A/N: This is a sequel to "Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost," though it can be read on its own. To aid readers who may not have read (or may not entirely remember) that story, I will include notes at the end of each chapter with any relevant explanations or references. This story begins several years after the end of the last one; maybe I'll fill in the gap eventually. But the opening scene is the first thing I ever wrote (now heavily edited, thankfully), and for me, this is where it all really begins, with a chance meeting in the Wild east of Amon Sûl...
Sullen gray clouds had been building in the eastern sky since noon, but the sun still gleamed through yellow leaves as she strode up the path. It rose gently before her, dappled with sunlight and shifting shade. The wind was cool on her face, and her lips curved in a faint smile.
But as suddenly as it had come, the smile vanished, and she froze. Only a moment, but it was enough. Voices. Coming down the breeze; they won't have heard me. Into the trees to the left of the path, up a slight rise, and she dropped to a crouch and then to her stomach, eased under a thornbush and peered between faded leaves.
There were six men, dark-haired and weathered, ragged but heavily armed. They sat on stones at the crossroads, finishing the remnants of a meal. As she watched, they packed away water skins and bits of food wrapped in dirty cloth, got to their feet with much groaning and grumbling and not a few sharp words, the tongue unfamiliar but the tone unmistakable. Then abruptly, a low whistle froze them still as listening stones. Booted feet, clear through the sudden quiet, and another man appeared, almost running, glancing back the way he had come. The others gathered around him, spoke only a moment together then melted into the boulders and thickets. And then all was quiet again, sunlit stillness broken only by the rustle of leaves.
Her heart raced, but she held her body still.
Careful. This may not be my fight. Six against one—bad odds, even if I'm hidden.
But then again, it may.
Slowly, silently, she eased off her pack, slid her bowstave from its sling, braced the foot against a tree. It scraped a little; she bit her lip as the man closest to her, barely visible behind a boulder, turned his head. But his attention, and hers, was drawn by another sound, much louder—the steady rhythm of footsteps on dry leaves. And then around a bend in the path, another man appeared.
He was tall and lean, wrapped in a heavy gray cloak much tattered and patched. His hood was cast back in the warm afternoon, and dark hair gleamed in the sunlight. Watching him, a feeling came over her as of a memory she could not name. But there was no time to wonder, for suddenly he stopped. Pushing aside his cloak, he laid his hand on the hilt of a sword that had hung concealed beneath it, and glanced warily round, as a hound scenting danger.
A harsh cry, resounding on the rocks, and the men who had lain hidden sprang forward. The traveler drew his sword quicker than the eye could follow, whirling to meet them with a deep-voiced shout of his own. And as he turned toward her where she lay concealed, silver flashed in the westering sun.
Her heart pounded, and her breath came short.
It is my fight.
Maybe he killed a Ranger and took the star.
He didn't.
How do you know?
I know.
She pushed herself up, heedless of thorns that plucked at clothes and skin, set an arrow to the string and drew back, paused for a clear target. And then, with the slightest movement of the first two fingers of her right hand, she let the arrow fly.
Two men fell before the others realized she was there. They shouted, cast about for the source of the arrows, but too slowly. Another fell where he stood, pierced through the throat; the fourth managed two paces toward her before an arrow caught him as well. The sword of the tall man with the star had claimed another, and he faced the last, teeth bared in a snarl, blood on his cheek. Sharp clash of steel, and he cried in pain but pressed forward. The last attacker fell, sprawled on bloody leaves. Then all was silent.
Hide, reason hissed. There is danger still. But her heart felt no fear, and she did not move.
The stranger's chest heaved, blood soaking his sleeve. But his sword-arm was steady as he swung in a slow circle. His eyes found her at last, bow in hand beneath the birches.
She met his gaze, let him take her in: star and cloak, dark hair and gray eyes so like his own.
"Who are you?" Ragged and harsh, on the bare edge of control. She said nothing, watched him blink, breathe, master himself. "You saved my life." A faint, rueful grimace. "You have nothing to fear from me."
She lowered her bow but did not take the arrow from the string. "I would ask you the same. You speak as one of my people, and you wear the Star of the North, but I do not know your face."
His eyes bored into her, but she did not flinch. At last, slow and careful, "I am called Strider."
She laughed grimly. "Strider? That is no name for a man. Why should I be truthful when you are not?" Yet doubt rang hollow, and she straightened her shoulders. "I have no reason to be ashamed of my name. I am Miriel daughter of Sirhael, Ranger of the North."
"Ranger of the North." Steady, measured, but tension beneath it. "And who is your lord?"
"Darahad son of Darahur rules us, in the name of the Chieftain, Aragorn son of Arathorn, who has been…long away in the South…" The inkling in the back of her mind took shape, doubt warring with instinct.
"And if the Chieftain should return, he would dwell in the village of Elenost on the North Downs, would he not?"
Slight hesitation, then she nodded.
"Describe to me the Chieftain's Hall."
This is a test. That much was clear. But who sets it? And to what end? Travel-worn boots and ragged clothes, star brooch the twin of her own, gray eyes in a weathered face, lined by sun and cold and wind like so many she had known. A brother's face. She straightened. You made your choice. See it through. And then she knew what to say. There is a thing that only we know. Yet she did not speak, but sang softly, looking him in the eye, "If I should fall in the cold and darkness, far from home, in the Wild in winter…" And she saw him, but also beyond him, to the Hall far away, and the stars of the fallen gleaming on the wall where they hung.
His face softened, making him seem suddenly younger. He blinked, swallowed. And then, voice rough with strain, the answering words, "Send my body on water westward, but bring my star back home." He drew a shaking breath, let it out slowly. "You speak truly, Miriel daughter of Sirhael, and my heart aches for that Hall." He smiled then, true and full, and it lit his face like the sun. "For I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dunedain of the North, and I have returned at last to my people, and my home."
She felt the truth of his words, and sudden, unreasoning joy flooded through her. But with it came shame, and she sank to her knees and bowed her head. "I beg your forgiveness, my lord. I was only a child when you were last among us…"
Footsteps on dry leaves, and then he stood before her, took her arms and raised her to her feet. "There is nothing to forgive. A Ranger who is too trusting does not survive long in the Wild. I had to make sure of you as well; the enemy has set traps for me before this. And as has also occurred before, more times than I care to admit," a wry smile flickered across his lips, "my life has been preserved through good fortune, and the help of a stranger."
"Good fortune, perhaps," she replied, "but I am no stranger. I saw you many times in the village when I was a girl. But it has been years, and—" She faltered, swallowed. "I was very young."
"You were going to say that I have aged since those days." It was a statement, not a question. But the gleam of amusement in his eyes took any sting from the words, so she simply nodded, shame-faced.
He let out a breath, looked away from her. "My road has been hard and long and lonely," he said, "and I have aged much since I last stood in my own lands." Strain in his voice, and sudden weariness. He coughed, swallowed hard on a dry throat. "Do you have water? Mine is nearly gone."
"I—of course, my lord." She picked up her waterskin from where she had set it behind the thornbush along with her pack. He reached for it, gasped softly at the movement and flinched; blood soaked his sleeve from a deep slash just above the elbow. He drew a breath, let it out slowly, not meeting her eyes. Then he lifted the arm deliberately up and down, left and right.
At last he nodded, and managed a tight smile. "Nothing vital damaged. Bind it tight and it will keep, long enough to take care of this mess at least."
He was beginning to dig awkwardly in his belt pouch with his left hand when she stepped forward, and grasped his uninjured arm.
"Let me."
He stiffened on instinct, but she felt him let go, felt his arm slacken. She found the bandage roll he had been looking for, pulled it out and eyed it with a frown. "Not the cleanest." Her eyes flicked up to his, and she let a smile touch her lips. "But it'll do for now." Without waiting for a reply, she stepped to his side and wrapped the cloth around his arm, knotting it over the wound with swift, sure movements. Breath hissed through his teeth, but he said nothing. When it was done, he flexed his arm, and met her eyes. "Thank you." And then, almost reluctant, as if he did not want to ask but knew he must, "How comes it that Arahael is no longer brannon taid? Is he not well?"
She glanced at him warily, yet saw nothing in his face but honest question. "He died in the spring," she said at last. "Just before the first planting. Your return comes none too soon, my lord."
He let out a sharp, pained breath. He was old. It was time. But still it was hard to hear the words.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I thought you would have had word."
He shook his head. "I have been traveling since spring; no messages have reached me." A pause, and then, carefully, "Was there disagreement on the selection of Darahad as his successor?"
She debated for a moment how to answer, but settled for bare truth. Not putting my foot in this one. If he wants more, he'll have to get it from Mahar. "There was. But the Gathering made the right choice, in the end."
He frowned, but did not press. She will have her reasons. Instead he turned, gestured to the bodies on the ground. "What can you tell me of these men?"
"Not much." Wiping blood from her hands, "I happened upon them just before you came." Briefly, she told what she had seen and heard. Then she frowned, went on more slowly, "I do not think it was a trap. At least not a well-planned one." She shook her head. "They seemed as surprised as I was." She met his eyes, chanced a half-smile, was relieved when he chuckled.
"You handled it better." And then, all mirth gone, "Which is why we are alive, and they are not." He reached out with his good hand, and grasped her shoulder. "Ani luciel nin cuil, Miriel," he said quietly.
I owe you my life.
A sacred thing, those words, gift and debt, bonded in blood. It was not the first time she had heard them. But the Chieftain—and she felt it almost a fearful thing. She drew a breath, met his eyes. No. In this, he is no different. She reached up, laid her hand over his. And though the sun had vanished behind thickening clouds, she felt suddenly warm.
He used the last of her water to rinse the blood off his sword, dried it on his cloak and slid it back into its sheath with a faint metallic ringing. She lifted her bow from the ground and slung it across her back. Probably ought to unstring it. But she didn't; danger still seemed too near.
They moved the bodies off the path, concealed them as best they could behind a thick stand of bushes. Then without a word he knelt, and began searching them. She had seen enough death, caused enough death, that it did not repulse her as it once had. But the shock of battle was seeping away, leaving her cold and shaking, and her hands were not entirely steady as she began to retrieve her arrows. One had broken beneath a body, but the others she worked loose, wiped them on leaves and replaced them in her quiver.
"Do—" Her voice cracked, and she swallowed, tried again. "Do they have any water left?" And she held out her bloody hands.
He nodded, reached unthinking with his right hand, gasped softly at the pain. A more careful movement, and he lifted a waterskin, shook it, held it out to her. "Not much." His glance dropped to her hands. More gently, "But better than nothing." And then, with a faint, wry smile, "Let me." He gestured, and she held out her hands, and rubbed them together as fouled water dripped onto the leaves.
She helped him finish the search, ending with a small pile of knives, trinkets, and coin purses on the ground between them. She turned one of the coins over in her fingers, and frowned. "These letters—I don't know them. Where is it from?"
"Dunland." He examined the first few carefully to be sure. But they were all of the same make, and he frowned, and waited for the inevitable questions to which he had no answers.
Silence. And then, soft and hollow, "Dunland." Not a question. A memory, and she shuddered, and without thinking touched her left hand to the inside of her right wrist. Only a moment, then she recovered herself, and hoped he had not seen.
But he saw, and knew. He reached for her hand, and she let him take it, let him push back the sleeve, let him touch the dark lines etched in her skin with needle and soot. "Dunland?" he asked, almost gently.
She nodded. "Years ago." She drew a breath, forced herself to think. "Four, in the spring. We found nothing. Or not what we looked for." Another breath, steadier, and she glanced at the bodies. "But maybe we would now." She shook her head. "What brought them here?"
"I wish I knew." Curt, almost sharp, pain and shock and the shame of being taken unawares putting him in no mood for questions. Yet even as he felt anger flare, he quelled it. Not her fault. "I came north by way of Rohan, and I had no trouble on the road—or no more than might be expected." A grim smile flickered across his lips. "But the tales folk told me, of Dunlendings attacking farmsteads in the Westfold, and even in the south of Eriador…" He looked away, and she followed his gaze, as if she could see the long leagues of his journey. "I wanted to believe it was only rumors, the nightmares of frightened farmers. But there were too many of them. And now this." He shook his head. "I don't like it."
The weapons the dead men had carried were serviceable enough, though mostly of common workmanship. But two of the men seemed to have been better off than the rest, their clothes less worn, more money in their purses. And their swords and knives were of superior make, unornamented but finely wrought and perfectly balanced.
She lifted one of the knives, fingers steady as she ran them over hilt and blade. "It would be a shame to leave this behind."
He nodded. "Dangerous, too. No sense taking a blade from one enemy to leave it for another." He met her eyes. "You killed him; it's yours."
Her hand tightened on the hilt, and part of her wished to fling it away. But she let out a slow breath, nodded and slipped it into her belt.
"Two good swords, too," he said, handing one to her. "There are those in Elenost who will be glad to have them."
He pushed himself up, felt suddenly light-headed and groped toward a tree, pain flaring up his arm. But he misjudged the distance, stumbled forward and would have fallen had she not caught his shoulder.
Should have known better. He cursed silently, furiously, even as he struggled to get his feet under him. But a small, calm voice answered, That is why you have comrades. Lucky for you she has quick hands.
Breath harsh and ragged, he gripped her arm, waiting for the darkness before his eyes to clear. When at last he saw trees and sky, and felt the earth steady beneath him, he released her. She stepped back, waited until he met her eyes. But she said only, gesturing toward the path, "I think they left their packs behind the rocks."
He followed her carefully, knelt beside her and searched awkwardly through the packs with his left hand. But there was little worth taking. He had expected as much; anything of value would be carried on the body. Thrusting aside revulsion, he gathered up several apples, a large chunk of cheese, and a square of hard bread. I've little enough left, and I doubt she has more. Far from home for us both.
So intent was he on the work that he did not at first notice that she had stopped moving. Yet as he shifted from one pack to another, he glanced up, saw her silent and still, staring at her hands. Moving to her side, he saw in her left hand a soft purse of finely embroidered leather. Its contents lay on her right palm: a lock of dark hair, tied with a red ribbon.
"Someone waits for his return." Soft, and hollow. "He will not come."
"No," he said quietly, after a moment. "But we will."
She drew a breath, and met his eyes. "And those who wait for us will be glad." She replaced the keepsake in its purse, and slipped it back into the pack.
He tucked the gleaned food into the top of his own pack and then stood, careful this time to have a hand on something solid. "Where are you bound now?" he asked. "What is your charge?"
"I—" She frowned. "Return to Mahar, I suppose," she said slowly. At his questioning look, she gathered herself and went on. "We left Elenost nearly three weeks ago, twelve of us. Rumor had reached the brannon taid of raiders attacking travelers on the East Road. We never found them, and Mahar decided ten days ago to split the patrol to cover more ground."
He raised his eyebrows. "Well, it seems you found your raiders."
"I—yes." Realization dawning, "I suppose I did." She glanced at him and then away, south and east. "At the full moon, we are to meet at Amon Sûl. Five days from now. But I think," she swallowed, nodded, as if confirming a decision to herself, "I think I ought to follow the trail of these men. See where they came from."
He nodded. "You may find nothing, but a Ranger must run down all leads."
She looked at him strangely for a moment. "Mahar says that." Her tone was possessive, almost accusatory.
"I know," he answered with a smile. "You are not the only young Ranger he has trained." A pause, and then he asked quietly, "Would it burden you if we traveled together? I would welcome news of my people."
Her eyes narrowed, her tone perhaps harsher than she intended. "I can manage, my lord."
A soft laugh. "Well do I know it. But I ask this for my own sake, not yours. I have traveled alone for many weeks, and I…do not wish to be alone any longer."
Pain in those words, and it caught at her heart. "Very well," she said. And then, honesty inviting honesty, "I would not mind company myself. After…this." She glanced swiftly at him and then away, more surprised than ashamed at the admission. He nodded but said nothing.
Just north of the rocks, a narrow track came in from the east to join the main path. Though it was grass-grown and seemed little used, there were clear marks of heavy boots approaching the crossing and turning south.
She stood aside to let him go first, but he shook his head. "This is your chase," he said with a small smile. "I follow your lead." She flushed, but said nothing, and set off down the path.
Notes:
I've had to make up quite a lot of Dunedain history and traditions, as Tolkien doesn't give us much to go on. A few that show up in this chapter:
Brannon taid - "second lord," the Chieftain's second in command, and leader of the Dunedain in the Chieftain's absence. It is not an inherited position, but rather elected by the Gathering of all Rangers, both active and retired. Arahael appears in "Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost" at several points, most notably Ch. 1, 14-15, 27, and 36; Darahad appears in Ch. 30-33. There's a sweet little scene I wrote quite a while that gives a bit of backstory on Arahael and Aragorn; it doesn't connect directly to this narrative, so I've posted it separately as "To Labor and To Wait."
"Ani luciel nin cuil" - "I owe you my life" (refer to NATWWAL Ch. 8 and 17). I am by no means a scholar of Elvish languages; if you are and would like to correct my Sindarin, please do so!
Miriel's previous experience in Dunland occurs in NATWWAL Ch. 30-32. Her gesture evokes the hatholtaith, the blade-mark tattoo that is earned when a young Ranger's blade first draws blood in battle.
"There is a thing that only we know" - This is the last verse of "Home the Hunters," one of the songs I wrote to go along with my stories. It is a song of joy and homecoming, sung by Rangers returning from patrol as they near the village gate. But the last verse is sung only at the wake for a fallen Ranger, as his or her star is placed on the memorial wall in the Hall (refer to NATWWAL Ch. 10 and 15). My songs are posted on the YouTube channel Songs of the North (channel ID: UC6_2e_2cNS1Zj7Jd-qqEjWA), along with a short playlist of published songs that inspired me in one way or another.
If there are things I've forgotten to explain, please feel free to PM me. And I love feedback, both positive and constructive. Please let me know what you like—and also what doesn't quite work for you, micro (word choice, typos, etc.) and/or macro (plot, characterization, setting). I do a lot of editing, but it's sometimes hard to see your own gaps...and I teach teenagers for a living, so you don't have to worry about hurting my feelings! ;)