T.A. 2955

Life fell into a dreary sort of routine when Aragorn was out in the wild. Dírhael took command of the Rangers at the Angle, and Nethril ran the rest of the Chieftain’s affairs, settling any disputes that arose between the people and making sure the household was in order. The work suited her, but her cousin’s absence always managed to press in on the Angle, all the more pointed due to his years hidden away. Adanel would become snappish, the first few days after her grandson’s departure, and Nethril had long learned to give her mentor space when she needed it.

The two of them sat quietly together now in a back room of the Chieftain’s house, weak grey light struggling through the window. Faelhen joined them in a corner, dutifully working at her spinning wheel, while Adanel perched somewhat stiffly on a cushioned chair, a well-worn book open in her lap. Nethril entered new numbers into the harvest ledger, subtracting out measurements from her earlier visit to the granaries. The Angle would not have to worry about empty bellies this winter, but the harvest was not overly plentiful, careful rationing a constant in the back of Nethril’s mind. Still, they could spare a little extra for the cakes and sweet breads at the Mettarë feast this year—provided Aragorn returned in time.

“Just once, I would love for a man, any man, to arrive when he says he will.” Adanel tutted in impatience and spared a glance out the window. “Give a Ranger a week and they’ll make it a month.”

“He said before Mettarë,” Nethril said quietly. “That is still some days away. And the snow does not help.”

“He ought to have just stayed in the Swanfleet outposts. ’Tis a fool’s errand, crossing the Bruinen in this weather.”

Nethril pursed her lips together. Some days, it seemed Adanel complained for no other reason than to pass the time. “So would you like him home, or not?”

“I have earned the right to be contrarian, child.” Adanel favored her with a rare smile. “At my age, I have little else.”

They fell into an amicable silence. Nethril finished her work with the harvest inventory, and she returned her ledger to the map room with a small sigh. She was behind in Mettarë preparations, but her heart was not in it as it usually was. Halbarad and Mellaer had not been present the past two years, and things simply did not feel the same without them. She missed Isilmë, too, her thoughts turning more and more towards what they’d once shared. She wondered if Aragorn had seen her, when he passed through the river settlements, and if he’d conveyed Nethril’s hasty, ill-thought-out message to her. Her face flushed at the memory; she rather hoped not.

A horn call shattered her reverie—three short blasts, the signal for a returning patrol. She glanced up sharply and dashed back to the sitting room, where Faelhen was already on her feet, a smile on her face.

“He must truly be more Elf than Man, to be so punctual,” Faelhen quipped. “Shall we go and meet him, Lady Adanel?”

“Tell him I will receive him here,” Adanel said imperiously, though her eyes sparkled in delight. “He has made us wait long enough.”

Nethril shook her head, but her smile widened as she grabbed Faelhen’s hand and ran through the main hall, barely pausing to grab her cloak at the front door. By the time they reached the front gate of the Angle a small crowd had gathered, as it always did for returning Rangers, and the Dúnedain parted to make way for Nethril. She was still not used to deferential nods from men old enough to be her father, but she nodded back with borrowed authority and tilted her head back up to where the sentries stood atop the wall.

“Four riders, my lady.” A sentry called down to her. “The Chieftain at the head, by the looks of it.”

Nethril nodded, but her brow furrowed in confusion. Aragorn had not made mention of reorganizing patrol assignments, though perhaps he had discussed it with the river captains…

It was another quarter hour before the gates opened and the riders made their way through, each wrapped in heavy winter cloaks, their faces obscured by thick woolen scarves. Nethril recognized her cousin’s tall, broad form when he dismounted, but her heart beat a bit faster when she glimpsed the rider directly behind him. His long hair whipped out from his hood as he dismounted, and she cried out in joy when she ran towards him.

“Halbarad!” Her brother lifted her off her feet and spun her around. She laughed and hugged him tighter when he set her down on the ground, before she turned to embrace Aragorn at his side. “Scoundrels, both of you, neither of you breathed a word!”

“I thought we might surprise you and Mama.” Halbarad grinned. “All is quiet south of Tharbad, or quiet enough to spare one Ranger and healer.”

“A healer? What…” Nethril looked past Halbarad to see that the third rider had removed her scarf, revealing the dark hair and flushed face of Halbarad’s wife, Mellaer. Nethril let out a small shriek and ran towards her friend, and they nearly knocked each other off their feet when they embraced.

“You’re here! You’re here…”

As a Ranger and one of Aragorn’s chief lieutenants, Halbarad would make his way back to the Angle at least twice a year, but she had not seen Mellaer in over two years, not since they’d returned for her sister’s wedding. She struggled to keep her eyes from filling with tears now, and when they broke apart she took Mellaer’s face between both her hands. Tears fell freely down Mellaer’s cheeks, but she grinned widely at Nethril.

“We thought these men deserved the company of a lady on the road. Both of us.”

She gestured back toward the fourth rider, who had hung back from the rather boisterous family reunion. She removed her scarf now, and Nethril’s heart nearly stopped at the sight of Isilmë, daughter of Brandír. Her chestnut-colored hair that Nethril remembered so fondly sprang out from under her hood in unruly curls, framing her lovely face, her cheeks pink from the cold. She stared at Nethril with eyes she had once known so well. But now it seemed a stranger looked out at her, for she could not read the careful, guarded expression on Isilmë’s face.

“It’s good to see you, Nethril,” Isilmë finally said, and Nethril nodded, still too stunned to speak. She stepped forward to hug Isilmë, but it was the light, awkward embrace of those not well acquainted, her hands barely touching her former lover’s shoulders. They both stepped back quickly.

“What are you doing here?” Nethril winced as soon as the words left her mouth. “I mean, I’m glad to see you, I only…”

“I thought I might pay a visit to Anadar,” Isilmë answered. “And Mellaer wanted company on the road.”

“Of course,” Nethril said. She was suddenly, painfully aware of the silence at the gate, the four closest pairs of eyes trained on them both. Even Faelhen had abandoned all propriety and stared openly. “Huor will be overjoyed to see you.”

“Yes, well…I should go find him, I suppose. If you’ll excuse me, my Lord Aragorn.” She bowed briefly to Aragorn before she handed her horse’s reins to a wide-eyed stableboy and hurried off towards the blacksmith’s shop.

Nethril stared after her, dumbfounded, too overwhelmed to try and parse through the feeling that had taken root in the pit of her stomach. Her ears rang faintly, and it wasn’t until she felt the sure, strong arms of Halbarad wrapped around her shoulders that she came back to herself, and smiled up at her brother.

“Let’s go see Mama. I spent the whole journey dreaming of the look on her face when I walk through the door."

***
Rather than crowd Finnael’s small cottage, Halbarad and Mellaer settled into one of the spare rooms of the Chiefftain’s house. With Aragorn home as well, the house was more full than Nethril ever remembered, and the fires somehow burned brighter when she dashed in and out of the kitchen, collecting extra potatoes and leeks to mince into meat pies. She and Faelhen busied themselves with cooking while the three travelers washed the snow and dirt from the road, and Nethril’s mother joined them all for supper, her eyes shining with joy. Adanel spent the meal beside Aragorn with a broad smile on her face, though it quickly changed to an expression of chagrin if anyone looked at her too long.

Aragorn and Halbarad kept them all entertained with songs and tales from the road long after the meal ended, but Nethril and Mellaer sat quietly in the back corner, heads pressed together, passing secrets they could never have entrusted to letters on the road. At last, Nethril grabbed the pitcher of mulled wine from the table and led Mellaer into the sitting room, where they might confide in each other the way they did as children. A collection of pine and holly boughs sat untended in the corner, to be made into garlands for Mettarë, and they filled the room with a fresh, familiar scent. Her heart lighter than it had been in months, Nethril took her usual chair and set the wine jug beside Mellaer, who took the seat closest to the fire, her feet tucked up beneath her soft woolen skirts.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you!” Mellaer exclaimed, and she ran a hand lovingly across the wall behind her, fingers skating along the mortar between stones. “And I’ve missed this place. To think one day I’d find myself longing for the Angle.”

A catch in her voice gave Nethril pause, and her smile faded a bit. “Things are not well, back home?”

Mellaer sighed. “It has been hard, Nethril. Three years, and it still has the feel of an outpost, rather than a true settlement. We do not have the secrecy of Glamren or the protection of the Angle crags. The farms do well, to be sure, but we still fear orc attacks or wargs from the Hithaeglir. That they could not find the orc colony before winter only adds to the unease.”

“Aragorn could not turn them out?”

Mellaer shook her head. “I imagine he and Halbarad will want to discuss it with you, tomorrow. Winter slows them as well as us, but they can only multiply…”

Nethril reached again for the wine, the spiced warmth not quite dispelling the chill that lodged in her gut. No matter what they did, it seemed, they risked discovery by servants of the Enemy or worse. They had known the danger when they established the settlements, but it had been as much strategy as hope, that they could defend Eriador while scraping a bit more land together for themselves. That it might fail was just another blow to endure since Sauron revealed himself in Mordor.

She glanced back up at Mellaer, who gave her a rueful smile. “We endure, mellon-nin. That is all any of us can do.”

“That it is,” Nethril murmured, and gave herself a little shake. This was not the evening for dark thoughts or worries of the future. “All right. No more brooding tonight.”

“No brooding,” Mellaer echoed, and her smile turned mischievous. “Shall we talk instead about that disastrous display at the front gate?”

Nethril groaned. She should have known there’d be no avoiding the subject. “I’d rather not.”

Mellaer threw back her head and laughed. “You looked like a chicken yanked up by its feet. With the speech of one too, I might add.”

“I was surprised, that’s all!” Nethril protested, her face reddening at the memory. “By all of you. I wasn’t expecting a shower of loved ones for Mettarë.”

“So you do still love her,” she crowed.

“Elbereth, you sound like a child.” Nethril grumbled. “We are not a people ruled by love. If we were, Aragorn would have an Elven queen at his side instead of me.”

Mellaer snorted, but her teasing expression faded, and she reached out to take Nethril’s hand. “Aragorn told me you two straightened some things out, before he left. Things that might let your love rekindle.”

Irritation stabbed through Nethril at Aragorn’s interference, but it was mild, and she only sighed in resignation. “What can I say to her, Mellaer? We made the choice to end it, put it aside as a childish fancy. I imagine she’s well over me by now.”

Mellaer hummed noncommittally and reached for the jug of wine, looking entirely too innocent while she poured some into one of the small clay cups. Nethril eyed her sharply. “What? She hasn’t said anything to you, has she?”

Mellaer shook her head. “I think she is afraid to discuss it with me. But I know her nearly as well as you do, Nethril. She wouldn’t have come here if she didn’t still feel something.”

Nethril leaned back in her chair and ran a hand through her hair. This was foolish. Even if she were to try and talk to Isilmë about…anything, regarding their love, it would affect a few short weeks, at most. When Mettarë ended and the snows lessened, Isilmë would go back to the river settlements, and they would have cracked open their hearts for nothing. No, better to keep her distance and take comfort in the fact that she could see her at all. Neither of them deserved any further pain.

“Merciful Eru, you’ve needed me,” Mellaer said. “You’re completely hopeless at this sort of thing.”

“Truer words never spoken,” a deep voice said from the door, and Nethril looked up to see Halbarad standing there, his long hair combed neatly so that it fell loose over his shoulders and down his tunic. She scowled, wrinkling her nose into a face she reserved only for him, and he grinned back at her. “She was so busy matchmaking the rest of us she never stopped and bothered for herself.”

“Oh, get out!” Mellaer laughed, and threw a sprig of holly at him. “This is women’s business!”

“Unfair, don’t you think? To keep all the gossip to yourselves. How else are we Rangers supposed to pass the time, on cold nights under the stars?”

“Out!” Mellaer said, and she leapt up to shove her husband out the door. Nethril joined her, throwing her full weight against her brother’s broad shoulders, but he shoved his hands against the doorframe, keeping them from moving him forward. At last he let go, and the three of them stumbled on top of each other into the hallway, laughing until they were breathless and red in the face. Nethril looked up to see Adanel staring down at them, her eyebrow arched.

“Valar save me from the folly of Aranarth’s house,” she said, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “Does your mother know you still behave this way?”

“She encourages it,” Halbarad straightened himself out and bowed deep to Adanel. “It reminds her of when we were young.”

***
The next day dawned bright and cold, the sun glinting against the snow that banked below Nethril’s bedroom window. Her breath came out in sharp clouds as she dressed, and Nethril wrapped herself in a knit shawl, carefully pinning it closed with a falcon brooch before she went downstairs. Halbarad and Aragorn were already seated in the map room, a pot of tea and a plate of Faelhen’s honey cakes covering half of Mirkwood.

“We’re going to need that,” Nethril lifted the pot of tea to pour herself a cup and set it down on the narrow space of table not covered by the great map. “Círion returned from his scouting of the forest while you were gone.”

“So I heard.” Aragorn said. “Anything I should know now?”

Nethril shook her head. “He got as close to Dol Guldur as he dared. The Nazgûl occupy it, but they seem content to sit on it as a dragon would. Nothing to concern us more than usual, save the threat to the Galadhrim.”

“Which is no small thing.” Aragorn frowned slightly and picked up his teacup with both hands, his broad palms nearly engulfing the cup. “No other troubling news, in my absence?”

“No,” Nethril sighed. “No, all is quiet here. Which is more than you two can say, I gathered.”

“It is a grim business, sister.” Halbarad said. “Four weeks of searching, and we could not find where those cursed orcs made their lair. They could be skulking in from Moria, or Dunland, but we haven’t the resources to rout enemy territory. Not in that way.”

“How great is the danger? You seem to be keeping them in check.”

“For now,” Halbarad scowled. “Spring will be the true test. It is not good for our people to be constantly looking over their shoulders, for fear of ruined crops and death.”

Nethril drew in a deep breath and reached for a slice of honey cake, though her appetite had abandoned her. She did not want to say the thought that had lingered since last night. “Should we consider abandoning the settlements? Pulling back to the Angle?”

“No,” said Aragorn firmly. “No, not when we have just put down roots, Dúnedain from the Angle and Círbann both. The life they’ve eked out there is worth the risk. Unless you tell me different, Halbarad.”

“Aye, we are a stubborn lot.” Halbarad shot her a crooked smile. “You know this too, Nethril. Spring will give us answers, for good or for ill.”

“Findroch said as much at the council.” Nethril forced herself to take a bite of cake, and the dense, honeyed sweetness lifted her spirits somewhat. “Still, Meldroch will not be happy.”

“Leave Meldroch to me,” Halbarad said. “His son gave me some choice words I might use, if he objects too much. Truly, he just wants his child home.”

“A sentiment I can relate to.” Nethril reached out and squeezed Halbarad’s hand. “You’ve been missed, brother.”

Halbarad lifted her hand and kissed it gently, before he set it back down on the table and exchanged a look with Aragorn, his eyes glinting. “Speaking of ones you’ve missed…”

“Oh, for Valar’s sake—“

“Adanel tells me there’s an order of new candlesticks waiting at the blacksmith’s shop.” Aragorn tried to look innocent, but his solemn look faded into a grin. “If you could pick them up for me?”

Nethril’s face flushed once more and she groaned. Could her family not just leave her be? “Get them yourself. It’s Chieftain’s business.”

“I have that report from Círion to read.”

“And I have to help,” Halbarad said. “Can’t trust that Elven education, after all.”

“So you see, it has to be you.” Aragorn concluded, folding his arms with a look of deep satisfaction. “Old Huor will be thrilled to see you, I’m sure.”

“I hate you both.”

“Bold words against your Cheiftain!” Aragorn cried. “A lesser man would clap you in irons for such insolence.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not a lesser man,” Nethril said, and she smiled in spite of herself. “Though I’ll take a night locked up if it means I can club you both soundly over the head.”

“You need candlesticks for that.”

***
Nethril shaded her eyes against the brightness of the snow and walked as quickly as she dared without risking a slip and fall. The cold seemed to seep through her cloak and gloves into her very skin, and though her heart hammered somewhere in her throat she was eager to enter the warmth of the blacksmith’s shop.

She pushed hard against the heavy oak door, and the heat of the forge enveloped her with such force she shed her cloak immediately, setting it on a hook beside the door. She looked around, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, and her throat tightened at the familiar sound of crumbling embers and clanging metal. She had spent so much time here as a child, sitting in silence while Isilmë worked at her grandfather’s forge. It was here she first untangled the threads of her heart, watching her friend’s strong arms craft swords and daggers, only to realize they both wanted something deeper than friendship.

She drew in a deep breath and steeled herself. They were not children anymore, and it did not do to dwell on the innocence of the past.

“Nethril!” Huor’s booming voice echoed through the shop, and he emerged from behind the forge. “Good to see you, lass. It has been too long.”

“Well met, Master Huor,” Nethril smiled and let him wrap her in a tight embrace. She had taken to avoiding the forge, these past years, sending Faelhen on blacksmith’s errands when Aragorn was gone. “All is well?”

“Any day I do business with the Chieftain is a good one,” he winked at Nethril and carefully picked up a large sack from the table, which looked to hold the candlesticks. “And a better one when I have my granddaughter at my side. You’ve seen her, I take it?”

“Yes, at the gates yesterday. She is not here?” Nethril’s stomach fluttered when she took the candlesticks from Huor, whether in relief or disappointment she did not know.

“Out making deliveries for me. I tell you, I—“

A blast of cold blew into the shop, and Nethril turned to see that the door had opened once more, a head of curls visible against the blinding sun. “How you deal with Meldroch, Anadar, I’ll never know…” Isilmë looked up to see Nethril and stopped suddenly, her mouth halfway open in surprise. Huor looked between the two of them and smiled warmly.

“I’ll leave you two to yourselves.” He winked at Nethril once more and disappeared behind the forge. Nethril raised her eyebrows. She had always assumed that Huor remained oblivious to his granddaughter’s relationship, but now she was not so sure. Perhaps he only thought of their friendship, and little else.

Nethril stood awkwardly, wishing she could stare down at the ground, but stubbornness and pride forced her to meet Isilmë’s gaze, still composed in the same careful, neutral expression she’d worn the day before.

“You kept the brooch,” Isilmë said at last. Nethril started at her words, and her hand flew up to touch the metal falcon pinned at her breast. It was one of several Isilmë had made for her over the years, and she’d had it so long she barely thought of it as coming from her love.

“Of course I kept it. It’s a lovely thing, and useful besides.”

“I try,” Isilmë smiled, and then she sighed. “Listen, Nethril, there’s no reason for us to tiptoe around each other. I don’t know what you’re afraid of, but I promise you, I’m not…well, whatever you might think.”

“I’m not—“ Nethril snapped, but she stopped herself in time. She was afraid, and she knew precisely what of. It was simply not something she could say aloud to Isilmë. “I’m glad, then.”

The candlesticks were heavy under her arm, and she longed to set them down on the table, to sit as she once had in comfortable silence while Isilmë went about her tasks. Instead, she hefted her load so that it balanced on her hip and reached for her cloak by the door, digging into her pocket for her coin purse. “I don’t know if Adanel already settled payment with Huor, but I can—“

But Isilmë held her hands up and shook her head. “I’m sure she did. And if not, you can always come back. We know where you live, after all.”

Nethril snorted quietly. “True enough. I…I’d best be off, then.”

“Of course,” Isilmë said, and she stepped aside to allow Nethril to pass. The faint smell of burnished metal filled her nose when she gripped the door handle, and she stopped, a thousand regrets and longings warring with her grasp on reality. Ignoring the dogged, practical voice in her head, she turned back to Isilmë.

“Is Huor keeping you at the forge? You should come with me to my grandparents’ house, later. Ada Dírhael asks about you so often I think he forgets you’re not his own.”

Isilmë smiled once more, the first genuine one Nethril had seen since she’d ridden through the gates. “I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”

***
The visit with Dírhael softened matters between them, and it was easier for Nethril, the next few days, to talk with Isilmë and not have her heart flutter in her chest. She stopped trying to avoid her, and the two of them joined Mellaer to visit Beleth and her new son, scarcely a year old. Nethril found the child to be a terror, walking already and getting his hands everywhere, but Mellaer and Isilmë had not yet met him.

The four friends spent the afternoon together, making garlands for Mettarë and gossiping as they once did, while little Iorlas toddled between their legs, smiling up at them with new teeth. Nethril picked the child up before he could crawl straight into the fire grate, and chuckled when he reached for her brooch with sticky hands. So much had changed from their days as girls, shirking chores to play beside the river. Now Mellaer and Beleth were both married, with families of their own, and….well. She glanced over at Isilmë, who was laughing at something Beleth said. They would either find marriages in their own time, or settle into other roles. Certainly would not be the only spinster women of the Angle.

“I hope he takes after his father,” Isilmë remarked, as they walked back toward the forge. The sun was nearly down, shadows lengthening across the snow, but Nethril could see clouds building in the east. They were due for another storm before the longest night of the year. “For Beleth’s own sake. Imagine a son with her sharp tongue.”

Nethril laughed. “I will tell her you said that!”

“You wouldn’t dare! You’ve certainly told me the same thing before,” Isilmë shoved her playfully off the path, and Nethril grabbed Isilmë’s cloak to keep from falling to the ground. Isilmë gripped her by the elbow to steady her, the strength of her hands so familiar, and rightened her with ease. For a moment, they were so close that Isilmë’s breath tickled Nethril’s cheek, but Nethril ran ahead on instinct, spinning across the path in a fit of exuberance.

“We should pick out a gift for him, for when Aragorn does the Chieftain’s Call. Something that will keep him out of mischief.”

“I think nothing short of tying him in a sack would accomplish that,” Isilmë said. “Perhaps we should give Beleth one of those.”

Nethril laughed again and fumbled with the latch on the forge entrance, the familiar warmth bringing a blush to her cheeks. Isilmë closed the door after them and set her cloak on the hook beside the door, taking Nethril’s from around her shoulders before she had a chance to do it herself.

“Do you still have that collection of trinkets?” Nethril asked, and stepped closer to the forge. “From Aragorn’s first winter with us?”

“Aye, but it was mostly spinning tops and pins, nothing for a child of that age. Though a hairpin would be good for Beleth, to keep him from yanking on that braid of hers.”

“To think we were once such creatures.” Nethril shook her head and watched while Isilmë took a stool from beneath the forge’s work table. She set it beside a high shelf and climbed up, standing on tiptoe on the stool, rummaging amongst a haphazard collection of boxes, bags, and tools.

“Blasted Anadar,” Isilmë muttered. “Assuming we all stand as tall as he does, never organizing a damn thing…”

She tilted forward, the stool balancing precariously on its two front legs, and Nethril rushed forward before it slipped out from under her entirely. Isilmë wobbled briefly before she fell into Nethril’s arms, but Nethril was not balanced enough to keep them both upright, and she stumbled backward against the wall, Isilmë’s full weight against her.

Isilmë braced her hand on the wall to steady herself, but she locked eyes with Nethril and froze, her body still pressed against Nethril’s. Nethril grasped her by the other arm, the corded muscle beneath Isilmë’s tunic tense under her palm. The warmth of her skin radiated against Nethil, and her breath left her when she stared up at Isilmë’s deep grey eyes, ones she had never stopped loving. Ones she should never have let go.

Isilmë kissed her, her lips still chapped from days on the road but somehow just as soft as Nethril remembered. Her knees buckled under her, and Nethril pulled her close so that they might steady each other, her hand winding through the soft curls of Isilmë’s hair. Isilmë pushed Nethril back against the wall and Nethril parted her lips to deepen the kiss, biting down on Isilmë’s lower lip. She was dressed for the forge, only a light tunic thrown over breeches, and Nethril slipped a hand under her tunic and ran her fingers along the smooth, soft skin of her back. Isilmë gasped sharply against her, inhaling once before she kissed her again. Her hand was cold against Nethril’s cheek, callouses rough against her skin as Isilmë’s fingers skimmed across her clavicle, down to fumble with the laces of her bodice—

“No.” Isilme pulled back with sudden force and pushed Nethril’s hands away, leaving her to stumble forward a bit. “No, we can’t do this.”

Nethril stood bent over, her breath leaving her in shallow pants, and clutched her fingers to her collarbone, providing heat where Isilmë’s hands had been just a moment before. Her pulse thudded where her fingers met her neck, and she tried to bring herself back down to earth, though her senses still hovered somewhere above them.

“I’m sorry,” was all she could think to say. “I shouldn’t have—“

“No, we both—“ Isilmë had turned so that her back was to Nethril, her voice thick with emotion. “Maybe you should go.”

“Of course.” Nethril still could not catch her breath. She pivoted sideways so that she might pass Isilmë without bumping into her and hurried to the door, stopping only when she reached for her cloak. Her hand dropped, desire coupling with fierce resolve, and she turned back to face Isilmë.

“Why can’t we do this?”

“Oh, Nethril.” Isilmë finally turned to look at her, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “You are not foolish enough to ask that question. You answered it clearly enough, three years ago.”

“I was wrong,” Nethril said fiercely, and all she’d longed to say since Isilmë’s return poured out of her. “I was wrong, and a coward, and thought duty more important than love. Perhaps it still is, I don’t know. But I love you, Isilmë. I never stopped loving you. And that means more to me than whatever sense of duty they press onto us, or the notion that our love runs against it.”

Isilmë stood silent. Tears ran swiftly down her cheeks, and she stared intently at the floor.

“I do not think you were wrong. If you were, I’d have never let you go. But…Elbereth, Nethril, all you said to me that night remains true. The Dúnedain dwindle day by day. Our people fight and die for a future they may never see. We have a responsibility to carry out the line, no matter what we might feel for each other.”

“We would not be the first childless women of the Angle. We were never the first. And if Aragorn can refuse marriage to chase a bard’s dream…”

“Aragorn is Chieftain,” Isilmë said bitterly. “He can do what he wants. And there are those among the people who will condemn him for his choice.”

“I don’t care!” Nethril exclaimed. “If they still condemn him after all he has done, I don’t care what they think. Aragorn, you, me—we have all given so much to our people. I would give it again, a thousand times over, but do we not have the right to claim something back for ourselves?”

“And how, precisely, would we claim it? When winter is over, I will go back to Eregion. I cannot leave them, Nethril, they do not have another smith. And I will not ask Anadar to take my place.”

“Rangers leave their wives for months at a time, and their love does not diminish. You know this as well as I do.”

“It is not the same.”

“So you are telling me that you do not love me enough to make this work,” Nethril could barely speak against the lump that rose in her throat, and her own eyes filled with tears. “That it is not worth the strife.”

Isilmë did not answer, but her silence told Nethril enough.

“Then why did you come back?” Nethril cried. “Do not tell me it was for Huor alone. If I hadn’t—“ her voice broke. “Why did you come back?”

Isilmë turned away once more, her face wet with tears. She leaned over to grasp the work table with both hands, gripping the edges so that her knuckles turned white. Nethril began to shake uncontrollably, her shoulders trembling from the effort of holding back her tears, but she stood frozen in place, hands clenched into fists at her side, her nails digging into her palms.

“Just go, Nethril.” Isilmë whispered. “Please.”

The words drove deeper than any knife could, and she fled, not bothering to pin her cloak shut or close the door behind her as she ran from the blacksmith’s shop. It was nearly dark outside, the sun down in the west, and when Nethril looked to the north she could see nothing but grey across the village, thick snow clouds barreling toward her. She let out a harsh sob before she covered her mouth sharply with one hand, the echo of Isilmë’s lips leaving her raw. There were preparations to make, for a blizzard of that size, and she managed to wait until she brought extra firewood into the Chieftain’s house before she broke down and wept.

****
The house always turned drafty and bitterly cold in the winter, all the more so during a snowstorm, and Nethril usually spent the blizzard days bundled up in the sitting room with Adanel and Faelhen, blankets stuffed under the door and huddled around the fire for warmth. But she could not stand the thought of being around other people, and so she shut herself up in her bedroom and curled up beneath the covers, hating herself for the childish action but too wrecked by misery to do much else.

The winds howled through the night, the sound akin to wolves, and Nethril shuddered in her bed, reaching up to massage the scars that ran across her shoulder, marks from the wargs that had attacked her and Aragorn on their long-ago mission to Círbann. Isilmë’s eyes had filled with sorrow, when she first saw them, but she had not cried, only ran her hand gently across Nethril’s skin and kissed each scar, her lips tickling the mottled tissue. Barely a year later she was gone, off to serve the outpost along the Greenway, and Nethril had locked her pain deep in her heart to try and deny it ever existed. But she shook with it now, sobs that seemed to pull her bones against her skin and left her head aching, until at last the sound of her weeping drowned out the wind.

She lay in bed til midday, or at least she supposed, for the clouds were so thick and dark with snow she couldn’t tell if dawn had come at all. Her eyes washed raw, teeth chattering from the cold, she wrapped a blanket around her and made her way downstairs. The door to the sitting room was shut tight, and she pushed it open to find Halbarad, Aragorn, and Mellaer sitting with Adanel and Faelhen, the women busy with spinning or embroidery while Aragorn whittled away at a wood carving.

“It looks like a drunk duck,” Halbarad was saying, and Aragorn’s look of consternation coaxed a smile out of Nethril as she slipped inside and took a seat in her usual chair. Halbarad kissed her briefly on the cheek before he continued to loudly upbraid Aragorn’s carving, and Nethril drew her knees up to her chest, content to stare into the fire while the rest of the household carried on around her. Mellaer looked as if she wanted to say something, but kept glancing back towards Adanel instead, as though her staring could make the older woman leave the rest of them in peace.

The howling winds coupled with the cracking fire in a fearsome melody, and Nethril lost herself in the pattern of the flames until her stomach began to gnaw on itself. She rose to get herself something from the kitchen, but only found a hunk of bread sitting on the table, cold and hard as ice. She nearly cracked her teeth chewing on the stale loaf, though the weight of it settled her stomach. The kitchen hearth glowed with a few small embers, and she poked at them half-heartedly and refilled the kettle with water from the barrel. Desperate for something to do, she began to take flour, sugar, and eggs down from cabinets, and rooted through the cupboard for spices. The Mettarë feast might not even happen, if this storm continued, but Halbarad had been known to eat an entire batch of her cinnamon bread on his own anyhow.

“You look like you could use some help.” Nethril turned to see Aragorn standing in the doorway, a dark sheepskin vest covering his tunic. She shot him a crooked smile—she knew eventually one of them would come to try and comfort her.

“Drew the short straw, eh?”

Aragorn shook his head. “Mellaer volunteered, but I think in this case I might understand you a bit better. We lonely, lovelorn ones.”

“You make us sound invalid,” Nethril muttered, but she took a seat at the table. Aragorn sat across from her and took her hands between his own, breathing life into her stiff fingers. She bowed her head and let out a long, shuddering sigh.

“What I would not give to turn back time. To tell her to stay, that we might build a life together. Now it is lost. I thought we could reclaim a measure of it, but…”

His hands tightened around hers. “Few things hurt more, than the knowledge that your love must stay locked away. It is not something I would wish on anyone. Especially you.”

Nethril bit down on her lip before callous words passed them. She did not understand how Aragorn’s heartache matched her own, his yearning for an Elven lady he met only briefly in Imladris. But, she supposed, if they could make sense of their emotions neither of them would be sitting here, looking miserable enough for a dirge.

“How do you bear it? For so long, I buried my pain so deep I nearly forgot it, but I…” her eyes filled with tears again. “That is gone, now. How do you bear knowing she is there, but not yours?”

Aragorn smiled ruefully. “Those first weeks, I didn’t. Coming here, with the knowledge of my heritage, kept me occupied enough. But in moments, alone, well…” he shook his head. “It was something you said, actually, that set me to rights.”

“Oh?”

“That love among our people always comes with struggle. And I was hardly alone in my doldrums.”

Nethril blinked slowly and silently cursed her past self for the second time that day. “How on earth did I think that was supposed to help you?”

“At the time, I thought you most unsympathetic.” Aragorn’s mouth twitched. “But you were right. When the loneliness comes, it helps to remember those who have stood by my side, who will stand there long into the night.”

Nethril’s lip trembled once more, and she wiped swiftly at her eyes, in the absurd hope that Aragorn had not seen the tears fall.

“You stood beside me then,” he said, “as we all will now. You are not alone, dear cousin.”

“No indeed,” Mellaer’s dry voice echoed from above them, and Nethril looked up to see that her sister-in-law and Halbarad had both entered the kitchen. Mellaer enveloped Nethril in a tight embrace, and Nethril leaned against her friend. She breathed in deep, the faint smell of cedar filling her nose, and Mellaer pulled her back to run a loving hand against her cheek. “You couldn’t get rid of us if you tried.”

“And she surely has, at that,” Halbarad winked. He picked up the bundle of cinnamon and tossed it back and forth between his hands. “Though your cooking tends to have the opposite effect.”

Nethril shoved her brother, laughing as she did so, and she shooed Aragorn and Halbarad out of the kitchen so that she and Mellaer might bake in peace. Faelhen joined them after a time, and they took turns making the girl laugh with tales of their misspent youth. Soon, the yeasty smell of spiced bread filled the house, and when dusk fell Nethril went upstairs to fetch her father’s lute, tucked away in a corner of her room. She still could barely play, but Halbarad helped her piece together threads of old songs, and echoes of their father seemed to fill the room as they sat trading verses.

They sat in the back room deep into the night, the howling wind all but forgotten. Aragorn and Mellaer added tales and songs of their own, Adanel providing her own acerbic commentary when it suited her, and Nethril talked until she made herself hoarse. It was not enough for her to forget her troubles, and she wept a little at the ballads of loves lost, or great quests undertaken in vain. But she could make sense of her sorrow somewhat through Dírlaeg’s lute, her fingers plucking out the familiar chords, and when she fell asleep against Mellaer’s shoulder it was to dreams of fair things past.

***
The storm continued through the night and into the next day, with few signs of stopping. Nethril tried to occupy herself with mending clothes or going over harvest inventories for the upteenth time, but she had never been one for sitting still. She began reliving her conversation with Isilmë over and over, the harsh words sharp and clear in her mind. More than anything, she could not bear the thought of Isilmë sitting alone with Huor in his cottage, miserable as Nethril because she had pushed her too far. Finally, she threw her sewing aside and leapt to her feet, headed for the door before afternoon ushered out the light.

“You’re an idiot,” Aragorn said loudly while she wrapped herself in fur and mittens. “Stubborn, and an idiot.”

“You’re one to talk,” Nethril said. “Halbarad’s begun keeping list of your foolhardy missions.”

“Not even I would go out in this. You’ll lose yourself in the winds and drifts.”

“I’ve spent my entire life here. I’d like to think I know it well enough to navigate even in a storm such as this.”

Aragorn shook his head, but he did not block her way. “If I find you frozen in the middle of the Bruinen, I’m not rescuing you.”

“I’ll just wait for Ada Dírhael,” she countered, and drew in a deep breath before she opened the door.

The wind nearly knocked her off balance, and though most of her face was covered with a scarf pellets of snow stung at the skin around her eyes. She shielded her head with her arm and set herself to rights, trudging slowly forward through snow that came up past her shins. She tried to see past the field before the Chieftain’s house, but all was covered in blinding white, the howling wind her only company once more. She would have to go off muscle memory to undertake the journey she had made thousands of times before, one foot in front of the other…

She collided with something soft and solid and fell backwards to the ground. The snow did not provide enough of a cushion to keep the wind from being knocked out of her, and she gasped, unable to breathe for a moment. The impact had knocked her scarf aside, and she choked from inhaling a mouthful of snow, barely able to cough without more snow entering her windpipe. A hand grasped her by the arm and hauled her to her feet, and she looked to see a figure about her height, wrapped in cloak and scarf.

“Inside,” they said, voice muffled, and the two led each other back from where Nethril came, the warm lights of the Chieftain’s house still visible. The door opened when they approached the threshold, Aragorn wearing a look of consternation, and Nethril nearly collapsed when they made it back inside, her throat and chest aching from the sharp air.

She turned to her mysterious companion, though the tremors in her gut already told her who it was. Sure enough, Isilmë stood beside her, frost catching on her eyelashes, and she shook violently as she removed her snow-soaked cloak and passed it to Aragorn.

“B-bit of…bit of a storm, out there…”

“Merciful Eru, you two really are suited for each other.” Aragorn removed his sheepskin vest and draped it over Isilmë, who wrapped it tightly around her shoulders. “Let’s get you in front of a fire.”

“Alone, preferably,” Nethril said. She’d glanced over Aragorn’s shoulder to see Halbarad, Adanel, and Mellaer crowded in the doorway to the map room, staring openly. Isilmë followed her gaze and groaned through her chattering teeth.

“Leave them to me,” Aragorn said. He led Isilmë gently toward the sitting room, where a fire still roared brightly in the hearth. “I’ll bring hot water and food.”

“Bless you, cousin.” Nethril reached up to kiss him on the cheek, barely reaching his whiskers. She could not resist a smug grin, and tilted her head towards Isilmë. “See? I would have made it.”

“Frozen idiots.”

***
Aragorn brought hot water in a tin basin, and Isilmë eased her feet into it, still shivering a bit, but she exhaled sharply in relief and Nethril let out her own sigh of gratitude that she was merely cold, not frostbitten. They were both wrapped in thick woolen blankets, and stared into the fire rather than at each other. Outside, the last bits of daylight were fading into the winds.

“Aragorn thought I was a fool to go out and find you,” Nethril said, to try and fill the silence. “And he calls himself a Ranger.”

“Aragorn knows the wilds better than he knows the Angle. As it should be, I suppose. We who grew up here could sleepwalk to the Chieftain’s house.”

Nethril nodded, but could not bring herself to look at Isilmë. The silence stretched between them, the room filled with all they had shared and lost together, history flickering in and out with the firelight.

“You asked me why I came back,” Isilmë said at last. “I thought I owed you an answer.”

Nethril wrapped her blanket tighter around her, gripping the ends of it to keep from trembling. “You don’t owe me anything, Isilmë. After all I’ve put you through, all we’ve done—let’s not talk of debts, or what we owe to each other.”

“That’s just it, though.” Isilmë turned to her. Her cheeks were still pink from her journey through the snow, her curls damp and clinging around her face. “We owe each other everything. I came back because I thought…I hoped we could make sense of things somehow. Then I got here and it terrified me. It still does. I love you, but I don’t…” she trailed off. Nethril waited, barely daring to breathe. She wanted reach out to her, to run her hand along her face, but she couldn’t move.

“Nothing has been harder than learning to live with loneliness. I can’t do it again. Living apart, we’ve been doing it anyway, and goodness knows I’d rather return to Eregion with the promise of your love. But how do I know you won’t change your mind? When you see Halbarad and Mellaer with children, or watch Beleth’s son grow? When Adanel or your mother push you to marry?”

“I don’t think Halbarad and Mellaer will be having children,” Nethril said. It was a truth they’d entrusted to her alone, but she did not think they’d mind Isilmë knowing. “As for the rest…” she finally reached out and took Isilmë’s hands between her own, her blanket falling off her shoulders.

“I can give you nothing but my word. My word that I’ve spent every day in regret, whether I realized it or not. That I pushed you away once, and I never will again. It’s not much to offer, I know, but it’s all that I have.”

“It is more than you think,” Isilmë smiled a bit, and she squeezed Nethril’s hands in return. “Whatever else, you’ve never lied to me, Nethril.”

Nethril’s lip trembled, and she began to shake again, from the cold or emotion she could not say. Isilmë gathered her in her arms and pulled her tight against her. Nethril let her tears fall onto Isilmë’s shoulder, breathing in the faint tang of iron and sweat. She tilted her head up and kissed Isilmë, softly, afraid she had pushed too far once more. But Isilmë’s mouth parted to meet hers, and she returned the kiss fiercely, holding Nethril so close she could feel Isilmë’s pulse thudding against her skin. At last, they collapsed against each other, Nethril’s cheek resting on Isilmë’s chest. Isilmë gently ran her hands through Nethril’s hair and kissed her again on her forehead.

“I will leave, when the snows melt,” Isilmë murmured. “I want there to be no illusions about that.”

“I know,” Nethril sighed. “We have our duties. But I…” she stopped herself before she could say the words. Already the grim knowledge had lodged in her gut that the river settlements would not be forever, from the resignation in Mellaer’s eyes and the desperate resolve of Halbarad. She would not hope for them to fail on account of her love, would fight to the last man for the Dúnedain there to find some stability and an advantage against the Shadow. But a lifetime among her people had taught her that nothing was permanent. Too often a source of grief, as it would still be here, but…their separation would not last, one way or the other. That was something she could trust in, the true estel.

“We will find a way,” she said at last. “We’ve already found one, haven’t we?”

***
Sunlight streamed through the window shutters and warmed Nethril’s face as she slowly awoke, her senses pleasantly muddled by lingering dreams and the comforts of bed. She rolled over slowly and buried herself in the familiar, dearly missed weight of Isilmë beside her. She was already awake, staring down at her as if they’d never spent a day apart. Here she was safe, more than she could be anywhere else.

The morning rays caught Isilmë’s dark curls, lightening them into a chestnut brown, and the sight somehow jolted Nethril back to reality. She groaned in dismay and buried her face into the pillows. If the storm was over, the Mettarë celebrations would go on as planned tomorrow, and she’d been too out of sorts to do anything about it.

“If there’s sun, we’ve been abed too long,” Nethril said, her voice muffled. “The feast won’t plan itself.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Isilmë smiled. “The storm petered out before dawn. Adanel can handle things in your absence.”

Nethril shuddered involuntarily, and Isilmë laughed. “Do not tell me you are still afraid of that woman!”

“You try crossing her, and see how you like it.”

Isilmë shook her head, still laughing, and the two of them fell into a silent, familiar pattern as they dressed for the day. Before, they’d never had the luxury of spending mornings together, Nethril still living in her mother’s home and Isilmë with her grandfather, and it was a strange, lovely sight to see the way Isilmë braided her hair back to keep it out of her face or how she balanced precariously on one foot to pull her stockings up. Isilmë took Nethril’s falcon brooch in her hands and pinned it carefully to her shawl, fastening it in place just above her sternum. Nethril kissed her, her palms tight against the small of Isilmë’s back, and it was only the smell of roasting onions and honey cakes that drew them downstairs to the kitchens.

They found Adanel and Faelhen busy in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and mixing seasonings in preparation for the boar they would roast for Mettarë. Faelhen smiled at the sight of them but did not cease chopping potatoes, while Adanel set her knife down with a loud clang.

“The men have begun building the bonfire, and it looks like we’ll have no further threats to merriment.” Adanel fixed Nethril with a stern look, but her eyes sparkled with something that might have been approval. “If you’ve finished lolling about in sloth, perhaps you can help us prepare the food and house.”

“Of course, my lady.” Nethril felt bold enough to give a flourishing curtsey before she grabbed her apron off a hook near the water barrel. She only let go of Isilmë’s hand when she tied the apron strings behind her, and Isilmë squeezed her shoulder before she headed toward the door.

“I ought to go help the men, I suppose,” Isilmë said. “I’ve always been hopeless in the kitchens.”

“In that case, I think you should stay right here,” Adanel said. “These are skills every woman should learn.”

“But I—“

“Stay,” Adanel said firmly, and leveled a look at Isilmë that could have brought the most seasoned Ranger captain to his knees. Isilmë blanched.

“Yes, m’lady,” she said softly, and hurried toward the water barrel to wash her hands. Adanel winked at Nethril, who covered her mouth to stifle her laughter.

The next day passed in a flurry of preparations and hurried tasks, Isilmë and Mellaer at her side, and Nethril’s heart felt full enough to burst. Her mother and grandmother stopped by in the afternoon to lend a hand, and though Nethril did not relish telling Finnael about her and Isilmë, her mother only smiled at the sight of the two of them together. She wrapped Isilmë in a tight embrace, whispering something in her ear that left her all but glowing in relief and joy, and Nethril bit down on her lower lip to keep it from trembling once more.

At last, the sun went down, the snow cleared away from the Commons to make room for the great bonfire that would light the way to the new year. The people gathered in a great circle around the bonfire, Nethril standing between Halbarad and Isilmë, her brother’s arm wrapped around her shoulder. Aragorn stood a bit removed from them, the torchlight adding a kingly glow to her cousin’s noble bearing, and Nethril grinned with pride, remembering his first Mettarë speech before the people only four years before, so worried and uncertain. How far we have all come, she thought. She would have to thank him for his cursed interference, before the night was over.

“And so we have weathered another year,” Aragorn said. “We stand once more on the longest night, grateful for our loved ones by our side, with sorrow for those we have lost. Our faith carries us forward, as it ever has, we remnants of Númenor. Our ancestors sailed forth into darkness and doubt, with little but a prayer and hope for a better future. When all seemed lost, they looked to each other, and trusted that they might face their future together.”

Aragorn locked eyes with Nethril as he spoke, and she gave a small nod, hoping her eyes would convey her unspoken gratitude.

“They endured through their faith and their love, and we strive to do the same as Dúnedain of the North, heirs to the charge and call of Elendil. Tonight, we remember to stand tall in the darkness and take joy where we can grasp it. Let us light the way to the new year, and trust once more in our hope.”

Nethril’s breath caught in her throat as it always did when Aragorn lowered his torch to the bonfire, the field silent around her until the flames caught and the crackling of the logs echoed upward into the night sky. The people cheered, and Isilmë wrapped an arm around Nethril, leaning her head onto her shoulder.

“Excellent speech,” Halbarad said briskly and pounded Aragorn on the back. “Inspired and brief, the true Ranger way.”

“Oh, stop it,” Mellaer whacked her husband lightly on the shoulder and kissed Aragorn on the cheek. “Shall we find some food for our Chieftain?”

They slowly threaded their way through the crowd, Aragorn stopping every so often to speak with Rangers or the families of those who had men out on patrol. The Chieftain’s house stood warmly lit, the doors to the main hall thrown open, and Nethril quickly staked out a table where they might sit and enjoy a bite or two of roast boar before Aragorn’s duties called him away again. Isilmë brought a pitcher of ale to the table, and Aragorn slid his long legs onto the bench beside her, Halbarad and Mellaer seated across from them. Nethril caught a wistful expression on his face, so brief she might have imagined it, and she realized with a pang he was once again alone in his love. She poured him a mug of ale that he took with gratitude, and he raised it above the table, meeting the eyes of each of them before he spoke.

“To a new year,” he said, his voice catching with emotion. “May I be as blessed with your wisdom and light as I have these past years.”

“You have done as much for us, Aragorn, as we have for you.” Isilmë said quietly. She spared a glance at Nethril and slid her hand in with hers. “For us and for our people.”

“We stand in service to the Heir,” Halbarad said, raising his mug in turn. “Be he Chieftain or king. I’ve seen a bit of both, these past weeks.”

***
Food and drink warmed Nethril’s blood, and she made her way through the main hall, laughing with old friends and stopping to talk with men she’d had dealings with in her capacity as counselor to Aragorn. Meldroch waylaid her on her way back from the high table to try and discuss the river settlements with her. She bit back a groan and favored him with a practiced, polite smile. He took her hand and kissed it gently before he fell into step beside her, a mug of ale grasped firmly in one hand.

“Lord Aragorn seems content to heed my son’s council, and your brother’s as well,” he said. “But you are more pragmatic, are you not, Dirlaeg’s daughter? Surely it is time to cut our losses along the Greenway.”

She stilled, careful to keep her face neutral. Doubtless they would have this conversation many times, before spring arrived. “I would not call them losses, Captain,” she replied, “and that is the pragmatic view. We might not have defeated those orcs at all, had we not had an outpost of men on alert.”

“And yet they are exposed. The first years there was no danger of discovery by the Enemy, none that we could see, but our greatest strength has always been secrecy. How much do we stand to lose, should Sauron rout them out?”

“If there were a danger in that, Findroch and Halbarad would tell us,” Nethril said firmly. “As your son stated at the captains’ council. Come, Captain Meldroch, do we truly wish to darken Mettarë with such pessimism? Surely you have a dance or two in you before the night is out.”

Meldroch snorted. “Now you are trying to placate an old man. But yes. We can discuss this in the new year.”

“And life presses on,” Nethril said with a sigh. She watched him go, wine glass held loosely in hand, until the musical lilt of pipes and a harp broke through her foreboding and drew her back outside, the cold only nipping at her against the heat of the bonfire. A lively tune carried over the night air, dancers forming around the fire. Nethril smiled at the sight of Ivorwen and Dírhael taking their place among the dancers, those nearby stepping aside to give them a wide berth. She took a seat on a log a bit beyond the fire, still close enough to feel the warmth but removed from the main revelry.

The dances had always instilled a bit of melancholy in her. When they were children, she and Halbarad would dance together in the wild, careless way of siblings, and Dírhael always spared a reel for her before the night was over. But she could never dance with Isilmë, not before the people. Their relationship was quiet knowledge, but it was still never spoken of in public, nor did she wish for it to. There was propriety to be concerned with, and her own regard for privacy. Yet still she longed for the freedom to take her lover’s hand and turn in time with the music, for their feet to fly around the bonfire, if only to forget their cares for a little while…

A small, soft hand closed around hers, and Nethril looked up to see Mellaer crouched beside her, a determined look on her face.

“Dance with me,” she said, and pulled Nethril up to her feet. Nethril’s heart fluttered wildly, two paces ahead of her thoughts, and she planted her feet in the ground while Mellaer tried to drag her towards the fire.

“Mellaer, what are you—“

“Dance,” Mellaer said firmly, and the music started again before Nethril had a chance to deny her. Her friend still grasped her right hand firmly and wrapped her left around the small of her back, leading with such a surety that Nethril gaped in astonishment. Her breath left her as Mellaer spun her around the fire, the steps still only half-remembered, but her worries faded with the swell of the music, allowing her to trust in Mellaer when she twirled her once, twice, three times, only to catch her and whisk them both off once more.

The music stopped and Nethril doubled over, panting, barely daring to glance around to see any scandalized looks. But the people around her barely seemed to notice, too consumed by their own joy. Only Dírhael looked down at her, grinning widely, his eyes bright. He winked at Nethril before he faced Ivorwen and rested his forehead against hers, murmuring soft words only she was meant to hear. Nethril’s throat tightened before she turned back towards Mellaer, who curtsied deeply and inclined her head.

“Now go,” Mellaer smiled and shoved her gently towards Isilmë, who stood before her with her arms spread wide, a positively wicked grin on her face. “This night is yours.”

Nethril took Isilmë’s hands and pulled her close. Isilmë leaned her head against Nethril’s and freed a hand to thread her fingers through Nethril’s hair, smoothing it back from her face. “If we are to make a fresh start, let it be with this,” she murmured. “Unclouded by old fears.”

Nethril nodded, too overcome to speak, and kissed her only briefly before she pulled back to take their positions among the dancers. Mellaer and Halbarad stood on one side of them; her grandparents on the other; and the musicians struck up a tune she knew from days of old. One that, if words accompanied it, would have sang of high hopes at the turning of the year, and new life sprung from shadow.

Isilmë’s body moved in time with hers, her smile matching Nethril’s in its joy, and they gazed into each other’s eyes while they danced around the fire. Her balance tilted more than once, from the wine and exhilaration, but for once Nethril was not afraid to fall, knowing as she did what would happen after. The sound of laughter rang clear in her ears, and around them, the sparks flew higher into the night sky, carrying their love towards the stars.