Darya watched them come. She had not gone out in the rain, but from the door of the house she watched them, saw one of the cloaked figures embrace Meren in that fierce, full-hearted way that only Miriel did, and she felt a wave of relief wash over her. Anna was still at Sarn Ford, as far as she knew. If anything had happened, I would know. They would send word. Eventually. Patrols could—did—sometimes simply disappear, nothing certain ever known. But not the Chieftain and Halbarad. Not them. And not my sister.

Not this time, at least.

But Miriel was not alone. The girl's Lossoth garments were pale in the fading light, sharp contrast to the gray cloaks of the Ranger. Darya had a sudden, powerful flash of memory, so strong it nearly took her breath, of the last time she had seen Lossoth clothing. Lossoth faces. Lossoth weapons. And she breathed slowly to steady her heart. She had seen much since then, many terrible days. But never so much at once. So much blood, so much death. I was so young then. And Mother… She shook herself. Not now. If Miriel is bringing her here, she needs help.

The girl walked slowly, tentatively, but her steps were steady and her body straight, no obvious sign of injury or illness. Yet her grip on Daeron's hand was rigid, her eyes wide and darting. She's terrified. Memory vanished then, and reluctance. Darya threw a cloak over her shoulders, and stepped out into the rain.

She did not at first address the girl, but embraced Miriel, touched the scar on her cold, wet cheek with gentle fingers. "Tell me later. Come in and get warm first."

"The girl isn't hurt," said Miriel in a low voice, slipping an arm around Darya's waist to pull her close as they walked toward the door.

So we can talk without being overheard.

"Not in body, at least. Not anymore."

Not—later. Simple things now. "What is her name?"

"Lani."

"What does she need?"

"Warmth, and food. Dry clothes." Miriel's eyes met Darya's in the candlelight as they stepped through the door. "And somewhere that is safe."

Ah. Several possibilities, but all similar enough as to make no matter. At least not yet.

"Does she know the common speech?"

"Some. Enough."

"Will she let me touch her?"

A pause, and then, "Probably not."

Ah.

"Daeron should stay with her. He's the only one she trusts."

Darya raised her eyebrows in question. "And you?"

Low, and flat, "I mercied her mother."

Darya had done it many times, seen their mother do it. Memory of pain, and an old woman rocking, rocking, and at last burning with fever until there was nothing left. She told me not to. Not for her. She would not let me take that on myself. Without willing it, her arm tightened around Miriel. "We do what we must, nethanin," she said softly.

Miriel nodded, throat suddenly tight. From generation to generation, we do what we must, that our people may survive. And then, abrupt and unexpected, but clear in her mind as if he stood before her, another face. Another fatherless child. But strangely her heart was eased, and she almost smiled. Brannon mell.

They were in the kitchen now, at the back of the house, the warmest room for the great open fireplace that Darya kept always burning, never knowing when she might need hot water. Lani and Daeron had followed them, and now stood dripping and shivering in the sudden warmth. A last glance at Miriel, and then Darya stepped away from her, spoke to Daeron though she did not approach them. "Do you think you can get her to take her wet things off, if we leave you alone?"

Daeron glanced round, then down at Lani. "Is there a smaller room? She…is not used to houses so large."

Darya nodded. "Of course. This way."

When she had given them dry clothes and water for washing, food and candles and extra blankets, Darya gestured Miriel back to the kitchen, "You can tell me all of it later. But tell me what I need to know now."

It was easier than Miriel had thought it might be. In the warmth of the fire and the comfort of her sister's presence, the bleak north seemed far away, the burned camps, the stone hut, the pain of all she had done and seen. "This was her only chance," she said at last, looking into the fire. "She would have died if we had left her there."

"She may yet die," said Darya softly.

"I know."

"I'll do all I can." Darya swallowed. "As will Anna. Whenever she comes home."

Miriel nodded, met Darya's eyes, managed a small, sober smile. "I know. That's why she's here." She shuddered with cold, despite the heat of the fire.

"I'll take care of them," said Darya, laying a hand on her shoulder. "You take care of yourself. They're using all my hot water, but there will be plenty in the bath house."

"And only Valya to share it with," said Miriel, smile wide now, and true. "There are on occasion advantages to being a woman."

As she had expected, the men's side of the bathhouse was loud and crowded; she heard Falaran's voice, and Barahir's, and occasionally Halbarad's, along with others she did not recognize. But the women's side was empty save for Valya, who sat on a wooden bench, washing her hair over a basin. Miriel felt a sudden, sharp longing for the deep pools of Rivendell…and a body, slender and pale and beautiful in the steam…She flushed, and was grateful for the dim light. A raucous laugh then, Barahir's voice, and Halbarad's answering, low and fierce.

Another body, burning with fever, trembling in her arms. But later, warmth at her back in the night, and strong, scarred hands nearly gentle—

She shook her head sharply. Valya looked up, caught the gesture, frowned in concern. "Are you all right?"

Miriel nodded, made herself smile. "I thought someday they might grow up."

Valya laughed. "Never."

When they were clean and in dry clothes, damp hair hanging loose down their backs, they made their way around puddles and ruts to the Hall. The rain had ceased, and the night was quiet, clouds drifting apart as the moon rose. Miriel paused before the door, turned to Valya as moonlight fell on their faces. "I will be proud on the day I can call you sister," she said softly.

Valya dropped her eyes, shifted her weight. But then she lifted her chin, met Miriel's eyes and smiled. "So will I." And together they went into the warmth of the Hall.

He was not looking for her. Of course he wasn't. She's with her sister. Darya will take care of her. There's nothing—The door opened, not the great carved doors that were only opened in the warmth of summer, but the small side door to the enclosed entryway that was for everyday use. People had been coming and going all evening; it was only happenstance that he had placed himself in such a way that he could see them, as he sat by the great hearth with Aragorn. He ate and drank, but spoke little, and let himself fall into a haze of warmth and food and mead after so long in the Wild. There were many who wished to speak to the Chieftain, a constant stream coming and going, but Halbarad let their conversation wash over him unheeded. If he needs me, he'll ask. Yet his gazed slipped sideways every time the door opened…and every time, he pulled it back, and pushed away—What? There's nothing there. Stop being a fucking idiot.

He let out a sharp breath, straightened and shook himself, elbow knocking a plate so it clattered against another, would have spilled a mug had he not caught it.

"Hal?" Aragorn's voice, soft, concerned.

Halbarad turned to him. "What?"

Aragorn looked in his eyes, let out a breath and laid a hand on his shoulder, then shook his head with a small, wry smile. I won't tell you to go to bed. But you should.

Halbarad grunted, looked away from him. What are you, my mother?

The hand on his shoulder tightened. Your brother.

At last Halbarad turned back to him, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. So I can't outgrow listening to you?

Aragorn gripped his shoulder, then let him go. No, gwador nîn. You cannot.

Halbarad shifted, stretched, felt his head reel a little. Shouldn't have drunk so much straight off patrol. "Suppose I've had about enough. I'll—" And then the door opened once more.

He almost didn't recognize her. Don't lie.

He had seen her with her hair down before. I must have…

But if so, he had no memory of it.

She was smiling, turned to Valya and said something, then cast her eyes over the tables, looking for friends in the smoky lamplight. Meren rose, and she saw him, and her smile became a broad, joyful grin.

Aragorn said nothing, only watched Halbarad's eyes, and his face. Perhaps if he had not known them so intimately, he would have seen nothing. Mild interest at the unexpected, nothing more. That is what others saw, if they saw anything at all. But he knew those eyes.

She slid onto the bench beside Meren, bumped her shoulder against his and took a slice of bread off his plate. "I know you got that for me."

He laughed. "Of course." But then, pushing the plate toward her, "You're too thin, Mir."

She shrugged, met his eyes briefly. "We're here."

He looked at her, really looked at her in the warm, flickering light, and his hand lifted, and fingers brushed the scar on her hollow cheek. She flinched, just a little but he felt it, and withdrew his hand. He gazed at her, long and searching. Then carefully, deliberately, he put an arm around her shoulders, drew her close and laid his brow against hers, felt bones beneath her skin despite thick winter garments. "Gwethor nîn."

Only a moment, then he straightened, managed a wry smile and pushed himself up from the bench. "I'll get another plate."

She ate with him, listened with pleasure to all he could tell of the children, both his own and Isilmir, and smiled to see Valya and Daeron with two other maethorneth, at their own end of a table. But she spoke little, of their task said only that it was completed, and without loss. Not to us. "And we brought a girl back with us. An orphan. She's with Darya."

Meren glanced at her sidelong, looked down at his hands where they lay on the table. Ask Barahir. She doesn't need that now. He straightened, nodded toward the maethorneth. "How's Valya?"

Miriel smiled without thinking, as he had know she would. But she did not answer at once. She knew the answer, had decided for certain as she watched Valya guide them home from the north, confident and unerring. But it was a heavy thing, more even than the choice to take her in the first place. If I'm wrong…

I'm not wrong.

"She'll be ready by midsummer."

Meren raised his eyebrows, but then he shook his head and smiled. "I thought so."

"I'll miss her," said Miriel quietly, after a moment. "But she doesn't need me anymore." She swallowed, throat suddenly tight, and looked away from Meren. Why am I—

He laid a hand over hers, caressed her lean, chapped fingers. But he felt a sudden reluctance to speak.

This is what you hoped. You cannot always be there for her. None of us can. But perhaps all of us together…

He nodded, and squeezed her hand. "She will always need you." He met her eyes. "As you will need her." He drew a breath. You believe it, and she needs to hear it. Slowly, willing her to understand, "It takes nothing away from us." He swallowed. Say it. "If you make the oath to her. It is not…the usual way of things, but it is done." He smiled, small and sad. "My father had two oath-brothers."

"And all three of them died." A whisper; she had not meant to say it aloud, flinched to hear the words. Far from home, in the Wild in winter…

"But the brannon taid survived," he said softly.

Her first clear memory: Arahael riding through the gate with her grandfather in his arms. And even in her own shock and grief, she remembered the expression on Meren's small, round face when the brannon taid told him his father had died. Arahael had said it plainly, too exhausted and grieved, perhaps, to soften the blow for a child. Or perhaps not. There is no use in pretending the world is otherwise than it is, if a child is to grow up strong enough to face it. She put an arm around his shoulders, as she had done then. She had not really understood it, knew only that her friend was crying, and his mother standing rigid, unseeing, unable to comfort him. And so she had held him, while her own mother knelt in the mud and reached out to her grandfather, and made the grim, irrevocable choice.

I cannot heal him. But I can make his death easy.

Miriel had not understood her monther's pain then, had thought it was only the anguish of grief. I know better now.

But Darya had stood with her mother, and so Miriel stayed with her friend. My brother.

"They fulfilled their oaths." Older, deeper, rougher, but it was the same voice. "To the brannon taid, and to each other. Arahael told me later that if they had not done what they did, he would not have escaped."

A disaster mercifully rare, four Rangers killed in one fight. They fulfilled their oaths, and they died.

And now Valya will take that oath. Because I said she was ready.

She is ready.

"Courage is not the absence of fear." Meren's voice, soft, and he looked in her eyes. Slowly he reached out, touched the scar on her cheek. And his hand trembled, just a little. "Gwethor nîn, I almost lost you. A little lower, or higher…" He swallowed hard to steady his voice. "Perhaps one day I will. Or maybe, one day, she will save you, and you will return because of her." But then he smiled, and his hand moved down to gently shake her shoulder. "Don't overthink it, Mir. Come on, looks like Barahir's about to start singing. I have to be there for that."

She laughed a little, more to reassure him that from any feeling of mirth, but she rose, and followed him to the benches by the great hearth. Falaran moved over to give them room just as Barahir, clearly several drinks in, let loose with a song involving a young woman, an old horse, and barrel of beer. He sang with great enthusiasm, if not great skill, and whenever the pretty lass was mentioned, he gestured floridly at Meren.

"I suppose that makes me the horse?" Miriel murmured, and Meren laughed, and pulled her close.

He almost left then. Barahir's drunken shouts—that is not singing—and the smoky, stuffy air, his own less than steady head and overfull stomach, the dull ache in his hip, stiff after so long sitting on the hard bench…

Don't lie.

For that had all been tolerable, until—

He's her gwador. They've been best friends since they were children. He's married, and to a woman far more beautiful than—

He knew Tathar was beautiful. He could appreciate the beauty of women. The occasional pleasure as well, though never with women of his own people. There were many who had sought him over the years. But he was not Barahir, could not do what Barahir did, without love and without remorse. He knew why Barahir did it; he was one of the few who knew, for he had been in the north that summer. He had seen it play out, both the joy and the breaking. A bitter, mirthless smile, as he watched Barahir's drunken antics. We are alike in that.

Barahir had approached Meren again, reached out to caress his hair as he sang of the maid's lovely locks, and Meren slapped his hand away, and everyone laughed.

Everyone else was looking, so he could look. He saw their smiles, their closeness, their joy in each other. What would it be to be unbroken?

He was aware of Aragorn beside him, was always aware, whenever he was near. And he wanted to be near, still, though he hated himself for it. Comfort, reassurance – It is right when I am with him. That had always been, since the beginning, since the day he had come to them, standing between Elrond's sons in the morning light, his face fair and unlined and open in wonder as he took in his true people, his true home. Who did not love him in that moment?

Halbarad let out a long breath. It was my fault as much as his. I knew what I was doing. A faint, mirthless smile. My gwethor made sure of it.

He remembered it with perfect clarity, though twenty years and more had passed. She had brought into the hills behind the village, where they were certain to be alone and unobserved. And then she turned on him.

"What the fuck are you doing, Hal?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. What are you doing with him?"

He looked away, and said nothing.

She grunted, shook her head. "Perhaps I must be clearer. Why are you fucking the Chieftain?"

He brought his eyes back to hers, lifted his chin. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Jealous?"

Silence. And then, soft and cold, "That does not deserve an answer."

"Then why do you care? It's not hurting you. It's nothing to do with you." Even as he said it, he regretted it. He felt the blow, saw it it land. A blink, the slightest flinch, a brief flicker in the fierce set of her lips. "Anna, I—"

"You're going to make me say it." Flat, and furious. "I care about you. Don't give a shit about him. Oath, yes. He's my lord. But him as a man?" A thin, mirthless smile. "Hasn't earned it." Her eyes bored into his. "But you have. And he's going to hurt you."

"He would not—"

"He's going to break you, Hal."

"You don't know him, not like I do."

"Don't I? Three words: Heir of fucking Isildur."

He laughed. "That's four words, Annie."

She did not smile. "You know what I mean."

"I don't."

"Don't lie. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."

He growled, frustrating erasing mirth. "I don't know what you mean, Anna."

She clenched her jaw. "And here I thought you were a man, and knew how such things worked." Slowly now, as if to a child, "The Heir of Isildur must have a son, to pass on his precious name, and his useless broken sword. He will leave you, Hal, and marry a woman."

"He would not leave me."

Bearing on, as if she had not heard him, "And what would you be then? His mistress? You wouldn't stand for that, and you know it. Don't lie to yourself."

"You think I spend too much time with him."

Her eyes flashed, hands tightening to fists. "Don't. Listen to yourself, if you can. If love, or whatever the fuck it is, hasn't blinded you. I'm a mirror, Hal. I show you what you need to see. He will leave you. And it will break you."

He wanted to deny it, both the leaving and the breaking. But the words would not come. Even the thought of it, the image of it in his mind, made his heart break a little, and he shied away. Anna watched him, knew him, read his face. He could not hide it, not from her.

At last, quietly, "You know it's true. You can choose what to do with it. And I will pick up the pieces. But don't say I didn't warn you."

Notes:

Miriel's memory of her grandfather's death first shows up in NATWWAL Ch. 2.

"...though never with women of his own people." Miriel sees Halbarad coming into the common room of the Prancing Pony with a housemaid in ALFTS Ch. 18, and draws the correct conclusion. So she knows this :)

"I'm a mirror, Hal. I show you what you need to see." Hat tip to Andor. Vel and Cinta, OMG... ;)