Autumn was rapidly fading from the Angle. Bitter winds whipped the last leaves from the trees that framed the Chieftain’s house where it stood at the top of a little hill at the southern edge of the village. But the sun shone bright, even as it began to make its journey west. Nethril smiled widely at the sight of Brécharn walking up the path with Meldroch. She’d never known the Ranger particularly well, but he always had a joke on hand, and though she could never tell him why, she admired him fiercely. He and Hallor were an open secret among the Rangers, and their unspoken love had given her courage, when it came to matters with Isilmë. His cloak hung a bit loosely on him now, his belt tight from long weeks on the road, but he kept stride with Meldroch as he walked, his wild black hair hanging loose around his shoulders. He bowed low to greet her, but she allowed herself a rare drop in propriety and embraced him tightly.

“Welcome home, son of Belegor.” She drew back to hold him at arm’s length. “You’ve been missed.” 

“So I’ve heard,” he said with an impish wink. “Seems they’ll let anyone act as Chieftain these days.” 

From anyone else, she’d have bristled at the words, but Brécharn spoke them so amiably she could not help but grin back. 

She led them through the main hall of the house and into the map room, and on impulse she threw open the shutters to allow the light to stream in. Adanel was already seated at the large table in the center of the room, her hands folded neatly behind a steaming pot of tea. Herbrow furrowed in disapproval when Nethril fastened the shutters in place. She ignored Adanel and took the pot of tea from beside her to pour out cups for both Meldroch and Brécharn. They nodded their thanks, and she settled into her seat at the head of the table. Her hands brushed the ink strokes that marked Belegaer on the great map before she closed them around her own clay cup and breathed in the strong, bitter scent of her mother’s tea.  

“I am only sorry it took me so long to return,” Brecharn said, seating himself beside Meldroch. “It took some time to gain the measure of this new Steward, and of the threat in Mordor.” 

“Is it what we feared?” Meldroch asked. 

Brécharn hesitated just a moment before he replied. “More or less. Sauron has rebuilt Barad-dûr. Fear permeates the streets of Minas Tirith—they are so close to Minas Morgul. But there has been no open war, no onslaught, and from all I can gather the servants of the Enemy do not seek the Heir of Elendil in the way they once did. It seems they believe the line died out with Arathorn.”

Nethril glanced toward Adanel at the words, but she only gripped her hands tighter together in a movement barely perceptible to the two Rangers at the table. 

“And Gondor?” Adanel asked. “What work has the Steward’s line undertaken to combat the shadow?” 

“Ecthelion is a good man,” Brecharn answered, “well liked by the people. He’s built up decent defenses with what he has, but his resources are limited. He’s encouraged men from far and wide to enter into his service. Not just Gondor—outsiders, foreigners. When I gained an audience with him, he asked me to tell this to the Dúnedain.”

Silence descended upon the room. 

“Outsiders and foreigners.” Adanel’s voice was dangerously soft. “He is aware we’re descended from the same line, yes?” 

“I imagine he wasn’t referring to us,” Nethril said, suddenly wishing Adanel had not invited herself to this meeting. She was stubborn and proud, traits Nethril had long admired; traits that had let the Dúnedain survive in the years of Aragorn’s childhood. But it too often led to loss of temper these days, and she could not afford a scene in front of Meldroch. “Are they worth sparing the men for, Brécharn?”  

“It is something to consider,” Brecharn spoke slowly. “We combat the same foe. And I’ve spent time amongst their soldiers. They’re stalwart and brave, but one good northern Ranger is worth ten of those from Ithilien.” 

“But they have those ten,” Meldroch said. “We can barely keep the Greenway clear.”

“Not to mention our own lands,” Nethril added. “No doubt Meldroch told you of the attack this fall.” 

Adanel’s face had gone tight with rage, and she let out a derisive snort. “The very gall they have, to come to our doorstep begging for help. As if Sauron didn’t fester and grow under their watch.”

“As troll dens grew under ours,” Nethril reminded her. 

“Don’t talk of things you’re too young to understand,” Adanel snapped. “No captain would ever consider sparing a man for Ecthelion of Gondor. It’s beneath us all.” 

Nethril chose to ignore the gibe at her age, and took a breath to make sure her voice was steady when she answered. “It is not beneath us to consider all our options. As I’m sure Aragorn would say, if he were here.” 

“I will not send men to fight and die for a lesser house. One that looks down on us with scorn, when they remember us at all—“

“Lady Adanel, this decision does not rest with you,” Nethril broke in firmly. “If you cannot respect that, I must ask you to leave us.” 

Adanel’s mouth hung open as she stared at Nethril. “Excuse me?” 

“Leave now,” she repeated quietly. “Please.” 

Adanel’s eyes narrowed in a venomous glare, but she abruptly pushed her chair back from the table and strode for the door. She slammed it behind her, and Nethril let out a deep, shaking breath. She clenched her hands tightly together, praying the two men did not notice how unnerved she was, but when she looked up she saw she had no need to fear. Meldroch stared at the curved oak of the door, as though afraid it might suddenly grow teeth and snap at him too, and Brecharn gazed at her with newfound awe.

“Terrifying,” he breathed. “Does Aragorn know how to do that?” 

She gave him a thin-lipped smile. “He doesn’t have to.” 

***

“I should start sleeping with a knife under my pillow,” she grumbled later in the healer’s cottage. 

Poor Faelhen had been plagued by stomach cramps all morning, though now Nethril wondered if it was from her monthly cycle or from her mistress’s tempestuous mood. It seemed the least she could do to fetch some herbs from Ivorwen while the girl tried to rest, since she would have only Adanel for company when she awoke. 

“Adanel’s bark has always been worse than her bite,” Ivorwen reassured her. “The two of you compliment each other that way.” 

Nethril shot her grandmother a resigned look. “She’s being impossible. I love her, Nana, but I cannot live in that house on eggshells, not while I’m expected to rule. Ever since Gandalf and Aragorn departed, it’s been…” 

“She misses him,” Ivorwen said simply. “Especially now. I wonder if he should have stayed.” 

“He left for her,” Nethril said, surprised at how instinctively she defended her cousin. “He wants the wights banished once and for all, so that she might have peace knowing they’re gone.” 

“I know. But I wonder if she needs more for her grandson to be close. To cherish that time while we have it. We lost so many years…” she trailed off, and Nethril glanced at her in sudden concern.  It was not like Ivorwen to lose herself in wistful wanting, and upon closer look she saw her grandmother appeared exhausted, dark circles under her eyes and hands that trembled a bit when she filled the pouch with herbs. Nethril reached out and took the pouch from Ivorwen.  

“Is everything all right, Nana?” 

Ivorwen stared at her for a moment, as if weighing how much to impart upon her granddaughter, but she only smiled and reached out to pat Nethril’s cheek in reassurance. 

“It is only the sight, child, and the toll it always takes. But nothing worth worrying over. It will be easier when your grandfather returns.” 

“Not soon enough,” Nethril murmured.  Dírhael was not a commander by nature, but he could do it far better than she or Meldroch. She glanced at Ivorwen once more, tempted for a moment to ask what visions had entered into her foresight, but instinct held her back. The years had taught her that sometimes speaking the prophecies caused Ivorwen as much pain as seeing them. Instead, she gathered her cloak in her arms and kissed her grandmother in farewell, embracing her tightly before she turned to the door. 

“Get some rest, Nana, please. You’ll tell me if you need anything?” 

Ivorwen nodded, but her eyes held a protective concern Nethril knew too well. “You fret over so many, dear one. Do not add me to the list.” 

*** 

Faelhen still lay in bed when Nethril returned to the Chieftain’s house, though she sat up now, looking far better than she had earlier in the afternoon. 

“Thank you,” she groaned weakly, and took the brewed herbs from Nethril. Her face was still pale, but spots of color appeared on her cheeks when she took a careful sip and scowled at the taste. “I’m sorry I left you to manage things alone.” 

“Don’t apologize. Better for you to rest until you’re well.” Nethril glanced toward the doorway of Faelhen’s small room, filled with sudden trepidation that Adanel might come storming in. “Is she—“

“She’s down in the common room,” Faelhen supplied. “Mending the holes in the cloth we use for feast days. I think she’s pretending it’s you.” 

“Good to know,” Nethril said wryly. She turned to leave, but paused at the door and looked back at Faelhen, who now directed her intent gaze rather suspiciously at the brew resting between her palms. The girl had been eleven when she came into Adanel’s service, orphaned with no surviving relatives to take her in. She was nineteen now—not yet of age under Dúnedain law, but old enough to make her own way in the world, to pursue a life beyond that of a servant, if she wished. Certainly she deserved better than manage the impetuous heirs of Anárion. 

“Faelhen, you know, I…I hope you know you’re not beholden to the struggles of this house. If you wished to leave, to seek your father’s kin in Círbann, none of us would begrudge you the chance.” 

Faelhen looked appalled. “Why would I do that? I can’t leave Adanel.” 

“Not now, perhaps, but—“ 

“She needs me,” she said fiercely. “She needs all of us. Sometimes I think I’m the only one here who remembers that.” 

Nethril could only nod once, taken aback by the forcefulness of the girl’s words. Faelhen glared at her, her round, youthful face sharp with indignation, and Nethril wondered how much of the frustration was directed at her, or at Aragorn far away.

“I remember,” she said. “I’ll make things right with her.” 

“Good.” Faelhen settled back against the pillows with a short sigh. “That will help far better than whatever orc draught this is.” 

Nethril nodded and made her way carefully down the stairs, hitching her skirt up to avoid tripping in the darkness. The sun had gone down behind the trees, but twilight still shone dimly through the windows of the great hall, casting a long shadow as she walked to the common room in the back. A fire flickered in the hearth of the room. Adanel sat with her back to the door, her hands moving seamlessly as she stabbed at the tablecloth draped over her lap.  Nethril took her seat in her usual chair and picked up her own mending basket, filled to the brim with winter hose and the skirt she’d torn open in her fight against the barrow-wights. She’d had her hands so full as acting Chieftain she’d neglected it for weeks now, and she ran her hands over the split fabric, a clean tear that ran nearly the full length of skirt. It had been neat work on her part, at least, a spot of clear-headedness in a day ruled by panic. A day that still cast a shadow over the two of them now. 

Nethril spared a glance toward the woman beside her, her grey hair braided in a crown around her head, her mouth set in a thin line, but Adanel did not look up from her work or acknowledge her presence. Nethril pursed her lips with some frustration, but busied herself with pinning the tear closed and fishing needle and thread from her basket. She would not apologize for sending Adanel from the meeting, could not, if she wanted to prevent another occurrence like it in the future. And Adanel had no patience for platitudes or pity; a sentiment Nethril could certainly relate to, but now…

“If Hareth had behaved in such a way while Arador ruled, I would have banished her from the house.”  Nethril started at the name of Argonui’s wife, and she looked up to see that Adanel’s hands had frozen in place, a humorless smile twisting her lips. “So I suppose I owe you my gratitude.” 

“Adanel, I—“

“You are young still, Nethril, and you are not my kin, much as I may wish it, so you cannot tell me when I’m behaving like an ass. Grant me at least the privilege of saying it for you.”  

Nethril flushed red, unable to deny her mentor’s words, and she looked back down at her sewing.

“I do not think you were wrong, if that means anything,” she said at last. “We have plenty to concern ourselves with right here without sending men to aid Gondor.” 

“That is the very problem, isn’t it?” Adanel’s smile faded, and when she picked up her needle again her hand seemed almost limp. “Our struggles only multiply. The brothers Elrondion ought to haul themselves over there for a while instead—I’m sure they’d find enough orcs to last themselves a lifetime.” 

Nethril let out a snort. Elladan and Elrhoir were currently in Fornost with Dírhael on one of their fabled orc-hunts, fighting an incursion that had come south from Mount Gram. “There’s a thought. Worth considering if we didn’t need their blades here.” 

Adanel nodded in silence, a shadow still across her face, and Nethril sighed. There was no real answer to the question, at least none tonight, and it was past time they both found something to take their minds off the burdens that pressed upon the Dúnedain. She glanced at Adanel sidelong, a thought suddenly occurring to her, and she smiled slyly. 

“Has Aragorn told you much of his time with those two?” 

“Hmph. ” Adanel snorted impatiently. “I should think not. There are certain things grandmothers should not hear, and the Valar only know what bad habits they imparted on him.” 

“I gather more it was the other way around,” Nethril said with a grin. She could never forget the harvest festival two years prior, when the peredhil kept them up with a bottle of brandy far into the night, their tales causing Aragorn to curse them steadily in Sindarin. 

“They are impressionable, I’ll grant you that.” Adanel’s mouth twitched, and her eyes lit up with traces of mirth. “Did you know Elladan once smoked pipeweed on a dare from Arador?” 

Nethril burst out laughing, the image too ridiculous for her to comprehend, and Adanel broke into a true smile, the first Nethril had seen in weeks. 

They passed the time in easy chatter, tales from long ago and light gossip enough to thaw the air between them. Faelhen roused herself to join them in preparing supper, content to be fussed over by Adanel, and Nethril’s heart tightened from affection while she watched them, the aroma of stewed parsnips and chicken suffusing the air. She could do enough, she hoped, for Adanel to find peace in Aragorn’s absence, in this home of lonely women. Something told her it would be the three of them for awhile longer yet. 

***

“Nethril. Nethril, wake up.” 

A cold hand grasped her shoulder, rousing her from sleep. Nethril groaned in an exhausted haze. Anxiety for the future clouded her dreams again, of failed harvests and Rangers felled by orcs, and she wondered for a moment if this was just a continuation of the not-quite-nightmare. 

“Nethril.” The voice was sharper, now. 

She opened bleary eyes to see that Adanel stood over her, her face shadowed in candlelight, the room pitch black behind her. Even through the flickering light, Nethril could make out the stricken expression on Adanel’s face, one well practiced in crisis and grief. She bolted upright in bed.

“Sentries spotted three horses, riding hard through the night. They’ll be at the gates within the hour.”

Nethril rubbed at her eyes to try and banish the groggy remnants of sleep. “Were they pursued?” 

“No pursuit. But the third horse is riderless.”  

“Merciful Eru.” Dread hollowed out her stomach, and her heart hammered a bit faster in her chest. “Who? No one was supposed to be back for another fortnight at least.” 

“The sentries couldn’t see. There were maybe two riders upon another horse, but they can’t say for sure.” 

Nethril shoved herself out of bed, shivering against the cold, and flung open the trunk at the foot of her bed to try and find clothes to pull over her nightdress. She could see the outline of a broad-shouldered man in the doorway—Meldroch, she presumed—but she had no time to care before she hastily pulled on a worn pair of trousers and an old work shift. She turned to Adanel, suddenly unsure of where to go, what to do, and the old woman gripped her shoulder to steady her. 

“Go with Meldroch to meet them at the gates. I’ll rouse the healers.” 

Nethril nodded once, gratitude briefly rushing through her, before she hurried past Meldroch and down the stairs to the main hall, pulling her cloak off its hook near the door. The night air chilled her when she stepped outside, her breath escaping her in a small cloud, and she looked up at a waxing moon hanging low in the east. She walked as quickly as she could across the field before the Chieftain’s house, before worry got the best of her and she broke into a run. 

Valar, whoever they are, keep them safe, she prayed. Keep them safe until they’re home.