The South Road watchpost was as she had remembered it. A year ago. It was only a year. Valya knew what had happened, of course. They all did, and sometimes Miriel imagined that she could feel them watching her. But they said nothing, and only Valya asked, very quietly, after they had hailed the guard on the road and turned off toward the hut dug into the hillside, "Are you all right, Mir?"
Miriel bit back the instinctive 'Fine.' She deserves better than that. In truth she found herself shaking, breath coming fast and shallow. Fear. Terror. Shadow and cold and death. For here was where she had first felt it, seen it in Gilrath's eyes, though she did not know then what it was. I still don't. And then, abrupt, incongruous, Where is Halbarad going? Where did the Chieftain send him? And she thought she knew, though she had not allowed herself to think about it before. For she knew that if she allowed herself to think about the danger he was walking into…She felt a sudden, fierce flash of anger toward Aragorn. How could you? Do you not—
He knows. You told him. Halbarad told him. And he felt it. He does what he must do, what we all swore to let him do. He loves us. And he uses us.
She bit her lip. At least I could have gone…And then grim understanding. No. My task, my best use, is to train Valya. Remembering that bright, terrible morning in the village in northern Wilderland: You keep your tools sharp, my lord.
"I'm all right," she said to Valya, gentle, grateful. "I'm glad you're here with me."
They were welcomed with joy and relief, the winter garrison weary and eager for home. But after the initial flurry of greeting, she saw Falaran draw Daerthon aside, and when they returned Daerthon's face was grim.
"He will accept it," said Falaran in a low voice, when Miriel at last got him alone on the edge of the firelight after they had eaten. "He'll have to."
Miriel met his eyes. "No," she said after a moment. "He doesn't." He does not have to forgive his son for not being what he cannot be.
He should.
But that does not mean he will.
"I think he will," said Falaran, at last. "He has trained enough maethorneth. And he had one who…" Falaran swallowed. "The one before me. It wasn't meant to be, he said. He never spoke ill of him."
"But he never spoke well of him either?" asked Miriel softly.
Silence. And then, "No." Falaran let out a sharp breath. "Daeron is his son. He loves him. Once he's got over the shock, he'll remember that." He shook his head, and gave a brief, grim smile. "And if he doesn't, Darya will talk sense into him."
"She'll try." Miriel met his eyes. "I think it is…good that he has Lani. That she needs him."
Falaran nodded. And then, quietly, "I've thought that since the beginning."
It was decided that they would rest the next day, before those bound for Sarn Ford continued south. But in the morning Miriel found herself unsettled, irritable, and when she overheard Daerthon say that the handle of their cooking pot had broken, and they were short on arrowheads, and a trip would have to be made to the smith in Bree, she said she would go.
"Are you sure?" Daerthon asked, and glanced at Valya.
"I'll be fine. She can stay; show her how the South Road is run." She smiled at Valya. "You'll likely find yourself here someday."
But in truth, she wanted to be away from that place, and she wanted to be alone. Valya was a comfort, of course, and a joy. But she was also a burden, her needs and her feelings and her questions, asked and unasked. Just for a little while, let me be responsible only for myself. She felt guilt, but also relief, and as she strode north, light and fast, she found herself smiling in the early sun.
Alone, and free, she found that she could think more clearly.
He is a man, like any other. All men have their moments of weakness.
But not him. Not with Dunedain women. Or Dunedain men, for that matter. Not that I've ever heard.
Just because I don't know about it doesn't mean it hasn't happened.
Was that what it was then? A moment of weakness?
She remembered it again, remembered every moment, every touch, every breath. Warmth…wanting…tenderness…hunger…
Weakness? That's not what it felt like.
She came to Bree late in the afternoon and went straight to the smithy. It stood near the south gate, a little away from other buildings to guard against fire, and the familiar, rhythmic clang of metal on metal grew loud as she entered the yard. The smith was bent over his anvil, his back to her. But it was not old Giles, that was certain, and she smiled. Jona. She leaned against the door frame and waited.
At last he straightened with a grunt, set aside the thing he had been pounding, half-turned, caught sight of her and turned sharply the rest of the way.
"Eh, how long've you been there?"
His face was already red and sweating from the heat, so she did not know if he colored more, but she could not help smiling.
"Not long," she laughed. "I didn't want to disturb you."
"Oh. Well…thank you."
"I've a pot handle that needs repairing. Do you have time for it? And I'll need fifty arrowheads as well."
He frowned, but it was a frown of concentration, and she knew he was back on solid ground. After a moment, he nodded. "Owed this to Mr. Heathertoes yesterday, but it shouldn't take much longer. Then I was going to start on a new harness for Will Rushlight, but he don't need it yet. I can make the excuse of my master being gone. Will ain't in a hurry." He glanced back at her, and his lips curved slightly. "And I've a notion you are."
She smiled. "More or less. Thank you."
He smiled too, and held out his hand. "Sorry, caught me by surprise. Been a day since I saw you last. How's that knife?"
She took his hand, hard and rough and calloused, then released it and drew the knife from her belt. Its polished blade shone in the afternoon light, the star dark against the smooth metal just below the hilt. "Where's the master?"
He grunted as he fingered the blade. "Gone on business to Staddle. Or so he says." He flashed a grin. "Business with Widow Rowan, more like."
She laughed again, and hoped that what came to her mind did not show on her face. "There's business and business." She set down her pack and pulled the heavy iron pot out of it. "Won't take long. And you have arrowheads?"
He nodded. "Keep plenty of 'em in summer. Always a need for 'em, your folk and ours both."
She gestured to the pot. "How long?"
He squinted at the sun. "Should be done by evening." He grinned, handed her back the knife and waved her away. "Go get yourself some food. Looks like you could use it."
She grunted, but then shook her head with a sidelong smile. "You're not wrong, boy."
"Boy?" He straightened, squared his shoulders; she and he were the same height, or near enough as to make no difference, but he was broader, stubble now on his reddened cheeks that had not been there when she had last seen him. Two years? Has it really been that long?
She looked him up and down. "We-ell, look how you've grown. Hadn't noticed."
He grinned again. "Fuck off. Go bother Butterbur, I've work to do."
"And he'll talk all the day long, work or no. Young Willie still there?
"He is, and none the worse for wear." Jona raised his eyebrows. "That boy will be glad to see you, if no one else is."
She laughed. "I'll go where I'm wanted, then."
"But see you come back by evening. I'll be wanting payment." He made a dismissive gesture toward the pot. "Boys are fools, maybe, but men don't work for free."
"Never you fear. Rangers pay what they owe."
Jona's face softened, and shook his head. "Well do I know it."
Old Butterbur grunted when he saw her, waved her into the common room, and a few minutes later brought a heaping plate of roast pork and turnips and carrots, and bread with butter, and a slice of pie. "You'll be hungry, I expect. Your folk always are." And then, eyeing her critically, "Winter's not been kind to you." And before she could deny it, manage whatever comforting lie he might believe, he shook his head and stepped back. "Not my concern, you'll say, and right enough. But you look out for those who ain't your concern, so to speak, so maybe I can do the same." He gave a firm nod, and without waiting for a reply. But then, over his shoulder as he pushed through the door into the kitchen, "I'll send that boy round, long as you don't mind horse smell."
She laughed, quietly, and shook her head. "Not at all, my friend," though she knew he could not hear. "Not at all."
Willie Rushlight came in as she was finishing the last of her food. He did indeed smell like horse, though it appeared that he had at least cleaned the muck off his boots. The common room was starting to fill now, as afternoon drew toward evening, and he hesitated, peering round before he saw her at last in her corner. He came over to her, stood awkwardly before her table and gave a little bow. "Mistress-Miriel-I-hope-you-are-well," all in a rush, and then he stood still, staring over her shoulder.
"I am," she said, and managed not to laugh. "Come, sit with me. How are your mother and father?"
His eyes widened a little, but he obeyed. He ate the last of her pie that she pushed over to him—"I can't eat another bite, suppose you could help with this? The master would be angry if I wasted it."—and with only a little prompting, he told her of all that had happened on the Rushlights' farm and in the village, and Miriel smiled at the comforting sameness of it. Spring to summer to autumn to winter and back to spring again, planting and tending and harvesting. Children grow, and animals are born and die, and people are born and die, for that is the way of the world. She looked away from the boy beside her, cast her gaze around the dim, smoky room, loud and crowded now with tradesmen and farmers and travelers. This is what we protect. But then, with a wry smile, Better them than me. And she thought of woods and moors and mountains, sun and rain and snow and wind, and stars so bright they cast shadows. That is where I belong.
Willie would, it seemed, have been content to talk all night, fear vanished before so patient an audience. But the light was fading in the window, and at last she laid a hand on his shoulder. "I must go," she said, and smiled. "Give your mother my best, and the dogs. And tell your father I said you're growing into a fine young man." The boy flushed red, scrambled to his feet and gave her a brief, awkward nod then scuttled out through a door by the kitchen. Miriel shook her head, and smiled. Time to be getting on.
But when she came out of the Pony, she found that the dimness was not from dusk alone. A gusty wind whipped the dust round her feet, and a glance at the roiling eastern sky told her the road would not be dusty much longer. Just my luck. I suppose I could stay here tonight, surely Butterbur has a room, probably wouldn't even charge me for it. But something in her would not do that. Husband the favors, save them, so they are there when you truly need them. And a cold, wet night huddled under the meager shelter of tree or rock did not count as need. She hurried down the road.
Jona had his back to her once again when she entered the yard, but this time she strode up to him, far enough that she was out of reach of stray sparks, close enough that she knew he could see her from the corner of his eye. He straightened, grunting a little at the stiffness in his back, but there was a satisfied look on his face as he handed her a cloth bag that clinked gently, far heavier than its small size would warrant. "Fifty. You can check if you want, but I counted 'em twice. And this here," he gestured to the pot, handle whole again, "is good as new, or better." He smiled, full and broad, and it brought a sudden warmth to him that had not been there before, and she found herself smiling in return. But then she glanced at the sky.
"I should go."
He frowned. "It's going to rain."
"Really? I couldn't tell," she snapped, and was immediately ashamed. And though she did not apologize, she sighed, and the weariness in her voice was its own apology. "I'll find somewhere dry enough. There are places in the woods, not far outside the village."
"Can't be comfortable. Could you not stay the night at the Pony?"
She shrugged. "Not worth the coin." A wry smile. "I don't melt in the rain."
"Suppose not." And then, before she could think of what to say in response, a response that ought to be a farewell though she was strangely reluctant to make it, his eyes flicked to hers and quickly away.
"You could stay here."
Silence, and a distant rumble of thunder.
"Your master wouldn't mind?"
Now he did meet her eyes, and did not look away. "He don't need to know."
The first drops of rain, heavy and cold, made dark spots in the dust.
Need? Was that all it was?
A measured breath, and then a slow smile. "Sure, all right."
"You'll stay?" He clearly had not expected it, could not entirely keep the incredulity from his voice.
She grinned. "Don't make me repeat myself."
She stepped quickly under the shelter of the forge roof, and for a moment he seemed at a loss. But then he laughed, and shook his head. "Well, come in." And she followed him into the house.
It was dim, for there were few windows, and the light was rapidly fading as the storm rolled in. But now that the decision was made, he seemed more at ease.
"You can leave your things there if you like." He gestured to a space by the unlit fireplace. "Are you hungry?"
"I ate at the Pony."
"Then you won't want food for a while yet."
She laughed. "No."
"Well, rest your feet. I'll get us a drink."
A drink? No, not a boy.
She sat in one of the two chairs by the empty fireplace, pulled her boots off her aching feet and sighed. She was just beginning to think, They must smell, probably not something one ought to do when a guest in another's house, when he came through the door, two mugs in one hand and a bottle in the other. If he noticed the smell, he did not say so. He set the mugs on the table and poured carefully, and his big hands shook a little from the strain of his work.
"Apple wine," he said as he handed it to her. "Not bad. Last fall was a good crop."
"It was for us as well."
"Do your people grow apples?"
Time passed without notice, even as the storm rolled in and raged overhead. Rain drummed on the roof, and startling cracks of thunder shook the very air, and they laughed and continued talking. She told him of the Wild, and of life in Elenost, nothing he should not know, but there was much that was ordinary, simple, and she found herself smiling to tell it. And he told her of the village, its ways of life, and most of all its gossip. He seemed to know rather a lot of that for a man, she thought, until she remembered that as a smith, he would see nearly everyone. He would not talk, or not much, for he could not pause in his work, but the shopkeeper would stand there, or the farmer's daughter, waiting for him to finish mending the tool or shoeing the horse, and they would tell stories that required no response.
It was only once it had grown quite dark, so dark that she could no longer see clearly to refill her mug, that they seemed to come back to the room where they sat. And then there was quiet, sudden, almost unnerving, for the storm had moved away, and there was only the faint patter of rain. He shook himself. "I'll get candles. Are you hungry?"
They ate, and it was good. Not as good as the Pony, but simple and filling. Yet when they were done he seemed again at a loss, and he glanced at her, and then away.
"Would you like to wash? There's always hot water, whenever the forge is lit." A tentative smile. "You don't get that in the Wild."
It was the uncertainty in his voice that decided her. She laughed. "That we do not. I would like it, if it's not too much trouble."
"No, no trouble." They both stood, almost suddenly. "Basin's just there." He pointed to a small side room. "I'll go fetch the water." And when he had gone, she couldn't help smiling as she dragged the heavy wooden washtub into the center of the floor. There was soap in a wooden cup on the shelf, though she could not find anything clean to use as a towel. I've done without before.
He returned, puffing a little as he lugged the iron kettle of hot water, and set it on the floor by the tub. "There." He straightened, looked around as though he did not know what to do next. "I'll just go…"
"You can stay."
Are you sure? Is this really what you want? All you want?
Only one way to find out.
She looked him up and down, slowly, appreciatively. "That is, if you wish to."
He stared at her a moment, then smiled, and visibly relaxed. "Suppose I do."
She nodded, laughed softly. "Stay, then."
It is what I want. But it is not all I want.
Damn it.
She woke early, slipped out of bed while he still slept, and she was dressed and eating breakfast by the time he stumbled blearily into the kitchen. He halted abruptly, and looked at her. At last, still hoarse with sleep, "Thought you were gone."
She took pity on him. "Not yet." She smiled. "Food first."
But she was soon done, and she stood, and shouldered her pack, heavier now with the arrowheads in addition to the pot. "I must go," she said. For what else is there to say?
But it was not a mistake. He should know that.
She smiled. "Thank you."
He shifted his feet, looked away from her and then back and then away again, and then he gestured. "Come out here." She followed him out into the light, rainwashed and clear. He stepped under the roof of the forge, lifted something from the shadowed corner of a shelf and held it out to her, gleaming in the bright morning. A knife, smaller than the other, for boot or sleeve rather than belt. But marked as the other was with the Star of the North, small and perfect, incised just below the hilt. She took the knife, felt its balance, tossed it from one hand to the other, and was hardly aware of the smile that spread over her face. A sudden flick of her wrist, a flash of silver, and a dull thunk as it stuck in a wooden post. She laughed aloud in surprise and delight. "I've never felt a knife like this. What did you do?"
He shrugged. "Made it so it felt good in my hand."
And she sheathed the knife, and took his hand, and held it in both of hers. Again, very softly, "Thank you, Jona." She let him go, stepped back and smiled, gave a small bow. And then she turned and strode across the yard and out to the road in the bright morning.
Notes:
"Remembering that bright, terrible morning in the village in northern Wilderland: You keep your tools sharp, my lord." ALFTS Ch. 23
Miriel encounters Jona Smith as a young apprentice in NATWWAL Ch. 26 and 33; more recently, he gives her a knife in ALFTS Ch. 19.
Miriel heals Willie Rushlight after he is kicked by a horse in ALFTS Ch. 18.