They reached the South Road guard post just after sunset. Lain and his saethir were there, and he greeted Miriel and Hannas with joy and fervent, poorly-disguised relief. "They told us you had gone south." He gestured with his chin toward the other Rangers of the guard. "Dunland, that's what they said," he added doubtfully, "though I half-thought they were playing with me. They've made rather a game of that…"

Miriel shook her head. "They weren't." A wry grin. "Not this time." She lowered her voice. "My ass has never been so sore."

Lain laughed, and led them over to the fire to get food. Less than a day south of Bree, the South Road guard rarely lacked for adequate provisions. "How did you get such a soft post?" Hannas asked with a grin, after they had filled their bowls.

But mirth fell away from his face, and he bit his lip. "Daeron." He gestured to his saethir, a large, full-bearded man, who sat with Darahad and Telhirion by the fire. "He…" Lain faltered, swallowed, and Hannas touched his arm. He gave her a wan smile, drew a breath, and nodded. "I would be dead but for him." He gestured them away from the fire, and they sat on a bank as the last light faded and summer stars shone out bright above them.

"Wolves found us in the mountains near Stonebridge," said Lain quietly. "Or rather, we found them." He shook his head. "But they were more than we bargained for."

"Stonebridge?"

Lain nodded. "The brannon taid sent us with the High Pass garrison early in the spring. When we reached the village, folk told us wolves had been prowling round for weeks. Woodcutters hardly dared to go out, let alone shepherds. From the tracks, it looked like five or six, certainly no more than ten." A grim chuckle. "But either we misread the signs, or those were some cursed clever wolves." He glanced back toward the fire. "Baranor was our captain, so my money's on the wolves. There were twenty of them. Fucking twenty. And those were only the ones we killed." He swallowed. And then, quietly, "One of them got me on the ground. Daeron killed it, but his sword stuck. Before he could get it free, another was on his back." He shook his head. "I've never seen so much blood. Nasty, dirty wounds, too. We thought he would die. But his time was not yet come, or so he says." Lain glanced again toward the fire, a softness in his face. "Nor mine. We stayed in the village until he was healed enough to travel, but Baranor didn't want him in the high country with a weak back. So he sent us here." A faint smile flickered across his lips. "To the soft post."

Miriel and Hannas chuckled, but there was little mirth in it. Wolves did not often trouble Elenost itself, but they lurked in the woods and wild lands, and Miriel had heard enough stories as a child to be thoroughly terrified. The terror had faded with the years, at least a little. But still she shuddered, and groped for something else to think about. "Have you seen anyone else? Any other maethorneth, I mean?" Meren's laughing face came into her mind, and she clung to it to drive away fear.

"Yes." Lain's voice went abruptly cold. "Tarag was with us at Stonebridge." He shook his head. "He quit." A derisive snort. "Just fucking quit. Wouldn't leave the village when we went out after the wolves."

"There is no shame in fear," said Hannas quietly.

"No. But there is if you leave your maethanar to face danger without you."

Or lead them into danger through your pride. Miriel remembered his face in the gray light before the field trial, his flat refusal to take a partner. He had seemed to come around after that, after all that happened—after we saved him from himself—but still a distance had remained. She shook her head. "Better to find out now than later. What happened to him?"

"Nothing, really. When Daeron and I came back west, we brought him with us, took him to his village. He'll make his own life now." Lain scowled. "And good riddance."

That is unkind. He did his best; many a good man is not destined for the Company.

He should have known it. Known himself enough to know, before he was forced to it.

Would you? How well do you know yourself, truly?

Better than that. She looked at Lain and Hannas beside her, Darahad and Telhirion and the others gathered around the fire. And then she heard her father's voice, in the Hall before another fire, strong and clear in the cadence of story. But the words were not his. 'And Ellenen stood before his king, as the fearful order hung between them. 'Leave me, brother. Take my son, and go.' He knew its meaning, and he trembled. And his men were afraid, as darkness pressed close, with the ruin of all they held dear. But the Brave One did not say, Do not fear. 'All men fear,' he said. Words every Dunedain knew, man, woman, and child. 'Look to your left, and to your right. Look at your brothers, who will not leave you. For the opposite of fear is love.'

They left the South Road garrison early the next morning and came to the West Gate of Bree before noon. They halted outside the ditch, and Darahad glanced round at them all. "I don't know about anyone else," he said, face carefully blank, "but I've had enough of villages, and villagers, to last me a good long while."

Dry chuckles, and nods. "I'll go," said Telhirion. He gestured to Miriel and Hannas. "Make sure the innkeeper knows these two." He glanced from Darahad to Anna. "Anything aside from food?" Darahad shook his head. But Anna grunted, pulled a coin from her belt pouch and handed it to Miriel. "Give this to the smith's boy. To the boy, mind you," she said, the barest hint of a wry smile twitching her lips. "Not the smith."

Telhirion spoke courteously to the Breelander at the gate; the man scowled and waved them through without a word. They heard the smithy before they reached it, the hammer's clang harsh in the hot air. Telhirion caught Miriel's eye, nodded toward the noise. "You go on. Meet us at the Pony."

"I—" I don't know him…

He'll recognize you. Not likely to forget last time.

And indeed he did, eyes widening as he took her in, then looked behind her and around. "She's not here," said Miriel, trying her best to mimic Anna's flat, quelling tone. "But she gave me something for the boy."

The smith frowned, then shrugged. "Jona," he called. No response, and he was drawing breath for a louder shout when the boy appeared around the corner of the shed, red-faced and puffing.

"Yessir—I—sorry, sir—"

The smith cut him off with a wave of his hand. "The girl's got something for you. From that Ranger came here last summer." And then, a bit less harshly, "The one who knew your mother and father."

The boy swallowed, nodded, stared at her without speaking. He was taller than he had been, Miriel thought, nearly as tall as the smith, though probably no more than half his weight. Skinnier than Meren, and that's saying something. But she held back her smile, and extended her hand. The coin gleamed dully in the sun, and the boy hesitated before taking it. She nodded encouragingly. "It's for you. From Anna." She felt suddenly uncomfortable, the words inadequate, and wished Anna had given her some longer message. And then realization: She did. But for the smith, not the boy. And she met this smith's eyes, and this time she let the smile show.

She had been in the Prancing Pony only once before, nearly two years ago with Faelon, but the door stood invitingly open in the summer sun. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness inside, she found Telhirion and Hannas by the empty hearth. Telhirion stood at his ease, but Hannas glanced warily round, and a relieved smile lit her face when she caught sight of Miriel. But before she could speak, there was a thumping in the passageway behind the bar, and a big man in a dirty white apron lumbered into the light, shaking his head. "Nothing for you, master. One a' your folk came through not long ago, a fortnight maybe. None since." He paused, swallowed, seemed to hesitate.

He doesn't like us, she realized. Why? We give him enough custom…

But Telhirion nodded. "Very well. We'll eat, then, and be on our way." And without waiting for an answer, he gestured Miriel and Hannas to a table in the corner.

In the middle of a sunny summer day, the common room was nearly empty. The Rangers sat by themselves, and ate the food the innkeeper brought to them with silent relish, disturbed by no one but the serving-boy coming to refill their mugs. He was not a boy, really, but a large, awkward lad, one foot each in boyhood and manhood, and he moved with that clumsy care that comes from uncertainty about whether one's limbs will behave as expected. He nearly spilled Hannas's mug, mumbled red-faced apologies so profuse that Hannas could hardly keep a straight face. But she managed it, and simply watched while he mopped up the drips with a rag. Telhirion, with a sidelong glance at Hannas, at last came to his rescue. "Fine weather we're having, eh lad?"

The remark was innocuous, but the boy seized on it, eyes wide with relief. "Ooh, aye, fine weather indeed, the finest we've had in years, so my da says, but then he'd know, him bein' the master of this here inn for thirty years and more, long before even my oldest sister was a babe, and she with four babes of her own now, out Archet way, married a forester from the Chetwood, though why a man would want to leave his own home and spend all his days in a great dark wood I never could say, and my brother married a farm girl from Coombe, only child of her father's, only one who lived, that is, so he'll be master of the farm one day, but not for me, that's not, no fields nor forests, for my da says I'm to take over the inn for him when I'm grown, so he can sit by the fire all day with a mug of beer and—"

"Barley!" A shout from the kitchen, loud and irritated. "Boy, where've you got to? There's dishes still want washing, and the floor won't sweep itself."

The boy started, nearly spilling the beer again, flashed them a look equal parts exasperation and apology, and hurried off.

Hannas let out an exaggerated breath, and Telhirion chuckled. "Barliman's not a bad lad. An innkeeper must like to talk, nearly as much his stock in trade as beer."

"But maybe not quite so much?" Miriel suggested, with an arch smile.

"He'll learn." Telhirion glanced from her to Hannas, and raised an eyebrow. "As others have done before him."

After they had eaten, they bought fresh supplies and returned to Darahad and Anna on the road. Telhirion met Darahad's eyes and shook his head, and the captain shrugged. "I've brought Arahael no news before. He'll live." Telhirion grunted, not quite a laugh, and the corners of his lips twitched.

But then all mirth faded, as they glanced round at each other, for they had journeyed so far together, and endured so much, and now parting was come.

"She should see the East Road," Darahad said to Telhirion. "And take one of the horses. Daeron said one of the Stonebridge mounts went lame." Then he turned to Anna. But gave her no order, only cocked his head in question.

"She should see the halflings' land." Anna looked away toward the west. "Know what we protect." She pursed her lips, then shrugged. "North from there, maybe. Or maybe not. What comes will come." But she glanced at Miriel and then at Hannas, and the barest hint of a smile softened her face. "But back to Elenost by midwinter, come what may."

Notes:

Time for a fun, fluffy chapter; they all deserve it.

Stonebridge, in case you don't remember (and I don't blame you; it's only had a couple of mentions, and they were quite a while ago), is the town I've made up that sits at the foot of the Misty Mountains, where road begins to climb in earnest up toward the High Pass.

And hat tip to Steven Pressfield and Gates of Fire :)