That day was clear, the sun almost warm at its height. They followed a foot track, not well-worn but clear to see, amid rolling grassy hills that turned to rocky slopes and then forests of aspen and birch, gold above them in the autumn light. And in spite of lingering weariness and the pain in her leg and the ever-present whisper of threat, she found herself smiling as her boots rustled fallen leaves and clear dappled sunlight fell on her face.

But Aragorn pushed hard, not stopping even to eat, though the set of his shoulders and his labored breathing told her he was even wearier than she was.

Girith had told her that. 'Mercy is pain. But it fades, for it is only payment. Weregild, your people might call it, and not the actual taking of damage into oneself. But healing – if you push yourself to the edge there, the way back may be long.'

They went on long after dark, until at last clouds came up to cover the half-moon and Aragorn could no longer follow the trail. "I could make a guess at it," he said hoarsely, wearily. "But that's not good enough. Not here, not now." And so they found a hollow beneath rocks, ate and then tried to sleep. It was truly cold now, and they were soon shivering as they huddled on fallen leaves and breathed the faint, sharp smell of decay. At last his breath eased and his body went slack, but still she lay wakeful in the cold night.

A fingernail moon gave only faint light, filtering through bare branches, but it was enough, and she watched him as he slept. She was tired but not yet sleepy, strangely alert as if waiting in the calm between storms.

Even in sleep his face seemed strained, ghostly pale in the moonlight. He knows what he's doing, she told herself. He's done this before, this weighing of risk. How far can I go? How far can I make others go? And she knew the answer, for herself at least. I will go as far as you need me, my lord. But beware of that burden.

The dawn was clear again, the peaks above them sharp in the early light. A few high clouds caught the rising sun long before its rays touched the treetops. They were stiff with cold, and the lingering aches of battle and healing, and their breath smoked in the still air. They ate quickly, and pressed on.

The path was steeper and more rocky as they left the aspen forest behind and climbed up into dark pines. The shoulders of the mountains rose before them, and the valley that they followed began to narrow. The stream that had carved it was loud with autumn rain, rocks wet and slippery, and they were cautious in placing their feet.

But as morning wore on and they climbed higher, thin clouds dimmed the sun, and then obscured it altogether. A cold, damp wind began to flow down from the heights. It whispered at first, then hissed in gnarled pines. She shivered, and drew her cloak around her, and watched his bowed head as the first drops of rain began to fall.

Rain. It's only rain.

They went on. Gradually the rain became heavier. The wind threw it in their faces, and grabbed at the folds of their cloaks, raising the heavy smell of wet wool that she so disliked. She tried to make light of it, tried to smile but found she could not. It was getting colder. Their cloaks began to soak through, damp cloth chill on her skin with every gust. And then the rain turned icy. Sleet, hissing on wet leaves, stinging her face. She pulled her hood forward and bent her head, so that she could see nothing but the rocky path before her, fast becoming slippery with ice.

At a time that might have been noon, though there was no way of telling, Aragorn stopped at last, huddled in the lee of a cluster of rocks. There was a sheltered space beneath them, and they wedged themselves in, breathing hard. He looked at her, and she at him.

His face was pale, despite the burning of wind and ice. He was slow, stiff, every movement an effort, and there was a vagueness in his eyes that worried her more than anything.

"Stay here?" she asked. "Until the rain lets up?" She knew they shouldn't, knew they must go on. But it was her heart that spoke, not her mind, and when he did not answer, and did not look at her, she took off her glove and laid cold fingers on his cheek.

He flinched, drew away and turned from her. For a moment he said nothing, refused to answer the question she had not asked. At last he said slowly, gruffly, still not looking at her, "There's a shelter near the top of the pass, Talis told me. A stone hut, not much, but it's solid." And unspoken, If we spend this night without shelter…

"It can't be much further now."

And so they ate quickly, digging food from their packs with stiff fingers, and went on.

Sleet turned to snow, thick heavy flakes. At first it was a relief, the hiss and sting of ice gone, the only sound wind in dark pines. But it grew colder still. Water had seeped into her boots, and her feet began to go numb. She balled her hands into fists inside her mittens, but still they ached with cold. And gradually the ache faded, and she felt nothing.

The snow was deep enough now that they could not see the path. They did not really need to, the valley so narrow that there was only one way to go. But often they lost the smooth way, and stumbled on rocks and holes. Aragorn fell, pushed himself to his feel and staggered on, fell again and she had to help him up. He was gasping, face blank, and he said nothing, only turned back to the mountain and struggled on. She was shivering fiercely now, legs stiff and clumsy, and her mind felt slow. Too cold. And then she stumbled, and fell, tried to get up but slipped again on wet snow. He staggered back to her, clumsily grabbed her under the arm and hauled her to her feet, nearly losing his balance as he did it.

The snow mounted. It was nearly to her knees now. They both fell again and again, and each time she wondered if this would be the last time. Snow whirled around them, and the light began to dim, early evening closing in to a night of storm. A night of death. Anything abroad on the mountain tonight will die.

They stumbled on. She could not feel her feet, could not think, only moved on instinct, following the dark shape of his back in the snow. They climbed a steep slope, sliding, at times crawling on hands and knees. At the top was a level space, and a denser clump of pines.

And beneath it, a dark shadow. Smooth-edged and regular, corners too square to be natural, dry-laid stones rimed with ice. Aragorn was nearly at the door before her slowed mind caught up with her body. The shelter.

She felt no emotion as she stumbled after him, only a desire to lie down, and sleep. She staggered through the door, and shouldered it closed behind her, shutting out the storm.

It was pitch dark. Absolute dark, not a flicker when she brought a shaking hand before her eyes. The floor beneath her boots felt like smooth dirt, but she could not bring herself to move, only stood gasping and shivering, mind blank of all thought except, Safe.

But then a soft sound, halfway between sigh and sob, and the muted rustle and thud of something heavy falling to the ground.

She did not think. She could not, only shed pack and gloves, dropped to her knees and crawled, until numb hands reaching out found him in the dark. She knew vaguely that his clothes must be wet, icy, as hers were, but she could not feel it, only groped clumsily until she found his face, felt his breath warm on the back of her wrist.

"Can you..." she managed, lips stiff, voice shaking with cold. Of course not. If he could move, he would have done it. Doesn't matter. Fire. Wood. Is there wood?

The hut was small, and nothing barred her way as she crawled across the bare dirt floor. Reaching out blindly, her fingers at last found the roughness of stone, and a low square-edged opening. Fireplace. Wood in the corner? There were chips and slivers under her hands, though her fingers would not grasp them, only followed the wall, scrabbling in the dark. Please, there must be wood. If not...

And then it was there. A small pile of cut logs, neatly stacked in the corner. Not much. But enough. And she knew then that they would live.

It took a long time to get the fire going, numb fingers clumsy on flint and steel. But at last the tinder flared, and caught the curls of birch bark she fed into it, and then the slivers of wood, small chips and sticks. The logs were dry and caught easily, and again she blessed whoever had left them. And then at last, when she was sure of the fire, she straightened with a groan and looked round.

The small, square hut was entirely bare, not even sawn logs to sit on. Someone must have burned them. So would I, if I had to. Aragorn lay on the floor where she had left him, the ice on his clothes glittering in the firelight. She tried to stand, but her legs would not obey, and so again she crawled across the cold dirt. He shifted as she came near, groaned softly and opened his eyes, tried to push himself up but fell back with a gasp. She reached out on instinct, cold fingers on his cheek. But that was all. The Gift would not come, and her head reeled with the effort.

"Don't." More breath than voice, but he found her hand with his, grasped it clumsily. "Too tired. Rest." The faintest of smiles touched his lips. "Not...much use...sorry." Hardly more than a whisper, and she felt a flutter of fear. He is too cold. But she forced a smile, and squeezed his hand.

"You got us here. That's enough."

He could not sit, so it was a far harder task than it ought to have been to wrestle his arms free of the pack straps, and dig out blankets and food. But at last she managed it, shaking and bleary with exertion, and got him close to the fire. He was shivering fiercely, and when she pulled off his mittens, his hands were stiff. Her own painfully thawing fingers were no guide, and so she brought his hand to her lips, felt the skin hard and cold.

Warm water. That was what she had been taught, what they had all been taught. Hands shaking, she dug through his pack to find their small pot, poured the last of the water into it and hung it on a hook above the fire. Clumsily, she began to pull off his sodden, icy clothes.

He tried to help. But there was no strength left in him, and so she did it all herself, ignoring the pain in her own fingers. 'If they hurt, and you can use them, they're not frozen.' Before Girith, even before Faelon, her mother had taught her that, when she had been too long in the cold one winter day. How long ago? And she blinked back tears, and pushed that voice from her mind.

His clothes, and then hers, piled in a sodden heap on the dirt floor, and she held him close, and wrapped them both in blankets. And then again she reached out for the Gift. It was there this time, faint but clear, and she slipped into it, and then she was with him.

Aching chill, confusion and weakness and fear. But he felt her, reached for her, tugged at her like a drowning man. With the part of her mind that was still aware of herself, she felt her own body begin to grow cold.

No. No, I can't, I—let me go. A wrenching breath. Brannon mell, you must let me go.

And he did. Slowly, reluctantly, but the weight was gone, the fearful paralyzing cold. Gone from him as well, she knew, and it seemed that he breathed more easily. She closed her hand painfully around his chilled fingers, and for a moment, a brief joyful flicker, she again felt him with her.

And so she held him, for what seemed a long time, tucked his hands beneath his arms to warm them, pressed his frostbitten feet to her thighs. When at last the water was warm, she slipped out of the blankets, gasping a little at the chill on her bare skin.

He was shivering still, but not so much as before, and he seemed almost asleep. She laid a hand on his cheek. "Aragorn," she said softly, reached out just a little, so that he knew her, and his eyes opened. "Can you sit?"

He closed his eyes again, but his lips tightened, and he drew a breath, and she knew he had heard. She piled the packs behind him and then carefully, painfully, slid her hands under his shoulders. He felt it, nodded though he did not open his eyes, and with a soft grunt of effort, pushed himself up. She steadied him, but he did it on his own, leaned back against the packs with his eyes still closed, and she wrapped the blankets back around his chest.

Getting his feet in the water was awkward, for the pot was small, and he did not seem to have much control of his legs. She had to do it one at a time, shivering in the cold with a blanket draped loosely around her. She tried to be gentle, but she could tell it hurt, his breathing tight and his legs trembling. Softly she spoke to him, not sure if he heard, if he could understand, but at least the voice was there. Brannon mell, I am here.

He groaned, flinched as an incautious movement bent his fingers.

'There may come a time when I must ask. Or more likely, you must know, for I will not be able to ask.'

'I will know.'

He must rest, truly rest. And for that there must be less pain. More cold I cannot take; this, I can.

She made no sound, though her breath came short and tears stung her eyes and slipped unheeded down her cheeks. She took the pain, and some of the damage as well, for they would need to go on again, and soon. As soon as the storm breaks. We may not get another chance.

At last she could bear no more. She broke away with a soft cry, curled around herself, pressed once more near to breaking. The water will be getting cold. Must move. Stand up...but even the thought of it sent her head reeling, and pain flared in her leg.

"Miriel."

Soft and hoarse, hardly his voice at all, but she turned to find his eyes open, and the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Brannon mell," she whispered.

He gazed at her for a long moment, the smile gone, his face unreadable. Then he nodded, and said with quiet certainty, "It is so." And then, more gently, "Come, rest with me."

She hesitated, frowned, glanced from his face to his foot, and the pot of rapidly cooling water.

The ghost of a chuckle. "Put it back on the fire." She did, and then crawled back to him, conscious of his eyes on her but too tired to care.

"Maloseg," he murmured, and though she felt him shaking still as she drew the blankets around them, the fear was gone, and she rested easily against him.

She dozed but did not sleep, and roused herself after a time to bring him the reheated water. He groaned, but pushed himself a little more upright, and managed to keep his foot in the pot without her help. She examined his other foot, and his hands, fingers and toes now warm and soft, but clearly very painful.

"They'll blister, most likely," he said, voice tight and matter-of-fact, and though she flinched a little at the thought, there was also relief that his mind was clear. "Shouldn't walk until they've healed, at least a little."

She nodded. "Three days?"

"More or less. I'll know tomorrow." He smiled. "So you've got yourself a rest. If not perhaps in the way you would have liked."

She laughed a little. "That's so." And then, "Do you think you could eat?"

He tried, but managed only a few bites of food before even chewing seemed too much of an effort. She finished the rest of it, and built up the fire again, and spread their wet clothes out as best she could. And then she lay down beside him, pulled blankets over them both, and fell asleep to the soft crackle of flame.

She did not know how long she slept. The hut was as dark as it had ever been, but the coals glowing faintly under thick ash told her it must be near morning. She shifted, bit back a groan as stiff muscles protested the movement, rolled carefully out of the blankets. It seemed that Aragorn still slept, his breathing soft and even. Her clothes were damp, and she shivered in the chill as she dressed, but it was far warmer than it had been, and she silently blessed the long-ago stonemason who had built this refuge in the mountain pass.

She stirred up the coals and laid on the last of the wood. I can get more in the light. Even if it's still snowing. She could hear the wind in the trees outside, not as loud as it had been the night before, but loud enough. We're not going anywhere until this lets up.

As the fire flared to life, she moved from hands and knees to crouching, and then very carefully pushed herself to her feet. Fiercely sore, so that every movement hurt, and she shivered insistently, but her head remained clear and steady. She walked carefully across the small space to the door, listened to the wind but did not open it. Rustle of cloth and a soft groan behind her, and she turned to see that he was awake. Still wrapped in blankets, sitting up and breathing slowly, hands flat on the floor, but his eyes were open and clear.

"Still blowing?" His voice was hoarse, but stronger than it had been the night before.

She nodded. "I'll go out later and get wood. But we're fine for now."

He smiled. "I know." And then, quiet and sincere, "Maloseg."

She swallowed, nodded, thought of her father, and she saw the gentleness in his smile and knew that he knew.

The wood ran out by midday, so though the snow still fell, she reluctantly pulled on her boots and outer clothes, mostly dry now, and went out into the storm. Her hands and feet were still painful, and she could hardly grip the small ax. It took far longer than it should have, hobbling through drifts and digging snow away from the dead lower branches of trees, but at last she had enough wood to last through the night. The exertion warmed her, and when she had taken off her outer layers and shaken the snow from them, she felt better than she had before she went out.

He was huddled by the hearth, back against the packs, feet stretched out before him toward the warmth.

"How are your hands?" she asked, and when he did not reply at once, she knew she would not like the answer. At last he held them out, fingertips red and swollen with blisters. She sucked in a breath. "That must hurt."

"It does." Flat and unpitying. "Punishment for my foolishness. Though it puts you in more danger as well."

"I—my lord..." He was not like this before.

A soft, bitter laugh. "Not brannon mell now. I nearly got you killed, and may do it yet."

She frowned. "You saved my life. I would have died in the snow, long before I reached this place, had it not been for you."

"Had it not been for me, you never would have been in the mountains," he snapped back.

"That, brannon mell"—emphasis on the words, and her eyes flashed—"is nonsense. You took a risk, and I agreed to it."

"You swore an oath. You had to agree."

"I did not. In the end, I had to obey. But I did not have to agree. And had I not, you would have known it."

He glared at her, lips tight, and she braced herself for more shouting. But then abruptly, he barked a laugh. "That, maloseg, I believe."

The soft sounds of fire and wind were loud in the silence between them. At last she asked quietly, "What is wrong?"

"Nothing." Immediate, instinctive, and a lie.

She waited for him to say more. But when he did not, she said softly, "Brannon mell, that is not true."

No, it is not. But you have no right to ask that, girl. You have not earned it. Belegon could ask, or Hal, or Mahar. Not you.

She saved your life. You would have died of the cold, or at least lost fingers and toes.

So have others. And they do not presume as she has.

They are not what she is. You let it happen. You knew, and still you let it happen.

And to that he had no answer.

She watched him and said nothing. He looked not at her but into the fire, and as the silence stretched she began to fear she had pushed too far.

He is the Chieftain. Not your brother and certainly not your friend. You would not presume so with a captain, and they answer to him.

He needs...

What? Do your duty, healer, and keep your mouth shut.

And the pain of loss whispered in her, and she looked away from him and bent her head to her knees, cold and alone.

"Miriel."

She gasped softly, so startling was the change in his voice. She looked up, saw his hand held out to her, and she took it, careful of the injured fingers. She felt him at once, open, reaching out, but also a darkness she had not felt before, could not name, and it frightened her. But there was asking, and need, and so she reached for the darkness, felt it give way before her, and then there was only him, weary and afraid and in pain.

Let me go.

And so she did, felt the emptiness of absence though still he held her hand.

"That is me as well," he said quietly. A dry half-laugh. "Halbarad could describe it to you, or Bel. Or Anna, though they cannot see it as you do." He smiled wryly. "A Gift, and a burden, eh?"

She brushed her fingers over his palm, and then let him go. "And I will take both."

He gazed at her for a long moment, and at last he said softly, "And so we will walk the hard road together." He seemed somehow for a moment far away, as though he saw things she could not. But then he let out a breath, shook his head and put a smile on his face. "I'm hungry."

She laughed with the release of tension. "Good. So am I."

They had plenty of food still, from the rich harvests of Wilderland, though they were sparing with it, for they did not know how long they would be in the mountains. But they ate well, and without asking she made him willowbark for the pain, and without comment he drank it.

But as she cleaned up from the meal, he found his thoughts returning to that moment of clear sight.

You know what you saw.

No, I do not. And then, What I saw, yes. But not what it meant. It could mean many things.

And which is clearest? That is what he taught you.

The clearest seems least likely.

Perhaps it is so. But it is, nonetheless.

Then what is to be done with it?

Nothing, for now. It will be what it will be. Or perhaps nothing.

And he shuddered, but not with cold, and was glad when she came to sit beside him. They dozed then, huddled close by the fire, woke and ate again, and then she built up the fire and they slept.

Note: AU version of "To Build A Fire"... ;)