She woke in gray light, slowly and strangely, without the suddenness of cold and hard ground. She groaned, pushed herself up from the soft bed and blinked to clear her head. The fire that she had found when she returned the night before was only a mound of banked ash, but she rose stiffly, crouched before it, found embers still glowing in its heart. There was wood stacked neatly on one side of the hearth, kindling in a bucket on the other, and soon a blaze crackled. She warmed her hands before it, more out of habit than necessity, for the room was not truly cold. She rose, stretching out the stiffness in her legs, then dressed and brushed her hair. Perhaps I can wash it today, she thought idly. But then her stomach twisted in anticipation at the thought of what today might hold. And also in hunger, despite the generous meal the night before. They had been sparing with their food on the journey, knowing they might be caught for days in a storm; Meren's face was thin, and she knew hers must be as well. But even as she debated whether to wake him, or seek food on her own, or eat the stale remnants of hard bread and dried fruit in her pack, there came a soft knock, and she pulled the door open to find an Elf bearing a tray.

"When you have eaten, I will bring you to the healers." That was all, and he handed her the tray and vanished into the morning shadows. She stood for a moment staring after him, then shook her head. Might as well eat.

There was more food than she could comfortably manage, and she had to force herself to leave some uneaten. I am staying here; there will be no lack. And though a part of her was grateful not to be going back out into winter in the Wild, there was also visceral regret that they would leave without her, leave her alone among these strange creatures, who were in form like men but in spirit so different.

She was sipping tea when the Elf returned. He said nothing but gestured for her to follow. Pale sunlight slanted through the eastern windows as they walked down one corridor and then another, stairs and another corridor and more stairs, and the faint rush of the river whispered beneath the sound of her footsteps. At last they came to a door at the end of a corridor filled with light. He turned and gazed at her then, eyes clear as if they could see through her, but she could not read what was in them. He said quietly, "Go in. He is expecting you." And without waiting for reply, he bowed and left her. She felt once again very alone in this strange house, but the early sunlight fell on her, and she smiled a little. And so she straightened, drew a breath, and pushed open the door.

The room was full of light, with windows facing south and east and north, and she squinted in the brightness. Two chairs faced the windows along the south wall, a low bed along the east, and a shelf laden with leather-bound volumes and untidy stacks of paper sat beneath the windows that faced north. But in the center of the room was a large table, plain and solid, its surface smooth with years but scored and stained and faded, and now piled with bundles of plants. And behind it stood an Elf, carefully tying a spray of small flowers with thread.

He looked up when she entered, but his hands did not cease their work until it was done. Then he laid them on the table, and waited for her to speak.

She saw him first in outline, dark against the brightness of the eastern windows. But as her eyes became accustomed to the light she saw him clearly, and drew in a breath.

"You—last night—" she faltered, aware that she was being impolite but unable to think past her confusion.

A moment longer he looked at her in silence, then nodded. "I wanted to see you. To make sure of you, before I accepted. So I asked to bring your water."

She waited for him to say more, and when he did not, she frowned. "Before you accepted what?"

"You," he answered simply. A pause, and then, "Before I accepted the charge as your guide. The two must be…suitable. I most often take the Dunedain, those of your people who come to us for teaching. But some I cannot…feel, and so I cannot teach them." He let out a soft breath, and Miriel was surprised to sense frustration. "It is difficult to explain. Later you will understand."

Silence again, as he looked at her, and she had a clear sense now that he was taking her measure. She stood still and met his eyes, and there was only the faint rustle of the river far below, and the hush of her breath seemed loud in the stillness.

At last, almost abruptly, he relaxed and stepped back, gestured her to the chairs by the window. "You have eaten?"

She nodded, not knowing how to address him, and conscious enough now of propriety to be wary.

"I am sorry," and now he smiled a little, and it warmed his pale, smooth face. "I understand your folk are much concerned with names and titles; perhaps such things have more meaning to those whose lives are short. We have little need for them. You may call me Girith."

"I—yes—Girith." She flushed, but forced herself to speak. "I am Miriel daughter of Sirhael. Though you…already know that…"

"I do. I trained your mother. Many years ago, as your people reckon it. And I knew your sister, though she was not mine." A pause, and then with the gentle directness that she knew from the healers of Elenost, "I have spoken with Estel—your Lord Aragorn, that is. He told me what you did, and why. And he told me of Mirloth." This last softly, and she turned to meet his eyes and saw pain in them. "She was so strong, so terribly strong. I knew it was a risk. As did she." He looked in her eyes. "But had she not taken that risk, you would not be here." He sighed. "Some say a healer should not love. Certainly, grief can come of it. But it is so with every choice, and all paths may come to grief in the end." Silence again, and then a soft, hollow laugh, and he glanced at her and then away. "That is not how I intended to begin this morning. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," she said softly, at once. And then, "Thank you."

He looked back to her, held her eyes for a long moment, and then he smiled. It seemed strained, as if he did not often do so and had to remind the muscles of his face how it was done. "You are welcome among us, Miriel daughter of Sirhael." But the smile slid away, as if holding it required an effort of will.

They were quiet again for a time, and Miriel watched the morning in the valley: mist rising from the river, frost sparkling on bare branches and withered grass, some small creature scuttling in the reeds. She found the path they had taken in the meadow, traced it up the side of the valley until it vanished in shimmering dimness as sunlight poured through the mist. And though she was glad to be warm and dry and clean and full, still the Wild whispered in her, and a part of her wished to be climbing up into the dark forest, and the craggy peaks beyond.

Girth's voice pulled her back. "May I see you?"

She knew what it was that he asked, for the healers used the word thus, and spoke it almost as sacred. She nodded, and held out her hand.

He took it, and looked in her eyes, and she had a strange, empty feeling of transparency, for he saw both within her and without, and the barriers of flesh had no meaning. But though she tensed for discomfort, even pain, the sense of him when she felt it in her was gentle, fresh and cool as a morning in spring, and she felt herself not invaded but strengthened by it. It felt different than Aragorn, both the sense of him and her own response, and this was more of an effort. But still there was comfort in it, and an echo of that deep joy, and she found herself smiling. She felt him searching her, the strength of her body and the strength of her mind, felt him asking to see, and willingly she allowed it, and though it was a thing felt but not understood, she did not fear it.

Yet when at last he withdrew, and she looked at him and saw him with outer eyes only, his face was pale and drawn. Instinctively she pressed the hand that still held hers, laid her other over it. "What is wrong?" she asked softly. She knew that it was not in her, for she saw it on his face but did not feel it, and so she was not frightened. But she knew also that she was somehow the cause of it, and she suddenly felt pity for him, strange as that seemed when she thought about it later.

"Forgive me," he said again, and there was a distance in his eyes even as he spoke to her, and the words were empty. He looked down at her hands that still held his, and for a long moment he did not move. Then he seemed to start, drew a long breath and straightened, and gently he pulled his hand away. "We who have lived long remember many things," he said softly, and turned from her to gaze out the western window. He was again dark, as she had first seen him, an outline against the brightness of dawn, and still, as if he hardly breathed. She did not know what to do, did not know whether perhaps, this initial test passed, she was dismissed for that time. But the stillness of the room sank into her, and she found she could wait without impatience. At last he turned away from the bright valley beyond the glass, and she felt more than saw his eyes on her.

"You were right to come," he said, in that same quiet, calm voice. "It may be harder now; the young take more easily to the way. But you will find it, if it is within you to find." Silence again as he watched her, and again she had the feeling of being measured, though on what scale and to what end she could not guess. But then it was gone, and he came away from the light and gestured her to a chair by the windows that faced south, and as she sat her eyes followed the river until it faded into shadow under high walls. With an effort, she pulled her eyes away from the valley and found he was watching her. To her surprise, he smiled a little. "It is a beautiful place. We who spend our lives here forget, perhaps, that not all places are like this. You will find peace here – at least, peace of the body."

She did not ask what he meant, for she thought she knew. 'Your way will be very hard, so hard that one could not with honor thrust it upon another.' And I swore the oath full willing.

"Now," he said, turning his eyes from the valley, and she felt them full upon her once again, "tell me all you have done."

He listened without speaking, his eyes always on her, as she spoke. Soft and halting, often searching for words, she spoke of Calen, of her weakness and her fear, the years of secrecy, almost forgetting but in no way forgetting, willing herself not to think of it but knowing always that it lay there behind her mind. And then the fight in the birch wood, the stranger she knew before knowing, and the instinctive release of restraint that had held her for so long.

"Why did you do it?"

His voice startled her, for he had been silent so long, and often as she had asked herself the question, still she groped and stumbled. But the answer was there, clear and simple as it had always been. "He is my lord," she said at last, softly. "I could do nothing else."

She felt his eyes on her and made herself meet them, but after a moment he nodded. "Go on."

His eyes and his face revealed nothing, and she was disconcerted, for she had expected judgment, had prepared for it, and it was not there. Not there to be seen, she corrected. That does not mean it is not there. But there was nothing to be done, and so she went on.

Her voice broke when she spoke of her father. But Girith only nodded and laid a hand briefly on hers where it rested on her knee, and so she continued speaking, and after a time the pain in her throat faded, and she brushed the tears from her eyes, and the valley was again clear in the thin autumn sun.

She explained as best she could what she had done in the healers' house, though the words were halting, and she found language inadequate for all she had felt and seen. But he nodded, and she thought perhaps he knew those things she had been unable to say.

"And that is all," she said at last, slowly. "I was…weak after, for many days. But the Chieftain said it was to be expected, and after a time it faded, and I was as I have always been."

"That must have been a relief." His eyes were again on hers, and again she could not read them, and so she answered with the truth.

"It was. I was afraid, after…" she swallowed, drew in a breath and let it out. "After what happened to Mother." A pause, and then, very softly, and for the first time she was a little ashamed at the weakness, "Will she always be…will she ever…"

"I do not know." Gentle, but also strangely guarded. "I have seen it before, of course." There was distance again in his voice, and she had a sense of a vast span of years, dark to her mind but clear to his, reaching back perhaps to the beginning of the Dunedain, and even before. It was too much to take in, and she pushed it away. "Every case is different," he said quietly, and paused, and to her surprise she realized that he hesitated. He straightened, looked in her eyes, seemed to come to a decision, or overcome a reluctance. "It is likely that she will recover some of who she was, but not all." His eyes were intent now on hers. "It is the risk we take, when we choose to love. Remember it."

"I—I will." Yet her voice trembled, and once again she fought with tears.

He watched her but said nothing, and she looked away from him and thought with a soft, wry bitterness, Perhaps this is the first lesson. Remember the pain, and let it be as a warning.

But when she brought her eyes at last back to his, she saw a gentleness in his face that had not been there before. He rose, and gestured her to follow him. "Come. While the sun lasts, let us go out into the fields and the woods. There is much you must learn before winter."