Still more waiting, in the cold dark as night wind whispered off the plains, and their straining ears heard nothing but the rustle of grass, and the soft movement of horses, their tack muffled with rags. Very gradually the night faded, and grayness grew in the air. There was fog on the river, ghostly in the half-light.

But then: Was it? Perhaps it was only in her mind. No. Others around her stiffened, heads jerked up, eyes wide in the gray light. Far away but unmistakable: the pounding of hooves. They are coming. And then it all happened very swiftly.

The pounding grew. Their horses stamped nervously, and Aragorn's that she held by her side jerked its reins. But she drew it close, stroked its head and spoke softly, though her heart hammered and her breath came fast. Shouts, growing louder, and then screams, man and horse both, and she knew they had reached the defenses. Sharpened sticks were hidden in the grass, and pits covered over that might be seen by men walking in full daylight but not by men galloping in the dawn. And there would be arrows then, hissing from the walls, seeking man and horse. Part of her wished desperately to see what was happening, but another part wished to shrink away, hide beneath the bluff and not come out until it was all over.

More shouting, pounding. Axes. They have reached the wall. It must be soon.

Flickering light, and more screams. Fire. They are ready—but I would not want to be in a village with fire-arrows coming in.

Where is the signal? And then a horn, but not from the village. It sounded much closer, from the top of the bluffs, and she was moving, they were all moving, even before she could think. But as they gathered speed, pounding up the road, and she fought to keep Aragorn's horse beside her: Falaran. What happened to Falaran?

Aragorn was waiting for them where the road broke out into the plain. She edged to the side, slowed but did not stop, reached down with the reins, and he grasped them, running now, and vaulted onto the horse's back. And then they were riding, pounding across the grass.

They knew where the pits were, and the stakes, and as they approached some stopped and rained arrows on the attackers, while others, following the road or carefully planned paths, charged forward.

Her hands moved without command from her mind. She thought of her first battle, but only briefly, as she sent arrow after arrow into the crowd at the base of the walls. The Druadwaith wore leather armor but their legs were unprotected; an arrow in the thigh might not kill a man, but it would take him out of the fight as surely as an arrow in the back.

But soon enough they stopped shooting, for it was no longer possible to distinguish friend from foe. The Druadwaith had turned by then, and some were fleeing, on their horses or off them, back along the road. They came at her and did not fight. But nor did they stop, or hold their hands up empty, and so her sword slashed down.

Aragorn had told them that. "I cannot command you to kill a fleeing man," he had said. "But if he flees back to his land, with the bitterness of defeat in his heart, he will return. A man who has surrendered, that you must respect. But a man who is running intends to escape to fight another day." And so she killed them. Two, three, four. And then there were no more.

Shouting still, but it was all in the Wilderland tongue, and words she knew. Down. On the ground. Though the surviving Druadwaith did not know the words, they knew the gestures and the tone, and they knew the end had come. They dropped their weapons and lay face down, empty hands stretched out before them.

She was conscious suddenly of herself again, mind and body. Shaking, gasping, she dropped her sword to the ground, gripped the saddle with both hands and dismounted. There was blood on her leg, though she felt nothing. Carefully, slow and deliberate, she crouched, found a bloody gash just above the top of her boot. Hands moving again on instinct, she pulled out a strip of cloth from the pouch on her belt, and bound it around the wound. Take care of yourself; then you may aid your brothers. Faelon's words, so long ago it seemed now. She stood, carefully put weight on the leg, felt a twinge of pain and knew it would be much worse later, but now it could be put aside.

She groped for her sword with clumsy hands, wiped it on the grass and sheathed it, and grasped the horse's reins firmly, for it was skittish now, unaccustomed to blood and screams.

She searched the crowd, saw prisoners being gathered and tied hand and foot, the dead left where they lay but others being carried, bloody and moaning.

She did not see him behind her.

"Miriel." She turned, and he was there, eyes moving over her.

She stood still and let him do it, knew he saw the blood on her leg, met his gaze and lifted her chin.

He jerked a nod. "Leave your horse. Come with me."

She stood her ground. "Where is Calen?" Why is he not with you?

"Unhurt." Curt, almost impatient. But then, more quietly, "With Falaran."

Her lips tightened, and she did not trust herself to speak.

He sighed a little, seemed suddenly very weary. "I don't know, Mir. Bad. But I don't know."

She drew a shaking breath, let it out slowly, met his eyes and nodded, and followed him into the village.

The wounded among the defenders were being gathered, on a clear space of ground just inside the gate. The Druadwaith were left where they lay.

He had explained it the day before, with the other healers gathered round. "There will be too many, too many for us to care for at once. And so you must decide who needs you most, who needs you first, who will die soonest without you. And," he said, more quietly, "who will die no matter what you do. Those you must leave." Though they did not like it, they had all nodded their understanding.

It had seemed so clear then, one group and another, those who would live and those who would die. But in the moaning and the screams and the blood it was not clear. She felt her breath coming fast, and her head was light.

He grasped her hand.

"Miriel. Nestorneth." And then she felt him, heard the words in her mind as if he had spoken them. Calm is my soul, and clear, like the mountains in the morning. And the wind washes away all fear.

He said softly, "You must find those who need mercy." And he handed her the flask they had prepared the night before.

"I—"

He looked in her eyes. "My strength is needed elsewhere." For Falaran. For those who may yet live. He did not say that, but she heard it.

And those who will die are mine. She swallowed hard. "Yes, my lord."

He planned this, she realized suddenly. He knew he would give this task to me. But I had other tasks to do first, and knowledge of this one might distract my mind from the others.

You keep your tools sharp, my lord.

Anger, but she pushed it back, and knew that he used her, but only as he must, and as she had agreed to be used when she swore the oath.

"There, I think," he said quietly, gesturing with his eyes to a man who lay not far off, pale and nearly still on the ground. She looked, and when she turned back, Aragorn had gone.

Blood soaked the man's clothes; he seemed hardly to breathe.

How can I make this choice?

Helpless, fearful even in remembering. 'I don't know. How can I know? How can I see that?'

'As you see everything else.' Girith's voice in her memory steadied her. 'I cannot say how it will feel,' he had said. 'But you will know it.'

And she closed her eyes, and reached out. And she knew.

White. Blinding. Her eyes were blind. But her soul was not, saw clearly, saw nothing, saw void. Pain, and struggle for life, but it was muted, already drawing away, already gone. That way is closed. There is another, but it is not that. And then, It is quiet. So tired…I could rest…

Pain. Real, her own. Hands, gripping her shoulders, shaking, a voice by her ear, low and urgent, though she could not make out the words. Slowly, stiffly, she uncurled her fingers from the wounded man's hand, and opened her eyes.

A boy was beside her. Not a boy, a young man. Her own age, perhaps, or a little younger. He had fought; there was blood on his clothes, and a bandage round one arm. And tears on his face, and she looked at the wounded man's face, the man who was to die, and then back to the younger face, streaked with dirt and tears, and she knew.

"Father?" She said it in the Wilderland tongue, and the young man started a little but nodded.

"Yes."

"He will die." This also she could say, but not in any way more gentle.

A silence, and again, almost a whisper, "Yes."

Pain of memory in her chest, and she touched his hand, and then she drew out the flask and poured.

The young man held his father's head, and she knelt beside him.

"He will die," she said again, softly, gesturing to the cup.

A frown, then a nod of understanding, and he lifted his father's shoulders, spoke quietly to him, and then raised his own eyes to hers, and said in the common tongue, and a voice that shook only a little, "Yes."

Her hands were steady, and that surprised her. What if he doesn't drink it? But she laid a hand on the man's bloody cheek, and then Girith's voice again. 'Find him, and tell him what to do, and he will do it.' And so she did not reach for the darkness now, but for the man, the fading flicker of struggle. Drink, father, and be at peace, she thought, and did not stop to wonder where the words had come from. And he drank, and he died.

And then there was only pain. The cup fell from her hand, though she did not know it. She heard whimpering, moaning, soft sounds of anguish and did not know them for her own. Curled around herself, around black emptiness, limbs drawn in, head bowed to her chest, a wounded animal, and she heard nothing but her own cries and harsh breath loud in her ears. She could not move, could not think, and panic flared, as it had once before. Is this how I die? How can I feel this much pain and not die?

But then memory, the voice that had been with her then, and though now she was alone, his voice steadied her. Calm is my soul, and clear, like the mountains in the morning. Breath with the words, slow in and out, and the panic faded, leaving only the pain. Calm is my soul…

Over and over, to the sound of her breath, and slowly the pain too faded, and she was only weary, shaking, so drained she could hardly open her eyes. But she did, and saw the young man watching her, though still he held his dead father in his arms. He met her eyes, nodded slowly, and there were no words.

But then he started, looked up and past her, and at the same time she heard footsteps on the grass, and a soft gasp as Aragorn knelt beside her.

At first he said nothing, only took her hands and looked in her eyes, and she felt the echo of fear in him. And then she knew why he had left her.

"You had to do it on your own," he said softly. "I had to know."

And he did not say, I am sorry, though she felt that too. But he was and was not, she knew, for one does not apologize for doing a duty. I had to know, and there is only one test. And then he pulled her to him, drew her head down to rest on his shoulder, and only then did she feel him shaking.

At last he said quietly, "There are others." The question unspoken, but she drew a breath, felt for her strength, and nodded. He let her go, and pushed himself to his feet, staggering a little.

"My lord—" she began.

He shook his head sharply, and looked away from her. "I'm fine."

Not true, and they both knew it. But there was nothing to do but let it go, let him go, and do what she must do.

The young man still held his father's body, but he was watching her, and when she shifted and made to rise, he held up a hand. "Wait." He said it in the common speech, though his accent was strange, and to her surprise she obeyed, watched as he gently laid his father's head on the ground. Then he stood, and reached a hand down to her. "Help."

The faintest of smiles, and she let him pull her up. It was well that he was there, for her head reeled, and for a moment her eyes went dark. But she breathed slowly, and held onto his shoulder, and soon she was steady. Carefully she reached down, picked up the mercy flask and the small wooden cup, and with a last small bow to the dead man, they left him.

There were two others. Men of the village, one old and one young. She forced herself to ignore the weeping families around them, knelt by each and confirmed what she knew already from looking at their wounds, and gave them mercy. No less painful than the first, but easier, for now she knew the way. The young man – Kir, he had told her, pointing to himself – stayed with her, steadied her through the pain, spoke to those who were with the wounded, and she supposed he must be telling them what she was to do, for there was fear and relief both on their faces as he spoke.

But her body could only stand so much, and after the third, she lay against Kir's chest as he sat on the ground, and found that though she told her body to sit, it would not obey. "I—must rest," she gasped. And his arms tightened around her, and she knew that he understood, and was afraid. She found his hand, pressed it weakly, and the gesture said what words could not. I'm all right. Or will be. And while I am weak, you will hold me up.

And he did. For how long, she did not know, for she lost the world around her, heard sounds and felt movement but they meant nothing, and her mind was blank as it rested itself.

Movement at last, and a voice she knew, and she felt a smile though it did not come to her lips. And though Kir moved, his body shifting behind her, she did not fall, and then she was given into the arms of another.

His fingers slipped through hers, and she felt him with her, his breath on her cheek, the edge of fear in him.

Do not fear, brannon mell. And she felt his fear slip away, and she did not afterward remember those words. But he did.

Note:

Brannon mell - beloved lord, a term of respectful endearment