A/N: This chapter contains content that may be very troubling for some readers. I do not give specific content warnings (for a longer explanation as to why, see the note at the beginning of NATWWAL), but if you would like to know what happens before you read it, skip down to the notes at the end of the chapter.
The days ran one into another, growing gradually warmer and longer, and travelers began to appear on the road. Still Gilrath and Hador took the day watches, and Miriel and Lain the nights. But without consulting Gilrath, she and Lain began doubling up with Hador, two watching at a time for greater safety as the traffic on the road grew. They continued training in the afternoons, while Gilrath was on watch. If he knew of it, he said nothing. Most days he barely spoke a word, seemed hardly to listen to their reports, only sat on a stone, sharpening his knife.
Miriel had asked Lain and Hador both, but they shrugged. "He's been like that all winter," said Lain.
"Never been friendly, nor much for talk," Hador added. "But this is…" He shrugged. "He stands his watch, and we surely couldn't have managed without a third man all winter."
But Miriel still felt unsettled, and found herself trying to avoid being alone with him. She could not avoid it at watch turnover, and after that first night she took care to make noise as she approached.
One evening she heard raised voices, knew as she quickened her steps that one of them must be Gilrath's, though she had never heard him shout.
He stood by the road, arguing with a man who sat on a cart. She could not catch all that was said as she jogged down the slope to the road, for they were shouting over each other, and the driver spoke with an unfamiliar accent that stretched and skewed his words. But it seemed that he wanted to go further that evening, and Gilrath would not let him. As she watched, the Ranger's hand slipped to his sword hilt.
The man in the cart noticed Miriel's approach before Gilrath did, raised a hand and pointed. "Ask that one. Honest man I am, plenty light left. I go on until dark, come to Bree tomorrow. I stay here tonight, then another night on the road." He spoke now directly to her, and chanced a half-smile. "Beer at the inn better than water on the road."
She nodded, though she did not return his smile. "That it is." She turned to Gilrath. "Where does he say he is from? And what is he carrying?"
Gilrath frowned, opened his mouth but only stuttered, still breathing hard.
The driver sighed, in rather exaggerated fashion, Miriel thought. "Has not asked me that." He straightened his shoulders. "Dunland. Carry stones from the mountains, and wool things. Goat wool, very soft." He tried another smile. "You would like, lady Ranger."
She raised her eyebrows. "Perhaps." And then after a pause, when Gilrath still said nothing, "Come down, and stand over there." She gestured, and the man obeyed. Gilrath stepped back, and took the guard position, watching Miriel and the man both as she searched the cart.
It was as he had said, a few small boxes of polished stones, a larger crate of rough ones, and several bags of the softest wool Miriel had ever felt. She inspected the bags thoroughly, but there was nothing hidden in them, and the wool seemed to caress her fingers. At last she stepped down from the wagon, and turned to the driver with a genuine smile. "You are not wrong. That wool is a wonder."
He nodded, pride now clear in his eyes. "My goats. Live only in Dunland, only in our hills. Too hot in the south, too cold in the north. Aghafr, we call them."
It was a strange word, with a throaty, almost swallowed sound in the middle, and she shook her head with a laugh. "I won't try to say it. Hmm." She thought for a moment. "Maenaeag. That's what I'll call it. Soft goat, in the old language of our land."
The man laughed. "I not try to say that." And then, raising his eyebrows, "You buy some?"
She shook her head and spread her hands. "I've no coin with me"—not entirely true, but close enough—"and no tools to spin the wool if I had." A soft, self-deprecating laugh. "Nor do I have the skill." All too true. Ah. But I know who does. "Have you been in Bree before?"
The man nodded. "Many times. Three, four."
"Then you know the innkeeper? Butterbur?"
He nodded again.
"Tell him if he will buy a bag for me, and give it to Elma Rushlight to spin, I'll pay him next time I'm in the village."
The man frowned. "Innkeeper know you? Who I say you are?"
Our names are no secret. She smiled a little. There is only one that is, and he is far from here. "Miriel daughter of Sirhael. He knows me."
"And tell him give it to…Ema?"
"Elma. Mother of his stable boy. He'll know." Probably think she still owes me for the boy.
The man cocked his head, clearly skeptical, but shrugged. "I try." The smile flashed again. "You be warm next winter."
"That's the idea." She gestured. "You may—" but then she checked herself, and looked to Gilrath. She had almost forgotten he was there. But he is senior. It is his decision.
Gilrath met her eyes, expressionless, but at last he nodded. "Go."
The man needed no urging, clambered back and grasped the reins, but as the cart rumbled off, he raised a hand in farewell.
Gilrath turned to her, and she braced herself for more shouting. But he said only, frowning, "It will be dark soon. Why would he drive in the dark?" Then he shook his head, and without waiting for an answer, he turned away toward camp.
She waited until he was out of sight before letting out a long sigh of relief.
The days warmed, and the land grew green around them, the bare hills grassy and the brushy thickets starred with little flowers, white and pink and pale green. There was also the bright yellow of maloseg, and Lain laughed aloud one day when she nearly stumbled into a bush that stood at the edge of their camp. "Namesake or no, it'll still poke your ass full of thorns." They were sparring, and his skill had returned swiftly with practice, evenly matched now with hers.
"It's your ass—you ought to watch out for," she gasped, regaining her footing and slipping aside to dodge his strike. He lunged forward, slid on a patch of wet ground and sat down hard in the mud.
"Damned maloseg," he growled, grinning, and made a rude gesture in the direction of the gorse.
"Blame the bush. Because that makes sense."
"It does. Completely. I definitely wasn't talking about you."
"Wouldn't even occur to my mind."
"Your father's on the other hand…"
She laughed, bittersweet though the memory was, and reached down a hand to help him up. "He knew exactly what he was doing. Names are important." And then she thought of another conversation about names. Brannon mell. And the warmth of her smile owed nothing to her father, or to Lain.
But the bright weather did not seem to brighten Gilrath's mood, and when Miriel told Hador and Lain of what had happened with the Dunlending wool merchant, they agreed that he should not stand guard alone.
"Not that I don't trust him…" said Hador slowly, not meeting their eyes.
"But I don't." Lain's voice was quiet, reluctant but firm. "There is something…not right."
"He won't like it," Hador objected, but without conviction.
Miriel shook her head. "I don't care whether he likes it or not." They both turned to her. "It's what needs to be done."
Hador eyed her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "It is. But you probably shouldn't take the first watch with him."
A short, dry laugh. "True enough."
Hador stayed through Gilrath's watch the next day, and Lain the day after that, and they saw nothing amiss. "Only a party of dwarves, and he let me do the talking," Lain reported. "Just stood back in overwatch."
"Did he ask why you were there?"
"No."
"He doesn't need to ask," said Hador grimly. "He knows."
On the third day it was Miriel's turn, a gray afternoon with scattered rain and a cold, unseasonable wind. Gilrath crouched in the shelter of the bushes, and Miriel lay behind a rock a little way up the slope. From a distance, I'll just look like another rock.
A rain squall came up from the south, blotting out the road, and she huddled behind the rock and pulled her hood low. And when it had passed, there was a wagon on the road.
The driver was wrapped tightly in a cloak, head bent against the north wind that tossed the grass in restless waves. But he straightened when they stepped into view, halted at Miriel's hail and climbed obediently down down from the wagon, eyeing her with some curiosity. She was used to it; though she was far from the only woman in the Company, they were few enough that many travelers thought them strange, anomalous, even suspect. But after a moment the man nodded, made a slight bow and opened his mouth to speak. As he did so, a gust of wind caught the folds of his dark cloak, blowing them about his lean frame.
And with a wild, anguished cry, Gilrath charged forward, drawing his sword.
If the traveler had had slower reflexes, he would have died. But a man who is not alert to sudden danger does not survive long on the road. He leaped back, stumbled against the wagon but kept his feet, and drew two long knives from his belt. Gilrath's stroke went wide, and as he pulled back for another, Miriel's blade met his and forced it back.
"No!" she shouted. "Gilrath, no!" And to the other man, "Move!"
The man obeyed, scrambling back to put the wagon's bulk between himself and the Rangers. The wind had blown back his hood, and flaxen hair whipped about his face and his wide, staring eyes.
Gilrath was gasping, shaking, eyes rolling wildly. Miriel shoved him hard, and he stumbled back, still staring at the man as if in terror. Then he turned, and staggered back toward the hills, naked sword in his hand.
Miriel stared after him, breathing hard, her own hands trembling with shock.
What—what was that? What just happened? Is he—?
What do I do now? That at least was a question she could answer. Do you duty. Then go find Gilrath. She drew a breath, let it out slowly, and sheathed her sword.
She stepped back, and held up her hands empty where the trader could see them. "Are you hurt?"
He stared at her for a long moment, then slowly straightened, though he did not sheath his knives. "No."
"Good. I—I am—" I can't explain.
So don't. You have a task. Do it.
She gestured to the wagon. "What do you carry?"
He eyed her warily, but answered in the accent of Rohan, "Wine from the south, and cloth. Bound for Bree, then over the mountains when the snow melts."
She nodded. "Sheath your knives and step back."
After a moment's hesitation, he obeyed, and she climbed up into the wagon. It was perhaps a more cursory inspection than she might otherwise have done, her hands still shaking, eyes darting between the goods and the driver. Maybe Gilrath saw something I did not?
But the man stood still and watched her, said nothing when at last she stepped down and gestured him back to his seat. "You may go. Health and luck go with you."
He eyed her darkly, shook his head and grunted, but then he pulled up his hood and slapped the reins. The harness creaked, and the horses surged forward, their hooves dull on wet dirt.
The road led straight north for at least half a mile, and she watched until the wagon disappeared over a rise. She turned and gazed back south, saw nothing but another rain squall, and so she straightened, and turned away from the road.
She approached their camp cautiously, saw no one, though she did not expect to in the rain. "Gilrath," she called out. No answer, so she called again, louder. Movement then, and the door of the hut opened to reveal Lain, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He started and straightened at the expression on her face, abruptly wide awake. "What is it?"
"Where is Gilrath?"
"I—I don't know." Lain frowned. "Haven't seen him." But then his gaze jerked downward, and he drew a sharp breath. He reached down, and lifted something from the shadows just inside the door. "His sword is here," he said slowly.
'Go nowhere in the Wild without weapons. Even to shit.' Faelon's voice, so long ago in training. But we all know it. We were all taught.
The light faded, and rain came down more heavily, whispering in the grass. She swore softly, though she was already wet, and Lain stepped back to let her into the hut. Hador, roused by their voices, pushed himself up from his bunk with a grunt. "What's wrong, Miriel?"
She drew a breath, and told them, realizing as she did so how quickly it had all happened. And though she spoke to them both, her eyes were mostly on Hador. She saw his face tighten, and even in the dim light it seemed that he grew pale. When the tale was done, brief and matter-of-fact, she turned to him. "Why?" And don't say you don't know. Unspoken, but she knew he heard it, and his shoulders sank.
"We all had the dreams," he said, slowly, as if reaching back for a memory he had no wish to touch. "At first I thought it was just me. A Ranger of the North, frightened by nightmares?" He gave a soft, hollow laugh. "But it was all of us. The farther north we went, the worse it became. By the end, we hardly slept." He shook his head. "Worst time I've had, in twenty years in the Wild." He shuddered, and fell silent.
She felt pity for him. But she asked quietly, for she had to know, "What did you dream?"
He looked up at her, eyes wide with ancient fear. "Dread," he whispered. "Dead eyes, cold fingers. Black robes in the wind. Cruel blades, and death. Death to our people. All of us, men, women, children."
She saw it in her mind, the tales of horror that lingered on the edge of legend. But only tales. That evil was ended long ago. Ellenen and Arvedui ended it, though it cost both their lives.
"That is what Gilrath saw, or thought he saw." Hador swallowed hard. "He had it the worst of us. I don't know why. It shook all of us, but he—" Hador broke off, shook his head. At last, he said softly, "He couldn't get it out of his head. For him it was real."
Miriel drew a slow breath, pushing back fear. "Where has he gone?"
The rain poured down, then slackened and at last rolled away, and wet grass gleamed as the sun broke through. And on a westward facing hillside, cradled in a hollow of the land, they found him. They had spread out to search, and Miriel heard Hador's whistle, high and faint in the rain-washed air. One whistle and then a second, for that was the signal they had set. The first to raise hope—and the second to bury it. And she walked slowly toward the sound, for she knew what she would find.
Hador knelt by him in the wet grass, tears glistening in the sunset. Miriel saw Gilrath's pale, peaceful face, arms folded across his chest in the way of a body on a pyre, and the small wooden cup at his side, and she knew what he had done.
They all carried it, the way to a swift, painless death. And they all knew how to use it, for there were times in the Wild when the last gift one Ranger could give another was mercy. She had seen it done, and she had done it, and she flinched at the memory. To a healer, mercy was a gift dearly bought.
But to a man in pain, tortured by a horror he could not escape—No, brother. No. There was another way. There must have been another way, a way to push back the pain, and live. How could you do this? How could you abandon your family, your maethanar, all of us? Anger flared in her heart. There is always another way, always a choice. I would never—
But then, soft and clear in memory: Calen's voice, in the cold evening after battle and death in the hills north of Hoarwell bridge. 'You do not know what you would not do, until the choice comes. And perhaps it will never come. But if it does, you will know then.'
They carried him to a wooded valley, where a stream flowed down from the hills and winter deadfall provided more than enough wood for the burning. Hador turned to her, as the fire caught and roared in the night under clear stars. "Should we sing?"
His deep voice was rough, eyes red and swollen, and she saw in them the lingering horror, and fear. There but for the grace of the Valar…
She swallowed, and nodded. "He died because of our enemies," she said slowly, "as surely as if an orc had killed him. I…do not know what the Chieftain would say. But for my part, yes."
Lain nodded, and Hador said, hoarse and choked, "So be it."
And so she sang the linnaidh, the lament for a Ranger fallen in battle, the song of Ellenen, of victory over darkness and death. Many times though she had sung it, she remembered each one, each body that burned to ash in the night.
They tended the fire and did not sleep, and when at last gray morning came, she sang again as they cast his ashes into the running stream. "Sigh, mournful sister, whisper and turn…"
And the cold wind of dawn pulled away the valley mist, and the last stars faded from the sky.
Notes:
Content warning - Gilrath, unable to escape traumatic memories, dies by suicide. You probably knew this was coming, but that doesn't necessarily make it easier.
As far as other references...
Miriel and Aragorn have a conversation about names in ALFTS Ch. 26.
Arvedui Last-king (canon character) drowned in the ice bay of Forochel fleeing from the Witch-king after the fall of Fornost. In my 'verse, Sirion son of Archirion (OC), his oath-brother (given the epithet Ellenen, the Brave One), saved Arvedui's wounded eldest son and led the Dunedain after the fall of the king, and was murdered after the Witch-king falsely promised him safe passage to discuss peace terms as the forces of the West closed in on the last remnant of Angmar. Bits and pieces of this history come up in various places, primarily NATWWAL Ch. 14-15 and 34.
"She had seen it done, and she had done it." See NATWWAL Ch. 12 and ALFTS Ch. 23.
For Ranger funeral customs, see NATWWAL Ch. 14-15. The linnaidh is original, set to the melody of the Irish song Mo Ghile Mear. "When I Go," sung as funerary ashes are cast into the stream, is by Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer. My songs are posted on the YouTube channel Songs of the North (channel ID: UC6_2e_2cNS1Zj7Jd-qqEjWA), along with a short playlist of published songs that show up in my stories in one way or another.
Miriel's memory of Calen is from NATWWAL Ch. 25.