The journey back to Elenost was uneventful, save for the increasing cold. It snowed one night, not heavily, but enough to make a miserable camp, for they were in open country far from any shelter. They took refuge as best they could in the lee of a small hill, huddling close together, for there was no wood for a fire. Thankful to her bones that she had not drawn guard duty, Miriel drew her cloak tightly around her and tried to sleep, warmed only a little by Meren on one side and Falaran on the other. It was not enough, and she shivered, slipping in and out of an uneasy doze.

From the bleary eyes and short tempers the next morning, it seemed the others had done the same. Even Mahar was in ill humor, snapping at those tasked with making the breakfast, though he apologized afterward. Only Aragorn seemed unaffected. He moved about the camp, calm and cheerful, cracking small jokes that brought reluctant smiles to the faces of even the most miserable among them. A wry grin and a quiet, "Good morning, maloseg," were all that was needed to erase Miriel's foul mood as though it had never been. It was deliberate, she soon realized, but also entirely natural. He becomes stronger as others lose heart, and his strength lifts them up. A gift indeed.

Her boots crunched on the snow, now turning to slush with the rising sun, and by halfway through the morning, she was almost sweating. She cast her hood back and let the sunlight fall on her face, and smiled at the unexpected reprieve.

The snow had melted completely by late afternoon, though the ground was damp and cold. On the westward slope of a hill, they found a thicket of low trees and bushes, gathered around a small spring. Though it was earlier than they usually stopped for the night, Mahar decided to camp there.

"After last night, I'd burn grass," grumbled Meren cheerfully, as they gathered wood, crouching low through the thick underbrush. They ended with a respectable pile, though it was mostly small stuff that would burn quickly. But before fire and food, there was arms practice. Mahar had put it off that morning because of the snow, but that was reason no longer.

They gathered at a level spot at the bottom of the hill, drills and then pairs, cautious still on the wet ground. Miriel was tired after a long day on little sleep, but she found strength somewhere, defeating Meren and holding out longer than she had expected against Halbarad. But it ended with Halbarad's wrapped blade slamming against her ribs, and she gasped and bent over, tears of pain stinging her eyes.

"Stand up." Swift, and annoyed. "Never let your enemy see you're winded."

She straightened, forced her face to show nothing. If you were truly my enemy, I'd be dead. But I've never fought so well against you, and that is all you have to say?

"Here's where you're going wrong." A catalog of faults then, and the repetition of several passes in which, Halbarad seemed to think, she had made crucial mistakes. Frustrating, and exhausting, but she felt a grudging surge of satisfaction as she perfected the correction he had taught her, and almost slipped past his guard. He lowered his sword, jerked an abrupt, unsmiling nod. "That'll do for today."

The sun was low on the horizon, and she was hungry and shaky with exertion. We must be almost done…But then Mahar's voice behind her, in that speculative tone that meant he thought he had happened upon a clever idea. "Aragorn," he called, "care for a two-on-two?"

She turned, caught Aragorn's smile as he nodded in acknowledgement. "Certainly. Though if you're looking to avenge your defeat, you'll be disappointed." And then, turning to the side and raising his voice, "Hal, partner me?"

Halbarad's head jerked up, and his shoulders tensed. Yet his voice was calm as he answered, "Of course, my lord. As you wish." He moved to stand beside Aragorn, met his eyes only briefly before turning back to Mahar. The captain had chosen Belegon for his partner, and the four men moved into an open space, while the rest of the patrol, leaving off their own drills, gathered to watch.

"Let's see what you remember, eh?" said Mahar in a low voice. "If nothing else, it'll show the younger ones something they've not seen before."

Aragorn and Halbarad glanced at each other. "Perhaps," said Halbarad dryly. And then, stepping back, "Whenever you are ready, captain."

It was indeed like nothing Miriel had ever seen. The Rangers practiced fighting in pairs often enough, especially in maethorneth training, and she and Anna had become a very capable team. Yet that seemed like child's play compared to the fight before her. Mahar and Belegon, she knew, often patrolled together; indeed, Belegon had been Mahar's maethorneth many years ago, hard though it was to imagine either of them so young. They moved with practiced ease, covering and blocking and striking in deadly harmony.

Yet skilled as they were, Aragorn and Halbarad were something else entirely. They began slowly, movements rough and uncoordinated, and once Mahar almost landed a touch on Halbarad, his blade swept aside at the last moment by Aragorn's lightning-swift parry. Yet even as the rapt audience watched, their fighting changed. They moved closer together, no longer fearful of impeding each other's actions, striking and blocking as if one mind directed them. When Aragorn first called out a short, sharp word, Miriel started in surprise, so unexpected was the sound amid the dull clash of padded blades. But Halbarad reacted immediately, shifting left and striking hard upward. Mahar swept up to meet the stroke, and Aragorn's blade darted in beneath his guard, stopped at the last second by Belegon's desperate lunge.

The signal calls became steadily more complex, the words moving from one syllable to two, though still Miriel could make nothing of them. At last, a particularly swift and perfectly coordinated series of moves took Belegon out of the fight with a sharp blow to the thigh that would have come near to severing his leg had it been made with an unblunted blade. He limped back, breathing hard and watching intently. In testament to skill and cunning borne of long experience, Mahar lasted alone longer than Miriel would have thought possible. But soon enough, Halbarad called out a sharp word, Aragorn's blade struck low, Mahar swept down to meet him, and Halbarad slipped in on the captain's undefended side with what would have been a killing stroke.

They stopped at once, and stood a moment gasping for breath. With a sudden, impulsive gesture, Aragorn slung an arm around Halbarad's shoulders, grinning broadly despite his exhaustion. He bent his head, said something in Halbarad's ear that elicited a short, sharp laugh. Years seemed to have fallen from Aragorn's face, and more than years; a young man he seemed now, yet not callow but fell and full of joy.

Mahar too was smiling, though there was a wry twist to his lips that told Miriel he had not expected to be defeated. "It is as though you were never away, my lord," he said, still a little breathless, inclining his head to Aragorn. "I expected you to pick it back up again, but not so quickly."

"The fruit of good training," said Aragorn, smiling.

"Perhaps," said Mahar more quietly. "But you taught yourselves that. I am glad to see you've not forgotten it." He turned back to the others then, and raised his voice. "That's enough for tonight. My old bones need rest." Smiles and chuckles accompanied him as he strode back to the camp.

Aragorn and Halbarad followed behind the others, did not look at each other and did not speak. At last, Aragorn said quietly, "You have been much in my thoughts, gwador nîn. This as much as…anything else."

"As you have been in mine." And then, low, almost tentative, "When things became…bad, I would play out fights in my head…"

A soft, incredulous chuckle. "As did I. I knew we would fight together again some day—"

"And what a waste it would be to start back at the beginning for lack of practice."

Silence. And then, "We can never start back at the beginning, Hal."

Footsteps on dry bracken. "It is not the same river." And then, slowly, "And I am not the same man."

"Nor am I. Yet still the river is there." Soft, and not quite steady, "Must I cross it alone?"

Halbarad grunted. "You know better than that, Arya." He stopped, laid a hand on Aragorn's shoulder and turned to face him. "Ir cuian ech natho alerui."

Aragorn let out a shaky breath, put his hand over Halbarad's. "Now, and always, brother."

They had fair weather for two more days and made good time, Mahar choosing the straightest path through the increasingly hilly country before them. Aragorn seemed content to leave the daily decisions of route and camping places in the captain's hands, spending his time instead in conversation with the Rangers. The older men he had known before he left, but neither he nor they were the same men they had been, and there was much cheerful talk of who had married whom, and how many children had been born, and was Falaran's little boy taller than Hador's, and would you believe it, Thalion's daughter married a Breelander…

And there were quieter conversations with the younger Rangers, still slightly awestruck at being face to face with a man who had been only vague memory, or perhaps just a name, spoken with reverence but never quite real. Yet he was patient, asking small questions of home and family, until they began of their own accord to speak of patrols and fights, hopes and desires and fears.

To Miriel he said little, and she could not help but resent it, though she knew the instinct was foolish. After five days, he knows me well enough. It was thus with some surprise that she heard his voice behind her one morning, as she wrapped her sword for sparring.

"Miriel, you're with me today."

She turned, managed to keep her voice level as she replied, "Yes, my lord," but a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

Aragorn chuckled. "I'd not have you think I'd forgotten you, maloseg. Now that you no longer have the excuse of sparing my injured arm, show me what you can do." His wound had indeed given him no more trouble; Falaran had examined it the morning after their arrival, and had pronounced himself quite pleased. "I could not have done better myself. Your mother taught you well, Mir." She had nodded and flushed, and ignored Aragorn's knowing glance.

They moved to an open space, eyeing each other with deliberate assessment. Miriel felt emotion fall away without effort, her face becoming blank and hard. If you train as if it were real, then when it is real, you will fight as you trained.

"Begin," said Aragorn quietly, his eyes fixed on hers. And so they remained, as she twisted suddenly and lunged forward. He met her stroke and forced it back, but a slight tightening around his lips, and a momentary break in his impassive expression, told her he had not expected her to make the first move. You wanted to see, my lord – you will see.

He had held back before, she knew that. He did not now, or only enough to keep the match going, to meet her at the very edge of her skill. Like Silevren. And the memory gave her strength. Yet he pressed her hard, and in an unguarded moment as she struggled to recover from a strike that had thrown her off balance, his blade slipped in and dug into her side. She gasped in pain, made herself to straighten and face him, fought to control her breath. It is not over. She moved her sword to her left hand and shook out her aching right arm.

A thin smile. "Your right arm is tired, and justly so. Show me what you can do with your left."

Her shoulders sagged, but she forced them straight. And here is the next test. She let her right arm hang slack by her side, tightened her grip with her left, and stood waiting for him.

He started slowly, testing her defenses, gradually increasing the pace as she proved she could match him. But the blade felt awkward in her hand, and her arm tired alarmingly quickly. If I don't strike now, I'll never have the chance. When his next attack came, she knocked it back with as much force as she could muster. Then she dropped and slipped in low, knowing that an ordinary swordsman, accustomed to attacks coming high and from the left, would be less on guard for a low strike from the right. Aragorn, of course, was not an ordinary swordsman. Though caught by surprise, he blocked her stroke with relative ease. She growled in frustration, not noticing the small smile that appeared briefly on his lips and then vanished. He let the match go on a little longer, but she was rapidly becoming tired enough to be clumsy, and thus a danger to them both. A quick, hard strike on her thigh with the flat of his blade ended the fight. She stepped back, gasping and ashamed, and forced herself to meet his eyes.

Yet the withering criticism she expected—and, truth be told, felt she deserved—did not come. Instead, he held her gaze for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"It might have worked, against another. I think you knew it would not work on me, but it was the best you had, so you tried it."

She nodded.

"Well, you know what you need to do. Let me show you something…" And she suppressed a groan, for it turned out they were not done after all. But he was patient, running through a single move over and over until she had done it perfectly twice before moving on to the next. At last, after the successful execution of an intricate left-handed pass that brought a faint smile to her lips, tired as she was, he nodded and began unwrapping his blade.

"That's enough for today. I wouldn't want you to miss breakfast." Glancing around for the first time in a long while, she realized that they were the last pair still sparring; all the others were gathered around the fire, cradling bowls of steaming porridge and tea. Aragorn chuckled. "Not bad, though." A speculative pause, and then, "I've not tried the other young ones on the left. Wasn't sure they were ready." Without waiting for a reply, he bowed slightly and walked away toward the fire. After a stunned moment, she followed, hoping desperately that the others would take her flush for exertion alone. Yet she could not entirely suppress the grin that pulled at the corners of her lips.

Notes:

"Ir cuian ech natho alerui" - "While I live, you will never be alone." This is what is said between Rangers who bind themselves as gwethir (oath-brother/sister). As always, if you would like to correct my Sindarin, please do so.

And apparently Heraclitus was Dunedain; surely there is kinship, somewhere back in the mists of time... ;)