The sun shone through the fading stormclouds, glinting off the fresh layer of snow that blanketed the Angle, and Nethril shaded her eyes with her hand when she looked out at the barrows. Buried in white, they somehow appeared less foreboding, as if winter finally granted the dead leave to rest. Aragorn knelt a few feet ahead of her before Arathorn’s barrow, unaware of her presence, and he murmured soft words she tried not to hear. At last he caught sight of her shadow and stood, a rueful smile lightening his face when he turned.

“I had not been here since we reinterred the bodies. I thought he should know, what it is I set out to do.” 

She nodded and came up beside him, taking his gloved hand with her own. To the right of the barrow, a great stone stood covered in snow, hiding the names of the Dúnedain who had fallen far from home. She knelt and brushed the snow off the worn obsidian, looking until she found her father’s name carved two places over from Arador’s. She traced her finger over the Tengwar script and allowed the old ache to fill her. His name was the only true memory she had of him, when he echoed the Ranger’s oath for her and Halbarard before riding north with his Chieftain. In some ways, she still chased that memory a lifetime later, to try and grasp what she’d never known. 

“The sentries reported in just after you left,” she said at last. “Dírhael’s men crossed the Hoarwell. They’ll be here by midday.” 

He sucked in his breath and searched her face for ill news. “No casualties?” 

“No casualties.” A blessing that grew ever rarer. He sighed in relief and enveloped her in a tight embrace, one she returned fiercely. Her head barely came up to his shoulder, and she rested it on his chest, taking comfort in his solid presence while she still could. “We will have cause for joy, this winter.” 

“So long as Uncle Tarcil didn’t bring Gilbarad back an axe,” he said wryly. 

She laughed—knowing their uncle, she could not rule out the possibility. 

“Winter in the Angle, and Rivendell before we cross the mountains.” Aragorn sighed. “I wish you could see it, Nethril, know it as you’ve known Adar these past days. The waterfalls misting in the sunset, the lays sung in the Hall of Fire…” 

“Someday,” Nethril said softly. She could not tempt herself with the hospitality of Lord Elrond, not when she would only compare it to her own rough stone halls, the home she’d built between her mother’s cottage and the Chieftain’s house. “For now, my place is here. Adanel should go, though.” 

“Elrond has extended an invitation to her. I hope she will accept. She may find healing there that none of us can grant here.” 

“Poor Gilraen,” Nethril said. Aragorn gave a bleak sort of laugh, and Nethril shook her head. Her aunt’s gentle countenance fared poorly beside Adanel’s sharp tongue, and she could not imagine the fabled stillness of Rivendell would last for long. Not least when Adanel heard her grandson called Estel by all who’d known him in youth…

The thought jarred another one loose in her, and she glanced back at her cousin. “You will need a new name, when you cross the Hithaeglir. I don’t like that you use ‘Aragorn’ outside the Angle as it is.” 

“I have thought of that. Did Halbarad tell you they call me ‘Strider’ in Bree, now?” 

She rolled her eyes. “That will not do, either. Strider is no commander of men.” 

“So say the Breelanders.” He chuckled, and then fell back into silence, his face pensive. He folded his arms tight across his chest as he stared back at the barrow. 

“I would honor my parents,” he said at last. “So that I may carry them with me, no matter where I go. How does Thorongil sound, to your tongue?” 

“Eagle of the star,” she murmured. “I think it suits. And honors Elrond, too, after a fashion.”  

A great horn blast rent the air, one that signaled clear victory and triumphant return. Nethril and Aragorn looked at each other in surprise, and she broke into a wide, uncontrollable grin. 

“They’re early!” she cried.

Not waiting for Aragorn, she sprinted back to the Angle as best she could, doing her best not to trip over her skirts or slip on the new-fallen snow. Aragorn caught her by the elbow when she nearly fell into a snowbank, and laughing, they both ran the mile and a half from the barrows to the gate. 

A small crowd had already gathered before the gates, made up of the wives and children of returning Rangers. Elrond stood removed to the side, a fine velvet mantle draped atop his shoulders. Nethril skidded to a stop beside him, breathless and red in the face, hardly caring that she acted far too undignified for a lady of the Chieftain’s house. She made her way towards her aunt and young cousins, who stood beside Halbarad staring at the gate. She took his hand in her own and bounced anxiously on the balls of her feet as the gates opened and a dozen horses rode through. 

Dírhael rode at the head of the column, Elladan and Elrohir just behind him, their shining black hair a stark contrast to her grandfather’s wild greying locks. The twins’ eyes widened at the sight of their father, and they dismounted quickly to embrace him, showering him with questions in Sindarin. Dírhael surveyed the scene with some bemusement, but he quickly collected himself and dismounted.

Propriety gone, Nethril ran forward and threw her arms around her grandfather, squeezing her eyes tight to hold back her tears. He swung her off her feet in a tight embrace, and she laughed as he set her down and kissed her on both cheeks. 

“Here now, what’s all this for an old man?” He reached out and cupped her cheek with his battle-scarred hand. “We’re back, safe as ever.” 

“There was never any doubt of that,” Nethril smiled and hugged him again. “Only—oh, how you’ve been missed at home.” 

“I can see that,” he said, eyebrows raised. He gently detached himself from Nethril to greet Halbarad and Aragorn, who both stood beside them grinning. He clapped his grandsons both on the shoulders, and surveyed the three of them together with a mock-stern glance. “What sort of trouble have you all gotten into?” 

“Oh, Ada.” Nethril laughed. “You have no idea.” 

*Fin*

***

Author's Note: This story is dedicated to the members of my authorial family tree, both in Tolkien fandom and elsewhere, who have long shaped how I write and whose stories I long to give voice to. Thank you for sharing your works with the world; I have needed them more than ever this year. 

And thank you, dear reader, for following along with this story! Returning to Middle-earth is always a gift, and I'm grateful to have shared it with y'all.