He knew that before he could go to his rest that night, he must go to his men, for the Rangers would be worrying. Halbarad would be worrying. Halbarad, he knew, would be frantic with worry, though of course he would not show it. He dropped his gear at the entrance to the Hall and went back out to the gate.

There was a single guard on the tower, a slender figure silhouetted against the still-pale western sky, but it was nearly dark and he could not see the face.

"Hail, my lord Chieftain." A girl's voice, clear and almost steady, and he did not know whether the tremor was excitement, or exhaustion, or simply cold.

"Hail, guardian on the wall," he called back, and forced a smile onto his face and into his voice. "Come down, I do not know you." And when she hesitated, he said, "There are ten Rangers on the road. They will not let harm come to the village."

And so, after setting her bow carefully against the wall, the girl came down. She was agile on the ladder, confident as though she had done this many times. Rather than climbing all the way down, she stepped off from the third rung, turned and half-leapt and landed on her feet as solid as a cat. She went to one knee and bowed her head, remained there for a moment but then stood without any word from him, looked up and met his eyes. And for the first time that day, his face broke into a genuine smile, broad and warm.

"You are Belegon's daughter."

She looked astonished, courtesy entirely forgotten. "How did you know? You've not seen me since I was a child this high," and she gestured to the height of her waist.

"You have your father's grace in movement; I have seen him leap down from that ladder in the very same way, when we were young." She said nothing and ducked her head. "Your brother will recover," he went on, more quietly, and she let out a soft breath but said nothing. "Your father is with me. Shall I tell him you are well?"

"Y-yes, please do." And then, very softly, "He will worry."

"He will." A brief, gentle smile. "But there is no longer any need."

She unbarred the gate, and he thrust it open enough to slip through, shut it behind him and heard the bars slide back into place as he turned toward the road. It was full dark now. He shook his head ruefully, for he had forgotten the strange nature of time surrounding healing. The time when he sent himself into another might feel fast or slow, yet bore little relation to the passage of time in the world outside. Hours it must have been, and certainly he felt the weariness of it, felt that it was time for sleep even above the exhaustion of healing, but his mind could not account for the time. Though he had felt it before and expected it, still it rattled him, lent yet more unreality to this day that should have been a joyful homecoming.

And yet not all was grief, he told himself. Those under the care of the healers will recover, though the way may be long. And we have known worse. Not within his own memory, but in the annals of his father and grandfather there were records of plagues that carried off one of every four in the village, of famine years when children died by the score all across the country. No. This is bad, but it could have been far worse. Then a faint smile. And we have a new healer. She will need to be trained, of course; I could send her to Rivendell yet this autumn, and have her stay the winter. But her father, her family...it must be her choice. If she feels ready now, so be it. If not, it can wait. But not too much longer, for in naked honesty we need her. There are too few of us, too few with the Gift.

And he thought about that, as he paced slowly down the road in the dark, thought of the ease with which she learned this new thing, of her willingness to risk, of her capacity for pain. For though he had said nothing to her at the time, he had been surprised, astonished even, at how many times she put herself back into the fire. And he thought also of the ease with which her Gift joined with his, and the emptiness when he left her, and her body shaking in his arms. And then he pushed that thought away, and allowed himself to think on it no more. And there was no more time, for a figure loomed before him suddenly in the dark.

"My lord?"

"Bel," he said, but found nothing else.

"Ah, thank the Valar." Though Belegon's face was hidden in darkness, the relief in his voice was clear as day.

"It is well. No more will die." Slowly, words a careful effort. "But you must stay here, all of you. This thing, whatever it is, sickens everyone who touches it. You must stay away, until we are certain it has run its course."

Footsteps on the road behind Belegon, and Mahar's voice. "As you wish, my lord." And then, "Where is Miriel?"

"She went to her family. She…she will be well." Sudden, disconcerting echo of his previous thoughts, and he shook them off. "Bel, she healed your son."

"She—my…" But then he could not speak.

"I showed her what to do, but she did it." He let out a breath. "Mirloth's daughter."

"And Sirhael's," said Belegon softly. And then, near a whisper, to another who was not there, "Gwador nîn." Mahar gripped his shoulder, and for a moment they were silent. Belegon drew in a breath, let it out. "Edeneth?"

A small smile. "She was on the gate."

"Was she now?" Relief, but his voice seemed guarded.

"She did her duty, as well as any might ask. You should be proud of her."

Belegon managed a dry chuckle. "I am. She's…trouble. But in the right way."

"Like we were?"

"Something like."

And then the approach of another's footsteps, and though he could only see an outline, he said quietly, "Hal?"

"My lord."

"I am well." He said no more than that, could say no more with others listening, and even had they been alone he did not know what he would have said. And so instead he asked, "Do you have enough food?"

"Several days, at least," Mahar replied. "And we can always hunt."

"Good. But do not go far. If a threat came, there would be few to defend the walls."

"We will not," Mahar assured him.

"Good. Now I must return, and sleep. I am…very weary." A breath slipped out, ragged and pained, before he could bring it back to control.

Mahar reached out instinctively, checked himself and stepped back. "Take care of yourself, my lord," he said quietly. "You bear the hope of us all."

Aragorn straightened. "That hope has lasted through long years of toil," he replied, "and far greater perils than this. It will endure, we will endure, until our time here is done."

He turned and left them. His steps were slow, his head not entirely steady, and he could see nothing before his feet. As he approached the gate it opened, and he thanked Edeneth but did not linger, paced heavily down the muddy track until his feet, almost of their own accord, led him to the Hall. The clouds had thinned, and by the faint sheen of moonlight he could see the outline of the great door. He stood before it a moment, silent, feeling at last fully the weight of his homecoming. Then he stepped forward, laid a hand on the solid wood, rested his forehead against it and closed his eyes.

"The shield of the North," he murmured. "In life and in death."

He longed to take the side door to his rooms, to fall on the bed and think and feel nothing more until morning. But word would have spread. They would be gathered in the Hall, awaiting the Chieftain's return. He drew a long breath, let it out, raised his head. Then he pulled open the heavy door, and stepped into the smoky light.

He had braced himself for a crowd. But when he cast his eyes about the firelit room, he found there were fewer than he had feared. Not feared. Expected. They are my people. I love them, and I have a duty to them. But not now. Not now. I am so tired…He lifted his head, made his stride as steady as he could manage, as he walked toward the group gathered around the massive hearth.

The fire was small, for it was late. Darahad was there, with some dozen others. All elders of the village, he realized, and he thought, He must have sent the rest away. And part of him said, He should not have, and another part said, Oh, bless him.

Darahad bowed deeply. "My lord," he said. "Your return brings us joy beyond all hope."

He faced them, looked in each of their faces, and they each met his eyes in turn. Nods, small bows, weary relief. Joy will come later. But there was a guardedness from some, a distance that he did not expect. Arahur was there, standing on the edge of the group, not quite hiding but as far away from Darahad as he could get. And though he tried to make his face blank, he flinched just a little when he met Aragorn's gaze.

You took a throw on chance, my friend, Aragorn thought coldly, and you have lost. And you know it.

Aloud, he said, "It is a joy to be with you again, my brothers and my kin, though I wish it could be on a happier day. But no more of the sick will die."

Nods, muttered words of relief, and the mood lightened perceptibly. But then, the question he had known would come, though he had hoped it would not be tonight: "Why was Miriel with you?"

"She has the Gift." No use hiding it; the whole village will know soon enough. "I felt it in her, thought she did not know it until now." Enough of the truth, at least.

Why are you protecting her? She made a choice; she could have made another.

It was hers to make. The Gift is not a doom.

But those who refuse it are shamed. For it did happen, rarely but enough for memory.

She did not refuse. She accepted a different burden. She knew herself, and made her choice.

And now she has chosen again, and she must take what comes.

She has, and she will. And his heart twisted in him, with pity and pain, for he knew truly the burden she had taken on, though she did not.

"Then we are blessed, even in grief." Arondir, the old armsmaster, who had trained so many young men and women for the trials. He knows the patient unveiling of gifts, if any among us does.

Aragorn smiled. "So we are, and so we will always be, while we remain true to our oaths." A reminder, reassuring for some, pointed for others. But also truth, heart-truth, gut-truth. We have each other. And he felt tears in his eyes, and was not ashamed when they fell. He brushed them from his cheeks, and looked once more around the assembled lords, and his was not the only smile now, nor his the only tears. But as tension slipped away, weariness flooded back with full force, and his head felt light. "I must rest, brothers. We will speak more tomorrow."

He felt Darahad close by, a supporting arm if needed, but he would not let himself take it. That is not what they need to see. With an effort of will he straightened, bowed carefully and turned away. Darahad walked by him, solid presence and boots a steady rhythm on the floor, just a bit closer than they might otherwise have been. I am here, my lord. Your brannon taid is here. The words as clear as if he had spoken, and Aragorn warmed as if he had heard them, in the joy and relief of a burden shared.

Not truly shared, not entirely, for in the end and at bottom it is mine. But my brannon taid bears it with me.

They passed together out of the Hall, and in the sudden cold and darkness of the corridor he stumbled. Darahad caught him, almost before it happened, an arm around his shoulders, a hand on his chest. They stood there together, unmoving, ragged breath loud in the stillness. At last, Darahad said gently, "Take care, my lord." Another silence, and then they continued on, Darahad's steadying arm still firm around him, and though part of him wanted to resent it, gratitude and relief were stronger.

There was light in his rooms at least, and he knew that would be Darahad's doing as well. Candles flickered in the draft of the opening door, and fire crackled brightly in the hearth. His feet stopped, and he let out a shuddering sigh. Darahad's arm tightened around his shoulders, and he said softly, "You are home, my lord." Aragorn leaned against him for just a moment, closed his eyes, breathed in the smell of this room, musty for being so long unoccupied, but beneath it the half-remembered smell of home. And then, sudden memory of the last time he had stood here, and the one who had been with him then.

'Arya, please.' Begging at the last, all dignity gone in desperation. 'Do not do this to me.' A pause, and then, more softly, 'Do not do this to us.'

Grasping at resolve, and in desperate attempt at control his voice came out cold. 'I do not do this to you. I do it for you, for all of you.' He heard the coldness, and part of him wished to call it back, but still he spoke on. 'My duty is to the North, not to you alone. I must go where I am called to go. There is a purpose higher than either of us, and you must not hinder me.' A pause, and then, 'I cannot stay, even if I wanted to.'

'Do you want to?' Low, shaking, and the eyes pierced him, held him fast as they had so often before, as no other eyes ever had.

Or perhaps ever would, he thought. But he pushed that thought aside and let righteous anger drown all else. Yet even in anger he could not lie, and so he did not answer and turned away.

Low and vicious behind him, as he laid a hand on the door: 'Fuck you, my lord. Fuck your purpose and your pride.' Sobbing now, 'Fuck you, Arya.' And for long afterward, whenever that name came to his mind, that face, that body, all he could hear were those broken, anguished words.

"My lord? Aragorn? Are you unwell?" Darahad's voice came to him as from a great distance, and he realized he must have been standing there for some time.

He let out a breath. "Forgive me, yes, I am well." And this was the brannon taid, so he allowed some of the truth, if not all of it. "I was remembering the last time I was here. It has been…a long time."

Darahad's deep voice shook a little, and Aragorn remembered that the older man, too, must be exhausted, near the edge in body and mind both. "It has, my lord. You have returned none too soon, and not only for the sick. But we will not speak of that now." The arm around Aragorn's shoulders moved to his elbow, and urged him forward to a chair by the fire. "Meloreth made me swear I would not let you sleep until you had eaten at least a little, and also that I would not leave until you were in your bed." A faint, wry smile. "So, here is bread and tea; Raeneth wanted to give you more, but I said you wouldn't eat it."

Aragorn forced a chuckle. "You were right. But I will try this at least." He made a show of picking up the bread, biting and chewing, and though his stomach churned, he forced himself to swallow. Satisfied, Darahad turned away and went into the bedroom. Aragorn heard the rattle of a poker, the crunch of logs, and knew Darahad was building up the fire. That is not his task, he is not my servant…But then, Remember, my lord. You are again the Chieftain, and you again have a brannon taid. Not a second in command, not a deputy or chief advisor, but the brannon taid, blood of your blood, life sworn to your life. You are lord again of your own people, not servant to another. And tears blurred the firelight.

He managed to eat most of the bread and drank all the tea, the scent of red-flower calming his mind even as it warmed his body. Meloreth must have given instruction for that, or perhaps Raeneth knew. She has cared for enough weary healers in her time. Of course she knows. And he smiled, and was smiling still when Darahad returned. The brannon taid nodded in satisfaction when he saw the nearly-empty plate. Without question or hesitation he took Aragorn's arm, helped him rise, held him steady until his head was clear. The bedroom was colder, but the blazing fire would keep it from freezing, and there were blankets enough and to spare. And a bed. A real bed. He nearly groaned as he sat down. As if Darahad read his thoughts, with a soft chuckle as he helped him off with his boots, "When is the last time you slept in a bed, my lord?"

"I don't remember." It was the truth, his mind too weary to search back in memory. They would want it all tomorrow, and he would tell them, or at least all he could. But now there was only the present, this room, this bed, firelight on the wall, and the weight of blankets as Darahad laid them over him, pressing him down into sleep.