Halbarad stayed in the Hall a little while longer after Miriel had left, but in warmth and safety, with a full belly and Aragorn beside him, he found his eyes falling closed. He bit his lip, and straightened.

"Come, Hal," said Aragorn with a smile. "I would speak with you before you sleep, if you can bear it."

Halbarad stood and followed him, through the door at the side of the hall, and down the passage to his rooms. A bright fire burned in the hearth, and though the sitting room was empty, a bottle and two earthenware cups were set on a side table.

Aragorn laughed a little. "Raeneth knows me too well. Will you have a drink?" Without waiting for an answer, he poured, and the scent of mead was like sunlight in Halbarad's weary mind. Though a part of him knew it was unwise, weak as he was, he emptied the cup in two long gulps, coughing a little as he set it down. He turned to find Aragorn watching him with undisguised concern, his smile gone.

"Hal," he said softly, but followed it with nothing, only looked at him, that piercing gaze with a force all its own.

"What?" asked Halbarad at last, setting a hand on the table to steady himself, as the mead buzzed in his head and made the room waver. There was the hard sound of Aragorn setting down his own cup a little too quickly, and then his arm was around Halbarad's shoulders, breath warm on his ear.

"Careful, brother," he murmured. "Come sit." Halbarad sank heavily onto a bench, and Aragorn sat beside him. "Hush now, and rest."

Hardly aware of himself, Halbarad found his eyes falling shut. He leaned his head against Aragorn's shoulder. Firelight flickered against closed lids, and he felt himself drifting, the pain reduced to a dull ache. How long he strayed thus, he did not know, but when Aragorn moved he woke suddenly, wide-eyed, as if from deep sleep. Aragorn eased away from him and stood. Halbarad watched blankly as he crossed the rug, lifted a log from the pile at the corner of the hearth and set it carefully on the fire. A bit of moss crackled as it burned away, sending up flickering sparks before it shriveled to twisting worms of black and glowing red. Halbarad straightened and recalled himself.

"You said you would speak with me. What do you wish to know?"

Aragorn looked at him narrowly, but he seemed satisfied with what he saw, for he said, "Amloth and Dalbarin told me of the battle, but I would have your account of it. And of…all that came before."

So Halbarad told him, speaking slowly as he searched back in memory. It was harder than he would have thought, for there seemed a haze over the events before his wound as well as those after. He told what he could, but when he reached the blow that had struck him down, he stopped abruptly. "Don't remember much after that," he said, after a pause. "Ask Miriel."

"I will." And then, "You did well, brother."

That roused him. "Well? I almost died, and would have had she not been there. Almost took her with me, too." The last words were soft, and there was regret in them, perhaps even guilt.

"You did what few others would have done, gwador nîn, and what few others could have done. An evil has been ended that might else have caused much harm and grief." His let out a breath, looked away from Halbarad. "And Miriel makes her own choices. You bear no blame for that."

"How can I not, Arya? She would have laid down her life for me – for you."

"For me?"

"She said she could not have borne your grief had I died when she could have saved me."

"Maloseg," murmured Aragorn, more to himself than to Halbarad, and his mind was troubled. But Hal does not need that now. "Fortunate for us both that she was there, then," he said, and hoped his smile did not look forced. Yet the thought of Halbarad's death struck him anew with fresh dread, and he slipped an arm back around him and pulled him close. They were quiet for a time, listening to the crackle of the fire.

At last, Aragorn said softly, "It is what I feared more than anything, when I was in the South – that I would return and find you gone, and our last words spoken in anger."

"And I feared you would never return."

"It is dangerous to love, Hal. Have you the courage for it?"

Halbarad smiled at the memory, tinged with grief though it was. "I don't know. I thought I did." And then, sudden and hot, the bitterness bubbled up again, and he could not help himself. "Doesn't matter now, does it?"

Aragorn did not reply, and Halbarad did not lift his head from where it lay on Aragorn's shoulder to look in his face, for he did not want to see what was there.

At last, Aragorn stirred. "May I see it? The wound?"

In answer, Halbarad slipped out from under Aragorn's arm and got to his feet, holding the back of the chair for a moment to steady himself. His belt made a soft metallic clank as it dropped to the floor, and he lifted tunic and shirt without meeting Aragorn's eyes. Aragorn rose quietly and stepped over to him, eyes widening a little as he took in the length of the angry, purple-red scar. His fingers ran lightly over it, and then he raised his eyes to Halbarad's.

"Lucky indeed, brother."

Halbarad nodded, then gasped softly as Aragorn laid his palm flat on the wound. Many times though he had felt the Gift in him, he never got used to it, his body rebelling instinctively against that which was not his own. He forced himself to relax, and then sighed a little as, for the first time in many days, the pain left him. His eyes fell closed, and he smiled.

Then Aragorn's hand moved, but not to withdraw. Softly, gently, the callused palm moved over smooth skin. Fingers traced hard muscle and coarse hair, and came to rest in the flat space between his hip bones.

"No," said Halbarad, but his voice was a whisper, and it shook.

Aragorn held Halbarad's eyes for a long moment, and then he stepped swiftly forward. His free hand slid into Halbarad's hair, and when their mouths found each other, it was with more hunger than tenderness. And then Aragorn's hand moved, down and down, and Halbarad's groan was equal parts lust and despair.

How they found themselves in the bedroom, Halbarad could not afterward recall. There was no fire in this hearth, and the air was cold on his bare chest. Yet he hardly noticed it, nor did he notice the roughness of the wool blanket beneath his back. The light of a single candle threw sharp shadows across Aragorn's face and the muscles of his shoulders. There were no words, only soft grunts and hard breath, and the slide of skin on skin. So many years it had been, yet Halbarad's body remembered as certainly as it remembered the swordplay. This had been the way of it, always, he on his back and Aragorn over him, for he would give his lord anything he desired – and with a sudden movement that shocked them both, he rolled.

He had always been the stronger of the two, and the better wrestler, though Aragorn was without doubt the better sword. Now it was Aragorn on his back, looking up at Halbarad's candlelit face, at the straining muscles of chest and belly as he held himself up. Halbarad could see alarm in his eyes, tenseness at the corners of his mouth, but Aragorn did not fight. For a long moment, they were entirely still, save for their eyes, and Halbarad held Aragorn's arms in an iron grip. Then desire for mastery went out of him as swiftly as it had come. He let out a long, shaky breath, and the rigid strength left him, and his own weight bore him down until he lay full length on Aragorn's body, head resting on his shoulder.

"Arya." The mere ghost of a whisper: "Melethen." And then the tears came. Smooth and silent, they slipped over his gaunt cheeks, fell and pooled in the hollow of Aragorn's shoulder until his skin was slick with them.

Aragorn's hands tightened on Halbarad's back, until nails dug into skin. "If I had lost you…" Aragorn whispered. And it was not until Halbarad heard the choked, broken voice that he realized Aragorn too was weeping.

Softly, Halbarad began to move. Still he wept, but the tears came slower now, and then they stopped, as if dried like water in the sun by the growing heat. He felt Aragorn breathing beneath him, felt his answering movement, and the answering heat. Aragorn groaned softly, and then Halbarad knew he wanted it to be the way it had always been.

He rolled them again, more gently than before, and when he was once more on his back, he looked up into Aragorn's eyes, dark in the candlelight.

Here, now, in this moment, there is only you – your eyes and your hands, the feel of you with me. After this, there can be space between us, and must be, but now you are everything. And he would not close his eyes.

Caution, ingrained in them since the beginning and never forgotten, kept their cries quiet. Halbarad bit his lip so hard it bled, but still he did not take his eyes from Aragorn's. I want to see you, melethen, one last time. And the utter abandon on Aragorn's face as his body shuddered in release was more beautiful, Halbarad thought, than anything he had ever seen.

They lay quiet for a long time afterward, mingled sweat slowly growing cold on their skin. Halbarad's head rested on Aragorn's shoulder and Aragorn's arms around were around his back, and they held each other as if there were nothing more precious to either of them in the world.

Yet even before the cold would have forced him to it, Halbarad stirred. He lifted his head, ran a slow, tender hand through Aragorn's hair and then rolled away. Aragorn made a small noise of protest, but Halbarad ignored it. Bare feet tingling on the cold floor, he padded into the other room to put on his clothes. Shouldn't have left them here. Someone might have seen them.

When he returned, Aragorn was crouched by the hearth, blowing on the kindling of a new-laid fire. He stood when Halbarad entered, and the flare of firelight gleamed on scars that had not been there before. Stepping silently to him, Halbarad reached out to touch them: right arm, just above the elbow; left shoulder, clearly an arrow; a long slash across the ribs.

"You were lucky, too," he said softly, of the last one. "Much lower and it would have had you in the gut."

Aragorn nodded but said nothing.

Halbarad's hand lingered a moment, fingering the hardness of the bone, the firmness of muscle beneath smooth skin. Enough. His hand withdrew to his side and was still.

"This must be the end of it, Arya." He met Aragorn's eyes, and his voice was steady. "I cannot have part of you – it would break me, and I would come to hate you for it." He closed his eyes for a moment, let out a slow breath. "You are the Heir of Isildur; you must marry a woman, and father a son. You have my sword and my oath and my love as brother and friend. My life is yours to command. But my body is my own."

A forlorn hope still flickered in him that Aragorn would protest, but he knew it would not be, and it was not. Aragorn gazed at him for a long moment, perfectly still, and then he nodded. "As you wish."

"It is not what I wish." Hard and hot and angry, the words rushed out before he could stop them. He pressed his lips shut and breathed deep, willing himself calm. I do not want to fight with you, not now.

"No," said Aragorn softly, after a moment. "No, it is not what you wish. But it must be so."

Halbarad nodded, and his shoulders sagged with the weariness of defeat. He cast his gaze once more over Aragorn's body, gleaming softly in the firelight, and then he turned and left.

And it was only once he heard the outer door shut that Aragorn allowed himself to weep.

For days they spoke little, only what was needed when others were watching. But slowly anger and hurt cooled, and they drew cautiously back to each other. They had quarreled in the past, in the time before. This was how it had been then, and there was some small comfort in finding it the same now, though so much else had changed.

At last a gray afternoon, winter darkness falling early, snow sifting down on the icy practice ground. Relieved groans when Aragorn called a halt to training, and the Rangers who had stayed that long, far from all who were in the village, put away their gear and hurried eagerly toward the warmth of the Hall. But Halbarad lingered, checking arrows for damage, straightening weapons in their racks. It was the Armsmaster's duty, not his, but Arondir was ill, and it had not been done for some days. That was the whole of it, perhaps. Or perhaps not, Aragorn thought, and so he stayed as well. And when all others were gone, abruptly Halbarad turned to him.

"There is something I must tell you. About Miriel."

Aragorn frowned in surprise. "Is all well?"

"I…think so. I don't know." And then, "Arya, she should not have done what she did."

"Why not?"

"It was—" Halbarad let out a sharp, pained breath. "It was not her duty, nor the best thing for our people."

"She made a choice."

"If I had died—"

Aragorn flinched. He could not help it. Only a blink, a tightening of the lips and a soft indrawn breath. But Halbarad saw, and stopped, and then went on more quietly, looking Aragorn in the eye. "If I had died, you would have been distraught. But you have other captains."

"No one I trust as I trust you."

Halbarad's voice nearly broke. He swallowed hard, harshness forcing control. "No. But perhaps in time there would be." And when Aragorn opened his mouth to speak again, Halbarad held up a hand. "No, Arya. I am replaceable. But a healer…" He shook his head. "She should not have risked herself so far for me."

"She knew the risk," said Aragorn. And then, more quietly, "She knows what happened to her mother." He sighed. "No one can say what would have happened had it come to the point. But it did not. She did her duty, and you did yours, and you are both here." A pause, then, "And I have never been more grateful for anything in my life." He blinked, and looked away.

Halbarad said nothing, made himself breathe slowly, the need to touch and the need to resist it taking up all his mind. At last Aragorn turned back to him. Almost gently, "Was that what you needed to tell me?"

"No." Halbarad shook himself. "No." He paused, let out a frustrated breath. "Arya, you know me. You know I believe what I see. What I can hear and touch, and know to be true. Not ghosts, or legends or foretelling. You know this."

Aragorn smiled a little, in memory of arguments when they were young. "All that prophetic bullshit, eh?" He laughed softly, for that was what Halbarad had called it.

Halbarad nodded, a wry twist to his lip. "That, yes." But then it was gone, utter seriousness in its place. "But when I lay in Rivendell—a day after we arrived, maybe two, I had no reckoning of time—she came to me. Elrond told me after that she should not have come then, that she was still too weak. But she did. I was sleeping, dreaming, but I knew she was there. My eyes were closed. But I saw her, in my dream. It was her, I know that. Her, but also it was not her, or another with her, behind her, shining out from her." He let out a breath. "I sound like a madman, but Arya, that is what I saw. And I knew what it was. The name came to me, and I knew it was right. And when I opened my eyes, and saw her face in truth before me…Arya, I called her Ellenen. I can't explain it. I don't know how I knew. But I did. I still know." He growled in frustration. "It sounds…you must think me a fool. And a hypocrite." He offered a bleak smile.

But Aragorn only looked at him, held his eyes for a long moment. And then, very quietly, "No."

Halbarad frowned. "What then? It was real?"

"What is real, Hal?" He let out a sharp breath, shook his head at the unanswerable enormity of it. But then he smiled a little, and met Halbarad's eyes. "You are not mad. At least not in this." Choosing words with care, "As much as anything I see is real, I think that was real." A pause, and then, very softly, "I have seen it too."

Halbarad frowned. "What? What did you see? When?"

Aragorn shook his head. "No. It is…too uncertain. Too many things it could be, too many ways it could go. But it is not nothing. Of that I am certain."

Silence for a long while. At last, "So what do we do?" Calm now, almost resigned, once again the captain doing his lord's bidding, little though he might like it.

Aragorn held his eyes for a long moment. "Gwador nîn." And then, "Nothing. It is not nothing, but we do nothing. Or nothing we would not otherwise do. The sight is real." A small smile. "Yours, and mine. But it is rarely useful, and almost never as an immediate guide to deeds. We must be patient, and wait." A pause, then, "And protect her."

Halbarad barked a laugh. "She can protect herself. And anyone else who happens to be near."

"Well do I know it. But even the best of us need a brother at our backs."

Brothers she had, and sisters too, by birth and by oath and by long service together. Through darkness they had come, and to darkness they would return. They all knew that. But for this time, in the warmth of the Hall and the light of song, they had each other, and it was enough.

She and Valya stayed in the village until they were rested and recovered. When they were not training, she held Isilmir, laughed at her wonder and joy when she discovered her toes, steadied her first wobbling attempts to sit. And she played with Meren's children, tossed them in the air and made men out of snow and pretended not to find them when they hid, giggling, under the bed.

Hannas was nearly as strong as she had ever been, though still she was cautious, said her body did not feel quite her own. "Well, it's not," Miriel said one evening, and looked pointedly at Isilmir, suckling contentedly as they sat by the fire. Meren's wife Tathar, half-asleep in a chair after finally managing to get her own children into bed, grunted a dry laugh. "Wait until you have two of them."

Miriel turned to Hannas, eyebrows raised, a grin twitching her lips. "Something I don't know?"

Hannas shook her head vehemently. "No." But then she glanced down as Isilmir with that warm, fond smile. "Not yet, at least."

"And you, Mir?" It was Tathar who spoke, but they both looked at her expectantly, and she realized this must be a question they had discussed between them.

"No. Valar, no. I wouldn't know the first thing to do with a child."

"You learn quickly," Hannas laughed. "Always have."

"When I want to learn," Miriel shot back. "I'm not—I can't—No." Much though she had enjoyed these last days, they had felt in some way unreal, like a dream, a vision from another life, pleasant enough but decidedly not her own. Like a garment that doesn't quite fit. The thought that it might be hers filled her with vague dread. I am not…that. I can't be. And she felt a sudden, fierce longing for the Wild.

The next morning she spoke to Valya, and then found Aragorn in his rooms. The morning training had been wet and miserable, an unexpected thaw having turning the practice ground to mud, and an untidy pile of dirty garments sat by the door. He was clean now, and dry, but he looked tired, unsettled, standing with Darahad by a table covered with papers and maps. The brannon taid had arrived from the North Downs only the day before, lean and weary from the haste of his journey. Whatever the tidings he had brought back with such urgency, he had spoken of them to none but Aragorn. They both turned as she entered, and she hesitated under the combined stares of the Chieftain and the brannon taid. But Aragorn smiled, and gestured her to join them. "You have come to tell me you are ready to leave."

"I—yes, my lord." How the hell does he do that?

He laughed gently, and clapped her on the shoulder. "I have been expecting it for some days, Mir. And your maethorneth? Is she ready?"

"She is." Miriel had been surprised, and touched, by Valya's willingness, her unhesitating agreement to go back out into the Wild in winter. "I go where you go," she had said, with such simple, unquestioning sincerity that Miriel could think of nothing to say in reply.

Aragorn looked at Darahad. "That ought to do it. We will leave in two days."

The older man nodded, slow and heavy, reluctant acknowledgment of a truth that could not be avoided. "It must be so." And then, "Thank you, my lord."

"Rest, brother. You've earned it." Aragorn glanced down at the papers, picked one up and rolled it, and handed it to Darahad. "Give them warning. And send Halbarad to me."

Darahad bowed. "As you wish, my lord." He took the scroll, and the door closed with a creak behind him.

Aragorn turned to Miriel. He had not spoken to her of what Arwen had written, though he had read the letter so many times it was nearly committed to memory. He had known it, or known enough that what she told him was not unexpected. But he meant what he had said to Halbarad. There are many ways it could go. She is who she is, and I am who I am. What we are together – that is yet to be known. A small, wry smile, and he shook his head, and lifted his eyes to meet hers. "Will you come with me, maloseg?"

And she did not ask where, or why, for those questions did not matter. "Of course, my lord."

He took her hand, and she felt him with her, warm and strong as a flame in the night. Dark things will come. They will always come. And we will face them together. And they both thought of words passed down in legend, through the long years in the tales of their people.

'Come with me, my brave one, for we must face the darkness.'

Half blind with weariness
I touched the thread and wept.
O, it was frail as air.

And I turned then
With the white spool
Through the cold rocks,
Through the black rocks,
Through the long webs,
And the mist fell,
And the webs clung,
And the rocks tumbled,
And the earth shook.

And the thread held.

"The Return," by Mary Oliver

Notes:

melethen - beloved

Regarding the sex scene - you either liked it, or you didn't; I figure I'm going to have readers in both camps. But even mature, responsible people - even heroes - make bad decisions, especially when they are physically and emotionally exhausted. And now we get to watch them deal with the fallout, and figure out who and how they are going to be together. I love them both, but somehow I can't ever make it easy for them ;)

Miriel and her friends have at last reached the end of this adventure! There are, of course, more to come, but I need to do quite a bit of literary connect-the-dots before I have something that's ready to post, so it may be a while. In the meantime, if anyone is interested, I've started posting podfic recordings of my stories on AO3. As always, thank you so much for your support, especially those of you who have left comments along the way; they really do make my day. Happy summer to you all!