She traveled far more swiftly on the return journey, for the days were long and the weather fair, and she reveled to be in the Wild once more. To her mild surprise, she remembered the waymarks Aragorn had pointed out in the autumn, and so even where there was no path to be found she kept on the straight way, though when flashes of that journey came back to her, she shuddered at memory of cold and weariness and pain. But there were pleasant memories also, of companionship and even joy, of maloseg in the snow and Meren curled up by her side at night.

And the Chieftain's wry chuckle: 'You had better go faster than this when you return, Miriel.' Spoken in jest, perhaps, but true. A fierce grin. And so I will.

She woke at first light and was moving long before sunrise, with a long, loose stride that she could keep up all day. On she went through heat and rain, stopping only for lightning on the bare moors. But the weather was mostly warm and pleasant. She would have preferred cooler, truth be told, but at least she slept well, disturbed only by the racket of night insects. Slowly her pack lightened, and she began to be more sparing with food, and she thought of Girith and smiled. Her legs ached by the end of each day and were fiercely stiff in the morning, but she knew it was only the pain of hard use, not injury. That's what I get for being idle all winter. For a certain meaning of idle, at least. And she smiled grimly, but then she thought of Elrond's sons, and the grimness fell away into remembered joy.

She had set her mind on sixteen days, which was reckoned very good time indeed. She made it in fifteen. And, she thought with satisfaction, as she strode along the last stretch of the road, and heard the bell ring out in the clear evening, if need pressed, I could have gone faster. She slowed, caught her breath enough to sing, and even in the twilight she knew the voice that answered her. "From the mountains home we call you..."

Just inside the gate, slim and dark against the pale western sky, stood Darya. And like that, the joy was gone.

Her feet slowed and then stopped, ragged breathing loud in her ears; though there were other voices, she could not hear them. And she could not speak, could not ask the question that had floated just below the surface every day of the journey. Silently, Darya embraced her, held her for a moment and then stepped back to arm's length.

"She is as she was when you left."

That was all. No change. No better, no worse. She is what she is now. A soft wrench as she looked into her sister's face, shadowed in the twilight. But she did not ask the question aloud, for it would not bring an honest answer, not with others listening. But Darya's hand was in hers, and so she reached out, light and tentative, but she knew the way now. Darya expected it, and she smiled a little, pressed Miriel's hand and then let her find the answer. Weary. Worn down. Surviving. And then, Lonely. This last less clear, and she was not certain it was something Darya had meant to reveal. Then the truth was gone, and Darya's voice said only, "I am well, Mir."

Miriel shook herself, nodded, could find nothing to say.

And then another voice, and she knew he was smiling even before she turned to face him. "Maloseg."

She bowed, a bit shakily, for now that she had stopped, her body felt all the weariness of many days' hard travel. "My lord. I—I have completed my training." I have done what you asked of me, she had been going to say, but did not.

"I did not doubt it," he said quietly. She knew it for the truth, and her heart warmed within her. But still she swayed a little, set her feet wider apart for balance as the light faded. "You are weary," he said, his voice now gentle, even concerned. "Come and eat, and then you must rest. How was your journey?"

"Fifteen days."

To those who listened, it did not seem an answer to the question he had asked. But to a Ranger—"Fifteen days? Fifteen days! No wonder you're near to falling over. Come in and sit down, Miriel. Fifteen days!" He chuckled, put an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the Hall. But on the threshold he said quietly, "Come find me when you have eaten," and disappeared into the small side door.

The Hall was nearly empty, for it was long past the hour for the evening meal. But there was food left out for latecomers these long summer days, and she sat and ate with Darya. There was a stir when she was recognized, but for the most part they left her alone. Only for tonight. There will be time enough for questions tomorrow. But still she was grateful for it.

The winter had been hard, Darya told her, and there had been deaths from illness and from cold, as there were every year. "But less than there might have been," she said quietly, glancing at Miriel. "Food came to us from Rivendell. They said you had asked for it."

"I—did not..." She paused, swallowed. "Lord Elrond would have done it anyway."

Darya smiled. "Perhaps."

After rest and food, her head was clearer, though still her legs ached. She stood, stretched, did not protest when Darya took her empty plate back to the kitchen. "I'll take your pack," Darya said when she returned. And then, with a small smile, "And I'll have tea waiting for you."

Miriel grinned her thanks, but then, in sudden recollection, "Wait a moment." She dug into her pack and pulled out the leather case. "For the Chieftain."

Darya shook her head. "Wouldn't do to forget that."

"No." Miriel grinned. "Wish me luck?"

"Come off it. Just answer his questions, and then come to bed."

Miriel nodded, and kept the smile on her face until Darya had gone, but they both knew questions were not the whole of it.

She knew where the Chieftain's rooms were; it had been a game among the children when she was young, to sneak into the gloomy corridor, past sharp-eyed Raeneth, and try to pick the locks into the empty rooms. She had never managed it, but Meren had. 'It's like he left only yesterday,' he told her once. 'Everything is there, all dusted and clean. Waiting.' He shook himself. 'It's creepy.'

She smiled a little at the memory, and knocked on the door.

It opened almost at once, his tall form dark against the candlelight. His face was in shadow, but there was a smile in his voice.

"It wasn't a challenge, you know."

"My lord?"

"I was only complaining. It cheers me up in the cold. And in any case," he gestured her to a chair, and a broad grin spread across his face, "I've made it in a fortnight. If I intended a challenge, that is what I would have said."

She looked at him steadily, but a smile twitched at the corners of her lips. "Noted, my lord."

"How are you feeling?"

She knew it was not a pleasantry, and so she answered honestly. "Tired. My legs hurt. And hungry. Well, not right now, but..."

"Your body knows it, though your stomach is full."

She nodded. "But I could have gone for several days yet."

He nodded sharply, no trace of a smile now. "Good." And then, "Why did you do it?"

She shrugged. "To see if I could. A test, I suppose. For myself."

He looked at her for a long moment, and then said quietly, "And so when you are put to the test, by the Wild or by an enemy, you will know what your body can bear."

"I—I hadn't thought of it like that."

"No. You just did it, because you could." And now he did smile. "Maloseg."

She flushed, and hoped he could not see it in the candlelight.

"Now," he said, with a gentleness that surprised her, "give me your hand."

She obeyed. At once she felt him with her, searching her, felt him find the aches of her weary body, and the memory of far worse pain. His hand tightened on hers, and she heard his breath become strained. But he did not flinch, and when at last he was only himself again and his eyes met hers, the understanding and pity and pride in them nearly made her weep.

"I remember," he said softly. "It was many years ago, but I remember."

She nodded, and for a time there were no more words.

At last he straightened, and smiled a little. "Now, this is a test. I will not always tell you, of course—in fact, I think most often I will not—but this time you are lucky. So. What is wrong with me?"

"My lord?"

"I am hurt. Not badly, of course, but I was foolish the other day, and injured myself. Find it."

She looked at him for a long moment, then said quietly, "As you wish, my lord." His hand was still in hers, and so she reached out, closed her eyes to shut out all else. And then she was with him, and the joy of it almost made her forget her task. But in truth little effort was needed, for his body showed her what she wished to find.

"Right ankle," she said without opening her eyes. "Not badly damaged now, but it's weak." She raised her head, looked at him, found his eyes fixed on her with a keenness that took her breath. "You—you should wrap it," she said hesitantly. "Another fall could be much worse." Her voice trailed off as she realized what she was doing, realized that she was giving advice to the Chieftain, giving instruction to the Chieftain.

He said nothing, but released her hand, bent down and with a grunting effort pulled off his boot. Then he turned to her, and his smile was almost a grin. A wide strip of cloth was wrapped tightly around ankle and foot. "I can be responsible, when I choose to be." Then he frowned. "Though I probably ought to wash my socks..." But he glanced at her sidelong, and there was laughter in his eyes.

"Yes. Absolutely. Healer's orders."

He laughed aloud. "As you wish, maloseg." And then, more soberly, "That was well done. Not difficult, but well done. And if I asked it of you," and now all mirth was gone, "you could take it from me, could you not? And then I would be whole, and you in pain."

"Yes, my lord," she said quietly, "I could."

"I will never ask it without need. But there may come a time when I must ask." A brief, dry laugh. "Or more likely, you must know, for I will not be able to ask."

"I will know." The words came without thought, and she wondered at them, for she knew they were true. "Why?" she asked softly, the weight of the charge he had laid on her pushing back reluctance. "Why is it so easy with you?"

Be still. If you would not have her know now, be still. And he made his face show nothing. I did not expect her to ask so soon. Yet he did not pretend to misunderstand. I owe her that at least. "It is because we are kin, I think. You find it easy with your sister, do you not?"

She nodded.

"It is like that, in a way. We are not blood kin, but there is...I do not know what, but it makes it easier for us than for others."

That is a lie. You know exactly what it is.

And would anything be served by the truth? There will come a time for it, perhaps. But that time is not now.

A justified lie is still a lie.

Very well. Then I lie.

"My lord?" Her voice was soft, questioning, and there was concern in it. "Forgive me if I—"

A dry, gentle laugh cut her off. "There is nothing to forgive, Miriel. Rather the opposite. But we will leave that." He pulled his boot back on, wincing a little, and in the pain and the momentary shelter he composed himself, and when he straightened and met her eyes, he was once again the Chieftain. "You will wish to rest, for a few days at least." A wry half-smile. "Or rather, you will do it, whether you wish to or not. But then we must think of your further training, You have knowledge now, and a certain degree of skill. That Girith has given you." And the look in his eyes told her that he knew exactly how it had been given. "It is in your mind, but it must sink into your heart and your bones. Only thus will it become part of you. And for that you must practice." He frowned. "There will be chance enough in the village, especially in summer. But I think you would rather not stay here?"

"No, I would not."

He nodded, smiled a little. "There is another place, more to the liking of a Ranger, where you will find substantial need of a healer's skills. Have you spent a summer on the High Pass?"

"No, my lord."

"Good. Then that is where you will go. Accidents and injuries are common in the high country. Belegon will be glad to have you." A pause, and then he seemed to shake himself, and came back to her with a smile that was only a little forced. "So. Three days?"

"As you wish, my lord."

"It was a question, Miriel, not an order. Will three days be enough rest? You may have more. Indeed," and now the smile was gone, "you must ask for more if you need it. I trust my Rangers to know their limits. If you let me push you beyond them and you say nothing, it is recklessness, not duty."

She straightened, and met his eyes steadily. "Three days is enough, my lord."

He held her gaze, as if weighing the truth of her words, and then his face softened. "Very well. I will not make you stay longer." And she thought he knew, though of course he would never say it, why she did not want to linger in the village.

Mirloth was sitting by the empty hearth, rocking slowly. Slowly she stopped, slowly turned, and Miriel heard her own footfalls loud on the floor. In the half-light of the summer evening, her mother's face was pale.

"Miriel." Soft, hoarse, a voice unused to speaking.

Her mouth was dry, and she found she could say nothing. She set down her pack, hung her sword belt by the door and set her bowstave beside it, careful, deliberate movements to calm herself. Mirloth's eyes followed her as she crossed the room, knelt by the chair and took her mother's hand. Followed, but were blank, skin dry and soft. And then Darya's voice behind her.

"Be careful, Mir."

For your own mother is now a danger.

No. And she heard it in Girith's voice. Your love for her is a danger.

Still she reached out, had to see it, feel it, know it for herself. But there was little to feel. Her mother's mind was closed, blank, and when she pushed a little it gave like soft wool, and she felt herself smothering. With a gasp she drew back, and was alone again in ringing emptiness.

A hand on her back, but Darya said nothing, only waited, until at last Miriel pushed herself up. Her legs ached fiercely, and her head reeled. But Darya's arm was steady around her, and when at last her body would obey, she stepped away from them both. Mirloth's eyes were closed, and still she rocked slowly, back and forth, the chair creaking a little with each movement. Miriel watched her, in pity and grief and choking horror, until at last Darya again broke the silence. "Come to sleep, Mir."

Miriel turned to her, numb, stricken. But she could not leave, not yet. Slowly, as if against a strong wind, she stepped back to her mother's chair and embraced her, felt the frail body passive in her arms. Mirloth said nothing, and did not move, and when at last Miriel released her, the chair once again took up its rhythmic creaking. Dry-eyed, Miriel turned away and followed Darya into the bedroom.

"How do you stand it?"

Darya looked at her for a long moment. At last, very softly, "Because I must." And to Miriel's surprise, her eyes were gentle. "You of all people should know that."

Miriel pulled in a long breath, let it out slowly, nodded. "Do you need to...do anything for her?"

"Not tonight. She can get herself to bed."

Miriel nodded, but could find nothing to say.

"You need to sleep," said Darya gently.

"I'm filthy."

"Wash in the morning."

Ghost of a smile. "Are you my sister?"

"Yes. And I know when little Mimi needs her sleep."

A real smile now, wry and tired. "I suppose you do."

And they lay down together, and Darya took her hand, and then they were together, and in her sister's arms she slept.

At the end of three days, she was ready to leave. She had rested, eaten, repaired her gear, sparred enough in the yard to convince both herself and the other Rangers that she had not lost her skill nor her nerve among the Elves. But there were not many Rangers in the village in high summer, and no close friends, and though it was the last thing she would have expected, she found herself rather lonely.

This is home. I belong here. I should be happy.

What is home without them?

For Mirloth was gone. Not in body, but all that made her herself seemed to have drifted away. In the beginning, Darya told her, there were times when she seemed to come back, to remember, at least a little, who she had been. She would take up her knitting, perhaps, and tell Darya she would make a hat for Andreth's new baby, or ask when Miriel was likely to return. But she never finished the baby clothes, and thinking about Miriel seemed to draw her inevitably to Sirhael. And then she would stop talking, and her eyes again became blank, and for weeks she said nothing at all. The last of these lucid spells had been in early spring, Darya said. She had hoped that the return of green and warmth and life would bring life back to Mirloth as well, but it had been a faint hope, and a false one.

"And if even you cannot bring her back..."

"Me?"

They stood by the Stone in the soft evening; Miriel was to leave the next day, and she had asked Darya to do this last thing with her. It had not been easy, for she was not used to asking favors of her sister. "But I—I must see him," she stammered at last. "And I don't want to do it alone."

"Of course," Darya said softly, and together they had gone.

"How would I bring her back, if even the Chieftain cannot?"

"Not as a healer, no. But I thought...I hoped..." Darya sighed, and for a time she was silent. At last she said quietly, "She loved you so much, and she always feared for you. I hoped perhaps the joy of seeing you again would break through...whatever is holding her. But I think now there is nothing to break through. There is nothing left." She brushed her fingers over the Stone, and when she turned her face back to Miriel, there were tears on her cheeks. "It is just us now, little sister." Her voice broke, and for the first time Miriel could remember since they were children, Darya wept.

She was dry-eyed the next morning, embraced Miriel briefly, fiercely, and then let her go. "I have my work," she said, as they walked toward the gate in the cool morning twilight. "And I have Mother." A soft, mirthless laugh. "Such as she is."

And do you have anything else? Anyone else?

She had almost asked, but it never seemed the right time, and now the time was gone. "Dar," she said, almost pleadingly, but the words would not come, and so she said only, "Take care of yourself."

Darya smiled a little, strained but real. "I'll try." And then, "You're the one going into the Wild, and you're telling me to take care." She shook her head. "Haven't changed a bit, have you?"

Miriel forced a grin, though she knew it did not reach her eyes. "No, not really."

And both thought of how much had changed, and they were silent.

Aragorn was waiting for her at the gate.

"My lord." She bowed, and then straightened to meet his eyes.

"Maloseg." A smile twitched at the corners of his lips. But then it was gone, and he handed her a leather message case. "Go to Bree, and leave this at the Pony. And if Falaran is at Hoarwell Bridge," he handed her another, "give him this." His voice softened a little. "You may find...friends there as well, and at the pass." She raised her eyebrows in question, but he only smiled and shook his head. Then he stepped close, put his hands on her shoulders. "Valar guard and guide you, Ranger."

Miriel thought of what he had said the night before he left her in Rivendell. 'I fear for all my Rangers.' And she said softly, looking into his eyes, "Valar guard and guide."

And the gate was thrust open, and she walked out into the dawn.

Note: "From the mountains home we call you..." This is a line from Home the Hunters, the song Rangers sing as they approach the village gate returning from patrol (see NATWWAL Ch. 10 for the full lyrics, and my YouTube channel for the melody, if you're interested).

And this is the halfway point(ish) of the story, so I'd love to know what y'all think! It doesn't have to be long or deep; any sort of (sincere, respectful) feedback makes my day :)