It was after the Rangers returned that they held the ceremony at the Stone. The burnings had been done as they died, the ashes given to the river and the names carved, but that had been all the sick, exhausted villagers could do to honor the dead and still care for the living. Darahad had decided early on that the Stone would wait, and they would all be done together, for there was strength in shared grief.

Miriel had gone out to the training ground early, movement easier to bear than stillness. She still felt weak, limbs unsteady and balance off, and it was frustrating to attempt things she ought to be able to do with ease, and find she could not. Her aim was shaky, her sword strokes slow, and she fell from the balance logs so many times that she gave it up. Stop, fool, before you actually hurt yourself. But at least she was doing something, and in doing she did not have to think. At least for a little while, please let me not think.

The bell rang in the middle morning, as she stood panting in the yard, shaky after a short sparring match with Meren that ought not to have even winded her. Three strokes, slow and echoing in the still air. The men around her stopped, looked by instinct toward the sound, then back to each other, and slowly they began to put away their gear.

Meren's voice, gentle beside her, as she stared unblinking at nothing, "Give me your sword, Mir." He took it from her unresisting hand, unwrapped the cloth, wiped the blade and slid it back into its sheath. She felt the sudden weight at her side, and it jerked her out of stillness. She turned to him, and he looked at her a moment, then reached down and took her hand. She felt the warmth, drew a deep breath and straightened.

"I should go home."

He nodded, squeezed her hand and then let it go. "Do you need me?"

Part of her wished it, but she shook her head. "Darya and I can manage."

"I'll find you at the Stone."

A pause, and then a whisper. "Yes."

She could not keep her voice from shaking, and she turned away from him. But he caught her shoulder, and pulled her back into a brief, fierce hug. "Gwethor nîn," he murmured.

The house was dim after the bright morning, and it was a moment before she could see Mirloth sitting in a chair by the fire, and Darya standing beside her, face grim and set. Miriel came to her mother's side, and without a word they helped her rise. Mirloth moved slowly, feebly, as though she were an old woman. Miriel felt tears rise once again, swiped at them angrily with her sleeve but only blurred her eyes so that she knocked against the doorframe as she passed through. Darya looked at her sharply, but Mirloth seemed to notice nothing and continued on with slow, shuffling steps.

The entire village was there, save for those sick still recovering, and the women preparing the funeral feast in the Hall. The crowd parted to let Miriel and her mother and sister through, for tradition said that the nearest family of the dead should be close enough to read the name on the Stone. But there was not room for them all, for there were so many. At a nod from Darya, Miriel stepped gratefully back to stand behind them. A touch on her shoulder, and Meren was there, though she had not seen him come. She leaned against him, and he put an arm around her shoulders.

A rustle in the crowd, a murmur that resolved itself into a very few words, repeated over and over. The Chieftain. Lord Aragorn. He is here.

He came walking slowly up the path, Darahad at his side. Many reached out to touch him as he passed, and he acknowledged each one, though the smiles he gave them did not reach his eyes. As he came through the arch of cedars, she felt a soft shock of fear, for his face was very pale, and he moved stiffly, as if in pain. But his expression softened when he saw her, saw the tears in her eyes and the worry written clearly on her face, and as he came by her he said quietly, "Maloseg." That was all, and then he was past her, and stood before the Stone.

As she had done, he knelt and ran his fingers over the names. But this was slow, ceremonial, and the crowd was quiet as he did it. Then he stood and turned to them, and he spoke in a clear voice that did not shake, though there were tears in his eyes. He said their names, and she swayed when she heard her father's, as though the ground beneath her had moved. But Meren held her, and she gripped his hand where it lay on her shoulder, and after a moment she was steady again. Aragorn continued speaking, the slow words of ritual that she had heard many times before, though they had new meaning now that they were said for her father.

It seemed long but in truth it was not, and in the silence after he was done speaking, birds called overhead in the autumn sunshine. And then he sang. She had heard him sing before, of course, around the fire at night on their journey from Amon Sûl. But this was different, him but not him, his voice only the vessel through which the Song of the Dead passed into this world and out of it, over the crowded, tear-streaked faces and into the morning air. She felt herself emptied, felt her grief slip out with the song, and though it left nothing behind, in that emptiness and silence there was a kind of peace.

I am alone.

Nonsense. Mother is alive, and Darya and Andreth.

Mother is...not herself. And she may never be again. Dar and Andy are my sisters, but they have their own lives.

As do you.

I am no longer a child. And that was it, she realized, strange as it seemed now, after years in the Wild. But now, only now, did she feel truly grown. At end and at bottom, I have no one now to depend on but myself.

True, in a way. But not, perhaps, in the ways that matter.

Who will catch me if I fall? The answer before so clear as to require no thought. And now? But words came to her then, another song she had heard many times, that had each time passed her by without leaving a mark. But now it cut her, sharp and poignant, and in the pain there was comfort she had never allowed herself to feel before, for she had never needed it.

'If I needed you, would you come to me? Would you swim the sea for to ease my pain?' And the reply in voices she knew as well as her own, faces that felt near her now, and would always be, Meren and Anna and Darya, Hannas and Calen and Belegon: 'If you needed me, I would come to you, I would swim the sea for to ease your pain.'

And another voice, another face, and this one she did not expect. But she did not question, for even as she felt it she knew it was true, the face pale and weary even as it was before her waking eyes, the words of the Song of the Dead mingling with those other words running through her mind. But the words did not matter. The voice was there, and it was enough.

And then it was gone. The song ended, his and hers, and in the stillness she could again hear the birds, and the sound of soft weeping, and the shuffling of many feet on dry grass. There would be the feast later, and more singing and more tears, but the ritual was closed, the life fully over. It began when a baby was brought to the Stone, to be blessed and welcomed by those who came before, and it ended with a name chiseled into that same cold, gray rock. It is done.

She was steady now, in control of herself. She turned to Meren, embraced him and then let him go.

"I'll see you in the Hall," she said quietly. A faint smile. "Thank you."

He nodded, squeezed her shoulder and then turned away. The crowd had begun to drift apart, though still the families of the dead remained, and many others as well, to be with them as they said their final farewells. Aragorn was there, and Darahad with him, talking quietly to those who wished to talk, standing silent beside those who wished for silence. It comforted them simply to have him there, she could see it on their faces. But his face she could not read.

Miriel stood by her mother, glanced across her to Darya. Her sister's face was lined and pale, her eyes reddened and shadowed with exhaustion, but she did not weep. And Miriel realized with a sudden, soft shock, Her life has changed even more than mine. I am gone, most of the time. But she is here every day. She was here with them every day, and now every day she must be here without him, and with...whatever Mother has become. I will leave soon, and my life will be as it was. Hers will not, nor ever will be again.

Belegon came to them then, said nothing but embraced them, and to her surprise Darya allowed it, let herself go slack and leaned her head on his shoulder. Only a moment, and then she stood straight again. But she met his eyes and nodded.

"In all but blood," he said, trying to smile a little amid tears, "he was my brother. If there is anything you need..." He glanced at Mirloth, shook his head and swallowed. "You are my daughters now." He touched Toldir's head, put an arm around Edeneth's shoulders. "As they became his when we lost Silevren."

Then he kissed Mirloth's cheek, and she nodded and said softly, "You are so kind, Bel." But it was flat, without emotion, and her eyes did not meet his.

By the Stone another family stood, leaning on each other and weeping, and Miriel recognized Húrin's young wife, a beautiful woman from Gaerferin of whom she had been jealous. That seemed so petty, now this woman she had envied was bereft of both her husband and her son. The woman stood with Húrin's family on either side, held her toddling daughter by the hand, and she was still, staring at the Stone. She did not touch it, as some others did, only stared unmoving, as if she herself were stone.

Then the stillness was broken, the little girl tugging at her hand.

"Mama. Mama, I hungry. Mama."

An older woman, standing by her, tried to hush the child. But the young mother picked up the girl and turned from the Stone, and as they passed she was speaking softly, soothingly to her daughter.

The girl will not remember them. She will be told that she once had a father and a brother. She will hear stories of them, but that will be all. And Miriel was a little ashamed of her own grief.

The sun was now high in the sky, and she knew that there would be platters and piles of food in the Hall. All afternoon and into the evening there would be eating and singing, and speaking about those who were gone. And she had suddenly no more desire to be alone. She wanted Meren, with his smile and his jokes; she wanted the older men's stories of her father, Mahar and Darahad and Belegon; she wanted the younger Rangers to tell her of the bows he had made for them. She looked again over her mother's head to Darya, raised her eyebrows in silent question. Darya glanced down at Mirloth, who still stood silent and unmoving.

Aloud, Darya said, "Come, mother." She took Mirloth's elbow and guided her onto the path. Mirloth said nothing, looked neither at her nor at the stone. Miriel followed them, and she did look at the Stone, one more time, though not to see her father's name but rather all those who came before him. My name will be there someday. And there was a strange, hollow comfort in that.

Aragorn still stood by the Stone, and when her eyes left it they found him, and she pulled in a small, pained breath at how worn he looked. Darahad was gone, perhaps to see to things in the Hall, and he stood alone. But not entirely alone, she realized. On a rock beneath the shadow of the cedars sat another man, not bowed in grief nor straight with anticipation, but simply waiting. And even as she passed by, following her sister and mother out of the grove, he rose, and when a little while later she looked back, she saw them following, Halbarad's hand steady on Aragorn's arm.

They brought Mirloth to the Hall. Darya did not want to, but Miriel persuaded her to try, reasoned that perhaps the warmth and food and fellowship would reach her. But in truth it was from desperation that she spoke, from anguished desire to try something, anything, for being alone in quiet and peace brought no change. She would not admit to losing hope, neither to Darya nor in her own mind. But it was there, first creeping and now whispering: She will never recover. This is now your mother, and always will be.

The Hall was crowded, though the talk was subdued, and there were still many tears. They took food from the long table by the kitchen, and Miriel saw Meren gesturing to her from the far side of the room. He had saved space for them in a quiet corner, close to the wall and facing out, as much peace as might be found in the thronged room.

"Good," he nodded approvingly when he saw their full plates. "You're too skinny, Mir. I'm the scarecrow, not you." He huffed as an affronted child, and forced though it was, she laughed.

"I'm trying, be patient."

"Patient?" He turned to Darya, lowered his voice confidentially. "Must have forgotten who she's talking to."

Darya managed a soft, hollow laugh. "Absent-minded Mimi." And then she sucked in a breath and could not continue, for the reminder of childhood. Meren squeezed her shoulder, and she laid her cheek against his hand, and in that instinctive acceptance of touch, Miriel saw more clearly than anything her sister's loneliness and grief. She did not let her face show it, and after a moment Darya lifted her head and moved a little away, as if conscious suddenly of what she had done.

Miriel was not hungry, but she ate, for she knew she ought to be hungry. Darya only picked at her food until she caught Miriel watching her, took a deliberate bite and forced it down with an effort. But then she shook her head slightly, with a look that was too tired to be rueful. I just can't.

Mirloth ate mechanically, cutting and chewing and swallowing until her plate was empty, and then she looked down at the table in silence.

Darya met Miriel's eyes again, sighed a little. "Mother, they will start singing soon," she said. "Do you wish to stay?"

Soft, almost inaudible, "No."

Darya took her arm, and Miriel watched as they made their way through the crowd, saw how many of those she passed reached out to greet her, touch her, comfort her. But Mirloth looked at them blankly, saw them but only with her eyes. There was something in her that was broken, and her heart could not answer.

Miriel found herself almost holding her breath, reaching out in thought, in wish, in desperate plea. Mother. Please, be my mother. Yet Mirloth did not turn, did not speak, saw but did not see.

Meren, still sitting next to her, put his arm around her shoulders, and he said nothing, for there was no need. But at last he said quietly, "I'm worried about her." And Miriel knew he did not mean her mother.

"So am I." A pause, and then, "She'll be all right. But I wish she were not...alone." To say more would break Darya's confidence, and that she would not do even with Meren. But looking in his face, she thought perhaps he guessed at what had not been said.

When Mirloth and Darya had gone, out through the door into the cold glare of light, he asked quietly, "Are you going to eat any more?"

"No." She tried to laugh. "But you'd better." She slid her half-finished plate in front of him.

He smiled, squeezed her shoulder. "Don't mind if I do."

She sat silently while he ate, watching and not watching the crowd. Her mind, aimless, would not settle on the truth of what this was. My father is on the Stone. This is his funeral feast. Her mind would not say those words, danced around them until she realized what it was doing, and she forced herself to say them, to feel them. And she was so far into her own mind that she started a little when Meren said quietly, "Do you want to stay?" He had finished eating; both plates were empty, one stacked on top of the other, and he looked at her with gentle pity, so strange in his usually laughing eyes. But she answered at once, for there was only one answer to be made.

"Yes."

He nodded as if he had expected it, got up and took their plates to the kitchen, and when he returned he said, "Stand up a moment." She obeyed, and he took the bench they had been sitting on and dragged it back against the wall. Then he sat down, leaned back and stretched out his legs in front of him with a smile and a slightly exaggerated sigh. "More comfortable this way."

She sat down next to him, and again he put his arm around her, and she laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. Tired. Tired to her heart, tired to her bones. But she did not want quiet. She wanted to be with people now, did not want silence, most of all did not want the silence where her father should have been.

She did not sleep, but her mind drifted, aware still of the room around her and Meren beside her, the warmth of his body and the movement of his chest as he breathed, but there was a vagueness to it, as though felt through soft cotton or seen through frosted glass. And when a voice began to sing, high and clear over the hum of the crowd, she did not at first realize that it was not a dream. But gradually awareness came, and she smiled a little, though she did not open her eyes. The song was one she loved, a song of flowers in springtime and soft rain on leaves, and a young woman's love for the man she would marry. It had been a dream of her childhood, that song. She smiled in memory, slightly shamefaced remembering of naive, youthful love, or what she had thought then was love. And she thought, with a silent chuckle, I know better now.

And then, Do you really?

To that she had no answer. Or would not answer, but opened her eyes, sat up straight, smiled at Meren. She stood, reached a hand down to him. "Come on."

Those who would sing had gathered by the fire as they always did, and so she led him through the crowd. There were many there already, but space was made for her and Meren on a bench close to the great hearth.

It was Húrin's wife, tears streaming down her cheeks but still she sang, and even smiled a little through the tears. Miriel happened to catch the woman's eye, and her heart turned over, for she could not imagine herself in that woman's place. Yet in the hush after the song had ended, words came into her mind, though she had not sought for them. They were the right words, of that she was certain. And so she began softly to sing.

"I will go to the hills in the dark of the morning. I will go with my love beside me…."

As she sang, she felt it there, that love she had never felt in truth, there without body but real even so. And she thought as she sang, Someday, perhaps, it will be mine.

"Many paths, love, there be, through the dark to the morning light,
Many roads, many fears, many miles hard as stone.
Through the years, through the trials, on the dark ways I will walk with thee,
And maybe at last I will walk them alone."

She looked in the woman's eyes, the grieving young widow, and thought, Perhaps that will one day also be mine.

"But though long be the road, and hard be the winning,
There will come a bright day when at last it is won.
On that day, oh my love, on that day I will come to thee,
And together we'll dance the return of the sun."

And as she ended, there were tears in her eyes, and an understanding she had never felt before, though many times she had sung those words.

Aragorn sat on the other side of the hearth, on a bench like any other, and he had seated a bemused, delighted little girl in the carved wooden chair that was his own. Miriel was aware of him as she sang, felt him watching her, but not until she was done did she dare meet his eyes. Yet she saw then that he was smiling, saw his head dip in the slightest of nods, that might only have been an unmeaning movement had she not known it was meant for her. She nodded back, and flushed and smiled a little, then with an effort took her eyes away, and they moved without intention to the one who sat next to him. But her smile vanished at the look on Halbarad's face.

At first she thought it was anger, for on the rare occasions when he showed emotion, that was the one most common. But it was not anger, or not only that. There was a softness to it; almost, if she could credit it, there was fear. Grief, and fear of grief, and longing and desperation and anger, all were there. And she thought, He has loved. And then with detached wonder, That is something new. She did not know what to make of it, could not muster up the interest to care about it now. And so she put it away, made herself relax and leaned back against the table.

"Well done," said Meren softly in her ear. "That was...right."

She nodded but said nothing, for she did not trust her voice.

There were many more songs, most she knew, a few she did not. Sometimes she joined the others and sang, and sometimes she simply sat and listened to the swell of voices, surrounding her, within her, and there was perhaps more comfort in that even than in singing.

She began to feel sleepy again, leaned against Meren, but she would not leave, not until it was done. She actually dozed a little, in the warmth of the fire, and when she woke, and sat up and looked around, the crowd was smaller. People had begun to drift away, to return to their homes, for it was now evening. Many still gathered by the fire, talking quietly, but the singing was done.

She was truly weary now, the wish for sleep stronger now than the wish not to be alone.

"I—" she yawned hugely, "I think I'll go home now."

Meren squeezed her shoulder and then let her go. "I'll come with you."

"You can stay..."

"Nah, I need to stretch my legs," he said lazily. "Been sitting so still not to wake you, they're all cramped."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Mir."

She looked at him, saw again that strange, unaccustomed gentleness in his face, and she nodded.

Many greeted her as she passed by, as they had her mother. She nodded, smiled when she could, said what it was expected that she say. But she did not linger, kept moving on toward the door with Meren behind her. It became a blur, too many faces, too many voices, too many hands reaching out. She knew they meant well, but she wished they would stop.

Yet there was one more, at the last, when she had nearly reached the door. He did not touch her, but his presence stopped her before she was aware of it, and she stood and looked up into his eyes.

"Thank you, Miriel," Aragorn said softly, and she remembered song and firelight in the camp under Amon Sûl. "You must rest now. But we have things to speak of. I will find you tomorrow."

"Y-yes, my lord," she stammered. "Goodnight."

He smiled a little. "Goodnight, maloseg." And she knew the reminder of her father was deliberate.

When the door had closed behind them, and they were alone in the cold stillness of early evening, Meren turned to her. "What was that, Mir?"

"What?"

"What he said."

She let out a breath, for had not wanted to face this now, not yet. But this was Meren, and she could not pretend to misunderstand him. "The Chieftain wishes me to take training as a healer," she said quietly.

"And you'll do it."

A pause, and then, with soft resignation, "Yes, I'll do it."

He frowned, waited for her to go on. But when she did not, he said slowly, tentatively, "It is an honor, Mir. But...you do not sound as if you think it is so."

She did not look at him, and her voice was barely more than a whisper. "I'm afraid of it. I've always been afraid."

"Afraid? Of what? Mir, what do you mean?"

She felt tears rise in her throat then, and was ashamed of them, but she had no more control left in her, and so she spoke in spite of the tears. "I—I feared that if it was known, I would have to be like Mother, like Darya, like all of the healers, that I would have to stay here, in the village. That I would never patrol again. That I would leave you, all of you."

Her voice choked and died, and though he did not entirely understand the reason for it, he laid a gentle hand on her arm. And then slowly, as understanding came, "So you knew of...this...before?"

She nodded. "Since the Lossoth raid."

"That long?"

"I was so afraid." She knew she was repeating herself, but they were the only words in her mind, drowning all else in a desperate need to explain, to justify. "I didn't want to leave you." She was weeping openly now, tears turning cold on her cheeks in the night air.

"Miriel," he said quietly. "Gwethor nîn." His hand tightened on her arm, and he pulled her to him. "I would not have you leave us either." He held her, moved a hand softly over her hair. "But you must do what you must do."

They did not speak for a time, and he let her weeping calm. At last she pulled back, wiped her face, forced herself to smile a little.

She said softly, unsteadily, "The Chieftain says I can take the training, but be a healer in the Wild, on patrol. He said it has been known, not often, for the Gift is rare enough, and even rarer for those who are called to the Star. But there was one in his father's time, and others before that." Then she laughed a little. "And of course, it is said that Ellenen had the Gift, though he did not often use it."

"So it is said." In the dark she could not read his face. "Well. It will be what it will be." He squeezed her shoulder. "But now you need sleep. Come on."

He walked with her to the door of her house, hugged her silently in farewell. When she went in, to her relief she found Darya already asleep, and she lay down in her sister's warmth.

Notes:

"If I Needed You" was written by Townes Van Zandt and covered by Emmylou Harris (among others), but I first heard it in the lovely close harmonies of the folk group Misty River.

"In All But Blood" is the beautiful, heartbreaking conclusion to Isabeau of Greenlea's Imrahil and Andrahar fanfic arc. It won't hit as hard if you haven't read everything that comes before (at least a dozen interconnected stories by four different authors), but it can stand on its own. It is posted on FFN as an epilogue to "Pawns and Symbols," by The Dunadan Project, but it is really its own thing and can be read independently of the rest of that story.

Ellenen is an OC, one of my additions to the legendarium of ancient Arnor. He was the oath-brother (and possibly lover, depending on which stories one believes) of Arvedui, and was betrayed and murdered by the Witch-king of Angmar at the bitter end of the long war. There is more explanation (and my rather questionable attempts at Anglo-Saxon alliterative verse) in NATWWAL Ch. 14-15, 20, and 33-34.