The birchwood lasted for perhaps a mile before ending abruptly in open country. The ground sloped gently down, and the path became softer and wetter until it was skirting the edge of a bog set in a bowl of low hills. This late in the year, there were no flies, the green-brown smell of decay almost pleasant in the cool air. The leaves of low bushes shone dull red amid the pools, and red-winged blackbirds clung to the tall grass, whistling.
"I remember a man named Sirhael," said Aragorn after a time. "But I cannot put a face to the name. Is your father a Ranger?"
"He was," she answered, without turning. "He was lamed by a leg wound when I was young. He's a bowyer and fletcher now, the best in Elenost. He made my bow." Though he could not see her face, her voice rang with pride.
"And your arrows?"
"I made those."
A pause, and then, "I remember him, I think. A bit sharp-tongued, is he not?"
"Yes." A dry laugh. "Especially to young Rangers who don't treat his bows with respect."
A smile flickered, rueful memory. "Yes…there may have been a time when a very young Ranger brought your father with a cracked bowstave. When it came out that the damage had resulted not from battle but from a fall on a rain-slicked hillside…" A broad, unthinking gesture of illustration—then a soft gasp, and he pulled his right arm to his side.
She glanced back, almost spoke but did not, returned her eyes to the trail. Not your place. Footsteps on dry grass, and she shivered a little. The clouds had at last overtaken the sun, and a cold, cutting wind began to blow from the east.
Talk takes the mind from pain.
He is the Chieftain.
He feels it as any other would. A faint, wry smile. In this also, he is no different.
And so she drew a breath, and asked, "Were you really in the South Kingdom, in Gondor?"
A pause, and then, "Yes, though I traveled to many other lands as well."
"Is it as grand as tales tell? The white city shining in the sun, and ships on the sparkling sea…" her voice trailed off, mind straying into memories of childhood nights by the fireside. "And warm, is it not, even in winter? No snow, no ice." She glanced up at the darkening sky. "We'll see both tonight, like as not."
"It does not snow in Gondor, no, except high up in the mountains. But even on the plains, the winter nights are cold. And the sea does not always sparkle." There was a grimness in his voice, but he said no more, and she did not ask, and they walked on for a time in silence. At last, he said in a lighter tone, "I will tell you of the South someday, but not now. It will soon be dark; we should look for somewhere to sleep."
She nodded. "There's a camping place, about a league further on. Good water, and an overhanging rock that can shelter us both without trouble." They bent their heads, and wrapped their cloaks against the wind, and walked on.
As the light faded, she slowed, began watching the left side of the trail. At last, abruptly, "Here," and she stepped off the path. Making their way through thorny bushes, they came to a large clump of rocks, surrounded by taller bushes and a few stunted trees. Though at first they seemed impenetrable, she moved to one side, and suddenly crouching low, slipped into a gap. He followed her awkwardly, his taller, broader body catching on branches and thorns. At last he made it through, straightened with a groan—but abruptly his eyes darkened, and pain shot through his wounded arm. He grunted, reached out blindly for something to steady himself. Fingers found rough bark, and he leaned against a tree, gasping for breath.
"Sit down, before you fall down." Muffled, as though through layers of cloth, and vague irritation flared in him at her peremptory tone. But she is not wrong. He eased himself to the ground at the foot of the tree and closed his eyes.
Though her words had been brusque, her hands were gentle as she untied the bandage, swore softly as the bleeding began again, quickly retied it. Then she crouched before him.
"Can you hear me?"
He opened his eyes, nodded. Forced himself to speak, to allay the concern in her eyes. "Yes. Though I would rather…not move…just yet."
A grim smile flickered. "I thought not. Sit here and rest."
He closed his eyes again, shivered a little and huddled into his cloak, pulling the hood awkwardly over his head with his left hand. Soft footsteps, leaving and returning, then a sudden weight across his body as she draped a blanket over him. He opened one eye briefly, but she had already turned her back.
With the added warmth, sleep began to creep over him despite the pain. He was vaguely aware of her moving about the campsite: the crack of sticks and the rap of flint on steel, the snap of flame, the soft splash of water in a pot, the muffled clank of metal as she hung it over the fire. At last footsteps returned to him, and knees creaked faintly as she knelt by his side. He opened his eyes, but did not move as she unclasped his cloak and sword belt.
"I'll need your help now." He nodded understanding, and she saw the muscles of his face tighten. Quickly she untied the bloodstained bandage on his arm and helped him pull off his tunic and shirt. Breath hissed through his teeth but he said nothing, shivering as cold air struck his skin. "Here." She draped the blanket back around him, leaving only his right arm free. And then, "This will hurt. I'm sorry."
She realized as soon she said it that it was unnecessary; judging by his scars, he needed no warning. Thrusting down irritation at her foolishness, she cleaned the wound and stitched it closed, squinting in the failing light.
Though his mind expected the pain, his body tensed at it, would have flinched had he not held himself still. But he watched her movements intently, and before she was halfway done, he admitted to himself that she knew her business. And then, another memory: a training accident, and one of his oldest scars. Mirloth. Her mother is a healer.
She tried not to think of her mother. Of what her mother could do.
"There," she said at last, tying off the thread and cutting away the excess with a small, sharp knife. "That should hold, as long as you're careful with it."
And would do, with the wounded Chieftain under her hands, far into the Wild in the cold of autumn, unknown dangers on every side.
She picked up the clean bandage that lay on the grass by her side.
And alone, or nearly. He must be able to fight. Both your lives may depend on it.
Her body stilled, and she seemed to hesitate, watching him for a long moment.
My life matters not. Instinctive, reflexive.
But his does. Stronger, far stronger. And familiar, for she had felt it for her maethanar, for Meren and Calen, Hannas and Lain and Anna. Yet only as a shadow, an echo of this that now coursed through her, so sudden and fierce it took her breath. Your oath is to him. You swore to use every weapon, every tool.
I chose my way, years ago. Lain's hand gripping hers, in the aftermath of battle as he moaned in pain. And Calen's eyes on her, when he realized what she had done, the Gift that she had used unknowing. Once and once only, and then rejected. Duty only goes so far; beyond it is choice. I chose to be a Ranger, not a healer. I am not Mother, nor Darya. I cannot be. I will not be. Please, do not let it be…
The choice is no longer yours. In this, he is not any other.
And her duty was again clear before her.
She closed her eyes, and laid her palm lightly over the wound.
Warmth flowed through her hand, and she felt him relax, while her own arm burned with sudden pain. He let out a soft breath, eyes wide with surprise. She pulled her hand back, trembling a little, and would not meet his gaze as she wrapped the bandage swiftly around his arm. When it was done, she made to turn away.
He caught her hand. "Did the healers teach you that?"
"No." She glanced at him, looked quickly away. "It was—I've only used it once before…" She paused, felt the world tilt around her, steadied herself. And then, low and rushed, staring at the ground, "Don't tell them. Please. If they learn of it, they'll make me leave the Company."
Silence. And then, "Who told you that?"
She frowned. "No one, not in so many words, but…" Suddenly she straightened, and looked him full in the face. "That is the way of it, for those who have the Gift. Especially women."
He gazed at her for a long moment without speaking. At last, quietly, "Tell me, Ranger, where do most injuries occur: In the villages, with healers close by? Or in the Wild, far from help?"
"In the Wild," she answered slowly.
"Indeed. And tell me, who would be more useful to a patrol: a healer who needed protection, or a Ranger who could fight but also heal once the fighting is done?"
"The Ranger," she said softly. "But there are so few with the Gift. It has always been—"
"Always is a long time, Miriel. In your memory, perhaps, that is true. But it has not always been." The ghost of a smile. "You have many gifts, and you must use them all. Anything less would be an unconscionable waste. Do you understand me?"
A pause, and then, "Yes, my lord."
"Good. We will speak no more of this now, but I will not forget." A strained chuckle. "For my own sake if for nothing else."
She rose unsteadily, felt him watching her as she lifted his spare shirt from where she had hung it by the fire. The linen was warm and smelled faintly of wood smoke, and he sighed a little despite the pain as she helped him put it on.
Instinct clambered to shake her off, insisting that he did not need help. But he thrust the impulse down as both uncharitable and unwise, and did not protest as she wrapped his cloak and blanket around him, drawing them close against the chill. He closed his eyes, felt sleep drifting over him again, with the warmth and the lessening of pain.
Not much less, but enough. And because of what he was, of the power that was in him, he could feel to a nicety what she had done, the drawing in of pain, the repair of torn flesh. Clumsy, and inefficient. Bare, honest assessment. But if she can do that much untrained…Leave it. There will be time enough later, when we return to the village. When we return home. And he felt a smile, though it did not quite reach his lips.
He found himself drifting further into sleep, pushed his body upright with an effort. Food first, then sleep. But the thought had hardly formed in his mind when he felt her hand again on his shoulder.
"You should eat," she said. Opening his eyes, he saw waybread, dried apples, and dried meat on the grass beside him. "I'm going to wash your clothes." She turned away, still moving slowly, and slipped through the gap in the bushes, his bloody shirt and tunic bundled under one arm and their water skins under the other.
He choked back the instinct to call after her, to insist that the cleanliness of his clothes was his own affair. The blood would be much easier to wash out before it dried, and he certainly could not do it now. And it was in truth a relief, after so many weeks of lonely travel, simply to sit by the fire and eat while another cared for his needs. Accept kindness where it is offered. You see it seldom enough. Leaning back against the tree, he savored the warmth that gradually stole over his outstretched feet.
She returned to find him finishing the last of the food. She hung his wet clothes on a branch and then sat down on a tussock of grass. Pulling food out of her pack, she ate in silence, staring into the fire and turning from time to time to warm her back, for it had grown cold enough that her breath hung white in the air when she faced away from the heat.
And she watched him, unmoving on the far side of the flames. He seemed to be asleep, but she doubted that he was, given the cold and the pain in his arm. Though he gave no sign of it, the wound must be throbbing with each heartbeat. I did not do enough. And for the first time she wished, truly wished, that she could do more.
Instead she set a cup's worth of water in the pot to heat over the embers, and dug around in her pack until she found the small leather bag of herbs. The light was entirely gone, and she silently blessed her mother for insisting that she learn them by smell as well as sight. At last, she found what she needed and dropped it into a battered tin mug. The water was by now hissing and steaming, so she set the mug on the ground, filled it carefully and brought it to him.
He opened his eyes, and she knelt by his side, and held out the mug. He looked at her for a moment, then shook the blanket off his hands and took it. He breathed in the steam, and his glance flicked up to her face, gray eyes unreadable in the glow of the dying fire.
"I do not need poppy."
"You do, if you want to sleep tonight." And then, more gently, "We've no lack of it; the harvest was good this year."
He stared at her for a long moment, and a strange expression flickered over his face. But she met his gaze without flinching, and at last he nodded. "Very well." And then, "Thank you."
He drained the mug and handed it back to her, unwrapped himself from the blanket and rose slowly to his feet. He swayed and leaned heavily on her shoulder; wordlessly, she slipped an arm around his back, steadied him until at last he stepped away. He reached out and felt the garments that hung above the coals, grunting when he found them still too wet to wear.
"You'll be cold tonight," she said with sudden consternation. "I'm sorry."
He turned to her, irritation giving way to a wry half-smile. "I've had worse."
They crawled beneath the shelter of the overhanging rock. The floor was carpeted with soft bracken, evidence that Rangers had indeed used the refuge recently. It smelled vaguely foul, and she caught faint squeakings and rustlings in the far corners of the space. A wry grimace. Mice need shelter from the cold, too. She managed to spread her blanket, fumbling in the dark, and set her pack upright to block as much of the entrance as she could. The dry bracken crackled beneath her, and the smell of mouse came more clearly now, but at least she was insulated from the cold that seeped up from hard ground. He lay down beside her, curling up on his left side and grunting a little with the unavoidable effort of using his wounded arm to arrange his blanket. Wordlessly, she grasped his wrist, unfolded his fingers from their grip on the blanket and pulled it over them both, shivering a little. She lay awake for some time, listening to the rising wind rattle the bushes, and eventually to the soft hiss of sleet on dry leaves. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, her shivering subsided, and at last she slept.
She woke in the middle night, or seemed to. Cold wind whipped through the bushes, lashing the bare branches against each other, rising now and again to cry emptily in the cracks and gaps of the stones. She could see nothing in the seething dark. Yet above the din of wind and wood, she began to hear footsteps, the unmistakable tramp of heavy boots, the crackle of sticks broken carelessly underfoot, muttered curses of men moving blindly in the dark.
"Wake," she hissed, jabbing her elbow urgently into his ribs—yet found that she could not speak, could not move. Terror grew as the footsteps and the growling voices, speaking some unknown tongue, came ever closer. He lay still beside her, motionless, oblivious. She struggled vainly, commanded her limbs to move, even as fear rose to swamp her mind. We will be taken…vividly to her mind sprang the horrors she had heard whispered round fires, rarely spoken in full but more terrible for it, tales of what was done to captives. And what will they do to him, your captain and your lord? You must rise! Yet she could not, not though a flash as of lightning threw the wild night into stark relief, and with it six terrible man-shapes, arrows protruding from back and throat, dark blood oozing from slashed bodies. Their eyes were dead, yet still they came on, inexorable. With a final, heart-bursting effort, she screamed—and found herself held firm, a soft, deep voice murmuring close to her ear.
"Miriel, wake."
She trembled violently, drew air in great choking gasps, grasping desperately for control.
"Let it go. Do not hold so tight to the darkness. Let it flow through you, and out into nothing." A hand on hers, cold but gentle. "Calm is my soul," he said softly, "and clear, like the mountains in the morning, and the wind washes away all fear." The last words she seemed to perceive with some sense other than hearing, felt them slip through her like the cool breeze of dawn. Slowly her shaking calmed, and the images of terror faded from her mind, blowing away like wisps of cloud in a rain-washed sky. She felt the comforting weight of the blanket as he pulled it over her, grunting a little with the pain of moving his wounded arm. She did not trust herself to speak, and so she lay still, and at last sleep crept over her once more.
Notes:
There will be several deliberate departures from canon in this story; the possession of a semi-magical healing Gift by Dunedain who are not in the direct line of Isildur is the first. It comes up (fairly briefly) in Chapters 12 and 13 of "Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost," when Miriel inadvertently uses it to heal Calen, one of her training companions, then makes a deliberate choice not tell anyone, and not to use it again. Miriel's mother is a Gifted healer, as is her older sister, Darya.
The Rangers' Oath (drawn from the oath Pippin swears to Denethor and the US military's Oath of Office) is in NATWWAL Ch. 36.
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.
"Calm is my soul, and clear, like the mountains in the morning" - This is actually Nietzsche (Prologue to Thus Spoke Zarathustra), probably the only thing of lasting value I took from that particular college class. Just feel the image, and ignore the source...