The weather stayed fair for the rest of their journey home, though there was frost nearly every night, and they huddled together for warmth. But as they came down at last out of the hills and saw the River Wood before them, the air became milder and the westering sun shone on their faces. They walked swiftly and with little speech, all eager for home.

Home. Father and Mother, and Darya. And then, with a twinge of regret: But not Andreth. Her cheerful, chattering younger sister had married a farmer from Ladrengil the summer before, and lived now two days' journey south of Elenost. She'll have her own family before long. Miriel shook her head, and smiled ruefully. So life moves on…

They spent one night beneath the trees, amid the smell of fallen leaves, and reached the river the next afternoon. The water was low and quiet, easily crossed on stepping stones, for the rains of autumn had not yet come.

Yet when they came at last to the edge of the trees and looked out over the fields and pastures of Elenost, the words of joy and relief died on their lips. This late in the season, all the fields should have been harvested. But now the land on either side of the road was a patchwork, some fields brown and bare while others still bore fading stands of grain. All were empty – there was not a living creature anywhere in sight, save for a herd of cows in a distant pasture on the edge of the forest.

Mahar's lips tightened. "Hands on your weapons," he said in a low voice.

None needed the warning. They strode down the long slope, glancing warily from side to side, uncertainty deepening with every step. Yet they had gone no more than a hundred yards when the distant clang of the gate bell sounded in the still air. Mahar said nothing but quickened his pace. Near the back of the file, Miriel felt her stomach clench. Sudden, panicked fear for her family flared through her, and it was only with great effort that she managed to stop herself running forward to the gate.

They were less than a furlong from the walls when the gate opened. A man came out, cloaked against the cold. He walked slowly, as if ill or very weary, and he was at first too far away to make out his face. But when he had approached within fifty yards of the patrol, Mahar lifted his hand and stopped.

"My lord Darahad," he called out in a loud voice. "What news of our people?"

It was indeed the brannon taid. Yet his face was very pale, and it seemed to Miriel that he had aged years since she had seen him last. The patrol stood silent and motionless, tense with waiting. When Darahad was ten yards from the captain, he stopped. He swallowed hard, and at last he spoke.

"Sickness came on us. Perhaps two weeks after you left." He faltered, and coughed. "Ten are dead; many more are gravely ill. You must not come in, lest you fall ill as well."

For a moment, all was terribly still. Then Mahar stepped forward. Rough as the cracking of dry timbers, "Who are the dead?"

"Elirion, Celebril, Húrin, Húrin's little boy Marhelin…" Darahad numbered them on his fingers, the grim toll mounting—yet as each name rang in the silence, Miriel felt a twinge of guilty relief. Not yet, not yet…eight, nine…

"…and Sirhael. He died three days ago…"

Darahad's voice went on. But she could not hear it. Heard nothing but the name, over and over. She swayed, shut her eyes, might have fallen but for an anchoring hand that grasped her shoulder.

"Lean on me, Mir." Meren's voice, low and soft.

And she did, heedless of the world, of the men around her, of Darahad's pained, exhausted voice continuing its grim tale. Tears slipped down her cheeks unheeded, and when Meren wiped them away, she did not stir.

Aragorn was concealed behind the front rank of Rangers, who had closed around him instinctively at the first sign of trouble. Halbarad stood by his side, had moved there without speaking, as a lock slides into a well-worn groove. Yet even as Darahad finished, the Chieftain stepped forward, and Halbarad with him like a shadow.

"I will go in," said Aragorn. His voice was steady, and clear. "Mahar, keep the patrol here."

Halbarad's hands clenched, and his breath hissed through his teeth. He said nothing, but displeasure radiated from him like heat from fire-warmed stone. Yet in the moment before Aragorn stepped forward to join the brannon taid, Halbarad felt fingertips brush the back of his hand.

Aragorn said something very softly to Darahad, who nodded but did not speak. Then he turned back to the patrol. "Fear not, my brothers," he said quietly, and such comfort and warmth was in his voice that those who heard felt their fear a little less. He made to turn away then. Yet as his gaze swept across the Rangers one last time, his eyes narrowed—and she knew what he would say before he said it.

"Miriel, come with me."

Mahar started, and shook his head. "Why—"

"She has the Gift. It will protect her, and she may be of some use."

Mahar's frown deepened, and his face as he turned to look at her was troubled. Yet he pursed his lips and said nothing as she stepped forward to stand before the Chieftain.

She moved without thought, half-blind with tears, swayed and almost stumbled as she stepped away from Meren. But someone caught her, a hand on her elbow, gentle but firm. She steadied, and then it was gone. But as she passed through there were others, hands reaching out to touch her, quiet words of comfort and well-wishing. She lifted her head and blinked; still the tears came, but more slowly now, and her sight was clear.

As she came to Aragorn's side, she looked up into his face. There was grief there, deep and wrenching, but it seemed that he pulled control over it like a mask. She felt sudden pity for him, come back to his home only to find it a place of death. Hardly realizing what she did, her hand reached out, finding beyond her own grief a measure of comfort to ease his. His face as he looked on her became for a moment less grave, and he gripped her hand tightly before releasing it.

"Come," he said, and she obeyed.

As they walked, he spoke to Darahad, so quietly she would have had to strain to catch the words had she desired to hear them. But she did not. There was nothing more she needed to know. Father is dead. Mother and Darya are alive, at least for now. Yet they will have spent everything they had for him, and for the others. Every healer in the village must be exhausted. Abrupt, cold shock. Why else would one untrained be of use? What use can I be? And she felt her heart beat fast, as fear washed over her once more. I can't…I don't know…

And then, soft but clear: Ellen na maethad achas. Words she had known all her life, heard now in her father's voice. 'Courage is mastering fear. So said the Brave One himself.' Sirhael's wry half-smile. 'And who are we to doubt him?'

The guard at the gate acknowledged them as they passed through, bowing low to Aragorn. As they walked down the silent road, Aragorn turned to her. "You have the strength for this," he said quietly, "or I would not have brought you. Yet you must put away your grief. There will be a time later for tears, and then I will weep with you." He swallowed. "But that time is not now."

Shaking breath, drawn in and let out. Then she nodded, and wiped her eyes.

He touched her hand again, and as though a window had opened in his mind, she felt a sudden, fierce surge of mingled pride and pain. Then it was gone, the hand once more at his side, his voice calm and steady. "There is no time for instruction," he said, "but I think what you know already is enough. I will guide you." And his steps slowed, and stopped before the doors of the healers' house.

"Here I will leave you, my lord," said Darahad, and swayed with weariness even as he spoke.

Aragorn embraced him. "Be at ease, brother," he said. "The worst is over. Rest now. We will speak when I am done."

The older man bowed stiffly, as if the movement pained him, and then he turned away. A moment only Aragorn looked after him before turning back to her. His eyes were clear as he held her gaze. "Ellen na maethad achas," he said softly, and she nodded, and almost smiled at the echo of her own thoughts. "In this, as in all else." With that he turned and stepped over the threshold into the house of the sick.

It was dark inside after the brightness of day; though she knew the way well, she could at first see little. She followed him, moving as much by memory as by sight. Yet as her eyes adjusted, she began to make out shadowy forms lying on pallets all across the floor – six, she counted, seven, eight, and there in the corner, the small body of a child, lying motionless under a blanket. Nine. And how many in the other rooms? Yet even as she wondered, movement caught her eye. A woman rose, slow and weary, with creaking knees, from the child's bedside and came toward them.

Meloreth. The healer's face was tight and pale, but as she neared them, she stopped short, and her eyes went wide with wonder. For a long moment, she could not speak. Then she drew a harsh breath, and stepped forward to embrace Aragorn.

"Oh, thank the Valar," she murmured, over and over. Pulling back at last, she laid a weathered hand on his cheek. "Is it really you, my lord? Am I not dreaming? How often in these last days have we wished for you!"

"You do not dream," he said. "I am come at last, though too late, it would seem."

"Too late for some, but not for others. Fifteen now lie in this house. Six of them I had feared would die, perhaps seven, for we have not the strength left to pull them back. Yet perhaps you could do it…" Her voice trailed off, as she at last noticed Miriel. She opened her mouth as if to speak but said nothing, instead turning a searching gaze on Aragorn. After a moment, she nodded slowly. "She has the Gift, does she not?" Her voice was soft, almost sad.

"She does."

"I thought it might be so, though Mirloth would not hear of it. Well." Her lips tightened. "Does she know how to use it?"

"A little. Enough, I think." Aragorn shrugged off his pack and cast his gaze about the room. "Show me where I am needed."

The worst of the sick were all gathered together, their pallets close by the fireplace. Miriel sat on her pack and watched as Aragorn and Meloreth moved slowly from one to the next. She could not hear what was said between them, but Aragorn seemed in some manner to take the measure of each, kneeling for a moment by each pallet and laying a hand on each fevered brow. At last he rose and came back to her. His face was pale in the dim light, but he seemed relieved.

"I think we have the strength, between us," he said as she rose to her feet. "Come, I will show you the way of it."

While Meloreth moved off to tend to those less grievously ill, Miriel followed him to the pallet in the corner she had noticed earlier. It was indeed a child who lay there, breathing in shallow gasps.

"Toldir," she murmured, recognition breaking over her with sinking dread. Belegon's son.

Aragorn knelt by the boy's side. "Take his hand," he said quietly. Miriel obeyed, closing her eyes and reaching out as she had done once before, instinctively searching for the wrongness within, taking that which was damaged into herself. She steeled her mind for the pain, expected it, was ready for it. But when it hit her, she felt as though she staggered backward, nearly overcome with nausea and terrible, crushing weakness. Her breath rasped in her throat, and she fought desperately to hold onto herself, to keep from drowning in the wave of agony. Yet with the part of her mind that remained aware of her own body, she felt Aragorn's hand on her arm, and then, foreign yet strangely familiar, the touch of his mind on hers. Even as she struggled, she heard his voice, quiet but clear in her mind. Do not fight. Let it flow through you and out, into the earth and into the air. She did as she was bidden, all the while feeling him calm at her side, showing her the way though he spoke no words.

At last the turmoil subsided, leaving her drained and shaken in that peace that comes after the remission of pain. She opened her eyes. Toldir lay on the pallet as he had before, yet his breathing was now deep and regular, and a little color had returned to his cheeks. Still trembling a little, she turned to Aragorn, and his hand moved down to clasp hers, and for a moment it seemed he could not speak. At last, he said hoarsely, "Good. That is…good. Can you do it on your own?"

She hesitated a moment, but in her heart she knew the answer. "Yes," she whispered. And then more strongly, "Yes."

For a long while she lost track of time, indeed almost lost track of the world. She healed Telerion the cooper, and then Lain's sister Alethil. She felt herself growing weary and wearier, sluggish and aching. Yet the path seemed to be clearer each time, to come more easily to her mind. When Alethil was at last resting easily, Miriel sat back against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest. She closed her eyes, laid her hands flat on the floor as the room seemed to waver around her. I'll just be still a moment…

"Miriel." His voice, startling her from rest. Soft but clear, and she lifted her head, struggled to her feet, came to where he knelt by a pallet close to the fire. She let out a soft breath of effort as she crouched beside him, and he gave her a sharp, searching look. She met it without flinching, but there seemed something behind his eyes that sent a cold shock of recognition through her. He's nearly done. I'm on the edge, but so is he.

"I have asked much of you today," he said, "and you have given more. Yet I must ask for your strength one last time." He gestured to the woman who lay before him, burning with fever yet so still that she seemed hardly to breathe. Haltingly, his voice near to breaking, "I cannot do this on my own." He pulled in a deep, shaking breath, let it out slowly. "Yet together we may attempt it."

"Together?" she questioned, weary mind struggling to understand. "I thought—Mother told me a healer must act alone. "

"There are…exceptions." He met her eyes, seemed almost to speak though she heard no words, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. And then, "There is danger in it, for both of us." He laid a hand gently on the woman's fevered brow, "But she will die if it is not done. Are you willing?"

She swallowed hard, and nodded. "Yes, my lord."

"Good." He smiled a little, and she saw the effort it cost him. He laid a hand on her shoulder, steadying them both. "You will begin it; do just as you have done with the others. You will feel me with you after a time. Your mind may resist, but you must not fight me. Let me in, and I will guide you." Reassured, if only a little, she pushed away weariness and fear, and closed her eyes.

At first, it was much as before, the same feeling of sickness, the same terrible lethargy, draining yet almost familiar now. Slowly she waded through it, seeking for the calm beyond the storm, slowly, and more slowly…and more slowly yet…and then, with a flutter of fear, she felt control begin to slip. The edges were tearing, whipped to shreds in a howling wind—yet even as she teetered on the brink, fighting desperately as panic rose, she heard him.

Miriel.

Soft though it was, it cut through the storm as if without effort.

Miriel.

Warmth then, and a faint glow as of sunlight gleaming through the morning wrack after a night of rain. Strength flowed into her, and yet at the same time she felt herself lifted and borne along without volition. Her will resisted, but she forced it quiet. Light seemed to grow around her as the storm receded, until at last all was calm. Yet she wavered, unmoored, until the soft voice came again. Let me go. Without quite knowing what she did, she thought of release, and it came—and with it a sudden, echoing emptiness. Stifling an instinctive cry, she gathered herself into herself, until at last she felt the floor hard again beneath her knees. She opened her eyes.

Aragorn crouched beside her, pale and shaking. His eyes searched her face. "Miriel." A hoarse whisper, and he grasped a mug of water from the floor by his side and lifted it to his lips with trembling hands. He coughed, spilled a little, drank greedily. At last, he lowered the mug and handed it to her. "Not much left. Sorry." She gulped it down, for her mouth was cottony dry. Bidding her stay with a hand on her shoulder, he rose, slowly, stiffly, joints creaking, and made his way over to the water bucket in the corner by the door. He returned, and she drank again, more slowly this time, until the urgency of thirst was slaked. Then he set the mug down and took her hands. He smiled a little. "That was well done. A near thing, but well done. Enough for today – come, you must rest, as must I." He raised her to her feet.

"Yes, my lord," she managed, fighting sudden dizziness that threatened to swamp her as she stood. She knew she ought to move, but the room seemed to sway around her, and her feet would not obey. She blinked, shut her eyes, felt her knees give way. But an arm around her shoulders kept her from falling, and a voice came faintly over the roaring in her ears.

"Be still now," he murmured, calm though she could feel the tension in him. "I let you go too far. Now you know what it feels like, eh? Come, sit with me."

He let her gently down to the floor, drew her back to rest against him. She found herself panting, her body shaking a little with each ragged breath. She felt as though she might be sick. The world seemed to waver around her, insubstantial as smoke, while her body became heavy, so impossibly heavy…Her mind grasped desperately for control, struggling against panic. The sudden weakness terrified her. Will I die? Is this how it ends? She cried out, so faint it was almost a whimper. At any other time she would have been mortified to make such a sound; now she was hardly aware of it. A yawning gulf seemed to open before her, and she felt herself spiraling inexorably down into darkness.

Yet into the darkness there came light, faint, wavering a little. His voice whispered in her mind, cool and fresh as a stream splashing down from the hills: Calm is my soul, and clear, like the mountains in the morning. The light seemed to grow, though still it trembled, and something in her knew that he, too, was at the edge of his strength. His hand found hers, and she gripped it as a lifeline in a storm. Gradually, the roaring in her ears subsided. She felt the floor solid beneath her, and against her back the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. At last, she opened her eyes, realizing as she did so that she still gripped his hand. Slowly she relaxed her fingers, knuckles cracking with the release of tension. With an effort she sat up, shivering a little at the loss of his warmth. Laying a hand on the wall for support, she stood, wavered for a moment but then was still, very pale but steady on her feet. He rose with her, eyes searching her face.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

Can I walk? I don't know. Slowly she took a few steps toward the center of the room. She felt very weak, but her head and her feet were steady. She returned to him. "Yes."

"Good." He took her hands again. "You saved lives today, Miriel," he said quietly. "You risked yourself that others might live. I can ask nothing more of my Rangers." He smiled a little, and released her hands. "You must rest, and eat if you can. Return in the morning, if you feel well enough."

She felt as though she ought to say something more, but her mind was blank, exhaustion and grief robbing her of all thoughts beyond desire to see her family and to sleep. She bowed and turned from him, bending with a soft grunt to pick up her pack.

He stood still and watched her go, waiting to hear her footsteps retreat down the passage and the front door open and shut before he moved. He turned at last to find Meloreth watching him.

"What will she find?" he asked softly.

"Aside from Sirhael, none of them fell ill," answered Meloreth. "Yet Mirloth almost killed herself trying to save him. I think she will recover, but she is very weak."

Aragorn bowed his head, his face tight with pain. Moving softly despite her age, Meloreth came to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "You could not have known."

"No." His voice was harsh, bitter. "No, I could not have. Yet had I been here, he might have lived, and others as well."

"Brannon mell, you cannot be everywhere. It is useless to dwell on might-have-beens. Worse than useless, for it will burn your mind away if you allow it."

"Do I not know it well?" He let out a short, sharp sound, halfway between a sigh and a sob. But with that he seemed to relax, and some of the tension left his body.

"You must take your own advice," said Meloreth gently, reaching up to lay a hand on his pale cheek. "Rest, and eat, and then rest some more. Edol will be here soon; she and Gwainen will see them through the night."

Aragorn looked doubtful, but even as he stood there, he swayed and might have fallen had Meloreth not grasped his shoulders.

"Go. You do no one any good if you are too weak to stand."

He nodded wearily. "Call me if any of the sick take a turn for the worse."

"As you wish." Meloreth preceded him down the passage and opened the door into the night. As he nodded in silent farewell, she grasped his shoulder again, the brief pressure almost motherly. "Welcome home, my lord."

His lined face softened a little, though the faint, weary movement of his lips could hardly be called a smile.

Notes:

Brannon mell - beloved lord, a term of respectful endearment

This chapter was not inspired by the pandemic; I wrote the first draft of it at least 8 years ago (it's in an old Word Doc dated 2015). I've edited it for style and tone, but the substance has not changed. I was thinking about history when I wrote it, but things have a way of coming back around.

For those who read "Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost," Sirhael's death may hit hard. I'm sorry.