They came through the front entrance, like how paying customers would. Two of them, there were, hooded and cloaked—in the dying afternoon light, Elenda at first mistook them for Breefolk. Then the taller of the two stepped forward into a shaft of sunlight, and Elenda realized her mistake. From the mud-covered boots to the tattered cloaks and the hard lean faces beneath—no doubting these were rangers.

Elenda hid her sudden fright under a cover of indignation. “Here now,” she shouted, bustling forward. “What are you thinking, coming in through the front? You'll scare off customers lurking ‘round my shop like that. If you want to talk business, come out back.”

Elenda was no stranger to the vagabond folk. They wandered far and wide, and occasionally came by her shop to trade for coin herbs they'd dug up in their traveling. It was a good arrangement—some herbs grew beyond Elenda's reach, and the rangers sold them far more cheaply than the traveling merchants from out of town. They sold more cheaply since few would dare do business with them. Indeed, Elenda's friends had often chastised her for the habit: “All well and good to make a deal, but mark my words, one day them rangers will stick you with his sword and make off with your cash box. And how could you stop him? A strong man around the shop is what you need, my dear.”

But Elenda had no one. Her parents had passed when she was only a young woman, taken by a summer plague. She'd found refuge and apprenticeship with Sira, the herbs woman who ran this shop, and taken over when the good woman finally passed of old age. But she'd never found a husband, nor had children, and she'd dismissed the possibility of hiring a young man. “What for?” she'd tell her well-meaning advisers. “So's he can sit around the shop, doing nothing? I make little as is and don't have coin to spare.”

She trusted to the help of her neighbors; but of course the rangers were another matter altogether. Elenda eyed them suspiciously, wondering if she should ring the large bronze bell she kept behind the counter. It would bring somebody running and make the rangers less bold to try any mischief.

As if guessing the turn her mind had taken, the taller of the two hastily held up his arms. “You mistake us, Lady,” he said, courteously enough. They could be well-spoken enough, these rangers. “Today we come not as sellers, but customers.”

She eyed him, frowning. “You want to buy from me? How comes you don't just find the herbs yourself.”

The men exchanged glances. “We are not knowledgeable in herb-lore,” the younger man said, his tone equally polite. “Our companion lies ailing, and it was he who has the eye for such things. He has instructed us in what's needed, but we must seek it here, and not in the wilds.”

“Well, what are you wanting, then?”

“Tiger's eye, flaxeflor, and peryweld” the young man said, stumbling to pronounce the names.

Elenda nodded her recognition. “I have those. But them herbs aren't cheap. A silver penny, they'll cost you in sum.”

She caught the tightly controlled panic that flashed through his eyes at the price. Coin they had, perhaps, but not enough. 

Elenda found herself hesitating. The herbs they mentioned were meant to treat grave fever. It had always been her policy to sell such herbs more cheaply, when the patient's life was at stake. It wasn't only out of kindness of heart—the unlucky soul, if saved, remembered the good turn, and would come round soon enough, buying some cheap fragrance at an inflated cost out of gratitude. But that was Breefolk—it weren't as if these rangers would be coming back. She eyed them uncertainly, the fear their courteous tones had dispelled welling back up. Oh, they'd started with coin and pretty words, but would they turn to force, the price being too high?

“I see,” the taller man said, his tone grave. “I fear we do not have that sum.” He drew a coin purse from his pack and spilled out its contents. “We would be obliged if you could sell us however many herbs to relieve pain that this coin will buy.”

“That I can do,” Elenda said, trying to hide her relief. She looked over the coin—it would not stretch very far at all. She gathered the herbs quickly, keeping her ears alert to sudden movement from the rangers, but they waited for her still as tree trunks as she went about her work. “There,” she said at last, placing the parcel down.

They each made her a half bow and left as silently as they had entered. Elenda stood behind the counter, feeling her gut twisting. Well, she'd treated them fair, hadn’t she? Fever was only to be expected what with roaming about in the wilds. If they were proper folks, with beds to call their own, likely as not the fever wouldn't have progressed so far.

She remained distracted for the rest of the evening, even after she closed shop and set about organizing the back. It was slower going these days. Her eyes had grown weak and her hands clumsy. One detail kept niggling at her—that the ill man had an eye for herbs. She retired to bed and tried to sleep, but her dreams were uneasy, full of dark shadowed woods and bloodied linens. 

She woke gasping, lit a candle, and found herself pulling out the worn shawl that her old Mistress Sira used to wear.

“This is a hard business, and not for most,” Sira had told her once, forced to bed from a mild sickness. “To keep the store running, your heart can't be too soft. Them who come here need help, but if we gave away herbs left and right, soon we'd have to close up shop. Still, an herb woman must have compassion. This isn't some inn we're running. To refuse the sick is the cruelest thing a body can do.”

Elenda let out a small moan and buried her face in the shawl. “Forgive me, Sira, I've wronged you today,” she whispered, thinking back to the rangers she'd sent off so quickly. “My fear and pride spoke for me, and they're gone now, no way to reach 'em.”

Unable to fall back to sleep, she made her way downstairs, gathering the herbs the rangers had requested into a bundle. Perhaps they'd get their hands on some coin and come a'calling the next morning. Yes, and if they did she would be ready for them, would press the bundle into those sword-callused hands with a smile.

Finally feeling at peace, Elenda crawled back under her covers and was able to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

But the morning passed and the afternoon too, and the rangers did not show themselves.

“Well that's that,” she announced to herself. “I did all I could; and it's no sin not to offer up my wares free on a whim.” In the broad light of day, her weepy behavior last night seemed altogether silly.

As evening drew on, she remembered a promise she'd made to deliver some herbs to the Farfington family. Their youngest was ailing still, and needed a fresh poultice every two days. Mrs Farfington prepared a tasty stew and if Elenda timed it right, she would certainly be invited to sup.

With a smile, Elenda closed up shop and set out across town. She was passing through the main square, where the merchants were taking down their tents, when she spotted a tall man in a dark cloak moving swiftly through the crowd.

Without pausing to think, she hurried after him, panting as she forced herself to keep pace with his long strides. Getting close enough to tug at his cloak, she gasped out, “Excuse me—” and felt the words flee her mouth when he turned a sharp silver gaze upon her. He was a ranger, no doubting that, but not the tall man she remembered from her shop yesterday.

Her heart sank and then began to speed, as she realized she'd just accosted an unknown man—a ranger, no less!—in the middle of the marketplace.

“Can I help you, my lady?” he asked, his gentle tone a strange contrast to the roughness of his voice.

Elenda floundered. “Well, um, that is to say—you are a ranger.”

“So they call me.” A trace of amusement flickered through his gray eyes.

“So's you would know some other rangers, then?” Elenda asked, and then felt deeply foolish. Ranger—that was just another word for vagabond, really, and wasn't it folly to think they all knew each other? Might as well assume all halfing folk were related—though to be fair, oftentimes they were.

“I might,” he said, looking her over with a considering gleam in his eye. “Something is troubling you. It would ease your mind to speak of it.”

How he knew that, Elenda couldn't say, but he wasn't wrong; the words started to bubble right on out of her. “It's like this,” she said, and related the story of the two rangers, only she found herself fudging facts a little, saying she'd been out of stock when they came and had only now gotten the proper herbs in. It was a shameful thing to lie, not something Elenda made a habit of, but she found herself reluctant to confess her unkindness to this stranger.

“I see,” the ranger said when she had finished. His brow had furrowed and his eyes were grave. “A tall man, with my coloring, you said, accompanied by a younger man? And the third knew his herblore. Yes, I know of whom you speak. And if I am any judge, I know where I might find them sheltering.”

“You would?” Elenda couldn't help the excitement that sprang into her voice. “Well, of all the things. Here, I still have the herbs with me.” She fumbled around her pocket and thrust the bundle into her hands, glad to make an end to this sorry business. “Now you'll excuse me, I'm sure, for I'm expected.”

With that she turned tail and hurried off the Farfington's, making it just as the stew was being ladled. She sat in their snug cottage, her belly warm, feeling full and at peace.

A week later, she had all but forgotten about the strange business with the rangers. So she was taken aback when the door opened and history seemed to repeat: two rangers had entered her shop, one tall and dark, the other younger, with a fair complexion. As they let down their hoods, she realized the tall dark one was the man she had encountered in the marketplace. She did not recognize his companion: he had a young, coltish look to him, with muddy blond hair that untidily framed his face.

“Herbmistress,” the tall ranger said, giving her a pretty half-bow. “We have come to thank you for your kind gift and offer some repayment.”

“Oh?” Elenda said, trying not to let her surprise show. “Well that's very fine of you—but what's this about gifts? I run a business here, you know.”

There was something knowing in the tall ranger's eyes as he said, “I beg your pardon, I must be mistaken. But even so, please accept these. ” 

He lay a rag down on the table. Staunchweed and burdock spilled out from it, filling the store with their bitter fragrance. Elenda quickly tallied their worth in her mind—certainly enough to cover the cost of the herbs she'd given up. Perhaps she'd been mite bit quick to judge—seemed rangers paid their debts off as well as any self-respecting Breefolk.

“These suit me well,” Elenda said, nodding. “But come now, you must have found your friends. Did they manage to cure that herbmaster of theirs?”

“Indeed, my lady,” the young ranger spoke up suddenly. “Though I do not claim to be a master of herbs, far from it.”

Elenda's eyes widened and she examined the young ranger more closely. No doubt about it, now that she was looking for it, his skin was paler than should be, and his eyes bore deep bags—the signs of a man who had shaken off a heavy fever.

“Up on your feet already!” she said, impressed. “You must have a good constitution, Lad.” It was strange to find herself speaking so familiarly with a ranger, but to Elenda he was a former patient now.

The young ranger shook his head, as if denying her words. “I am weaker than most,” he said, shame threaded into the words.

The taller ranger shot him an abrupt, evaluative glance. “Do not be hard on yourself, Talamir,” he murmured. “The hardiest men fall to illness.”

“Rightly spoken!” Elenda agreed strongly. The young man offered her at half-smile, but it fell quickly from his lips, as if he did not have the strength or will to complete the effort. Elenda looked his over critically. A wasting illness left some melancholy and depressed. She realized suddenly that the taller ranger had been watching her, even as she examined his companion. Feeling caught out, Elenda looked away. It was none of her business, anyway. Their debt to her was settled.

“I wanted to thank you, my lady,” Talamir said softly. “Had you not found Strider when you did, 'tis likely I would have perished.”

“Well now!” Elenda blushed. “Seems I was only doing my duty. It's this Strider you should be thanking, braving who knows what horrors in the wild woods to find you!”

Strider and Talamir exchanged a quick glance.

“Actually, my lady, I was hoping to ask a favor of you,” Strider said.

“Oh?” Elenda stiffened, old fears rushing back. Agreeing to a favor blind was like walking behind a horse—you never knew when you'd get kicked or how hard.

“Yes. Not for myself, but for Talamir. He is still too weak to, as you put it, 'brave the horrors of the wild woods.' We have no coin to put him up—but perhaps you, Mistress, would give him lodging and meals, in return for his labor while he recovers. Talamir knows his trade well enough, and could assist you in any task that presents itself, I'm sure.”

Elenda blinked, her eyes moving from the tall ranger to young Talamir, whose face had twisted somewhat sullenly. It was plain his elder's words were not to his liking.

“Come here, boy,” Elenda said, gesturing behind the counter. She rummaged about and laid out three herbs. “Can you tell me how these are named, and what's their use?”

“Of course.” Talamir's chin tilted upward at the challenge. “That's yarrow, but most call it staunchweed—it will stop a wound from bleeding out. That's willow. Boil the bark and you have a treatment for boils and ulcers. Those are elderberries. Mash them and that's a cure for a cold or stuffed up nose.”

Elena nodded, impressed despite herself. “Herbmaster, indeed, it seems!” She looked the two over, pondering Strider's request. To think even a week ago that she might agree to put up a ranger! But, after all, these two were clearly no vagabonds of the ordinary sort—no vagabond knew to call staunchweed yarrow. 

Besides, the lad had an honest face.

“Very well,” she said, “but I won't have you lazing about, Lad, sick though you may have been. This store of mine may be small, but there's lots of labor to keep you busy.”

“I'm used to working hard,” Talamir said, shooting a half-smile at the other ranger.

“Indeed you are,” Strider said. He made Elena a short bow. “You have my thanks once more, my lady,” he said, and strode out of her shop, the wind lifting the tail of his cloak.

“A grand manor that one has,” Elena observed. “Makes me feel like one of the gentry, getting my lady'd this and that. You just call me Mistress Elena, now.”

“I'll try to remember that, my lady,” the lad responded, his tone cheeky. He'd let his posture droop once the other ranger had left and cast a curious gaze around the room.

“Now, now, I won't be having any of that!” Elena responded, though something in her warmed to see this show of spirit. “And don't think that you're going to find a cozy inn bed made up for you here. I have some old blankets I can muster, but the floor will have to be good enough for you.”

“I've slept in much worse places than the floor of a warm and well-kept house,” the lad said. He pointed to a container at the far end of the room. “What's that? I don't recognize it.”

Elenda explained to him all about sputtle's feet, which grew down in the Shire. She left him grinding on the mortar and pestle while she went to make him up some bedding. As she pulled the blankets from her old cot, she wondered if she should have offered it to him. The thought hadn’t crossed her mind at all. She didn't know how to handle a young lad, truth be told, and this was no Bree-bred boy either!

She crept back downstairs on cat's feet, half-hoping to see the lad slacking off or rummaging around in search of her cash box. But he was bent diligently over the mortar, the herbs almost entirely ground.

“Guess you drew lucky tonight,” she told him. “I found a spare old cot for you to use.”

She waved off his profusive thanks and led him to the cramped little room that had been hers when Mistress Sira first took her in. There was no door, just a moth-bitten curtain, and the bed took up most of the room, but that small space had been her refuge. Mistress Sira had never entered without knocking on the wood outside.

“You'll sleep here, Lad,” she said, and drew the curtain shut.

She thought she'd have trouble finding sleep with a stranger in the house. And at first she strained her ears to catch a creak of the floorboards. But there was only silence from the room down the corridor and then, the faint, but unmistakable sound of a snore.

Elenda snorted to herself. “Well, I never.” 

She sank into sleep like a stone.

The next few days were altogether strange. She made the lad a breakfast of bread and porridge and was surprised when he stood afterward and without asking went to draw water and wash their plates. In the early hours of the morning, before the customers came, she walked him through the layout of the store. At first she didn't know how to put him to use, but he seemed a quick study, and before she knew it he was on his feet and pulling the herbs that customers named, without her so much as having to lift a finger.

“That's a sprightly lad you've found,” commented Nina, a longtime customer. “But what stone did you find him under? Last I heard you were adamant you'd be hiring nobody.”

“I let him stay on as a favor to his family,” Elenda told her, which wasn't the whole truth of it, but Elenda had learned to keep her affairs private from chattering tongues. Bree had more gossips than horses, or so the saying ran.

“Well you seem to be getting the better of the deal,” Nina said, as Elenda handed her the herb packet Talamir had gathered.

That night, for the first time since Sera passed, Elenda made a fire in the common room and drew a mug of cider for herself and the lad.

“You've done good these past days,” she said, surveying him as he blew on his cider. Out of those ranger rags, in some hand-me-downs she found for barter at the market, his hair washed and face clean, you could have almost mistaken him for a Bree lad. The question bubbled up on her lips without her even thinking: “A hard-working lad like you could find himself some proper work in the city, easy. So how's come you're living life with vagabonds?”

She regretted her words the instant she spoke them, thinking of that Strider fellow, who really was no common vagabond, for sure. The lad's eyes flashed and he set down his cider with a loud clatter. His face twitched like he was holding back angry words. Finally he said, “Mistress Elenda, if you knew what Strider has done for this town, you wouldn't dare call him names.” He stood up from his chair. “If you'll pardon me, I'm to bed.”

Now you've done it, you stupid old sow, Elenda thought to herself, staring unhappily at the boy's abandoned mug. You never get it right.

She remembered how she'd refused those rangers her herbs like a penny-pitching old witch. If it hadn't been for that Strider, this poor lad would have likely have met his death out in the wilds. What a ghastly thought.

Despite the fire, she shivered. But her common sense was quick to return and give her a kick in the rump: Now, why was he out in the wilds in the first place, then? A sorry story it would be if he goes out there to die again after all this fuss.

In the morning she gave the lad a heaping spoonful of the mulberry jam she saved only for special occasions to eat on his bread. He smiled at her, and for the moment all seemed forgiven.

She was in the backroom, leaving Talamir to manage the front, when the ranger Strider returned. The two were locked in conversation, taking no notice of her as she inched her way into the main room.  

“How have you been, Talamir?” Strider was asking. “Has your strength returned?”

“Yes, Sir,” Talamir answered quickly, with a whole lot more deference than Elenda had ever seen out of him before.

Strider cast his eyes around the shop, the newly organized canisters and the cleanly swept floor. “Seems you've been busy.”

At that, Talamir blushed angrily. “Was this a punishment?”

“A punishment?” Strider's eyes widened somewhat theatrically. “Don't tell me it's been so terrible. The herbmistress seems like a kind and generous woman.”

Well, Elenda's back did straighten at that. She'd been too hard on that Strider fellow and that was the truth.

“Of course she's been kind!” Talamir's mouth twisted. “I've had a soft, comfortable bed to sleep on every night and a warm breakfast ready in the morning. I haven't suffered at all.”

“Then I'm at a loss as to why you speak of punishment.” There was a gentle humor threaded in Strider's voice, but the lad didn't seem to catch it.

“The punishment is knowing I'm having all these things while you and Halbarad and all the rest go without! And why? Because I was weak.”

Elenda found her mouth dropping slightly. Was the lad back to that? Over the past week he'd shown himself plenty strong, a hard and able worker. She opened her mouth to set him straight, but Strider beat her to it.

“Perhaps if you'd stop wallowing in self-pity for a moment,” he said sharply, “you could wake up and consider just what you've gotten done this week. You have served the people of Bree by providing medicine and you have helped an aging woman who needs the help, thought she would never ask for it. Our mandate is not to suffer, it is to aid and protect our people. If you consider that punishment, you have wandered far into the fog.”

Talamir's head drooped. Elenda wavered on the thresh-hold. Strider hadn't made a whole lot of sense there, but Elenda could recognize a stern talking-to when she heard one.

Strider lifted his head and caught Elenda's eye. “Now, this is what I came here to tell you. Halbarad and I are South of town sheltering at the rowan patch. We'll be leaving tomorrow morning for a border patrol along the shire. If you choose to join us, we'll be glad to have you. But fate may have found another path for you, if you choose it. I would ask you to meditate on the concept of duty.”

With that he turned tail and left, before Talamir could get out a word. Elenda could see the lad was terribly shaken. His face was pale and his fingers trembled when he reached out to finger a picking of king's weed.

“Well now, what was that all about?” Elenda asked, bustling over to his side. “That Strider fellow is an uncommonly odd one and no mistake. And I'm sorry, Lad, if I implied he was some simple vagabond, but you know, it's really hard to come to any other conclusion from those awfully muddy cloaks.”

The lad laughed at that. “That's what happens when you sleep in the mud every night,” he said. Then his face fell and he let out a groan.

“Now look,” Elenda began. She felt like the lad was in need of comfort, but for all her expertise in common ailments, she found it difficult to diagnose just what had upset him so. “If you've had some falling out with your ranger friends, or such-like, you should know—” Elenda was surprised by the path her sentence had taken her on, but she plunged on nevertheless, “—what I'm saying, Lad, is you're a damn fine worker and I'd be happy to keep you on as an apprentice. Can't pay you more than coppers, but you'll have a bed and two good meals a day. And, you know, I'm not so young as I was, 'tis true. When my bones go feeble on me, it would be nice—well, it would be nice to have this place in good hands, or so to speak. Ain't another herb shop in Bree like it.”

Elenda came to stop. Nothing she'd said had been planned, but when she spoke, she realized she’d spoke true. Too long she'd carried the burden of Sera's death alone. The real way to do Sera right—do right the unmatched kindness Sera had done her—was to keep the shop living on after her.

Talamir's eyes had gone wide. “You—you'd put that kind of faith in me?” he asked.

“Not faith, Lad. Hasn't taken me a week to see what you're made of, and it's good iron, right down to the bone.”

At that, he shook his head. “No—you don't understand. I've always tried my best, but I don't measure up. I make a racket in the wood, I'm hopeless with a sword and worse with a bow. Spotting herbs is the only thing I've ever been any use at, and that's no help to anyone when I'm more likely to fall sick myself out on patrol. My parents died heroes, fighting orcs, but I haven’t done a single thing to make them proud.” His voice caught and he turned away quickly to hide the tears starting to stream down his face.

“Now lad,” Elenda said quietly, “I don't know much about heroes or much about orcs. But I do know that two days ago the herbs we sold saved Jerri's two little girls. I know the herbs we sold this week rid old man Archer of his pains and gave Susana an easy birth. Seems to me your parents would be right proud of you.”

The lad was silent. After a moment, he dragged his arm across his face, wiping away the wetness. “Meditate on the concept of duty,” he said softly. “I'll try, Lord Aragorn.”

He worked like a mute for the rest of the day and when darkness fell he lingered downstairs, his fingers twitching as if looking for more work to fill them. Elenda lit the fire again and placed a bundle of thread in his lap. 

“My eyes have gotten too weak to do good work, but I can show you how's to make a warm blanket,” she said.

So they passed the night, well into the early hours of morning, as the fire fell to embers and the needles clinked together in Talamir's hands. At some point she must have dropped off; she woke to the cock crow and gray light dripping in through the window. Talamir was standing still as a tree trunk, his face sunk deep in shadow. Then he caught her stirring and turned, a shaft of new morning sun catching the smile lightning his face.

“Lady Elenda,” he began solemnly, “it would be my honor to serve as your apprentice and to serve the people of Bree through my labor and herb-lore. That is, if you'll still have me?”

“Lad,” Elenda said, “there's no question. Now come on, if you want porridge, you’ll have to bring in the water.”

With a quiet smile, Talamir stepped out into the foggy, brightening dawn.