Spring came at last in truth, and all the valley ran with water and rang with the calling of birds. The river became a torrent, so fierce at times that she feared it would spring its banks and flood the valley floor, and wash away the bridge. But the Elves had built it well, and though the water nearly reached it, still it held, and the only damage was to her sleep, invaded by dreams of rushing water and crashing waves. The mountain paths turned to mud, but gladly she trod them, in the company of Elrond's sons and sometimes others, or alone with Girith, as they sought in sheltered hollows for the first new growth of spring. At last the snow was gone, and grass grew in the meadows. Early flowers bloomed around the house and up the valley, columbine and lupine and iris, colors almost unbelievably bright after the white and gray and brown and black of winter. They seemed brighter to her than at home, and she rubbed her eyes and could not be sure, and thought perhaps it was but another wonder of the valley. Or perhaps it was only her own joy, after a winter of sorrow and pain.

And at last one morning when she came to Girith as she always did, he looked at her and smiled, and said, "Dunadaneth, our time is nearly at an end."

She had wondered, though she had not asked. But he seemed to know, and answered without asking. "There is no trial, no final test. When I judge that you are ready, you are ready, and you may leave and go home to your people. Though you may always return, if you feel in need of further instruction. That freedom we give to those we have trained in healing, and to no others. Rangers may find us, if they come out of the Wild in desperate need. But at all other times and to all other folk we are hidden, and though they may walk the paths you walked, they will not find the valley." He paused, looked at her for a long moment, laid a hand on her shoulder. "And if a time comes when you find your burden too heavy to bear," he said softly, "then also you may come to us, and rest here for as long as your heart and body have need."

"Thank you," she murmured. "You do me great honor." And her heart was full, and she found she could say no more.

He smiled. "It is an honor to give, as it is to receive, dunadaneth."

They were quiet for a time, and the morning birds were loud in the trees, for the windows were open. She sensed that there were things in his mind that he would say given time, and so she waited, and at last he said softly, "I did not train healers, when I had Laerwen. It is not something one can do with a heart full of joy. When I lost her..." Silence for a time, and then, slowly, "It brought me so low I could do nothing, feel nothing but grief. I thought perhaps my life here was gone, and it was my time to go over the sea; so our people do when the cares of this world become too much to bear. Even my name was changed, for I was not who I was before. But I found I could not leave. I love this valley, and the people of this house, not her alone. That was near the time when the child Estel came to us, and watching him laugh and grow and learn, I found myself not so empty. And so I began to train his people, the Dunedain who came here with the Gift. Mirloth was one of my first." He smiled a little. "Even then, young as she was, beyond childhood but not yet a woman, she spoke of Sirhael, that handsome young Ranger she had set her heart on."

"Really?

"She was young, too young, her parents thought, or so she told me. But she said she would do it, and such was the strength of her will that I was not surprised when I heard years later that she had married him. Her mother had died by then, and her father was a Ranger himself, so he could hardly forbid his daughter to marry one. Or so I was told. Gossip, perhaps, but it sounded true."

Miriel smiled, though there was sadness in it. "I think it was. Mother never spoke much of her childhood, but Father sometimes joked that he had stolen her away. He said her mother would not have stood for it had she been alive." A pause, and then, more softly, "Grandfather died of orc-wounds when I was very young. He made it back to the village, alive but near death, and it was Mother, Darya told me once, who gave him mercy. I remember her crying." Another pause. "I had never heard her cry like that. She must have been in pain."

"She did what it was her duty to do. As do you." He met her eyes, laid his hand on hers, did not touch her with his mind but only caressed her fingers, and she found herself blinking away tears. "There is pain in duty. You know this, and you will know it more the more you live. But there is joy also, and peace of the heart that can be found nowhere else." Then he smiled. "But there is joy also in your own people, in your family, and in the brotherhood of Rangers. It is time now for you to return to them. Tomorrow is Midsummer's Eve, and there will be a great feast and dancing and song, as there is among your people. You should stay for that, for Midsummer's Eve in Rivendell is not a thing to miss. But the day after you must depart, and go on your way home."

It rained that night, but the next day dawned bright and clear, bluebird sky and breeze fresh as if it had never been breathed before. The house seemed alive, and the valley as well, Elves in bright colors and shining hair singing as they cut flowers, laughing as they harvested from the gardens, walking hand in hand under the sun. Girith did not join in the merriment, but still he smiled, and his step was light as he led her up onto the hillside to gather flowers, to garnish the tables and the dishes both. They found far more than they needed, springing through the mud and young grass in rebuke to the winter that was gone.

When their baskets were full, he told her to turn her back. She frowned a little, but she did not question him, and turned to look up the high valley to the mountains beyond, still bright with snow in the sun. She felt him behind her, but he had not told her to turn and so she did not, nor did she flinch when his hands touched her hair. They left something there, and then he came around to face her, and he smiled, broad and warm. "Come," he said softly, and took her hand and led her to a pool in the meadow. It would be grass-grown in a month's time, she knew, but now it was still and clear, and cast back in flawless reflection the clear blue sky, and the garland of white flowers shining against her hair. He stood beside her, and his reflected hand moved, and she felt it slip into hers, cool and smooth and gentle. She felt him in her, no words, only deep joy, such as she had never felt from him before. But he said only, very softly, "Dunadaneth." And then she turned away from the pool, turned to him, took his other hand in hers and closed her eyes, and willed him to feel what sounded flat and colorless when put into words.

Thank you. For your patience, for your trust, for your willingness to hurt yourself to teach me. On behalf of my people I say this, my brothers and sisters, their wives and husbands, mothers and fathers and children who will see their Rangers return to them, and not a cold, lonely star, because you taught me. But she did not know how to say this, and so she murmured only, "Galu edraith a cuil."

"Galu edraith a cuil, dunadaneth." And then, with a strange, impulsive movement he embraced her, and to her wonder she felt him shaking, and when at last he let her go, his eyes were very bright. But he said nothing more, only turned and led the way swiftly down the hill.

The feast was outdoors under the summer stars in the great meadow below the house, along the bank of the river. Yet when she tried afterward to recall it, the memory was strange. She did not remember what she ate or who she spoke with, though she supposed she must have sat with Girith. She remembered no faces, no words, indeed very few clear images at all. But the memory of music, of light and color and joy so deep she nearly wept, remained fresh and clear until the day she died.

She remembered also the end of the evening. A great fire blazed as the darkness deepened, and she was glad of it, for this near the mountains even midsummer night was cool. Elves thronged around the fire, but fewer than there had been, and as the night chill touched her, it seemed that she woke from a dream. She remembered midsummer nights in the village, not only the fire and feast but also the pairing off afterward, and the many jests about midsummer babies born at the raw end of winter. Do they do that here? She looked around for Girith, though she was not sure how she would ask the question. But as if he had heard her, he was there, and beckoned her away from the fire.

"The custom of midsummer night is the same here as in your village, or so I understand. If you do not wish...to be asked, you had best leave soon."

She looked at him for a moment in surprise that he had read her thought, and he seemed taken aback. "I—did not mean...If you wish to stay, of course..." And there was a strange expression in his eyes.

But she laughed softly, in relief and to cover her embarrassment. "No, I will go. I thank you for the warning."

He smiled, and the strangeness was gone, and he took her hand. "Come then. This night is done for me also." And he led her back to the house. Yet in the shadows just beyond the light that spilled out from the door he stopped, and turned to her. For a long moment he was still, and he held her eyes and she did not breathe, as if she were waiting. But then he smiled a little, reached out and brushed cool fingers over her cheek. "You must rest," he said softly. "You have a long journey in the morning." He let go her hand, bowed slightly, formally, and then he turned and went into the house without looking back.

She frowned a little, but then shook her head, and smiled ruefully as she made her way back along the moonlit passages to her room.

She rose early with the midsummer sun. Her gear was already packed; all that remained was the food. Despite the early hour, Girith was waiting for her in the hall. He smiled, and gestured to a small pile of wrapped packages on the table beside him. "This should get you most of the way home. And now you know many more plants." His smile widened to a grin, and she smiled back, incredulous. Is he actually making a joke?

"Are you so happy to see me leave, then?"

"No." The smile was gone, and his voice was very soft. "I am not. But you must go."

She nodded, but her throat was suddenly tight and she could think of nothing to say.

"And perhaps you will return someday."

"I—yes, perhaps I will."

"You will always be welcome here, dunadaneth," he said softly. "If a time comes when you need rest, come to me."

"I—thank you." She flushed at the inadequacy of words, touched his hand and let him feel all that she could not say. "I will return, if the Wild allows."

He smiled, but there was sadness in it, and she knew he thought of Laerwen. But there was nothing to be said, and so she caressed his hand and then let him go.

Elladan and Elrohir appeared as she was finishing her breakfast. She thought they looked tired, wondered a little at it, and then realized with a self-conscious flush, They must not have slept much last night.

Elrohir yawned, rather more broadly than he had to, she thought, and glanced deliberately from her to Girith and back again, then shook his head. "You are much too wide awake this morning. Both of you." An arch smile. "Opportunities lost will not come again."

She flushed, and dared not look at Girith. But to her surprise, for these were the sons of his lord, she heard his voice behind her, quiet but pitched for all to hear. "Opportunities of a certain kind, yes. But not all."

And then she knew for certain, realized she had known last night without admitting it, and sudden warmth flooded through her. She lifted her head, and looked straight at Elrohir, and though she did not smile, there was laughter in her eyes.

Elladan did laugh, broad and warm and ringing so that the few other early risers in the hall turned to look at them. But his voice was quiet and sincere. "Take care of yourself, Miriel. We will see you again, I have no doubt of it."

Elrohir yawned again, nudged Elladan rather harder than was strictly necessary. "We did actually come with a purpose, and then I am going back to sleep. Our father would speak with you before you go. He is in the garden; do you know the way?"

She nodded.

"Fare you well, dunadaneth." He grinned. "And have an eye out for that wayward brother of ours."

Lost puppy. She grinned and nodded, and felt a surge of anticipation, a powerful desire to be out in the Wild on this bright morning, with her feet turned toward home.

Girith walked with her out of the hall, but in the passageway he stopped. "I will leave you now." And then, very softly, "Valar guard and guide you, Ranger."

She did not expect it from him. But the answering words came without thought, and then she smiled a little in wonder. How many of us has he known? Of course he knows the words.

He touched her hand, and then he turned and was gone, soft shoes silent on the stone.

She found Elrond trimming rose bushes. "Ah, Miriel. I wondered if my sons would stay awake long enough to find you." He smiled, and she found herself smiling in return, though still her heart beat fast in his presence. He handed her a thin leather case, such as the Dunedain used to protect written messages, though theirs were plain, or marked only with a star, while Elrond's was delicately embossed with flowers and leaves. "Give this to Aragorn," he said quietly. "And tell him he chose well."

She waited for more, but he said nothing, and so at last she nodded, and hoped the deep bow hid her flush. "As you wish, my lord."

It seemed that she was dismissed, but before she could turn to go, he stepped close and laid a hand on her cheek. She pulled in a soft breath but did not flinch, though the touch of his mind was like spring water, clear and cold. And then into the water came light, not the light of a midsummer morning but brighter, white and shining, and she felt surprise in him. There were words, a voice she felt she knew, or ought to know, but she could not make it out. And then the light was gone, and there was only the Lord of Rivendell, standing in the midsummer dawn with wonder on his face. He held her eyes for a long moment, smiled slightly and seemed to shake himself. "So may it be," he said softly, and she knew the words were not meant for her. And then, "Go, child. Your people are waiting for you."