Miriel left the healers' house, left the pain and sorrow and wonder, and her feet carried her through the village, knew the way without thought even in the dark. That was well, for her mind seemed dulled, a thick veil drawn between it and the world. It was vaguely disquieting, but she could not muster the strength to care. Just get home. Home, and then rest. She stumbled on rutted mud, and paid closer attention to her feet.

At last the house loomed up before her in the dark, the door that had for as long as she could remember meant safety and warmth and refuge, for whatever happened to her outside that door, within things would be as they had always been.

And now they were not, nor ever would be again. She did not think these things, not in words, but in her heart she knew them. And yet when she opened the door, and saw sitting before the hearth only Darya, she stood still, for she could go no further.

Darya stood, came to her. There was no surprise in her sister's face, and that surprised her, until she thought that of course Meloreth would have sent word. Darya took Miriel's pack from her shoulders, set it by the wall, unfastened her weapons and set them there as well. And then she looked into Miriel's eyes and took her hand. Miriel knew what she meant by it, knew that she knew, but knew also that Darya would not make the first move, would wait for her to be ready. And so she drew in a breath, reached out, and touched. Darya met her, nothing more, and then she withdrew. But in that touch was knowledge, and resigned acceptance, and a melancholy harmony that had never been before between them. Then Darya stepped forward and embraced her, and they held each other, while the fire clinked softly and rain began to whisper on the roof.

At last, the first words spoken between them, quiet and close to her ear, "You should eat, Mir."

"I—I'm not hungry. Too tired."

"You must have at least a little. You'll feel worse in the morning if you don't." The faintest hint of a smile. "Believe me, I know."

And so she sat, stretched out her aching legs to the fire, accepted the piece of bread Darya handed her. And at last, summoning courage, for she knew she must ask but was not certain she wanted the answer, "How is Mother?"

"She's asleep."

She knew from Darya's tone that there was more, but she was too weary to press. At last Darya said quietly, "She is...not well. She went too far, trying to save him. I do not know..." Her voice breaking, "I do not know if she will ever be well." And then, haltingly, "I pulled her back, in the end, but I think not soon enough."

Miriel still said nothing, her slowed mind struggling to make sense of this new thing. At last she said hoarsely, "May I see her?"

Darya nodded. "Don't wake her, though."

Miriel pulled off her boots, slipped on the woolen house shoes that lay in a neat pair by the hearth, as they had always lain, and went into her mother's room.

Mother's only, she thought, as she stepped through the door, for Father is no longer here. The thought was flat, without emotion. He is no longer here. How strange, for he has always been. It was as if a fact of the world that she had felt immutable, irrevocable, though of course her rational mind knew it was not so, that fact had changed. And there was wonder in that turning of the world, and for now there was only wonder, for she would not yet face the other things.

Mirloth was indeed asleep. Even by the dim, flickering light of the candle, Miriel could see that her face was pale, haggard. "Mother," she whispered, involuntarily. Mirloth stirred, but did not wake. Miriel was suddenly reluctant even to touch her, for fear of waking her to grief, and so she only brushed her fingers very lightly over her mother's hair. But Mirloth's eyes opened, blank at first, but then knowing. She struggled to free an arm from the bedclothes, to reach up, and Miriel took her hand. "Mother," she said softly. And then, not knowing what else to say, "I'm home." Mirloth nodded, smiled a little, and then her eyes closed, and her hand slackened, and she fell back into sleep.

Did they tell her?

Miriel went back out into the main room, found Darya still sitting by the fire.

"Does she know? About me?"

Darya shook her head. "She was asleep when Meloreth came. And I did not wake her."

Miriel nodded.

"You'll have to tell her, though. And soon. She should hear it from you, not others."

"I know." A pause, and then, "She...she did not want…"

"No," said Darya softly. "She did not want for you the pain she had accepted for herself. And for me." A brief, bitter laugh. "She wanted you to be happy."

"I know," Miriel said, and her voice broke, and at last she wept.

Darya held her, and there seemed something right in that, held her as she had when they were children. At last she dried Miriel's eyes, and said with a soft, sad smile, "Bed, Mimi. I'll get you something clean."

Miriel nodded, stood by the fire while Darya went into their room and came back out with a folded stack of clothes. She undressed quickly in the cold, though her aching body resisted the movement. Without a word, she ate the bowl of porridge Darya held out to her, drank the mug of tea, and by then she was so sleepy she could hardly stand. Darya helped her to bed and pulled the blankets over her, and she slept.

It was dark in the house when she woke, but pale light showed at the cracks in the shutters. Her body ached and she still felt exhausted, but her head was pounding and she was painfully hungry, and she knew there would be no more sleep. Very quietly, she slipped out of bed. Darya stirred and rolled over, but did not wake. Miriel padded softly across the floor into the kitchen, pulled on her boots where they stood by the door, wrapped her cloak around her, and stepped out into the dawn.

It was misty and cold, and her cloak grayed with small beads of water. She smelled woodsmoke, and early as it was she knew there would be food in the Hall. And hopefully no one else to eat it. Or to talk.

The Hall was indeed empty, or so she thought, until she came close to the great fireplace and saw a figure sitting on the floor. His back was against a bench, legs stretched out before him toward the fire. She stopped when she saw him, but he heard her footsteps, pulled off his hood and turned.

Aragorn's face was gray, lined with weariness as she felt her own must be. But when he saw her, he smiled a little.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

She shook her head, and then winced and sucked in a pained breath.

"Does your head hurt?"

"Yes." She did not nod.

"Raeneth is making me willowbark. Would you like some?"

She looked at him, incredulous at the admission, said softly, "Yes." And then, "Thank you."

"Come, sit." He gestured to the floor beside him. The small part of her still concerned with propriety thought it strange, but it would be stranger still to remain standing, towering over him on the floor, and so she sat.

Quietly, looking not at her but into the fire, "Every healer must learn how they respond to the Gift. Weariness is always there, and most often headache and hunger. Aches of the body sometimes, and some find themselves dizzy or sick." A soft, mirthless laugh. "For me, that is the sign that I have gone too far."

"I—I am not sick. Tired, but…not sleepy. I wish I could sleep more, but I…just can't."

"No," he said gently, and he turned to her. She met his eyes, saw in them that he understood why she could not sleep, what she was afraid she would see if she did.

"How is your mother?"

Perhaps if his voice had not been so gentle, she would have been able to reply dry-eyed. But tears blurred his face, and she looked away.

"Miriel." A hand on hers, and she felt him there, not in her but with her, and though he said nothing more, his presence was a comfort.

At last she took her hand from his and wiped her eyes, said softly, "Darya says she is not well. I…do not know. She was asleep."

"Then sleep is what she needs. And you must care for yourself. Are you hungry?"

"Yes." As she said it, her stomach twisted so painfully she nearly gasped.

He saw it on her face, smiled a little in sympathy. "Raeneth should have the food ready, and the tea." A pause, and then, doubtfully, "I...would rather not get up. Could you—"

"Of course, my lord." She pushed herself stiffly to her feet, worry for him sharp and sudden in her chest. As she watched, he laid his head back against the bench and closed his eyes. She hesitated, wanted to reach out to him but dared not, and instead made her way to the kitchen as quickly as her aching legs would move.

Raeneth clucked and grumbled when Miriel requested two plates, but more out of habit than disapproval. She gave Miriel the food and two steaming mugs on a tray.

Aragorn opened his eyes as she set the tray on the table. He shifted, gasped a little. She reached down, and he took her hand, and she pulled him up.

"Thank you," he said with a small laugh. "I must be getting old."

And she too smiled at the memory.

They ate without speaking, drank their tea, and soon Miriel felt very much better. Aragorn seemed stronger as well, his face not so pale, his eyes brighter. But when they had returned their dishes, he turned to her, and even that small joy was gone from his face. "There is something I must do. Will you come with me? I—do not wish to be alone."

There was such pain in his face that without thinking she reached out, laid a hand on his arm. "Of course, my lord," she said gently.

Yet even as they turned toward the door it opened. A small group came in first, followed closely by two others. Their faces, pale and grim, lighted when they saw him. She knew word of the Chieftain's return must have got all round the village in the night. They will want to speak with him, to hear the story of the healing, to be reassured just to be near him. And she knew it was true, for it was an echo of her own thoughts. But she did not want to be near them, did not want to be near anybody, felt a sudden, urgent, overwhelming desire to be alone. She did not want to talk, did not want to explain, did not want to think about healing, and pain, those who lay in the healers house and those who had been there but were there no longer. She turned to him, saw a faint, wry smile on his lips.

"Go," he said softly. "I must stay. We will speak later."

She nodded, and fled.

In the cold and stillness, all noises were muffled. Her head cleared, and she felt ashamed, and childish, afraid she had been rude to the Chieftain in her haste to escape prying eyes and questioning tongues. There was no reason for it, really. She knew they would be sympathetic, comforting, thankful when they knew what she had done. But she wanted none of it, could stand none of it. I need to be alone. Alone. And then she thought of a place where she might be alone. She pulled up her hood and wrapped her cloak tightly around her, and walked into the fog.

The leaves on the lilac were nearly gone, but the cedars stood dark and straight, and though they loomed gray in the mist, she was comforted. This was a place she knew. This was home. She slipped under the arch of cedar boughs, footfalls muffled on damp grass, and she knelt before the Stone.

He was there. They were all there, incised in the gray rock in tiny, perfect script. No weathering on these names, no moss or lichen. They were fresh and clean and pure, and they were all that was left of those who were gone. She read them again and again, until they became a chant in her mind. She reached out and touched them, the stone cold and wet beneath her fingers, traced the letters of his name. Sirhael. Miriel daughter of Sirhael. Sirhael. Father. And then she bowed her head, and she wept.

Yet after a time her weeping calmed. She wiped her eyes and looked up, gaze moving up the stone to other names she had known. There was her grandfather, there Gallach and Silevren. She drew in a breath, but did not weep, for she thought of Silevren, of her smile and her voice and her sword, thought of all she had known and all she had learned from the older woman. She is not altogether gone. She is in my memory, and Belegon's, and so many others, and that part of her lives on. And she thought of what she knew now, of what she had felt when she reached out in healing for the soul of another. That which is seen is not all that is. Heard it in her mother's voice, and she wept again.

How long she knelt there she did not know, for the light hardly changed; it seemed almost that time stood still. Yet at last her knees began to pain her. The damp had long since soaked the legs of her trousers, and she shivered a little. She was about to rise when she heard, muted on wet grass behind her, footsteps, slow and weary. They stopped as they came under the cedars. She knew she ought to turn, greet whoever it was, accept their condolences and well-wishes, answer their questions, for she had no doubt word of her Gift had spread. But she could not bring herself to face it. And then, quietly behind her, "I thought I might find you here."

She felt a soft shock slip through her. She drew in a breath, turned and pushed herself to her feet, legs stiff after so long bent under her on the ground. Her head reeled at the suddenness of it, and she must have gone pale, for Aragorn stepped forward quickly and put a hand on her shoulder. He said nothing, only looked into her face. His other hand took hers, and she felt his presence again, warm and comforting as a fire on a cold night. And then he stepped close, slipped his hand from her shoulder around her back, and pulled her to him.

She wept then, not only for her father, but for all the dead, and for him, for the grief of his homecoming. He felt it in her, said softly, "Do not grieve for me, Miriel. I have known far worse. And the grief of loneliness is perhaps hardest of all. But now I am home." He thought of Halbarad as he said it, and though she could not catch the meaning of his thought, she felt its ripple, an echo of joy and love and pain. She gasped a little at the keenness of it, but then it was gone, and she rested her head against his shoulder and let herself be comforted by his warmth. But he had heard, and he thought, I must be more careful with her.

At last he said quietly, "Will you tell me of him?"

And they sat together on the damp grass, and Miriel spoke of her father. Of her earliest memories, of his wound, of the bows he had made for her, of his quiet sureness that gave her strength when her own will faltered. "My mother did not want me to become a Ranger," she said softly, realized as she spoke that she had said it before to no one aside from Anna. "He convinced her. He deferred to her, mostly, when it came to us girls, but he would not bend on that. She—she thought I would be…like other girls, that I would marry, have children. But Father let me train. Perhaps if he had not, I might have been here, I might have helped him—"

"No." Aragorn cut across her, soft but firm. "You did what you were bound to do, what you were made to do." He sighed. "I say made, though in truth I do not know. Some say we are made with purpose, some say otherwise. But it seems true. It feels true. There are things I know, though I do not know how I know them. I know my own purpose, though often it is a hard way. And this feels likewise. You are meant to be where you are, doing what you do." He smiled a little. "You have a gift for it, after all."

A smile touched her lips as well, but then fell as she remembered the rest of what he had said then. "And the other? The Gift? Am I meant for that as well?"

"Yes." His voice was gentle but uncompromising, as a strong hand in a soft glove. "You are. It has chosen you, as it chose your mother, and your older sister. But not, I think, the younger?"

"No," she said in a small voice.

"There is another path for her, as there is for every woman and man. She will follow her own course, and if she follows it well she will do her part to uphold the Shield of the North. We are small and weak, each one of us alone, but together we may bear the weight." There was pain again in his voice, and weariness, and she thought once more of the weight he had borne, and the toll it had taken on him. "I will not deceive you," he went on quietly, looking into her eyes. "You have been chosen for a hard way. It is hard enough to be a Ranger, to spend and perhaps lose your life in the Wild, and hard also to be a healer, taking the pain and hurt of others into yourself. But to be both—that is a thing rarely known among us." And then, though his expression did not soften, a kindness came into his voice. "Rare, and precious, Miriel, if you can walk this hard way." Then he did smile, and warmth whispered through her at the sight of it. "And you will not be alone." Again he took her hand, and with that sense other than the five she knew, she felt him near her. "I walk it as well," he said. "Will you walk the hard road with me?"

"I will." There was no hesitation, for in the end there could be no other answer. Not for me, not if I am to be myself. And then, I think he knew that. She smiled a little. "Was that speech really needed? You knew what I would say, in the end."

He laughed softly. "I thought so, yes. But it never hurts to be certain. And I needed to say it for myself as well." The laughter faded, and his face became somber, a strange inward expression, as if he were not really speaking to her at all. "For my own sense of justice, and of duty to those in my charge, I needed to warn you. For it is true—your way will be very hard, so hard that one could not with honor thrust it upon another, without that other accepts it in full knowledge. You cannot know, of course, all that you will face, all that you will suffer. Indeed, I do not know. But I know more than you, for it has been my life for many years. For those who bear the responsibility for others' lives, be they father or mother, captain or lord, the greatest agony is to see those in their charge suffer and not be able to lessen the pain. It is some small comfort to know that the way was willingly chosen."

"I swore an oath to you, my lord." And then, after a moment, "To your name, at least. To that oath I hold, whatever may come of it."

He looked at her then, this young woman, so very young indeed she seemed, but he felt in her the steel of one forged and tempered by the Wild. He nodded, and smiled a little, not in joy but in recognition. "I do not doubt it."

She knew it then, felt it in her bones, truly, fully, as she had not before. And the words came to her lips, and she spoke before reason could call them back. "I would make the oath to you."

He frowned. "You already have."

"I swore to your name, when I took the Star. I swore to the Chieftain, to a title, to a story, to a shadow. I would swear now to you."

He gazed at her for a long moment, and then he rose, and she rose with him. She stood straight, facing him, and before the Stone she spoke.

"Here now do I, Miriel daughter of Sirhael, swear my life to the Dunedain, and to my Chieftain, Aragorn son of Arathorn, and to my maethanar. I will defend my people with every weapon that comes to my hand, and protect those who cannot protect themselves, that they may live in freedom and peace. I will obey those set over me, and bear full care for those in my charge. I will choose the hard right over the easy wrong, the needs of my people over my own. I choose this freely, and I will bear true faith, even unto my own death. I am the Shield of the North."

And Aragorn said, "Miriel daughter of Sirhael, I accept your oath, and your sword, and your life. You are the Shield of the North."

And then his formal, erect posture relaxed, and he smiled, stepped forward and brushed his fingertips over her star. "Your shield will be heavier than most, but you will bear it high. Now come, healer. There are those who need us." He turned away from the stone, and she followed him under the cedars and away without looking back.

Miriel remembered little of that time. The mind is like that, she thought afterwards, years later looking back. Some moments were so beautifully, painfully, poignantly clear in her memory, others a vague collection of images, others gone entirely. She did not remember returning to the sick, though Darya told her she had done so. Not for long, for Aragorn insisted she rest, but there were those who wished to speak with her, and he thought she should see the results of her labors. But the memory of being in the healers' house was entirely gone. She did not remember how she spent her days, either indoors or out, with her mother or with Darya or alone. She remembered bone weariness, beyond the usual fatigue of hard labor, and frustration at its persistence, at the slow return of her strength, rest though she might. She remembered Darya's drawn face, more silent even than usual, as she went about the tasks of the house, and of caring for Mirloth.

And she remembered, with startling precision, as a lighted door opened and then swiftly closed on the darkness, the night of the day when Mirloth first rose from her bed. The day itself remained vague, feeling remembered far more clearly than fact, anxiety and relief and inchoate loss, for though Mirloth could walk and speak and eat, she was not who she had been.

They sat together, the sisters, by the fire after their mother had returned to her bed, and for a while neither spoke, as if not naming the thing could blunt its realness.

At last, Darya shifted and sighed. "A Gift that strong is dangerous," she said quietly, as if picking up a conversation that had been until then unspoken. "She knew it. We all knew it. Meloreth tried to draw her back, tried to make her let him go. But she would not. She could not, I think." Darya had turned away from her, stirring a pot over the fire, but Miriel heard the break in her voice. Something turned over in her heart then, a flutter almost of fear. Darya does not break. She never breaks...But that was the little girl talking; the Ranger knew better. Everyone breaks.

She rose, came softly behind Darya, laid a hand on her shoulder. Gently, for she knew Darya already knew it, but knew also that she needed to hear it spoken by another, "She knew what she was doing. She knew the risk."

Darya stilled, looking into the fire, then at last let out a breath and reached up to touch Miriel's hand, though still she did not look at her. "I know. I...she was not thinking with her right mind. She knew what she should do; she knows what she should have done. But in the moment, she could not let him go. And I think she would have gone with him, had I not called her back. That was risky too, foolish perhaps." She sighed. "Some say those with the Gift should not marry, should not bear children, should not allow themselves to love. That love is dangerous, for it leads one to forget the self. And when a healer forgets the self, she may give and give until there is no more self left." Soft at the last, empty, caught in memory so recent it was nearly real.

And Miriel too felt the fear then, suddenly, the yawning emptiness, the tearing black wind. An echo only, but still she shuddered, closed her eyes, reached without thinking for that breath of remembered warmth...but then the warmth was real. A hand in hers, a soul with hers, abrupt but not jarring, as if it were something she had not known she knew. Whisper without words, easier even than his, for it hardly seemed to be another's soul at all, but her own in a slightly different shade of light. Nethanin. My sister.

There was no feeling of time, but it must not have been long, for the pot on its iron hook over the fire had not begun to bubble when she became alone again. Darya's body was still close, and there was comfort in that, yet they did not look at each other but sat side by side, for facing the fire was easier than facing each other. And with her guard down, her defenses in ruins before grief and weariness and that giving out of herself that was still so new, she said what she had never said to Darya before, asked what in any other circumstance she would not have dared to ask. "Is that why you have never married?"

To her surprise, Darya laughed grimly. "No. No—well, partly. But it is more that..." She paused, looked away, but then she seemed to gather herself. She turned back to Miriel and said, quiet but clear, "I have never married because I do not desire men."

Miriel frowned. "You do not—then do you..."

She could not finish the thought, but Darya nodded. "Yes. You are not a child; you've heard what is said."

She had heard. The whispers and gossip, for there were no secrets in a village so small. "But not everyone thinks..." She frowned. "Rangers don't care."

A soft, bitter laugh. "Rangers don't matter. Not in this." Darya sighed. "No one cares what the men do. But if we do not bear children..." She shook her head. "Some would like to think it isn't real, that it's a phase or a whim, or a choice." She looked into Miriel's eyes. "It is not. And it is what I am."

Miriel was silent a moment, still, as the pattern slid into place. And then she said softly, "I'm sorry, Dar. I...should have known."

Darya smiled, forbearing now, and kind. "No, you should not have. I took great care that no one should know. I told Mother, to stop her nagging me about getting married, but she was the only one. To any others who ask, I am simply a healer, and there is room for nothing else in my heart." An edge of grimness again, and it pained Miriel to hear it, to understand at last the mask her sister wore, the lie she was forced to tell, over and over again. But at least not to me. Not anymore. And then, wonderingly, I am no longer her little sister. And the realization of that trust gave her courage to ask one more question. "And is there? Dar, do you...?"

Darya turned abruptly to the fire and was still a long moment, so long that Miriel thought perhaps she had pushed too far. At last, not looking at her, Darya nodded. "Yes," she said in a low voice, as though the word were not really meant for Miriel's ears. "There is, and I do. But she does not know; perhaps she will never know." The last words nearly inaudible, but Miriel could hear the bitterness, and she knew to ask no more. Not tonight, at least.

And she also remembered clearly the day when the Rangers at last returned to the village, singing as they came up the road and through the gate. She remembered Meren's arms around her, remembered the plain awe in Morfind's eyes as he recounted what he had been told she did, and she confirmed it. And she remembered most of all Mahar, captain of Rangers, veteran of many battles, remembered how he came to her in the midst of the joyful crowd and held out his hand. And when she reached out, he did not clasp her arm as she expected, but rather with tears in his eyes took her hand and brought it to his lips and kissed it.

"Galu edraith a cuil," he said softly, and his voice shook. "We are indeed blessed in you, Miriel, even more than I knew." She could think of nothing to say, and so she said nothing but only bowed. He returned it, his as deep as her own, a smile still on his face as he turned away.

She remembered also one other strange thing from that returning. It did not concern her, and she was not sure why she remembered, not until much later, when it became no longer strange but suddenly, achingly clear. She remembered this: Through a gap in the crowd as she spoke to Morfind, a glimpse of Halbarad's face, tight and pale, as he stood stock still, staring at something hidden from her. And then a movement, and Aragorn stepped into her view, and wrapped Halbarad in a hard, fierce embrace. Halbarad did not move, stood rigid as if in shock or fear. But then abruptly the tension left him, and he let himself embrace Aragorn in return. How long they held each other she did not know, for they were still there when the surging crowd again blocked her view.

Note: Galu edraith a cuil - Blessed is the saving of life