changed."

"It hasn't."

"How do you know?"

And suddenly very gentle, "Gwethor nin, I have eyes."

Uncertain now, suddenly almost afraid, "Do others?"

Halbarad chuckled softly. "Have eyes? Yes. Know?" He shook his head. "I think not."

Anna looked at him, long and searching. His face tightened as if in pain, and he sucked in a breath, and looked away.

"You brought it up," she said softly.

"I know."

"Six years, Hal." Quiet, deliberate clarity.

"I fucking know." Almost shaking, his anger now the match of hers, she now the one calmly pressing.

"Pots and kettles, brother."

He sighed, looked back at her, gave her a bleak, tired smile. "So it is."

Silence for a time, as the fire sank into coals. Wind rustled the leaves above them, dry and cool with the first hint of autumn.

"How did you fare in the north?"

Anna told him, slow and halting, poppy beginning to fog her mind. And when her voice faded at last, he said quietly, not looking at her, "Not a mistake then?"

A strained, drowsy chuckle. "No. Nor yours?"

Silence, and then, soft and fervent, "Not in the least."


Note: There are no Geneva Conventions in Middle Earth. But you already knew that...