She was slow to wake in the morning, the sense of something strange, not wrong but different, tugging at her mind. At last she shifted, felt him warm beside her, and knew him, and when she opened her eyes, he was smiling. She rolled over, moved her leg over his, arm around his chest, head in the hollow of his shoulder, and though the air was cool on her face, beneath the blankets they were warm.

They went down to the morning meal together, some time later. Quite a while later, she thought, as she glanced outside and saw the sun already halfway up the sky, pale and watery through thin clouds. There was a blanket of snow over everything, though already it was beginning to melt, and water dripped from the eaves.

There were not many in the hall, for the hour for morning meal had long passed. But as they ate together, alone in a corner in companionable silence, movement in the shadows of the door caught her eye.

Aragorn stood there a moment, searching the hall, and she saw a smile flit over his lips as he found them. Don't blush, she told herself, in the time it took him to make his way between the tables to where they sat. He knows nothing, and you have nothing to be ashamed of.

But she did not entirely succeed, or perhaps he read it between them. He smiled broadly. "Good morning, maloseg." Then he bowed to Girith, said more seriously, "Nestoron."

"Estel." Girith's voice was quiet, without expression.

She glanced at him, thought suddenly, Perhaps he wonders if he was right to do it. For I am not entirely my own, and my oath has a claim on me. But then she straightened. My oath asked nothing of me last night, and it does not claim all of me. Nor does the Chieftain. And she lifted her chin, in defiance of she knew not what.

But Aragorn's smile widened to a grin, as though he knew very well what she had not said. And he said only, "I hope you are enjoying your rest, maloseg."

She nodded, and could not entirely repress the answering grin that tugged at the corners of her lips. She said no more, and he laughed softly, glanced at Girith and then back at her. "Good." And then the laughter was gone, and his smile with it. "We will stay one more day, I think. Enough for the snow to melt. But then we must go. We will go by way of Stonebridge; I must have whatever news came over the pass before it closed. So we will have a long road home, and the sooner we start, the better."

She spent all that day with Girith, and the night, and tried not to think how soon she would lose this beautiful new thing she had found. But in the morning she felt restless, and he kissed her and handed her sword and bow and quiver, and sent her outside.

The day was almost warm, the sun stronger, and she smiled a little as it fell on her face, ignoring with some effort the slush and mud beneath her boots. Tomorrow night will be cold. Her smile broadened. But tonight will be warm.

"Miriel, good morning!" A clear voice, edged with laughter, and then another that might have been the same had it not come from a slightly different point on the muddy ground. "It is a good morning, is it not?"

She turned to face the brothers as they strode into the light, mud on their faces and clothes. She grinned. "Not for whoever does your laundry."

Elladan looked down at himself as if startled. "Goodness, brother, we have made rather a mess of ourselves. Whatever will our sister say?"

"Nothing." This voice deeper, from the doorway behind her. "She will ignore you, like the children you are."

"Eh, Estel, is that so?" And the other, in a loud conspiratorial whisper, "They've been talking. I knew it."

Aragorn eyed them both, flat and quelling. "I spoke with her, as I told you I would. It was not a long conversation." And then, turning his back to them, "Will you shoot with me, Miriel? I've not had much of a chance of late."

She smiled. "As you wish, my lord."

And they stood side by side, sharing the same target, ignoring Elladan and Elrohir until the brothers gave up and went back to sparring on the muddy ground.

"Are you well, Mir?" Quiet, tinged almost with concern, and warmth rose in her, and she turned to meet his eyes, for she realized now that she had been avoiding them. He stood still, said nothing more and let her search his face, let her find there nothing she had feared. There was no condemnation, nor disappointment, but only warmth, and kindness, and perhaps even relief. At last he said softly, "You deserve joy as much as any of us. More even, after what you have done."

And her heart twisted, and she said without thinking, "And you, my lord?"

His smile slipped, and pain flashed across his face before he could hide it. But he drew a breath, let it out slowly, reached out and laid a gloved hand on her shoulder. "I have many joys, maloseg, your company not the least." And though skin did not touch, she felt the memory of his soul with hers, and she smiled, and he smiled as if he knew. "Now come, Ranger. Finish this set, and then we have a journey to prepare for."

They spent all afternoon washing and mending, repairing and restocking. The Elves gave them warm winter clothing, and fur-lined, hob-nailed boots that would grip even in ice and snow, and she felt a little less gloomy at the prospect of another journey in the cold. But at last it was done, everything packed and wrapped and triple-checked, for the wild in winter left no margin for error.

He turned to her then, looked in her eyes, and she felt as though he were in some way taking her measure, though on what scale and to what end, she did not know. At last he said, "I must speak with Arwen; she may have tidings that will be of use to us. Do you wish to come?"

She frowned. "I—what tidings, my lord?"

He shrugged, shook his head a bit sharply. "I do not know. Whatever she has heard." And then he looked at her, let out a breath, and his face softened. "Of course. You are young; you would not know." He stood, and gestured her to follow.

He brought her to the same room where she had first met the Lady of Rivendell, two days before, though now it was shadowy as early winter dusk drew in. A small, bright fire crackled on the hearth, and Arwen sat before it, her slender fingers working at some intricate task with needles and thread. But her eyes were not on her work, and when they entered she made no sign. They sat in two chairs opposite her, and Aragorn was silent, watching her, and so Miriel did likewise, though the stillness was unnerving. But at last Arwen's shoulders relaxed, and she drew a soft breath. The faintest of smiles curved her lips, and it made her pale, smooth face still more beautiful in the firelight. Aragorn smiled a little in answer, and said quietly, ruefully, "Nethanin, forgive me."

A soft, musical laugh. "Forgive you what? I asked you to come. It is hardly your fault that I was not ready."

Aragorn chuckled. "I thought everything was my fault, always. Or were you lying to me all those years?"

"Estel." Gently reproving, but her eyes sparkled, now clear and vividly present. "I speak truth, always. Perhaps only those parts of the truth that you need to know, but truth nonetheless." She raised her eyebrows. "And what the little boy needed to know was responsibility for his actions."

Aragorn gave an exaggerated sigh, glanced at Miriel sidelong and shook his head. "So you see how it is."

And she did see, and smiled to see him happy.

But then he turned back to Arwen, and mirth and memory faded, and he asked, "What do I need to know now?"

Silence, save for the soft crackling of the fire, and flickering light reflected in her eyes. "It was enough, for the present," she said at last. "They have been taught a lesson they will not soon forget." She smiled a little. "As have the Beornings. That was well done, brother."

He inclined his head, and even in the firelight it seemed that he flushed.

"They will come again," she said. "But now they know we are watching."

Aragorn grunted. "That they knew already."

"They suspected. They did not know."

"The king is not a fool."

"But perhaps the prince is? Or was, before you taught him better." And her eyes flashed, and Miriel almost started at the fierce pride in her voice. "You are your father's son."

Aragorn drew a sharp breath, met her eyes. And then, voice not quite steady, "Which father?"

Arwen gazed at him, with a smile of such warmth that Miriel felt her own heart warmed by it. "Both of them."

Aragorn was silent, eyes on Arwen's, keen and searching, and Miriel felt that words were spoken though she could not hear them. At last Aragorn looked away, shook his head. "So may it be. But they will not give counsel. Neither of them."

"No," said Arwen, and to Miriel's surprise her voice was gentle. "That you must find on your own."

A dry laugh. "And so I come to you."

"Ada does not like it."

"I know."

"He thinks it is not my place." But her chin lifted, and again her eyes blazed. "But the world is changing, and we must make our own place in it."

"I would not cause trouble for you, nethanin."

"You do not cause it. I choose it." But then Arwen's face softened, and she glanced at Miriel, and smiled a little. "We all must do what we can with what we are given. So your people say." And then, gentle and sincere, "And your people are my people. My brothers serve in their way, and I in mine."

"And we are grateful for them both, my lady." But then his eyebrows lifted, and he said with a wry smile, "But still you have given me no counsel."

"Have I not?" Arwen laughed softly. And then, abrupt and certain, "Send messengers to the Lossoth."

Aragorn frowned. "A patrol made contact with them last summer, and found nothing amiss."

"So I was told." Nothing more, and she held his eyes, and at last he nodded.

"And be wary of the Trollfells."

"We always are. Any particular reason?"

"This I—it is less…certain." She shook her head, gave a soft, mirthless laugh. "Nothing is certain." She sounded almost frustrated. "It is more feeling than rumor. Whispering, so faint I cannot yet hear the words." She looked up, and met his eyes. "But there is darkness in it. Of that I am certain."

Aragorn met her eyes again in silence, and his face was troubled. But at last he shook his head and sat back, and allowed a faint smile. "I will do as my lady commands."

"Estel." She sighed. "I do not command. You know that. I see. I assess, I advise, I…recommend. But command is not mine. At least I have not that burden." And she smiled at him, wry and gentle, almost sad.

"Yet my burden is lighter because of you, my lady."

She rose, came to him and held out her hand, small and glimmering in the firelight. After a moment he took he, and she drew him up, and embraced him. "Return to your people, Aragorn," she said softly. "Your place is with them." She felt him trembling, felt the catch in his breath, and she held him close. But then she kissed his cheek, and let him go, and she turned to Miriel. "And you should return home as well, Ranger. You have earned your rest." She smiled. "There will be those who are glad to see you."

"I—yes, my lady." A sudden, powerful longing for home swept through her, mingled though it was with grief and fear, and she ached to be gone.

But as they moved toward the door, Arwen said quietly, "Estel, stay a moment." And when Miriel had left, and the door closed behind her: "Her mother?"

Aragorn met her eyes, read what was in them and sighed. "She let herself go too far in healing, and could not find her way back."

Arwen nodded, slowly. "Presence I felt, but also absence. And the absence growing greater, and the presence less." Eyes vague, as if she saw things far beyond the room, the house, the valley. But then her eyes returned to him, abruptly clear and present. He nodded, said very softly, "Well do I know the fading. But she will not endure it alone."

Arwen laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "No." And then, "What do you hear from the south?"

He drew a letter from his pocket, and handed it to her with a faint smile. "Your copy of dispatches, my lady."

Her eyebrows lifted. "From Gondor?"

His smile broadened. "I…made arrangements. There are those who will keep secrets for me, even from the lord of the city."

"And from his son?"

Aragorn grunted. "And from his son." But then, as if to banish that unpleasant thought, he added, "Dunland is quiet, or at least as quiet as it ever is. Rumors of trouble in the south of that land, with the men of Rohan, but they do not look north."

"And do you trust it?"

He met her eyes, said flatly, "I sent Hal."

Silence. And then, "You sent him away from you?"

"I did what I had to do, Arwen. I trust him, more than anyone. He is my eyes, my ears."

"And your shadow," she said softly.

He looked away from her. "So he would wish to be."

"And you?"

He sighed, seemed suddenly very tired. "I would wish it also." Silence again, save for the soft sounds of the fire. At last he turned to her, allowed a wry smile. "But wishes are not horses, and so we must walk the hard road."

"Yet you may walk it together, brother. At least for a time."

Aragorn found Miriel in her room, checking over her gear one more time. She smiled when he appeared in the doorway, and his heart warmed in answer, gloom and guilt falling away unnoticed.

He closed the door behind him, shutting out the chill from the passageway, and came to stand close by the fire, warming his hands. "So, now you have seen more of her, what do you think of the lady of Rivendell?" His tone was light, and he smiled, though she felt something behind it that was not joy, and again she chose her words carefully. "She loves you, my lord." And then, risking a little, with a grin and a sidelong glance, "Shows good judgment."

He gave a small, incredulous laugh. "Her judgment is indeed good, though I am not certain that is evidence of it."

Miriel shrugged, still smiling. "Far be it for me to doubt my elders." And then, before he could reply, "Why does she call you Estel?"

"It was the name I was known by, when I was a child here."

"Hope." She frowned. "Why?" For among the Dunedain, it was a name most often given to girl children.

Aragorn sighed. "For my safety, so they told me afterwards. The enemy had killed my father, and was seeking for me. They thought it best that I be hidden, even from myself." He grunted, shook his head. "But only from myself. Everyone else must have known." He shrugged. "But that was the choice they made, Lord Elrond and my mother. And I grew up calling him father, though I knew he was not my father. All I knew was my father had died, killed honorably in battle, but that was all. I did not know where or why. I did not even know his name. Until at last, when I was a man, they told me." It was there in his voice, though she dared not ask. Yet it seemed that he heard the question even unasked, and he glanced at her, and then away, and after a moment he said quietly, "Yes, I was angry. For it did not seem right to me that they should have hidden me from myself, even if it was for my own good. Who were they to judge?" But then he smiled. "Such was the arrogance of a twenty-year-old fool." He shrugged. "But so it was. And those I grew up with here most often still call me that." He smiled. "They mean well, even it if does sometimes grate. For I am no longer that boy."

And then it was her turn to smile. "But you are. You are that boy, and the man also, and you belong to us and them both. For such is your grace, or so the stories tell."

"And my fate." The smile faded, and there was a strange, hollow weariness in his voice. But then he stepped close, and took her hand. "It is yours as well, for you also bear the Gift of the Eldar. And our hope is the stronger for it."

She felt his warmth, and his strength, and she was strengthened by it. But something else then, a light in her mind, far brighter than the small, flickering fire, a voice like his but not his. And then words came to her lips, though they were not her own. "And together we must face the darkness." A whisper then in her mind: Brave one. But that she did not speak.

A catch in his breath, and his eyes went wide. She felt him with her, felt him feel it ere it faded, and then they stood alone again in the firelight.

Alone, but together, and his warmth brought her joy even in darkness. She pressed his hand, then let him go, and smiled. "But hope, my lord, is not a plan."

A soft, dry chuckle. "No, it is not. And we must make one. Come, Ranger. We must go see my father."

Aragorn brought her once again to the carved door, touched his fingers to the maloseg and then to his lips. "For luck," he murmured, with a sidelong smile, and she smiled back, and mirrored his gesture.

Lord Elrond sat at his desk in the candlelight, maps spread out before him. He rose when they entered, and greeted Miriel first. But his eyes on her were keen, and assessing. "Well have you learned what we taught, dunadaneth."

She bowed, did not know what to say and so said nothing. But she could not look away from him, felt sudden unsettling memory of the Chieftain's eyes that held her and would not let her look away. 'We are kin from afar,' he had said, and now she believed it. But as if Elrond heard her thought, his face softened, eyes shifted to Aragorn and then back to her. "I thank you," he said, quiet and clear. "For protecting him, for the care you take of him. You are fortunate indeed in your friends, my son."

"I am." Aragorn did not smile, did not look at her, but she felt some disquiet in him, and moved on instinct a little closer. And Elrond marked it, though he gave no sign.

Instead he said, almost gently, "Now you have felt what it is we do, now that you know it, are you still willing to follow this way?"

"Yes, my lord." Quiet, steady, certain, for there had been no doubt, not since that first night, in the ring of thornbushes east of Amon Sûl. Pain and reluctance, fear and grief, but not doubt. Aragorn touched her hand, a flicker of warmth and pride, there and then gone but so deep it nearly took her breath. And he did not look at her for fear he might weep.

He drew a slow, silent breath, let it out. Calm is my soul, and clear, like the mountains in the morning. And he remembered yellow leaves as they climbed, and the certainty of rightness with her on the path behind him, in spite of danger and pain. Take what you have and be glad. And then his own words, as if spoken by another: 'It is a joy, brother. They are few enough in the Wild.'

Elrond showed them the maps on the desk, largely for her benefit, she knew, for Aragorn surely knew the land between Rivendell and Stonebridge without need for a map. But she examined them closely, listened carefully, knew that she relied on him but knew also, with certainty now, that he relied on her.

Girith woke her before dawn, and they lay for a while in the warmth together, and she tried to feel only him, to push back the dread of loneliness and cold. But he felt it in her, soothed it gently until was only a whisper on the edge of thought. She kissed him, and he said, "You will not be alone, dunadaneth."

A small, rueful smile. "I know."

They rose and dressed, found Aragorn in the chilly, candlelit hall, and they ate one more meal together.

The courtyard before the great doors was gray and smelled of wet leaves, black on the stones, and a soft, cold wind flowed down from the mountains. She shivered, and did not look at Aragorn, for she did not want him to see her tears.

Girith held her tight and then let her go, and she smiled a little, and managed only, very softly, "Thank you." But he touched her cheek and kissed her, and she knew he felt all that she could not say.

"Do what you must do, Ranger," he said quietly. "I will be here when you return."

And so she went again into the Wild.

The End...for now

Notes:

Nestoron - healer

Nethanin - my sister

The Steward of Gondor at this time is Ecthelion, whom Aragorn served as Thorongil; his son, of course, is Denethor. Denethor's suspicion of Thorongil is canonical, but my conception of their strained relationship is drawn from Canafinwe's wonderful stories "The Eagle on the Ramparts" and "The Sell-Sword and the Prince."

I've known for a long time what I didn't want Arwen to be, but until very recently, I couldn't figure out what I did want to do with her. This conception of her as a sort of intelligence analyst - albeit one with access to a source (Elvish foresight) that our real-world intel folks could only dream of - is thus the newest idea in this story. It feels..."plausible" is the wrong word, and so is "real," so I'll just go with "right." I can feel her character, hear her voice, imagine what role she might play in the future. But I'm interested in what you all think. Does this version of Arwen work for you? Any suggestions?

Winter has begun to bite where I live, and it seems an appropriate time to bring this story arc to a close. But of course, as I noted at the end of "Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost," this is not really the end. I've written nearly 300,000 more words, taking Miriel through the War of the Ring and beyond. But the next story arc picks up a couple of years after this one ends, and I'm not sure what should happen in the interval. There are a couple of significant things I need to do (the initial scene needs at least some sort of set-up, and there's one more important character introduction), but I'd love some ideas from readers. What do you think should happen next? What dangling threads do I need to pick up? Which characters do you want to see more of?

There are a couple of dangling threads I've already twisted together in a short-ish interlude that I'll post soon; I wonder if anyone can guess who they are... ;)

Thank you all once again for coming on this journey with me, with us, with Miriel and Aragorn and all the others. This story contains some of my oldest scenes, and some of my all-time favorites, and I have so enjoyed sharing them with you all.

~Laura