Note: This chapter contains content that may be very troubling for some readers. If you would like to know what happens before you read it, skip down to the notes at the end of the chapter.
They went in single file, as quietly as they might, though in truth the wind was enough to mask any sound their footsteps might make in the snow. As they came close the stone structure grew clearer, dark and hard-edged against the storm. Miriel smelled woodsmoke; a faint light showed through a crack between the crooked door and its frame. Her stomach churned, and she realized that until that moment, she had half-expected to find the place empty. She took a deep breath, wiped the snowmelt from her face, and stepped away from the line.
With Valya close behind, she made her way around to the far side of the house where, as Kalo had said, the solid stone wall was broken by a window. It was larger than she had expected, though not as low to the ground as she would have liked. Obstacle course. And this is why we run it with weapons. She crept close, until she stood flat against the wall. Faint sounds came through the cracks, male voices and the dull clang of metal on metal. Cooking? Or tending to their weapons. Hope not. And then she stiffened as, with a wordless roar, Halbarad burst through the door.
Shouts, screams, the clash of steel. She felt Valya move but thrust back an arm to check her. "Wait," she hissed. Wait, for an agonizing count of five, until she was certain all the men inside would have rushed to the door…and then, with a single, violent motion, she kicked open the shutter and vaulted inside.
Her sword banged on the window frame, but she came down on her feet, moving instinctively toward the hearth on the north wall. Warmest part of the room, farthest from any danger – and there they were, a woman and a girl, cowering in the corner. Miriel moved to cover them, Valya just behind her. The captives shrieked and cringed, but she ignored them, turning back to face any threat. Yet even as she did so – Only two. Where is the third?
Grunts and cries filled the small room. In the dim light of the fire, the shapes of men threw long shadows as they grappled and slashed and stabbed. And died – two Druadwaith already lay motionless on the floor, and in a matter of seconds three more fell, and one of the Lossoth men. Yet even as her eyes at last found a small, limp figure huddled on the floor, half-under a table, metal glinted in the gloom. The last of the raiders pulled the woman's head back, and held a knife to her throat.
Halbarad saw it at the same moment. "HOLD," he roared. All movement ceased. Miriel, who had been about to spring toward them, stood stock still, breath loud in the sudden stillness. Halbarad moved half a step forward.
The man jerked his head. "You move, she die," he snarled in the common tongue. The point of his knife pricked the woman's throat, drawing a thin trickle of blood. She whimpered, but did not open her eyes. The man heaved her up, began inching toward the open window.
Halbarad stopped, white-knuckled hands gripping sword and knife. "If she dies, you die."
And she will die in the storm regardless. He knows he's dead. He's playing for time.
So give him what he wants.
"I am a healer." She breathed slowly, steadying voice and hands. "See, I lay down my weapons." Her sword and long knife she set carefully on the floor, and her boot knife with them. She straightened, met the man's eyes. "She is hurt; she will not live long in the cold. If she dies, what then? You will be left with nothing." She paused, let the question hang in the air.
The man seemed to be fighting with himself, face working, eyes darting from Miriel to the Rangers to his captive and back. At last, he growled, "What you want?"
"I want her to live," said Miriel. "Let me care for her."
"And then?"
"We will let you go."
Disapproving growls from the Rangers near the door, but Halbarad stayed them with a movement of his hand. Barahir had better not be translating…
The man turned to Halbarad. "You agree?"
"I do," said Halbarad, deep voice impassive.
The man hesitated a moment longer, but at last he nodded, pushed the table aside and laid the woman on the ground.
Miriel moved slowly, heart pounding, every muscle tense, feeling threat yet unable to respond. Closer she came, closer, and still the man did not move, his eyes locked on her. Five feet, four, three – in arm's reach – she paused only a moment before bending to the woman who lay on the floor.
His knife flashed in the firelight, caught her arm and she gasped in pain. But the instant he moved, she moved too, ramming her knee between his legs as her right fist slammed into his jaw and her injured left arm grappled for the knife. He groaned and staggered, knife swinging wildly. She dodged a swipe at her throat, felt the knife cut her cheek but grabbed the arm that held it with both hands, twisting it so that the man screamed in pain and his body bent toward the ground. And then Halbarad was there, slamming him to the floor and driving a blade into his back. The man let out a hideous, gurgling groan and lay still.
Miriel crouched over him, gasping, her own breath loud in her ears.
"Are you all right?" Halbarad's voice, hoarse with strain, rasping in the stillness.
"Yes." She nodded shakily. "Yes. Fine…" The wound on her arm burned, but it didn't feel deep. Can't see in this light…Yet even as she twisted, trying to take the measure of it, Halbarad pulled the scarf from his neck and bound it tightly around her arm. She felt blood running down her cheek, wiped it away with her other sleeve. Halbarad looked up again, met her eyes. But before he could speak, a soft moan broke the hush.
The injured woman, captive no longer, lay unmoving on the floor, tangled hair caught under the dead man's boot. Her face was slack and yellow-gray, her breathing labored, and when Miriel took her hand, she gave no sign of recognition. No, please no. I saved you…Slowly, cautious of the danger, she reached out – and drew back with a gasp, mind flailing as if on the edge of quicksand. Clawing for control against darkness and pain, back and back, inching away from the abyss, hardly conscious of breath coming harsh in her throat as strain took its toll.
And then, soft and clear, a hand on her shoulder, a voice in her ear.
"Miriel." Steady, utterly unwavering. The darkness seeped away, and she opened her eyes. Blurred through tears – Halbarad's face, lines of concern giving lie to his tone. The hand on her shoulder tightened, but there were no words, no demands, until she had blinked away the tears. Even then he did not speak, the question only a raised eyebrow, and the answer a slight shake of the head. Halbarad sighed, nodded, released her shoulder and rose.
Miriel closed her eyes, leaned back against the table and breathed slowly. She heard him speaking to Valya, could not make out the words, knew what they must be.
"Falaran, Daeron, go with her." Halbarad's voice, raised a little in command.
They'll be bringing all the packs, she thought vaguely. It's over. Pause for a beat, and then, But not for me. Is anyone else hurt? I must—She began to push herself to her feet. But dizziness swept over her, and she sank to the ground again.
"Miriel." Halbarad again, low now, almost gentle. "Your face is covered in blood."
She had felt the knife slash her cheek, and the stinging pain, but it had not really registered. "I—I'll wash it…" She forced her eyes open, but again the world reeled, and she fell back, fighting panic.
"Brave one." More breath than words, so low she hardly heard it. But she felt Halbarad's arm around her shoulders, matched her breath to his, and slowly her head steadied. He laid a hand on her knee, looked in her eyes until he was sure she was lucid. "You can't care for others if you're bleeding all over them." A faint, wry smile. "Let me clean it. Then you can do…what you must." Miriel drew a slow breath, and nodded.
There was water already on the fire. She closed her eyes, and breath hissed through her teeth as Halbarad wiped the blood from her cheek. At least the water was warm, but it burned in the raw wound, and she gritted her teeth, and forced herself not to flinch.
"It will be easier if she's lying down." Barahir's voice, and Miriel felt hands on her, an arm again around her back. Instinct resisted, but she forced it quiet, let herself be guided down until she lay with her head in Barahir's lap. Flicker of candlelight against closed lids, and then the needle, and Barahir held her steady as Halbarad closed the wound. She thought of Anna sitting on a rock in the summer sun, and Halbarad's hands, swift and sure. She trusted him. And a little of the rigid tension left her.
"That's the last one." He laid a hand on her uninjured cheek. "Miriel."
She opened her eyes, blinking against the brightness of the candle, saw his face leaning over her, anxious in the flickering light.
"I—I'll be fine." She struggled to sit, and he helped her up, and she felt him warm against her. But then he let out a breath, and his arm was gone.
He returned with water, and she drank, and felt steadier.
"Can you stand?"
"I…think so." Slowly, carefully, but without help, she did. And then she saw – Kalo, the tracker who had led them so swiftly and so well, held the injured woman in his arms. 'My sister is with them.'
Abrupt, jolting memory – kneeling on bloody ground outside a village in northern Wilderland, a young man holding his father's body.
Not again.
You have no choice.
Stamping boots outside, and a gust of icy air. Miriel looked up, met Valya's eyes, dropped her gaze to the small wooden box in Valya's hands. "Captain…" Valya began. But Halbarad was already taking in from her, and Miriel knew he would show her how it was done. She must know. As with all else, she must know this.
"Barahir." He came and knelt by them, and she met his eyes, and then Kalo's. "Tell him. But…it is a choice. He must know that." Not the death. But the manner of it. And perhaps if the choice is his…But even as hope flickered through her, she knew it for a lie. The choice is mine. Always and only mine. And so also the payment.
Weregild, Girith called it. The gold for the man. Suffering for release from suffering, for there can be no gift without cost.
Barahir spoke, and for a long moment Kalo sat still, watching her sister's face. When at last he answered, his voice was little more than a whisper. And though Barahir translated, there was no need, for it was one of the few words she remembered.
"Yes."
Valya brought her the cup, and a small part of her marveled, as it always did, at the sweet scent of the deadly draught.
Miriel almost reached out to the woman, almost touched her one more time, but she knew it was no use. Save your strength. She met Kalo's eyes.
"Lift her head a little." Gesture made translation unnecessary; even that small movement made the woman groan in pain, though still she did not open her eyes.
Go in peace.
Despite its pleasant smell, the draught was bitter, and the woman choked a little, but she swallowed it. A breath, a shudder, and then she lay still in her brother's arms.
Miriel fell back, rigid, the wrenching anguish no less terrible for being expected. She bowed her head, eyes shut tight, shaking as pain flared through her. Pain without end, without relief, always and forever—
"Miriel." Valya's voice, soft in her ear, and she returned to herself, and knew that it was not forever.
Valya had seen it before. It had shocked her then, but now she knew. She drew Miriel close, said nothing more but only held her, calm and warm and solid, until at last the trembling died away. Miriel lay back against her, eyes closed, desiring nothing more than to stay where she was, cradled and safe, in the peace that comes with relief from pain.
No. Get up. There is work to do.
Sani and Savi were speaking quietly with the surviving woman and the girl. Yet they tensed and moved in front of them as Miriel drew close. She remembered the suspicion, even fear in the eyes of the Breelanders. They do not know. All they have seen is that the woman died. I made her die. And she trembled again at the echo of anguish. You would be the same way, were it your kin.
But they also saw Daeron.
She knelt, just outside arm's reach. "Are they hurt?" she asked quietly.
The men glanced at each other. At last, slowly, Sani spoke.
"They are not sure," Barahir translated. "They—" He frowned. "They think so, but the woman will not tell them, and the child has said nothing."
Bitter realization, and she let out a soft breath. Not to men.
She moved closer, met the woman's eyes, wide and fearful in the firelight. "What is your name?" Miriel asked gently. Barahir translated, and after a moment's hesitation, the woman murmured, "Eira." And then indicating the girl, "Lani."
Miriel nodded, drew a breath.
The captain won't like it.
Doesn't matter. Not now.
"If the men leave, may I help you?"
Eira's eyes narrowed, and she said something in a low voice to the Lossoth men.
"She asks if you are really a healer," said Barahir quietly. "He is telling her about Daeron."
At last the woman turned back to her, held her eyes for a long moment, and Miriel made no move and did not look away. And then that same, single word. "Yes."
There were a few disgruntled glanced but no words of protest, and the men went out into the snow. And by the flickering firelight, Miriel reached out, and took Eira's hand.
The Lossoth woman stiffened, gave a small gasp as Miriel found and soothed the pain of bruised knuckles and frost-stiffened joints. She fixed Miriel with a hard stare, said something in a low, hoarse voice; Miriel glanced at Valya, but the younger woman shook her head. "Too fast. I can't understand her." Miriel nodded, shrugged. I do not need words.
Not words, no. She had all she needed. And the words she felt, the anger and curses, were just as well not shared.
Eira was not badly hurt; she flinched and tensed when Miriel touched her, but she allowed it, though afterward she would not meet Miriel's eyes, rolled away from her and lay curled on her side, blinking sleepily, and tears shone on her cheeks in the firelight. Miriel wondered a little that she made no move to comfort Lani. But perhaps it is all she can do to hold onto herself.
The girl's eyes were wide, and still she spoke no word. But when Valya knelt and slipped an arm under her knees and another around her shoulders, she did not resist. Valya lifted her easily and laid her down on a blanket.
Miriel laid a gentle hand on her cheek and reached out, felt the fear, soothed it as one would stroke a frightened animal, and she was glad Halbarad had insisted on tending her own wound first. The child has seen enough bloody-faced monsters. She breathed slowly, her eyes never leaving the girl's, until at last Lani's shoulders relaxed, and she closed her eyes.
"Peace, child," said Miriel softly, though she knew the girl could not understand.
Valya had taken Lani's hand, and Miriel saw the girl's knuckles tighten and whiten, but she did not resist, not even the needle, whimpered and tensed but did not move, and when it was done, she let out only a long, shuddering sigh that ended in a sob.
Miriel laid both hands on her then and took her pain, took and took until her own body burned with it, pain of a kind she had never felt, took still more until she felt the blackness creeping into her mind, and only then did she let go. She leaned back heavily against the wall, her head reeling, heard sounds of feet, the scrape of wood on wood, muffled voices. But she paid them no heed, sitting with her eyes closed, knees drawn up to her chest. No. No. I must—I can't—No…
How long a time had passed she did not know, when she felt Valya's hand close over hers.
"Please eat. You must eat."
Miriel shook her head, still sunk between her knees so that Valya could not see her face.
"Miriel—" Voice tight with concern, Valya laid a hand on her back.
Muffled, but unmistakable, "I'm fine. Go."
Gwethor nîn, you are so far from fine—But the words were not hers, not to speak aloud, not yet. Valya's lips tightened, but she said nothing, and she obeyed.
As though Valya's presence had been a dam that held it back, Miriel felt sounds rise almost palpable around her: voices of men, clink of metal on metal, stamp of feet, rasp of a knife on a whetstone, rattling in her, swirling and echoing off each other. She squeezed her eyes tight as if to shut them out, but it was no use, the jumbled noise pulsing with the pain in her body until she could stand it no longer. Forcing her eyes open, she rose unsteadily, hand on the wall. With staggering steps, she made her way toward the door. The voices ceased abruptly. She knew they were looking at her, but she ignored them, all her strength bent on reaching the door, and the cold, silent winter night beyond. She found it at last, wrenched it open, and stepped out into the dark.
Valya had returned to where the men were gathered around the table, eating and talking in low voices. She leaned against the wall and took a bite of bread, closing her eyes as weariness swept over her. Yet she opened them when the voices went silent, watched as Miriel crossed unsteadily to the door, watched as it closed behind her. Then she shut her eyes, and the bread ground to crumbs in her hand.
Boots on the dirt beside her, and she opened her eyes to find Halbarad there, lips tight, hand clenched at his side. But before he could speak, she read the look he cast toward the door, and knew what he would say.
"Leave her be, captain. She wants to be alone."
"Her wounds were small. Has she another hurt?" Low and controlled, but she could feel the tension in it.
"No. Not her own." She met his eyes. "But her own are not all she bears." You know that better than I.
Sudden memory, so palpable it seemed almost real, the echo of weakness and fear. And the strength that called me back. "I know."
"Then you know she must wait out the pain. It will end, eventually."
He nodded, his lips bloodless.
"She's been here before," said Valya quietly, reassurance as much for herself as for him. "She knows the way back."
Halbarad turned a penetrating gaze on her. Yet Valya withstood the challenge, and it was the captain who first looked away. He turned away, stiffly, all grace gone, stumbling a little as he crossed the uneven floor. Thrusting down fear at having defied him, Valya went back to sit in the corner by the fire with Eira and Lani. Yet before long a sharp movement caught her eye, and she looked up to see him rise abruptly and slip out the door.
When the cold hit Miriel's face, it was as though she woke from a fever dream. She stood still, wide-eyed, blind for a time until her eyes adjusted to the darkness and saw that it was not so dark after all. The snow had stopped. The clouds lifted, lightened, and began to drift apart, outlined in moon-pale strips of light. Stars glittered in the widening gulfs between blank shores. She watched the moonlight come, the blue-white tide creeping over snowy hills as wind rolled back the clouds. Closer, and still closer, and then it was upon her, a ghostly light that glittered on the drifts. She shivered.
Creak of the door opening behind her, and closing, and then uneven footfalls, breath harsh with strain. She saw him at last, a shadow, a flicker of movement on the edge of sight though she did not turn her head.
"Miriel."
She did not move.
"Valya told me not to come."
She did not answer.
He was silent for a time, his breath gleaming palely in the moonlight.
"Did you know?" he asked at last. "That he would try to take you?"
It took her a moment to make sense of his words. Then she nodded. "No reason to trust me. No reason to let me close aside from that."
Halbarad looked at her for a long moment. "Ellenen." He reached out and touched her uninjured cheek, and it was only when she felt the sudden cold that she realized he brushed away tears. His fingers were bare, and warm on her skin, and it was that warmth at last that brought her back to herself. She turned to him.
"Put your gloves on. No sense freezing your hands."
"And what about you?" But the barest hint of a smile twitched the corners of his lips. He reached out and drew her own gloves from her belt and handed them to her. She took them without a word and put them on. He did the same, and then they stood in silence, watching the play of moonlight and shadow on the snow. At last, he said quietly, "Valya says the woman was bruised, but no more."
Miriel nodded. "There was worse damage to her hands. She tried to fight."
"And the girl?"
Silence. And then, softly, "As one might expect of a child used by men." Her eyes found his. "I'd like to give her a day to rest before we move."
After a moment, Halbarad nodded. "Very well." A pause, and then, "You must rest, too."
She ought to have been angry. At another time, she would have been. But now weariness swept through her, bone-deep, soul-deep. Tears blurred the moonlight, and she swayed. And here where there were none to see, she leaned against him, heard his breath catch, felt his weight shift. Then his arm was around her shoulders, and they steadied each other.
"I'll rest," she said, "if you will." She felt him stiffen, did not look at him. "You can tell me, or you can let me see." Or you can do neither. That also is a choice.
A long, shuddering breath, and his arm tightened around her. "It's…not bad," he said at last. "Hurts, but I can fight."
She grunted. "I know." You shouldn't be here. But that she could not say. "What happened?"
He shrugged, instinctive, dismissive. "Nothing…new."
At least he didn't say nothing.
"I—" But then he growled, shook his head in frustration, pulled off his glove and hers, and took her hand.
He told the truth. There was no new injury, only strain on his barely-healed wound from the Trollfells. And weariness, anxiety, fear…
That was not what he meant me to see.
But I cannot unsee. He must know that.
And gently, she touched the fear, the weariness and grief, let him feel her own. I know, brother. I know.
He had not asked for healing, did not truly need it, and so she did not. But she felt his ragged breath ease, felt the fear recede. Sometimes, it is enough to be known. That at least I can give.
At last he lifted his eyes to hers, released her hand and almost smiled. "Come inside, Mir. It's cold."
Without willing it, she found herself smiling a little in return, and when he turned back toward the house, she followed him, leaving the winter night to the shadows and the moon.
Notes:
Content warning - It is implied that the Lossoth captives, including a child, were sexually assaulted by their captors.
"She thought of Anna sitting on a rock in the summer sun..." NATWWAL Ch. 25, in the aftermath of the fight with the Druadwaith scouting party
Miriel's previous experiences with using the mercy draught, which she remembers here, are in ALFTS Ch. 23 and Dark Things Ch. 8.