It was some days later, as thin afternoon light fell toward evening, that a single bell rang out from the gate. She did not pay it much heed, intent on the cloth-covered bale of hay that served as an archery target. Strength and control had been slow in returning, but they were nearly back, and she was determined to shoot one more clean set. She straightened, lifted her bow, touched the letters burned in the wood near the upper nock. Maloseg. Remembered letters in stone beneath her fingers, drew a sharp breath and blinked back tears. This is what matters now. It is his gift; use it well.

Twenty arrows, standing, kneeling, and prone, thinking of nothing but measured breath, the steady count, the sharp hiss of arrows in hay. When the last arrow was spent, she pushed herself slowly to her feet, absently brushing dirt from her clothes, narrowed eyes assessing the target. Not bad. Could be better, but enough for today. Now tomorrow—

"Miriel."

Her head jerked up. She gasped, whirled round, only glimpsed golden hair before strong arms wrapped around her, drawing her into a fierce, almost painful embrace. And then Anna's voice, gentle as she had never heard it, muffled a little in her hair, "Sorry, Mir. Didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't." Comfortable, familiar, even her smell the same as it had always been. Almost, she could imagine they were huddled together in some hollow of the hills, warm and safe, at least as such things were reckoned in the Wild; almost, she could imagine that the grief of the last days had never been.

Yet as soon as she recognized the thought, she thrust it down. Wishing it away will only make the return more painful. A moment longer she stood still, feeling the slight movements of Anna's chest as she breathed, her head resting on the older woman's shoulder. Then she drew a breath, and stepped back. Anna let her go and stood at arm's length, blue eyes keen on Miriel's face.

"Aragorn told me what you did. For him and for the sick." She said no more, but the rare warmth in her voice brought a flush to Miriel's cheeks.

Yet she had always been entirely honest with Anna, and so she asked quietly, forcing herself not to look away, "Did he tell you...all of it? How long I've known?"

Anna nodded, expressionless. "Yes."

"I should not have hidden it."

Silence. And then, "What did he tell you?"

Miriel swallowed, and felt again the fear and certainty, chill and warmth as she crouched beside him in the ring of thornbushes east of Amon Sûl. "He—he said it was a gift." That is not all he said.

"Did he say you were wrong?"

A pause, thinking back. "No."

Anna gave a soft, dry laugh. "If he had, you would have known it." And then, all mirth gone, "He doesn't flinch from hard truth. Never has."

And Miriel said quietly, "Nor have you."

"No." A wry smile. "Made sure you knew that from the beginning." But then Anna laid a hand on her shoulder, and held her gaze. Slowly, with strange formality, as if she chose her words with care, "Each must serve as seems best to her. The only fault would come in refusing the call; that you have never done."

Miriel nodded, relief sweeping over; she realized now that she had feared Anna's disapproval even more than the Chieftain's.

"Will you seek training?" There was no judgment in the question, only curiosity.

"I—" She swallowed. "I will. I think I must."

Anna nodded. "Duty is a strange thing. Yours more than most." A thin smile. "But I doubt it will require you to forsake your bow." She glanced at the target, eyebrows raised. "Though that is not your best."

"No." Suddenly shame-faced, frustration flooding back, and she looked away.

"I've seen it, Mir," Anna said quietly. "What it does to them. To him. If you can bear that..." She shook her head. "Enough for today. You're pale as a sheet, and I haven't had a decent meal in weeks." She put an arm around Miriel's shoulders, and together they walked toward the Hall.

He watched her, though she did not know it. He knew the sequence of recovery, the slow regaining of strength. He knew, for he had traveled that road, more times than he cared to count. He watched her on the practice ground and in the Hall, watched her movement and her speech, but most of all her face, the light in her that he could not see and yet felt, watched it grow steadily stronger until at last he judged her ready.

He found her on the practice ground early one morning, when frost still crunched underfoot and breath hung white in the air. A few others were there as well, though not as many as there would have been were it not quite so cold.

She held nothing in her gloved hands, sword slung at her waist and bow across her back as she jumped up onto a stone and then down again, up and down, her breathing and the thud of her boots loud in the stillness.

"Maloseg."

She jumped down from the stone, turning in the air to land facing him, bowed correctly but could not keep a smile from her lips, feeling for the first time more joy than grief in that name. "Good morning, my lord."

He looked at her then, quiet and assessing, and she stood still except for heaving breath that slowly calmed. At last he said, quietly that the others might not hear, "How do you feel?"

She knew what he was asking, that it was far more than polite inquiry. A pause, taking inventory, and then she spoke slowly, to be sure of her words. "Well enough," for that was what he needed to know, what he had really asked. "I still tire more quickly than I should. I can shoot nearly as well as...before, but the strength is not there. Not yet," she added firmly, and both knew it was to reassure herself more than him. "I can patrol, my lord. Though," reluctant, but it must be said, "I should not go alone."

He nodded, smiled a little, and there was a gentleness in his voice that surprised her. "I would not ask you to. I am not entirely recovered myself, and I go more swiftly than you, for I know the way." He watched her face, saw uncertainty turn to understanding. "You will learn it too," he said quietly, and she heard the pride and pain both in his voice, "and you will not be alone."

An echo then, words she had spoken only once, and before thought could restrain, her heart nearly spoke them, caught itself only just in time. The words ran through her mind, but now again she was master and put them back in their place, and hoped he had not seen.

And he had not, for though his eyes still were open and saw her, they did not comprehend her, and his mind saw other than his eyes. Kneeling in the dirt, a hand in his, sunlight and shade flickering as wind tossed the leaves. 'Ir cuian ech natho alerui.' Heard it in another's voice, and then, after a silence, repeated in his own. 'While I live, you will never be alone.' Even as he said it, part of him whispered that he should not, and the other heard the hesitation before he spoke and read it for what it was. But speak he had, they both had, for they knew it was true, and to speak other than the truth was something they could not do.

Yet still I left. An old path of thought, so rutted with use that it held him fast, for the pain was familiar and could be borne, and to strike into the unknown seemed impossible. That was betrayal. I swore, and was forsworn.

He has forgiven you.

Why? He should not have. I do not deserve such grace.

Perhaps not. Yet that is the way with grace. It is given, not asked for nor earned. And fool indeed would be he who turned his back on it, for it may not come again.

Then so be it. I will have what I have earned, and keep it as my own.

I. My. Do you hear yourself? Is your pride truly worth so much, my lord? Is it worth more than him?

A beat of silence, and then: No. No, it is not. I betrayed, and I have been forgiven. May it never happen again. He drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, and with it left something behind that he did not hear falling away, but felt only as a sudden lightness, and he smiled.

He did not smile at her, that she knew, though his face was turned to her, for there was a vagueness in his eyes that said he had been wandering on other paths of thought. Yet she said quietly, to bring him back from wherever he had been, and in answer to the other question he had not asked, "I will go, my lord. I will take training with the healers."

He looked at her then, at her truly, smile gone, eyes clear and present and searching. After a moment, he nodded sharply, let out a breath almost of relief. "Good. Yet you need not go now. If you wish to remain with your mother and your sister through the winter, none would fault you."

He meant it as a kindness. She knew that. But revulsion flooded through her at the thought, and she was ashamed. I should stay. At least I should want to stay.

It must have shown on her face, for he said softly, "You have your burdens to bear, and they are heavy and will become heavier. But not all burdens are yours, and there is no dishonor in giving over to another that which is theirs."

Had they been alone, she would have wept. She dropped her eyes and shut them and did not care if he saw, so long as the others did not, for surely they were watching. It took only a moment, and the urge to tears passed, and she raised her head and looked at him. "How do you always know what I'm thinking?" Shame, and wonder, and rueful relief, and she did not smile, for it was an honest question.

He laughed softly, but it was a laugh of recognition, not humor, and he answered honestly. "Because it is what I am thinking. Not always," he amended, "but often enough, and your face is not hard to read." He held up his hands at her frown. "That is not a bad thing, Miriel. It makes others trust you. I have seen it. There will be times when you will wish to conceal; more often, perhaps, as your burdens grow. That also I can teach you." A grimness entered his voice at the last, and she felt a surge of pity for him, and that also he saw. He smiled a little and said, though he wondered at himself even as he said it, "A Chieftain does not always want his thoughts read. But that is a lesson for another time. We have strayed far from the question."

She laughed, as she was meant to, and the warmth in his eyes pushed aside her doubts. "I have not forgotten it, my lord." And then, laughter gone, for there could be no mistake in this, "I will go to Rivendell, as soon as may be." A faint, mirthless smile. "It will only get colder if we wait."

He nodded, and heard the we and knew he would go with her, though he had not before decided it for certain. But there were matters he wished to discuss with Elrond, and he knew he should visit the watchposts before winter. Messages are all well and good, but the Chieftain must be seen. "Very well," he said. "Day after tomorrow. And we will bring two others with us. Anna will come; she only returned for winter orders. I am surprised she stayed so long." He met her eyes, and she read in them what he had not said. She stayed for you. "You choose the other." He smiled, and she smiled back, and pushed down the apprehension that whispered in her heart.

Meren agreed at once. "Got nothing better to do, have I?"

She laughed. "I can think of a thing or two. Starting with sleeping under a roof."

"Ah," he lowered his voice and raised his eyebrows, "but then I wouldn't be sleeping with you." He made only a half-hearted effort to dodge her slap, then straightened and winked at her.

"I thought you were sleeping with Tathar."

To her surprise, his face reddened, and he muttered, "Maybe."

She grinned. "There's no maybe. Everyone knows it."

"Everyone?" His voice rose, and there was a faint note of panic in it.

"Well, perhaps not everyone," she amended, and her grin eased into a smile of wonder, and looking in his face she whistled softly. "You're in it now, aren't you?"

"I was going to tell you..."

"You don't have to."

"I—I wanted to." A pause, and then, "I'm so happy, Mir. I've never..."

She whistled again, but there was no laughter now. "I won't tell anyone."

"I thought they already knew."

"Well, they know, but they don't know. If you know what I mean."

Silence for a moment, and then, soft and pensive, "I'm not sure if I know. She thinks she does."

"She'd be a fool if she didn't."

He looked at her then, uncertain, almost startled, and she smiled. "So may one woman counsel another."

He laughed a little, but it did not reach his eyes.

"You owe me nothing," she said softly. "Stay here. I'll ask Morfind."

"I'll come, Mir."

"You don't have to."

"No. I don't." And the rest unspoken, for there was no need.

Darya was relieved, and that surprised her. She had not expected protest, but Darya only embraced her and said quietly, "Good. It is the right way."

"Can you manage?"

"Of course." Matter-of-fact, but not bitter, and she pulled back to look in Darya's face. Darya smiled a little. "It is the work of a healer. We do not get to choose what we face, but we must face it."

There was more than that, of course, but Miriel knew there was no use dwelling on it. Darya knew her duty, and she would do it.

As will you.

That thought surprised her, for she had not seen the likeness so clearly before. But of course it was there, had always been there. And she has always seen it. And I have not.

Darya would not want apology, and so she did not apologize, but said what she knew her sister would value far more. "Galu edraith a cuil."

Sacred among the healers, those words, and she felt strange saying them. Blessed is the saving of life. Heard them in Mahar's voice, and she flushed and almost smiled. And then a far older memory: a shadowed sickroom in Ladrengil, and the first life she had saved. 'You have done the thing, and so you have earned the words.' And she thought of Faelon, his brash, demanding voice, and his quiet confidence. 'It is what a Ranger does.'

Darya raised her eyebrows, but then she reached out and touched Miriel's cheek. "Galu edraith a cuil."

The words alone would not have done it, not even with the respect in them so clear. But the gesture of affection, so new still to them both – that made her cry. She smiled through the tears, made no attempt to wipe them away but let them slide down her cheeks as her Darya's face blurred before her. "Nethanin," she murmured, over and over, for there were no other words in her heart. My sister.

Mirloth nodded absently when they told her, and continued gazing into the fire. Miriel embraced her and kissed her lined cheek, but her mother said only, "Have a good journey, dear," as if she were going no further than the next village. Miriel met Darya's eyes, and Darya shook her head slightly, as if to say, What did you expect?

Notes:

Sirhael gives Miriel her first maloseg bow in NATWWAL Ch. 3. It's a sweet little scene, about halfway through the chapter.

Faelon is the Master of Trainees, essentially the drill sergeant for Ranger boot camp, throughout the first half of NATWWAL (Ch. 2-19). Miriel's memory is from Ch. 8, when she and Calen rescue Tarag, one of their companions who had been injured in a training exercise.

And Anna – what do I say about Anna? Miriel's saethir (mentor) during training, absolute badass, has her own rather complicated backstory. Honestly, read the second half of NATWWAL (Ch. 18-36); it's better than the first half, and really can be read independently.