They rode until late afternoon, but before the sun sank below the hills behind them Darahad stopped. "Here is as good as anywhere." To Telhirion, "Climb the ridge, see what you see." And then to Anna, "Get her down."
Miriel's hands were clenched around each other, her head resting on the back of Hannas's shoulder as she tried to block out the pain. She had been injured before, but this—nothing like this. Her leg was on fire, and her head felt light.
"Let go, Mir." Anna's voice, almost gentle, hands patient as she loosened Miriel's fingers and then reached an arm around her. The horse was tall, and even with Hannas's help the slide was not entirely controlled. Miriel groaned, and her head reeled as she slid down, ground beneath her no longer solid, body no longer quite her own. A jerk and stagger, Anna's breath harsh in her ear, and then the blessed, cold, damp earth beneath her.
She closed her eyes, mind calmed without sight. Shock, and blood loss. That's all. Not a bad wound, not deep enough. She had spent enough time watching her mother to know that, the small, strange girl-child drawn to understand what steel did to flesh. But she had not felt it, not like this. And then she thought of her own blade, sharp and smooth and gleaming red. I didn't clean it. Somehow, suddenly, nothing was more important. "I—" Hoarse, more breath than voice. Must clean, it must be cleaned…She opened her eyes, tried to find Hannas. "Sword is—the blood—" But her eyes would not focus, and she felt sick.
"Hush, Mir." Hannas's voice seemed muffled, distant, though cool hands caressed her forehead. Her eyes fell closed again, grateful for darkness. "I'll clean your sword. Not much longer, just be still now…"
Sharp pain then, worse than before, and she moaned, and clenched her teeth. But somehow it cleared her mind. Think. Must think. I know how this goes. And she followed their movements though her eyes remained closed, felt the burn of water, the soft strokes of a cloth, the pricks of a needle, over and over as hands held her leg steady. And then it was done. The hands released her, and she lay still, breathing.
"Has she ever had poppy?" Darahad's voice, low, almost tense.
"No."
"Not unless we have to, then."
"You won't have to."
Silence, and then, "He's coming back. Get her up." Creak of knees, and a soft grunt, and Miriel opened her eyes to see Darahad's back moving away from her, dark against the glare of sunset. Movement beside her, and hands beneath her shoulders. She pushed up with one arm, and found that she could sit. Hannas crouched, arm warm around her back. She shivered a little, and Hannas pulled her close. But then, reluctant but firm, "We need to keep moving, Mir. Can you stand?"
Can I? I don't know…Her head still felt unsteady, but she shifted a little, pulled her good leg beneath her, and with Hannas on one side and Anna on the other, she stood. The green hills wavered then settled, and she nodded. "It's all right. I'm…all right." Strained, still a little breathless with pain, but it was the truth.
"Good." Darahad had come back with Telhirion. "No sign of pursuit, but I'll take no chances." He turned to Hannas.
But Anna spoke first. "I'll take her." A breath, and then, "She's mine."
They rode long into the night, nearly full moon in a clear sky giving more than enough light. But Miriel hardly noticed. It took everything in her to stay on the horse, leg throbbing with each movement. Hannas had made her drink water and eat a little, but still her head felt light, and there was little strength in her body. But Anna's arm was solid around her, breath warm on her neck. She will not let me fall.
They rested for a while in the latter part of the night. Her sleep was restless with pain, and she woke bleary and dry-mouthed, still exhausted. Sunrise came early so near to midsummer, and Darahad would not linger in the hills. But she ate and drank, and felt a little better. She staggered to her feet, turned to find Anna watching her, though the others pretended not to. She straightened. "I can ride on my own."
Anna stepped close, laid a hand on her shoulder, looked in her eyes then jerked a nod. "Good."
Anna walked until noon then switched with Telhirion, and as the sun sank below the hills behind them, they came at last to the road. Darahad gazed back the way they had come, then turned to Anna. He said nothing, but she nodded, lips a thin line. He grunted. "We're done here." And they turned their horses north.
They rode until twilight was deep around them, and camped in a thicket well off the road. For the first time in days they made a real fire, not just a small flame to heat water but a true blaze to warm body and heart. They ate sparingly, for they had still a long way to go. But their road now led north, and home.
Miriel and Hannas leaned against each other, shoulder to shoulder, faces to the fire, and Miriel found her eyes drifting closed despite the throbbing pain. At least it's clean, she thought vaguely. No fever. Sleep now…
"Needle and ashes?"
She started a little at Darahad's voice, a quiet question, opened her eyes to find Anna watching her. A long, unreadable look, and then Anna nodded. "She's ready."
Ready…? She felt Hannas tense beside her, tried to force her weary, muddled mind to think but found nothing. But Hannas shifted, left hand pushing back her right sleeve, baring pale skin to the firelight. She turned her palm up, and on the inside of her right wrist: a line, thin and dark, crossed by another near one end. Near the hilt. And Miriel knew then what it was.
One of her first memories, the mark on her father's arm. 'What is that?' she had asked, and frowned when he did not answer. Perhaps he had not heard; it was not like him to ignore her. And so she asked again, louder, 'Papa, what is—'
'Hatholtaith.' Low, without expression, and he did not look at her. But she knew enough to be silent, young though she was, and after moment he let out a breath, and turned to her. 'It means my blade has drawn blood.' That was all, and he left her standing in the sunshine alone. But when she went in, and saw his sword by the door as it always was, she knew truly, for the first time, what it was for.
"The blade-mark," said Darahad quietly, holding out his own wrist in the firelight. His right, and Anna's, and Telhirion's left. "The hand that first drew blood is marked, always. It is not wrong; we do what we must. But it cannot be undone, the spilling of blood with intent to harm. And it must be remembered. The mind may forget; the mark is memory, bound in pain."
Darahad took her right hand, and pushed back her sleeve. Then he looked at Anna. She pressed her lips together, and nodded. "I'll do it."
And so Darahad held Miriel's arm still while Anna pricked her skin, over and over in a thin line, crossed by another near the inner end. Blood welled, and Miriel could not help but flinch as Anna rubbed soot in the wound. But Darahad held her steady, and she drew a breath and forced her arm slack, and watched Anna's fingers smeared in blood and ashes.
"This blade you carry always with you," said Anna, clear and oddly formal. "And the blood you shed, marked in your blood." Anna looked up, met her eyes in the firelight. "Do not forget."
"I will not." And she knew it for the truth.
Anna washed her wrist after, and bound it in a clean cloth. She grunted, not quite a laugh, gestured to Miriel's injured leg. "Take your mind off that a little, maybe." And then, more gently, holding out a steaming mug, "Willowbark. You don't need poppy, but you do need sleep."
Miriel nodded, drank the bitter tea without flinching. But she felt unsteady, strain of body and mind at last too much, and she leaned gratefully on Hannas's shoulder. The crackle of flame, insects loud in the darkness, night breeze cold on her cheeks as tears slipped from closed eyes.
Quiet movement and the soft creak of knees, an arm around her, a voice by her ear. "Maloseg," said Anna softly, and pulled Miriel back to lean against her. And with Anna's arms around her, she drifted at last into sleep.
She did not become accustomed to the pain, not really. Her constant companion for many days, as they rode north into summer, it tugged at body and mind, wearing her temper short. But she thought back to Anna after the fight on the downs, and Halbarad limping in the snow. This too I can bear. Anna watched her, she knew, and did not look away when she caught her at it, only met her eyes and nodded. And sometimes smiled, a little.
The blade-mark scabbed and healed, and gradually the redness faded, leaving only thin black lines. She found herself fingering it, even long after the pain was gone. When she woke from dreams she touched it, stroked it, and found that the motion soothed her mind, let fear fall away into memory.
She did not ask Anna about this, could not, nor could she ask when Anna had received her own mark. Long ago, that was certain, for it had faded a little. She noticed it now, as she had not before, whenever Anna's sleeve slid above her wrist. But she did not ask.
They recrossed the river at Tharbad, far lower than it had been, and continued north as summer flourished around them. They met the occasional cart or rider but heard nothing of much use, and the long empty leagues between were almost peaceful. Her leg healed, more quickly than she had expected—more quickly than Anna expected too, and if Miriel had a reluctant idea, a whisper of a guess of why that might be, she said nothing. As long as she doesn't tell Mother…
They returned to Sarn Ford for only a night, exchanged news with Mahar and then cut across country the next morning to meet the Greenway again. Half a day saved that way, perhaps, Darahad said. "We don't need it now." He glanced deliberately at Miriel and Hannas, "But there may come a time when you will, and you had best know the way."
North again, as rolling land rose into hills on either side of the road, the South Downs to the east, and the Barrow Downs, the haunted Tyrn Gorthad, to the west. Smooth and green they lay in the summer sun, unthreatening, but she thought of Faron and shuddered. The road climbed, slowly but without cease, to a windy height between two hills. They camped there, sheltered in the ruins of ancient stonework nearly overgrown with grass and heather.
Even Darahad did not know for certain what it had been. "Guard post, most likely," he said, when Miriel asked. And then, glancing from her to Hannas, "Why? Why would the men of Arnor put a guard here?"
Hannas frowned, looked at the road that fell away north and south, the hills that rose east and west. "It would be easy to defend. You can see anyone coming a long way off." Darahad nodded, and almost smiled.
And Miriel thought of Thurinrim, and Cirith Annûn, and though the evening breeze was warm, she shuddered. She looked round for Anna—but she was gone, the place where she had been sitting empty but for shadows. Miriel frowned, rose and walked away from the fire, let her eyes adjust to the night. Movement then, on the slope above her, pale hair just visible against the shadowed grass.
Leave her. She wants to be alone.
But I don't. And she climbed.
Anna said nothing when Miriel sat down, dry heather crackling faintly beneath her. They gazed out over the shadowed land. At last Miriel said quietly, "It reminds me of the mountains. Just a little."
A soft grunt, not quite a chuckle. "Just enough, eh?" And then, "A year ago, or close to it." Anna turned, smile almost hidden in the twilight. "We've come a long way, Mir."
And Miriel sat in silence, until astonishment mellowed to warm pride. Care also, and she smiled. "Supper should be ready by now. Come down to the fire?"
"No." Sharp and sudden, and Miriel nearly flinched at the change. Anna let out a breath, seemed almost as if she would speak, but she said nothing more.
Wind whispered in the grass, and stars brightened in the clear summer night. There is a reason. And it is hers, not yours.
She rose without a word, went down to the fire and returned with two steaming bowls. Anna took one, and they ate without speaking. Then Miriel returned to the others, and Anna slept alone on the hill.
The road wound downwards all the next morning, and they quickened their pace until Miriel's injured leg ached with each step. It was her turn to walk that day, and though the wound was long closed, and she could move and fight nearly as well as ever, it was not entirely healed.
The South Downs sank behind them, and the road flattened, though to their left the Barrow Downs still rolled green against the sky. They came to a place where a stream flowing down out of the hills passed under the Road in a stone-arched culvert. Unthinkably ancient those stones looked to be, worn and weathered so they seemed part of the land itself. But they stood firm, the craft of the men of Númenor still doing the work it had been made for, though the craftsmen were long gone to dust.
There was a camping place by the stream, clearly used with some regularity though now it was deserted. Darahad halted, and turned to them. "Stop, or go on? We should make the South Road garrison by evening. Might be late, but we can rest a while if we need to." And he glanced deliberately at Miriel.
She bit her lip. She longed for it, longed to take the weight off her aching leg. But do you need it? Want is not enough. I don't know, I've never done this before…She turned to Anna without thinking, as if for guidance—and froze.
Fear. She had never seen it on Anna's face before, but she knew it. Pale, tight lips, wide eyes, breath carefully controlled. Fingers of her left hand clenched around her right wrist.
There was no time to puzzle it out. And no reason to. "We'll go on." A breath. "I'm fine."
Darahad looked her up and down, and nodded. "Very well."
Eighteen years earlier
Stumbling down out of the hills, hurting, bleeding. He would not let Mother help, slapped her when she tried. He had never struck Mother before. Cruel words, yes, but this was new. Something had twisted in him, some cord of restraint snapped, and he was no longer who he had been before. Or maybe he was himself more truly. I didn't care. It didn't matter.
North up the old road, aching, slowly healing, bruises fading. But the words did not fade. 'Unnatural bitch.' That was the kindest of them; no use repeating the others. And he cursed Mother too, blamed her for me. For who I was, what I was, what I had done. I didn't understand it, not really. But then, there were many things I didn't understand. Why he could hit Mother, but she couldn't hit him. Why what I did made me a whore—for he called me that too—but what he did in nearly every village, not even bothering to hide it from her, did not make him one. I said nothing, of course. I'd had enough pain. And more than that, I'd had enough. Of it all. Of him, of Mother, of this bitter, sorry life. Not of life itself; I was too stubborn for that. But of this life.
I was disgusted with him. Disgusted with myself too, for if a child is told something often enough, she begins to believe it. I was worthless, useless, an ugly lump of weight. A woman too early and yet not woman enough. I was nothing.
And because I was nothing, I had nothing left to fear.
It was a chance meeting, as they say. Late one afternoon, on a height of land between hills, we met traders heading south. Why he decided to camp with them, I'll never know. He didn't, usually. Too afraid of his goods being stolen, or his women interfered with. That's what he called it, interfering. As if it were a nuisance, a small tiresome thing. But for some reason this night his fear was forgotten. Or perhaps overcome by something stronger, the need to be with other men, to talk to them. To ask them about me. Didn't even try to hide it, asked them right out, over the fire after supper, flask in hand. Did they know what would cause such unnaturalness in a girl?
Mother was there too, her face blank as they laughed and gave one crude idea after another. He laughed too, after making it clear I was not his child. 'If she ain't your blood, then why not have her?' A ragged chorus of whistles, drunken shouts of agreement, but he waved them off, said I disgusted him too much after what I had done. 'Then let one of us do it!' Even more cheers. I hugged my knees, tried and failed to catch Mother's eye. But I was not afraid. My body trembled, and my mouth was dry, but I did not feel fear. I felt nothing.
He did not let them do it. I don't know why. Not out of kindness, or fatherly care, that was certain. But I was his, not theirs, and he hated being forced into anything. He was intrigued by the idea, that was clear. But not this night.
The talk moved on. They forgot me, and fell to boasting in the way of tired, lonely men with too much drink in them. The deals they had done, the women they had fucked, the men they had killed. How easy it was, all of it. Especially the killing.
Not a quarter of it was true, I know that now. But my eyes were wide, and I believed. They went on their way south in the morning, and we north. And the next night as he lay sleeping, I took one of the cooking knives and slit his throat.
It was easy. The blade was sharp, and my hand steady, though afterwards it shook so badly I could hardly clean the knife. But I did, and my hands, leaning against an arch of worn stones where a stream flowed under the road. I sat for a time in silence, listening to the water. And then I woke Mother.
She did not scream. She seized me, shook me so hard my teeth rattled. 'Why, Anna? Why?' Then her hands fell away, and she crumpled. 'How will we live now?' Her fear was real, and her anger. But they did not frighten me. Little now could frighten me.
'Next time he would not have stopped them,' I said flatly. And then, 'We must bury him.' I had already thought this through, while I waited for them to fall asleep. 'Well off the road. We'll go to Bree. Say he slipped, hit his head on a rock.' Mother shuddered, drew a few deep, gasping breaths. Then she nodded.
We had plenty of light for the work, moon more than half full in a clear sky. We dragged him to a hollow where the ground was soft. I did most of the digging, Mother still unsteady, trembling, staring into the night. Blisters rose and ripped on my palms, and my arms ached. But as the moon sank to the hills, I finished the grave. Mother said some words, so softly I could not hear them, as I shoveled the dirt over him. Then we turned away, stumbling in the dark that followed the setting of the moon.
Once we were sure all the blood-stained blankets were out of the tent, we lay down on what was left. I wept then. But when Mother put her arms around me, I jerked away, and she did not do it again. Toward dawn, despite it all, I slept a little.
In the morning, we washed our clothes and blankets, then packed up and headed north towards Bree. As hooves clopped along dry dirt, we made sure of our story. 'You must at least pretend to show grief,' she told me, for to all we met while traveling, he was my father.
'I can act,' I said. 'You've seen enough to know that.' That shut her up for a while.
And in the end, not much acting was required. The emptiness I felt was enough to bring tears, and if they were not truly tears of grief, who would know? I could act, pretend, be what others required that I be. And who I was, I buried deep.