When she woke, the first gray light of dawn seeped through heavy, icy fog. The blanket above her was rimed with frost, the clearing outside only shadowy hints of bushes and ground gray with ice. It seemed that Aragorn still slept, so she rolled carefully away from him, leaving the blanket behind as she crawled to the edge of the overhanging rock. The cold, damp air caught in her throat, and she stifled a cough as she pushed herself to her feet. She rolled her shoulders and stretched, groaning a little. Crackle of bracken behind her, and he emerged from the shelter, crawling awkwardly on his left arm. He glanced up, looked for a moment as if he would speak but said nothing, and turned back to his pack. Though his face was less pale and his movements steadier, he still held his right arm protectively at his side.

"How does your arm feel?" she asked at last, a little irritated by his silence.

"Fine." The instinctive answer, rising to his lips without thought. But seeing the worry that creased her face, he amended, "As well as might be expected. There is no fever, and the pain is a little less than yesterday. The sleep last night did help."

She knew it was a peace offering. But it brought back suddenly, vividly her own terror and shame, and his voice by her side in the dark. She flushed and turned away. No thanks to me.

Silence. Then the creak of knees, footsteps on icy grass, a hand on her shoulder. "Had you indulged my stubbornness," he said quietly, "I would have spent the night tossing in pain. And if I had managed to sleep, it would have been plagued with dreams." She turned to him, and surprise must have shown on her face, for he nodded, and sighed. "It never truly gets easier. You must know that by now. We each carry our own burdens; they cannot be shared. All you can do is offer comfort when you are able, and hope there is one near to comfort you when you have need." A soft, dry laugh. "We were both of us fortunate this time." He held her gaze, until she nodded reluctantly. "Good. Let us eat quickly and go; all we'll gain by staying here is cold feet."

"I'm not sure mine can get any colder," she grumbled, offering a wry half-smile.

"Here then," he said, handing her a piece of waybread. "We can eat as we walk."

He winced and gasped as he slid the strap of his pack over his right arm, grimacing at her look of concern.

"Fine, eh?"

"Yes." And before she could reply, he disappeared through the gap in the bushes. She shrugged and followed him, still clutching the waybread in her hand.

When they reached the path, he gestured her to take the lead. He's testing me, she thought, with a flash of irritation. It is his right, but could he not trust…No, of course not. Would you? She smiled grimly, and turned toward the east.

They were forced to go more slowly than they had the day before, the icy ground slick and treacherous, the track they were following much fainter. But the fog around them gradually brightened, and by late morning sunlight gleamed palely through the mist. After several miles, the path began to climb, and the remaining fog thinned until at last they broke through into clear air. She stopped and looked round. The path rose before them to a gap in a ridge of hills, though the lowlands around them were still swathed in white. Glancing back, she caught a look almost of joy on his face.

"It's good to be home again," he said, in answer to her unasked question.

"Even in the cold and fog?"

"Yes," he laughed. "Even in the cold and fog."

After a brisk climb, they reached the crest of the ridge and went down the other side. When the path reached level ground again, however, she stopped short. The footprints they had been following diverged suddenly: a heavier trail, perhaps three or four men, split off to the south, while what appeared to be the tracks of two men continued east along the path. She bent and examined the ground, following each set of tracks in turn. At last, she straightened and turned to Aragorn, who had been standing quietly to one side, eating an apple.

"I think," she said slowly, "that we should follow the tracks that come from the east."

"Why?"

If you don't trust yourself, who do you trust? "Two men came this way, and their boots seem better-made than those who came up from the south. The two men whose swords we carry," she tapped the blade strapped to her back, "their gear was finer than the others, and they directed the placement of the ambush. We often see brigands and troublemakers coming up from the south, but I've seldom heard of any but orcs or Druadwaith coming from the east. It…doesn't feel right." She shook her head in frustration; something hovered on the edge of thought, yet she could not grasp it. But to her surprise, he nodded.

"Their weapons were not Druad, nor their faces. They wanted to pass as men of Wilderland." He pressed his lips together, and shook his head. "But they were not." He glanced at her, let a wry grimace touch his lips. "I cannot say why either. But I agree." He narrowed his eyes, gazed east and north toward the unseen mountains. "Has aught be seen of the Druadwaith this summer?"

She frowned. "Traders, the usual, nothing of concern. But I was mostly on the South Road. Mahar and the brannon taid may know more." She looked away, reckoning time and distance. He said nothing, and waited. At last, she said slowly, "We ought to follow their trail." She gestured at the tracks that led east. "But we can't go far. Maybe tomorrow evening at the latest, if we wish to be at Amon Sûl at the full moon."

He nodded, expressionless. "I know."

"As you wish, my lord," she said, suddenly remembering to whom she was speaking. You know nothing of him yet, or next to it. But in the bright noon sun, she saw that under the tan that every Ranger bore, he was worryingly pale, and so she asked, as if off-hand, "It's nearly noon; shall we eat?" She was prepared for refusal, but he only nodded again, and slid his pack to the ground with a grunt, wincing.

Following the trail proved more difficult than it had in the morning. Two men go more lightly than six, and the tracks soon left the path and turned north. She paused for a moment, but the signs were clear. Whether the pair had followed the path to rendezvous with the other four, or had simply come across them by chance, she could not know, but there was no doubt of the way they had come. She turned off the path and followed them, Aragorn's long, steady strides a constant beat behind her.

It seemed that the men had at least been clear about where they wanted to go, however, for their trail did not wander, holding nearly straight from the northeast. From the Trollfells? She turned the idea over in her mind for a time. No men dwelt in this land, but traders passed through it, crossing the mountains from the Druadwaith lands to the north, and Wilderland to the east. The Thurinrim guard would not have let them through. North Pass, maybe? She frowned. North of the High Pass, seldom used and unguarded. Perhaps…She shook her head. No way to tell now.

And then, a memory: another ambush, in the hills north of Hoarwell bridge, and a knife flashing red in the westering sun. There might have been a way. If you had shot to wound. She flinched, forced herself not to look back. Would he have done it? And breath, and then, Would you? Calen's voice, clear as if he stood beside her: 'I would do it, if it was what was needed to protect you.' And then she knew, with sudden, utter certainty. To protect the Chieftain, I would do it. I would do anything. And she swallowed hard, and would not let herself wonder where Calen was now.

They continued without stopping for the rest of the afternoon, the tracks remaining clear though faint before them, following the course of a stream. The sun sank behind hills to the west, and she shivered a little as the land plunged into shadow. At last, she halted.

"I can't be certain of the trail any longer in this light," she admitted.

The expected rebuke did not come. He simply nodded and said, "We will camp here, then. There are no trees, but we should find a spot that is sheltered enough."

They turned off the track and climbed down the steep-cut bank to the stream, bubbling softly in its stony channel. The streambed itself was narrow, but nearly vertical banks rose a few feet away on either side, evidence of ferocious spring floods fed by melt-water rushing down from the hills. They had not gone far when they came to a place where the bank curved back sharply away from the water.

He set down his pack with a grunt. "At least we'll be out of the wind."

She nodded, and began gathering wood from the bushes that clung to the edge of the stream. There was not much to be found, the bushes small and wiry, but eventually she had enough to heat water. Close under the shadow of the bank, she made a rough hearth of river stones, thankful for shelter from the chill wind that had sprung up with the setting of the sun. It sighed in the grasses above their heads, and she laid the fire with more than usual care. No room for waste. As soon as she was sure of the blaze, she set the pot carefully on the stones and turned back to her pack. Though he had said nothing of it all day, the tightness in his face and the way he carried his arm told her all she needed to know. That, and the fact that he could clearly see what she was doing and made no attempt to hinder it.

"Do we turn back in the morning?" she asked, as she waited for the water to heat.

He answered her question with one of his own. "How fast are you willing to travel?"

She frowned. "As fast as I must." What kind of question is that?

He nodded, as if satisfied by her answer, and his face softened a little. "I know these lands a bit better than you do, perhaps; I am a few years older." One corner of his mouth quirked upward, and an incredulous smile flickered across her lips. "If we turn west by the middle of the afternoon, we will make Amon Sûl in time. If you can keep my pace."

"I can keep your pace," she answered evenly. Especially if you're hurt…But that she did not say.

"Good," he said. "We may find nothing, but I do not feel easy leaving the trail just yet."

"Even if it only continues toward the North Pass, that is something."

He glanced at her, and nodded. "It is."

She fed the fire carefully, one small stick at a time, coaxing the blaze to last. It did, but barely; small bubbles had just begun to break free from the bottom of the pot when she put on the last stick. When it seemed that the water would absorb no more heat from the dying embers, she lifted the pot and carefully filled the mug. If she had any doubt that he was marking her actions, it was erased then, for he came and sat beside her, laying a clean bandage on the grass and stripping off his tunic and shirt with a terse, "Best get this done before we lose the light."

She worked quickly, mindful of the cold and the rapidly fading dusk. The stitches had held well, though blood had seeped around them to stain the bandage. More importantly, there was no smell or feel of infection. She dipped a corner of the old bandage in the remaining hot water, felt him tense with pain as she washed away the dried blood and wrapped the wound again. But once the binding was done he seemed to relax, pulling on his clothes without much difficulty. She set the bloody bandage to soak and handed him the still-steaming mug. "Not as strong as last night's," she said, to forestall any protest he might make. "But since you plan to run me into the ground tomorrow, you'll need your rest."

It was a risk, that jest. But he chuckled ruefully and drained the mug without complaint. Well, at least the Chieftain has a sense of humor. And then, sudden realization: You are testing him, as surely as he is testing you. And why not? Birth does not make the man. If you are going to trust him with your loyalty, with your life, he must earn it, the same as any other. A pause, and then, Just don't put it quite that way to Mahar. She grinned suddenly at the thought of the captain's expression should she venture any such idea.

"Is something funny?" Aragorn asked, frowning.

"Oh—I—nothing." But then—and she could almost hear Meren's voice in her mind—Why not? Might as well see where the limits are. "I was just thinking of what Mahar would say to a Ranger who teased the Lord Chieftain, Aragorn son of Arathorn." She said the last words in a rather poor imitation of Mahar's most formal tones.

Aragorn chuckled. "To me, he would undoubtedly say that I deserve it. To you, he might not be so kind."

"No, he would not."

A sidelong glance, and a grin twitched his lips. "Then you had best not tell him."

They ate in companionable silence, huddled around the hearth stones to catch their last warmth as the wind hissed above them. By the time they finished, the light of day had entirely vanished, though the rising moon shone faintly through thin clouds. They lay down in the shadow of the bank, close together under their blankets. She fell asleep almost immediately, but he lay awake for some time, listening to her soft breathing and the whistling of wind through the moor grass.

The morning dawned clear and cold. The dry west wind still hissed above them and rattled the reeds and bushes on the eastern side of the draw, but huddled under the western bank they were sheltered. They ate and packed slowly, but at last there could be no more delay. Grumbling wordlessly to herself, she hid the remains of the fire under a pile of dirt that she made to look as if it had collapsed from the bank, shouldered her pack, and followed him up into the wind.

He led now, setting a quicker pace than the day before, and though she watched him carefully, he showed no sign of weakness or pain. Memory whispered in her then, of her own wounds over the years. Of how quickly she had healed. Both his Gift and mine this time; no wonder. And then a wry smile. No small amount of stubbornness either. She shook her head, and was glad he could not see.

Around midday, they crested a small rise and glimpsed, still far ahead, a long dark shadow on the grass. It grew steadily nearer, resolving into the gnarled shapes of trees, huddled in a hollow of the land. A steep rise sheltered them from the worst of the northerly gales, and a low strip of brighter green ran away to the east for some distance. A spring, then, and the shelter of the hill, had allowed them to take root and survive in an otherwise hostile land.

The trail led straight to the grove, and they slowed, scanning the ground. The grass at the edge of the spring had been trampled, and on the dry ground under one of the taller trees were the remains of a fire. They split up to search the remainder of the grove. She found nothing more, but as she turned back to the spring in disappointment, he gave a hoarse cry of triumph. Yet when she reached him, he said nothing, only held out his hands, the thing that lay on them gleaming dully in the sun: a knife, its short, curved blade broken near the hilt. But it was the haft that drew her attention. Leather-wrapped bone, the end carved into a horse's head, crude but unmistakable—

"Druad."

He nodded, grim satisfaction on his face. "They may have gotten it in trade, but I doubt it. The knives they had were better." He shook his head. "Sentimental value, perhaps. His father's knife?" Scornful, but then he glanced at her bow. "Perhaps we are not so different after all." A wry shrug, and unslung his pack and sat down. "We will turn back from here. Even were we to go on, we would likely find no clearer sign than this." And then, with a hint of a smile, "And I doubt the years have made Mahar more kind to stragglers."

"They have not," she chuckled, "though he might forgive me on account of the lost puppy I bring with me." Her smile faded. "Your return will be welcomed with great joy, lord."

There was more, he could feel it, things she had not said. But perhaps would say, if I asked. And then, Carefully. Later. He straightened. "Let us eat quickly then, and go."

They ate in silence, then filled their water-skins and turned west, striding over the bare moorland, shoulders hunched against the wind. The low, pale sun did little to warm their chilled faces, though the strain of matching his pace kept her warm enough for most of the afternoon. After sunset the wind slackened, and still he strode on in the dark, sure of his course under bright stars. But gradually he slowed, breath becoming ragged, steps less steady. At last, he halted at the foot of a low hill that rose in their path.

"This is as close to shelter as we're likely to find." He let his pack fall to the ground. A soft grunt at the careless motion of his wounded arm, but he gave no other sign of pain as he knelt and fumbled in his pack. They ate in exhausted silence, blankets draped around their shoulders. Frost again tonight, like as not. And no shelter this time. They huddled together, shivering on the chill ground, until exhaustion at last claimed them.

She slept restlessly, wakened several times by the cold, and she felt him stirring beside her. By common consent they rose early, giving up all attempts at sleep as soon as the first pallid light crept over the empty land. He continued his swift pace from the day before, but though it left her little breath for speech, she found she could match it without too much strain.

The sun rose behind them and melted the frost that clung to every stem of grass. The wind had vanished, and by late morning, the air was almost pleasant again, damp and cool. The ground slowly became rougher and more rocky, and patches of gorse began to appear, yellow flowers bright in the sunlight, a flash of color in the sere autumn land. She smiled, and touched her bow, fingered the letters burned carefully in the wood. To return after such a fight, and in the company of the Chieftain…The thought of the look in her father's eyes was enough to drive all weariness from her limbs. Without realizing it, her pace increased until she was close on Aragorn's heels. He heard her, glanced back.

"What are you grinning at?" But the grim set of his face softened, and he found the edges of a smile playing over his lips.

"It's sunny, and warm—well, warmer. Is that not enough? And I like gorse."

He laughed. "Bright, but prickly, is that it? Maloseg. It fits you."

She made no reply, disconcerted by a sudden, unpleasant conviction that he could read her mind.

Silence, then he stopped and turned to her. "I meant no offense," he said quietly. "My spirits, too, were cheered by the day, and the reminder of home." He gestured to a large gorse bush, branches heavy with flowers.

She drew a breath, and shook her head. "It is only that my father calls me that. Your doing the same was…unexpected."

"I will not do it again."

She shrugged. "I don't mind." A wry smile. "It could be worse."

Several replies passed through his mind, but he settled for a noncommittal smile. "Well, as long as we are stopped and the sun is warm…" He flexed his injured arm. "It is healing well." A few more cautious movements, and then, "Let us see how well."

He stepped away from her and drew his sword. It rang faintly in the still air, and the blade flashed in the sun as he began to move through the basic forms. Slowly at first and then faster, and though occasionally he sucked in a sharp, hissing breath, he did not flinch. At last he lowered the blade and turned to her, breathing hard but smiling. "Better than I expected," he said, and though he did not speak it, she felt his gratitude. And then, "Will you spar with me? Not at full speed," he added quickly, noting her skeptical expression, "but I want to see how it responds to force."

"As you wish, my lord." She set down her pack, pulled out the padding cloths and wrapped her blade, watching sidelong as he did the same. Then she faced him, nodded slightly to show that she was ready. And here is the next test.

He came at her slowly at first but then quickened, despite his earlier avowal of restraint. She matched him stroke for stroke, the clash of padded blades loud in the quiet noontime, and soon they were both panting and sweating despite the cool air.

If Aragorn was not moving at full speed, then he was close, and she held on grimly, gasping for breath. Her arm burned, hand numb with the shock of repeated blows—and then abruptly it was over, his sword at her throat.

"Hit," she gasped, and lowered her blade.

He stepped back, chest heaving, and his sword arm trembled as he unwrapped the blade and returned it clumsily to the scabbard. Worry must have shown on her face, for he managed a weak smile. "I'm fine," he said, still breathless. "Truly."

"Forgive me if I don't believe you." But a skeptical half-smile took the sting from her words. "How is the pain?"

He considered his answer for a moment. "I can fight," he said. "That is what I needed to know." There had been more that he wanted to know, she could tell from the way he looked at her, but she could not read his judgment.

There was frost again that night, and they continued on long after sunset, slowed by increasingly uneven ground. She stumbled on rocks in the shadowed grass, cursing softly as pain knifed through her feet. A great ridge rose ahead of them, dark against the starry sky; at its feet lay a shadow that became a tangled woodland of scrubby bushes and low, gnarled trees. At last he stopped, so abruptly that she nearly stumbled into him.

"I cannot go any further tonight," he gasped.

It took all her remaining concentration to avoid tripping on the roots and fallen branches as they made their way beneath the trees, and she sighed in relief when he stopped again. She sank wordlessly to the soft, needle-covered ground at the foot of a pine and unslung her pack; eating seemed too much effort. He must have felt the same, for he spread his blanket on the ground and lay down without speaking, sword in front of him, hood drawn up over his head. Groaning softly, she pulled her blanket over them both, surrounded by the sharp scent of pine.

She woke once to bright moonlight filtering down through the branches, casting a silvery net of shadows across the earth where they lay. A soft wind sighed in the dry leaves and needles above them, but on the ground the air was still. Her stomach twisted painfully with hunger, and she thought of slipping quietly over to where her pack lay, but in the end she did not move. Aside from the near-certainty of waking him, desire for warmth, or at least what little warmth the blankets and his body supplied, outweighed desire for food. She thrust down hunger and gradually drifted back into sleep.

They woke early, roused as much by gnawing emptiness in their stomachs as by the light of dawn. She groaned as she rolled out of the blankets, her right arm and back aching fiercely. Fool. It's a just reward for letting yourself get so far out of practice. Her only consolation was that Aragorn seemed equally sore, though he at least had the excuse of a barely-closed wound.

He caught her eye and grinned ruefully. "It seems we are both getting old and stiff."

Despite the sudden flash of irritation that he had once again read her thoughts, she smiled, and straightened against the ache in her back as they shouldered their packs and began climbing the ridge.

The steep slope was slippery with frost, and she was breathing hard by the time they reached the crest. Gazing out from the height at the wide land spread out before them, however, relief flooded through her, for there on the horizon, miles away still but directly ahead of them, loomed Amon Sûl. She caught Aragorn's eye; he smiled slightly, as if to say, You did not doubt me, did you? She flashed a grin and shook her head.

With their goal now clear in front of them, he quickened his pace until she was forced to alternate between walking and jogging to keep up. It was not a comfortable way to travel, especially with the spare sword bumping at her back, but she schooled her mind to endure and fell into a rhythm that let the miles flow away beneath her feet. The Weather Hills slowly rose in front of them, though their height in comparison to the flat lands around made them seem closer than she knew they were. They halted only briefly in the middle of the day, refilling their water-skins at a narrow stream, its shadowed borders still edged with glittering fragments of ice.

High clouds had begun to drift up from the east, and towards the middle of the afternoon, they overtook the sun, accompanied by a chill breeze that carried with it the barest scent of snow from the distant mountains. At least the wind is behind us. And it doesn't feel like rain, not yet. The ground began to rise steadily, climbing toward the line of the hills, now dark against the western sky.

Notes:

The Druadwaith are my invention, a people who live on the cold, dry plains north of the western curve of Misty Mountains. They are descended from Men who fought for Angmar, and so there has been frequent conflict between them and the Dunedain down the centuries, though also trade, and periods of peace (refer to NATWWAL Ch. 20). Miriel and Anna, her mentor (saethir), investigate rumors of a Druad military buildup in NATWWAL Ch. 21-23 and fight a Druad scouting party south south of the mountains in Ch. 24-25. In the aftermath of the fight, Anna and Halbarad kill several Druadwaith wounded in order to force others to give up information. This is deeply shocking to Miriel, and she discusses it afterward with Calen, one of her closest friends, who was also there.

Thurinrim (also my addition) is a pass over the Misty Mountains just north of Mount Gundabad. It was garrisoned by the men of Arnor after Angmar's defeat to keep watch on the northern lands and peoples. Miriel and Anna cross Thurinrim in NATWWAL Ch. 20. North Pass (mine as well) is at the headwaters of the Hoarwell and allows access to the northern reaches of Wilderland, though it is higher and narrower than either Thurinrim or the High Pass near Rivendell, and is suitable only for travelers on foot. Miriel has never been there.