“Hold!” The training master’s clear voice echoed over the sparring ring. 

The two men in the center broke apart, raised their blunted swords in salute, and came together in a fierce embrace. The people surrounding the ring broke out into great cheers and whistles. Nethril applauded with the rest of the assembled Dúnedain, a practiced smile upon her lips. She had attended well over a dozen prize plays in her life, though never with quite this good a view. She stood close enough to the ring gate she could rest her hands on the splintered wood, the training master, Tirron, on her right side and Captain Meldroch on her left.  Her fur-lined cloak protected her from the wind that cut through the training grounds, and a mithril-threaded circlet that belonged to Adanel sat heavy on her forehead, holding her hair in place in an elegant knot behind her. To those around her, she imagined she looked a younger counterpart of Arador’s widow—she would have to pray she could continue to act it, as well. 

Eight young men stood at the far end of the ring, all in padded tunics and drenched in sweat, despite the chill in the air. One still panted from exertion, grinning as his comrades all pounded him on the back. Ranging in age from nineteen to twenty-six, most had already received field promotions to full Ranger well over a year before. Extended patrols and depleted resources kept them away from the Angle until this month, but today they fought for their stars in the old way; in single combat against members of the Grey Company. The tradition dated back to Valandil, as did a handful of the silver pins that sat in a box beside Nethril. Today, they would swear their oaths to her, in Aragorn’s absence, and to all the Dúnedain of the North. Knowledge of that last bit quieted her nerves somewhat, enough that she trusted her voice to keep steady when she took the box in her hands and stepped into the center of the ring. 

The assembled audience quieted as she walked toward the young men, and the newly tested warriors came and knelt before her. She spoke in a clear voice, pitching her voice low enough so that it might mask her nervousness and carry so that even the smallest child in the back of the crowd might hear her. 

“Though the shape of the world may change around us, the charge of the Dúnedain has always remained: to protect the lands of Middle-earth, preserve our heritage, and honor our forebears who sailed from Númenor in search of peace. No one knows that charge greater than the Rangers among us, those men who wander the wilds and hunt the servants of the enemy. It is more than duty, it is dedication and sacrifice, to the thanks of few—often none but our own people.” 

She gripped the box tightly between her hands and opened the lid to reveal eight rayed stars nestled together atop a velvet cloth. Though the sun hid behind thick autumn clouds, they still glinted in the daylight.  The sight brought a true smile out of Nethril as she gazed at the men kneeling before her, their own joy barely suppressed. 

“You have trained your whole lives for a long and difficult road. You have fought hard, and now you have successfully challenged your brethren for the right to enter their ranks. Are you prepared to take the oath of the Dúnedain?” 

“I am.” They called out as one, and Meldroch stepped forward with an ancient, gleaming broadsword that he thrust into the soft ground. She stepped forward to each man, pinned the star to his breast with practiced fingers, and spoke words she’d committed to memory long ago, when she’d watched her father teach them to her brother along the banks of the Hoarwell. 

After the oaths were sworn and the cheers of the Dúnedain echoed into the sky, the Rangers gathered in the main hall of the Chieftain’s house, where Adanel and Faelhen served food and ale in celebration of their newly increased ranks. Too preoccupied with preparations to eat breakfast that morning, she wolfed down two large hunks of bread before the thought occurred to her that the men may be watching. This was the second official function she had presided over as acting Chieftain, and she was still not used to the scrutiny. Aragorn had left with Gandalf over a month and a half ago, with no telling of his return, and she had been left to preside over the captains’ council in October. In some ways, she’d found that easier than swearing in newly made Rangers. She was used to mediating disputes between the captains, and understood intimately the politics that would cause men along the Greenway to protest a transfer to Fornost. 

But ceremonies such as this were different, and rare—they had not had the opportunity for a formal swearing-in such as this since Aragorn’s own nearly four years ago. Still, Nethril could not help but feel like a pale stand-in making grandiose speeches meant for Isildur’s heir, when the royal blood ran so thinly in her veins.

She gazed out over the dim, smoke-filled hall, and spotted Meldroch making his way toward her. She forced her expression into one of polite greeting as the acting commander of the Grey Company approached.  The grizzled old Ranger gave her a brief, courteous bow, his normally dour face softened by the merriment around them.

“You bear it well.” He touched a hand to his brow in indication of the circlet around her own. “Leadership suits you.” 

“Thank you, Captain.” She hoped she sounded gratified rather than surprised. “I only hope they were not too disappointed to swear to me instead of Lord Aragorn.” 

He snorted. “If anything, I think they preferred it.”

“Why on earth would they prefer that?” 

He cast her a sly smile. “Aragorn may be many things, Lady Nethril, but he is no great beauty to look upon. Few Rangers can claim they swore oaths to one as lovely as you.” 

Nethril burst into laughter. She’d never considered herself particularly beautiful, and no man her age had ever shown so much as a passing interest in courting her. Either she frightened them with her closeness to Aragorn and her stubborn disposition, or they knew enough of her relationship with Isilmë to not try and interfere. The youngest generation, it seemed, had not yet been informed. 

“They will learn disappointment then, one way or another.” 

“It’s good for them. Builds character.” 

Nethril chuckled again, and gave Meldroch a sidelong glance. Though he was old enough to be her grandfather, he was as new to his position as she was to hers; an able captain of a small company, but unused to commanding the Rangers as a whole. She thought wistfully of Dírhael, on patrol near Fornost, and wished her grandfather would hurry his way home. 

“Tirron tells me you have plenty of ideas for them  build character. You plan to deploy Elros and Malbeth to Sarn Ford?” 

“As soon as they’re able to ride. It’s a good first posting, enough for them to gain experience without too much danger. Captain Húrin knows how to command the young.”  

“Aye.” She inclined her head and wondered how her next words would go over. “I’d have thought, after an attack within our borders, we’d want to keep more men close to the Angle.”  

Meldroch pursed his lips, and she tensed, but he seemed more thoughtful than dismissive. 

“I do not think we will be in danger of old ghosts again for quite some time,” he said. “Is that not the purpose of Aragorn’s mission? And the youth need to learn how manage the wild alone.” 

“It’s not the barrow-wights that concern me. It’s been so long since the Angle has been breached we’ve forgotten what it takes to defend it. What if it’s wolves next time, or orcs?”

“Our walls stand unbroken for a reason, Lady Nethril. The same reason we teach every child to defend themselves, from Glamren to the Swanfleet settlements. You know how to wield a sword as well as I, as does any woman of the Dúnedain.”

“Do not flatter me, Captain,” though she smiled when she said it. “I’m not challenging you in the ring. If you send them to Sarn Ford, I want two men sent back in their place. If the danger is truly so little there, they can be spared.” 

He considered her for a long time, his grey eyes narrowed, before he finally nodded and took a long swig from his mug of beer. “You have a tactical mind, I’ll grant you that. I’ll discuss it with Tirron.”

“That’s all I ask,” Nethril said, and let out a quiet sigh of relief when he bowed his head in farewell and moved on to where a small group of older men stood smoking their pipes beside the hearth. 

Compromise had been the hardest thing for her to learn, these past weeks, conceding ground while keeping her authority intact. A game she’d have to play just a little while longer, until the men of her family returned home. 

*** 

At last, the sun sank behind the trees, and the Chieftain’s house slowly emptied out as the revelers returned to their own homes from the evening meal. Nethril surveyed the mess of the main hall—benches scattered haphazardly across the floor, overturned mugs of ale on the tables, an uncleared platter that a barn cat was already tending to. She and Faelhen had already cleared away the rest of food, sending most home to families of the Angle. Nethril half-heartedly shooed the cat out of the house before she decided the rest could keep til morning. She retreated into the back common room, where Adanel already sat straight-backed at a spinning wheel,.  She nodded to her old mentor before she collapsed into a cushioned chair and let out an exhausted groan. 

“Valar spare me. I don’t understand how you managed as acting Chieftain for so many years.” 

“It was more difficult in my day, too,” Adanel said primly, not taking her eyes off her spinning. “That stiff-necked Meldroch had no clue how to take orders from a woman with any sense of grace. It took nearly a decade for him to take my advice on its own merits, rather than being conveyed to him through Dírhael.” 

Nethril covered her face with her hands and sank deeper into her chair. “Is that so?” 

“You’re welcome, by the way.” 

Nethril let out another mild groan, not in the mood to be admonished by the formidable old woman. Faelhen came in through the door and gave a Nethril conciliatory pat on the shoulder before she brought a steaming cup of tea to Adanel. The lady smiled warmly at Faelhen before she fixed her falcon’s gaze back on Nethril, and Nethril knew there was no way she was getting out of this conversation with any sort of dignity. 

“I thank you, then, for making my duties easier.”

Adanel gave a curt nod in reply, but the corners of her mouth twitched in amusement, and Nethril suppressed a sigh. She supposed she should be glad that Adanel was somewhat in her old, cantankerous spirits. Ever since the attack on the barrows she’d been quiet and withdrawn, a shadow over her eyes that Nethril had never seen before. Nethril had been thoughtless in her words, she realized, for Adanel had managed as acting Chieftain only at great cost. It had rendered her hope brittle, easy for cracks to form, and under the weight of Arathorn’s unearthed corpse Nethril worried it might shatter completely.

But there was color in Adanel’s cheeks today, and Nethril allowed herself to close her eyes and remember the joy that suffused the main hall just an hour before. The crackling of the fire and the whirl of Adanel’s spinning wheel lulled her into a half doze.  A loud knock jarred her from her reverie, echoing through the main hall and back into the sitting room. She sat upright and exchange a sharp look with Faelhen, who was already on her feet, but Nethril gestured for her to sit back down and strode for the door. Her footsteps echoed on the flagstones of the main hall, already chillier from the dying fire and absence of men.  When she wrenched the great door open, Meldroch stood on the threshold, his expression troubled. 

“Meldroch?” she said in some surprise. “Valars' sake, we can argue about Sarn Ford in the morning—“ 

But he pushed past her into the house, taking care to shut the door firmly behind him.

“The sentries spotted a man making his way up the hidden path, during the oath-taking, “ he said. “They didn’t think it worth disturbing the celebrations, but—it’s Brécharn. He’s returned from over the Hithaeglir.” 

“By the grace of Eärendil,” Nethril breathed. 

Aragorn had sent Brécharn on a scouting mission to Gondor over two years before, after the ruling Steward had died and Turgon’s son Ecthelion had risen in his place. The Dúnedain had little to do with their distant kin, but with Sauron newly declared in Mordor, Adanel and Dírhael had both counseled Aragorn to send a man south, to gain a measure of Ecthelion and how Gondor’s defenses stood against Barad-dûr. They’d had no word from him in over a year, and Nethril had, shamefully, put him out of her mind entirely, too consumed by more immediate fears to wonder if he’d met with death or worse. 

“He is well?” 

“Tired, and in desperate need of a bath, but otherwise hale. Bursting with news. Shall I send him here?” 

“No. He’s earned his rest, and time with his family,” she said, though she knew Brécharn remained unwed for much the same reason she had. “Have him report to me tomorrow at midday.” 

“As you wish, my lady.” Meldroch gave another short bow and disappeared back into the night. Nethril watched him go until she shivered at a gust of wind. Brécharn home. The Valar watched over them at home, today.  She could only pray they watched Aragorn, too, off with Gandalf in some hollow in the Wild. Whatever news came from the south, she could offer him counsel far better than she could offer leadership in his place.