They woke to quiet, and bright sunshine when she pulled open the door. Snow had drifted high against it, and her footsteps from the day before were entirely gone. But the sun felt almost warm, and already water dripped from snow-laden pines. She squinted in the brightness but smiled, and stood for a moment feeling the sun. Labored breathing behind her then, and her sun-blind eyes could hardly make him out in the dimness. He limped on bare feet, came to lean against the doorframe beside her and let the sun fall on his face. Too pale, she thought. He's not through it yet. But he smiled, reached out and scooped a handful of wet snow. "Drink?" he offered. "It's not the Pony, but under the circumstances..."

She shrugged. "I don't like beer anyway."

"You don't? Don't tell Butterbur."

"Oh, I did. That was a mistake."

"Must have been. He didn't throw you out?"

"Nearly. Managed to persuade him I'd take spiced wine instead, but he's been suspicious of me ever since."

Aragorn laughed. "He's suspicious of all of us; that's nothing new."

"You all make him nervous. He thinks I'm not right in the head."

He eyed her appraisingly. "Old Butterbur's a shrewd man, might be onto something there..." All earnestness, but the corners of his lips twitched.

Several replies ran through her mind, starting with I'm not the one who chose to try the North Pass on the edge of winter. But she pushed them back, and said nothing. And that was before the boy, and the horse. Before he knew what I was. How will he see me now?

But Aragorn looked at her as if he knew, and put an arm around her shoulders, gazing out at the snow-laden trees. "I'd take spiced wine right now." A small laugh. "Even over beer. And he knows I'm not right in the head."

"Far be it for me to doubt my elders." A sidelong glance, and she caught his grin, though still he looked out at the snow.

"Make a choice. Old man or puppy? I can't be both."

"As you say. My lord Chieftain. Sir."

"Oh, shut up." But he was laughing in truth now, and the shadow of darkness was past.

"What's that stuff they have in Rivendell? That's what I want."

She thought it would bring him joy, the memory of his youth. But laughter faded, and he said quietly, "Miruvor." Nothing more, but his eyes were far away.

The snow had begun to melt in earnest by early afternoon, and was halfway gone by the end of the next day. The blisters on his hands and feet swelled and then drained, and she wrapped them carefully. He tried to hold still, tried to keep the pain in, and she knew it was for her sake, but he was nearly shaking with the effort of it.

"Don't," she said at last, softly, stilling her movement and laying a hand on his arm. And carefully, deliberately she reached out, touched the pain, just enough so that he knew she knew.

His lips tightened, and he did not meet her eyes. But at last he nodded, and when she resumed wrapping his hand, he murmured a soft stream of curses, and she smiled.

By the third day after the storm, the snow was nearly gone, and his feet were healed enough that he could walk.

"Leave in the morning?" she asked quietly, after he returned from a trial up the trail, pale and limping, face set in an expression she now knew well.

He jerked a nod, lips tight. But then, with a dry smile, "How do you weigh the risk, Ranger?"

She frowned in surprise. But the answer was there at once, for she had thought little else all day. "This weather won't last. It's going to hurt, but you won't likely do more damage to your feet. Better to get out of the mountains."

"Agreed." He nodded, and pretended not to see the small smile of pride that pulled at her lips.

She had begun to repack their gear while he was gone, expecting his answer, and so when it was clear he would say nothing more, she went back to it. He watched for a time, and then said quietly, after she moved the small ax from his pile to hers, "What are you doing?"

She sat back on her heels, and looked him in the face, for this she had expected. "Taking weight out of your pack. Don't argue; you won't win. My lord."

His lips tightened, and briefly she thought she had misjudged. But then he barked a laugh, and shook his head. "Planned that too, didn't you?"

She nodded. "I had to. Couldn't risk it going the wrong way."

"You know, I am more sensible than you give me credit for. Most of the time."

"In my experience, men generally aren't." A thin smile. "You may be the exception."

"How kind of you. Though gorse bushes aren't noted for their kindness."

"No." But she smiled fully now, from relief as much as anything else, for she had halfway expected a fight. "Truth in names, eh? Though I don't know about that."

"About what?"

She flushed, and turned back to the packing; this was not a conversation she had intended to have. But the Chieftain had asked, and so she must answer. "Names. The meaning of names. That they...say something true about the bearer." Her voice lowered, trailed off, for this was silly. A thing for children, or gossips pairing off the young and unattached. Not a conversation for a Ranger to have with a captain, certainly not with the Chieftain.

She expected ridicule, or at least tolerant forbearance. But he did not laugh, and his expression was thoughtful. "It is an old question," he said quietly. "It is not spoken of much now, but of old among us much thought was given to naming. Places, people, even things. Surely you remember the swords and horses from your school days. Short though they were." A flicker of a smile, and her lips answered it, though still her mind was unsettled. "But even then there was debate. Was a name given at birth a foretelling of what would be, or an encouragement to what could be? And was it to be taken literally, or left open to other ways of meaning?" He sighed, shook his head. "Folk have mostly forgotten this now, forgotten the uncertainty; when they think of names at all, it is clear and uncluttered." He laughed softly, and without joy. "I am to be a brave king, and you a shining jewel. So our mothers wished." The laughter was gone, and bitterness tinged his voice. "And I am no king at all, nor likely to be. You at least are a jewel among us. If not," gentle now, "in the way your mother wished."

How does he know that? The last catching in her mind before the others, and she flushed and looked away from him.

"Sirhael told me once," he said quietly. "I had forgotten, until you spoke of it." And then, "Forgive me if I...I did not mean to cause you pain."

She looked back up at him, caught by the genuine distress in his voice. "You did not," she murmured, though it was not entirely true. But she thought now of what he had said before it, and then with wry resignation, bitterness worn away in familiarity, "I am no jewel, my lord. You need not humor me."

"I do not, Miriel." Low, immediate, and she felt the force of it as if he had touched her. But then he blinked, drew a sharp breath, and it was gone. He took a step forward, reached a hand down to her, and she let him pull her to her feet. "All that is gold does not glitter." He smiled. "That has been said about my name; perhaps it is true of yours as well." The smile became gentle, though laughter lingered at its edges. "And then there are the names others give us in life. Far more useful, perhaps, or at least more true."

And her eyes slid away from him as she thought of those names, and then with a soft pang, Gwador nîn. Where are you, brother?

But when she turned back to him, there was such pain in his face that without thinking she grasped his hand, reached out—and met a wall. She gasped softly, for she had never felt this from him before. Grief, and hurt, but she could not touch it, and his mind pushed her back. Carefully, shaking a little, she let him go, but she did not step away, stayed close and looked in his eyes.

"Brannon mell," she said softly.

There were tears, but he ignored them, turned away from her and walked back out into the sun, and she knew better than to follow.

They left at first light, long before the sun rose over the eastern hills behind them. She had cut a good supply of wood, more than had been there when they arrived, and stacked it in the corner by the hearth. Now she cast a last glance around the place before pulling the heavy door shut behind them, and laid a hand briefly on the doorframe.

Thank you for our lives.

Talking to stone now? Butterbur was right.

She smiled a little. Perhaps.

They had half a day's climbing to reach the pass, up in bare rock above the trees. There was still snow here, though not much, and it had frozen hard in the night, so that even Aragorn did not break through. But it was treacherous going down, the more so for him with his injured feet. When he saw how it was, he turned to her.

"If I fall, don't grab me. You won't stop me going over a cliff, and I'll pull us both down."

"I—" But there was nothing to say. He was right. It was what they had all been taught, what Anna had told her on the ice above Cirith Annûn. And so she nodded, though it went against every instinct that she knew.

But when at last it happened, late in the afternoon, she moved on instinct. They had gone slowly, she first and he following, digging their heels into the snow. It had softened a little in the sun, and they were both tired, and perhaps that made him careless.

She did not see what happened. Only heard it, the crunch of his boot but then sliding, a sharp cry, and the sound of him hitting the snow. They were crossing a steep slope, high above a melt-swollen stream. It was not a cliff; a fall here would likely not be immediately fatal. But that did not mean one who fell would survive, injured many days from shelter and help. Everything was odds, the risk of this greater than the risk of that, for there was no path without risk in the Wild, and survival was nearly as much luck as skill.

She did not think of this. She did not think of anything, and certainly not the promise she had made. Did not think, only whirled and grasped at him as he began to slide. She lost her own footing, fell but kicked her heels into the snow, held onto his arm and felt him kicking too, and then beneath the snow her feet found rock, and she strained against it, felt her feet slip a little but then catch again, tightened her grip on him—and then they were still. Gasping, staring up at the sky. She felt him move by her side, grunting, struggling, and with an effort she let him go and pushed herself up. Icy snow had scraped her cheek, and her shoulder throbbed from the jerk of his weight.

He still lay in the snow, breathing hard. She eased herself down to his side, reached an arm around his pack and helped him sit, and when he still said nothing, she drew him close to lean against her. He closed his eyes, rested his head on her aching shoulder, and slowly she felt his breathing calm. At last he shifted, sat up, gazed down at the icy stream and sharp rocks, still far below. He let out a breath and shook his head, and turned to her. A faint, wry smile. "I would have done the same." That was all, and with a grunting effort he pushed himself to his feet, settled his pack on his shoulders, and led the way down the valley.

The ground was bare by sunset, the air distinctly warmer, and she glanced once more back up at the pass before they turned a last shoulder of rock that hid it from view. They found that they had strayed a little from the path in the snow, but the valley was narrow, and they soon found it again, winding beneath gnarled trees barely the height of their heads. It was a bare, rocky place, and everywhere soft was sodden with melt. They found meager shelter in the hollow beneath a boulder, slept poorly on rocky ground and woke stiff and sore, but it was better than being wet.

They had spoken little the night before, but now she watched how he moved, and at last she said quietly, "Did you hurt your ankle?"

He stilled, glanced at her and then away, nodded. "Twisted it when I fell."

"Same one as in the spring?"

A dry, humorless chuckle. "Yes."

"I'll wrap it." Don't give a choice. But when he hesitated, she added more gently, "It will be easier for me than you."

He could not argue with that, and so he sat on a rock, let her pull off his boot and unwrap the cloth around his toes. The blisters were raw but healing, and she glanced up at him. "Other foot the same?"

He nodded. "A little better."

"Are you lying?"

That surprised a laugh out of him. "No." And then, with a sideways twist of his lips that was not quite a grin, "Not this time."

"Good." Nothing more, but she was smiling as she bent over his injured foot.

They started slowly, and when she gestured for him to lead, he grimaced but did not argue. But the path was smooth, though steep, and gradually his stride loosened and his breathing eased, and she felt a little knot of worry slip away. He's all right. We're going to make it. Even if it snows again, we'll make it.

It did not snow, though there was a miserable day of cold rain, and then days more of low cloud and wind without a hint of sun, but at last they came out of the hills, and stood on the brink of the valley of Rivendell.

Notes:

The bit about names is something of an inside joke; my husband and I frequently chuckle at Aragorn's many names, and the absurdity of some of them (Wingfoot, really?). But in truth names are important, as markers of identity and relationship. When he calls her maloseg, or she calls him brannon mell, it means something different than when they use their given names. And yes, for those who care, there is a small inconsistency in dates, as this takes place at least a couple of decades before Bilbo retires to Rivendell, and thus before he would have met Aragorn and written "All that is gold does not glitter." But the line is just so perfect here that I decided to use it anyway :)

Cirith Annûn (my invention) is a pass near the western end of the Misty Mountains, high and perilous and long disused. Miriel and Anna cross it in NATWWAL Ch. 23.