She took the track south, past Ladrengil and through the hills, and met the Greenway below Fornost. The ancient grassgrown road was empty, and she came without incident to the tidy crossroads village of halflings and men in the middle of a hot afternoon, thirsty and sweating. And in foul mood, for she had broken her best knife that morning. It was a foolish mistake, careless, sweat-slick hand sliding on the hilt. The blade slipped and cracked on a stone, and she felt almost as though she had injured a living thing that had been her companion. Perhaps the smith could repair it…She grimaced, remembering a hard-faced man who had never liked Anna. Take luck where I find it; it's a wonder I didn't cut myself.

The Breelander at West Gate nodded and bade her a cautious good afternoon; though she had been through the village many times, it was clear she was still regarded as an oddity. But remembering stories the men had told her of their welcome, or lack of one: It could be worse.

The smithy was just inside the gate, away from other buildings to lessen the risk of fire. But the yard was quiet and empty in the hot afternoon, and she frowned, looking around for the smith. Or his apprentice. A shy, gawky boy – What was his name? She shook her head, felt it hovering just beyond grasp. And then a door opened, a face in the sunlight vaguely familiar: Jona.

But the apprentice smith who crossed the yard to stand before her was a man, broad shouldered and strong, bare forearms already marked with the scars of his trade. He frowned, as if trying to place her, and she saw the moment when his memory too fell into place.

"You came here with the other." Skeptical, almost accusing, "Yellow-haired one, years ago." But then his face softened, though he did not smile. "I kept that coin."

She chuckled. "Good." And then, "Where's the master?" She held out the broken knife. "Not likely this can be repaired, but I'd like him to tell me so." A small, wry smile. "I've had this knife a long time."

He frowned. "Master's gone to Archet, won't be back till tomorrow. But I can take a look, if you like." He straightened, lifted his chin. "My fine-craft's better than his, though he'll never say it."

She raised her eyebrows, but handed him the knife.

He took the pieces from her, turned them over and back in his palm and shook his head. "Don't know." He met her eyes. "Not likely, if I'm honest. But I'll try it."

"That is all I can ask." And then, gesturing to a raw pink scar that ran half the length of his forearm, "That one looks ugly."

He flushed, and a shame-faced grimace twitched his lips. "My fault. Let a bar cool too quickly, cracked when I hit it." He shrugged. "Could have been worse."

She nodded, thought of her own recent mishap, and the disaster it could have been. "Don't I know it. Here's to luck, eh?"

"That's so."

She gestured to the knife. "When can you have it done?"

"By evening, most likely." He glanced round at the empty yard. "Quiet day."

She nodded, then chuckled. "I wouldn't want to stand at a forge in this heat."

He flashed her a brief, tentative grin. "Neither do I." Then he shook his head, and turned to his work.

She stood for a moment inside the door of the inn, let her eyes accustom to the dimness, found three dwarves at a table in the corner and a pair of halflings at the bar. And sitting alone, back to the wall in a corner by the empty hearth—What is he doing here?

He was as she had seen him last, ragged and worn, star nowhere in sight. She said nothing, caught his eye but made no gesture of greeting. But he nodded, motioned her over, and she drew up a stool beside him. "They know me well enough in Bree," Halbarad said, and shrugged. "Star or no." Then he looked her deliberately up and down. "Back from Rivendell?"

She swallowed, forced her voice steady. "I completed the training."

He met her eyes, held them for a long moment then nodded. "Good. We need you." He let out a breath. "We lose too many. Too fucking many." And then, "Did you hear about Faron?"

She swallowed, blinked back the sudden stinging in her eyes. "No."

He glanced at her, looked away. "They were at Sarn Ford, him and Mahar. Wagon from the south, been seeing more of those than normal this year. Mahar didn't like the look of the driver, told him to turn back. But there were three others under the wagon cover." He let out a harsh breath, shook his head. "Mahar stumbled on a stone; Faron took the blow that would have killed him."

'While I live, you will never be alone.' She remembered him, silent and haunted, fiercely loyal to Mahar. That was what saved him. And that was what killed him. She swallowed hard, thought of Meren. And then she met Halbarad's eyes, dark and hard, remembered that he too had sworn that oath.

"Mahar would have done the same for him," he said. "As would you for your brother." Then abruptly his hand gripped the table, and he drew a harsh breath, eyes wide and far away. Only a moment and it was gone, and he went slack. "And I for mine."

Pain in those words, but she knew they were not meant for her, knew he would reject any gesture of comfort, and so she said nothing.

At last he raised his eyes to hers. "I'm sorry about your father."

She was for a moment speechless. He was perhaps the last man in the Company from whom she would ever expect sympathy. But he shook his head, and his face softened a little. "The stories he could tell…"

A small, surprised laugh slipped out before she could stop it. "That's half of why I'm here, his stories." And then, daring a little, pushing the opening though reason warned her away, "But I don't remember any about you."

"No?" He shrugged, and his lips twitched. "There were plenty. I was…not the most well-behaved of trainees."

She raised her eyebrows but said nothing, more than a little astonished. Why is he telling me this?

He shook his head, glanced at her and then away. "I was young, and careless. Unsafe. And one day he caught me at it. Playing, not sparring, with an unwrapped, unblunted blade." A rueful grimace. "Anna would have none of it, called me a fool and walked away. But Tûradan didn't. Nearly as reckless as I was. We hadn't gotten far before Sirhael came up behind us. He roared at us to stop, made us lay down our weapons and step back. And then he slapped us each across the face. 'If you act like a child,' he said, 'I will treat you like a child. And you will never wear the star.' I'll never forget that voice. Saved my life, maybe. After that I was more careful." He shook his head. "Tûradan was not. He died two years later, fell off a cliff he should not have tried climbing." He met her eyes again. "Your father was a great Ranger. You should be honored to bear his star."

"I am," she said softly, and touched her fingertips to the cool, smooth metal.

Food came, and he ate hungrily. Ravenously even, and she noted the weary leanness of his face, the way his clothes hung loose on his shoulders. He's had a rough go of it, wherever he's been. She knew he could read the question in her eyes, would answer it if he could. Or if he chooses to. A captain makes his own choices.

But at last, when the plates were nearly empty, he said in a low voice, though they were alone in their corner: "Dunland." Flat, as if in answer to a question, the one she had not dared to ask. "On foot, in winter." A wry grimace. "Not a thing to do, if you can avoid it."

But you could not, so you went. And nearly starved, by the look of it.

And then sudden memory, kneeling by bodies in a birchwood, strange coins in her hands. 'Dunland? What brought them here?'

'I wish I knew.'

So you sent Halbarad to find out. Sudden, intense curiosity, and she almost asked him, caught her tongue only just in time.

You'll find out when the Chieftain needs you to know, and not before.

Perhaps he would have said more, perhaps not. But voices then, sudden and sharp, shouts from the inn yard, the frantic neighing from a horse. And then a scream, and Miriel was on her feet and across the room before her mind had caught up.

She stopped in the door, eyes narrowed against the bright afternoon. A horse, eyes rolling wildly, held by three men while another crouched over a body sprawled on the dirt. A small body. A child's body. And then it was all terribly clear.

Yet she hesitated, in fear at this new thing.

They are not my people.

The oath makes no distinction.

I do not know…

You know enough. And she crossed the yard, and knelt by the child.

A young man was there, the innkeeper's son, garrulous to the point of irritation, and she had learned to steer clear of him. But shock, it seemed, had driven the words from him. "The horse," he managed. "Shouldn't have tried—I told him—" He was sweating, breathing hard, and his hands and voice were shaking.

"Barliman," she said carefully, "go inside." Forcing her own voice not to shake, "I'll need a bed. Hot water and clean cloths, needle and thread. Is there a healer in the village?"

He nodded. "Halfling woman…"

"Send for her."

"I—"

"Go."

Barliman pushed himself shakily to his feet, and turned away.

Uneven steps behind her, and then Halbarad knelt by her side. "What do you need?"

Instinctive restraint, the strangeness of commanding a captain. But this is my fight, not his. She thought of sending him after Barliman, to make sure the young man did not forget what she had asked in his haste and fear. But she felt her own uncertainty then, the need not to be alone in this new thing.

"Stay. Please. I—I must…"

He looked in her eyes, "You know what to do. Do it."

She nodded, drew a breath, and took the boy's hand in hers.

It was easier than she had feared, a child's will perhaps less resistant than a man's. 'Seek first for what you know.' Girith's voice, guiding, reminding. Blood in his hair, left arm bent beneath him. The arm was a clean break; this I know how to handle. The damage to his head was also easy to find, but here she was less certain, for it was something Girith had told her but not shown her. Pain, and confusion, and it sent her mind reeling, sickness rising abruptly in her throat. She forced herself to breathe, slow and careful. But there was no bleeding inside. He must have thrown his arm up to protect his head; better one broken than the other. And then, Lucky. That could have killed him.

She felt the rest of his body, found to her relief nothing more than bruises. At last the flicker of his mind, and he groaned and stirred. Rest, she thought. Sleep now. And his body again went limp.

Slowly, carefully, she pulled back within herself, heard again the sounds of the outside world, and her own breath, harsh in her throat. She felt weak, shaky, longed to lean back against the body she felt close behind her, Halbarad, she knew, though he said nothing. No. She breathed slowly, opened her eyes and winced at the light, waited for them to focus. The boy first, lying before her on the cobbles, pale and still, but breathing steadily. Then feet, legs, faces. A crowd had gathered. It came to her that she had known it, felt it with her body though her mind knew it not. Whispers, but she could make nothing of them. And then a woman's voice, thick with tears: "Is he—will he—?"

"He'll live." Carefully she nodded, looked around the ring of faces until she found the woman, red-eyed and tear-streaked, apron crumpled in white-knuckled hands. "He must rest. But he'll be fine." And then, "Is there a bed?"

The innkeeper appeared beside her, knelt and slipped his hands under the boy's body. "Careful of his arm." The man nodded, lifted the boy with barely a grunt. He weighs less than a keg of beer, that's certain. And she felt a wry smile, though it did not come to her lips.

Slowly, cautiously, she pushed herself to her feet. She felt Halbarad still close behind her, but he did not speak, only followed her, as she followed old Butterbur back in through the door.

He brought the boy to a bedroom on the ground floor, large and warm and comfortable, just off the kitchen. His own, she thought, and thought the better of him for it.

"Who is he?" she asked, when Butterbur had laid the boy on the blankets, for he looked somehow familiar.

"The stable boy. Will Rushlight's son, him with the farm out Archet way. Not been here but two weeks, told him not to go near that big bastard…"

The Rushlights were Anna's friends; Miriel remembered their solid stone farmhouse, and the shy, dark-haired boy who had been so curious about her sword. Again she almost smiled. So I repay your hospitality.

Noise at the door, puffing and heavy feet, and young Barliman came in with a bowl of steaming water in one hand and rags in the other. The halfling healer slipped in around him, breathless as if she had been running, a sheen of sweat on her face. But her eyes were clear and steady as she looked Miriel up and down. "Ye know your work, I expect."

Miriel drew a breath, nodded. "I do."

"Good." Fierce protectiveness in that voice, and Miriel felt a sudden warm flush of recognition. These are your people, your charge, as surely as the Dunedain are mine.

It was in truth easier with two, another pair of hands to hold the boy's arm still as she set the bone, small clever fingers to stitch the cut on his scalp. And that steady voice, surprisingly deep for a halfling's, and utterly calm. There were fine wrinkles on the woman's flushed cheeks, threads of gray in her dark, curly hair. She's been doing this since before I was born. It was a comforting thought.

But then another image, slipping into her mind unbidden, another old woman, rocking, rocking…No. Not now, please not now. And she pushed her mother away, and bent her mind on the task before her.

All the while Halbarad stood silent in the corner of the room. But she could feel him watching her, and to her surprise she felt it not a burden but a comfort.

At last it was done, broken arm set, ends of bone Gift-commanded to begin knitting back together, bloody scalp cleaned and stitched, and the bruising she felt inside it eased a little. Her own left arm was weak and aching, and fierce pain throbbed behind her forehead. She let out a breath, steadied herself with a hand on the bedpost, turned to the halfling woman. "He will be well. Thank you, mistress."

The woman smiled, shook her head. "It's ye we owe the thanks. But now ye must rest." She turned, and gestured to Halbarad. "Get her to a bed, and don't leave her til she's there."

And Miriel, through pain and weakness, still managed vague astonishment at the woman's unhesitating tone of command. She stood no higher than his hip; he could have lifted her with no more effort than a sack of potatoes. But he dipped his head in acknowledgment, stepped forward and laid a hand on Miriel's shoulder. "Come," he said quietly.

She let him guide her back to the common room, through a door and down a shadowed passage, and she was glad for the steadying arm. A small room, lit with sunset glow from the westward-facing window. She staggered to the bed and sat down, breathed slowly as her head reeled. Creak of knees, and she felt him tug off her boots, knew she ought to protest but did not, left arm nearly useless. Painful truth: I could not do it myself.

The bed was soft beneath her, and her body longed for rest. Not yet. I should—

"You should eat." Halbarad rose, cut a slice of bread from a loaf on a small table in a shadowed corner that she had not seen. He watched her while she ate, then handed her a glass of water.

"More?" he asked, when she had finished.

"No." Carefully, "Thank you, captain." And then, curiosity for a moment overcoming weariness, "How did you know?"

"That you needed food?" He let out a breath. "I have done it enough times for the Chieftain." A strange note in his voice, but she was too tired to ponder it. She lay back onto the bed, and fell at once into sleep.

It was morning when she woke, dry-mouthed, head aching fiercely. Halbarad was not there. But his pack was, along with hers, and she felt faintly guilty that he must have slept on the floor. Slowly she sat up, swung her legs off the bed, sat still for a moment while her head steadied itself. But then she stood, hand on the bedpost, and found her legs would hold her, though still her head throbbed with every heartbeat. She gripped the bedpost with her left hand, gingerly at first and then harder, winced a little at the pain. Carefully she poured a glass of water, two hands on the heavy pitcher. But she felt better after she had drunk, and fiercely hungry. There was a heel of bread from the night before, hard and stale but she ate it without hesitation. Then she tugged on her boots, and made her way out to the common room.

It was late for breakfast, dirty dishes on several tables but no patrons, only the clink of coins as one of the dwarves settled with the innkeeper at the bar. The dwarf glanced at her over his beard but said nothing as he made his way out the door.

Halbarad was nowhere to be seen. She sat down at an empty table, head again reeling, let out a breath of relief as she felt the solid bench beneath her. The innkeeper came over as soon as the dwarf was gone, a tentative smile on his face, though his eyes were red and dark-shadowed.

"Young Willie's sleeping," he said, before she could ask. "Woke a time or two in the night, but there's no fever. He'll be well soon enough, I've no doubt of it. " He looked at her critically. "And you?"

Tired. Weak. Sick. "Fine." And then, "Hungry," she allowed, at his skeptical look.

A true smile, wide and relieved. "That can be mended. Tea or beer?"

"Tea. Please." Her stomach rebelled at the thought of beer.

He looked a little crestfallen. "As you wish, mistress." He nodded, and stumped away.

The common room was quiet, save for the faint clang of pans from the kitchen, and the clop of hooves coming through the open door to the innyard. Footsteps then, coming down the stairs that led to the upper floor of rooms. Not entirely even, and she knew it was Halbarad before he came though the door. Following him was a woman, apron tied around her waist, face vaguely familiar. Housemaid? But the way she looked at Halbarad, her hand on his elbow, and his gaze that followed her as she turned away and disappeared through the kitchen door...

Miriel forced herself not to laugh. But she must have made some sound, for Halbarad turned abruptly, and even in the dim-lit room, she could have sworn he flushed. And somehow it surprised her, though she did not know why it should. There was always company to be found in a village, mostly for payment but sometimes without, and Rangers mostly smiled and looked the other way – or sometimes watched, and laughed when a man was refused. But they did not judge, and they did not tell. What a man did was his own affair, and if he chose to speak of it, or not, when he returned to home and family, that also was his own.

He glared at her, said nothing, only limped across the room and dropped onto the bench beside her. She wondered at that, but then: Back to the wall. Of course. Every Ranger's instinct. And she thought of another inn, a ragged, wretched place in the mountain foothills of Dunland. She drew a sharp breath, clenched the fingers of her right hand, only just caught her left as it moved to touch the mark on her wrist. And to pull her mind away from it, and also his, in case he had noticed, she asked, "Are you hurt, captain? What happened to your leg?"

He grunted, shook his head. "Fine."

She nearly laughed, his instinctive answer the same as hers. He must have seen it on her face, or perhaps he thought the better of lying to a healer. "I fell."

She waited, but he said nothing more, and so at last she asked, "How long ago?"

He grunted. "A month, maybe."

"And you're still limping?"

He glared at her, then looked away. But she kept her eyes on him, and almost against his will he turned back. "You are not fine, captain. You're still limping a month after an injury. What happened?"

He glared a moment longer, then resistance crumbled and he shrugged. "Fell off a horse, if you must know. Landed on my hip. Careless. Thunder spooked him, and I wasn't ready." He shook his head. "Lucky it wasn't worse."

"That you are." And then, careful, almost tentative, "I could…help you."

He looked at her, eyes narrowed, and she could not read his face. And at last, to her utter astonishment, for she had felt she must make the offer but was certain it would be refused, he sighed and said slowly, reluctantly, "If you would be so kind. I would be in your debt."

"I—of course, captain."

A faint, wry smile. "Eat first."

They both ate, and she felt him watching her, forced herself to clean her plate though still she felt vaguely sick. But when they were done, he led the way back to the room that she now knew was his, though he had not slept there. He closed the door, lowered himself carefully into a chair, laid his hand on the table.

"You know how this goes," she said, observing him.

"I do." Nothing more, and he leaned back and closed his eyes. But his other hand gripped the arm of the chair, and she knew he was not as calm as he seemed.

'It is a strange thing, Gift healing,' Girith had told her. 'Many do not like it. Some resist, strongly, conscious or not, for the mind resents the intrusion of another, feels it as a thing that should not be. And they are not wrong, for it is not entirely natural, this thing that we do. It is what some men would call magic, and others witchcraft. It is a gift of the One. But gifts are not always easily received.'

She drew a breath, and took Halbarad's hand. Larger than hers, but rough with the same calluses from sword and bow, foreign and yet strangely familiar, far more like hers than Girith's pale, slender fingers. Like mine yet not mine. She felt the resistance in his body, offered that thought, and slowly, reluctantly, he let her in.

She found the damage in his hip, strained muscle and tendon, wrenched and painful. She was surprised he could walk as well as he had. But then she remembered a snowy hillside, a cloaked figure limping stolidly in the cold, and knew she should not be surprised.

She took the damage, not all of it, but enough that it would no longer hinder his movement, enough that his body would respond the way his mind expected it would, should he have need for sudden movement. He will be as strong as I can make him, to face the Wild. And then, I owe the Chieftain no less.

She let him go then, withdrew until she was only herself, looked up to find him watching her. There was a strange expression his face, and she wondered if he had somehow caught her last thought. He shifted, straightened in his chair. But as she moved to pull her hand from his, he grasped it.

"Thank you, Miriel," he said quietly. He paused, uncertain, eyes searching her face. And then, "I think you must rest again. That was…much, for two days."

There was no pity in his voice, only statement of fact, and so she found herself able to answer without shame. "Yes." And then, "It was my first. For real, not in training. First since the plague, at least."

He nodded, read memory in her face and let it fade before he spoke again. "I must go." He raised a hand to forestall her protest. "I would have left yesterday, were it not for what happened. Is Aragorn in Elenost?"

"He was when I left."

"Good. There are things he must know." Face hard, eyes far away, and she knew he thought of what he had seen in the south, the charge that had been laid on him. But then his eyes came back to her. "You must stay. Tonight, and tomorrow if you feel need of it. I'll answer to the Chieftain for the coin."

She laughed a little, as she was meant to. But truly it was a relief, for she felt once again shaky and weak. I could go on if I had to. But thank the Valar I don't.

He pushed himself up from the chair, took several steps across the room, and she saw to her satisfaction that the limp was gone. He turned back, found her watching and nodded. "Well done, healer." A faint, wry smile, and he shouldered his pack. But in the doorway he turned, met her eyes once more.

"Be careful," he said.

She raised her eyebrows. "I am always careful."

He smiled. "I know." And then, "Valar guard and guide you, Ranger."

"Valar guard and guide."

And then he was gone.

Notes:

Miriel is treading familiar ground in this chapter, and she remembers a number of events from NATWWAL:

Jona is a very young apprentice smith in Ch. 26, the orphaned son of Anna's friends Cap and Rosie Ferny. Miriel gives him a coin, a gift from Anna, in Ch. 33.

As described in Ch. 28, Faron strayed into the Barrow Downs and was driven near to madness by the horror of the wights; only his loyalty to Mahar, his oath-brother, kept him from killing himself.

A teenage (and amusingly awkward) Barliman Butterbur makes a cameo appearance in Ch. 33.

And Miriel and her companions run into trouble at a Dunland inn in Ch. 31.