The next morning they packed their gear, and went down out of the mountains. They came to the village in the forest, spent a night there only, but Aragorn and Koren spoke to the men of the village, and when they went on the next morning, five had joined them. They eyed Miriel with some curiosity, and did not speak to her. They did speak to Calen, laughed at his poor command of their tongue, but then taught him better, and he spent much time with them. But at their drill in the morning there was no need for speech, and though at first they did not know what to make of her, they watched her out of the corners of their eyes – eyes that widened at what they saw. Several of them were skilled archers, practiced at hunting in the woods. But she was better, and the words she knew were enough, left and right and like this. After a little hesitation, at Koren's urging she taught them, and Aragorn said nothing, and turned away toward the woods to hide his smile.
They continued down, out of the mountains and the forest, and came to rolling grassy hills, terraced and trellised, and steep valleys that plunged down to swift narrow rivers. Where one of these poured into a much wider river by a rocky ford, they came to a large village, almost a town. There were three inns, and Aragorn seemed to know them all, consulted with Koren and then chose the largest one. It was the middle of the afternoon, and they were all hot and footsore. But after they had found rooms and eaten, Koren spoke to the men in the Wilderland tongue, and then they all went out together. Miriel frowned, turned to Calen, for she did not quite dare ask the Chieftain.
"Where are they going?" she asked in a low voice.
"To spread the word, I think. Tell the townspeople who we are, and why we're here. And there was something about tomorrow, but I couldn't catch it."
And then Aragorn, behind them, "I am asking them to come here, tomorrow night. I must explain the danger, convince as many as I can to join us. Though indeed," a dry laugh, "Koren will be more useful in that than me. He is known, and respected here. But the Chieftain of the Dunedain is half-legend. I think they are not entirely sure what to make of me."
But if legend, then it was a convincing one. Or perhaps it truly was the respect the townsmen had for Koren. Whatever the reason, when they passed through the town gates at dawn three days later, on the road heading north, there were nearly thirty men behind them.
The road north followed the larger river, crossing many mountain streams that poured down into it from the heights above. They came to several more villages, all of them quite small, but at each they picked up a man, or two or three, and so their number grew. After perhaps ten days' journey they turned west, and followed one of these smaller rivers back toward the mountains. The valley gradually narrowed, and the river became swift and rocky. At last the road crossed it on a wide wooden bridge and then climbed steeply up, weaving back and forth out of the valley.
The village they came to as night fell was the smallest yet, perched on a high bluff overlooking the shadowed valley. They had pushed hard up the slope, and though Miriel's legs ached, she did not grudge it. The days were summer still, hot and dry, but at night there was a bite of autumn in the air.
The village was solidly walled with a palisade of thick logs banked with earth, and its gate was closed. But Koren called up, and though she could not understand all of what he said, she heard enemy, and Druadwaith, and Lord of the Dunedain. When he said that, there was an exclamation from the unseen man on the wall. At once the gate was drawn open, and she was surprised that the title commanded respect even here.
They were given food, and places to sleep on the floor of the headman's hall, hard boards but at least it was dry. There were furs and a fire, and she curled up beside Calen, his familiarity a comfort in this strange place on the edge of the world. But as she drifted into sleep, she heard Aragorn as he sat by the fire a few feet from her, speaking low to the village headman and Koren, and there was an urgency in their voices that she had not heard before.
She was woken by footsteps, the hall still gloomy though early light slanted through the open door. She started a little, for a man spoke close beside her. It was not to her, but after this long among the men of Wilderland, she understood what he said, for it was simple.
"Calen. Come with me."
He got up at once, seemed not at all sleepy, and she wondered how long he had been awake. She shrugged, and lay back down. But she found that more sleep would not come, and so after a time she too got up, stretched, folded her blanket, and went out into the morning.
The air was sharp on her skin, not freezing but not far off; she gasped softly at the shock of it, but a smile spread over her face. She leaned against the wall, and breathed deep in the clear, cold dawn. But there were voices then, around the corner of the hall, and she recognized Aragorn and Calen, though they were speaking the Wilderland tongue. And her lips tightened and her stomach twisted, for there were tears in her friend's voice. At once, without thinking, she pushed away from the wall, and turned the corner.
They stood a little way off, sharp-edged and golden in the rising sun, Aragorn and Calen, and Koren and one of the Wilderland men, and a woman. An older woman, much older, old enough to be—
And Miriel looked at her face, at her eyes and the shape of her jaw, and knew even before Calen choked out the word.
"Mother."
Miriel stood still, and suddenly she was afraid to approach nearer. But Calen had heard her footsteps, heard the intake of her breath and knew it was her. He turned, and tears glittered in the early light. Shaking, half-incredulous, as if he could hardly believe it himself: "This is my mother."
Miriel felt her throat tighten, and her breath came harsh in her throat. But she came to stand beside him, and perhaps in saying it he came to believe it. A little more at least, and he turned back to the old woman. Not so old, Miriel saw now, but lined and worn by the years, and hard work in a harsh land. And by grief, she realized, for this woman had lost her husband and her young son, and thought they were gone forever.
She must have had hope, at first. But gradually it would have faded, as the seasons went by and they did not return, for no word ever came of them, and beyond doubt they were dead. There were many ways it could have been: drowned in a flooded river crossing, a rockslide in the mountains, a sudden storm, sickness or a fall, or the hand of man. After a time of fading hope, this woman would have accepted that her husband and her firstborn were gone. And this far to the north, on the very edge of the plains, word never came of a patrol of Rangers who had found a small boy with the wreck of his father's wagons on the road east of Bree.
Her body shook, and the hand that she reached out, but he took it and stilled its shaking, brought it to his cheek, and then slowly, as if still half-believing, he stepped forward and embraced her.
"Mother?" he said, in the Wilderland tongue. Softly, a question still.
And her answer, so soft Miriel hardly heard it, "My son."
The woman's name was Kala, and she smiled at Miriel when Calen introduced her as his friend. Miriel did not know what was meant by that word in this tongue, and hoped it was not more than what was true.
Kala had remarried, when it was deemed certain that her husband would not return, for she was still young then. Her second husband seemed a man of few words, but he looked long at Calen, and then stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, and embraced him, and kissed him on both cheeks, in the manner of the people of Wilderland. "Welcome to my house," he said quietly, "my son."
And there were three children: a girl nearly grown now, a boy of perhaps fourteen, and a younger girl with Calen's dark eyes and her mother's beauty. She stared at him and said nothing, but when he had turned away, she caught Miriel's eye, and smiled shyly.
After a time, Miriel hugged him and left, and returned to the hall, for this time was for them. But she felt an ache in her chest that would not abate, and she was afraid it would show on her face.
And perhaps it did, or perhaps Aragorn did not need to see it to know it was there. When she had returned to the hall, buckled on her sword belt and felt the familiar weight of the blade at her side, she was surprised to hear his voice from the shadows by the door.
"Come with me, Miriel."
She said nothing, but followed him.
There was a dirt yard behind the hall, far smaller than the one in Elenost, the ground rougher and the archery targets more crude. But there were men there already, early though it still was. Word had spread in the night of the tidings they brought, a threat long rumored now at last come true. Miriel thought as she watched them that most of these swords had not seen much use in recent years. But there were a few who knew their business, and they took charge of the others. Aragorn watched for a short while, his face, she thought, carefully without expression. But there was a tightness at the corners of his lips. He does not like what he sees. Abruptly he seemed to shake himself, and turned to her.
"Come on, Mir. Let's show them how it's done."
A thin smile answered him, though there was no smile in her heart, and without a word she began wrapping her blade. She was so used to this now, so used to others watching, that it did not trouble her, though she did not look at them, and kept her mind entirely on him. The standard sequence, warm-up forms and then open combat, half-speed and then three-quarters. With that done, he called a halt, stretched, shook out legs stiff from many days' travel. She caught her breath and did the same, full awake now, body and mind, and though she was in this strange place on the edge of the world, that small patch of earth was home.
"Stand by," he said quietly.
She straightened, nodded, brought her sword down and out in gesture of readiness.
And as the sunlight fell on his face, he smiled a little. "Begin."
This was simple and clean, body and mind doing what they were trained to do. I know this place. I belong here. Though all else changes, this is as it had always been. And then she thought of Kala, of the stiffening of joints and the fading of strength, and she thought, This will not be forever. But now it is. And in this moment, it is all that is. And she met his blade with a flare of joy in her heart.
He won, of course. But he let it go on long enough that she knew it was purposeful, that he wanted their audience to see him, and her, to know them and their skill. You have this with you, if you choose to fight.
There were whistles and scattered clapping when it was over, and she stepped back and bowed, a wry smile on her face, bruised leg stinging where he had struck her. And then on impulse, or so it seemed, he stepped close, put an arm around her shoulders. But he bent to her ear, and said quietly, "Now they know. And no one will question you."
She looked at him in surprise, but then nodded, said softly, "Thank you, my lord."
His smile broadened. "I need you, Miriel. And they need you, and now they know it."
There was celebration in the village that day, in spite of the news they had brought, for that was put aside for a time, a brief window in which the wrongs of the past were righted, and old grief turned to joy. Calen and his family were wrapped in dancing and song, feasting and stories, as the villagers welcomed home their lost son.
But a messenger came late in the afternoon, a young man riding hard down the grass-grown track that passed for a road up into the plains. He spoke the Wilderland tongue, but very swiftly, and in an accent that sounded, even to Miriel's ear, different from the folk of the forests and hills. Tam appeared beside her, and quietly translated as the man spoke.
"He is a shepherd. One of our folk who graze sheep and goats on the plains and the foothills of the mountains in summer. They watch the northern road. They warn us if trouble is coming. Bandits usually, but now he says there is a...troop, you would say? Of Druadwaith, you call them – we call them Northmen. He says perhaps a hundred, all riding horses. Many weapons, but little food. Two days ride north of here."
Calen's lips tightened, and his eyes flashed. "They think to raid us, steal our harvest. Perhaps take some captives, and make us afraid. And perhaps if we are enough afraid, when they return in greater force we will give up without a fight. So they hope."
And though her stomach twisted in fear, she had to hold back a smile at the fierceness in his voice, the certainty—and the our.
You belong to both of us, truly.
Aragorn and Koren and the village headman, whose name Miriel had by now learned was Talis, heard the man out, thanked him for his courage and sent him to get food and rest.
Then Aragorn turned back to them, his face hard. "Two days," was all he said.
Yet he and Koren and Talis walked the ground after the messenger had gone to his rest, measuring what they had, men and horses and weapons, against their need. Too few of them all, and the need too great, that went without saying. Planning and cleverness would have to take the place of numbers, and perhaps not entirely fill it. But it is all we have, and so we must try.
They gathered in the hall that evening, the newcomers and all of the men of the village, and some of the older boys and women too. She met Calen's eyes, and the tilt of her head asked the question. He shrugged, said in a low voice, "Same as our people. As the Dunedain, I mean. They know what will happen to them, to their children, to their homes. They don't get as much training as we do, and not all of them, but a fair few." A small, mirthless smile. "Enough, I hope."
One face among the women she knew: Calen's half-sister, the older one, slender and beautiful in the firelight. But there was a tightness in her face now, and a hardness in her eyes, and she was tall, as he was. She can draw a bow. Movement then in the shadows, and his half-brother appeared, and without a word sat down beside them. Calen smiled, said something quietly to the boy in the Wilderland tongue, and he nodded, glanced at Miriel shyly and then away.
"Miriel," said Calen, slow and distinct. "This is Talen." A small smile. "My brother." And then to him, in the Wilderland tongue, "Miriel daughter of Sirhael, Ranger of the North."
The boy lifted his head, and looked her in the eye, and he said slowly, the words heavily accented but clear, "I fight with you."
Miriel nodded. "Then you are welcome. We need every man."
This Calen translated, and a smile flashed across the boy's face. He is afraid, she thought. But he will be a man, for Calen.
Half of the defenders, Aragorn said, with Koren translating, would stay within the walls, mostly men of that village, and with them would be Falaran and Calen. The village was sited well, high on a bluff overlooking the road that ran down a steep draw toward the river, and the defenders need only man the half-circuit of the wall that faced outward, for no foe could climb the steep bluffs in force. But the walls were not high, perhaps only twice the height of a man, and could be easily scaled if once the enemy got that close. The gate was made of heavy wooden planks barred with iron, sturdy but it could be breached in time by axes, and before that, fire-arrows might set the wooden homes and storehouses behind them ablaze. That was nearly sure to happen, Aragorn said, or to at least be tried. He said it was a tactic the Druadwaith had been known to use, in the days long past when they fought the Dunedain. "And it worked," he said wryly. "There is no reason to think they have forgotten."
Additional platforms were to be hastily built along the wall, and there would stand most of the archers, and enough men with axes and swords and long poles to keep back any who tried to climb. "But they are too many," he said flatly. "It won't last. We would be overwhelmed, even if we were all inside." And so Aragorn and Koren, with the rest, including any who could shoot from a running horse, were broken into two groups. They would hide, out of sight from the plains above, one group around the first turning of the road in the shadow of the bluffs, the other on the far side of the village where a narrow ravine led steeply down to the river. The group on the road would be on horseback, the other on foot. And when the attackers were fully engaged on the walls, Falaran within would send up a signal, and the two groups would come up and take the attackers from behind.
So the plan went. Simple enough, and Aragorn dared not make it more complicated with so small a force, so thin a margin. There were questions when he was done speaking, but not many, and when they were all answered the crowd broke apart, tense groups talking quietly to each other. At last he found her, in the corner of the hall, wrapped in a blanket and staring into the fire. All who desired to speak with him had done so, and most had left to go to their beds. He put a hand on her shoulder, eased down beside her with a soft grunt and a creak of knees.
"Well, what do you think of it, Mir?"
"My lord?
"The plan."
"I—" Why is he asking me? But then, It doesn't matter. He's asking.
"I don't like it," she said, honestly, "but I can't think of anything better."
A soft, dry laugh. "True enough. Neither can I."
"I...did wonder though..."
"Well? Ask it."
She looked away, and then back to him. "What if Falaran is killed, my lord? Who will give the signal then?"
And to her surprise, he smiled a little and nodded slowly. "That is a flaw, though I had thought of it. Falaran will have Talis, the village headman, and he will know what to look for. But I cannot rely on it." He sighed. "Not as I would rely on one of my own." He looked at her, a grim smile on his face. "And so I must rely on myself. I will be at the top of the bluff, hiding in the grass. From there I should be able to see, though not well. And if the signal does not come, I will make the call on my own."
She frowned. "Then will you come back down to us?"
But the grimness left his smile. "No. You will come to me. You will have my horse and my bow; I will wait for you at the top of the road."
"Very well, my lord."
"Maloseg." He squeezed her shoulder. "Now we both must rest."
She nodded, though her heart was beating fast, and sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. She lay down, but her mind would not calm, images racing through it, of pain and blood, screams and steel, and she clenched her jaw and forced her breath steady. But she knew what she must do, what would calm her, for it always did. And so under her breath, she began to sing. Lady of the North, for it reminded her of home, and very softly she sang, that she might not disturb the others around her. But then his voice with hers, low, and gentle as she had never heard it, and when it was done there was quiet.
"Goodnight, maloseg."
And her mind was clear, and she found she could sleep.
The next day was spent in preparation, sharpening swords and spears, turning arrows, filling tubs of water and sand to guard against fire, and preparing to treat the wounded. This task was given to several women of the village, and she did not think about it, forced herself not to. But halfway through the morning, Aragorn appeared at the gate, as she finished an archery pass on a borrowed horse, and gestured her over. He brought her to the village healers, introduced her, and she spoke to them what little she could. He said more, and the oldest of the women, when he was done, nodded, and said in the common tongue, though slow and halting, "We will need you, when it is done. Both of you."
That night the hall was crowded again, but subdued, uncertainty palpable in the air. But then into the tense quiet, a man's voice singing, soft but clear, and though she could not see him, a smile of wonder spread over her face. Calen.
He sang Wanderer, sang it in the old speech, but others soon joined in the Wilderland tongue, for it was an old song, and known on both sides of the mountains. She came to sit beside him, and he smiled, and she sang the high harmony, felt it in her chest, and a shiver of joy ran through her.
Others sang after that, mostly songs she did not know, though sometimes there was a familiar melody with unfamiliar words, and she joined in wordless.
But at last, another voice she knew, and her breath caught, and trembled. But the invitation could not be refused.
Calen did not sing, but let them carry it alone, high and low, melody and harmony, and despite the crowded hall, their voices rang clear. "Many paths, love, there be through the dark to the morning light..." And when they were done there was silence, as if the hall held its breath in the sunrise.
A wave of noise after, whistles and stamping and cheers, for though they could not understand the words, most of them, music needed no language. She found that she was shaking, as hands squeezed her shoulder, and patted her on the back. She smiled, but it soon became too much, and she retreated to the corner beside Calen. Another song began, and the attention of the crowd shifted away. And then Calen's voice, soft beneath the noise, "That was beautiful, Mir." She looked at him, managed a faint smile. He squeezed her shoulder and held her steady until she had calmed.
At last the crowd began to drift away, the village folk back to their own houses for one more night, the guests to their blankets. Movement in the gloom, and though she could not see clearly, for the fire had burned low, she smiled without thinking as Aragorn came to sit beside her. "Bravo, my lord."
He laughed softly. "Indeed." And then quietly, seriously, "I will remember that, maloseg."
She nodded but could find no words, and so before her mind could tell her not to, she touched his hand, reached out, brief and gentle, and felt the flicker of joy as he answered.
Another rider came in the morning, a local man Talis had sent to keep watch on the road. "They are still camped, my lord." There was incredulity in his voice, and tentative, masked hope. "Will they turn back?"
"No," said Aragorn, quiet but certain. "But that is good." He turned to the others. "They will attack at dawn." He glanced at Miriel, with a dry smile. "History has its uses; that also is a thing they were known to do. The wall faces east, and they will think to blind us with the rising sun." His lips tightened. "But when we come from behind them, it will be their eyes blind in the sunrise." The men around him nodded, muttered approval, though still tension hung in the air.
It was a day of waiting, checking gear, testing edges and ranges, trying to rest. There was no singing that evening. They all went to bed early, slept fitfully, and the watch roused them in the middle of the night. The walls were manned, and the ambush groups made ready, riders with Aragorn and those on foot with Koren, and the gate was swung open into the night.
But then Aragorn spoke, quiet but clear over the rustling of those gathered around him in the dark. First in the Wilderland tongue, and then when he switched to the common speech, in the flare of torchlight his eyes met hers.
"There is a song that we sing before battle, the Rangers of the North." He spoke again to the village men, and though she knew few of the words, by the cadence of it she knew he was translating. So they all know. And then he turned back to her. "Maloseg, will you sing?"
She drew in a breath, met his eyes, and nodded. But then across the crowd she found Calen, standing in the front rank of the village men. Her eyes asked the question, and his smile answered it, and when she sang, he sang with her. No harmony, for this song was not about beauty, but about strength in the face of death.
"Come, lonely hunter, chieftain and king,
I will fly like the falcon when I go.
Bear me, my brother, under your wing,
I will strike fell like lightning when I go.
I will bellow like the thunder drum, invoke the storm of war,
A twisting pillar spun of dust and blood up from the valley floor.
I will sweep the foe before me like a gale out on the snow,
And the wind will long recount the story, reverence and glory when I go."
And a wind touched her face, and she was ready.
Notes:
I know songs are not for everyone (I usually skip most of Tolkien's, to be entirely honest), but they convey things mere words cannot, and there are several that have become emotional touchstones in my imagined world. If you're not interested, feel free to skip this. But if you are...
Calen and Miriel first sing Wanderer together in the hills above the ruins of Annuminas in NATWWAL Ch. 16.
"Many paths, love, there be..." is from Return of the Sun, which Miriel sings at Aragorn's request in Ch. 4 of this story.
"Come, lonely hunter, chieftain and king..." This is the first verse of "When I Go", by Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer. I haven't been able to find a clear statement that the lyrics were inspired by Tolkien's work, but I can't imagine that they weren't; there are just too many parallels in language and imagery to be a coincidence. In my version of Dunedain culture, this verse is sung before battle, and both the first and last verses are sung as part of the funeral ritual for a fallen Ranger (see NATWWAL Ch. 15).