Shadows thronged the fire, reaching, grasping, twisting away, desperate for warmth they could never have again. Rooted with horror, Miriel stared. Valya was stiff beside her, hand clutching her arm, and it seemed she hardly breathed. Miriel's own breath shook, blackness pressing on her mind, helplessness and fear. It is over. They are too terrible, too strong. There is no hope.

The shadows stilled, and turned. The trolls stirred, grunted, staggered up. And then, slow and lumbering, they began to climb.

They are coming. We cannot escape.

Miriel trembled violently, could not move nor speak, felt Valya shaking beside her.

And then a wind came, soft and cold, the breath of the mountains. 'And the wind washes away all fear.' His voice, and then another's, like his but not his, clear in her mind. And then it was hers.

And the wind will long recount the story…

Her shaking stilled, and her lips formed words, silent in the dark. Come, lonely hunter…

A whisper then, hardly more than the wind "…chieftain and king…" But the words were warm, gave her strength in the cold. "I will fly like the falcon when I go."

She found she could move. "Wake the others," she hissed to Valya. I must keep singing…

"Bear me, my brother, under your wing. I will strike fell like lightning when I go…"

Halbarad was by her side. He must have been awake; he must have felt it. "I will bellow like the thunder drum," his voice now with hers, "invoke the storm of war, a twisting pillar spun of dust and blood up from the valley floor…"

The shadows flowed up the slope, the trolls lumbering behind.

"I will sweep the foe before me like a gale out on the snow…"

The others were around them now, breathing harsh and strained in the dark.

"And the wind will long recount the story, reverence and glory when I go." Together they sang, shoulder to shoulder. Though their voices shook, they did not falter but began again. "Come, lonely hunter, chieftain and king…"

She was no longer afraid. There was no room for fear. Can shadows be killed? It doesn't matter. We have no choice but to try.

And then a thought: They would not touch the flames. She whispered to Halbarad, as the others sang around them. He stared at her, but only for a moment. Then he jerked a nod, squeezed her shoulder, and took off running, crouching low, swinging wide across the slope to stay clear of the creatures below. We have no time to make a fire. But fire is there. All we have to do is take it.

"And the wind will long recount the story, reverence and glory when I go."

When I go, I will take them with me.

The trolls were close now, shadows thronging around them. She stood. They know where we are. And I shoot better standing up. She bent her bow, though the stars gave scant light for shooting. Hopeless, perhaps, but I have to try. A flicker of light, as the fire flared in the wind far below. A troll turned its head. Hardly a gleam, but it was enough. Slight movement of two fingers, a hiss and snap—and then a bellow of pain, as a troll clawed at its face, turned and stumbled roaring down the slope.

There was no time for triumph. She tossed her bow toward their camp, more danger than help in a close fight in the dark. "Stay with me," she murmured to Valya.

"Can they be killed?" Valya's voice shook, though she tried to hold it steady.

I cannot lie to her.

"Fight as if they can," growled Meneldir.

And then cold, and a wave of fear, and the enemy were on them.

The trolls roared, footsteps shaking the ground, clubs cracking rock where they struck. But they were slow, as Halbarad had said they would be. Lain shouted to draw their attention, then dodged a swing as Meneldir came from behind, stabbing deep into the back of a leg. The troll roared but remained on its feet, and Meneldir's sword was jerked out of his grasp. Miriel grabbed at him, pulled him out of the path of the troll's backswing, but the movement twisted his injured knee, and he let out a cry of pain. Yet his sword remained embedded in the troll's leg, and as the creature flailed in vain attempt to find the source of the pain, Lain darted in close and stabbed up into its belly. The troll bellowed, and its club caught Lain as he stumbled back, and Miriel screamed but could do nothing as he fell limp to the ground. But the troll lurched, roared, staggered, then fell heavily, lay gurgling and did not move again.

The shadows loomed before them, cold and life-draining; whenever one got close, Miriel felt the urge to let her limbs go slack, drop her weapons, give in to fear, and death. It would be so easy…

But she had faced that thought before, the temptation, the longing for rest, peace, an end to pain.

There will be no end if we do not make one.

She pushed it back, struck out at the shadows, found that they held no weapons, only grasping hands and cold breath, and they drew back from her blade. "Don't let them get their hands on you," she gasped to Valya at her side. The young woman did not answer, but her shoulders were straight, her grip firm as she faced the dark.

But Meneldir had lost his sword. He held two knives, and lunged at the shapes that thronged him round. But more came behind, icy hands on shoulders and back and neck, and then he stumbled, and his weak knee buckled, and he went down beneath the shadows.

Flickering light on the slope below, dancing and flaring in the wind. But Miriel could not spare a glance for it, for at the same moment Valya stumbled in the dark, and fell. Terror then, naked fear such as Miriel had not felt since the fight began. No. No, no, not her. I am sworn to teach her, not let her die…

She is mine. Hot and fierce, it burned through the fear. The same as she had felt with Anna, and before that with Silevren: You cannot have her. She is mine. Her sword was a blur though her arm ached with strain, as she stood over Valya and held the shadows at bay. Valya groaned, struggled to her feet.

"Are you hurt?" Miriel's voice was a breathless rasp.

"No." Nothing more, but that was all she needed, and then they were again back to back, fighting as they had trained.

The glow was brighter now, and when Miriel managed a glance downward, she saw Halbarad laboring up the rocky slope, a flaming pine branch in either hand. The remaining troll saw him too, roared and turned toward him, but Dalbarin and Amloth held it off. "Come on," Miriel shout to Valya, and they broke through the shadows, coldness clutching at them as they passed, and ran down the slope.

Halbarad was gasping, breathing so hard he could not speak, but they needed no direction. As he stood, chest heaving, sparks falling onto his hands, they freed the branches he had strapped to his back and lit them from his. And then together, blinking against the smoke as sparks whirled around them, they charged up the slope.

The shadows flickered, wavered, gave back before the fire. Halbarad bellowed, bared his teeth, struck about him with the flaming branches. Hissing whispers, thin shrieks dying away on the wind, fading into the night. Halbarad's branches burned out and he cast them down, drawing his sword, and in the light of the fires Miriel and Valya still carried, he faced the last troll.

It was the largest, a scarred and terrible creature, red madness in its eyes, as it swung a club in one hand and a blade in the other. It already carried one of Amloth's knives in its back, and black blood from half a dozen other wounds streaked its foul skin, but they slowed it hardly at all. Halbarad stood before it, gasping, still shaking with exertion, but his sword was steady as he stared the troll down. He shouted, cursed, swung his blade, anything to keep its attention as Amloth and Dalbarin slipped behind. The troll surged forward, swung its club and he dodged, lashed out with its sword and again he slipped aside. But in his weariness his foot caught on a stone, and he stumbled. And before he could recover, the backswing of the troll's sword caught his side.

Halbarad grunted, staggered, but he did not fall. And as the troll pulled its club back for a final blow, Dalbarin stabbed into its exposed belly, and Amloth's thrown knife caught its neck, and Halbarad, holding his sword with both hands, thrust deep into its flank. Its flailing arm caught him, and he stumbled, fell, lost his sword but rolled aside as the troll crashed to the ground. The last flames faded to smoking embers, and then the night was quiet.

Miriel blinked smoke out of her eyes, found the sky no longer black behind the mountains. The last embers of the burned branches glowed in the wind, and she saw shapes around her in the dim light.

Valya, breathing hard but steady on her feet. Miriel gripped her shoulder. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Find Meneldir."

He is dead. She had seen him fall beneath the shadows. A terrible task, but an easy one. There is nothing to be done for him.

She staggered to Halbarad, knelt heavily beside him. His eyes were closed, and he did not move. But he's breathing. Blood soaked his clothes around the slash on his side. Not a gut wound, no, please no…She tore at the cloth, but it was too dark to see. There is only one way. Pushing back weariness and fluttering panic and fear, she slowed her breathing, and closed her eyes, and laid her hand on his skin.

Alien but familiar, not the first time, for she had healed his injured hip the summer before in Bree. Let me in, brother. His mind was blank, yet he felt her, knew her, and resistance fell away. Slashed skin and muscle, but it was shallow, deflected by the hip bone. Oh, thank the Valar. But there was something wrong, more than rent flesh, blood and pain. She felt sick, felt bile rise in her throat, so hot and bitter she retched and nearly pulled away from him. And though she had never felt it before, she knew what it was.

Since when do trolls use poisoned blades? Orcs do, they always have. But trolls are too clumsy, too likely to cut themselves or each other…And again the same bitter, dreadful realization: Not these trolls.

'Poison is like infection,' Girith had told her. 'But it will take more from you. Each one is different, unpredictable. Take care, even more than you otherwise would, for you do not know what it will do.' She swallowed down the bile, and reached for the wrongness, and began to draw it out.

Halbarad groaned, stirred, tried feebly to roll away from the pain. Her hands slipped in blood, and she felt despair as her grip begin to loosen. No. No, stay with me, stay still…And then he was still, Dalbarin's hands on his shoulders, holding him down. A rush of relief, but there was no time for thanks, and she reached for him again.

She could not take it all, felt her gorge rising, her body growing weak. But it was lessened, contained. At least for now. Breathing slowly to steady herself, she felt the rest of him, found cracked ribs and a wrenched shoulder but nothing worse. She opened her eyes, straightened, found Valya at her side in the growing light. "Keep pressure on the wound. Even if he fights it." Valya swallowed hard but nodded.

He will live. And then soft, cold dread. Where is Lain?

With Amloth, as she had known he would be. She met Amloth's eyes, and he bit his lip, and shook his head. But he said nothing, only cradled Lain's limp, bloodied body in his arms. Miriel knelt by them, found that she was weeping, angrily brushed the tears away. Stop. Not now. I need to work, to think. Not cry. Amloth is not…He does not know what I know, what I can do. Maybe he is wrong.

But he was not wrong. She had felt it before, the blackness, the grasping void, the soul drawing away from a body too broken to live. She gasped, pulled herself back, found Lain's eyes open, vague in a face far too pale. Blood on his lips as he groaned, coughed, whispered. "Please, Mir. Please."

It was not the first time. At least it is not that. And she felt a strange, bitter gratitude toward Aragorn for insisting that she be the one to do it, in the Wilderland village the summer before. At least he is not the first. She left Lain with Amloth, stumbled back to their camp below the ridge and dug in her pack with trembling hands, until she found the small wooden box, and the cup.

"Mir?" Lain's eyes were still open but fixed on the sky, and she knew he could no longer see.

"I'm here." Her voice broke, and her eyes blurred, and again she brushed away tears. Not now. "I'm here, brother."

"Please…"

This is the last gift. And she gave.

She knew how it would be. Knew the pain, the fearful weakness, the instinct to curl in on herself, to hide. To die. I have caused death. Now I must die. And in the blackness of her mind, shadows walked.

No. Quiet certainty, despite the pain. I will not. My brother is free, and I will pay. But I will not die.

Calm is my soul, and clear…Slowly she became aware of herself again, body and breath, sharp rocks beneath her, wind on her face. And an arm around her shoulders, steady and strong, and a voice in her ear. A young voice, a woman, shaking a little, in pleading and fear. "Miriel. Miriel, what's wrong? Are you hurt? Miriel, please…"

Anger flared despite her weakness, or perhaps because of it. Too many people need too many things from me. Leave me alone. Can I not rest?

Yes. You may rest. But not alone. The anger faded, and she felt warm, and safe. She breathed slowly, let the pain flow through her and leave her at last, weak and shaken, but at peace in Valya's arms. And then, soft and clear, words she had said only once. She did not say them, could not say them, not yet. But she knew they were true. Ir cuian ech natho alerui. While I live, you will never be alone.

Notes:

"Come, lonely hunter, chieftain and king..." Again, this is "When I Go," by Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer.

"It was not the first time." Refer to ALFTS Ch. 23.

Ir cuian ech natho alerui - This is what is said by Rangers when they bind themselves as brothers and sisters by oath.