She slept the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, and again woke thirsty and hungry, light-headed and aching. But once she had eaten, she felt more steady, checked on the boy and found him well, or as well as might be expected. And so she left the inn and went back, a day late, to the blacksmith's forge by West Gate.

Jona started when he saw her. His eyes widened and his knuckles went white on his tools, and it seemed that he had to force himself not to step back into the shelter of the forge. He heard. And he is afraid. 'It is what some men would call magic...' She stood still, and said nothing. He looked her up and down, and she saw him swallow, and draw a long breath. At last he said, hoarse and not quite steady, "You're late."

She laughed. Only a small, wry chuckle, but a smile flickered across his lips in answer. He came to her, held out the knife hilt-first. But the smile was gone, and he shook his head. "It's whole, but it ain't the same. Feel it."

She took the knife, balanced it in her hand, and she knew he was right.

"Not as strong either, the way it broke. Take it to your people, maybe they know things I don't. But I showed it to my master. He don't know neither. You can have it if you want, but I wouldn't trust my life on that blade."

She let out a breath, and nodded. "I'll try not to."

He grunted, not quite a laugh. "You do what you must." But then he frowned, seemed on the edge of saying something, and so she waited, and at last he jerked a nod, as if he had come to a decision. "Wait." He went back into the forge, took something off a shelf and came back to her. "Here," he said, and in his hand another knife gleamed in the sunlight. "Been working this one. Nearly finished, I can have it for you tomorrow. If you'll be here."

She took the knife, examined the blade, tossed it and caught it. Then she raised her eyes to his, and smiled. "This is good work. Not as fine as mine was," she added, judiciously, "but better than it is now."

He nodded. "Should have it ready round noon, if nothing more urgent comes in first."

"Well, I wouldn't want get in the way of a farmer who needs a horseshoe."

He laughed. "That you wouldn't. Not a Breeland farmer, leastways. Good day to you, Miriel."

She returned to the inn, with the strange, slightly wonderful, slightly unsettling feeling of having nothing to do but rest. Check on the boy first, she corrected. Then rest.

A hum of voices drifted through the bedroom door, and the small space was crowded. Her eyes went first to the bed; to her relief, the boy was sitting up, pale but seemingly wide awake. The innkeeper and his wife were there, and the halfling healer. But perched on the edge of the bed, caressing the boy's face and hair—"Ma, stop it." But he did not move, and Miriel knew enough of boys to see that he took comfort in his mother's touch, though pride told him he should not.

Elma Rushlight shook her head, but a smile twitched her lips. "If you're fool enough to get yourself kicked by a horse, child, you've no right to tell me anything."

Then the boy looked up, saw Miriel standing in the door and frowned. "Who is she?"

The others turned, and Will Rushlight, who had been standing with his back to her, set down the boy's hand that he had been holding. He drew a sharp breath, let it out slowly, and when he stepped close she saw the glitter of tears. He gripped her arm—her left arm, and she had to force herself not to wince—but he said only, soft and not quite steady, "My son."

She nodded, gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, despite the pain in her arm. "He's a tough one, Will. Like his father."

"If only he had his father's common sense," grumbled Elma, from the other side of the bed, "he'd keep out of the way of a damned great horse."

Will smiled a little, and shook his head. "When I was his age, Ellie..."

She met his eyes, said slowly and with utter seriousness, "You were even more of a fool than he is." She turned to Miriel. "Lucky for us boys grow, ain't it?" She shook her head, and chuckled. "And most grow into some sense."

Miriel thought of Meren, and Halbarad, and she smiled. "That's true enough."

Elma and Will stayed through supper, and insisted on paying for Miriel's meal, though she knew they could ill afford it. "Harvest looks good this year," said Will, when she protested. "And that boy'll be back here earning his piece before long." He shook his head. "I'd told him he could keep a bit of it, for his own. But not now. Learn him the price of carelessness." His tone was harsh, but he glanced at his wife, and his lips softened into a wry smile.

"If that's all it takes," she said, "he's learned it cheap."

They asked Miriel about Anna, and about her own doings; she told them what she could, or what she thought they would want to hear. Nothing about the plague or the Chieftain's return, nothing of Rivendell or the Dunland raiders. But she told them of Andreth's new baby, of Meren's betrothal to Tathar, for he had stayed a night at their farmhouse the summer before, when he and Miriel had been patrolling the East Road. Elma raised her eyebrows at the news. "Village girl, eh? Well, there's no accounting for men." And she glanced at her husband with a sidelong smile. Then she turned back to Miriel. "I thought he had his eye on you," she said, almost kindly.

Almost consolingly. Miriel smiled, and forced herself not to roll her eyes. "He is—" How to explain, to one who is not one of us? I can't, not truly. "He is like a brother to me," she said. "As are all the Rangers. And I've no time for a man." She made her voice light, made herself laugh, and thrust down the image of Calen's face in the firelight. I made my choice.

But Elma was not so easily put off. "Well, you do as you will, girl. But there's one out there for you, I know it." She grinned, and chuckled. "More than one, maybe. You've a life before you, and more choice than most."

That is true, she thought, and wondered if she imagined the faintest note of envy in the older woman's voice. I have a choice, hard-bought though it is; most women do not. And she thought of Darya, and worry whispered cold in her heart. Nothing to be done for it. But I wish she were not alone.

The Rushlights left for home after supper, young Willie cushioned on blankets in the bed of their farm cart. "I expect to see you back here when I next come through the village," Miriel told him. "And be good to your mother. You're a lucky boy."

He glanced at Elma, and smiled wanly. "I know it. Truly I do." Elma harumphed and turned back to hitching the pony, but a grin twitched her lips.

"We best be getting on our way," said Will, glancing at the sun low in the western sky. "Chores to be done before dark." He held out a hand to Miriel, and she took it. "There's always a bed and a hot meal for you, you and any that come with you." He gripped her hand then let her go, and climbed into the cart. The boy waved with his good arm, and then Will twitched the reins, and the cart rumbled off toward the gate. I will see them again, if the Wild allows. Though it may be a long time coming.

She slept well that night and ate well the next morning, and was only a little surprised when the innkeeper pressed extra food on her and refused to let her pay for the room. He smiled wryly. "Rangers are a queer lot, that's certain. But I fancy life here would be a sight harder if you were gone."

"We do what we can," she said. "Sometimes it is enough."

Jona had the new knife ready when she came to the smithy, though it was not halfway to noon. "Quick work," she said, nodding appreciatively as he handed it to her.

He grunted, flushed a little but said nothing, and watched as she drew it from its sheath and ran a finger along the flat of the blade. Then she turned it over—and gasped softly, and laughed. Fingertip on steel again, but it was not entirely smooth, for there was the Star of the Dunedain, incised with small, careful strokes on the flat of the blade near the hilt.

"This 'un's yours now," he said, with some satisfaction, for it really was fine work. And then, "Young Will's a good lad." A small, self-conscious laugh. "And not the first to be a little careless. Lucky for him you were there."

She smiled, her heart suddenly full. "May luck follow him, and you."

Jona grinned. "Luck goes better with a good knife."

She laughed. "Here's to luck, then." She slid the knife into her belt, bowed in farewell, and went out again to the Wild, and the Road.

The East Road went swiftly beneath her feet through the long summer days, and she met the occasional traveler but no trouble. It was often thus, and she was glad of it, for she still did not feel entirely confident alone in the Wild. Young Rangers began in the patrols, and only went out on their own when the captains judged they had the skill and strength and experience to survive. But of course, neither skill nor strength nor long service was any guarantee of survival. 'Nowhere is safe. You know that.' She thought of Silevren, and Faron, and kept on her guard.

And she thought back to Elma, to her teasing questions about men. That is why I could not do it. Over and above anything else. I could not allow another to love me, rely on me, depend on my return for his happiness. It is all too uncertain. And would I not be less willing to risk, less ready to do what must be done, for fear of hurting him by my death? No. And she thought of what she had told Calen, on that midsummer night years ago. 'I don't have the strength for it, nor the space in my heart.' And now this new thing, this new duty, this new burden...It is all I can do to do what I must. But I am not alone. She smiled, touched her star, lifted her eyes from the road and gazed round at the wild country, vivid and lovely in the summer sun. 'While I live, you will never be alone.'

The fair weather could not last forever, of course. She came to Hoarwell bridge on a blustery afternoon, dark clouds rolling up from the east promising thunder and rain. She jogged the last few miles, anxious to reach shelter before the storm broke. But she slowed as she came down the long slope, the rush of the river through ancient arches growing louder with every step, and her heart beat fast despite the slowing of her feet. At last the whistle came, clear and welcome above the river's roar and the first rumblings of thunder. But before she could make the reply, a gray-cloaked figure stepped into the road—and Miriel found herself gasping and laughing and crying all at once, as Hannas wrapped her in a fierce embrace.

"You're—"

"I didn't know—"

"The Chieftain said—"

"Oh, it is so good to see you." Hannas kissed her cheek, then stepped back to arms length, tears still bright in her eyes. It had been over a year, and they looked each other up and down with frank assessment. "You look well," Hannas said. And then, more softly, "In spite of it all. I'm sorry, Mir. We were at the Brandywine for the winter. I—I wish I could have been with you."

Miriel shook her head, squeezed her friend's shoulder. "Just as well you weren't. It was...not a good place to be." But then, with an arch smile that was only a little forced, "We?"

Hannas flushed, dropped her eyes and scuffed the dirt with her boot. But then she raised her chin, a smile twitching irresistibly at the corners of her lips.

Miriel grinned. "So I wasn't imagining things."

"No."

"I told you—"

"So you did, friend," Hannas laughed. "No need to rub it in."

"Say it."

"Say what?"

Miriel raised her eyebrows expectantly.

Hannas sighed, shook her head. "Fine. You were right."

Miriel embraced her again, said softly in her ear, "I am so happy for you. For both of you."

Hannas nodded. "It is a risk. You were right about that as well." She pulled back, and looked in Miriel's eyes. "But I will take it."

Thunder rumbled again, closer how, and heavy drops of rain began to darken the dry dirt of the road.

"Come." Hannas took her hand, brought her to the watchpost, hidden behind rocks and sheltered beneath the dense branches of a towering pine. "I'm on watch until sunset." She smiled, warm and almost gentle. "So you've time to tell me everything."

Falaran came through the dripping trees as the light faded, started a little and cocked his head in question when he saw Miriel. But all he said was, "You've come from Elenost?" She nodded, pulled the message pouch from her pack and handed it to him. But he squinted at it, then gave it back. "Too dark to read now. It's kept this long; it'll keep till morning." She chuckled a little, as she was meant to, slid it back into her pack and followed Hannas, leaving Falaran alone with the night and the Road.

"He prefers it," Hannas said quietly, as she led them along a path Miriel could not see. "Says it's quieter, peaceful." And though Miriel could not see her face, she heard the smile in her voice. "And it gives us the nights."

Miriel laughed. "So I'm the third wheel, eh? Go find my own little cave to sleep in..."

"Oh, shut up. He'll be glad to see you." A small, self-conscious laugh. "And more than a little grateful, I think. It would have taken much longer for me to believe it if you...hadn't told me it was real." Wonder still in her voice, and in spite of herself, Miriel felt a whisper of envy.

Telhirion stood abruptly as two figures came into the firelight, but his face relaxed into a rare smile when he recognized Miriel. He gave Hannas a brief, fierce hug, then turned to Miriel, laid a hand on her shoulder and looked in her eyes in the flickering light of the cookfire. "You have fulfilled your oath," he said quietly. "It is what your father would have done, at whatever cost to himself."

She swallowed, felt tears prick her eyes. "I know."

As they ate and talked, she watched Hannas and Telhirion: the small, brief touches, the private smiles, their ease in each other's company. They had spent a year and a half together as saethir and maethorneth, and even then they had seemed well-matched, but that had been years ago, and they had gone their separate ways after Hannas earned her star. But chance had thrown them all together on the East Road patrol the summer before, and it soon became clear to Miriel and Meren—though not to Hannas, when they tried to convince her of it—that something had changed. Telhirion was reticent even for a Ranger, fiercely skilled and level-headed in a fight but not one for jesting or tales around the fire afterward. Yet that summer he smiled, laughed, even sang, and Miriel could not help but notice how often his eyes slipped to her friend, and then swiftly away.

Meren was all for calling them out, loudly and pointedly, in front of the rest of the patrol. "They both want it, and neither will do a damn thing about it," he grumbled, then grinned. "It's your duty, as her friend."

"You keep your mouth shut," she returned, low and fierce. "It's her affair, and his. Not yours." A dry chuckle, and she added archly, "You've got enough of your own to be going on with."

He flushed and said no more. But in the end she did speak to Hannas, quietly, though she did not push when Hannas dismissed it with an wry, self-conscious chuckle. "Don't be ridiculous, Mir. You're seeing what isn't there." She raised her eyebrows. "What you want to see, maybe? But I've never known you to be...fanciful like this." And then, "Girlish, almost, gossiping about men—" She stepped back swiftly as Miriel lunged at her, and they fell to the ground, wrestling and laughing. But the seed had been planted, and now as she watched it bloom, she felt warmth and joy, and pushed away the breath of wistfulness that whispered in her heart.

Falaran returned at dawn, replaced by Telhirion on guard, and he read the Chieftain's message and then looked up at her. "The High Pass, eh?" She nodded. "Well, I hope you don't mind company on the road. I'm to come with you." He shook his head. "Doesn't say why, but it's easy enough to guess." At her blank look, he sighed. "Rumors of trouble in Wilderland. You wouldn't have heard them yet. But the Chieftain has many ways of getting news, and most every trader over the pass this summer has said something of the same sort. Nothing clear, of course." He grunted, and shrugged. "That's the way with rumors. But they're afraid of the Druadwaith. It's always there, but something's happened to make them more worried than usual. So I'm to come to the pass with you, and the Chieftain himself may come later in the summer." He shrugged. "Or not, depending on what he hears." She thought of Halbarad, and wondered again what tidings he had brought. Falaran turned to Hannas. "Meneldir should be back soon. Until then, you're on your own." His voice was sober, almost grave, but a smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

Notes:

Miriel and Anna spend the night at the Rushlights' farm in NATWWAL Ch. 26.

Calen propositions Miriel in Ch. 19, though he takes her refusal with good grace, and they remain close friends.

Hannas was the only other woman in Miriel's trainee group; she and Telhirion join Miriel, Anna, and Darahad on an expedition to Dunland in Ch. 30-33.