Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)
Title: Sad Wings of Destiny (#4298)
Author: Laurelin
Chapters: 34
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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Crossovers
Description: When Buffy falls into her catatonic state after Dawn is snatched by Glory, she finds herself thrust back in time, into the body of a former Slayer, that of Miriel, daughter of Denethor II of Gondor.
Published: 03 Nov 2010
Updated: 13 May 2014
Warnings: language; violence; dark themes
Type: Action/adventure
Characters: Buffy; Miriel; Bregolas; Rangers; sons of Elrond
Chapter 1 - The Steward's Daughter
Author’s Note: This is a Buffy/Lord of the Rings crossover, set during the Third Age of Middle-earth in Year 3005. Readers beware! This story will contain some rather dark and disturbing themes. Rated for language and graphic violence. Buffy and all related characters belong to Joss Whedon. All Lord of the Rings characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. The ones you never heard of belong to me.
Story starts near the end of the season 5 episode, Spiral. A couple of lines of dialogue belong to Steven DeKnight.
Chapter One: The Steward’s Daughter
“Dawn!” shouted a horrified Buffy when she found that she could not follow her sister and Glory through the mystical barrier that Willow had put up. Apparently, the “door” had relocked itself after the hell-god passed through. Utterly terrified, she turned, running back into the dilapidated gas station, as the Knights of Byzantium engaged Glory in battle. The Slayer’s only thoughts were of saving Dawn.
“Willow!” she yelled to her friend, whose eyes had already gone black from the magicks she was conjuring. “Get it down! Now!”
As Willow uttered her spell, Buffy fled the building, hoping beyond hope that she would be able to get Dawn back from Glory.
Once outside, she stopped, totally shocked and dismayed by the morbid scene. The bodies of the knights littered the area. As she slowly moved forward, her eyes scanned the carnage for Dawn. She was nowhere to be found. Buffy was too late. Glory had escaped with her sister.
Time seemed to the Slayer to come to a standstill.. Her heart felt as though it had been ripped from her chest. Her pain was so great that no words could describe it. Tears welled in her eyes, as she looked upon the dead, whom Glory had managed to kill in mere seconds.
How could she defeat one with such strength? She couldn’t. She had failed. She had failed to protect Dawnie. Now, her sister would die and, most likely, so would her friends and countless others.
Buffy’s thoughts turned to her mom, whose loss she still mourned, and how she had failed in her promise to keep Dawn safe. It was over. No matter how hard she tried, life kept taking away those whom she dearly loved - first, Joyce, then Riley, and now Dawnie. There was nothing left.
In the span of seconds, her terror turned to grief, then to utter despair. The tears streamed down her face.
The rest of the Scoobies came scrambling out of the building, looking upon the scene in abject horror.
Whether they said anything or not, Buffy didn’t know. It seemed that her senses began to diminish - first her hearing, then her sight. Suddenly, it felt as though an invisible hand had grasped the top of her head, forcing her to the ground.
Consumed with despair, a voice then spoke in her mind, uttering only one word, “Remember!” She became numb and lost all forms of consciousness…
Buffy had no idea how much time had passed when she began to come back to her senses. Oddly, she felt comfortable, relaxed even. She was in bed - that much she could tell. Though her eyes remained closed, she knew she was home, safe and sound. How else could she feel so at ease? The incident with Glory taking Dawn was only a nightmare, a horrible, terrible nightmare. Right now, her sister was probably sound asleep in the next room.
The Slayer rolled onto her side, none too eager to leave the comfort of her bed.
The door then opened. It had to be Dawn.
“Rise and shine, Miriel,” said a woman’s voice, cheerful in tone.
Huh? Miriel? thought Buffy, her sleepy eyes automatically darting open. Who the hell’s Miriel?
She could hear the woman’s shoes clunking across the floor behind her, followed by the sound of curtains opening, instantly filling the room with a grey light.
“Come on, dear. It’s nearly eight o’clock,” prompted the woman, giving the Slayer a gentle shake as she swiftly passed by. “Time to ready yourself for breakfast,” she added, as she pulled another set of curtains open.
Buffy rolled onto her back and slowly eased up against the headboard. Her eyes quickly surveyed the room, leaving her shocked by her newfound surroundings. The room was nothing like her room. In fact, it was quite different. Not only was it much bigger, but it also had this whole water theme going on. Several large, elaborately framed paintings of various seascapes adorned the tall, white plaster walls.
Marble columns separated the sleeping area from the sitting area. Before the white marble fireplace were two blue, overstuffed chairs with matching ottomans. Over the mantle was a painting of an older man (maybe in his late fifties?) seated on a black stone chair flanked by two men, who looked to be in their mid to late twenties, and a girl, around Buffy’s age. All four had the same dark hair, deep grey eyes and ivory skin.
“Andreth,” Buffy found herself saying, as she crawled out of bed. “I had the strangest dream last night.”
That wasn’t her voice! That wasn’t her talking! What the hell was going on? The Slayer was beginning to panic.
Willow! Giles! What’s happened to me?!
“Mmm,” the slightly distracted woman answered, disappearing through a door to the left.
Buffy continued. “I dreamt of these… people garbed in the strangest raiment.” She stepped over to the tall window. Glancing outside, she saw that the sun had not yet dissipated the mists that lingered over the city. She then turned, looking toward the empty doorway. “Andreth, have you ever heard the name Buffy?”
The woman came back into the room, pushing aside the strands of brown hair from her face that had escaped from the loosely bound knot at the back of her head. She gave the Slayer a peculiar look.
“Buffy?” Andreth repeated. She then laughed. “I cannot say that I have. Sounds rather queer to the ears, does it not?” she chuckled. Her amusement quickly turned to concern. She dashed to Buffy’s side. “Oh, dear, I hope you’re not coming down with some illness!” She placed her hand on the Slayer’s forehead, checking for fever.
“I’m not sick!” Buffy answered adamantly, pushing Andreth’s hand away.
“Did you eat sweets before bed?” queried the woman, raising a brow in suspicion. “That is never a good thing.”
Frustrated, the Slayer marched off toward the opened door. “I’m not ill! And I didn’t eat any sweets before bed. Why can you not just listen to me? I feel this is important, that it means something.”
“Oh, darling, do not take your dreams seriously. They are just that - dreams,” replied Andreth, following behind the Slayer.
Buffy stopped just inside the door of the bathroom. She was staring at the reflection in the mirror. She didn’t look like Buffy, but the girl in the painting over the fireplace.
No one understands what I’m going through, said a voice that was not hers.
Buffy soon discovered that her own voice, or thoughts as it were, were becoming subdued, overpowered by this girl’s thoughts, whose body in which she now found herself trapped. Gradually, her own thoughts, feelings and memories faded, only to be replaced by Miriel’s life experiences.
The woman stepped behind the tall, slender girl. She placed her hands on Miriel’s shoulders, watching her in the mirror. “I’m sorry, dear. Go on. Tell me about that dream you had.”
Miriel blinked her eyes. “I… I no longer remember it,” she answered softly.
Andreth rested her chin on the girl’s shoulder, and wrapped her arms affectionately around her waist. “Then it could not have been very important, could it?” She gave her a little squeeze. “Never you mind that, my dear. There are more pressing things at hand, such as your birthday. It’s only two days away.”
A smile came to Miriel’s face. “There will be lots of presents, won’t there?” she asked with a twinge of hope in her voice.
“Indeed! It’s not everyday the Steward’s only daughter turns seventeen,” she replied, her smile widening. “Perhaps we can convince your father to allow you to open one gift today, after breakfast.”
Miriel placed her hands lovingly on top of her nurse’s, who had acted as her foster-mother since the death of Finduilas. “What would I do without you?”
“Fall into despair,” answered Andreth lightheartedly. “Now, come on, let us get you ready. It shan’t be long before the second bell rings.”
No sooner had the words left her mouth, the bell of the Citadel rang twice. Miriel was already late. Andreth hurriedly helped her wash and dress before the young woman rushed the Citadel to join her father for breakfast.
When, at last, she had made it to the Great Hall, Miriel was nearly out of breath.
Denethor, who had not waited for her, had already begun to eat. He shifted his eyes from his plate to his daughter and said, “You’re late,” in that stern voice that she had grown accustomed to hearing.
“I’m sorry, Father. I-I overslept,” she answered, approaching the table that had been set out before his black stone chair.
“Sit. Your food is getting cold,” he replied sharply.
Miriel took a seat and began filling her plate. She hated eating in the Citadel. In fact, she didn’t like being there much at all. It felt too cold, too sterile. She definitely preferred meals at the King’s House, where she still dwelt with Denethor, or even Merethrond, the Hall of Feasts. However, Denethor was spending more and more time in the Citadel, usually alone, pondering the fate of Gondor.
Sensing that Denethor was brewing in silence over her tardiness (something he viewed with great disdain), Miriel thought it best to lighten his mood by starting their conversation with a topic that nearly always brought a smile to her father’s face.
“Any news from Boromir?” she queried, nibbling on a piece of toast.
“Indeed,” answered Denethor. He dabbed his napkin on his mouth before adding, “Once again, my firstborn son has proved his prowess, hindering the enemy. Word reached me earlier this morning that he and his company will be back today, late.”
“That is wonderful news,” replied Miriel with a smile. “Then he will be here for my birthday, for the feast?”
“If things do not go ill between now and then, yes,” Denethor responded, somewhat dismally. “The might of Gondor can only hold back the enemy for so long, my daughter.”
The smile quickly faded from her fair face. The thought of some new skirmish interrupting her birthday celebration left Miriel feeling instantly sad. Too often, her brothers were called away into the field of combat. It was high time to put away the sword and pick up the chalice - to dance, sing, and hear laughter and music. Those times seemed all too few and far between.
“Do not concern yourself with matters of war,” Denethor remarked upon seeing the change on his daughter’s face. He gave her a reassuring smile. “I do not foresee either Boromir or Faramir being called away on your special day. We will have such a celebration as has not been seen in these Halls for many years. Now, let me see your smile, Miriel, for it always brightens this old Steward’s day.”
Miriel forced herself to comply with her father’s request.
“Oh, you can do better than that!” he continued, seeing that she was smiling merely to please him. “Perhaps this will help,” Denethor added, pulling from his lap an object wrapped in black cloth.
“For me?” she said, her eyes lighting up upon seeing the package.
He nodded his head in reply, handing her the gift across the table.
Miriel quickly took it and eagerly unwrapped the package. She gasped, as she clutched the silver circlet tenderly in her hands. She knew what it was the moment she laid eyes upon it. Her fingers traced the woven silver bands to the pearl swan with sapphire eyes affixed to the center. This was the headpiece that Adrahil, her grandfather, had had made for her mother long ago, for Finduilas had been a princess of Dol Amroth before her untimely death.
Tears came to her eyes. She had never had the luxury of knowing her mother, who had died while giving birth to Miriel, and was deeply touched that Denethor had given her something that he himself treasured.
“Do you like it?” he asked, watching her reaction closely.
Miriel nodded. She found herself overwhelmed with emotion. She was doing everything in her power not to cry.
“Put it on then,” said Denethor.
Miriel placed the circlet on top of her head, adjusting it slightly so that it fit more snuggly.
Denethor clapped his hands together, pleased. A soft smile graced his normally grim face. He looked at her as memories of his first meeting with Finduilas came rushing back to his mind.
“You look so much like your mother,” he confessed, becoming misty-eyed. “So fair, so beautiful,” he added faintly.
Miriel turned her eyes to the black cloth on her lap. “I wish I had known her,” she answered softly.
“I do too,” replied Denethor somberly. He took a deep breath. And, as he exhaled, he pushed aside those memories of old, and resumed eating.
“Thank you, Father,” said Miriel, meeting his gaze.
“You’re welcome, Miriel. It would please me if you would wear that on your birthday.”
“Of course I will,” she answered, screeching her chair backwards on the marble floor. “I think I should put this in my room until then,” she continued, rising from her seat.
Miriel had turned to leave, when her father called out to her. “Miriel?”
“Yes?” she answered, turning toward Denethor.
He tapped his finger against his cheek a few times.
She hesitated for a moment.
Her father cocked his head to the side, studying her with those piercing grey eyes of his.
Immediately, she strode to his side, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Father.”
As she moved away, Denethor cupped her cheek with his hand, caressing her soft skin with his fingers. “You are the jewel of my heart, Miriel. Do not ever forget that.”
She smiled in reply, easing back so that her father’s hand slipped from her face. “Never,” she answered before hurrying from the chamber.
Miriel felt a sense of relief as she walked down the long corridor to the front doors of the Citadel. She could feel her father trying to read her thoughts, a gift given to those Númenoreans of noble lineage, and did not want him to get even a glimpse of what she had been hiding.
The air felt cool on her face as she exited the building. Glancing toward the Withered Tree, she could see someone sitting on a bench beside the fountain. She didn’t have to see his face to know who it was.
“Bregolas!” she shouted from the steps of the Citadel.
The dark-haired young man turned his head, and waved her over.
“I have to go to my bedchamber!” she announced loudly. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She then took off running toward the castle behind the Citadel.
Bregolas had noticed the jeweled circlet on her head and thought that it made Miriel look queenly. His heart fluttered.
“Miriel!” he yelled back. “Wait!” He rose to his feet and took off after her.
However, Miriel did not have as far to run. She was already inside the King’s House before Bregolas reached the back of the Citadel. He continued his sprint, taking the front steps of the castle three at a time. After entering the Halls, the young man ran down the corridors, zipping past the servants until he reached Miriel’s bedroom.
As he placed his hand on the doorknob, a woman’s voice screeched, “Bregolas, son of Halthor, what are you doing here?!” Andreth came marching down the hallway, her arms laden with clean linens.
He breathlessly answered, “I… I am here to see Miriel. She said she had to - ”
“ - You know the rules of this house,” she admonished, cutting him off as he spoke. “You cannot enter Miriel’s bedchamber! It is forbidden! Only kin are allowed in her private quarters! And, need I remind you - you are not kin of the Lord of these Halls!”
Bregolas tried to catch his breath. “Andreth, I am the protector of the Steward’s daughter. I’m her personal guard. How am I to protect her if I cannot go into her bedchamber?” he argued.
The woman stepped in front of the man, barring him from passing through the door. “And whom do you need to protect her from in her own home, hmm?” she rebuked, narrowing her eyes at the young man. “Miriel is safe. She needs no protection in her chambers.” Andreth eyed the young man suspiciously. “Or is it that you have something else in mind, son of Halthor? I am not blind. I have seen how you look at Miriel.”
Bregolas pursed his lips, trying to hold back the scornful words he wished to unleash on the woman.
“My intentions are noble, I assure you, my good woman,” he replied, proudly throwing his shoulders back and towering over the much smaller woman.
“That is good to hear,” she answered, firmly holding her ground. “Now, go wait in the front parlor as all Miriel’s suitors do.”
A miffed Bregolas had turned to leave when the bedroom door swung open. Miriel stood in the doorway, her eyes darting from Andreth to Bregolas, then back to Andreth again. “What is all this?” she asked with a frown.
“I’m merely looking after your best interests, my dear,” replied the woman.
Miriel smiled warmly at the nurse. “And I appreciate that. However, Bregolas is kin - distant though it may be - he is still kin.” She swept past Andreth, linked her arm with the warrior and strode down the hallway at his side.
Bregolas looked over his shoulder at Andreth, giving her a toothy grin of victory. He then turned his attention back to Miriel. Still annoyed, he said, “That woman is insufferable!”
“Oh, she means no harm.”
“I wonder sometimes,” he snickered in reply. “So tell me: what is on the agenda for today?”
“Well, our first stop will be the dress shop.”
Bregolas rolled his eyes upon hearing that. “But, I thought that you were eager to practice - ”
“Shh!” she sounded, casting a nervous glance around the corridor, hoping that none had overheard him. “Do not speak of such things with so many around.”
“No one knows of what I speak,” he answered back.
“It is not worth the risk, Bregolas!” she chastised. “Wait until we have reached your home where none can overhear us.”
“Alright, Miriel.”
Before leaving the castle, Miriel unlinked her arm from her companion. They were not lovers, though Bregolas desired otherwise. He was her closest of friends, the one person in all of Minas Tirith that she trusted completely, and the only one that knew that she was the Slayer.
It had been six months ago, in December, when she had discovered her newfound strength. She remembered that day as if it had happened yesterday. A ring had fallen from her grasp and rolled under one of the wardrobes in her room. Unable to retrieve it by reaching under the cabinet, she attempted to move it (something she could never do before, but tried nevertheless), only to find that the wardrobe skidded across the floor with ease. Miriel soon realized how great her strength truly was, but kept it secret.
Upon this discovery, her thoughts swiftly turned to Mithrandir and his last visit to Minas Tirith three years earlier. She was feeling down that day. Both Boromir and Faramir had departed the White City, to contest the might of the Enemy on Gondor’s borders. She had sat alone by the fountain of the Citadel, when the old wizard joined her. He made some rather offhanded comments (or so she thought at the time) about how great her foremothers were. He advised her to study the lore of her people, particularly the women, and to see if she could find anything on the Dagnir. She had dismissed his words at the time, finding them both strange and senseless.
Yet when her “powers” kicked in, Miriel began to delve into the history of her people, the Númenoreans of old. Buried deep in the vaults of the Citadel, she came across writings concerning the Slayer. While the scrolls did not go into any great detail, they did mention that the Council of Watchers in Middle-earth was based in the northern kingdom of Arnor, and that that was where the Watcher’s Diaries were housed.
Unfortunately, the northern kingdom had been destroyed long ago, but there were still whisperings, even in Gondor, that many men had survived the great battles and continued to dwell in those parts, hunting the wicked creatures in the wilds of northern Eriador. She knew that if she were to embrace her Calling, she would need to find those men in the north.
But, slaying wasn’t the life for Miriel, and she couldn’t understand why she, of all people, had been chosen. She was the Steward’s daughter, for Eru’s sake. She didn’t long for adventure or warmongering. She preferred living her life of frivolity within the safety of the walls of Minas Tirith. Besides, how could one woman make a difference? She was no Lúthien, or, even Haleth, women of great renown from the Elder Days. She was not brave and had absolutely no skill or interest in weaponry.
Two months later, in February, all that had changed. Miriel had found herself most anxious to leave her beloved city, to answer her Calling, and to fulfill her destiny. She knew that Denethor would never allow her to go, and if she attempted to flee, she would get caught and would then have to answer to the Lord of Gondor, something she wanted to avoid at all costs. If she were to leave, there would be no coming back. So, she took her time, planning and plotting, preparing for that inevitable day.
That is where Bregolas comes into the story. If Miriel were to learn the craft of combat, she needed to find a suitable teacher. Her brothers were definitely out of the question since they would find her sudden interest in warfare suspicious, so that ruled them out. Her thoughts turned to Bregolas, who was considered one of the mightiest warriors in all of Gondor. He was also a dear friend of Boromir, and on very good terms with the Steward. He was always welcome in their home.
Before she had left for her extended holiday in Dol Amroth a year ago, Bregolas had merely looked at her as Boromir’s little sister. However, upon her return in September, he viewed her quite differently.
Perhaps it is as Boromir had said upon her return. “The sea air has changed you, Miriel, for you have blossomed into womanhood and have become the fairest maiden in all our land. I’m afraid I may have to fight off the many suitors who will come seeking your hand!”
His comment caused her to flush, but his words proved to be true.
Bregolas often went out of his way to speak with her since that day. It was obvious that he had become rather fond of her, and would often tell her that the elvish blood of her mother’s kin could only be seen in her, not her brothers. They did become fast friends, though the thought of their friendship becoming more filled Miriel with doubt. He was handsome; there was no doubting that. His chiseled features more closely resembled the statues of kings than most other men in Gondor. But he was older than she, being Boromir’s age, and while he was ready to settle down and start a family, she was not. Very seldom did she think of such things.
At the beginning of March, Miriel began to put phase one of her plan into action. She convinced herself that she could share her secret with Bregolas and longed to acquire the skills needed for battle. That meant she’d have to spend time with the Gondorian warrior alone, and Denethor would never approve of such a thing, unless Miriel played her cards right.
The opportunity presented itself on the fifth of March, as she remembered well. It was a cold and dreary day. Dark grey clouds stretched out as far as the eye could see. Heavy rains lashed the white, stone city, sending streams of water across the courtyard outside the tall window Miriel sat before. Her gaze was fixed to the east, where the clouds lingering over Mordor were blacker than night.
She recalled, weeks ago, overhearing her father speaking with his councilors about the great battle of Men which would take place in Denethor’s lifetime, and, to Miriel, it seemed that that time was fast approaching.
As she sat there, transfixed, an image came to her mind: the shadows of Mordor moved further west until all of Gondor lay shrouded in an impenetrable darkness, bringing with it despair, destruction and death.
She shuddered, turning her eyes from Mordor to the pools of water forming on the stone floor of the courtyard.
Miriel already believed that the malice of Sauron had found its way into Minas Tirith. In fact, she was sure of it. Changes had come over her father in the past year; changes that she deemed were rooted in darkness. And from that root were sprouting shoots of deceit that would eventually spread throughout the city, to the detriment of all its inhabitants.
She shuddered again.
A noise from behind brought her out of her deep thoughts. She turned, glancing over her shoulder. Denethor had entered the room and was stoking the fire.
“There’s a chill in the air,” he remarked.
Miriel didn’t answer, but looked back out the window, grim-faced.
A few minutes later, her father took a seat beside her. He fixed his keen grey eyes on her, watching her, as she stared to the east. “What troubles you, Miriel?” he asked with concern.
The young woman sighed, staring unblinkingly at the darkness looming over Mordor. “It’s coming, isn’t it, Father? The doom that the Dark Lord has long been preparing will soon strike our city, will soon strike Minas Tirith,” she whispered.
Denethor followed her gaze, looking at Mordor in the distance. He wished he could lie and tell her it wasn’t so. “Yes,” he answered softly. “The great battle is coming.”
“And what of me, Lord? What should happen to me when that time comes?”
Miriel’s gaze never left the window, but Denethor shifted his eyes back to his daughter.
“What is it that you mean?” queried the Lord of Gondor.
She paused and then in a faraway voice answered, “The enemy will fall upon the city like locusts, hewing those that stand in their way. Vast will be his armies, too great for us to overcome. They will seek to destroy the mightiest lord of the free people in Middle-earth, they will seek you, my Father. What shall become of me when all is lost?” Tears welled in her eyes. “Why is it that I feel I will be captured and taken to the Land of Shadow, perhaps as a reward for one of the Dark Lord’s loyal servants, or, maybe to suffer horribly in the Dark Tower?”
Denethor was grieved at heart to hear such utterances from his daughter. He deemed that she had foreseen things as he had, but he would not have her despair, not yet.
“Do not think such thoughts! As long as there is strength in this old body of mine, I will see to it that you are protected. I will never allow any to harm you. Never!”
A tear escaped from the corner of Miriel’s eye.
Denethor watched as it rolled down her cheek and splattered onto her velvety emerald green gown.
“How will you protect me, Lord, when your city is under attack?”
“The Guards of the Citadel are commanded to protect those of my line, including you, Miriel,” replied Denethor. “They are the mightiest warriors in all of Gondor, chosen for their proficiency in combat, and will not fail us.” His face became grave, his eyes doubtful. “Do you have so little faith in the blood of Westernesse?”
“It is not that I lack faith, Father, but the blood of the Númenor is not as it once was. As a people, we have fallen from grace - though by no fault of our own - that is, those that live today are not responsible for the actions of our predecessors. The Valar have taken away the gift they had given to our forebears, and with each generation, the years of life diminish - ”
“You have spent too much time reading the lore of old, Miriel!” interjected the Lord of Gondor. “It would do you good to devote more of your time to more savory endeavors - perhaps learn to play an instrument or pass the time gardening.”
Though Denethor tried to lighten her mood, it had the opposite effect. Miriel narrowed her eyes. Her cheeks began to redden with her surging anger. She slowly turned, facing her father.
“I open my heart to you, sharing what I foresee, and all you can say is that I have spent too much time learning about our forefathers! And you wonder why I drift away from you, why we are no longer close. You don’t listen. You don’t listen to me! Perhaps you would be more inclined if my name was Boromir and I could wield a sword and lay the heads of your enemies at your feet!” she spat without thinking.
Miriel went to rise from her seat, but Denethor lay his hands on each of her arms, preventing her from doing so. Her verbal assault left him stunned. He felt as if he had been on the receiving end of a blow that he had not seen coming. His only desire was to set things right.
“What would you have me do, Miriel? What could I do to ease your troubled heart? Is there nothing that I can do?” he queried anxiously.
The young woman sank back in her chair. Pulling her arms free, she folded them across her chest. She locked eyes with her father and boldly said, “I would request that the Lord of Gondor designate a great warrior to act as my protector, one whose sole purpose is to protect me, and only me.”
Denethor’s brows shot up. He had not expected Miriel to ask such a thing. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “My dear daughter I have many companies of men at my disposal and you merely ask for one warrior when I can give you hundreds!” he said with a laugh.
“I do not ask for hundreds. Only one,” she answered. “But I would like him to be a great captain and one of my own choosing.”
“And whom might that be?” asked Denethor, the smile still on his face.
“Bregolas, son of Halthor,” she replied without hesitation.
“Bregolas!” repeated Denethor, slightly taken aback. “A mighty Captain he is, indeed!” The smile faded from his face as he considered her request. His eyes remained locked with hers, and he tried desperately to pierce her thoughts.
However, Miriel shielded her mind against him, blocking the Lord of Gondor from seeing her thoughts or knowing her intentions.
Denethor let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “I loathe the thought of relinquishing Bregolas from his position with the Tower Guard, for he has proved his loyalty and prowess many times over.”
Miriel’s bottom lip began to quiver. Tears formed in her eyes once again. From the sound of it, her father was not about to let go of so valiant a warrior.
“There, there, Miriel, do not cry,” said Denethor kindly. He leaned forward in his chair, patting her hand comfortingly with his. “If that is your heart’s desire, then I will see that is done. As soon as Bregolas returns from the field, I shall summon him to the Citadel and bestow upon him a new title - the Personal Guard of the Steward’s Daughter.”
Miriel’s eyes instantly brightened. A huge grin came to her face. “Thank you, Father,” she said with a squeal of delight, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. “I shall no longer live in fear, and will feel safe wherever I may go.”
“I would not have it any other way, my daughter. I would not have it any other way.”
Six days later, Bregolas returned to the city with his men. Immediately, Denethor summoned him to the Citadel.
Miriel stood beside her father’s seat when Bregolas entered the Great Hall. She saw the look of dismay in his eyes when the Lord of Gondor took away his title, and the look of joy that replaced it when he heard his newly appointed one.
Though his face remained expressionless, Bregolas’ eyes did dart to Miriel for a moment when he heard that he was to be her personal guard. He understood that this was Miriel’s doing, and was glad, for he believed that this was a sign that she had the same feelings, as he had for her. Though he’d soon realize, that was not the case.
A couple of days later, Miriel decided it was time to confide in Bregolas the real reason why she had chosen him. Wishing to go where no ears could overhear them, she asked him to come with her to the House of Stewards, where all the former Stewards of Gondor lay entombed in never-ending sleep. None were permitted to pass through Fen Hollen, the gate leading to the tombs, without the Lord of Gondor’s permission, something that Miriel was always assured. In times of disquiet, she often went there, finding peace amongst the dead. And, many times, she found her troubles lessened after talking to Ecthelion, her grandfather, whom she vaguely remembered from childhood.
Bregolas was none too fond to enter the House of Stewards. He thought it unsettling to be surrounded by so many dead Lords, and reluctantly followed the young woman.
Miriel paid him little mind, and marched over to the marble table in which Ecthelion lay in dreamless sleep. She kissed the well-preserved forehead of her grandsire before sliding a flower beneath his folded hands that rested on his chest.
The massive elongated chamber glowed with a soft light from what few lamps that had been lit. Most of the room remained dark and the shadows that danced eerily upon the walls caused the mighty Bregolas to shudder.
“Have you finished?” he asked, looking nervously about the chamber. “Can we go?” he added with an air of hope to his voice.
Miriel continued to look at her grandfather. “There is something I need to tell you, something that you must keep secret.” She turned toward the warrior. “Can you promise me, Bregolas, that what I’m about to tell you, you will not share with another living soul?”
Bregolas was intrigued. He was beginning to understand why she had chosen this spot to reveal whatever secret she was keeping. His trepidation lessened, only to be replaced with curiosity.
“I promise,” he vowed, staring at her with interest.
Miriel took a deep breath before saying, “I’m the Slayer.”
He screwed his face in confusion. “The what?”
“The Slay-er,” she said, enunciating her words slowly.
“I don’t understand,” he replied, still puzzled. “What is the Slayer?”
Miriel was rapidly becoming annoyed. Didn’t other Gondorians show any remote interest in the history of their people? What was the world coming to? she thought to herself.
Instead of trying to explain things, she moved toward the center of the heavy marble table on which Ecthelion lay, and, with both hands, easily lifted the slab from the floor, Ecthelion and all.
Bregolas’ jaw dropped. He marveled at what he was seeing. “How can this be?” he queried in shock.
The young woman gently placed the table back on the floor. “I told you - I’m the Slayer.”
He blinked a few times, his mind spinning with too many thoughts. Bregolas’ face then hardened. “This cannot be,” he said softly. “This must be the work of he that dwells in the Dark Land.” His grey eyes widened with fear. “O, Miriel, you’ve been bewitched by the Dark Lord!” he exclaimed.
Miriel cursed under her breath and stepped toward the young man.
Bregolas took an apprehensive step backwards, unsure what Miriel would do next.
“You nit-wit!” she cried out, kicking him in the shins.
“Ow!” he sounded, immediately rubbing his leg. “Why did you do that?”
“Because you don’t believe me, and are witless! How can you think that I, of all people, am in league with Sauron,” she growled bitterly. “It sickens me to see how little you know of the lore of our people, particularly the women. There have been Slayers before me, and I daresay there will be long after. If you think that I am merely a tool of the Dark Lord then be off! I no longer require your services. Run back to your Lord and tell him that I’m unruly and too demanding for you. I was wrong to think that you’d help me.”
She turned and started to storm off when Bregolas grabbed her by the arm.
“Don’t go!” he said, his face riddled with confusion and sadness. “I… I was alarmed at your strength is all. Miriel, I believe you. And I’m sorry. Do you have it in your heart to forgive me?”
She paused, her eyes searching his in the dimness of the House. “Yes, yes I do forgive you, Bregolas,” she answered, giving him a reassuring smile. “I know that this comes as a shock to you, as it did to me as well.” She stepped closer to him. He did not back away, and continued to clutch her arm. “I want to learn how to fight, how to properly wield a weapon. I want to be like you.”
His face then became grave. “Alas! It is now dawning on me that a Slayer is meant to slay. I do not like that thought at all, but I will help you as I may.”
That had happened three months ago, and Miriel had progressed nicely since then. Nearly every day, she and Bregolas practiced, for hours, sometimes in his home, sometimes in a deserted alley, and, on occasion, in the House of Stewards. As long as they were able to practice in private, she didn’t care where their sessions took place. Already, many in Minas Tirith were gossiping about how much time the two spent together. Miriel went along with it, letting people believe that she and Bregolas were having some torrid affair. It was sure better than having them learn the truth.
Bregolas waited patiently as Fíriel made the final alterations to the gown that Miriel would be wearing to her birthday feast. When the seamstress finished, she had the Steward’s daughter try on the breeches that she had made for her. Miriel had been wearing Faramir’s old clothing to practice in and they did not fit her as well as she liked, so she had Fíriel make three pairs of her very own. These she would take with her when she eventually left the city, something she planned to do soon after her birthday (though none knew of that, not even Bregolas). Before leaving the shop, she paid for the breeches with her own money so that Denethor could not question her over that most unusual purchase.
From there, she and Bregolas headed to the fourth level to have a quick bite. When they entered the tunnel leading to the next gate, they found themselves following behind a man who began to hum a song of Númenor.
Miriel stopped dead in her tracks. A cold chill swept over her, seemingly freezing her to the spot.
Bregolas had gone a couple of paces more before he realized that Miriel was not at his side. He went back to her. “Miriel. Miriel, what’s wrong?” he asked.
She didn’t immediately respond, and looked as if she had fallen into some trance-like state.
He snapped his fingers in her face, hoping to break whatever spell she had fallen under.
“What’s wrong?” he asked again, placing his hands on her shoulders and giving her a good shake.
Miriel came back to her senses, blinking several times. “It’s - it’s nothing,” she murmured. “I - I just hate hummers.”
Her mood instantly turned foul, as she took off through the tunnel.
Bregolas didn’t understand why she had reacted that way over someone merely humming a song. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t get her to speak of it. He did, however, manage to convince her to eat before they dropped off her packages at his cottage on the second level. They then set off for the main gates of the city to begin their afternoon of training.
Over the past few days, they had moved on to archery and practiced mostly in a sparsely wooded area at the feet of Mindolluin outside the gates of the city but within the walls of Rammas Echor. The trees provided some cover from prying eyes and only those tending to the livestock or crops in the nearby fields ever came near, and were much too busy to give the couple a second thought.
Unfortunately, archery proved a much more difficult skill to learn than handling standard weapons, and Miriel’s frustration grew with each passing hour. She was nearly ready to admit defeat and forget acquiring the skill altogether, when the sound of trumpets rang out in the afternoon, bouncing from the walls of Rammas Echor to the sheer mountain side.
Stepping outside of the trees, she saw a group of people riding up the South Road from Harlond. Her heart almost leapt out of her chest when she saw the banner of a white ship and silver swan set on a blue field flying amidst the group.
“Imrahil!” she said breathlessly. “Imrahil has come for my birthday!” She tossed aside the bow in her hand and ran from the woods, eager to greet her kin…
Chapter 2 - Secrets and Lies
Miriel reached the main gates of the city long before the entourage of Dol Amroth. That allowed her a chance to catch her breath and to make herself more presentable by smoothing out the wrinkles in her lavender gown. Since she and Bregolas had added the bow to their sessions, there was no need to garb herself in Faramir’s old castoffs. Her dress was just fine for archery practice.
As she waited for the train, she rubbed her long and aching fingers, wishing that archery would come more naturally. She was beginning to think that the bow was an unnecessary skill. From what she had read, (which was very little), a Slayer generally fights in hand-to-hand combat, not by stealth or at a distance. Perhaps it was not in her blood to learn the skill. Maybe that was why she was finding it so difficult to master.
She could feel the small calluses on her palm as she continued to rub the soreness from her joints. Bregolas had said that that was a sign of a “seasoned warrior” and showed his own calluses as proof. She thought he had said that to give her hope, for she had only sparred with him, and not with any real enemy.
“Will you be alright whilst I take these back?” queried Bregolas, having caught up with her at last. Both bows were slung over his shoulder and he carried a quiver of arrows.
“I think I shall be safe until your return,” she replied with a grin.
Bregolas glanced over his shoulder at the approaching cavalcade. Already, he could clearly hear the men singing in unison, a song of praise to Uinen, the Maia whom those in Dol Amroth had regarded highly since before the Fall of Númenor long ago.
A smile came to the man’s face, as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. He turned back to Miriel, watching her watch her kinfolk. “I’m glad that you’re smiling.” He glanced back at the group on horseback and added, “And even gladder that Lord Imrahil and his people sing instead of hum!”
Miriel went to smack him, but the warrior leapt out of the way, laughing.
“How very unladylike of you, Miriel! Lord Denethor would be appalled to know that his only daughter would behave in such a manner!” With his head, he motioned toward the train as he walked backward toward the main gates. “And I’m sure the Lord of Dol Amroth would not be pleased to see his sister’s daughter acting like some wild ruffian!”
“You better watch it, son of Halthor, or you will receive much more than a simple strike from me!” she shot back in the same mischievous tone.
The guards in the towers located on either side of the black gates watched the exchange taking place below. It pleased them to see one of their own courting the Steward’s daughter.
“Ah, one can only hope,” Bregolas chuckled, clutching at his heart dramatically. It brought him much joy to see Miriel’s spirits had improved. She had been grumpy for most of the day. “I will return as soon as I can, my fair Lady,” he added in a more dignified voice, bowing, before he turned and passed through the gates and up the street.
Miriel shook her head, still smiling. Nothing could’ve brightened her day more than the sight of Imrahil and his people. She loved to go to his castle on the coast, and was disappointed that she had not gone all year. She hoped that his arrival meant that she could depart with his company, and travel on his ship down the Anduin to the sea. That would definitely make her birthday the grandest in all memory.
One from the party broke away, galloping toward the city. As he neared, a familiar voice shouted, “Hail, Miriel!”
The young woman’s heart thumped madly in her chest. It was Elphir, her cousin, and eldest son of Imrahil. He was only a year older than she, and they were very close.
“Elphir!” she exclaimed in delight. “I cannot believe you have come too! Welcome, welcome!” she said, running up to greet him on his grey steed.
“Alas, I’m not the only son of Imrahil to come to Minas Tirith,” he grumbled with a scowl. He reined in his horse. “Both Erchirion and Amrothos have come too. I hope that doesn’t put a damper on your birthday.”
A beaming Miriel answered with, “Even little scamps are welcome in the White City, though I will have the guards check Amrothos’ luggage for any snakes! It’ll be off to the dungeons with him if I should find another in my bed!”
Elphir laughed, then dismounted from his steed, and greeted Miriel with a proper hug. “I’ve missed you this spring. Why has Denethor not sent you?” he asked, after pulling out of their embrace.
Miriel shrugged in response.
The Prince quickly looked her over, searching for any obvious changes in her appearance since their parting nine months ago. To Elphir, she seemed to be in high spirits, and showed no outward signs of unhappiness. Yet, he could not rid his mind of the conversation that he had overheard between his father and mother several weeks earlier regarding Miriel.
Having no secrets between them, he asked, “Is it true what I hear?”
“Pray tell, what is that you hear?” she asked in a lighthearted tone.
“That you’ve been suffering from melancholy,” he replied, almost in a whisper.
A shadow seemed to fall over Miriel, and she quickly averted her gaze, looking at the stone road beneath her feet. “Who told you that?” she asked softly, her voice lacking the cheerful ring it had had only moments before.
The Prince knew his cousin well enough to see that the rumors were indeed true. He now felt horrible for even bringing up the subject. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I should not have said anything - me and my big mouth,” Elphir said in remorse. “Let us speak no more of it, for I would not want to see you see sad, especially now.”
Miriel shifted her eyes back to her cousin. “I would like to know what you heard, Elphir,” she responded; now feeling perturbed that her mental state had been the topic of anyone’s conversation.
The clopping of the horses’ hooves on the stone road became louder as the riders drew closer. Neither Miriel nor Elphir gave any notice. Their eyes remained locked, one’s on the other’s.
Elphir then started to speak in a hushed voice. “I overheard Father telling Mother - ”
“Hail, Miriel!” interjected Imrahil from atop his steed, cutting off his eldest son’s sentence.
Using only his eyes, Elphir indicated to Miriel that he would tell her more later.
She, in turn, softened her expression, before turning her attention to her uncle. “Hail to you, Lord and Uncle,” she said with a curtsey. “On behalf of Denethor, son of Ecthelion, the Lord and Steward of Gondor, I welcome you back to the White City.” It was custom to greet mighty Lords in this fashion, whether they be kin or not.
Smiling, Imrahil slid off his horse and approached Miriel. “Look at you!” he began. “You look more like Finduilas than the last time I saw you.”
“Say not Finduilas!” she rebuked. “But, Miriel, daughter of Finduilas. I am my own person and not her at all.”
Her response troubled the Prince and the smile faded from his face.
Shame overcame Miriel for speaking her thoughts aloud. She wished she could take them back, as she knew that her uncle meant no harm by his words. She looked down at her feet, feeling miserable.
“Forgive me, Lord, for speaking so rashly,” she apologized, a pinkish hue coming to her cheeks as she spoke.
Imrahil gently lifted her chin, forcing Miriel to meet his gaze. “I do not look upon those that speak truly with condemnation. And I did not think that you would take offense of me comparing you to the sister that I dearly loved.”
Miriel tried to reply, but her uncle placed his finger to her lips, stilling her words.
“You are as lovely as she was - and no higher compliment can I give. Yet, dark dreams have plagued my sleep these past weeks, and, to me, it seems as though a shadow has fallen on the House of Denethor.” He paused, the smile returning to his handsome and proud face. “It is my hope that your father will allow you to accompany us back to our home so that you may spend time with your mother’s kin.”
“I would like that very much,” replied Miriel excitedly. “Thank you, Uncle,” she added, wrapping her arms around her mother’s brother.
Imrahil held Miriel in his arms, resting his cheek on her head. It seemed to him that Faramir’s words rang true - that there was something deeply troubling his niece. His greatest fear was that Miriel was too much like Finduilas and that this new sorrow that had befallen his niece (which he could clearly see in her eyes) would begin to diminish the years of her life, as it had his sister.
Finduilas’ kin in Dol Amroth had seen her life begin to wane after she moved to Minas Tirith. Those closest to the late Princess debated whether it was her longing for the sea or her living in terror and fear in the shadows of Mordor that had brought about her early demise. Imrahil and his father believed it was both, and despaired at the thought of the same thing happening to Miriel.
The wain carrying the luggage of the visitors then slowly rolled by. Sitting at the back of the cart, with their feet dangling over the edge sat Imrahil’s two youngest sons.
“Miriel! Miriel!” shouted Amrothos in excitement.
The young woman faced her youngest nephew; her eyes stopping on the creature clutched in his hands.
“Do you like my new pet?” he asked, proudly displaying his turtle.
“Oh, Amrothos,” she chuckled, “why is it that you always take critters from the wilderness to make as pets? Why not choose a dog or cat as a companion?”
The youngster frowned. “Why would I want some furry beast when I can have a turtle? He is a warrior after all. See!” He stretched out his arms, thrusting the creature toward her. “He even comes with his own armor. Wisest of all critters in the wild is he, for no other animal has such a built in defense!”
“There is the porcupine,” suggested Erchirion. “His quills protect him from his enemies.”
Amrothos narrowed his eyes at his older brother. “But the turtle can withdraw into his shell - ”
“ - And the shell can be broken,” disputed Erchirion.
“And so can quills!” argued Amrothos.
The two boys then began to quarrel over which beast survived best in the wilds of the world, as the wain carrying them rolled through the main gates of the city.
“Will you ride with me, Miriel?” asked Imrahil, gesturing toward his steed. “Or would you prefer to join your cousins on the wain?”
Miriel eyed the boys. They were now shoving each other, as boys do. She was happy to see that her young nephews had come too. To her, the Halls of Denethor seemed empty and devoid of cheer. What better way to bring life to the old stone walls of the King’s House than to fill them with a couple of merry mischief-makers. The young woman smiled, shaking her head.
“I think I’d rather ride with you, Uncle.”
“Very well,” he answered, helping her onto his horse. He then climbed on behind her, and they took off, passing through the gates of the city.
The afternoon was a joyous one, though it did seem to pass by swiftly. No one spoke openly of Miriel’s well-being, at least, not while in her presence. Her spirits soared even higher when Faramir returned before supper, safe and unharmed from whatever mission Denethor had sent him and the Rangers on. Boromir and his company would arrive some time after midnight.
Later that night, Miriel and Elphir sequestered themselves in her chambers and talked until the sun rose the following morning. He questioned her much about the happenings in Minas Tirith and brought tidings from Dol Amroth.
“Grandfather says his days are waning,” he revealed. “He knows he will not be around much longer. He sent a letter with Father, asking that you return to Dol Amroth with us. For some reason, you were always his favorite,” he added with a roll of his eyes.
Miriel pushed her cousin. He fell backwards onto the pile of pillows on her bed.
“Your problem is that you take for granted having Adrahil with you all the time,” remarked the young woman. “I have no other grandfather. Ecthelion has been dead for many years now. I love hearing Adrahil’s stories of old.”
“Pfft!” replied Elphir. “How many times am I to hear about the battle with the Wainriders? I think I know the tale by heart!”
“Grandfather fought valiantly in that war! And you should know every detail. One day, Elphir, you shall become the ruler of Dol Amroth. It would do you good to know about the history of your people, particularly your own kin!”
“You’re right, as usual,” he groaned, sitting upright once again. “I do hope Denethor lets you come back with us.” A thoughtful expression came to his face. After a long pause, Elphir said, “I have to ask - maybe it’s just me - but does Denethor seem grimmer than usual?”
Miriel grabbed a pillow and clutched it to her chest. “Yes, he does,” she answered, nodding.
“So what do you think is the cause behind this change in the Lord of Gondor?” he queried, attentively watching his cousin.
“I think… I think it’s the Dark Lord.”
“WHAT?” exclaimed the young man, his grey eyes wide with horror.
“Shh!” she hissed. “You’ll wake the entire household!”
With his mouth agape, Elphir waited anxiously for Miriel to elaborate on her comments.
Miriel then spoke so softly, as if she feared the walls of the room would overhear her, that Elphir had to lean forward so that he did not miss a single word that she said.
“Father has been using the palantír, the one in the tower,” she disclosed.
“So, what of it?” he replied, expecting to hear something far greater than that.
She scowled, narrowing her eyes at her cousin’s ignorance. “I wish you would take the time to learn the lore of Gondor,” she scoffed. “The palantír in the Tower of Ecthelion is most closely aligned with that of Minas Ithil - ”
“ - You mean Minas Morgul,” interjected Elphir knowingly.
“At least you have enough sense to know that!” she answered, rolling her eyes.
Miriel assumed that she didn’t need to say any more, that Elphir could figure out where she was going. Unfortunately, he continued to stare at her, waiting for to expand upon her previous comment.
“Who do you think is in possession of the seeing-stone of Minas Morgul?” she asked. Without allowing him any time to respond, she went on. “Sauron. Sauron has it. Father, in his infinite wisdom, thinks that he can use the stone to thwart the Dark Lord. His arrogance is astounding!” she declared scornfully. “How can a mere mortal contest the will of Sauron? It is folly.” She shook her head. “By using the palantír, Father has invited Sauron to see things here, to see Denethor’s own thoughts and deepest desires.” She paused. A look of dismay came to her face. “The Dark Lord is using the palantír for his own evil purposes, and, I’m afraid, with much success.”
Elphir’s jaw dropped. He quickly snapped it shut and frantically asked, “How do you know this? Have you foreseen it?”
“I’ve witnessed the changes in Father firsthand,” she answered gloomily.
“What kind of changes?” His interest piqued by all that he was hearing.
“Changes for the worse,” she whispered.
Elphir grew afraid. From the sound of it, the Dark Lord was able to perceive all the happenings in Minas Tirith, or worse, all of Gondor. He shuddered at such a dreadful thought.
“Doe anyone know this? Has any counseled Denethor against using the seeing-stone of Elendil?” he queried in alarm.
“Who would dare challenge the wisdom of the Lord of Gondor?” she replied with a snicker. “He may not be the King, but he wields the same power nonetheless. Nobody is foolish enough to speak their true mind, not even Boromir.”
“Perhaps if I spoke to Father, he could talk some sense into Denethor,” suggested a hopeful Elphir.
“You’re missing the point, cousin. Father trusts only in his own wisdom, no one else’s. His pride will not let him,” she answered with a sigh.
Both fell quiet, lost in thought. Elphir sank back into the pillows, staring at the ceiling, while Miriel continued to hold the pillow to her chest staring blankly at the wall. The room was turning dull grey, a sign that morning had arrived. Already, they could hear the household stirring awake.
After a long while, Elphir asked in dismay, “Is there naught we can do?”
“I do not know,” she answered with a solemn shake of her head.
The distressed Prince scrutinized Miriel with his sharp eyes. It seemed to him that he was able to glimpse his cousin’s mind. “These changes, these changes that have overcome Denethor - does this have something to do with… with your bouts of melancholy?”
Miriel shifted her gaze to the window. She cursed herself for letting her guard down, and swore that she would not do so again. “That reminds me, you never told me what you overheard back in Dol Amroth,” she said, avoiding his question altogether.
Elphir then went on to explain that Imrahil was concerned over a letter he had received from Faramir, informing the Lord of Dol Amroth that Miriel was experiencing bouts of depression.
The young woman didn’t hear anymore than that. She became consumed with her own thoughts. Miriel could forgive Faramir for writing to Imrahil, knowing that his heart was in the right place. Her older brother had attempted, numerous times, to get to the bottom of her emotional turmoil. But whenever Miriel suffered through those bouts of melancholy, she didn’t want to talk to any, not even Bregolas. Some things cut too deeply to share with others.
“Miriel? Miriel?” said Elphir, nudging her with his foot. “You alright?”
The young woman shook herself out of her thoughts. “I’m fine,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile.
“You’re hiding something from me. I can tell. What is it? You know that you can trust me.”
Miriel continued to stare at her cousin, but made no reply.
“Come on, Miriel,” he pleaded. “There should be no secrets between us!”
“Some secrets are perilous and cannot be shared with any,” she answered.
The first bell then rang, much to the young woman’s relief. “Seven o’clock,” Miriel announced, clambering out of bed. “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.” She stretched her weary limbs, as Elphir continued to watch her closely. “Come on, cousin,” she continued, more upbeat than before. “Let’s get some breakfast.”
Unfortunately for Elphir, he would never get the opportunity to speak with Miriel about her secret again. He would, however, seek Imrahil later that day and tell him of his concern about Denethor’s use of the palantír.
With the newly arrived guests, all meals would be hosted in Merethrond. Much to Miriel’s delight, neatly wrapped packages were already stacked on tables along one of the walls of the chamber in anticipation of her birthday celebration, which was now only one day away. The excitement of the impending festivities vanquished all signs of weariness.
Breakfast proved to be a happy occasion as nearly all of the family was assembled together, which was a rare feat in itself. The leisurely meal allowed those in Minas Tirith the opportunity to speak at length with those of Dol Amroth.
After she had finished eating, Miriel slipped out of the Hall of Feasts with Bregolas, eager to resume their daily exercises.
“I would’ve thought that you’d want to spend time with your mother’s kin,” the warrior said, surprised by her eagerness to practice.
“They will remain here a while yet,” she answered, as they descended the stairs that separated the seventh level of the city from the sixth. “Besides, a Slayer should hone her skills as much as possible. One never knows when one will have need of them.”
Bregolas smiled. “Shall we resume with the bow then?”
Miriel wrinkled her face in disgust. “I’d rather not,” she answered, scowling. “My patience for the bow has reached its end, I’m afraid. I am in no mood to face my inadequacies… ”
“You will gain the mastery of archery if you continue to practice. One cannot expect to learn a new skill in only a few days time,” countered Bregolas.
“Yet somehow I’ve managed to do just that with the blade,” she replied, glancing at the warrior with a grin. “Today, I would rather devote our time to practicing defensive techniques. I deem that it is more important than the bow.”
Bregolas let out a hearty laugh. The sound seemed to bounce from stone wall to stone wall. “Perhaps you yearn for the touch of the son of Halthor,” he laughed.
“Oh, yes, that’s it,” she shot back sarcastically. “No greater pleasure will I have than trouncing you, yet again! It does this maiden proud to accomplish such a feat!”
“We shall see, Miriel. We shall see,” chortled the warrior.
When they reached Bregolas’ home, Miriel quickly retreated to his bedchamber where she changed into more suitable garments. In the other room, she could hear the warrior moving the furniture so that they would have more space to practice.
Bregolas decided that they’d first work on disarming techniques, something Miriel always enjoyed. It amazed her to see how much her body was changing, how she was able to move her limbs speedily and with great ease. With no trouble at all, she was able to kick the makeshift dagger from her foe’s hand, sending it flying across the room like a projectile and into the wall. (Whenever they practiced up close like that, they used weapons forged of wood instead of metal in order to lessen the risk of injury.)
The warrior tried many different variations of attack, including jumping Miriel from behind. He wrapped an arm around her throat in an attempt to choke her, as the wooden dagger in his other hand prepared to deliver the fatal blow. Instinctively, she latched onto his arm, and flung him over her shoulder and onto the hardwood floor.
Bregolas groaned at having the wind knocked out of him.
Miriel squatted over him, his wooden dagger now in her hand, the tip resting on his throat. “Checkmate, again, my friend,” she said, panting. Strands of her long dark hair escaped her braid and hung down, tickling the warrior’s face.
“We’ll just see about that,” he said between breaths, before thrusting his body upward and to the side, knocking her off balance, and onto the floor.
Swiftly, Bregolas grabbed her, forcing her onto her back. The dagger fell from her grasp, as he straddled her, pinning her arms over her head.
“I have thwarted your victory, my dear Lady,” he announced with glee. “It looks as if you spoke too soon, and that I have triumphed over you.”
Miriel didn’t respond, but tried to catch her breath. Though some of her hair fell over her eyes, she kept them locked on her foe, waiting for the opportune moment to make her move.
A gloating Bregolas maintained his posture, staring at the young woman trapped beneath him. Wanting to move the wisps of her hair clung to the dampened skin of her face, he pulled her wrists closer together. One of his hands released her, yet the other quickly seized hold of both of her arms, keeping her restrained. He leaned closer, his fingers pulling the locks from her eyes when, suddenly, she lunged her head forward, striking his skull with her own, and causing them both to see stars for a few moments.
Miriel then pulled one of her long legs in front Bregolas and pushed him backwards.
The warrior snatched the weapon from the floor, as he stumbled back.
In one fluid motion, the young woman was able to leap to her feet. She assumed her fighting stance, both fists clenched in anticipation of Bregolas’ counter strike.
The warrior’s head was still smarting, as he scrambled to his feet, and for one fleeting moment, he forgot where he was. Memories of fighting Orcs came rushing to his mind. Snarling like some rabid beast, he plunged the wooden dagger at Miriel, using the same force he would use on any minion of Sauron.
The woman’s body bent back in a perfect arc, the top of her head grazing the floor. Her eyes remained locked on the blade as it made its descent. In a blur of motion, her hands came together, clamping the wooden knife, only inches from her face.
Everything seemed to be moving so slowly, yet so quickly.
A look of horror replaced the beastly expression on Bregolas’ face. He couldn’t believe that he had attacked Miriel with such force. Yet those thoughts quickly left him, as one of her hands slid up his forearm while the other maintained control of his weapon. The young woman then used Bregolas’ momentum against him, flinging his entire body through the air into a perfect body slam.
Though stunned, and between gasps, he kept repeating, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Miriel didn’t understand why he felt that way. She felt exhilarated, powerful. She stood over his body, her bosoms heaving from the adrenaline rush. She then placed her foot on his chest, held aloft the dagger, and proudly boasted, “Victory is mine!”
Anguish still plagued the warrior, for if he had struck her, he could’ve killed her with that blow. That seemed something Miriel had not grasped. “I could’ve hurt you,” he panted.
“But you didn’t,” she answered, offering him her hand.
Bregolas took it, as she pulled him to his feet.
“I could’ve hurt you, or worse,” he said regretfully.
Miriel wasn’t about to let him put a damper on her moment of triumph. “Did you not see what I did there?!” she exclaimed. “My body is doing things that it never has before. The more you push me, the stronger I become.” She placed her hand kindly on his flushed cheek. She could feel the heat emanating from his bristly skin, which was sticky with sweat. “Never apologize for pushing the limits. How else will we know what I am capable of if I am not properly tested?”
Before Bregolas could answer there was a knock at the door.
Both he and Miriel drew a deep breath, neither expecting any visitors.
“Quick! Into my bedchamber!” he ordered in a whisper.
She didn’t need telling twice. The young woman flew into the room, quietly closing the door behind her. She then pressed her ear to the door, listening intently.
Bregolas took several deep breaths in an attempt to steady his breathing. He kicked the wooden dagger. It slid across the floor and under the sofa.
The banging continued. “Bregolas! I know you’re in there!” shouted Boromir. “Open up.”
“One moment, Boromir!” answered the warrior, speaking loudly so that Miriel could hear him.
Miriel winced when she heard that her brother was outside the front door. Immediately, she began to disrobe, eager to change back into her “normal” clothing before Boromir could discover her secret.
“Come on, Bregolas!” the eldest son of Denethor continued to shout, none too pleased to be kept waiting. “If you do not open this door, I shall break it down!” he threatened.
Much to Bregolas’ dismay, he did not have enough time to steady his breathing. He cursed under his breath as he strode across the room and cracked opened the door.
“Good afternoon, Boromir.” He attempted to sound welcoming with his greeting, but failed miserably.
Boromir eyed Bregolas with suspicion. His old friend seemed quite distracted. And the sweat on his face and heavy breathing did not go unnoticed. The Heir of Gondor placed his hand on the door. His left foot darted forward into the small opening in case Bregolas attempted to slam the door shut.
“Is that any way to welcome a friend?” asked Boromir, pushing on the door.
Bregolas kept his body firmly behind the wooden panel, preventing it from opening further.
“One would think you’re hiding something,” concluded the Captain-general of Gondor, trying to peer beyond the warrior’s frame and into the room.
“I’m… I’m quite busy at the moment, Boromir. If you return a bit later, you’ll find your visit more welcomed,” said Bregolas, struggling against the weight on the door.
“I’m afraid I cannot do that,” he replied. “You see, I was told that my sister is here. My little sister. My sixteen year old sister.” Boromir narrowed his eyes. “Now, tell me, Bregolas: what could you possibly be doing with my little, sixteen year old sister that warrants your shutting me out?”
Bregolas didn’t know what to say. He stammered, making a series of sounds but no words.
“If you do not open this door right now, I will tear it from its hinges,” hissed Boromir.
By the glint in Boromir’s eyes, Bregolas knew he was speaking the truth. He only hoped that he had stalled the Steward’s son enough so that Miriel would be prepared for a confrontation with her brother. Bregolas stepped back, opening the door wider.
Boromir crossed the threshold, his eyes keenly scanning the room, as the front door closed with a click. “Hmm, such a lovely summer day yet all the windows are closed and the curtains are drawn,” he mused under his breath.
Bregolas tried to think of some quick reply. All he could come up with was, “I’m trying to keep the house cool.”
“Is that so?” Boromir cast a suspicious glance at his friend, who now appeared to be sweating profusely. He then turned his gaze to the bedroom door. “And what will I find behind that door?” he asked, pointing to the door in question.
Bregolas didn’t answer.
Boromir hastily crossed the chamber and flung the door open.
Miriel had just put her gown on. The fabric had reached the back of her knees when her brother burst in.
“Miriel!” exclaimed Boromir. “What in the name of the Valar are you doing?”
The young woman spun around, her alarmed eyes darting from her brother to Bregolas, who stood several feet behind Boromir. Adjusting the bodice of her dress, she answered with a firm, “None of your business!”
Enraged, the Heir of Gondor turned, facing his sister’s protector. “You’ve defiled my sister.” He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
“It’s… it’s not what you think,” stammered Bregolas, dreading the fact that he found himself in such a predicament.
What happened next, happened so fast that neither Bregolas or Miriel could stop Boromir. The Captain-general stomped forward, swung his fist, and stuck Bregolas on the jaw.
“Boromir!” shrieked Miriel, running from the bedroom. She grabbed hold of Boromir’s arm and jerked him away from her friend. “Stop it! Leave him alone!” she cried out, standing protectively in front of Bregolas.
“I will kill him!” yelled Boromir, eager to get another shot in at the warrior.
“You will not!” Miriel spat defiantly, narrowing her steely grey eyes on her brother. She knew she had to think of something quick in order to diffuse the situation.
“He stole your virtue, Miriel!” barked Boromir angrily. “And for that he should die.”
“So what if he did,” she snapped in reply.
“Miriel,” hissed Bregolas anxiously in her ear. “You’re not helping matters.”
Boromir looked incredulously at his sister.
“It’s my body, and I can do with it as I like,” she proclaimed. She sneered at her brother. “How is my bedding of Bregolas any different than you, eh? How many women has the mighty Boromir invited into his bed?”
Her comments left Boromir momentarily shocked. He then answered with, “I am a man, and a man has needs - ”
“And so is Bregolas!” she interjected. “He has needs too.”
“Not… with… my… sister,” he snarled, enunciating each word slowly.
Poor Bregolas. He was horrified at the prospect of Boromir thinking that he had deflowered Miriel. He wished that she would just tell her brother the truth, a far better option, he concluded than this yarn she had chosen to spin. His throbbing jaw could attest to that!
“Miriel,” Bregolas chimed in, at last. “No good will come from this. Tell Boromir the truth.” He looked pleadingly at her, rubbing the soreness of his jaw.
“You’re lying to me,” remarked Boromir, his eyes widened in disbelief. It was so against the nature of a Gondorian to lie and it both hurt and angered the Captain-general to think that anyone would lie to his face, especially his sister.
The young woman gave Bregolas a look of warning. She then faced her brother, as she linked her arm with the warrior’s. “Alright, then,” she began. “If you must know, Bregolas and I are going to marry. I am going to be his wife.”
Bregolas slowly turned his head, looking down at Miriel with his brows raised in surprise.
Boromir, on the other hand, remained leery of his sister’s pronouncement. “Why have I not heard of this?” He fixed his gaze on Bregolas. “Have you asked the Steward’s permission, as is custom with any honorable man?”
“Well, um, er,” stammered Bregolas, glancing at Miriel once again.
Her eyes spoke volumes though her face remained expressionless. If he didn’t play along with her charade, he’d have to contend with the wrath of the Slayer, something he was loath to do. However, if he did play along, then he’d have to face the ire of the Steward of Gondor, something that filled him with dread.
As Bregolas struggled with the internal debate taking place in his mind, a frustrated Miriel decided to take matters into her own hands.
“We were waiting until tomorrow,” she answered. Snuggling her companion, she added, “What better gift can I receive on my birthday than Father’s approval of our betrothal?” She looked adoringly at Bregolas, her smile widening. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
Miriel is going to be the death of me, thought the warrior. He then smiled, wrapped his arm around Miriel’s waist, and answered with, “Yes, my darling.”
For a few long moments, Boromir stood there, staring at the two. Perhaps hearing about their betrothal lessened the offense of Bregolas’ taking of his sister’s virtue. None can truly say, but a smile did come to the Heir of Gondor’s face and he patted the warrior on the shoulder.
“This is good news, I deem,” he proclaimed happily. “I will accompany you, Bregolas, when you speak to our father, for I would like to be a part of this joyful moment.”
“Good,” answered the warrior, grasping Boromir by the shoulder. “I would like nothing better, my friend, then to have you standing at my side on our wedding day.”
“I would be honored.” Surprisingly, Boromir then excused himself, and departed the warrior’s house.
As soon as the door closed, Bregolas plopped down on the couch, sank backwards into the cushions and let out a sigh of relief.
“See, disaster averted,” said a cheerful Miriel, taking a seat beside her friend.
“And just how far are you willing to take this farce, Miriel?” asked Bregolas, running his fingers through his hair.
“As far as we must,” she replied resolutely.
The warrior raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“If we must fill the Citadel with children, then so be it. No one must ever find out that I’m the Slayer.”
Bregolas groaned, as he slowly rubbed his face. “I have a bad feeling about this. My heart tells me that you’ll be the death of me, Miriel.”
She chortled. Placing a hand on his thigh she answered, “Then you will die a happy man.”
The warrior peeked through his fingers. “You think so?” he queried with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“I know so.”
Though Miriel did not love Bregolas in a husbandly way, she thought that, perhaps, over time, she would grow to love him. They did get along rather splendidly, and wasn’t that half the battle? Her thoughts turned to their actually marrying, and what life would be like. Maybe, as his wife, they could move out of Minas Tirith to elsewhere in the kingdom, maybe Lebennin. Out from under the watchful eye of Denethor, she would be able to secretly hunt the enemy on Gondor’s borders, doing what she could to help protect her people. The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea.
Too bad things never go as planned, as Miriel would learn soon enough...
Chapter 3 - Breaking Point
Author’s Note: I’ve noticed (after the fact) an error in the last chapter regarding Adrahil, Imrahil’s father. Apparently, I had misread my notes and mentioned that Adrahil had fought in the battle with the Wainriders. In actuality, it was his ancestor and namesake, Adrahil, father of Imrazôr, who fought in that war. Since that minor historical discrepancy doesn’t really detract from this story, I’m going to let it stand as is. To those diehard Tolkien fanatics that may have noticed that inaccuracy - I humbly apologize.
Chapter Three: Breaking Point
Only a few minutes after Boromir had left, Miriel suddenly sprang from the sofa and bolted toward the door.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?” asked Bregolas, perplexed by her abrupt need to depart.
She stopped and faced her friend, who now sat upright on the couch. Already she could see his jaw beginning to swell.
“I failed to tell Boromir to keep our… er, tryst secret,” she answered with concern. “If he should run into Faramir, chances are, you will have a matching bruise on the other side of your face.” She paused, furrowing her brow in thought. “Not to mention the fact that he said he came here looking for me, yet he delivered no message. If Father has summoned me and I do not come, things could go ill for me.”
Bregolas leapt from the couch, his face grave. “Shall I come with you?”
“Not now,” she replied. “You should put a cold compress on your jaw to help with the swelling. I would hate to have to explain the tale behind that! Join me when you can.”
She then left, leaving the warrior alone.
Miriel went racing through the streets, bypassing children playing and people going about their daily business. She couldn’t believe that she had failed to tell Boromir to keep things quiet. She attributed that to her lack of sleep. She had gone more than twenty four hours without it, and, even now, after a strenuous workout, she felt no fatigue whatsoever.
As luck would have it, she encountered her brother on the fourth level of the city. Apparently, some admirers had stopped him, offering him ale in exchange for some stories of the battlefield. If there was one thing that Boromir liked more than anything else, it was swordplay. It was the point of his entire existence, or so it seemed.
“Excuse me, my good fellows,” she said, stepping into the circle of men and boys. “If you don’t mind, I would like a word with my brother. It will only be for a minute or two, I promise,” she added, after hearing their murmurings of discontent. Evidently, she had interrupted her brother’s tale at a particularly interesting part.
Boromir followed her a few paces away from the others. “Where’s Bregolas?” he asked before taking a swig from his tankard.
“I imagine he’s tending to his jaw,” she replied coolly.
“I’m sorry about that,” he answered, wiping the foam from his lips with the back of his hand. “Those things do happen.”
She didn’t address his comment, for she was too concerned with more pressing matters - the lie she had told. “Well, I do hope that you will keep your, um, discovery of me and Bregolas a secret from all, including Faramir,” she said, feeling suddenly nervous. “I’d rather none know of… ” Her words trailed off, uncertain how exactly to finish her sentence.
Boromir laughed heartily. “Miriel, it is no secret. Only the blind fail to see the love between you two.”
Miriel felt her cheeks reddening though she didn’t know why. Perhaps, she thought, it was because she had become so good at the art of deception. “Will you promise me that you will not say anything about what you have seen?” She emphasized those last two words while looking pleadingly at her oldest brother.
“I shan’t say anything, Miriel,” he replied. “But, Bregolas must speak with Father tomorrow about… ” He hesitated for a moment before adding, “Well, I do not think I need to finish that sentence, eh?”
The young woman shifted her gaze to a barking dog chasing a little boy down the nearby side street. She sighed.
“What is it?” asked Boromir, watching his sister with his keen eyes.
“It’s nothing,” she replied, glancing back at her brother.
“Come on, Captain!” shouted one of the men waiting eagerly for Boromir to return. “Finish your tale already!”
“Your admirers call,” she remarked with a smirk, motioning toward the slightly inebriated men, using only her eyes.
Boromir attempted to downplay his adulation by the group, but Miriel knew better. He relished it. And she supposed he had every right to. He would one day become the Steward and ruler of Gondor, and having the people’s support was definitely a plus.
“I will see you later, alright? Come by my house and we’ll celebrate your last day of sixteen,” he said with a smile, raising his tankard of ale, as he stepped backward toward the group of men.
Miriel stood there for a moment before asking, “You never said why you came looking for me. You told Bregolas you were looking for me. Why?”
She could almost see Boromir processing her query in his mind. His eyes then widened and he answered, “I had completely forgotten. Imrahil is looking for you. He’s waiting by the fountain… ” His words became lost in the cheers of the men, who were glad that he was now returning to their company.
The young woman then took off, hastily making her way up the winding streets of Minas Tirith to her uncle who had been waiting for Eru knows only how long.
By the time she reached the seventh level, Imrahil was standing at the edge of the embrasure, looking down upon the lush pastures of Pelennor seven hundred feet below. Even from behind, her uncle looked lordly. She could see the warm breeze out of the southwest causing his long, dark hair to cascade over his left shoulder.
She stopped for a moment, combing her hair with her fingers, and wondering how different life would be if Imrahil had been her father. Maybe that was a horrible thought to have, but she couldn’t help but envy her cousins and the childhood they had. In the Halls of Imrahil, children were permitted to be children whereas the children of Denethor were not so lucky. Exhibiting loyalty and devotion to the Steward of Gondor came first and foremost, and love of their father fell to a distant second. While Andreth had done her best to fill the void left by Finduilas’ death, the fact remained that the nurse was a servant of her lord, and had reared Denethor’s children at the Steward’s bidding.
The young woman tried to push those thoughts out of her mind as she crossed the white stone court. The water of the fountain rained down in a sweet melody and the smell of freshly cut grass lingered on the air. It was indeed a beautiful afternoon.
She crossed the swath of soft, green grass, and halted beside her uncle, who had now fixed his gaze on Mordor. So deep in thought Imrahil had seemed that the young woman wasn’t sure if he even noticed her presence. Though fair of face, her uncle looked grim, much like her father. She surmised that that was one of the effects of living in the shadow of the Black Lands.
They stood there, in silence, for a long while.
When Imrahil finally spoke, he spoke in such a soft voice, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “Sometimes I forget how close Minas Tirith is to Mordor, which seems so distant from Dol Amroth. Here, one cannot escape the menacing shadow.”
Miriel stared at Imrahil, noticing how grave his face appeared. Hoping to dispel whatever gloom had befallen him, she said, “Yes, you can. All you have to do is close your eyes.” She then did just that. “When my eyes are closed I can travel anywhere I want to in my mind’s eye, even to distant lands if I so desire.” She then opened her eyes and looked at her uncle, grinning.
A small smile came to Imrahil’s face, as he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. His eyes then popped open. The smile had vanished from his face. “Alas, Mordor continues to stand though I wished otherwise,” he sighed. “I fear that the Dark Lord’s powers are growing, and one day, dawn will not come, and darkness will cover all these lands.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Father,” she remarked dismally.
“I think, Miriel, that I am beginning to better understand Denethor’s mood,” he answered, finally shifting his grey eyes to her. “You’re late, by the way,” he added, flippant in tone.
“Forgive me, Lord,” she responded with a curtsey. “I was elsewhere in the city.”
“Ah, yes,” he chortled, the smile returning to his face. “I hear you’ve been spending much time with Bregolas, that your friendship with your personal guard has grown into something more.”
Miriel’s cheeks flushed, as her thoughts of the earlier incident with Boromir rushed to her mind.
“There is nothing wrong with that,” Imrahil continued lightheartedly. “Bregolas is a good man and I can see that he loves you deeply.”
The young woman could feel the warmth in her cheeks spreading throughout her face.
Her uncle laughed, seeing that he was embarrassing her. “Alright, I will not discuss your love life.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I would, however, like to give you one of your birthday presents today, if that is alright with you.”
Of course, at the mere mention of presents, Miriel’s eyes lit up, and the reddening of her cheeks began to lessen. “I always welcome gifts,” she answered with an air of excitement to her voice.
“I thought so,” he replied, offering her his arm. She took it, and together they strolled across the courtyard towards the King’s House.
From the uppermost windows of the Tower of Echthelion stood Denethor, watching his daughter and the Prince of Dol Amroth below. The sound of their laughter seemed to waft into the windows, taunting him. He found himself jealous of Miriel’s affection for her uncle as she seldom wore a smile on her face whilst in his company.
When Miriel and Imrahil reached his room, he gave to her an item that looked like a large, white cloth scroll. Unrolling it, she discovered that it was the family tree from her mother’s side of the family. Though the line of Princes officially started with Galador (who founded Dol Amroth), the topmost names embroidered in blue thread beneath the device of Dol Amroth were Imrazôr, the Númenorean, and Mithrellas, the Silvan Elf that he had taken as his wife. Those from the royal house of Galador were proud of their lineage, particularly the elvish blood that flowed in their veins.
Such a gift touched Miriel, especially when she learned that her grandmother had started the family tree but passed away before she could finish it. Her aunts had taken it upon themselves to complete it, and had only done so a few months ago.
After thanking Imrahil for her present, she asked if he would help to hang it on her bedroom wall. He happily agreed.
They would end up spending the rest of the afternoon together, talking candidly about things that concerned them both. Imrahil brought up his earlier conversation with Elphir and his son’s fear of Denethor’s use of the palantír. He questioned Miriel much about that, wanting to hear from her the specific changes that she had noticed in her father.
She spoke at length, but, to Imrahil, it seemed as though she wasn’t revealing everything, and that’s what troubled him most. After having spent time with Denethor, and now Miriel, it seemed that both of them had mastered the art of shielding their minds from him. Like father, like daughter, he reckoned.
Nonetheless, he was able to perceive that a shadow seemed to have fallen over the Steward, and he believed that Miriel was correct in thinking that Denethor’s use of the seeing-stone had invited Sauron in, and that the Dark Lord was manipulating the son of Echthelion’s thoughts, and, perhaps, even his actions. With that, his niece wholeheartedly agreed.
It was at that point in their conversation that Imrahil decided he could no longer hide his true purpose in giving Miriel one of her presents early.
“I’m afraid I have a confession to make,” he revealed with a sigh.
The young woman locked her eyes on her uncle, her brows raised in question. “Oh,” she replied.
“I spoke to Denethor earlier about your returning to Dol Amroth with me,” he continued.
Her hopeful eyes widened in anticipation.
“Sadly, he refused to grant his permission,” he divulged.
“What?!” she exclaimed, aghast by the news. “Why?”
“Your father said that the road is now too perilous for you to travel upon,” he answered, not hiding the disdain in his voice. “I know. I know,” he added, seeing the look of disbelief on her face. “Quite honestly, I found his comments not only distressing but rather insulting as well.” Imrahil scowled. “This lord,” he indicated to himself, “did not find the road too perilous to bring his children to Minas Tirith!” he scoffed.
“Did you tell him that?” she queried, still crushed to hear such devastating news.
“There was no need, Miriel, for we are here. Though I did remind the Steward that Erchirion and Amrothos are both younger than you.”
Miriel felt a surge of anger. She leaped from her chair, glaring at her father’s likeness in the portrait over the fireplace. “I feel like he’s keeping me prisoner here!” she cried out. She then kicked the ottoman, a little too hard. It skidded across the floor several feet, much to the amazement of her uncle.
He rose from his chair. “Miriel! Do not take your anger out on the furnishings!” he admonished, speaking to her as if scolding a small child having a temper tantrum. Her uncle then composed himself, adding in a gentler voice, “There’s always next year.”
She turned to Imrahil. “If the road is too perilous today, then I deem he will say it is even worse next year!” Seething, she folded her arms across her chest. “Never again will I look upon the sea. And it’s his fault. I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!” She stomped over to one of the windows in a huff, staring outside as the shadows thickened with the setting sun. Tears began to form in Miriel’s eyes.
“Do not say such a thing,” rebuffed Imrahil as he made his way to her. He stood behind his niece, placing his hands on her shoulders. “You may be wroth with your father, but do not say that you hate him.”
“Sometimes I do,” she whispered, a teardrop escaping from the corner of her eye and trailing down her face.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do,” she answered softly.
Imrahil gently turned her around. “Oh, my child, do not cry,” he said kindly, wiping the dampness from her cheek. “It is your birthday tomorrow. Now is no time for sorrow, but for joy.” He tried his best to be supportive, and offered her a smile. “There will be other journeys to Dol Amroth. I promise.”
“No there won’t,” she said, pouting.
“I’ll tell you what, Miriel. I will speak with Denethor again. Let’s give it a few days though, alright?” He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger, as he always had since she was a small child.
She nodded, sniffing back her tears.
He then kissed her forehead and held her in his arms. “I will always be here for you, my sweet girl. If you ever need me, send word, and I will come.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” she said, feeling slightly better.
Not long afterwards, the supper bell rang out. Miriel and Imrahil left her chamber for Merethrond, where they would join the rest of the household.
The young woman avoided eye contact with Denethor throughout the meal, which she wolfed down in her eagerness to depart the Hall of Feasts.
Miriel’s tension lifted after dinner when she, Bregolas, Faramir, Boromir, Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos went over to Boromir’s house to celebrate Miriel’s last day as a sixteen year old. Everyone shared stories involving Miriel, some of them quite silly, that had taken place in the past.
It was a joyful time, and one that seemed to pass by all too quickly. The reminiscing didn’t stop, even after the young sons of Imrahil could no longer fight off sleep, and conked out on the floor of the sitting room where they had gathered.
When a cock crowed at five o’ clock in the morning, Boromir decided to put an end to the festivities. Weariness had caught up with him at last. Miriel, however, felt wide-awake although she hadn’t slept in nearly forty-eight hours. Bregolas was the only one willing to stay up with her. He lasted about another hour before his need for sleep forced him to return to his home.
By that time, Andreth had already awakened and offered Miriel companionship. The nurse prepared a bath for the young woman, whose excitement rose with each passing minute, knowing that she’d be able to open all her gifts at breakfast. Once dressed in her pale blue gown, her mother-figure gave her a lovely silver hair clip in the shape of outstretched wings as a present. Miriel had Andreth pull back part of her hair, using the shiny, metal clasp to keep her locks in place. She then topped off her ensemble with the pearl swan circlet that had once belonged to her mother.
A beaming Andreth stood behind the Steward’s daughter at her dressing table, looking at the girl’s reflection in the mirror. “You look like a princess,” she said, her eyes glistening with tears. The nurse was so proud of the woman Miriel had become.
“I’m no princess,” answered the young woman. “The daughters of Stewards hold no title, other than that of Steward’s daughter.”
“Well, that’s a crying shame, I tell you,” replied Andreth with an air of annoyance. “The Steward is acting lord and their daughters should be titled.”
Miriel laughed. “If only I had been born a male, then I would be some great captain.”
“Humph!” sounded Andreth, still annoyed. “After all these years, somebody should have spoken up for the women in this land! It is a disgrace for one from a lordly line to remain title-less!”
“But, Andreth, discontent grows when women seek titles or claims of any kind,” she remarked. “Look at our history. There was once a time when the eldest child became heir and ruler of the throne, whether male or female. Men did not look too kindly upon women holding the scepter, and seized that power from them. Just look at my namesake - Tar-Míriel of Númenor.” She sighed. “There’s been much bloodshed of our noble kind in the name of titles and the power it wields.” The young woman shook her head. No, my dear Andreth, I would take none.”
Miriel did not see the need for any such title. She already one - the Slayer, though none in Gondor would learn of it, until many years later.
“Nonsense. Utter nonsense,” grumbled the nurse as she resumed brushing the young woman’s hair beneath her hair clip.
The Steward’s daughter couldn’t help but smile. It seemed to her that Andreth thought much about titles for women in Gondor.
“Too long have we women been under appreciated by the rulers in this land,” bemoaned the nurse. She tossed the brush onto the dressing table and added, “This has gone on long enough. I shall have a word with the Steward and demand that he find some suitable title for you - ”
“ - But Andreth, I do not seek any title,” protested Miriel. “I am content with being… me.”
The nurse ignored Miriel’s objection and stamped out of the room with a look of determination on her face. She would march into Denethor’s private quarters (unannounced and while the Steward was dressing!), and demand that he bestow upon his only daughter some noble title.
Once the Lord of Gondor got over the initial shock at the woman’s audacity, he smiled. He believed that Andreth was speaking on behalf of his daughter, whose will was nearly as firm as his own. He vowed that he would find an appropriate title for Miriel, but would need some time to think on it.
Miriel’s birthday breakfast proved to be the most wonderful that she ever remembered. Denethor had outdone himself, lavishing many expensive gifts on his only daughter. She received lots of jewelry, in all shapes and sizes, with gemstones in a rainbow of colors. Her father had imported many fine fabrics and linens from all over the country, which would be made into beautiful dresses and cloaks by the skillfulness of Fíriel, the finest seamstress in all of Minas Tirith. She was also given numerous pairs of shoes, an assortment of perfumes and bath oils, dozens of hair adornments, and a few handwritten copies of historical texts dating back from before the destruction of Númenor. The books, in particular, were of great interest, as they were copied from the original writings of Elendil and members of his household.
She appreciated the gifts and thanked her father for his generosity. Yet, she couldn’t help but feel that Denethor was trying to bribe her with presents in an attempt to ease her mounting animosity toward him. Though her tension had lessened in the past week, it returned when she learned of her father’s refusal to let her go back to Dol Amroth with Imrahil. In spite of that, today was her birthday, and Miriel wasn’t about to let anyone ruin her day, not even the Lord of Gondor.
After she had opened all her gifts, Denethor summoned those present to the Citadel. The young woman was baffled by his request. She had no idea what her father had in mind, but followed his orders with the rest of the household.
Andreth had steered Miriel into the Great Hall, making sure that she stood before the throne of her father. “Andreth, what is going on?” she hissed to her nurse, who was standing behind her with her hands still on the young woman’s shoulders.
“You will see soon enough,” whispered the woman in her ear.
Denethor took a seat on his black stone chair on the bottommost step of the dais. On his lap, he placed his white rod, the only token of his office (other than the Horn of Vorondil, which he had already given to his heir, Boromir).
The Lord of Gondor then raised his right hand. Immediately, the murmurings within the mammoth chamber died down.
“Today, my youngest child and only daughter turns seventeen,” he began. “It has been brought to my attention,” his eyes darted to Andreth for a moment, “that the women of this land, namely, those descended from the noble House of Húrin have little honor and have bore no titles of respect since the Stewards have taken up the lordship of Gondor. Our women have been wronged,” he continued, fixing his eyes on his daughter, “and I, Denethor, son of Echthelion, Steward and Lord of Gondor, will see to it that this slight is righted.” Denethor’s eyes twinkled in amusement; a smile graced his normally stern face. “Come forth, my daughter.”
Miriel shot Andreth a contemptuous look, as the woman nudged her forward. Miriel stepped before her father’s seat.
He motioned for her to drop to one knee.
She reluctantly did so, longing to be elsewhere at that moment.
In a softer voice he said, “You are the jewel of my heart, Miriel. And I love you more than you will ever know.” Then, in a louder voice, Denethor proclaimed, “Therefore, I shall bestow upon you a title worthy of my affection for you. Today, I name you, Miriel, the White Lady of Gondor.”
Those in attendance then broke out into applause and cheered.
Miriel felt her face turn three shades of red. Even over the raucous cheering, she could hear her father chuckling. She raised her head, meeting Denethor’s gaze. His smiled broadened, his eyes gleaming with pride.
Feigning enthusiasm, she said, “Thank you, Father,” before rising, and giving him a peck on the cheek.
He held her there for a moment, whispering in her ear, “I hope this helps dispel any grief between us, for it is not my intent to cause you sorrow. Brighter days await us, Miriel.” Denethor kissed her cheek before adding, “And you still hold sway over my heart.”
The young woman wanted to address his last comment by saying, “You mean the Dark Lord holds sway over your heart,” but wasn’t foolish enough to do so. Instead, she offered her father a smile.
The Steward then picked up the mallet at the foot of his chair, and banged the gong to his side. “Bring us wine,” he bellowed to his servants, as the revelry began.
Desperately in need of fresh air, Miriel made her way through the throng, eager to escape their words of praise and the incessant cries of “White Lady of Gondor.” She thought that that was too much, and dreaded the fact that her father believed that it was her desire to be titled. She was irked by Andreth’s meddling and wished that her nurse had never approached Denethor on the subject in the first place.
Once outside, she felt instant relief. It was much quieter and the sky was cloudless and pale blue. She crossed the court, taking a seat by the fountain. She turned her gaze to the Withered Tree, eyeing the dead boughs as if seeing them for the first time. She had never noticed, until that moment, how much she felt like that tree. The White Tree had died long ago, and, to Miriel, it felt as if a part of her had already died too, and that if she didn’t leave soon, she wouldn’t long survive in Minas Tirith.
She shuddered, despite the warmth of the day. She couldn’t help but wonder if she was experiencing one of those so-called prophetic Slayer moments, or if she was being struck by a sudden bout of melancholy. As she stared unblinkingly at the Tree, she reaffirmed to herself that she would soon leave Minas Tirith for the north. If she did not leave before Midsummer’s Day, chances were she’d fail to find her northern kinsmen before winter arrived. And not knowing what road to travel upon, she expected that it would take her months to journey so far north.
Consumed with her thoughts, she was heedless to Bregolas’ approach. With him, he carried two chalices of wine. He plopped down beside her. “Here you go, White Lady of Gondor,” he said cheerfully, offering her a drink.
She faced the warrior, frowning. “I’ll have you know that was Andreth’s doing, not mine,” she grumbled in discontent.
“There’s no need to be ill-tempered, today of all days,” he groaned, in no mood to deal with her grumpiness. “It’s your birthday! It’s a time of celebration.” Bregolas smiled, raising his cup. “Let us drink to your health, and… and to your new title - White Lady of Gondor,” he added impishly, feeling that a good ribbing would help lighten her mood.
He clanked his chalice against hers before taking a gulp.
Next thing he knew, Miriel swatted his arm. “Never call me that again!” she reprimanded, though her eyes were glinting with mischievousness.
“Ah, well, I am willing to take a beating from you as long as it’s done in jest!” shot back Bregolas lightheartedly.
Miriel sipped her wine.
“I think the name Slayer is more befitting of who you truly are. You’re not merely some fair maiden whose sole desire is to find a suitable husband and keep a fine home.”
“You’re right there, my dear Bregolas,” she chuckled, leaning her head against his shoulder. “That reminds me, have you spoken with the good Steward yet?”
“No. I do not think now is the appropriate time. I would rather speak with him in private.”
“I’m sure that Boromir will let you know when that will be,” she answered with a sigh.
“So, tell me, Miriel: If Denethor agrees to our betrothal, will you go through with it?” he asked, watching her closely from the corner of his eye. “With the wedding, I mean.”
“I told you I would, did I not?”
“Well, yes, I suppose,” he replied. His tone revealed his doubt, which the young woman easily noticed.
Miriel looked up at Bregolas, and smiled. “You think that I would only marry you because of Boromir. Is that right?”
He shrugged.
She raised her brow, waiting for an answer.
Feeling Miriel’s eyes boring into him, Bregolas nodded. “I would not have you become my wife if you did not love me.” He turned, locking eyes with her, and skeptically asked, “Do you?”
Still smiling, she answered with, “I can honestly say that you are the only man I love, outside of family.”
Bregolas smiled when he heard that.
“Granted, it’s not the type of love that has me swooning at your feet… ” She paused, noticing the look of disappointment on his face. “Perhaps, in time, that will change,” she added, taking his hand in hers. “You are a dear friend, and the only one in this whole world that I trust completely. If that is not an appropriate foundation to build a relationship upon, then I don’t know what is.”
“Sometimes, I think you are wiser than your years,” he remarked, tightening his hold on her hand.
Miriel rested her head against his shoulder again. “I watch and listen, and hope that I learn from others’ mistakes.” She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun and Bregolas’ body, both of which she found quite comforting.
Her words were not said out of maliciousness, but out of love. She had never been oblivious of his feelings for her, but she knew that she and Bregolas would never wed. She was lying to him too - not about her feelings - she did care a great deal about him. However, she did conceal her plans to leave the city in ten days time, as she had decided.
She could only assume that after she had gone, Bregolas would move on with his life. Eventually, he’d find the love of another, marry her, and have the life he had always dreamt of for himself. Miriel wouldn’t have to worry about his dying from grief. According to the legends of old, only women succumbed to grief, not men. Just like Finduilas. How unhappy her mother must have been to give up her own life while granting new life to Miriel. The young woman found it even sadder that she had never gotten to know the woman that she so closely resembled, and sometimes wondered if any knew what a curse that truly was.
Miriel wanted to push her dark thoughts from her mind. Today was her day, her special day, and she needn’t dwell on things beyond her control.
She and Bregolas remained on that bench until it was time for the midday meal. As they made their way, hand in hand, toward Merethrond, Boromir exited the doors of the Citadel in search of Bregolas. When he spotted him with his sister, he summoned him inside.
“This is it,” said Bregolas with a nervous laugh.
“It’ll be fine,” answered Miriel in her most reassuring voice. She fixed the collar of his shirt. “Do not be nervous.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” he replied, noticing that his mouth was already going dry.
“You’ll be fine,” she repeated though her stomach seemed to twist and turn uncomfortably.
“Alright then,” he said before taking a deep breath. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” she whispered with a smile. She then pressed her lips softly against his, the first time she had ever done so. They looked deeply into each other’s eyes for a moment or two, then parted ways, he to the Citadel and she to Merethrond.
People trickled into the Hall of Feasts through the various doors. Instead of taking a seat beside her father, as she had done earlier, Miriel felt compelled to sit at the far end of the main table, away from the Steward’s seat.
A feeling of uneasiness was creeping over her, as she stared transfixed at the door of the building that her father, brother and Bregolas would enter.
What little appetite she had, diminished. Her eyes remained locked on the chamber door, and she ignored those seated around her that tried to engage her in conversation.
Imrahil, seeing that, immediately felt the need to investigate the change in his niece’s demeanor. He came over, taking the empty seat beside her, and asked what was wrong.
With her eyes still glued to the door, she hastily told him about Bregolas’ meeting with her father.
Smiling, the Prince of Dol Amroth now understood the reason behind her obvious anxiety. He assured her that all would be well then returned to his seat at the other end of the table.
Time seemed to tick slowly by, so slowly that even Andreth ordered everyone to eat despite the fact that their lord had not yet entered the Hall.
Miriel’s eyes darted to the clock. Ten minutes had passed, then fifteen. She took a swig of wine, hoping that would calm her nerves. It didn’t.
When thirty-two minutes had passed, and the meal was nearly over, the door finally opened, and in came Denethor with Boromir, talking at his side, followed by Bregolas.
She scrutinized the men. Her father looked as grim-faced as ever. Boromir was talking to Denethor; his expression serious. Then there was Bregolas, who appeared worn-out. She chuckled to herself, noticing that her father had that affect on many people. Only the strong-willed could endure the Steward’s keen, penetrating eyes, as he searched one’s mind for the truth. Unfortunately, it did leave one quite drained afterwards.
Miriel waved the warrior over, catching her father’s eye for a moment before he looked away. She thought that that was rather odd. Normally, she was quick to break eye contact with her father, not the other way around.
Bregolas settled into the chair beside her, and began to eagerly fill his plate. “I’m famished,” he announced.
The young woman stared at him, somewhat stunned that he didn’t immediately reveal how his conversation with her father had gone.
“Well!” she finally said when her patience reached its end. “What happened? What did he say?”
The warrior’s teeth tore the flesh off the chicken leg in his hand instead of replying.
Miriel leaned forward and glanced down the table at her father. He looked to be in deep conversation with Imrahil and did not meet her gaze. She then turned her attention back to Bregolas, staring at him as he ate. Frustrated at his lack of decency, she hissed, “Find me when you’ve finished eating.” She then rose from the table and hastily left Merethrond.
Without really thinking of where she was going, Miriel found herself treading the path to Fen Hollen. The gatekeeper permitted her passage, and she continued on to the House of Stewards. When she pulled open one of the main doors to the tomb, she felt a rush of icy cold air from the opening, instantly causing goose bumps to rise on her skin. Most people would hesitate, thinking twice about entering the halls under such ominous conditions, distrusting the stream of frigid air, but not Miriel. She stepped inside the deserted tomb, closing the door, and shutting out the afternoon sunlight.
The interior of the building was as black as a starless night. No lamps were lit, and it took a few moments for her Slayer eyes to adjust to the darkness. The young woman could see puffs of her breath from the cold, as she made her way through the large, shadowy chamber. It was silent except for the sound of her footfalls, which echoed within the marble walls of the structure.
She stopped beside the resting place of Ecthelion. “Hail, Grandfather. It’s me,” she said, placing her hands on the edge of his cold marble bed. “I had this sudden urge to visit you today. It’s… it’s my birthday. I am now seventeen.”
From behind, a deep voice answered, “Happy birthday, my Granddaughter.”
Miriel smiled. She turned, facing the misty form of Ecthelion that seemed to glide from behind a pillar.
“It’s been too long, Grandfather,” she continued, her heart starting to race with excitement.. “I’ve come many times, hoping to speak with you again.” The smile faded from her face. “Why has it taken eleven years for me to see you again?”
“Some things are beyond even my control, my dear Miriel.” He slowly floated toward her, just as he had when she was a child. “Let me get a good look at you,” he went on, the air seemingly turning even colder. “My, how you have grown.” He stopped before her. Echthelion then reached out, caressing her cheek with his phantom hand.
Miriel trembled from the chill of his touch. Yet, somehow, his spectral form became clearer, more life-like upon doing so. He appeared as mortal as she. His grey hair and beard seemed to shimmer within the gloom of the chamber, and his dark eyes brightened with life, as he slowly inspected the young woman standing before him.
“How I wish I could give you some sort of gift on your special day, Miriel,” he confessed, displaying his empty hands.
“You’re here. That is gift enough,” she replied, the smiling returning to her face.
“Perhaps,” he continued, sweeping past her to the marble table where his empty hröa lay, “I can counsel you in your time of need.”
The young woman turned toward the table, but her eyes remained fixed on the Echthelion standing at her side. She didn’t answer, and wondered what advice her grandfather had to offer.
“It has been six months since you have been called as the Slayer.”
Her jaw dropped, amazed that he knew about that.
The late Steward turned his gaze to her. “Yes, my child. I have heard all you had to say,” he said, a smile adorning his ruggedly handsome face. “I may not have been able to answer you, but I did hear you. I can only hope that you will listen to what I have to say.”
“And what is that?” she queried, eager to hear all Ecthelion had to say.
“You have tarried in Minas Tirith for far too long, avoiding your sacred duty - ”
“ - But, Grandfather, I was not yet ready to combat evil. I had not been properly trained in weaponry or warfare,” she said defensively, cutting off his sentence.
His facial expression turned somber, eerily resembling that of Denethor. “Yet six months has past since that day in December. Practicing with wooden weapons will only take you so far, my dear. As long as you remain within the confines of Rammas Echor, you will learn nothing. It is outside the walls where you will be tested against real enemies… and defeat them.” He emphasized the latter part of his sentence. “You are the Slayer, and I have the utmost faith in you. However, you have lingered in the White City much longer than you should have, avoiding your destiny.”
Ecthelion’s words made her feel as though she had dishonored the institution of the Slayer. She had thought that she was doing what was best - preparing for her inevitable departure, trying to learn the skills to survive in the wilds of Middle-earth.
She bowed her head in shame. “I had decided to leave on Midsummer’s Day,” she replied bleakly. “I just wanted to make sure that I was prepared to survive in the world.”
“You are a descendent of Húrin and the Edain of old! Of course, you’re able to survive. Our noble blood line has endured whilst the line of Kings has failed.”
Miriel looked up, meeting the gaze of her grandfather. “Our bloodline had already diminished, even in your day. We are not as great as we once were.”
“No?” he questioned, cocking his head to the side. “Yet, you, a scion from the House of Húrin, were chosen by those in the West to be the Slayer. No such honor has ever been bestowed upon any from our House. This is your time to make your mark on the world, to prove that the women of our line can be as great as the men.”
The young woman shifted her gaze to the lifeless body of her grandfather. Her mind was swimming with thoughts.
“You should make haste, Miriel,” added Ecthelion with an air of caution in his voice. “I fear for you if you should wait overly long.”
Now, Miriel felt honored that her grandfather had only revealed himself to her. But, a part of her was beginning to resent the fact that the men in her life tried to influence or dictate her decisions. Maybe, she was beginning to rebel, or, perhaps, she trusted her own judgment over theirs. Rushing into the vast world without learning how to fight sounded far more disturbing than taking her time, preparing for that inevitable day. Why could her grandfather not see that?
She turned to Ecthelion, fixing her steely eyes on him. “I had already made up my mind, Lord,” she said resolutely. “I will leave the White City on Midsummer’s Day.”
“That is nearly a fortnight away!” countered Ecthelion in alarm.
Miriel remained steadfast. “True,” she answered. “I love you, Grandfather, and often I have come here and found solace in your company.” She felt herself becoming bolder, undaunted by his lordly presence. “I am now seventeen and can make my own decisions. Once I leave Minas Tirith, there will be no coming back. Today is my birthday, and as far as I can foresee, it will be the last grand celebration that I will ever have. I shall keep to my original plan, and enjoy my last days here in the company of those whom I love.”
“If that is your choice, then so be it,” replied Ecthelion. “It is not in my power to undo what is to come.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean? What is it that you see?”
His form began to wane, turning ghostly again. “I’m afraid that you will find out soon enough, my dear Miriel.”
Feeling the same frustration as she had with Bregolas, she decided not to play mind games with any man anymore. “Riddles,” she uttered, shaking her head. “The men of this House always speak in damned riddles.” She then fixed her eyes on the spectral form of her grandfather. “Fare you well, my Lord. I feel… I feel like celebrating now.” She then turned and marched out of the House of Stewards. Though her meeting with Ecthelion was not how she had expected it be, she did depart feeling more powerful and confident than ever before.
When Miriel had left, a wicked grin came to Ecthelion’s face and his eyes shone like fire. “Foolish child,” he hissed icily in the darkness. “She shall soon learn the hard way to heed the counsel of her elders.” He then laughed - a shrill, cold laughter that would have chilled any mortal to the marrow…
Once outside, the woman stepped off the white, pillared terrace of the House of Stewards and basked in the sunlight that bathed Rath Dínen, which is the Silent Street. She fervently rubbed her arms, not realizing how truly cold it was inside the tombs. If there was anything she had gleaned from Ecthelion’s visit, it was that Miriel was going to do what Miriel wanted to do. She would not be staying in Minas Tirith much longer and would enjoy each day as if it were her last.
It was not long before she ran into Bregolas on the seventh level, and finally heard about his conversation with Denethor. She wasn’t surprised to learn that her father had said no to their betrothal, deeming that Miriel was too young. The Steward told Bregolas not to lose hope and that he would reconsider the warrior’s appeal next year. While Bregolas seemed disappointed by the news, Miriel was not. It seemed to her that her dear friend had forgotten that their betrothal was a ruse, and that they would only follow through if need be.
“Cheer up, Bregolas!” she said happily, eager to resume her birthday celebration. “You seem to forget that our betrothal was merely a ploy to deceive Boromir from finding out the truth. Our secret is still safe. No one knows!”
“I suppose you’re right,” he answered with a dejected sigh.
“Oh my dear Bregolas! Do not be sad today of all days!” she said, doing her best to raise his spirits. “It’s my birthday, and I want to celebrate it with you. But, I shall change my mind if I do not see that smile of yours.”
With her fingers, she lifted his lips upward into a grin. When she removed her fingers, the frown returned to the warrior’s face.
“So, that is how it is going to be, eh?” she said, playfully rubbing her chin as if she were analyzing the situation.
The spark was beginning to return to Bregolas’ eyes. He struggled to keep from smiling, finding Miriel rather entertaining at the moment.
The young woman’s eyes then lit up. “I think I found the answer! Maybe this will help your mood.” She stepped forward, clasped his face with her hands and kissed him. It was not like the peck she had given him earlier, but a deep, opened-mouthed kiss. Miriel was a little surprised at her forwardness, particularly when it came to affairs of the heart. That was uncharted territory for her. Nonetheless, Bregolas seemed wholly responsive. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him, and kissed her back.
Needless to say, the warrior’s joy swiftly returned. He and Miriel spent the better part of the day alone together seated on the swath of green grass outside the Citadel. They remained there until the sky turn pinkish-purple as the sun sank in the west.
Miriel excused herself so that she could change for her birthday feast. She was eager to wear her new red and gold gown that she had had made for just this occasion.
Once dressed, she joined her friends and family in Merethrond. Unlike the previous meals, more people attended the dinner since it was the grandest of all the meals that day and would be followed by music, singing, and dancing.
Miriel was seated between her father and Faramir at the main table. Surrounding them sat their immediate family, including Boromir, Imrahil and his kindred. Further down, on the opposite side of the table, sat Bregolas between Amrothos and Andreth.
While the revelers dined on their three-course meal, the minstrels sang. It took an enormous amount of self-restraint for Miriel to hide her displeasure when they sang a newly written song about her, entitled, The White Lady of Gondor. Several times, she cast a disapproving look in Andreth’s direction, but the nurse simply beamed in response.
Once the meal was over, the merry-making truly began. Barrels of ale were opened and wine flowed freely into silver goblets or crystal flutes.
It was custom, on such occasions, for the Steward’s daughter to dance the first dance with her father. Yet, Miriel found herself giving that honor to Bregolas. Perhaps, deep down, she did that out of spite, or, maybe, selfishness. She really didn’t think about it, choosing instead to live in the moment. And to her, it just felt right.
Denethor thought better than to usurp Bregolas’ station with his daughter, deeming that it was not a battle worth fighting. He asked Andreth to dance, and she happily obliged.
Miriel soon found that her lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll. After a couple of hours of dancing with Bregolas, her brothers, Imrahil, each one of her cousins, and a few of Gondor’s chief councilors, she found herself tired and in desperate need of a break. She took a seat at an empty table, sipping a glass of wine while watching the revelers.
“Is this seat taken?” asked Faramir, who had approached from behind.
Smiling, she motioned for him to sit.
He clutched a tankard of ale in his hand, his eyes scanning the crowd. “It has been too long since we’ve celebrated so,” he said.
Miriel nodded in agreement. Her eyes stopped on Bregolas and Boromir, who looked to be entertaining a bevy of young ladies.
Faramir noticed her observing the group. “I do not think you have cause to worry, sister,” he chuckled. “Bregolas only has eyes for you.”
She shifted her gaze to her brother. “Who says I’m worrying?” she asked, fanning herself with her hand. She suddenly felt a lot hotter.
“Then I guess I was wrong,” he answered with a grin. “It would not be the first time.”
“I’m not the jealous type,” she remarked, her eyes darting back to Bregolas. Her brows shot up in surprise when she saw him dancing with one of the women.
“Of course not,” said Faramir, trying to suppress his laughter. He decided that he needed to divert Miriel’s attention away from the spectacle. “I hope you did not think that I had forgotten to get you a gift,” he mentioned out of the blue.
She faced her brother once again. “You did not have to get me anything.”
“That’s a relief,” he responded with a dramatic sigh, “as I did not buy you anything.”
Puzzled, Miriel stared at her brother, wondering why he had even mentioned anything about a gift if he had not gotten her one.
“What does one buy for a woman that has everything?” he remarked, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a small roll of parchment. “It then occurred to me that my sister would like something thoughtful, and unique.” He handed the small scroll to her. “For you, Miriel. Happy birthday.”
She smiled, thanking him as she unrolled the document. She fell quiet, tears coming to her eyes, as she read the poem that Faramir had written for her. It was incredibly heartfelt and touching. When she finished, she looked up at her brother. “I love it,” she said, her grin widening. “It is the most precious gift that I have received.” She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a big hug. “Thank you, Faramir. I will treasure it always.”
“I was afraid that you would think I was cheap!” he said, after pulling out of the embrace. “I could have bought you a bottle of perfume or some sort of trinket.”
“Pfft!” she sounded. “I have far too many as it is. This is something of greater value, to me, at least.”
“I’m pleased that you like it.”
Faramir was only able to distract Miriel briefly. Once again, her eyes swept the room in search of Bregolas. He was now dancing with someone else. “Wench,” she hissed under her breath before guzzling down the rest of her wine.
Faramir laughed, amused by his sister’s lame attempt at indifference.
“I could use a refill, my good brother,” informed Miriel, sliding her empty glass toward Faramir.
“I imagine so,” he snickered, reaching for an opened bottle of wine at the next table. As he filled her cup with the amber liquid he added, “It is quite unbecoming to scowl. Keep that up and your face will stay that way.”
Miriel turned to her brother, the frown still on her face. “I’m not scowling!” she growled.
“Look at that! Twice I have been wrong in my observations this evening,” he chortled. “I think that may be a record!”
“The night is still young!” quipped Miriel before taking a long drink.
“Watch it there, Miriel!” he warned. “You should not drink so much, so quickly, unless it is your aim to get drunk.”
Her eyes went back to Bregolas and his companion. “Who invited Morwen anyway?” she grumbled. “She’s surely not a friend of mine. Look at her!” she continued, looking at the golden haired beauty with disdain. “Who does she think she is?”
“Oh, no, you are not the jealous type,” commented Faramir, mocking her earlier statement.
Miriel’s head spun around as she fixed her narrowed eyes on her brother, who now wore a look of innocence on his face.
“Was it something I said?” he queried, feigning innocence.
“You’re not helping.”
“It is not the end of the world, my dear sister,” answered Faramir with a laugh. “Morwen is the daughter of one of Father’s chief councilors. If you have a problem with her being here, then I suggest you speak to the Steward.”
She turned away from her brother, now having lost sight of Bregolas and the harlot. She grumbled under her breath. “Where is Father?” she asked, her eyes scanning the throng.
Faramir’s eyes searched the room too. “I do not see him. Perhaps he has left.”
“Maybe,” she answered, still distracted as she searched for Bregolas.
“Enough of this!” exclaimed her brother, slamming his tankard on the table. He rose from his seat. “Come, Miriel. Dance with me.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied with a roll of her eyes. “I will surely make Bregolas jealous by dancing with my brother.”
Faramir pulled Miriel to her feet, and began to dance with her. Her annoyance gradually dissipated, though he believed it was largely due to his charming personality, not the wine. Whatever it was, Miriel’s bitter resentment toward Morwen had waned.
She shared several dances with Faramir, and he did make her feel better. Although her eyes constantly sought out Bregolas, and she was content to see that he was now talking with a few men.
When Bregolas finally approached, asking for a dance, Miriel was delighted. She did find herself slightly confused by her behavior and didn’t understand why she felt so possessive of the warrior. That was very unlike her.
Bregolas, on the other hand, had noticed her watching him, and he teased her endlessly about it. He was elated at the mere thought of her being jealous of his dancing with another.
No matter how hard Miriel tried, she couldn’t convince him otherwise. The warrior could see right through her.
Sometime around eleven thirty, she noticed that her father had returned. He sat by himself, watching her. She could feel his eyes upon her, even when she wasn’t facing him. When she glanced at him again, she noticed his cheeks were flushed, the result of consuming too much wine. Oh how Miriel hated it when her father drank overly much. The thought alone caused her to shudder.
When Bregolas felt her tremble in his arms, he stopped. “Are you cold?” he asked with concern.
“No, no. I felt a cold chill pass through me is all,” she answered weakly. She was beginning to wonder if Denethor was trying to pierce her mind from afar, zapping what little strength she had left in the process. “I think I’ve grown weary at last.”
“It’s about time!” he exclaimed. “How long has it been since you’ve last slept?”
“I do not remember,” she answered faintly, feeling as though exhaustion had hit her all at once. “My bed is calling to me. I need sleep. Will you - ”
“ - My Lord,” interjected Bregolas, staring over Miriel’s shoulder.
A grimace came to Miriel’s face. Even with her father standing behind her, she could smell spirits on his breath.
“The night is waning and I have yet to dance with my only daughter,” said Denethor.
“Of course, my Lord. Of course,” answered the warrior, obediently stepping aside so that the Lord of Gondor could dance with his daughter.
Miriel mouthed the words, ‘Wait for me,’ to Bregolas as he stepped further away.
Denethor then took the warrior’s place, and began to dance with his daughter. “Why is it that I feel that you have been avoiding me this evening?” queried the Steward. Already his dark eyes began to probe her mind. “I have spent a small fortune on this celebration and, somehow, I get the impression that it is unappreciated.”
“That’s not true,” protested Miriel, trying to fight off her father’s penetrating gaze with what remaining strength she had. “I am quite thankful.”
“Hmm,” sounded Denethor, his eyes momentarily darting to Bregolas, who sat at a table with Faramir. “Then perhaps you are wroth with me over my conversation with the son of Halthor, that I have denied him your hand.”
The young woman didn’t know what to say. She was exerting so much effort to shield her thoughts from Denethor that she couldn’t come up with an answer quick enough.
“I have hit near the mark, have I not?” he continued. “Tell me, my daughter: why is it that when I look in your eyes, I do not see the same love that Bregolas has for you? One would think that your courtship was merely a ploy, a ploy to leave my house.”
“I do love him,” she replied, her voice wavering as she spoke.
Denethor laughed, sensing that his daughter’s words were said in vain. “You cannot hide the truth from me, Miriel. I can see your mind. My will is stronger than you deem. Not even Boromir can withstand my scrutinizing gaze.”
At those words, Miriel’s face became pale. And if she had thought that a cold chill had swept through her earlier, that was nothing compared to what she was currently experiencing. Denethor’s last comment proved to be revealing, and confirmed to Miriel that he knew of the story that she had devised to hide her secret from her brother. She was terrified, not only for herself but also for Bregolas.
Seeing her reaction, Denethor’s eyes once again darted to Bregolas, before he locked them on his daughter. “The punishment is severe for one who dares to violate the Steward’s daughter. I do not think I can stress that enough, my daughter. I have decided to delay my judgment of Bregolas until tomorrow, as I would not want to spoil your special day.”
Miriel summoned all her courage, and tried her best to maintain what was left of her composure. “I do not know what you think you have learned, Father, but Bregolas is an honorable man and has committed no crime.”
The Lord of Gondor kept his eyes fixed on his daughter. He solemnly replied, “Yet I remain unconvinced.”
“You are the wisest in these lands,” she answered, “and cannot be easily deceived. If you cannot see that I speak the truth, then an innocent man will suffer needlessly. And I would not have that whether that be your will or not.”
“It appears that you are protecting the protector!” Denethor snickered in response. “Is Bregolas not a man with needs?” he queried, raising his brow as he spoke.
Miriel felt her blood run cold. Her father’s question mirrored her own remark to Boromir, near verbatim.
“What needs you speak of, Lord and Father, I do not know,” she lied in a composed voice. “Though if he has them, I deem he sates them elsewhere. He has done no ill to me.”
The young woman felt sick to her stomach. She could no longer endure her father’s questions and accusatory tone. Though she tried her best to remain calm, her body betrayed her. Beads of sweat had materialized on her forehead and neck and she had begun to tremble and grow weaker from Denethor’s penetrating gaze.
Unfortunately, these changes that overcame her did not go unnoticed by the Lord of Gondor.
Deciding that she needed to get out of this situation as quickly as possible, she said, “I am weary, Father and have not slept in some time. I hope that you will reassess whatever doubts you have regarding Bregolas. He has done no wrong to me, or anyone else. I am sure that in the morning you will see things more clearly. Will you please refrain from reaching any conclusions until you speak with both of us, together?”
Denethor halted, but held his daughter in his arms. He searched her eyes, much to Miriel’s dismay. “I am not one to react on impulse and without reason,” he finally said. “I will delay my judgment of Bregolas. Perhaps the dawn will bring me new counsel.”
Miriel smiled gratefully at her father. “Thank you, Father,” she said, embracing him.
The Steward kissed the top of his daughter’s head. “Off to bed, Miriel. Off to bed,” he said.
The young woman turned and quickly headed toward the door, motioning for Bregolas to follow her. He caught up with her outside the doors to Merethrond.
“What is it?” he asked, watching her keenly in the dim light of the lamps. “You look like you’ve seen a Nazgûl!”
“Say no such things!” she snapped, wearily clinging to the warrior’s arm for support. “Oh, Bregolas, bad tidings do I have to share, and,” she glanced up at the star-spectacled black sky, “the night portends evil.” She shivered though there was no breeze and the air was warm.
“What? What is it?” he cried, as they hastened to the King’s House.
In a hushed whisper, she told him of her conversation with her father. The more that Bregolas heard, the graver he became.
“Portend evil is right!” he said in distress. “Denethor is going to have my head!”
“I do not foresee that, my friend, though I deem that I shall suffer as a result.”
“What do you mean?” asked Bregolas, stopping her in the empty corridor inside the King’s House. “How will you suffer?” The warrior was greatly concerned about Miriel’s well-being.
“Will you do me a favor?” she asked.
“I will do anything for you, even scale the heights of Orodruin, if that is your will,” he answered.
“Keep guard of my door tonight, but do not be seen. Hide in the alcove down the hall,” she instructed Bregolas, as they resumed walking down the corridor.
“Why? Why would you need me to guard your door?” queried the confused warrior.
“Just do it!” she barked, her mood already having turned foul.
“Alright, alright.” Bregolas did not understand the need to watch her door, but he would do as she asked.
When they reached her bedchamber door, she pointed to the alcove down the hall in which Bregolas was to stand guard. She then bid him goodnight, and disappeared into her room.
Bregolas didn’t know how much time had passed when his eyelids began to grow heavy. With only a few hours sleep the night before, and after drinking much wine, he found himself struggling to keep awake. Often, he would close his eyes, only for a moment, but would fall into a light sleep, even while standing.
Slumped against the wall, dozing, he snapped awake when he heard the sound of a door clicking closed. Immediately, the hair on the nape of his neck stood on end. He rubbed his eyes, waiting and listening intently. All seemed silent. He dared to peek around the edge of the wall, but found the corridor empty in either direction.
The warrior wondered if he had imagined the sound, or if it was part of a dream he no longer remembered. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. It was only twelve twenty two, though it seemed much later than that.
The commands of Miriel came to his mind, and he thought that perhaps he should check on her. He took a step, and the floor seemed to creak loudly under his foot. He stepped back, alarmed. His heart began to race. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins; hear his heart beating in his ears. Bregolas had misgivings. He remained frozen to the spot, befuddled, and pondering what he should do next.
Maybe twenty minutes or so later, he heard a door creak open and softly close. He held his breath, listening intently. He then heard the sound of someone humming and footfalls going down the opposite end of the corridor.
Cautiously, he peeked around the corner and was stunned to see the back of Denethor ambling down the hall, humming a song of Númenor. He narrowed his eyes, wondering what business had brought the Lord of Gondor to that part of the house, especially at that hour. He watched until Denethor disappeared around the corner.
Bregolas’ eyes then darted to Miriel’s bedchamber door. Was that where Denethor had gone? he asked himself. Where else would he have gone? The sound had come from that area of the corridor, he thought.
He hesitated, trying to process his thoughts. When all fell silent, he warily went down the hall, stopping outside Miriel’s door. He pressed his ear against the cool wood, listening for any sound. He could hear nothing. Glancing up and down the corridor, he gently tapped on the door with his knuckles. His knock was so light, yet the sound seemed amplified to his ears.
Biting his lip, he once again looked up and down the hall, almost expecting someone, maybe even Denethor himself, to suddenly spring upon him. But, thankfully, he saw and heard nothing.
Carefully, he reached for the knob and slowly turned it until it unlatched. He then eased the door open, as quietly as he could. With the door ajar, he slipped inside, closing it behind him.
The room was dark. He turned, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The bath chamber door was partially opened, spilling a narrow stream of dim light across the floor toward Miriel’s bed. The bed was vacant, the bedclothes strewn about, hanging over the foot of the bed. He stepped further into the sitting area, his eyes scanning the room.
A muffled sound caused him to turn toward the bathroom. Miriel had to be inside, for he had not seen her leave with Denethor.
“Miriel?” he faintly called, his voice sounding hoarse.
He heard no answer.
With his trepidation mounting, he warily crossed the floor toward the stream of light. With his heart pounding, he reached for the bath chamber door, easing it open.
When he caught sight of Miriel, he gasped in horror. She was naked, sitting on the edge of the tub, scrubbing her flesh raw with a wet cloth. Her long dark hair was unbound, tousled, forming a curtain that hid her face. She was softly crying.
Bregolas stood there, in shock, as he quickly put the pieces of this puzzle together. Images that had flashed in his mind previously, now made sense. The evil that Miriel had portended was for her and her alone, and Denethor was the menacing shadow that she had come to fear. This evil, he deemed, had Sauron written all over it.
Tears welled in the warrior’s eyes, and pity filled his heart. “Miriel,” he said, choking back the tears.
She looked up. Silent tears streamed down her red and puffy face. “You were supposed to keep watch,” she cried. “You were supposed to protect me. And you didn’t. You didn’t.”
Bregolas trembled all over. Tears now ran down his face. His guilt was nearly unbearable but he had to regain his wits, for her. Grabbing a towel from the rack, he ran over to Miriel, covering her nakedness, and pulling her protectively into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry. I did not know. I did not know what evil lurked in this house. Forgive me, Miriel. Please, forgive me.”
The young woman clung to Bregolas. “Help me, Bregolas. Please, help me. He’s… he’s killing me,” she wept in despair.
The warrior’s horror turned to unbridled rage. He had reached his breaking point…
Chapter 4 - Soul Sisters
Bregolas had risen to the rank of Captain by the age of twenty-two, not only because of his prowess on the battlefield, but also because of his ability to think quickly on his feet. He was a man of action and knew that the tides of war could change in an instant. He had no fear when it came to combat, and he valiantly slew many of the Dark Lord’s followers, whether they be Man, Orc, or Troll.
Yet, this new enemy was altogether different. He was the Lord of Gondor, the Steward, someone that Bregolas knew, loved, and respected. He would have gladly died in Denethor’s name. Now, in only a few second’s time, all of that had changed. The Steward had revealed himself to be a monster, and not much different than the likes of the enemy. If Bregolas could have, he would have marched into Denethor’s quarters and killed him in his own house. And, in retribution, he would have hacked off the Steward’s manhood - the weapon he had used to violate poor Miriel.
That, Bregolas thought, would be just.
As he held Miriel in his arms, weeping, trying to comfort her, the thoughts continued to race through his mind. He cursed himself for not having seen the subtle signs of her abuse earlier. He remembered one time when she had remarked rather offhandedly that Denethor always wore a shirt of mail beneath his clothing, even to bed. Bregolas had assumed, at the time, that she was privy to that knowledge since she dwelt with her father, but, now, looking back on it, he could see that that was not the case.
Why did she not tell me sooner? he thought.
She did, said the voice of reason in his mind. You just did not listen!
That added to the young man’s grief, but it also inflamed his wrath. He prayed to the Valar, asking for strength and their protection for what he was about to do. He implored the Lords of the West to heal Miriel swiftly and to make Denethor pay bitterly. He then reaffirmed, in the name of the Valar, that he would do everything in his power to protect his beloved, even at risk to himself.
The time had come to act before it was too late. Fueled by wrath, his plan to rescue Miriel unfolded in his mind.
He sucked back his tears. “Come, Miriel,” he said lovingly, gently leading her to the other room. He kicked the door open wider, bathing more of the main room in a dim light. Keeping her nudity covered, he guided her into the adjoining room toward the bed. “I’m going to get you out of here, Miriel. But, first, we need to get you dressed.” He spoke calmly yet firmly.
Miriel remained in a daze. Her half-closed eyes were glazed over and her body still trembled from the trauma of her ordeal.
Bregolas could no longer dwell on that. Not now. He dried his tears as he began searching for suitable clothing for their journey. He found the breeches that Fíriel had made tucked under a stack of winter sweaters in one of the wardrobes. He grabbed a pair along with a shirt and Miriel’s undergarments.
He helped her dress, his blood boiling when he looked again upon the reddened flesh of her body that she had rubbed raw.
Once she was garbed, he grasped her shoulders gently and said, “Listen, Miriel. I must prepare for our departure, and there are many supplies that I need to gather. I want you to stay here and pack a bag for the road. Take only necessities, and make sure you pack warm clothing.”
“Where… where are we going?” she stammered softly.
“We’re leaving Gondor. Where exactly we’ll go, I do not yet know. I just know that I want to get you out of the city as quickly as possible. After that, we will decide where our path lies.”
Miriel nodded.
Bregolas headed toward the door with the young woman trailing behind. “I may be gone for an hour or so,” he stated. Stopping at the door, he faced Miriel, adding, “but I will be back. Stay here until I return.” He gave her a reassuring smile and left the room, leaving a very dismal Miriel behind.
The young woman sighed. She had to fight to keep from falling into the abyss of despair, which normally occurred after Denethor’s nocturnal visits. Mustering her strength, she pushed the incident from her mind, as her thoughts turned to packing for her departure.
Miriel raced to her winter wardrobe, and dug out the two remaining pairs of breeches that lay hidden at the bottom of her sweaters. She returned to her bed, where she usually piled her clothing when she packed for a trip. Noticing the wet stain on the middle of the sheets, she pulled the garments in her hands close to her chest. She shuddered, fighting back her tears, as images of her ordeal sprang into her mind. She closed her eyes tightly and breathed deeply, trying to compose herself.
She told herself that Denethor would never touch her again, that tonight - the nightmare had ended. The longer you stand here, dwelling on it, the less time you’ll have to pack. Stop it, Miriel. You stop it right now! Do not let yourself succumb to melancholy. There is no time for that! You have been preparing for this for months now! Delay no longer, scolded that voice in her head.
Miriel’s eyes popped open. A look of determination came to her face. She grabbed the covers that hung over the foot of the bed and pulled them up over the mattress, hiding the soiled sheet. She then turned her attention to packing what things she felt she couldn’t live without.
Once she had taken care of her clothing, Miriel reached under the bed and pulled out her trunk where she had concealed things of importance in anticipation of this day. Opening the lid, she pulled out bottles of tonics, jars of salves and powdered plant leaves and roots (which had significant medicinal properties) and bandages. These she had stolen from the Houses of the Healing over the past few months. Miriel figured that a Slayer would inevitably sustain injuries in battle and thought that she should have such items on hand before she hit the road.
Also inside her trunk were a couple of daggers and a map of Middle-earth. These too she would take on her journey. She then took all these items, along with some toiletries, and carefully packed them in her bags. Although Bregolas told her to take only the essentials, her things ended up filling three separate bags. Normally, when she traveled, she carried four large trunks of belongings. She thought she had done well under the circumstances.
Thirty minutes later, Miriel was ready. All her things were packed and she was properly attired for her trip. Now, it was a matter of waiting for Bregolas to return. She paced the room, listening to the monotonous ticking of the clock. Occasionally, she glanced out the window in hope of seeing the warrior’s approach in the shadows of the night.
Around three o’clock, she was beginning to lose hope, thinking Bregolas had been caught, when she heard a gentle tapping on her door.
Before Miriel even crossed the room, the warrior had already entered and closed the door behind him.
“Alright, Miriel,” he said, sounding nearly out of breath. “I have prepared the best I could with what little time was afforded me.” He plopped down on one of the chairs in the sitting area, and then discussed his plan with her.
When he had finished speaking, he eyed the bags on her bed. “Are you planning on taking all of those?” he queried incredulously. Bregolas rose from his seat and marched over to the bed where her bags were lined in a neat row. “This is no holiday trip we are taking. I told you to pack only the essentials.”
“I did,” she hissed in reply, somewhat annoyed that the warrior thought she had over-packed.
Without warning, Bregolas opened the first bag and emptied the contents onto the bed.
Miriel rushed to his side. “What are you doing?” she demanded, her eyes widening in disbelief.
“Bath oils, Miriel!” he said in disdain. “Why are you packing things of little worth? You have no need for these!” Bregolas tossed the items to the side.
The young woman remained speechless. After hearing the warrior’s disparaging remarks, she too wondered why she had packed such trivial items.
He then emptied her remaining bags, chastising her yet again for choosing clothing in bright bold colors. Holding up a red sweater, Bregolas spat, “We are attempting to travel in secret and need to blend into our surroundings as much as possible. Wearing something like this will draw one’s eye to us. The world is a perilous place, Miriel, and we will not have the protection of Gondor’s armies. Something like this will attract unfriendly eyes.” He tossed the garment aside. “Find something else, preferably in green, tan, grey, brown, or black.”
Miriel was crestfallen. She thought she had done a good job and had put a lot of thought into her choices. As she returned to her wardrobe, she could hear the warrior grumbling under his breath.
“Why all this jewelry?” he queried in that same critical tone, the various pieces tinkling as he handled them.
The young woman could feel her eyes watering, as she rummaged through her stack of winter sweaters. The harsh tone of Bregolas’ voice was beginning to take its toll on her. Did he not realize how trying all this was? At first, she thought it a blessing that the warrior was going to accompany her. Now, doubt filled her heart. Would she have to endure this treatment forever?
She ignored his question, afraid that if she spoke, she would break down.
When Miriel did not answer, he turned towards her. “Miriel, I asked you a question.”
She spun around, her bottom lip trembling as she fought back the tears. “I thought we might use them to barter with,” she answered. “I do not know if Gondorian money is good outside our realm and thought that we could use my jewelry in exchange for items that we need - such as food.” A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek before splattering onto the floor.
Bregolas’ demeanor instantly changed. She was trying to think ahead, and offering up her jewelry in exchange for things that they may need in the future was smart thinking. He had let it slip his mind how hard all this must be for her. His expression softened.
“I’m sorry, Miriel. It is not my intent to be heartless and cruel. It’s just… ” he paused, collecting his thoughts. “We have need for haste, and so much time has passed already. It will not be long before the household wakes, and things will go ill for us if we are still here.” Bregolas turned his attention to items strewn about on the bed. “We have more provisions other than clothing and soap.” He turned his sympathetic eyes back to her. “We will be traveling long and hard and cannot be burdened with too many things. That is why I said bring only the essentials. Three sets of clothing will be fine, and maybe a couple of sweaters and your winter cloak.” He offered her a reassuring smile. “Let me help you.”
Miriel and Bregolas sifted through her things, reducing her bags down to two. Her fur lined cloak and sweaters nearly took up all the space in one bag. The daggers, he suggested, she leave behind, as he had already taken care of securing weapons for them both.
Once Miriel’s gear was packed to Bregolas’ satisfaction, it was time to put phase one of his plan into action. Leaving the house at that hour, unnoticed, would be much trickier than it sounded. No one would pay much attention to Bregolas’ comings and goings, but Miriel’s exit would draw the attention of the guards.
The warrior had already concocted a cover story, one that the young woman found rather amusing despite the severity of their situation. However, it would not aid her in leaving the house at that hour.
“I believe we’re ready,” Bregolas said, heaving the straps of the bags over his shoulders.
Miriel hesitated, looking at all the things scattered about on her bed.
“What is it now?” he asked with an air of frustration to his voice.
With her adrenaline pumping and her heart racing, the young woman’s thoughts turned to buying them more time for their escape. She shifted her gaze to one of the windows and solemnly said, “On the nights when Father… when Father… ” Her words faltered. She wasn’t sure how to word her father’s unpleasant nighttime visits. She took a deep breath and finally said, “On the nights when he torments me, he let’s me sleep in in the mornings, telling Andreth not to wake me as she usually does.”
She turned her eyes to Bregolas, who appeared saddened by her confession. “We can forestall them more by barricading the door, allowing us to put many leagues between us and - ”
“- Your father’s armies,” interjected the warrior, completing her sentence.
She nodded. “Yes. You know Father will figure things out, twisting them in his warped mind, no doubt. He will want me brought back. But, if we can stall them, that will help us, no?”
“Yes, it would,” answered Bregolas, dreading the thought of being hunted by Gondor’s finest. “However, there is something that you fail to consider, Miriel: we are three floors up, and the courtyard below is made of stone. There is no way for one to make such a leap without breaking a leg, or worse, one’s neck.”
“I can do it,” she answered firmly. “I can make such a leap. And I haven’t broken any bones.”
“Yet!” countered the warrior with a frown. “That would be too risky. We can’t chance that.”
“Then how do you expect me to leave the house unnoticed? The guards know me, cloaked or not. My leaving the house at this hour would rouse their suspicions. They will question us, and possibly wake Father.”
Bregolas went over to the nearest window and glanced outside. “You’ve really made such a leap?” he queried impressively. “Why have you not told me this?”
Miriel made her way to the warrior’s side. “I did not think such a skill would be of much use. Although now, I feel differently.” She glanced at Bregolas. “If I barricade the door, Andreth will go to Father. Father will then come and try to open the door himself. When he fails, he’ll have to summon more brawny men for the task. Such an uproar will surely guarantee a delay.” The young woman smiled, pleased with her assessment of what she believed would take place later that day.
“I do not know, Miriel,” he answered doubtfully. “What if something goes amiss and you get hurt? Then everything we’ve done has been for naught.”
“Do you doubt my abilities, Bregolas?” she asked, raising a skeptical brow. “I think that you underestimate me. I am the Slayer and am stronger than I look. I know that may be hard for you to accept, being a mighty warrior and all - but have faith in me. Do not doubt me.”
A smile came to the warrior’s face, yet, he continued to stare out the window. “Who is that down there? Which guard?” he asked, eyeing the stationary shadow at the base of the building.
Miriel spent much of her time gazing out the window, and knew who it was. “That’s Galdor,” she answered. “And I deem that you can distract him easily enough. Once I’m outside, we can use your scheme to bypass the rest of the guards and gatekeepers.”
“And just how am I supposed to distract him?” Bregolas questioned.
“Galdor has a fondness for alcohol,” she revealed.
“So, you want me to get him drunk?” replied Bregolas, his face wrinkled in confusion.
“No. But he’s sympathetic to those that have drunk too much.”
The warrior stared blankly at her.
Rolling her eyes, she said, “Pretend that you are drunk and stumble or something. He’ll come to your aid.”
“Are you sure?”
“Do not doubt me, son of Halthor,” she replied, a tinge of warning to her tone. “Now, go. I’ll meet you outside the tunnel.” She grabbed her bags from his shoulders. “I’ll take these.”
Putting all his faith in Miriel, Bregolas reluctantly left.
The young woman wasted no time. When the door closed, she ran to the bed and grabbed one of the daggers. She pulled it from its sheath as she hastened back to the door. She then forced the object into the small gap between the door and the frame, using care so as not to splinter the wood. Once the knife was wedged into place, she turned the knob in an attempt to open the door. It appeared stuck. To make things a bit more difficult for those on the other side, she broke the handle of the door off, locking the latch in place.
Pleased, she then headed over to the nearest wardrobe. Though heavy and awkward, she lifted the cabinet from the floor and carried it over to the door. She eased the wardrobe back until it struck the face of the door. She repeated that step one more time before dashing to the window.
She saw no sign of Bregolas. The clock read three eighteen. She quietly swung the windows open, listening intently for any sound below. That’s when she caught sight of her nightgown lying in a pool on the floor. Her eyes narrowed, as the horrid images of her father removing her garment flashed in her mind.
Miriel went over and picked up the white dress. She wanted to leave a message for her father, a message only he would understand. She then turned, her eyes scanning the mess on her bed. Seeing the second dagger lying there, she ran over and picked it up. She stared at the sharp edges of the blade, how the metal glinted in the dim light of the room. She walked over to one of the pillars. Holding the garment against the column, she then drove the blade through the breast of the gown, pinning it in place. She made a point to nail the fabric in the place where her heart would’ve been had she been wearing the dress.
Not a second later, she heard Bregolas’ boisterous, slurred speech coming through the window, lamenting the estrangement of him and Miriel.
The young woman ran to her bathing chamber, extinguishing the light so that the entire room fell into darkness. With a bag flung over each shoulder, she made her way to the window, climbing up on the ledge. She waited, watching Bregolas stumbling around the court below, swinging a bottle of wine in one hand while crying how the Steward’s daughter had broken his heart.
In anticipation of her exit, she pulled up the hood of her cloak, which concealed her face. She then wrapped a blue scarf around her neck, similar to the one worn by Elwen, the nurse that traveled with Imrahil to look after his children during their stay in Minas Tirith.
Bregolas then collapsed, a little too dramatic to Miriel’s liking, beside the statue of Elendil. Of course, Galdor, seeing the mighty Captain in such dire straits hurried to his side.
“So predictable,” she murmured before jumping from the window. Miriel landed without mishap. Then, slinking in the shadows, she made her way toward the tunnel leading to the sixth level where she was to meet up with Bregolas.
When the warrior finally caught up with her, he whispered, “Do not speak, even if questioned.” He then removed one of the bags from her shoulder, and, taking her by the elbow, led her through the first of seven gates.
Once on the sixth level, they went straight to the stables. Lindír, one of the men who took care of the horses, had already saddled two of the steeds. He looked at Bregolas with envy. The warrior had already told the caretaker that he and Miriel had broken up and that he was attempting to mend his broken heart with Elwen. And at three thirty in the morning, Lindír knew the couple wasn’t going out for some casual ride. According to Bregolas, the warrior wanted to get his companion back to his house as quick as possible before she could change her mind about spending the night with him.
“You know how those noble types are, my Lord,” said Lindír, watching while Bregolas and Miriel mounted the horses. “We’re beneath them, you see. Not good enough. Don’t have the right kind of blood flowing through our veins.” He then bid them goodnight before disappearing deeper into the stable.
Miriel couldn’t believe how convincing Bregolas’ story was and that it was actually working. As they rode on to the next gate, she felt pity for Elwen, who had now become involved in their scheme. She hoped the nurse’s reputation would not be sullied by the lie told, but, then again, this was Minas Tirith, and people here loved to gossip. Miriel could only hope that Elwen would one day understand how desperate she was to involve the nurse in such a scandalous plot.
Aside from Lindír, no one else questioned Bregolas. Miriel suspected that the caretaker had done so since her companion sought to borrow a couple of the Steward’s horses.
When they reached the second level, they rode over to Bregolas’ house. Sitting beside his cottage was a wain laden with the rest of their gear. Once the cart was harnessed to the horses, they would leave the White City, presumably forever.
As soon as all was ready, Bregolas told Miriel to climb in the back of the wain. He then covered her with blankets and the saddles so none would see her leaving the city.
“It smells like horse,” she complained, her voice somewhat muffled from the coverings.
The warrior shook his head, sighing heavily. Miriel was in for a rude awakening once they left Minas Tirith. Her days of luxurious living were most likely over and the comforts of home would become merely a fond memory as the days passed. If she was already complaining about the smell of horses, what would she be complaining about in a week’s time? Things would steadily get worse, comfort-wise, the further they traveled. But Bregolas hoped that she’d be able to adapt and come to appreciate the things in life that she had taken for granted.
He adjusted the saddles. “Comfy down there?” he queried.
“Not really,” she answered. “Something is sticking in my back.”
“Forgive me, my Lady, for not accommodating you in a vehicle more suited for your noble rump!” he shot back sarcastically. “As soon as we pass through Rammas Echor you can join me up front, if that is your will.”
Miriel cursed in response.
“Such language is most unbecoming for one of your statue. Now keep quiet whilst we pass through the last gates.”
The young woman fell silent. It was stifling hot beneath the blankets and when the wain jolted forward, the saddles began to bounce uncomfortably on top of her. And the smell. The smell of horse was overwhelming. But she would endure this, as it wouldn’t be forever.
Miriel listened to the hypnotic clomping of the horses’ hooves against the road. She was beginning to come down from her adrenaline rush, but her heart still beat frantically in her chest. She was frightened, frightened that they’d be caught and have to face her father. That thought alone sent shivers down her spine.
Her thoughts then turned to her brothers and what they would say when they discovered she was gone. Would they guess the true reason, or assume that she had run off with Bregolas after Denethor had denied the warrior her hand? It would be the latter, no doubt. If they had not figured out what had been happening to her by now, they never would. She would miss them, though. Terribly.
She couldn’t say the same for her father. She hoped that the good Steward would come to see that he was the reason for her leaving Minas Tirith. It had nothing to do with all that Slayer business. Being a Slayer only increased her chances of survival, gave her a fighting chance in the wilds of Middle-earth. If her home life had been as it once was, prior to that gloomy night in February, she wouldn’t leave. Why would she? Life had been good. There had been a time when Miriel was comfortable, happy, and safe. That is, until Denethor took all that away from her. Now, there was no reason to stay, and why would she want to?
Her mind seemed to be racing a mile per minute. Thinking of the life she once had, and the uncertainty that the future held. She had not yet told Bregolas that she had been planning to leave Minas Tirith for some time, and that she would like to go north to search for the remnants of the Council of Watchers in hope of learning more about her legacy. Would he be willing to help her get there? And then what? What would become of him? Would he stay with her, to fight alongside her as she fulfilled her destiny?
Where else would he go? answered that voice in the back of her mind. He has chosen you over all else. You are his world now.
Miriel wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. She deemed that only time would tell.
After a while, Bregolas said, “We’re out of the city, Miriel. You may breathe the fresh air until we reach Forannest.”
The young woman pushed the blanket off her face and took her last look at Minas Tirith standing proudly before her. How beautiful it was, even at night. The few lamps that were on glimmered like stars through the mists that had settled about the land.
She felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. And as Miriel looked up at the White City, her heart ached at her departure. It had been her home for seventeen years. Memories, both good and bad, came rushing to her mind causing her eyes to well with tears. The moment was bitter sweet.
As the anxiety lifted, something else took its place - exhaustion. The warmth of the blankets combined with the cool breeze on her face made her sleepy. Her eyelids became heavy as she listened to the horses’ hooves rhythmically clomping against the road. She struggled to keep her eyes open; wanting to see Minas Tirith until it disappeared from view, but it was a useless battle. Sleep beckoned to her, and finally her eyes closed, and she fell into a deep sleep, entering the world of dreams, but she was not alone…
Buffy remained trapped in Miriel’s mind for quite some time, or so it seemed. She had lost all concept of time. Had it been hours, days or weeks since Dawn was taken by Glory? She didn’t know. For whatever reason, she was stuck here, wandering in the hazy memories of a Slayer from the distant past. She could not escape and her calls for help went unanswered.
She remembered her last thoughts before she had been sent back in time, the hopelessness and despair that had caused her to crack, emotionally. Yet, all those feelings seemed to dissipate once she entered the mind of Miriel. Why this happened, she didn’t know, but deep down, she felt that this experience was important, and, perhaps, it would somehow help her face her own dilemma when she returned to her body. She believed that she had a connection with this Slayer, though the specifics were still quite unclear.
The only thing she could say with certainty was that Miriel’s sleeping appeared to be the key to her being able to communicate with this newly called Slayer. Buffy had now taken bodily form, no longer an apparition wandering through the girl’s mind and memories. She now found herself standing at the base of a cliff on the edge of the sea, dressed in the same black leather clothing she had been wearing when she had fled Sunnydale with her friends.
The sky was grey, portending rain, but, otherwise, the weather was temperate, pleasant. Glancing to the top of the rocky cliff, she saw a great city made of white stone, similar to Minas Tirith, but altogether different. Whereas the White City was built into the face of a mountainside, this city looked to be carved from the sheer wall of rock. Blowing in the ocean breeze, from the tallest tower was a blue banner emblazoned with a white ship and silver swan. Buffy knew this place from Miriel’s memories - it was Dol Amroth, the Land of Princes.
Even from her viewpoint, the city looked amazing, as if it had been there since the beginning of time. She couldn’t help but notice that the architectural styles of Middle-earth were so vastly different from her modern world. Here, the cities appeared to fit in naturally with their surroundings unlike the cold steel and glass structures that dominated cities throughout America.
She shifted her gaze to the sea where many ships bobbed on the water’s surface. These too were things of great beauty, and very different from anything she had ever seen in her twenty years of life. She could see that the boats were intricately carved in the shape of massive swans, and considered herself lucky to witness such things in person (so to speak), for all this seemed quite real, and very un-dreamlike.
Buffy’s senses had kicked into overdrive. She could smell the salt in the air, feel the warm breeze on her face, hear the surf, the waves crashing on the shore, and the mournful cries of a flock of gulls flying overhead. There was only one thing conspicuously absent - people. She could hear no voices coming from the ships or from the city perched on the top of the high bluffs. It was devoid of all human life, except for a solitary figure, dressed entirely in black, and seated at the water’s edge.
She locked her eyes on Miriel’s form, recognizing her by sight, even from behind. Her heart went out to the girl, knowing what she had been going through. Her pain was Buffy’s pain. And it soon became clear to the elder Slayer that she had been chosen to help Miriel through this next phase of her life. With no Watcher to guide her, Buffy felt it was her responsibility to step into that role. She had five years of slaying experience under her belt, and she could teach Miriel a thing or two. While Bregolas’ lessons would prove beneficial, the warrior did not truly understand the significance of Miriel’s calling. Not only was the young girl a hunter, but, in time, she would become the hunted. And without the proper skills, she would not last long in the world.
Buffy couldn’t explain it, but she knew that this was what she was supposed to do. She felt it so strongly, that her own sister’s welfare was no longer a priority. At least, not now.
She started across the sand toward Miriel. Her first thought was to try to lift the girl’s spirits, if she could. No matter how traumatizing her past had been; that was now behind her. Denethor was no longer a threat, or so Buffy hoped.
When she reached Miriel’s side, she said, “Hey. Can I join you?”
The girl, who sat with her legs pulled to her chest, her head resting on her knees, then turned to Buffy with her doleful grey eyes and nodded before turning her gaze back to the sea.
Buffy sat down on the sand beside the girl. “I’m - ”
“ - Buffy. I know who you are. You are a Slayer, yes?” answered Miriel glumly.
“Yep, the one and only,” responded Buffy in a cheerful voice in an attempt to keep the mood light. She paused, a thoughtful expression coming to her face. “Well, I guess I can’t say that right now, since you’re here. Or, is it I’m here? Whatever. Yeah, I’m a Slayer, just like you.”
“Why are you here?” asked Miriel, still staring out at the ocean. “Have you come to tell me how foolish I am to run away?
“No,” she replied, pulling her own legs up to her chest. “Sometimes, sometimes running away is the best option. Been there, done that!”
The girl looked at Buffy. “You did?”
“Yeah. It’s been a few years back,” she answered, vividly remembering her ordeal with Angel. “But it helped me to heal. I needed to be alone, to think things through. I thought no one could understand what I was going through. But I was wrong. It helps to talk about… things.” Buffy knew she had better tread very carefully. She was well aware of what Miriel’s father had been doing to her, and knew that in order for the girl to heal, she needed to talk about it. It was Miriel’s inner demon, and only she could slay it.
The girl shifted her eyes back to the sea. “And did you go through the same thing as I? Did your father… ” Her words faltered. She didn’t want to finish that sentence.
Buffy answered abruptly with, “No! My dad’s not a big part of my life anymore. It’s just been me and… ” She stopped speaking mid-sentence. Dawn was not a topic of conversation that she cared to discuss.
Miriel then said, “Dawn. It’s just been you and your sister. And then that Glory took her. I saw that. I was there.”
Buffy closed her eyes briefly. She inhaled deeply, tasting the salt at the back of her throat. “I don’t wanna talk about Dawn,” she said solemnly.
A small smile came to Miriel’s face. “And I do not want to talk about Denethor.”
Buffy’s eyes popped open. “Touché,” she snickered. “Sounds like you’re not the only one running away, huh?” she remarked, half-smirking. “We’ll call a truce, okay? No more talking about my sister or your father. Deal?” She offered her hand.
Miriel looked at Buffy with a perplexed expression on her face. She didn’t understand why she was holding her hand out.
“You shake it,” the elder Slayer replied with a smile. “Like this.” She then took the girl’s hand and shook it.
“How very strange you are, Buffy,” answered Miriel. “May I?” she then asked, wanting to touch her leather jacket.
“Knock yourself out.”
Miriel fingered the sleeve of the jacket. “It feels strange to the touch. Is this raiment common with your people?”
“Nah. Only the cool kids wear it. And rock stars. They wear lots of leather,” she answered.
“Your speech is very strange, but, oddly, I find your presence very comforting,” Miriel said with a small smile.
“Same here. I guess, I guess that’s because we’re soul sisters, you know. We’ve got that whole Slayer thing in common.”
“Perhaps.” Miriel paused for a moment before adding, “I know what rocks are and I know what stars are, but why would you want to put clothing on either? My life must be very sheltered indeed!”
Buffy laughed. “Oh, my soul sister, you have to learn the vernacular of modern times. I’ll teach you. And, I’ll teach you how to be a Slayer.” Buffy suddenly felt restless. “Let’s walk,” she added, rising to her feet and brushing the sand off her bottom. “And it wouldn’t hurt to see a little sunshine, you know.”
Miriel got to her feet.
“Wow!” exclaimed Buffy, sizing the teen up. “You’re freakishly tall!” The girl stood a good foot taller than Buffy.
“And you’re freakishly small,” replied Miriel, looking down at the elder Slayer with a grin.
“I think my size is less intimidating to the enemy,” surmised Buffy, linking her arm with Miriel and starting down the beach. Gradually, the grey clouds thinned and the sun shone down upon them. “So, tell me about this Dark Lord - Sarong. What’s the deal?”
“His name is Sauron,” corrected Miriel. “He is a Maia from the race Ainur.”
“Okay, wait a minute. Already confused. What the hell’s a Maia and what’s an Ainur?”
“The Ainur are heavenly spirits. The Valar are the eldest and most powerful,” began Miriel. “It is their task to act as guardians of Eä, the world. The Maiar are their helpers, whose powers are not as great as the Valar, but are far greater than any that still dwell in Middle-earth. Some of the Maiar were corrupted, turned evil. Sauron is the chief of them and has claimed dominion over these parts. He is wicked and cruel and very powerful. He has legions of armies under his command, some from the race of Man, some not.”
“So this Sauron, he’s the Big Bad here. The one you have to take down,” responded Buffy matter-of-factly.
Miriel stopped in her tracks. “Are you mad?!” she exclaimed, looking at the elder Slayer in disbelief. “I would not confront the Dark Lord under any circumstance! Do you know how many have died trying to thwart him? Thousands, hundreds of thousands - perhaps, even millions over the years. He has ruled for countless centuries, slaughtering all that attempt to hinder him. No,” she added, shaking her head. “I would not set foot in Mordor for any reason, not even for the gift of immortality.”
Buffy placed her hands on her hips, taking her defiant stance. “See, this is what your not getting, Miriel - you’re a Slayer, and that’s what you’re made to do - slay! The bigger they are, the harder they fall. You have the strength of ten men - ”
“ - But there seems to be something that you do not understand, Buffy. I have never killed anything in my life. I have never fought an Orc or a warg or a Troll. And you expect me to go the Dark Lands and dethrone the greatest villain of them all. I have no death wish. Not at all.” She paused, intently scrutinizing the smaller Slayer. “However, I’m beginning to wonder if you do.”
“Listen, Miriel,” Buffy tried to reason. “Maybe after you get a few kills under your belt, your confidence will increase and then - ”
The elder Slayer’s voice stopped as the scenery blurred in a swirling of white light. Next thing she knew, she and Miriel stood on a balcony of a tower that overlooked a city that lay in ruins.
“This is Osgiliath, once a mighty city of my people. The strength of Mordor wiped it out long ago, not to mention the fair lands of Ithilien.” Miriel then lifted her hand, pointing slightly to the northeast. “That’s Minas Morgul, which once belonged to the realm of Gondor. It’s now occupied by the Nine, the Ring-wraiths, creatures of terror they are. Evil is all they know, what they breed. It is said that they were men once, men who learned the art of sorcery from their master and now dwell between life and death. They are merely his servants but when they are about, they instill dread and fear in even the bravest of men. They are unstoppable and learned in the darkest of magicks. Even they I would not confront.
“And if you look beyond that, further to the east, you can see Orodruin, Mount Doom, it’s called by some. That is the home of Sauron. There he dwells in the bowels of fire, where he never sleeps and keeps constant watch on our borders, plotting our destruction. No army has yet been able to defeat him. And even if you were to muster an army of Slayers, you would not be able to overthrow him. He is too strong. And, if what father says is true, he grows stronger each day.
“Nay, Buffy. It is my heart’s desire to travel as far from these lands as I can. Perhaps I can face off against some of his weaker servants, but not he himself. That, my soul sister, would be folly.”
Buffy gulped. She had never encountered an enemy of such magnitude as Sauron. She had mostly dealt with vampires living in pitiful lairs. Even Glory didn’t possess a vast army. She couldn’t imagine taking on an enemy such as Sauron. But, perhaps, given time, Miriel would be strong enough to do so. If Buffy trained her properly, then maybe she’d be ready to face one of such great strength.
As she stood there, staring at the Dark Lands, she could feel the hair on the nape of her neck standing on end. “I’ve never heard of Sauron,” she found herself uttering under her breath, still staring at Orodruin in the distance.
“He is known by many names, Sauron being the most common of them,” replied Miriel. “He’s known as the Deceiver. You may have encountered him under a different guise, or, perhaps, in your time, he has been ridden from Eä. Who is it that can answer this riddle?”
“Not me,” answered Buffy with a sigh. She shifted her gaze back to Miriel. “I think I like the beach better. This place gives me the creeps.”
The younger Slayer smiled in response. Then, just like before, their surroundings became blurred, lost in a swirling light. When things came into focus, they were not seaside, but riverside. The two young women stood on a grassy knoll overlooking a wide and murky waterway - the Anduin River.
“Where is this place?” asked Buffy, looking around at their new surroundings. The riverbank gently sloped to the water’s edge. Behind them was a scattering of trees that offered shade from the afternoon sun. Amidst the grass were flowers of various colors, which gently waved in the warm breeze. The air was fragrant, but not overly so. There was a wholesomeness about the land, though it seemed deserted.
“This is actually Ithilien, as I’ve seen it in a portrait back home,” answered Miriel. “It is not a place often visited by my people any more. Mostly the Rangers come to these parts, doing what they can to waylay the enemy. It is yet another place in Gondor that the Dark Lord has forced us to abandon. I find it fair, even if I am able to only see it in my dreams.”
“That’s sad,” replied Buffy dishearteningly. “That Sauron guy must be some bad ass.”
“He is the most horrible creature that walks the earth.” Miriel then locked her eyes on the elder Slayer. After a moment, she said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” answered Buffy, shifting her gaze to the taller Slayer.
“Do you do this often? I mean, enter another’s dream like this. I’ve never had anyone do this sort of thing before. And I must say it is rather strange - extraordinary, but strange,” the girl remarked in her bewilderment.
“No, I can’t say that I have,” responded Buffy. She suddenly remembered the dream that she had shared with Faith. “Wait a sec. Yes, I have. There was one time when I was unconscious and I entered another Slayer’s dream - or did she enter mine?” she queried to herself. “I guess it really doesn’t matter whose dream it was. But yeah. I have.”
“Did it help or serve any purpose in any way?”
“As a matter of fact it did. Faith told me how to defeat Mayor Wilkins - he was the Big Bad at the time. He wanted to become a full-fledged demon, which was not a pretty sight, I might add. But, yeah, she told me his weakness and I was able to use that against him. We ended up blowing him to smithereens, along with Sunnydale High.”
“So, was she a Slayer from the past, like me?”
“Oh, no,” answered Buffy with a shake of her head. “She was alive, but in a coma.”
“I do not understand,” said the baffled girl. “I thought that there was only one Slayer in the world at a time. At least, that’s what is written in the annals of Gondor.”
“Well, that’s kinda true,” replied the elder Slayer, “except I had died - but only for a minute or two. That triggered Faith being called.”
“You died?!” exclaimed Miriel, shocked by that revelation.
“I drowned. But like I said, it was only for a minute or two. One of my friends brought me back,” answered Buffy nonchalantly.
Miriel stood there with her jaw agape, amazed that this Slayer standing before her had died and come back. That was unheard of. Nothing like that had happened since the Elder Days when Beren and Lúthien were given a second chance at life. At least, Miriel couldn’t recall any other instances where Mandos had released one from his Halls.
“You must be an amazing Slayer,” she stated, her voice full of awe.
Buffy brushed off the girl’s comment with a shrug. “It’s no biggie. If someone drowns, it’s easy to bring ‘em back, as long as you know CPR.”
Of course, Miriel didn’t know what CPR was, and the elder Slayer was quick to explain it to her.
The young girl looked at Buffy in a new light. She found herself captivated by her. And when the more experienced Slayer began to show Miriel techniques in hand-to-hand combat, she was even more impressed with her abilities.
They spent several hours (or so it seemed) working on offensive and defensive methods of attack. Buffy taught Miriel that her body was her greatest asset, and how to use it to her advantage in battle. Weapons, Buffy had explained, were merely an extension of a Slayer, and, while helpful in combat, it was a Slayer’s strength and agility that she would rely on the most.
When they heard the distant voice of Bregolas carrying on the wind, calling out Miriel’s name, they knew that their time was up.
Before the girl woke, Buffy said, “Hey. You know how you’ve been having problems with the bow.”
“Don’t remind me,” moaned Miriel.
The elder Slayer chuckled. “That friend of yours, Bregolas, he’s brought a lot of weapons. Among them is a crossbow. Give that a try. All you have to do is aim and pull the trigger. It’s much easier than your standard bows.”
“I’ll remember that,” answered Miriel, before turning and starting across the grass.
“Oh, and Miriel,” Buffy called out to her. “Try to sleep more often, okay. I kinda go stir-crazy when I’m alone in that mind of yours.”
Miriel smiled. “Consider it done.”
The younger Slayer then awoke…
Chapter 5 - And so it Begins
Miriel, squinting her eyes because of the early morning light, groaned, “I’m awake.” The throbbing in her back returned full-force from whatever it was that had been jabbing her during the ride. She carefully shifted upright, attempting to clamber out of the cart. “What time is it?”
“It’s a little after nine,” answered Bregolas, helping her out of the wain. “We’ve made good time and have traveled some distance. I thought it best to pull off the road into this stretch of woods. We’ll eat a little and then sort through the things we’ve brought, as we cannot take it all. From here on out, we will travel on horseback and I’m afraid that we’ll both be over-burdened with too much supplies.”
The young Slayer began to walk off the stiffness in her limbs, and massaged the ache in her lower back. Though her conversation with Buffy remained vividly in her mind, she had decided not to share the details of that experience with Bregolas. She didn’t think he would understand, or, perhaps he would think she had gone mad. She supposed it would seem rather outlandish from his perspective. No, it would be best to keep that to herself.
As Miriel stretched her legs, the warrior updated her on their progress. They had been traveling on the Great West Road, but had peeled off, coming to a halt at the edge of Druadan Forest, which was on the northern side of the White Mountains. They were still in Anórien, one of the chief farming areas that supplied Minas Tirith with much of their foodstuffs. Bregolas thought it was best to stop and talk with Miriel about their options, as he wanted her input on which way they should go.
She still wanted to go north, as she had always planned. While Miriel had no intention of going too deep into Rohan, she had studied her map well enough to know that they’d have to continue to travel on the Great West Road into Théoden’s realm in order to cross the ford on the Entwash, which would be the easiest route north.
“Ah, looks like I found the culprit responsible for your back pain,” chortled the warrior, holding a crossbow in his hand. “I’m surprised that it did not break! I guess lebethron is more durable than I’d realized.”
Miriel locked her eyes on the weapon, remembering what Buffy had told her only minutes before. “May I?” she queried, reaching for the crossbow.
Bregolas handed it to her.
“Why have you never taught me how to use this?” she asked, inspecting the black wooden object closely.
The warrior shrugged. “I suppose I didn’t because it doesn’t require much skill really. Just aim and shoot is all. The bow requires more finesse and is able to shoot farther. That is why Gondor’s armies prefer it to the crossbow. The more distance between you and the enemy - the better.”
“Hmm, true,” she answered. “I should like to take this though.”
“Suit yourself,” replied Bregolas, “although, I did bring you a sword as well. Before we leave, I want you to gird it around your waist. But, that can wait until after we eat.”
Miriel’s stomach grumbled at the mere mention of food. “I’m famished,” she remarked, suddenly realizing how hungry she was.
“Well, I’m afraid that our meal will not be what you’re normally accustomed to,” answered Bregolas, grabbing one of the sacks containing their victuals. “What food we have, we’ll have to ration, since we haven’t decided where our path lies just yet.”
They sat down on the back of the cart and shared a small loaf of bread and a handful of grapes. There was no jam or butter and the bread seemed to stick in the back of the girl’s throat. Bregolas was right; she was not used to such meager offerings. But, she wouldn’t complain, as the warrior had promised that their afternoon meal would be heartier.
Bregolas constantly watched her out of the corner of his eye, somewhat surprised by her demeanor. He had expected to find Miriel in the same state as mind as she had been the night before - dazed and grim. Yet, today, she seemed back to her old self. Perhaps she had decided to leave the past behind, including the memories of her torments. If that were true, then she was made out of tougher stuff than he had originally thought, and he found her even more amazing.
At this juncture, they were on their own. And, if Bregolas could come to depend on her like a fellow warrior, then that would put him more at ease. Well, as much at ease as one can be, knowing that the wrath of the Steward of Gondor was not too far behind. The more leagues they put between themselves and Minas Tirith, the better. The hunt would begin soon, undoubtedly, and Bregolas hoped beyond anything that he and his beloved would not be found.
While they ate, Miriel stared in the distance, thinking. She wondered how far Denethor would send his men in search of her. Would they comb the whole of Middle-earth or just Gondor’s borders? Would her father use the palantír to find them, or would it be useful at all? She wished there was some way she could disguise herself - but how? She couldn’t change her sex, nor did she want to. But that didn’t stop her from thinking that if she could change her looks even a little, it might help.
“Are you alright?” asked Bregolas, noticing the scowl on Miriel’s face.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she answered, turning toward the warrior. “I think we should go north, way north. I’ve read that the remnant of the Watcher’s Council still dwells in the Northern Kingdom. I would like to go there and find them, find the Watchers, I mean.”
Bregolas’ brows shot up in surprise. “Arnor has been destroyed for centuries. There are none that dwell there!”
“That’s not true,” she countered. “They are scattered about those parts, or so the scrolls say.”
“And when were those scrolls written, Miriel, eh?” he queried, cocking his brow. “It is merely myth.”
“My heart tells me otherwise,” she answered resolutely. “And that is where I wish to go. If you do not agree, then perhaps we should part ways, here and now.”
The warrior looked at the young woman in stunned disbelief. Then, he laughed. “And who’s to say that any of these so-called Watchers still live? You are chasing a dream, Miriel. I have trained you well enough. There is no need to seek out these people.”
She rose from the back of the cart, standing tall over a seated Bregolas. “I do not wish to be mocked or ridiculed. I’m a Slayer, and a Slayer needs her Watcher - a real Watcher, who understands what I am.” She stomped off into the woods.
Bregolas would let her be for a few minutes. Maybe he was overreacting about that whole Watcher business. Yet, it seemed to him that Miriel didn’t understand how long and dangerous the road was to Arnor, (or what was left of it). Would he be better off to amuse her and go? And what would happen when they arrived only to find a land barren of people? Perhaps, once she came to that realization, they could set up house together. With Denethor out of the picture, there was none stopping him from making Miriel his wife. She had seemed willing enough a day ago.
Yes, he thought. We can live together far from the might of Denethor. In the north lands, none will hinder us.
He leapt to his feet and followed the path Miriel had taken into the forest. He found her in a small clearing, basking in the sunlight.
“I’m sorry, Miriel,” he apologized. “I’ve been a fool. I will lead us to the Northern Kingdom, as you wish.”
The young woman spun around, grinning. “Thank you.” She paused, the smile fading from her face. “I have one more favor to ask of you.”
Bregolas grimaced, instantly disheartened at the prospect of a request that he had not yet heard.
A small smile returned to Miriel’s face. She reached out, grasped the hilt of the dagger strapped around his waist and pulled it from it sheath. She held the blade in front of his bewildered face.
“Take it,” she instructed.
The warrior did as ordered. “Now what?” he asked.
Miriel turned around. “Cut off my hair, to about here,” she answered, motioning to the top of her shoulders.
“What? What for?” he said in dismay. Bregolas loved her long hair.
“Just do it!” Miriel barked in reply.
“I will not!” he replied, taking a step backwards. “Your hair is a part of your beauty. I will have no part in cutting it.”
The young woman turned around, her eyes narrowed. “It’s only hair, Bregolas,” she snapped back, rolling her eyes. “If you will not do it, then I will do it myself!” She stepped forward, reaching for the knife.
Bregolas held it behind his back. “Come on, Miriel. There is no need to go to such extremes. As long as you keep your hair braided, it won’t be a hindrance.”
“It is not your choice to make, son of Halthor,” she replied snippily. She paused, thinking of a different angle to persuade the warrior into doing the deed. “I’m sure you will not mind stopping on the road so that I can wash and tend to my hair as often as needed. Do you think my hair looks this way on its own? And some of those items that you demanded I leave behind because they were ‘of little worth’ were for my hair. Or, is it that you would like for me to look like some wild, beastly woman with tangled and matted hair? Does that appeal to you, my lord?”
Bregolas groaned in discontent. “Turn around,” he then said.
She did.
The warrior then grabbed hold of her long braid, pulling it taut as cut the hair just below her shoulders. He convinced himself that it would grow back, that it was only hair. When he finished, he stared sadly at the hair in his hand.
“How liberating!” exclaimed Miriel, running her fingers through her considerably shorter hair. “It feels like a weight has been removed. How lovely.”
Bregolas watched as the braid began to gradually undo itself. He clasped his fingers tightly to the one end that was not tied, stopping it from unraveling further. “Can I have this?” he asked, glancing up at the young woman.
She laughed. “If that is your heart’s desire, then knock yourself out,” she answered, using the expression she had heard from Buffy.
He looked at her oddly for a moment, but then turned his attention back to the hair in his hands, holding it as if it were some sacred object, which Miriel found slightly disturbing. Bregolas then took off down the game trail, with Miriel following behind. When he reached the wain, he tied the other end of the hair before slipping it carefully into one of his bags.
Once that was done, he watered the horses, which had been grazing on the tufts of grass beside the woods. She and Bregolas then began going through the gear, deciding which things they’d take with them.
“I brought you this,” he said, dangling a shirt of mail before her. “Put it on,” he added, tossing the shirt of metal rings to her. “I want you to wear it at all times.”
Miriel pulled off her cloak and slipped the shirt of mail over her clothing. The warrior then strapped her sword around her waist. “Look at you,” he remarked with a smile. “You could pass for one of Gondor’s finest… especially now that your hair is shorter.”
“Then that is a good thing,” she answered. “Perhaps strangers will not give us a second look, thinking we are on some errand for the Steward.”
“I doubt that,” chuckled Bregolas. “You still look very womanly! Any fool could see that!”
Miriel felt her face blush. She quickly realized she could no longer conceal her face behind her curtain of long hair, a realization which made her face turn redder.
There were quite a few things that Bregolas had brought that Miriel had never even considered. He had packed a small tent that would help protect them on rainy nights, and their bedrolls, another item she had overlooked. She now felt reassured having someone like Bregolas with her. He paid more attention to details than she had.
Once they had saddled the horses, they packed as much gear onto the steeds that they could. Unfortunately, they would still be burdened by carrying additional bags on their backs and shoulders. Before Miriel even mounted her horse, the straps from the bags were already digging uncomfortably into her flesh. The weight already seemed so great that she refused to take the shield Bregolas had brought her.
“You may have need for it!” he insisted.
“Then, I’ll use one of these cumbersome bags, if need be,” she moaned in response. “I cannot carry another thing!”
Before climbing onto his steed, Bregolas dragged the wain into the woods. He didn’t want to make it too obvious to any passers-by where he and Miriel had stopped. They then took off on their horses, galloping beside the road to put more distance between them and Minas Tirith. They would stay on that course, traveling along the base of Ered Nimrais for quite some time…
Denethor had decided to eat his midday meal in the Citadel, apart from his guests and kinfolk. After one of his “romantic interludes” (as he always referred to them) with his daughter, he always demanded that she join him for the midday meal, whether she suffered from melancholy or not. It had become normal practice, and today would be no different. He had sent word for Andreth to wake his only daughter.
Seated at the table, he picked up a rose from the vase, deeply inhaling the fragrant scent as he twirled the stem with his fingers. He had a faraway look in his eye, recalling a moment from time’s past. In the Steward’s warped mind, he believed that Miriel was the reincarnation of Finduilas, or so he had convinced himself. That idea had not sprung into his mind out of the blue, but had been planted there by none other than the Dark Lord himself.
When the son of Ecthelion had begun using the palantír nearly seventeen years ago, he had opened the door of his mind and realm to Sauron. When Miriel was but a little girl, the evil Maia perceived that she would one day be called as a Slayer, a Slayer that could threaten his station in Middle-earth. Wanting to determine if what he had foreseen was true or not, Sauron had guised himself as Miriel’s grandfather, visiting the girl when she was still a small child. Unsure even after his visit, he kept a close eye on Miriel, waiting until her aura showed signs of her Slayer powers.
In December of the previous year, he had seen the change. He’d seen that those meddlesome fools in the West had chosen the daughter of Denethor as their next Slayer. If there was one thing that Sauron detested, it was the Slayer. He had only encountered two in his many years of life, one during the Second Age, the other, during Yr 549 of the current one. The first one he had had the pleasure of killing in Númenor, right before his own downfall. A part of him still blamed that girl for the destruction of the fair hröa he had created to deceive the Elves. Never again would he possess the power to remake his bodily form as it once had been. The second, well, the second Slayer that had arisen in Middle-earth had been killed easily enough by a horde of Orcs. As a reward, his servants had delighted in a feast of her flesh.
Now, after all this time, a third had surfaced, and one of noble blood. Sauron hated Denethor and the people of Gondor with a passion. The Gondorian forces remained a constant thorn in his side. Preparing for the possibility that Miriel would be one of those super-empowered girls, he had thought long and hard to plot her destruction.
His thoughts had turned to his Lord and mentor, the mighty Melkor Bauglir, who had been unjustly thrust into The Void for his deeds during the First Age. Of all those that Melkor had tormented, the children of Húrin had suffered most. The incestuous relationship of Túrin and Nienor was a well-known tragedy, known not only to the Elves, but also to the nobility of Gondor.
Remembering that helped Sauron devise his scheme to destroy not one bird, but two, with a single stone. Boromir and Faramir would be of no use for he could not master their minds unless they dared to look into the palantír, something that had not yet happened and mostly likely wouldn’t. The Dark Lord then turned his attention to the one that often sought solace in the seeing-stone - Denethor. What a betrayal of trust it would be for Miriel if her father were to force himself upon her! The malice of Melkor lived still - and Sauron would happily carry out his plan with gusto.
When the Steward next looked into the palantír, Sauron was there at the ready. Finduilas’ death had broken Denethor’s heart and the evil Maia knew that she would be the key to manipulating the Lord of Gondor’s mind. He hinted that Finduilas’ fëa had passed on to her daughter at the time of her death, but not until she was older would she understand what had happened. It would take the love of her husband and the acts that would take place in the marital bed to gradually return his beloved’s memories of her former life.
Not two months later, Denethor had seduced his only daughter, using his authority to force her to submit to his advances. Sauron had hoped that that would break Miriel emotionally, that she would succumb to her shame and take her own life. Unfortunately, that hadn’t happened. So his goal turned to having her flee the city. If he could get her to depart Minas Tirith, then he could capture her in the wilds and amuse himself by making her suffer. Yes, the Slayer would pay, and would one day come to regret the day she had ever been born. Things would soon get interesting.
“My lord! My lord!” screeched Andreth as she came scrambling into the Great Hall of the Citadel.
Denethor shook himself out of his thoughts, turning his eyes to the woman.
“Miriel’s door will not open! And she does not answer when I call!” revealed the woman between gasps.
“What do you mean the door will not open?” queried Denethor, his eyes narrowing as he spoke.
“It will not budge, nor will the handle turn,” Andreth answered, still breathless from her sprint. “It appears stuck, my lord.”
Annoyed at what he deemed was incompetence, the Steward placed the flower on his plate before rising from his stone seat. “If you want something done, you have to do it yourself,” he grumbled under his breath as he stormed across the chamber toward the door. Andreth took off after him.
Together, they exited the Citadel and crossed the courtyard to the King’s House. The woman continued to follow Denethor as they climbed the staircase to the third floor. They then went down the corridor, stopping outside Miriel’s bedroom door.
The Lord of Gondor tried the door knob. It would not turn. He knocked on the door. “Miriel! Miriel! Open this door at once!” he demanded.
Silence.
He tried the knob again, lunging against the door with his body in hopes that it would spring open.
“I told you, my lord. It will not budge!” repeated Andreth.
Scowling, Denethor beat on the door with his fists. “Miriel - you open this door at once or you’ll be in big trouble young lady!”
Still nothing.
“Damn it!” hissed the Steward, turning and marching down the hallway. When he reached the stairway, he yelled for the guards, demanding that they bring an axe. He then returned to Miriel’s door, attempting to twist and turn the knob until help arrived.
Shouts from the guards rang out throughout the halls. The first one that arrived on the scene informed Denethor that an axe was on its way. He too tried the door, but the handle appeared stuck.
Two more guards soon came racing down the corridor, one holding an axe.
“Break it down!” ordered the Steward, stepping aside and pulling Andreth with him.
“I’m frightened, Denethor lord,” the woman said, eyeing the door nervously. “What if something has happened to our Miriel?”
“Nothing has happened,” snapped Denethor in reply.
The first blow of the axe splintered the wood of the door. The second cracked the panel open further, and with the third strike, the blade of the axe became imbedded in the wardrobe.
“What is this?” queried Siriondil, the guard who wielded the axe.
“What is it? What are you mumbling about?” demanded the Lord of Gondor.
“There is something barring the door, my lord,” the man answered, trying to free his weapon from the thick wood of the cabinet.
Denethor frowned, and every wrinkle on his face became more pronounced. He balled his fists as rage began to swell within him. His nostrils flared like some wild beast’s. “Get it open!” he hissed between clenched teeth, his body beginning to tremble with wrath, suspecting something sinister had taken place.
Siriondil continued to hack at the door, breaking away the fragments of wood until there was a gaping hole in the door. He pushed against the wardrobe, but it would not move. His strength was not enough. He summoned another to aid him, and together they heaved their shoulders against the cabinet, which barely moved an inch.
Rubbing his sore shoulder, Siriondil cried out, “How can this be? How can the strength of two men not move this wardrobe? What devilry keeps this cursed object here?”
“I do not care how! Smash it to smithereens if you must!” answered a furious Denethor.
Siriondil handed the axe to Damrod. “You give it try.”
Using all his strength, Damrod struck in rapid succession at the wardrobe, shouting with each strike. The wood began to fly apart, revealing the garments housed inside.
The racket on the third floor corridor brought others running onto the scene. Not to mention that word was spreading rather quickly throughout the seventh level of the city, even reaching the ears of Boromir, Faramir, Imrahil and Elphir, who hastily joined the enclave of people congregated in the hallway.
Once the newcomers were informed of the predicament, Boromir pushed his way through the throng toward the door, demanding that he could break through the barricade. With the top half of the wardrobe nearly destroyed, the Steward’s heir reached through the hole of the door and pushed on the cabinet with all his might. However, the piece of furniture didn’t move.
Frustrated, he snatched the axe from Damrod’s hands and began to hack away at the remainder of the door, thinking that that obstruction was hindering the removal of the wardrobe. When most of the door had been removed, he asked Damrod to help him push the cabinet backwards, away from the door frame. They huffed and puffed, but even with two brawny men pushing with all their might, the cabinet remained in the same place.
Boromir went to knock the doors of the wardrobe open, thinking there must be something on the other side. The doors opened slightly before hitting another object.
“Just as I thought,” he declared breathlessly. “There is something behind this.”
The eldest son of Denethor then thought about sliding the wardrobe to the side, or, tipping it over. Being in an awkward position made shifting the heavy piece of furniture most difficult.
“Help me, Damrod,” he instructed his underling.
The man stepped up beside the Captain and together they pushed on the wardrobe. Gradually, it began to skid across the floor, revealing a second wardrobe standing behind it. When the opening was large enough to squeeze through, Boromir entered the room, followed by Denethor and the rest of the men.
“Miriel! Miriel!” cried out Boromir, his eyes quickly scanning the chamber for his sister before he made a beeline to the bathroom.
Upon entering the room, the Steward immediately noticed Miriel’s nightgown pinned to the column with a dagger. Shaking with rage, he stormed over to the pillar, grasped the garment, and pulled out the dagger. Clutching the gown in his hand, he went over to the bed, which was littered with odds and ends.
“She’s not here,” announced Boromir, returning to his father’s side.
“I do not understand,” chimed in Faramir. “How could she leave?”
Denethor’s eyes shot to the opened windows. He hastily made his way to them, his eyes searching below for some evidence that his daughter had escaped that way.
With his two sons standing on either side of him, the Steward growled, “Find the son of Halthor! Now!”
“You think Bregolas had something to do with this?” queried Boromir.
“Is that not obvious?” hissed Denethor sharply in reply. “I refused him Miriel’s hand, and now… ” he paused, seething with anger, “and now he has absconded with my only daughter.” His eyes, glinting with rage, narrowed. “I want that thief brought to the Citadel to face my wrath!” He turned to Boromir, his expression softening. The Steward then added, “Find her, Boromir. Find the jewel of my heart.”
His firstborn gave a curt nod of his head before turning. He motioned for Faramir to join him and together they fled the room.
The Lord of Gondor then turned to the others in the chamber. “Find Miriel! Search the entire city! Anyone who has seen her or Bregolas, son of Halthor, is to be brought to the Citadel.” He then stormed out of the room, still clutching Miriel’s nightgown in his hand.
Most of the men filed out of the room until only Imrahil and Elphir remained behind. They stood beside the bed, looking at the items scattered about on the covers.
“What do you think, Father?” asked Elphir. “Do you think that Miriel ran away with Bregolas?”
Imrahil sighed heavily. “Most likely,” he replied, turning toward the spot where the two wardrobes had once stood. His eyes searched the floor for skid marks from the cabinets. “Hmm,” he sounded.
“What is it?” asked his oldest son.
“I am troubled at heart, my son,” he answered, walking the path from where the cabinets had once stood toward the main door of the room. “How is it that there are no markings on the floor? You’ve seen with your eyes how difficult it was for Boromir and Damrod to move the wardrobe. How was it that those heavy furnishings moved all the way across the room without leaving so much as a scratch on the floor?” He stopped beside the wardrobes, pointing to the marring on the floor at the hands of Boromir and Damrod. “See!” He then turned his gaze to the cabinets’ original positions. “How did they get here?” he asked softly. “Bregolas is a strong man, but I do not see how he was able to carry them so far. That cannot be.” Imrahil shook his head. “I’m afraid something diabolical is at work here.”
“I do not understand, Father,” responded Elphir, wearing the same perplexed expression on his face as the Lord of Dol Amroth. “What do you mean?”
“I do not know myself, Elphir.” Imrahil then shifted his gaze to the window. “And how exactly did they escape? Perhaps the guards saw something in the night.” He pursed his lips together, thinking. How ever, Miriel had escaped, her uncle was under the impression that it was her choice. The question was: why? He did not believe it was for the reason that Denethor had said. It was something else. And the Lord of Dol Amroth was determined to get to the bottom of it. “Let us join Denethor, and wait for any news,” he then said, starting out of the room.
“Do you think Miriel and Bregolas will head to Dol Amroth?” asked Elphir, as he walked alongside his father. “She seemed crushed when Denethor said she couldn’t go.”
“It’s a possibility, my son,” he replied grimly.
Of course, the entire household was in an uproar. Guards began searching the King’s House from top to bottom, even though there was little hope of finding Miriel hidden in some part of the castle.
Boromir and Faramir headed to the stables. It would be much quicker to ride to the second level than to walk. An hour had already passed since the discovery that Miriel’s door had been barricaded, and talk of her disappearance was rapidly spreading throughout the lower levels of Minas Tirith.
The sons of Denethor encountered a terrified Lindír hiding in one of the empty stalls, nearly beside himself over the part he had played in Bregolas’ scheme. Upon seeing the mighty Captains, he confessed to his role of providing two horses, one for Bregolas and the other for the woman he had been told was Elwen, from Dol Amroth.
Lindír, crouched at the sons of Denethor’s feet, wept in fear. “I swear, my lords, I did not know she was the Lady Miriel. I swear on my life!” he cried.
Boromir scoffed at the man. “How could you believe such a story? Bregolas and my sister have been inseparable for months! You would have to be a fool to believe that he would bed another!”
“Why don’t you ride on to Bregolas’ home?” suggested Faramir. “I’ll handle things here.”
“You know Father will want to speak with him,” said Boromir, motioning toward the stable-hand with his head, as he mounted his steed.
“Of course,” replied Faramir. “Just hurry, Boromir.”
The Steward’s heir then took off.
Faramir immediately consoled Lindír. “Do not be so hard on yourself, Lindír. I do not blame you. You were deceived, like the rest of us. But, come now.” He helped the man to his feet. “I have to take you before the Steward.” He handed the man a handkerchief. “Just tell him the truth. That is all you can do.” The Captain then led the distraught man from the stables.
A livid Denethor sat upon his throne. Having lost his appetite, he had had his servants remove the table laden with food from the Great Hall. On his lap, lay Miriel’s gown. He stared at the rip in the material. In one of his hands, he clutched the rod of his office. He held it so tightly that both his knuckles and fingers had turned white.
The door to the chamber opened, and in walked Galdor, escorted by two of his fellow guardsmen. Denethor lifted his gaze, locking his eyes on the horrified man. The guard was brought before the throne of the Steward.
“Speak!” ordered Denethor, his cold voice echoing within the mammoth chamber.
Galdor then told him what had transpired earlier that morning between him and Bregolas. As he spoke, the Steward scrutinized the man with his piercing grey eyes, but said not one word. He realized that Galdor had been duped, something Denethor would come to see had happened with each and every witness that would be brought before his throne that afternoon.
During the questioning of Lindír, Imrahil arrived with Elphir. Both remained seated to the left of Denethor throughout each interrogation.
By the time that Boromir arrived back at the Citadel, the Lord of Gondor was already piecing together the story. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that his daughter and Bregolas had fled the city, and that this plot of theirs had been well thought out. This infuriated him even more.
It was late afternoon when Denethor finished questioning each guard and gatekeeper that had encountered Bregolas in the early hours of the morning. He then summoned his four mightiest Captains, including his two sons. When all were assembled, he announced, “I want my daughter brought back to me, safe and sound. Kill the thief, if need be. I care not! Send men out north, south, west and east of Gondor’s borders. They could not have gone too far.”
The Captains were then dismissed so that they could rally their men together. It was nearly seven o’ clock when they finally left the main gates of Minas Tirith, which gave Miriel and Bregolas a nearly fifteen-hour head start.
Little did any know that the Dark Lord was well aware of all that was taking place. His Orcs had already been dispatched, hiding in strategic locations along Gondor’s borders. They were given orders not to waylay Miriel and Bregolas, but to hinder any that attempted to follow the same path that the couple had taken.
Sauron wanted to make sure that Miriel was far from Gondor before he tested her strength. He was determined to have some fun with this Slayer, and to introduce her to the true meaning of agony and despair…
Chapter 6 - First Blood
Miriel kept first watch since Bregolas hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. It was twilight and steadily growing darker by the minute. They had traveled over one hundred miles when they decided to stop for the night. The couple had followed the road until they reached the western border of Gondor. They had left the road when it went through another stretch of woods, the first they had come across since leaving the Druadan Forest earlier in the day. They veered off the road, riding north along its edge, stopping when they reached the Mering Stream. Bregolas had said that that was a perfect place to rest for the night since they had a plentiful supply of water and the forest would provide some cover. They were still in Gondor, (in Anórien to be exact), but would enter Rohan when they crossed the stream the following morning.
A few hours earlier, they had heard the Great Horn blowing, signaling that the hunt had begun. Boromir had always blown that horn before he had departed Minas Tirith. Miriel reckoned that was a good thing, as it indicated when Denethor had finally sent out men to track her and Bregolas. While her companion found no comfort in knowing that the pursuit was on, Miriel was confident that they would elude their pursuers. She wondered if that was because of that woman’s intuition thing that Andreth had always spoken about. Regardless, she had no intention of being caught and would rather die than return to the life she had left behind.
Suddenly, Miriel heard the distinctive sound of a twig snapping in two, startling her. She jumped, instinctively pulling the trigger on the crossbow, sending a flying projectile into the darkness. With her heart racing frantically in her chest, her wide eyes scanned the black shadows of the forest, searching for the intruder. She glanced down at Bregolas, who remained fast asleep, unfazed by the noise or her breathing, which sounded amplified to her ears.
It’s nothing, she told herself. Just a beast of some sort.
Maybe it’s a dragon! warned the other voice in her mind. Maybe it’s a dragon sent by Sauron!
“Stop it, Miriel!” she chastised herself, attempting to dispel her growing paranoia.
The Slayer had been born and raised in Minas Tirith and was not used to the nighttime sounds, particularly those found in the woods. She heard noises that she had never heard before. Some had to be insects of some sort, since they made a strange, buzzing-type sound. Others were birds - maybe nightingales that most likely called that forest home.
Her thoughts then darkened, recalling some of the tales that she had heard from her father. He had said that the Dark Lord used both beasts and birds to act as his spies, and that was how Sauron communicated with his evil followers out in the field. Miriel found that to be a most unpleasant thought, especially since the forest seemed to be alive with critters of all sorts.
Hearing a fluttering of wings, she spun around, pointing her unloaded weapon at the treetops in search of whatever flying creature it could be. She then became angry with herself for letting her imagination run wild. She turned away from the woods and rearmed her weapon. She walked over to the horses to check on them. They were as still as statues, except for their tails, which swished from side to side. Miriel didn’t know if they were shooing away some unseen bugs or just felt like moving their tails out of boredom.
She found herself unable to keep still and began to pace along the eaves of the woods. Her backside and inner thighs remained sore from riding so long and the thought of sitting had lost all its appeal. She wished there was some way she could talk with Buffy to help pass the time. Sentry duty proved to be boring beyond the thought of it. Throughout the rest of her watch, Miriel remained somewhat jumpy. Morning couldn’t come soon enough for her.
When Bregolas awoke in the wee hours of the morning, they sat up together, waiting for the crack of dawn. After a quick, scant breakfast, they filled their water skins and then set out for another long day of riding. Knowing that the others had departed Minas Tirith, they decided to stay off all roads and avoid all settlements. They crossed the ford on the Onodló (Entwash) early that morning and then galloped through the open plains of Rohan, riding north-northwest of the river.
Though the horses were doing most of the work, the journey proved long and hard for Miriel and Bregolas. Once the sun had risen, the heat became nearly unbearable. Sweat poured, not only from the riders, but also from their steeds. And the heat wasn’t the worst of it either. The straps from the bags dug painfully into their shoulders, owing to the weight of the contents, which strained their backs. Already they were miserable, and it was only day two since their departure from Minas Tirith!
Another thing that Miriel found somewhat depressing was the lack of conversation. When one is galloping across the land, holding a conversation is quite difficult. All that free time allowed one’s mind to wander, to think of things that should be forgotten. As much as she was loath to admit it, there was a time or two when the Slayer thought of returning home. There were even times when she glanced longingly over her shoulder, knowing that her home was on the other side of the mountain chain which was beginning to appear smaller the further north they went. She was actually beginning to weigh the pros and cons of running away from home when Bregolas finally called for a break.
Dismounting from her horse and removing her heavy burdens seemed to snap Miriel back to her senses. She stretched her legs a bit before she and Bregolas shared their afternoon meal. They sat down together on a blanket, eating while they studied the map.
“I’d say we’re about twenty miles from the East Wall of Rohan and Emyn Muil,” said the warrior, pointing to their approximate location on the map. “I am not at all familiar with this part of Rohan, having only been to Edoras twice in my life. But, it is said that here,” he moved his finger northwest of Emyn Muil to the Anduin River, “where the Great River bends, that there are many shoals and the river is not too deep. We will be able to cross here easily enough.”
Miriel looked intently at the map, chewing on a wedge of cheese. “And then which direction shall we take? The ancient kingdom is further west, in Eriador.”
“True,” replied Bregolas. “I think it is best that we cross the Brown Lands and follow the course of the Anduin along its eastern bank until we reach the Old Forest Road, here,” he added, pointing to a road a couple hundred miles to the north.
Miriel’s eyes widened when she saw the route the warrior wanted to take. “I do not like that path, Bregolas, for many reasons. I would not like to set foot in the Brown Lands, for starters. Only rumor of it makes me shudder. And you would have us travel close to the borders of Dol Guldur - ”
“ - Miriel,” interrupted Bregolas. “The Brown Lands are merely a desolate region. Sure, it is unpleasant, but there is naught to fear there. It is deserted by friend and foe alike. And we will not be anywhere near Dol Guldur. I’d say we will not come within seventy-five miles of that place. And it is said that it has been abandoned since long ago. Remember, Sauron has made Mordor his home.”
“How can I forget such a thing?!” she countered in dismay. “We have lived ever close to the Dark Lands’ borders! That is something one does not forget!” She shifted her eyes back to the map. “I do not think that Sauron’s Orcs have abandoned their former home. My heart tells me that evil still lurks in southern Mirkwood. I would like for us to find another way, Bregolas. A safer way.”
The warrior groaned in frustration. He thought that the course he had chosen was best, considering that the armies of Gondor were hot on their tail.
“Listen, Miriel. The only other option - and one that I would not like to take - is for us to turn around and go southwest, following the main road to the Gap of Rohan. If we do that, all the many leagues we put between us and our pursuers will be for nothing. They will catch up to us and we will be caught.” His face became grim. Cocking a brow, he asked, “Is that what you want? To be caught and forced to return to your father?”
“No!”
“Whichever path we take will be dangerous,” Bregolas continued. “I will see to it that no harm befalls you, Miriel. I promise. I cannot stress how important it is for us to take the road least traveled, one that our pursuers would not expect. Chances are, they will stick to the main roads.” He paused before adding, “Trust me on this. This is something I have done on numerous occasions - choosing which path I deem safest.”
“I’m sorry for doubting you. You are the experienced one. I will go wherever you say, Bregolas.”
“Thank you, Miriel.”
Shortly thereafter, they packed up their stuff, climbed atop their horses and set off once again. They stayed on the same course, riding along the western side of Emyn Muil and its jagged rock wall. To their west, the terrain rose into mighty green hills. They stuck to a path between two rocky ridges that sloped downwards toward the river.
By late afternoon, grey clouds rolled in from the east, threatening rain. Darkness was quickly overtaking them, dashing their hopes of crossing the Anduin by nightfall. They were forced to stop much earlier than expected. While they set up their tent on a small knoll, the first drops of cold rain began to fall. The couple was fortunate enough to make it inside before the downpour.
Bregolas suggested that Miriel sleep first. She readily agreed to that.
“I’m really proud of you,” Buffy told her in her dream, as they walked through a landscape eerily similar to the one that Miriel and Bregolas had stopped for the night.
“For what?” queried the younger Slayer.
“For doing what you’re doing. It takes some balls to walk away from your old life. And all this,” Buffy motioned to their surroundings, “is so different for you. It’s like you’re embarking on this new adventure into the unknown.”
“That does not sound pleasant.”
“Well, change isn’t always pleasant, but it’s a part of life. Everything changes whether we want it to or not. I think you’re doing the right thing.”
“I had no other choice, really,” answered Miriel with a sigh. She stopped, looking to the north. “I cannot help but feel that we are heading toward danger, that the path Bregolas has chosen is not the correct one.”
Buffy followed Miriel’s gaze. “It’s like he said, Miriel. Danger lurks no matter which direction you take. Don’t let yourself become consumed with fear. You’re a Slayer, a warrior. At some point, you’re gonna face your fears… ”
Miriel quickly turned toward the elder Slayer, a look of horror on her face.
“And you’ll defeat them,” answered Buffy, smiling reassuringly at the girl. “Your first confrontation is always the scariest. But once you make that first kill, it awakens something inside, some primal thing,” she explained. “It’s always been there, but once it comes out - watch out! You become a killing machine.”
“I hope you’re right,” answered Miriel. “I am truly frightened, Buffy. I do not like the unknown.”
“I guess no one does,” replied the elder Slayer. “But, that’s life. No one knows what the future holds, right?” She wrapped her arm comfortingly around her soul sister’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, Miriel. I’m here with you - in spirit, anyway. And you have Bregolas.”
“I suppose you’re right,” responded a dismal Miriel.
“So, what’s the deal with you two?” asked Buffy, linking her arm with the younger Slayer, and starting down the slope. “Your thoughts are like mumbo jumbo to me. I can’t clearly see your feelings for him.”
The girl shrugged. “I do not know how I feel.”
“I thought you loved him, that you wanted to marry him,” remarked Buffy, scrutinizing the taller Slayer.
“I thought you could not see my feelings for him,” replied Miriel with a wry smile.
“Well, that much I grasped.”
The young girl sighed. “I always believed that when you laid eyes upon that special someone - the one you are supposed to be with - you would know that he’s the one. Maybe I’ve read too many love stories of old and such things no longer exist.” She glanced at Buffy. “I never felt that way with Bregolas. I do care about him deeply… ” Miriel paused, staring absently into the distance. “I just have this feeling that he is not the one I’m meant to be with, that there is someone else out there, waiting for me.” She snickered, shifting her eyes back to Buffy. “You must think I sound silly, dreaming of such things.”
“Nope. I can totally relate. I’m a firm believer in love at first sight.” Of course, Buffy’s thoughts turned to her first meeting with Angel and the butterflies she had had in her stomach when she first set eyes upon him.
“Love at first sight,” repeated Miriel dreamily. “What a lovely way of putting it.”
Buffy decided to forfeit training her protégé, preferring to ease the girl’s fears instead. They spent several hours talking together, not about slaying, but mostly about the mundane things in life.
With the rain keeping Bregolas inside, he passed the time by watching Miriel sleep. At times, he would gently caress her cheek or stroke her hair, longing for the day when he would make her his wife. When she stirred in her sleep, snuggling close to him, he smiled. Feeling such contentment, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her body close to his. The rain combined with the warmth emitting from Miriel caused the warrior’s eyes to grow heavy. Before he knew it, he too had fallen asleep.
A few hours later, the Slayer awoke, slightly disconcerted to find herself in Bregolas’ arms. She carefully pulled herself free, trying her best not to wake the warrior. It was much darker than when she had gone to sleep and Miriel could only surmise that it must have been nighttime. Now sitting up, she listened intently. The rains had stopped. She peeked out of the tent, only to be greeted by the cool night air. The clouds had apparently dissipated earlier and the sky resembled a black canvas speckled with thousands of stars.
She eased back inside, preferring the warmth of the tent to the chilly night air. Pulling her legs to her chest, Miriel wrapped her arms protectively around them, wondering what the time was. She was surprised that her companion had fallen asleep, especially after his lectures on how one of them needed to stay awake while the other slept. Despite that, she would let him rest, as she was now wide-awake and would not be able to fall back to sleep. However, she did decide to lie back down, wanting to stretch out her body for as long as she could before facing another long day of riding with heavy packs on her back.
Bregolas woke a few hours later, well rested and in good spirits. He had said that the rains from the previous day had been a blessing since it had washed away their tracks, making it more difficult for those hunting them. With the sky still grey, they set out on their journey, hastening north once again.
Later that morning, they finally reached the Anduin River and Rohan’s northern boundary. A part of Miriel wanted to stop, and wash in the Great River, but Bregolas insisted that they keep going. They were still being followed and he wished to put many more miles between them and their pursuers.
So, off they went, galloping north across the desolate region where the War of the Last Alliance had been fought over three thousand years ago. The only vegetation was scattered thickets of thorns amongst the rocky terrain. Bregolas and Miriel tried to use care, avoiding the patches of briars so that the horses’ legs would not get all scratched up.
The shortest way north would be crossing the hills that lay to their north and west in the Brown Lands, but the sides of the hills were steep and the paths too treacherous for the horses. They ended up skirting around the hills, adding more miles to their trip than intended. To their northeast, they could see the southern borders of Mirkwood, and former home of Sauron and the Nazgûls. Miriel didn’t want to get any closer to the forest than need be. Even at a distance, the dark line of trees frightened her.
Due to the topography of the region, they couldn’t travel as quickly as they had before. Hidden amidst the thickets were sharp jagged rocks, which could harm the horses if they did not closely watch where they were going. By nightfall, they managed to wind their way back along the bank of Anduin. There they set up camp for the night.
Bregolas had given Miriel the choice of riding along the bank of the river, or taking the straightest route north - halfway between the Anduin and Mirkwood. That would put them much closer to the forest than she desired, but it would shave several miles off their trip. The warrior was in favor of taking the quickest path. The Slayer wanted to sleep on it, and would make her decision in the morning.
After packing up their gear at dawn, which happened to be the fourth day since their departure from Minas Tirith, Miriel had reached her decision. She had decided that she would confront her fears and follow Bregolas’ advice to take the speediest way possible, even if that meant they had to travel closer to Sauron’s former home than she wanted.
With the land now level, the horses were free to gallop without threat of injury from the terrain. The couple rode northwest, wanting to strike a path midway between the Anduin and Mirkwood.
When the woods of Lothlórien came into view, the Slayer insisted that they veer further west. She had heard much about the Golden Wood, more particularly, the tale of Amroth and Nimrodel, and hoped beyond anything that they’d glimpse an Elf or two if they traveled close to Lórien’s borders.
“I thought you said you wanted to take the quickest path,” remarked Bregolas, slowing his horse to a trot.
“But it’s Lórien, Bregolas!” pleaded Miriel. “My foremother came from that land long ago. I would love to at least look upon it while we ride. When will I ever get the opportunity to do so again?”
“We’ll be adding miles to our trip,” he cautioned.
“I do not care!” she answered, fixing her gaze toward the southeastern eaves of Lórien. “We are not following any sort of timetable. Time is all we have.”
“Alright, Miriel,” agreed Bregolas reluctantly. He was of the opinion that the Slayer had had a change of heart and wanted to stray further from the borders of southwestern Mirkwood. The warrior believed that she was using the whole foremother thing as a ruse. She had become very good at making up stories.
Unlike Miriel, Bregolas had no desire to tread close to the elven kingdom. Rumor had it that an Elven-Witch ruled that land, and the warrior didn’t want to encounter her in any way. In Gondor, it was said that the Elves resented Men, particularly those from Gondor since Isildur could have ended Sauron’s reign of terror, and had failed. He feared that the Lady of the Wood might cast a spell of some sort upon them since he and Miriel obviously resembled the people the Elves loathed. He’d rather take his chances facing Orcs. At least they weren’t capable of magicks of any kind, and he could kill them easily enough. Sorcery, on the other hand, was not his forte, and he had no way of countering magicks of any kind.
Riding back to the banks of the Anduin River would add at least fifty miles or so to their journey, and, in Bregolas’ opinion, was a waste of precious time. The only bright spot, if one could call it that, was that their pursuers would be hesitant to approach the Golden Wood, even with the river acting as a barrier. None in Gondor was fond of that elven realm.
While Bregolas’ trepidation grew the closer they got to Lórien, Miriel’s lessened. As they rode beside the river, the young woman’s gaze remained locked on the woods across the Anduin.
“I feel we’re being watched,” she said excitedly, turning toward her companion with a broad grin on her face. “Can you feel it? Can you feel the unseen eyes upon us?”
Bregolas looked warily at the eaves of the forest. “Indeed,” he answered, his tone riddled with apprehension. After a moment or two, he added, “Now that you have looked upon the land of Mithrellas, let us ride swiftly to the east! I would not like to encounter the Elven-Witch or her people.” He steered his steed to the right, eager to leave that region immediately.
“No!” replied Miriel, slowing her horse even more. “There is no danger here, Bregolas. Do not trust in the rumors of old. The elven folk are a goodly people.”
The warrior abruptly brought his steed to a halt. “Is that so?” he queried with a snicker. “If the Elves are such noble folk, why is it that they no longer aid us in our wars? They hide in their beloved woods, caring not of the fate of Men or Middle-earth!” He scowled, derisively adding, “It is they that have become weak, seeking the bliss of old. They are merely shadows of their ancient kindred.”
“And what do you know of Elves?” shot back Miriel angrily.
“Enough to know that they are to be considered foe rather than friend,” answered Bregolas with disdain. “Now, come on, Miriel. Let us get away from this horrid place.” He cast one last distasteful glance at the Golden Wood before nudging his horse forward, taking off at a canter.
Miriel actually stopped her horse, refusing to follow Bregolas. She couldn’t believe his prejudice toward the Elves. A part of her felt that if he thought such things about them, then he also felt that way about her. Though the elvish blood in her veins was miniscule, it was still there. And it was said by her kindred in Dol Amroth that she more closely resembled her foremother than most of Mithrellas’ other descendants. In her mind, Bregolas was insulting her - even if it was in a roundabout way.
The warrior had traveled nearly a half a mile before he realized that Miriel was not with him. “Damn it!” he grumbled under his breath, turning his horse around. “Come, Miriel!” he shouted in his annoyance. “We must go!”
Much to Bregolas’ chagrin, and in an act of defiance, Miriel began to sing in a loud, clear voice, The Lay of Nimrodel. This truly angered the warrior, as the Slayer’s voice seemed to carry on the wind, and he deemed the sound of it would reach far and wide.
Quickly, he galloped to her side. “What is this madness?” he spat. “Are you attempting to lure our pursuers with your elven song?”
Miriel replied by singing even louder.
“Am I going to have to gag you?” Bregolas threatened in his ire, reining in his horse, and preparing to dismount from his steed. “Shut it, Miriel! Shut it!” he ordered.
She continued to sing, ignoring her companion’s commands.
As he dismounted, the Slayer urged her horse forward, angering the warrior further. He climbed back atop his steed, seeing that his demands only increased her insolence. Never before had he been so annoyed with Miriel. She was showing her lack of maturity, which he felt was putting them both at risk. However, he loved her too much to forcefully stop her. Instead, he rode a few paces behind her, seething. Bregolas kept one hand on his reins, the other on the hilt of his sword. His eyes scanned the perimeter of the woods along the opposite bank, fearful that he and Miriel would come under attack at any moment.
Miriel was trying to draw the attention of the Elves. And she was quite successful too. Lórien heavily guarded their eastern borders due to the constant threat of Dol Guldur. Some Elves remained hidden on their talans in the treetops, concealed by the leaves of the trees, while others were positioned along the forest floor, watching the couple with their keen elven eyes. They had been watching the argument between the man and woman with interest, and when Miriel began to sing of their kinsmen, they couldn’t help but smile. They felt a certain joy in knowing that others, especially mortals, knew of the tale of their former King and his beloved. The wardens on the ground would follow the couple whilst they remained in the vicinity of their borders, never making contact with them, but watching them closely. Despite her attempt, Miriel would never see one of the Elves from the Golden Wood.
When the Slayer finally finished her song, which seemed overly long to the warrior, he trotted up beside her.
“Are you finished?” he queried angrily.
“Yes,” she answered, her gaze never leaving the woods to their west.
“Let us hope that your foolishness does not jeopardize our position! You sang too loud, Miriel. And I’m afraid that will prove disastrous for us.”
“Stop being so paranoid,” she shot back. “The Elves are watching us. If we come under attack, they would help us.”
“You’re delusional, Miriel. The Elves are not our friends. When will you get that through that thick skull of yours? You have just informed all our foes of our position, not to mention those in pursuit. It will do you good to keep your mouth shut and not succumb to such foolishness again.”
Both of their moods turned foul. Miriel was angry at Bregolas’ comments, and he was wroth with her lack of judgment. They rode on in stony silence, not speaking until they set up their camp later that evening. While they had managed to put some miles behind them, they ended up stopping about ten miles north of Lórien’s borders, and approximately fifty from the southwestern eaves of Mirkwood.
As the sun sank in the west, so did Miriel’s heart. Her earlier behavior didn’t hit home with her until darkness settled about the land. She now realized how stupid she had been and wondered what had possessed her to sing at the top of her lungs. She was determined to make it up to Bregolas, who continued to remain standoffish toward her.
The warrior took the first watch. He had felt uneasy all day, and now, in the dark, that feeling increased threefold. The quarter moon cast a dim silver light on the land. However, as the night wore on, fog rolled over the river and through the sparsely wooded area, decreasing Bregolas’ visibility. He stood in silence, listening intently for any unusual sounds. As the hours slowly passed by, he became weary, deeming that perhaps Miriel was right, and he was being paranoid.
Around two o’clock, it was time for Miriel to keep watch. As he crept into the tent, the horses suddenly snorted and stomped their feet. His heart started to race, and the hair on the nape of his neck stood on end, portending danger. He shook a sleeping Miriel. “Wake up. Wake up,” he whispered urgently. “Something’s amiss.”
Miriel’s eyes darted open. Bregolas was already backing out of the tent when the horses became more agitated, neighing and stomping wildly.
The Slayer lunged for the opening, crawling on all fours to escape the confines of their shelter.
Whish! An arrow went whizzing by, missing the warrior’s head by mere inches.
“Draw your sword, Miriel! We’re under attack!” bellowed Bregolas, pulling his weapon from its sheath. At the same time, he slid his shield from his back, holding it firmly in his other hand.
Miriel clambered to her feet, utterly terrified. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she could hear it and her body began to tremble when she heard the word “attack”. She blinked her eyes rapidly, hoping that would help them adjust to the night more quickly.
With her weapon in hand, she stood beside Bregolas, their backs toward the river. Their wide eyes frantically searched the mists for the enemy.
They heard a loud thump, followed only seconds later by another.
“What was that?” she uttered to her companion.
“I do not know. Be alert.” Bregolas gripped his sword tighter, taking a couple of steps forward into the foggy darkness. Miriel remained glued to his side.
Then, all at once, Orcs jumped out of the shadows, wielding scimitars and axes. Miriel had never seen one of these creatures in the flesh and they were much bigger than she had thought. Unlike her and Bregolas, the Orcs were garbed for battle, wearing armor and rounded black helms on their beastly heads.
She had no time to inspect them more closely, as she saw a blade coming quickly at her from the shadows. She lifted her weapon, as she had done so many times in practice, blocking the blow. She would never forget the sound of the metal scraping against metal. Her muscles tightened, as she contested the strength of her foe with her blade. The Orc then made a terrible growling sound. The putrid stench of his breath nearly knocked her out cold, but taking one look at the beast’s sharp, pointy teeth quickly brought her back to her senses.
Grasping the hilt with both hands, she then slid her weapon away, and swiftly drove the blade into his throat, one of the areas on his body that remained unprotected. The Orc made a strange gurgling sound. When she pulled her weapon free, blood spurted from the wound, spraying her face. The goblin instinctively reached for his throat, his scimitar falling from his hand as he dropped to his knees. Without even thinking of what she was doing, Miriel hewed the Orc’s head off. Like a volcano, jets of blood shot up from where his head had been only a second before. The headless body then collapsed to the ground. Miriel had made her first kill. Though it had seemed to happen in slow motion, the entire clash lasted only several seconds.
Tasting the vile, bitter blood on her lips, Miriel felt emboldened, powerful. Another Orc rushed her. She remembered what Buffy had told her previously, that her entire body was a weapon and to use it as such. The Slayer instinctively slid to the ground, sweeping the creature off its feet, unaware that, from behind, another goblin had already begun to swing his axe at her. As his weapon whooshed through the air, it struck his cohort’s armored shoulder, knocking the Orc hard onto the ground.
Now on her back, and frightened by her unseen attacker, Miriel swung her blade at the axe-wielding beast, striking him right above his knee. The beast howled in pain, lifting his axe over his head. Seeing that her blow had not stopped the creature, she sprang onto her knees in front of the goblin, thrusting her sword upward at the same time, hitting the Orc squarely in the crotch. Her blade sliced through the beast like butter. In one swift motion, she pulled her weapon free and brought it down upon the other goblin that had been knocked to the ground, severing his head from his body.
Leaping to her feet, she saw that Bregolas was like a wild man, battling multiple opponents at once. In that moment, when she tried to catch her breath, another Orc careened into her back, propelling her forward. Her cheek raked across the bark of a nearby oak before she slumped to the ground. Her face stung horribly, but there was no time to inspect the abrasion further.
A goblin grabbed a handful of her newly cropped hair, violently jolting her head backwards. She locked eyes with the creature, as its gloved fist came rushing down toward her face. Fearing that her nose was about to be hit, she jerked her head slightly to the side. His fist struck her jaw, just below her newly acquired abrasion. The pain intensified. Somehow, Miriel had bitten her tongue upon impact. She could now taste her own blood.
The Orc pulled her hair harder. She winced, her scalp now throbbing too. “So, you want to play, eh?” the hideous beast said, yanking on her hair and forcing her to scramble to her feet. He tightened his grip, maintaining control of her head. “Girls are not meant for the sport of warfare, but for something else entirely,” he sniggered. His dark eyes did a quick inspection of her body. “Perhaps I will spare you death.” A wicked grin came to the beast’s face. “For I have something else in mind for you,” the goblin cackled, as the hand that clutched his weapon ran up her chest.
Miriel understood the underlying meaning to his words, which horrified her even more. “The hell you say,” she grunted, feeling a surge of strength flow through her. She somehow managed to run her feet up the bole of the tree, flipping through the air, and landing behind the Orc. Though she had lost a fistful of hair in the process, and her head hurt in many places, she wrapped her arms around the creature’s head, twisting it until she heard a loud crack and the front of the goblin’s head looked back at her with vacant eyes. Unbeknownst to the Slayer, she had killed the leader of the band of Orcs sent from Dol Guldur.
Before she had a chance to bask in yet another victory, the Orc that she had struck in his nether regions had crawled along the ground and grabbed a firm hold of her ankle. Thrusting the dead goblin in her arms to the side, she tried to wiggle herself free from the wounded beast. Grabbing the hilt of her sword with both hands, she rammed the blade down into the base of his skull, killing him instantly.
Bits of brain matter clung to the end of her weapon when she pried it free. The stench of death, sweat and ungodly smells lingered on the air, which seemed to become heavy and hot with battle. While Miriel had managed to kill four, Bregolas had killed ten with only a handful of Orcs remaining. Their tent lay in shambles, a dead goblin resting atop the canvas in a pool of dark blood.
Leaping over a couple of corpses toward Bregolas, the Slayer landed in a crouching position. She swung her sword with full force, cleaving the legs off a goblin that had engaged her friend in combat, just above the top of his boots. A shrill cry rang out in the night, as the creature instantly shrank in size. She slammed her foot between the beast’s shoulder blades, sending him to the ground face first. The Slayer sprung upon the Orc, standing astride his body, as she drove her blade into the nape of his neck, piercing flesh and bone.
With her chest heaving from the adrenaline rush, Miriel shifted her gaze to Bregolas, who had a momentary reprieve from battle. In the dimness, she saw a glint of fiery metal near the ground behind the warrior. An Orc, crawling on his belly and not yet dead from his wounds, had pulled a dagger from his belt, aiming the weapon at her companion, who remained oblivious to his plight.
“Watch out!” she screeched, jumping through the air and shoving Bregolas away from their foe. The blade of the enemy grazed the back of the warrior’s knee, causing him to slump to the forest floor. Miriel hacked the goblin’s arm off at the elbow. As she raised her blade, she ripped through the fleshy face of the Orc, blood and tissue spilling from the deep gash.
Using that same momentum, she spun around, swinging the sword over her head as another goblin prepared to attack from the rear. The Orc blocked her blow, the metal colliding with his shield, as he swung his own blade toward her neck. Her back arched backward, almost in a perfect backbend, as the blade went swishing through the air several inches above her body.
Though on his knees, Bregolas struck the Orc, bringing him down.
Miriel’s backbend turned into a back flip. As her legs turned through the air, she kicked another beast right in the chin. Landing on her feet and poised for combat, she was able to behead her foe while he remained dazed from her strike.
Bregolas had gotten back to his feet and both he and the Slayer were able to kill the last few Orcs.
Panting, the warrior dropped back to the ground, clutching his wounded knee. Miriel went from body to body, delivering a fatal blow to any beastly creature that moved, even slightly. Twenty lay dead. They had no idea whether any had escaped or not, as they had been too engrossed in combat to notice.
To their dismay, both horses lay on their sides, pierced by many arrows, but not dead. The sight of the beasts suffering diminished the Slayer’s moment of triumph at executing her first foes.
“Put them out of their misery, Miriel,” ordered Bregolas, clutching the back of his knee with both hands.
“What?” she queried in alarm, trying to catch her breath.
“Drive your blade through the head. That will kill them instantly,” he instructed between gasps.
“No,” she answered, shaking her head.
“You must!” he replied with a grimace. “I’m hurt and am in need of rest. To let them continue to suffer is cruel.”
Saddened at the prospect of killing their loyal steeds, Miriel approached the first one. Its eye looked at her, its breathing labored. Tears filled her eyes. She cursed the Orcs for forcing her to do the unfathomable. With her body trembling, she tightened her grasp on the hilt of her sword before driving the blade into the horses head. Out of all the kills she had made, that was by far the hardest. Once she was sure the horse was dead, she went to the other and put it out of its misery too.
The Slayer then turned her attention to Bregolas and his injury. With so little light, it was hard to see how bad his wound was. She needed fire, something they had avoided since they had begun their journey. Having no other choice, she began collecting wood, wishing that she could savor her finest moment of Slayerhood thus far. Not wanting to remain in the heart of the combat zone, she struck up a fire at the edge of their campsite. She then went back to where Bregolas sat, and helped him over to the fireside where she could tend to his injury…
Chapter 7 - Aftermath
With her mind still reeling from battle, and her adrenaline rush finally beginning to wane, Miriel focused all her attention on Bregolas and the mending of his wound. She had him lay face down on her cloak so that she could more closely inspect the injury at the back of his knee. Blood had soaked through the leg of his breeches from the knee down. Finding it nearly impossible to examine the wound through the thin slit in the fabric of his pant leg, she said, “I’m afraid I am going to have to tear your breeches, Bregolas.”
“Just ease the pain, if you can. It burns like the fires of Orodruin!” he moaned.
The Slayer carefully tore the material with the warrior’s dagger. She could see that a gash ran across the entire back of his knee. Bregolas winced as she gently pulled the skin apart, checking to see if any foreign object remained left in the incision. While the injury could have been much worse, the ligaments had indeed been cut, but thankfully, not all the way through. Miriel would need to bathe the wound with hot, clean water before applying the salve she had brought for such an occasion.
With blood still trickling from the gash, she had no clean cloth to cover the wound. She wasn’t about to use any of her soiled garments on her friend. She rushed over to their former campsite, jumping over the many corpses that lay about the place. Stopping beside their tent, she sighed heavily. Most of their belongings were housed inside. She grabbed hold of the dead Orc’s ankles that lay dead on their shelter and pulled his body off the canvas. Once she had found the opening, she climbed inside, retrieved their bags, and swiftly returned to Bregolas’ side.
Miriel dug out a pot, one of the two cooking implements that they had brought with them. She then grabbed a blazing branch from the fire, using that to light her way down to the river’s edge. Scooping up a potful of water, she then hurriedly made her way back up the bank. She carefully adjusted the burning timbers so that she could lay the pot in the center of the fire.
“No, no, no,” spoke up Bregolas suddenly. “Do not place the pot directly in the fire.”
Miriel quickly pulled the container from the flames, sloshing out nearly half of the contents. With a look of bewilderment on her Orc-blood splattered face, she did not wholly understand what she had done wrong. “Am I not supposed to heat the water?” she asked in her confusion. She was by no means a healer, but had been to them enough in Minas Tirith to know that hot water was used to clean wounds.
“Yes, but not that way,” Bregolas answered in a more gentle tone. “See if you can find two flat stones. Place them side-by-side, leaving a several inch gap between them. Then place the pot on top of the stones. That will prevent our cookware from corroding.”
“Oh,” she replied, hating the fact that she was ignorant of such simple things. Yet, how was she to know? She had never heated water on a campfire before. Miriel got back to her feet, grabbed her makeshift torch from the fire once again, then set off in search of rocks that fit the description that Bregolas had given her.
Her mind wandered back to the battle and how successfully she had fought. She never thought that slaying would be so exhilarating, that it would make her feel so powerful. She was quite grateful to have made it through the skirmish virtually unscathed. While her cheek continued to sting and the throbbing along her scalp had not yet stopped, she deemed that that was a small price to pay for victory. Miriel was eager to talk about everything that had happened with Bregolas, but wanted to wait until after his wound was dressed.
After she had placed the pot on the rocks she had unearthed, she plopped down beside Bregolas, waiting for the flames to heat the water.
The warrior shifted to his side, keeping his injured leg outstretched. Propping his head up on his hand, he scrutinized Miriel, who stared at the flickering flames of the fire. “Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the scratches on her cheek.
“I’m fine,” she answered, noticing now that her head ached more than her face. She instinctively reached for the back of her head, where the throbbing was worse. “One of those Orcs pulled out a lot of my hair,” she revealed, wincing as she touched her scalp.
“Those were not Orcs,” Bregolas divulged. “Those were Uruk-hai.”
Miriel turned her widening eyes to the warrior. “Uruk-hai! Those were Uruk-hai!” she said in disbelief.
“Yes,” he answered, his lips gradually curling into a smile. “And you did well against them. You held your own, Miriel. I’m impressed. You fight as well as any Captain I’ve ever seen. I daresay you could give Boromir a run for his money,” the warrior chuckled.
“I cannot believe those were Uruks,” she said. “Is it true that they are larger than Orcs?”
“Not only are they larger, but they are also much stronger. They can endure the sunlight whereas your average goblin cannot. It is said that they were bred with Men.”
Miriel’s brows shot up upon hearing that and a cold shiver ran down her spine. The words of that one Uruk echoed in her mind. She couldn’t help but think that he intended on her becoming one of those “breeders” if she had not killed him.
“The Dark Lord’s malice knows no bounds, Miriel,” he said, noticing the expression on her face. “He is the epitome of evil. I deem he has learned well from his master.”
“Morgoth,” she uttered under her breath.
“Do not speak that name, especially in the dark!” scolded Bregolas, a flicker of fear flashing in his grey eyes.
At that moment, the leaves on the surrounding trees fluttered in a sudden breeze.
Her companion gasped, “What’s that?!”
The Slayer jumped with a start. She looked all around, half expecting Morgoth to leap out of the shadows.
Bregolas then laughed, finding her reaction quite amusing.
“Why do you like to frighten me?” she said angrily, narrowing her eyes at the warrior. If he hadn’t been hurt, she would have given him a good smack.
“Ah, it is but too easy,” he chortled. The warrior then became serious. “It is best not to utter that name, even in daylight.”
They fell quiet for a moment, the air around them becoming still once again.
“Do you think, Bregolas,” began the Slayer in a soft voice, “that He-who-must-not-be-named has found a way out of the Void, that he has returned to Middle-earth?”
“I would hope not,” he answered, grim-faced. “Though one cannot underestimate his powers. Look at how perilous it had been for the Valar to take him down. If there were a way to escape, I am sure he would find it.” He paused. “Let us pray that will not happen.”
“Or hasn’t already,” added Miriel bleakly.
“What makes you think he has?” queried her companion.
“I am not saying that he has or not. I just find all of it… I do not know. Mor- er, he ruled for such a short time when compared to the Dark Lord of Mordor.” Miriel shifted her gaze back to the fire, her forehead wrinkled in deep thought. “It seems strange that Sauron - ”
“ - Speak not that name in the dark either!” warned Bregolas.
She turned her eyes back to the warrior. “Do you find it strange that the Valar have allowed the Lord of Mordor to remain in power so long? Would you not think that they should have done something by now? I mean, I know that the likes of Mithrandir and Curunír were sent to Middle-earth to contest his might, but what have they done, really? They have been here for centuries, yet his power has grown! It makes no sense to me.”
“I am not fond of Wizards by any means, but one cannot clearly say what they are doing without our knowing. You are on friendly terms with Mithrandir. Have you not spoken with him about such things?”
“I have not thought of such things until after I was Called,” replied Miriel. “I have not seen hide nor hair of Mithrandir since then.” She sighed heavily. “Though I must admit, Mithrandir never liked to talk much about the Dark Lord. I think he fears him. And I cannot say that I blame him. I do not know whether it is the task of the Istari to take him down or not. Buff - ” Miriel bit her lip, stopping herself from speaking Buffy’s name in its entirety.
“Buff? Buff? What is that?” Bregolas asked with a bewildered expression on his face. “I do not understand what that is.”
“It’s… it’s nothing,” she stammered, quickly shifting her gaze back to the fire. “Oh, look at that. Steam is rising from the pot.” Miriel was gladdened that she was able to change the topic of conversation, but unfortunately, not for long. She used the cloth in her hand to pull the pot off the rocks and set it on the ground beside her. The water was much too hot to submerge the cloth in, so she swirled it along the water’s surface in an attempt to look preoccupied.
Bregolas eased up into a sitting position; his eyes locked on his beloved. “Miriel, do not tell me that you have thought of confronting the Dark Lord. Have you?” His eyes bore into her as he waited anxiously for her response.
“The thought may have entered my mind.” Before the warrior could voice his protest, she quickly added, “But I swiftly pushed out that notion. I’m not foolish enough to confront one of the Ainur. That would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?”
“Indeed! And deadly! Just because you’re the Slayer, doesn’t mean that you have the strength to fight the Dark Lord. You best not let that idea enter your mind again, even for the briefest moment. Getting such ideas in your head will lead to a one-way ticket to Mandos. And I’ll have none of that, especially on my watch!” The warrior then grabbed hold of her arm, stopping her from her task. “Promise me, Miriel: No matter what happens, you will not seek the Dark Lord. Promise me!”
She fixed her gaze on her friend, who looked sternly at her. “I would never do such a thing!” she replied. “It took everything I had just to face the Uruk-hai.”
“Promise me,” he repeated.
“Fine! I promise! Happy?”
The warrior let out a sigh of relief. The tension that had built up between the couple began to dissipate.
“Roll onto your stomach so I can tend to your injury,” she finally said, no longer wanting to speak about the Dark Lord or any his followers.
The Slayer then bathed Bregolas’ wound. Once clean, she applied a gob of salve to the incision before wrapping his knee with a dry, clean strip of cloth. She looked proudly at her handiwork. This was the first time she had ever properly dressed a wound.
“Thank you, Miriel,” said the warrior, now sitting upright again. “It is good to know that I can depend on you in more ways than one. You just might have a future as a healer.”
“I doubt that,” she answered with a chuckle. “Why don’t you rest? You have not yet slept and it shan’t be long before the sun rises. I’ll keep watch.”
“I do like that idea. I am weary,” he replied, settling back down on her cloak.
Only a few minutes had passed when Miriel heard Bregolas breathing deeply and evenly. She then washed the blood and guts from her hands and face, wondering when she’d get the opportunity to bathe properly. As much as she hated to admit it, she smelled, and not in a pleasant way.
Miriel remained vigilant throughout the remainder of the night. Right before dawn, she heard cawing from above. Shifting her gaze upwards, she could see a flock of carrion-fowl circling above. Gradually, they descended from the sky, landing on the ground, where they began to peck at the flesh of the dead.
The first thought that flashed in her mind was that they were spies of Sauron. She remained frozen for a moment, her hand on the hilt of her sword. When a few of the beastly birds landed on the horses, ripping at their flesh, she was driven to her feet.
“Shoo! Get out of here!” she yelled, running toward the carrion-fowl, waving her arms wildly.
The birds began to scatter, some returning to the air, while others ran several feet away, unwilling to leave such a bountiful feast.
Of course, Miriel’s shouting startled Bregolas awake. He bolted upright, hastily rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He then noticed the Slayer chasing away the carrion-fowl. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“They’re spies of Sauron!” she answered, still shooing away the birds.
The warrior chuckled under his breath. “They’re scavengers, Miriel,” he answered, awkwardly rising to his feet. “It’s their nature to eat the dead.”
She stopped, and turned toward her companion. “Did you not hear me? I said that they are spies of the Dark Lord. I do not wish them to be here.”
“Just because you wish it, does not make it so. Before long, many more predators will arrive, eager for their morning meal,” he informed the Slayer. “Whether they are spies or not, there is nothing we can do to stop them. This is how things are in the wilds of Middle-earth, Miriel. It is the cycle of life.”
She stared incredulously at him. “What part of spies are you not comprehending?!” she shot back indignantly.
“Perhaps you should have thought more about that when you decided to sing that elvish song of yours yesterday,” Bregolas retorted. “I thought you would be smart enough to see that that’s what got us attacked last night. Yes, Miriel, we are being watched. And you’re the one to blame for that. If your concern is so great, maybe you will think twice before acting so foolishly again!” The warrior then limped off behind a nearby tree, where he proceeded to relieve himself.
The Slayer stood there, motionless and somewhat dazed. Bregolas’ comments had not only been harsh, but had also rung true. It had been no mere coincidence that they had happened to come under attack hours after she had belted out her song. It was true. She was to blame. She felt as if her heart had sunk to the pit of her stomach. Why had she been so careless, considering their proximity to Dol Guldur?
She glanced down at the carnage that surrounded her, wondering if any of the Uruk-hai had escaped, or if their brethren, having waited to hear news and had not, were now sending out more troops. Her eyes darted to the carrion-fowl, who appeared undaunted by her presence, and had returned to enjoy their morning feast. None of the birds appeared to be flying off to share news with anybody. Instead, they landed on or beside their prey, zealously tearing away at the flesh of the dead.
Miriel was not about to break down, or wallow in her guilt. She was determined to learn from her mistake and do whatever she had to, to make things right with Bregolas. She immediately went over to their collapsed tent. There was no way she would leave it behind, even though the stakes had been broken during the battle. They could easily whittle new ones. The black blood pooled on the canvas had already begun to congeal. Now, eager to depart the corpse-covered campsite, she lifted the tent from the ground and took it to the river where she washed it clean.
Bregolas watched Miriel hard at work. He hadn’t meant to speak so severely, but something inside him had snapped. Hearing her carrying on about how the carrion-fowl were acting as spies had proved to be too much. She was the one that had revealed their position to the enemy - no one else. If anything, he hoped that his words would stick with her and prevent her from acting so stupidly in the future. Miriel needed to learn fast that the wide world could be unpredictable and cruel, and that life was no fairy tale where Elves would come riding in on white steeds to save the day. Last night proved that. Where were the Elves of Lórien when the Uruks attacked? One would think that the Elves would have been motivated to act with the enemy marching so close to their borders. Last night only reaffirmed his belief that one could not trust the Firstborn of Ilúvatar.
The Slayer struggled up the embankment with the wet canvas in her arms. As she passed by the warrior, he grabbed her arm, stopping her.
Her eyes shot to his hand, which gripped her arm tightly.
“Your face,” he said, stepping closer. His eyes widened in amazement to see that the scratches on her skin had nearly disappeared. “How is this possible?” he queried, lightly touching her cheek with his fingertips.
“What? What are you talking about?” she asked, her ire toward Bregolas for jerking her to a halt swiftly abating.
“The scratches, the scratches on your face are nearly gone. No scabbing, just faint lines,” he answered in a bewildered voice.
Miriel felt her cheek with her fingertips. The skin felt smooth, no longer rough. “Slayers have the ability to heal faster than normal people,” she replied. “Although, for some reason, that is not the case with my scalp. It’s still very tender to the touch.”
Bregolas laughed heartily. “Good. Let that be a reminder of your folly.”
Her eyes narrowed in response, wondering how long she would have to endure the warrior’s comments about last night.
“Now, now,” Miriel,” he said lightheartedly, slapping his hand on her back like he would a fellow soldier. “There is no need to fret! It brings me comfort knowing that I’m not the only one in pain.”
Remorse instantly filled her heart. “Bregolas, I’m really sor- ” she began before he placed his finger to her lips.
“I know, Miriel. I know,” the compassion returning to his voice. “Let us eat before we finish packing up our gear. I’m afraid our journey will be much slower paced now that we are to travel on foot.” He then ambled back to their newer campsite.
The thought of eating amidst corpses, carrion-fowl, and now swarms of flies was unappealing to the Slayer. How can Bregolas have an appetite with that stench lingering in the air? she asked herself. The odor was indescribable. As far as Miriel was concerned, the sooner they left, the better.
Refusing to eat, Miriel spent her time gathering and re-packing their belongings. Probably the most unpleasant task was removing the saddlebags from the dead horses. It wasn’t difficult, just very unpleasant.
Due to her guilty conscience, the Slayer offered to carry more of the load since she was to blame for Bregolas’ injury. He happily agreed, wondering how long she could endure the extra weight, especially now, without the aid of horses.
They began their trek nearly thirty minutes later, traveling along the Anduin as they had before. By the end of the first hour, Miriel’s back was already aching from her burdens. She longed for relief, and hoped that Bregolas would be the one to call a halt to their march. As far as she could see, the warrior seemed to be going strong. Though he walked with a limp, his continuing long strides allowed them to put approximately three miles behind them each hour. Miriel surmised that that wasn’t too bad, especially when one took into account all the gear they were carrying.
The heat from the morning sun soon added to their misery. Sweat poured from the couple, increasing not only their discomfort, but also their body odor. Trying to help pass the time while they tediously marched on, the Slayer attempted to groom herself by picking off the dried blood and guts that had splattered on her shirt of mail. To her dismay, flakes of Uruk entrails ended up lodged under her fingernails, making her long for a bath more than ever. The concept of time had become unimportant and the days seemed to blend together. Miriel couldn’t even remember the last time she had had a proper bath. As they walked beside the Anduin, the river seemed to beckon to her, attempting to lure her into its cool, clean waters with a bar of soap.
After nearly five hours of constant marching, Miriel couldn’t take it any more. Her gait had slowed down considerably, and she was trailing a few yards behind Bregolas. They had reached a very inviting part of the river where the land gently sloped toward the river’s edge. Amidst the trees was an open area where a natural, flat rock shelf jetted out into the stream, resembling a stone dock. A few of the oaks that surrounded the area had limbs that were long and leafless, their barren boughs stretching straight out under its leafy green dome, basking in the sunlight. It looked like the perfect place to not only wash, but also to eat. By this time, the Slayer was ravenous.
As Bregolas began to climb the incline on the other side of the depression, Miriel finally spoke up. “Can we please stop?” she wearily asked. Before her companion could even reply, she was already removing the packs from her aching back.
The warrior stopped and scanned the scenery. He hadn’t really paid attention to the terrain or its changes. All his energies were focused on the march and coping with the pain that continued to throb behind his knee. They were in a valley of sorts. To their north and south, the land rose into grassy hills, but to their east, the natural depression of the landscape continued on for some distance.
Bregolas was in agreement, though he didn’t voice it. Instead, he descended the incline of the hill and joined Miriel by the rock shelf.
“I’m exhausted,” she announced, stretching and rubbing the soreness in her lower back. “Can we rest a while? And perhaps bathe?” she queried, looking hopefully at her companion. She sniffed her armpits. “I stink! And my clothing is covered in Orc guts! I’ll gladly wash your garments, if it’s your will. I cannot bear the thought of wearing these much longer,” she added, tugging on the soiled leg of her breeches.
A small smile came to Bregolas’ ruggedly handsome face. “Alright, Miriel,” he answered. “We have been wearing the same clothing for days now, and a good washing may be just what we need to rejuvenate our weary bones.” His eyes shifted to the river. “Oh, how I’d like to eat something other than salted meat,” he mumbled. “Perhaps I should see if I could catch a couple of fish. How would you like to eat a hot meal for once?” he asked, turning his grey eyes back to his beloved.
“A hot meal,” she repeated, her stomach grumbling at the thought. “That sounds lovely, but I’d rather bathe first. If I’m to wash our clothing, it’ll take some time for our garments to dry. Could we not fish afterward, while our things dry?”
“Aren’t you hungry? You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.”
“I’m famished,” she admitted, “but I stink! I do not think I could savor a single morsel smelling the way I do.”
Bregolas laughed. “Well, we cannot have that, I suppose. Go on, Miriel. Do as you wish. It looks like we’ll be here for a while.” He looked around, finding the area wholesome and appealing. “Maybe we should just call it a day, and prepare to camp here.”
The Slayer liked that idea a lot. “That sounds wonderful.” She grabbed one of her bags, digging through the contents in search of a bar of soap and clean clothing to change into once she had bathed.
“I reckon I’ll get a fire going,” said Bregolas before taking a chug from his water skin.
Ten minutes later, Miriel had stripped off her filthy clothing and leapt into the cool waters of the Anduin. She eagerly washed the dirt and grime that had built up over the last several days on her normally porcelain-like skin. The scent of the soap, a lovely floral fragrance, replaced the foul odor that had strongly emanated from her body. She was somewhat surprised that bathing proved to be so invigorating, and how she had taken such little things for granted in the past. She made a mental note to appreciate the little things in life, no matter how trivial they may seem.
With her body clean, she then turned her attention to laundering her clothes, something she had never done in her entire life. Being the Steward’s daughter did have its advantages in life, and menial tasks had always been assigned to the servants of Denethor, not to his beloved Miriel. How difficult could it be? she thought. Even Bregolas washes his own clothing. That was easier said, than done. Since Orc blood was black and so were her breeches, she found it difficult to find the areas on her garments where blood had splattered. Not knowing what to do, she scrubbed her clothing with so much soap that her things smelled strongly of lilac. By the time she had finished, the bar of soap had dwindled to nearly half its size. After wringing the excess water from her clothes, she laid them out flat on the rocky shelf.
It suddenly dawned on Miriel that she was faced with a new dilemma. How was she to dry off with no towel and Bregolas so near? She wasn’t too keen on his seeing her naked. Granted, he had seen her nude back in Minas Tirith, but the circumstances surrounding that were quite different and were warranted at the time. But now, the Slayer wanted to keep her nudity shielded from him. She was, after all, quite modest by nature. Before she dared to climb out of the river, she looked at Bregolas to see what he was doing. Much to her relief, he sat with his back facing her before the fire he had set ablaze, occupied with whetting the blade of his sword.
She carefully pulled herself out of the water, setting her bare behind on her now clean cloak, which lay stretched out on the stone outcropping. She made sure to keep her back toward Bregolas as she brushed the water from her skin. She hated the thought of putting on her clean garments while wet and hoped that the sun would do its job by helping to dry her skin. The Slayer leaned back, basking in the sunlight, as the water trickled from her hair and down her back.
Bregolas had been listening keenly. From the sound of it, his beloved had left the waters of the Anduin. He continued to sharpen his blade, but gave a quick glance over his shoulder, only to see her bathing in the sun. Not wanting to make her uncomfortable, he resumed his task.
After thirty minutes or so, Miriel deemed that she was dry enough to dress. She hastily slid into her clean garments, feeling better than ever. She then gathered up her freshly laundered clothes and draped them over the naked limbs of a tree. She then joined Bregolas.
“Feeling better?” he asked, sheathing his sword at last.
“Very much so,” she answered enthusiastically. “I feel invigorated!” she added, before grabbing one of her bags and digging through the contents in search of her hair brush.
“I guess it’s my turn then,” Bregolas said, as he clambered to his feet.
“I left the soap on the ledge,” she stated, brushing the tangles out of her hair.
Her companion pulled off his mail and left it beside his sword, which lay near the fire. He then took off toward the ridge, pulling off his shirt as he went. Miriel took the spot that Bregolas had vacated, wanting to show him the same respect that he had shown her. She then helped herself to an apple, savoring every delicious bite. She hoped that that would tide her over until they caught some fish, but instead, it made Miriel hungrier.
Wanting to push all thoughts of food from her mind, the Slayer leaned back with her eyes closed, basking in the sunshine, as her thoughts turned to the battle once again. She could hear the clashing of metal upon metal and smell the foul odor of the Uruks, as well as the stench of death. Picturing the intestines spilling from her foes’ wounds helped stop the rumbling in her stomach.
Buffy was right, she thought to herself. After each kill, my confidence grew. Maybe it is my destiny to take out Sauron. If Buffy could succeed in taking out formidable foes, who’s to say that I cannot do the same.
She then pictured herself confronting the Dark Lord of Mordor – he, wielding a mace, she, her sword. Though he was a Maia, she saw herself out-maneuvering him, thinking one-step ahead. Her lithe and slender body moved in ways she had never imagined until she delivered that fatal blow - slaying the one that had menaced the people of Middle-earth for ages. She then saw herself returning to Minas Tirith amidst crowds of adoring people, who cheered her name as she passed by. She had become the champion of all champions, ousting Boromir as the greatest warrior in all of Gondor. Her father would cower down at her feet, both in fear and admiration, surrendering the rod of his office to her, instead of his firstborn son. She would become Steward, no, Queen of Gondor, her reward for freeing the peoples of Middle-earth from the throes of Sauron. The Elves would pay tribute to her, singing songs in their sweet voices about her greatness. The Dwarves would bring her gold, silver and jewels that they excavated from their mines as an offering of their appreciation. And the Lords in the West would grant her the gift of immortality, as they had done for Tuor in bygone days, for her momentous achievement.
“This is some fantasy you got going on here,” chuckled Buffy, suddenly appearing at Miriel’s side. The young Slayer sat on the high throne at the Citadel, listening to elven minstrels.
Not realizing that she had fallen asleep, Miriel felt her cheeks flush as she faced the elder Slayer. “You must think this is silly of me.”
“Not at all,” answered Buffy, her eyes scanning the chamber, which was full of the younger Slayer’s admirers. “You’d wig if you’d seen some of things I’ve dreamt about,” she laughed.
Immediately, Miriel changed their surroundings, feeling highly embarrassed that Buffy had seen her as Queen of Gondor. Instead, they stood dressed as they were, (Buffy in her black leather outfit and Miriel dressed in tan breeches and a green tunic), beside the Anduin in Ithilien.
“Aw, you didn’t have to change things on account of me,” continued Buffy with a smile. “A little fantasizing is a good thing.” They started to walk beside the stream. “By the way, good job with the fight… your majesty,” she added with a playful snicker.
Miriel’s face turned redder. She looked away from the more experienced Slayer, still mortified.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be teasing you. Who knows? Maybe all that stuff will come true. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”
The younger Slayer turned her gaze back to Buffy, her brow raised in disbelief.
“Okay, chances are that won’t happen,” the elder Slayer admitted. “But it was a pretty cool dream anyway.” She offered a smile. “Let’s put all that behind us. I wanna hear all about the fight. How did it feel stepping into the shoes of She-who-kicks-some-demony-ass?”
The young woman’s cheeks began to return to their normal color. She thought for a moment, before answering with, “In a word - exhilarating. I never felt such power… It’s… it’s like some primal instinct that had lain dormant, awakened. I could feel this… this strength surge through me. It was unbelievable and phenomenal at the same time.” She chortled under her breath. “Does that even make any sense?”
“Of course it does. I’ve been there too,” replied Buffy knowingly. “How does your head feel?”
“It’s still tender,” answered Miriel, instinctively touching the sorest spot on her scalp. “I reckon it’s a small price to pay for victory.”
“Yeah. At least you made it out with all your parts intact. That’s always a good thing,” remarked the elder Slayer. “Though, I think you need to practice on honing in on your enemy. You should’ve felt them coming nearer - ”
“ - I was asleep, mind you,” interjected the young woman, somewhat defensively.
“That’s no excuse,” said Buffy in Watcher mode. “Even when you’re sleeping, you should be able to sense an impending attack. I think we should work on meditation, so that your senses can become more acute to their surroundings. Next time, I want you to be ready way before the enemy’s on top of you. I don’t want to see you blindsided - ”
“ - I wouldn’t say we were blindsided. Bregolas was - ”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about Bregolas,” interrupted Buffy. She stopped Miriel, locking eyes with the younger and taller Slayer. “I’m only concerned with you. Bregolas is a seasoned warrior, and you’re not. You’re… you’re unseasoned, or mildly seasoned. You’re still a Slayer-in-training, and with each bout, you need to become better, faster, and stronger. I don’t want you to be one of those girls with an abnormally short life span. I want you to live a long life. And the only way you’re gonna be able to do that is to keep practicing… and not get too cocky.”
“You think I’m cocky?” queried a flabbergasted Miriel.
“No, not exactly,” replied the elder Slayer with a sigh. “But that dream of yours better not put any strange ideas in that mind of yours. You’re not the Queen of Gondor, you know.”
“You can be a ripe bitch,” spat the younger Slayer with disdain.
A smile came to Buffy’s face. “Hey! You’re finally learning modern slang. Good for you.”
Miriel couldn’t be angry with Buffy. She knew the elder Slayer was looking out for her best interests and didn’t want to put a damper on that. Right now, she needed her.
“Let’s get to work, okay?”
“Alright,” answered Miriel in defeat. “Tell me what to do.”
Buffy had Miriel sit on the ground with her legs crossed and eyes closed. “Concentrate,” ordered Buffy, as she slowly circled her protégé. “Utilize your other senses.” Gradually, she moved further away, but continued to circle the girl. She searched the terrain for small rocks or sticks that she could throw at Miriel, to test her acuteness and responsiveness.
The younger Slayer listened attentively. She could hear the faint sound of the grass being crushed beneath Buffy’s feet, the sound her leather pant legs made when they rubbed against each other with each step that she took. She could hear when Buffy would stop suddenly and the sound of her muscles flexing as she bent over. When the elder Slayer threw the first rock in Miriel’s direction, the hair on the nape of her neck stood on end, and her hand darted up, slapping the stone away before it struck her.
“Good,” said Buffy, pleased that Miriel was able to stop the first rock. With each successive attempt, the young woman easily prevented the object from striking her.
Wanting to up the ante, the elder Slayer moved in closer, preparing to kick Miriel right in the face. To her surprise, the younger Slayer leapt onto her knees, grabbed hold of Buffy’s leg mid-motion, and pulled her, not only off her feet but also laid her out flat on her back. Buffy groaned when she hit the ground.
“You alright?” asked a beaming Miriel.
“Yeah,” answered Buffy, none too eager to admit that the younger Slayer had knocked the wind out of her. “Your reflexes seem to be in tip-top shape.”
Miriel pulled her up into a sitting position. “What’s next?” she queried, eagerly rubbing her hands together.
“Hold your horses,” replied Buffy. “I need a second to catch my breath.”
The young woman then cocked her head, listening intently. She felt a tingly sensation suddenly rush throughout her body and the hair on the nape of her neck stood on end again. The scenery became muddled, lost in a whirling of darkness. The tingling sensation became greater. She felt another presence. Instinctively, her hand shot upward, her fingers wrapping around someone’s throat. Her eyes popped opened, only to see Bregolas leaning over her, struggling to free himself from her grasp.
“Oh, shit,” she said, releasing her hold on him.
“What’s wrong with you?” he said, shocked and angry by Miriel’s actions.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling herself upright. “I felt someone over me and… well, my Slayer instinct kicked in. Sorry.”
“I called your name. Did you not hear me?” Bregolas said, easing back from his beloved and rubbing his throat.
“I’m afraid not. I’m really sorry, Bregolas.”
“I… I guess it’s alright,” he said. “I should be thankful that you’re on your toes. I can only hope you’re that quick to act the next time the enemy approaches. I would rather see their throats crushed, not mine.”
“Sorry,” she apologized yet again.
“I came to see if you were ready to try your hand at fishing.”
“Oh, alright.”
Bregolas then dug out some line and hooks from the pocket of one of his bags. When he assigned the task of looking for worms to Miriel, she balked.
“I’m not digging in the dirt. That’s man’s work,” she protested.
“Then you will not eat,” he answered back with a sly smile. “We are a team now, Miriel. We have to pull our own weight. I did end up washing my own clothing despite your offer to do so… Finding worms is not that bad,” he said reassuringly.
She reluctantly gave in. It took quite a while for her to find her first worm. Once she had, she used a stick to fling the nasty critter over to Bregolas, refusing to touch its wiggly body. The warrior was amused by the whole situation and couldn’t wait until he instructed Miriel on how to scale a fish, another very unpleasant task he planned to assign to her.
They spent hours fishing, or rather, Bregolas did. Miriel mostly watched. He did manage to catch three fish. To the Slayer’s dismay, he forced her to scale and clean one of the fish, telling her that it was a necessary skill when one lived in the wild. Though she whined and complained about getting fish guts and scales under her fingernails after having washed, Miriel did feel a sense of accomplishment when she filleted her one fish. She then spent the next twenty minutes scrubbing the smell from her hands.
Bregolas had tried to fry his catch, but without oil, the skin of the fish blackened and stuck to the pan. He then added water, deciding to poach the fish instead. Even though the meal lacked seasoning, Miriel considered it a Valinorean experience just to eat something hot.
With their appetites sated, and the afternoon waning, Miriel told the warrior that he could sleep first. He eagerly agreed. He pulled out his bedroll and within minutes, he was sound asleep. The Slayer kept watch until she found herself unable to keep her eyes open. Around midnight, she woke her companion, insisting on her need for sleep.
Now well rested, Bregolas would keep watch until sunrise. After being up for a while, the warrior felt the need to move around a bit. The stiffness in his joints demanded it. Guided by the dim, silver light of the moon, he wandered through the mists to the rock shelf. He stood there for some time, staring up at the night sky, lost in thought.
A voice then drew him out of his reverie, the source of which having crept up from behind, unheard and unnoticed. “Hail, Bregolas,” said the deep, manly voice.
Bregolas spun around in surprise, gasping when he laid eyes upon the most unexpected visitor. His heart pounded frantically in his chest as he rubbed his eyes, thinking that he was dreaming. “This cannot be,” he finally uttered, his mouth going dry. Dumbfounded, he shook his head. “Father, you’re… you’re dead,” the warrior stammered…
Chapter 8 - Ultimatum
“What is death, but a new beginning,” replied the phantom form of Halthor.
Bregolas remained still, completely shocked by the sudden appearance of his father. His baffled mind tried to process what he was witnessing. A part of him was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing his late father, but deep down, there was also a nagging feeling of doubt. How was it possible that Halthor was here, now, in Middle-earth, when he had died years earlier?
“You have misgivings about me, that I can see clearly enough,” remarked Halthor, who scrutinized his son with his keen ghostly eyes. “I assure you, my son, it is me.”
The warrior remained frozen, confused over his desire to see his father and his belief that this apparition was the work of the Dark Lord.
“Perhaps I need to convince you that I am truly who I say I am, hmm. I think I can do that.” He paused, his eyes locked with his son’s. “Do you remember when you were ten, I believe, and ran through the house swinging your wooden sword and struck your mother’s prized vase, shattering it to pieces?” The phantom form of Halthor chuckled under his breath. “You were horrified because that had been an heirloom of your mother’s house. Do you remember what I did?”
Bregolas slowly nodded. “You… you told mother that you had accidentally knocked it off the table.”
“Yes,” he answered with a grin. “And it was I that was on the receiving end of her wrath.”
To hear something that had happened from his childhood, something that only Halthor had known other than himself, convinced Bregolas that this had to be the apparition of his father. “But… but how is this possible?” queried the confused young man. “How is it that you were set free from Mandos? That is something that never happens.”
“That is not true,” replied Halthor. “There have been some that have been freed, if only for a while, as in my case.” He moved closer to his son, proudly looking him over. “Look at the man you have become. And such a great warrior, no less. You have proved your quality by rescuing Miriel from the blight of Denethor. That was such a noble thing to do.” He turned. The fog seemed to dissipate, revealing a sleeping Miriel curled up beside the fire. “She’s a lovely girl. And a Slayer! How remarkable it is for one to be chosen from amidst our people. It has been many long years since such a thing has happened.”
“I had never heard of the lore of the Slayer,” revealed Bregolas. “Why is it that you had never spoken of it?”
“Very few spoke if it, even in my day. It had been so long since a Slayer had been Called that those who had any remote knowledge of that had written it off as old wives’ tales.” Halthor chuckled softly. “I’m of the belief that there is a segment in our society that desired to quell the myth of a girl with supernatural powers.”
“Why?”
“Why?” he repeated with a humorous glint in his eye. “Out of fear, I suppose. Men do not desire being usurped by women. The legend of a girl with supernatural powers would embolden the women of Gondor; give them courage to stand up to their oppressors.”
“The men of Gondor are honorable and decent. They do not oppress their women!” protested Bregolas.
“Ah, perhaps it’s my poor word choice. Maybe suppress is the better word,” replied Halthor, correcting himself. “You cannot deny, my son, that the men of Gondor have suppressed their women. Or have you forgotten the laws of Númenor and how we men took away the power to wield the scepter from the firstborn child of the King, whether they be male or female. I would think that the women of Gondor would harbor some resentment for that, even in this day and age.”
“I never knew that you had thought such things,” said Bregolas, slightly taken aback.
“I loved your mother,” answered his father. “And I treated her as my equal, my partner in life.” A somber expression came to Halthor’s phantom face. “She was always saddened that the annals of Gondor had never paid any great respect to women, many who were quite noble and gifted. Who is it that legend speaks of the most, hmm? Queen Berúthiel,” he said with a derisive snort, answering his own question. “A woman with a dark heart who gained infamy by using her cats to spy upon the good people of Gondor. That is the woman that the men of Gondor chose to speak of mostly, one who ended up being banished, in disgrace, from the kingdom.”
“I had never thought about that,” remarked Bregolas thoughtfully. “Yet it is true. Queen Berúthiel is the only woman spoken about from bygone days. How degrading that must be for the women of Gondor.”
“Indeed,” answered Halthor, turning his gaze back to Miriel. “The Slayer represents the strength of women. She is the hope of the future, not just for women, but also for all the peoples of Middle-earth. That is why I am here, to help protect you both.” He shifted his eyes back to his son. “You’re being hunted, my son, hunted by both the enemy and those whom you once called friends. There is a bounty on your head. A great reward Denethor will pay for your demise, for you have taken his greatest treasure. I will do all that I can to see to it that that does not happen. Yet I must ask, where is that you will go? Where do you plan to take Miriel?”
Trusting that his father had been sent by the Valar to help protect both him and Miriel, the warrior confided in Halthor, telling him of their plan to find the Watchers in the north.
“So you seek Arnor?”
“Yes, Father.”
“But surely you know that the Northern Kingdom was destroyed long ago,” countered Halthor. “There is naught left there.”
“Miriel says that a remnant of the people have survived and still dwell in those parts,” answered Bregolas.
“Or so the rumors say,” remarked his father rather skeptically. “And the course you have chosen is to follow the river to the Old Forest Road, I take it.”
“Yes.”
“Hmm,” sounded Halthor, turning toward the north.
Though his eyes seemed fixed on the hillside, to Bregolas, it looked as if his father could see beyond the grassy slope. He wondered if the Lords of the West had granted some special gift of perception to his forebear. Why else would he appear to be studying the hillside?
“Father, what is it? What is it you see?” queried a curious Bregolas.
Halthor shifted his gaze back to his son. “Come morning, Miriel will be eager to continue the journey. See if you can convince her to tarry here for a day or two.”
“Why?” asked the young man.
“I wish to search the lands to the north, to make sure there are none hiding in wait, to ambush you. I do not want any harm to befall you and the Slayer. Give me time to inspect the road you plan to travel upon. I will return as soon as I may.”
“Alright, Father. I will do as you say,” replied his obedient son.
“Fare you well. I will try to return about this time tomorrow.” Halthor then gave Bregolas a reassuring smile before heading north, disappearing in the thickening fog.
After a moment or two, the warrior took off in pursuit of Halthor. So many questions suddenly came rushing to his mind, questions that he knew only his father could answer. He sprinted up the hillside, heedless of the pain in his leg. By the time he reached the top of the hill, he could see no sign of his father’s ghostly form. He had seemingly vanished in the mists that lay about the land.
Bregolas stood there for several minutes. Without thinking of what he was doing, the warrior reached under his mail and pulled out the braid of Miriel’s hair that he kept in his breast pocket. For some reason, he had begun to pull out her lock of hair when he needed comfort. As he fingered the twisted strands of hair, his mind tried to digest all that had just happened. It all seemed so dream-like, so surreal. He, like Miriel before him with Ecthelion, would keep the meeting with Halthor’s apparition to himself. It was too personal to share with anyone, including his beloved.
The warrior remained on the hilltop for another hour before he finally returned to Miriel’s side, feeling such joy that he could hardly contain himself. After having spoken with Halthor, he knew that he had done the right thing, that he was on the right path, and that one day, he would be rewarded for his good deed.
As the hours ticked by, he continued to ponder the words of his father. He and Miriel would need to remain where they were until Halthor deemed it safe for them to resume their trek. He then thought of his impending conversation with Miriel and his need to come up with a reason for them to stay. While he hated the idea of lying to her, he was able to justify it - since he was trying to protect her. He decided to try his hand at fishing again. What better way to welcome the new day than with a treat of another hot meal? He was sure that would please Miriel.
Miriel awoke to the smell of cooking fish.
“Good morning,” said Bregolas cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a rock,” answered the young woman with a yawn.
“What a strange way of putting it,” laughed the warrior. “I take it that is a good thing, no?”
Instead of answering, Miriel eyed the simmering pot of fish. “What’s this?” she asked, nudging her head toward the pot sitting atop the flat stones amidst burning embers.
“I thought I would make us breakfast.”
“You’re spoiling me, Bregolas,” she said, smiling. “A girl could easily get accustomed to this.”
“Well, I daresay you deserve it. We’ve been on the run for days now. I think we’ve earned a second feast.”
“You won’t hear me complaining, that’s for sure,” she answered with a chuckle.
“I was thinking Miriel,” began Bregolas, having spent the last few hours pondering this conversation in his mind. “My injury has been aching all night, and this place seems wholesome enough… What do you say we stay here another day or two - so that my wound won’t be aggravated by marching all day?”
“I didn’t know that it was hurting so badly,” she said with concern. “Why have you not told me this before?”
“Men should not to complain about such things.”
“Nonsense!” she exclaimed. “If you’re in pain, of course we’ll stay put. But I would like to look at your wound. Perhaps more salve will help.”
“Maybe,” he answered, delighted by how easily he had swayed Miriel into staying. “After we eat, you can take a look and prescribe whatever remedy you deem wise. And I think, since we’ll be remaining here, that we should wash our bedding today. We did not do that yesterday and they could use a good washing.”
“Agreed,” she replied with a smile. “How much longer before we eat?”
“Not much longer,” said Bregolas.
After they had eaten, Miriel examined Bregolas injury. The skin had healed closed, but the area was still reddish and sore to the touch. She agreed with her companion, that long marches would more than likely aggravate the injury and prevent the ligaments from healing.
Once they had determined that there was nothing they could do to help quicken the healing process, they began their chores. Bregolas showed Miriel the proper way to wash, using a lot less soap than she had the day before. With their bedding now hanging on tree limbs to dry, and their cooking utensil scrubbed clean, the couple decided to do a little exploring of the immediate area.
The day was beautiful, warm with clear blue skies. Songbirds sang their sweet songs from the treetops and squirrels played chase, running and leaping from tree to tree, one after the other. This was the couple’s first leisurely day since departing Minas Tirith over a week earlier. They climbed atop the northern hill, and looked upon a field of wildflowers amidst the tall grasses.
Bregolas picked a bouquet of purple and white flowers for his beloved, which she, in turn, wove into crowns for the each of them. As she placed the wreath of blossoms upon her companion’s head, she said in a mockingly dignified voice, “I crown thee, Bregolas, son of Halthor, Lord of the Wilds.”
“Humph,” he sounded, frowning. “I would think the Lord of the Wilds would have a manlier crown than one of flowers!” he said sardonically.
Miriel laughed. “If wearing a crown of flowers diminishes your manhood then I’d say you have bigger problems. Would you prefer that I make you some type of headdress from the skeletons of the fish?” she asked teasingly. “You would stink, undoubtedly, but perhaps your manhood would not be called into question.” Her smile widened. “You could be the Fish-king of Middle-earth.”
“The Fish-king?” he queried, cocking his brow.
“Oh, but you would be looked upon as a bad king,” she added.
“And why is that?” he asked.
“Because you eat your subjects!” she laughed. She playfully pushed him backward onto the soft ground. “Flee from the Fish-king! Flee from the Fish-king!” she exclaimed, taking off, running through the field. For the first time in a long while, Miriel felt no fear, and freedom, freedom, as she had never known it. She laughed, glancing over her shoulder, seeing that Bregolas was chasing after her. Laughing even more, she continued to run, as her companion closed the gap between them. Suddenly, she halted before thorny bushes laden with blackberries. Her eyes widened at the sight. Not a second later, Bregolas collided with her, sending her flying into the thicket. Trying to break her fall with her hands, she let out a painful cry as the pointy thorns bore into the flesh of her palms.
“Oh, Miriel. I’m sorry,” Bregolas apologized, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her free.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” she howled, noticing the many thorns protruding from her hands.
“Here! Sit!” he said, placing her on the ground. “Let me see.”
Miriel continued to whimper as Bregolas began pulling the thorns from her hands one by one.
“See what happens when you flee from the King,” he said lightheartedly.
“You’re the one who ran into me! You should pay more attention to where you are going!” she countered, holding him to blame for the entire incident.
“Well, you’re the one that stopped suddenly,” the warrior refuted, as he continued to carefully pull the miniature spikes from her flesh.
“That’s because there was a thicket of blackberries in front of me!” she snapped back, her eyes immediately darting to the bushes. “And they look so deliciously ripe too.”
“There,” said Bregolas. “I think I got them all.”
Miriel then pulled a blackberry from the bush and popped it in her mouth. She found that burst of sweetness to be absolutely delectable. “Try one,” she said, placing a berry in his mouth. “Is it not divine?”
“Mmm,” he sounded. “Juicy.”
Though Miriel’s hands stung a little bit, the whole incident was quickly forgotten. A multitude of fruit would have a way of doing that. The couple sat there, eating to their hearts’ content.
They soon returned to their campsite. As the afternoon waned, Bregolas felt the need for sleep. He placed his bedroll underneath the shady limbs of an oak tree, and swiftly drifted off. While Bregolas slept, Miriel wanted to do something productive and sought sticks that could be whittled into stakes for their tent. That helped pass the time until her companion woke later that evening.
They spent the rest of the night talking and stargazing. Though Bregolas encouraged the Slayer to go to sleep early, she declined until past midnight. Much to the warrior’s disappointment, Halthor did not return.
The couple spent the following day much as they had the previous one. After a breakfast of fresh fish (courtesy of Bregolas), they went off exploring the area north of their encampment. That afternoon, the warrior sharpened Miriel’s sword, and together, they finished whittling new stakes for their tent. At the Slayer’s insistence, they would resume their journey the following morning. She had no desire to delay the trip any longer. To that, Bregolas had reluctantly agreed, hoping that his father would return that night, as promised.
Halthor did indeed return around midnight.
“Why did you not come last night?” queried Bregolas in a pained voice.
“I could not,” answered the ghost of Halthor. “I had discovered a band of Orcs lingering southeast of Gladden Fields and did my best to lure them away, into Mirkwood, and far from the river.” He chortled softly. “I’ve sent them many leagues out of the way, on a wild goose chase, some call it. The way is clear, at least, for now.” His tone and expression became grave. “You must be vigilant on the road, Bregolas. The enemies’ numbers are great, even in these parts. I do not have the power to watch all roads, save the one you have chosen to tread upon.”
“I am ever grateful for that, Father,” answered his son with a slight bow of his head. “It is a great relief knowing that you will help me and my beloved on our journey.”
“Beloved?” queried Halthor, raising his spectral brows. “You and the Slayer are lovers?”
“Well,” he began with some hesitation. “It is complicated.”
“Either you are or you are not,” replied his father. “Which is it?”
Bregolas was slightly taken aback by his forebear’s remarks, or rather, the insistency of his query. “We are. Although, we’ve… slowed things down a bit since we left Gondor.” He tried to choose his words carefully. “After finding out what Denethor had been doing to Miriel… I-I felt the need to pull back some… to give her space, and time to heal from her… torments.”
“Once again, you have proven your quality,” said Halthor proudly, offering his son a smile. “Yet, I must say, I could have sworn that I heard Miriel’s laughter traveling on the wind earlier today.” When he spoke, he emphasized the word ‘sworn’ for some reason.
“You did. For there are times when she is like her old self again, when her anguish is less and she is as joyful as any maiden.” He paused. “She suffers from melancholy,” Bregolas added, almost as an afterthought.
“It is no wonder, considering what she has been though. She would, for obvious reasons, show the outward signs of her abuse. It is to be expected,” Halthor responded with a heavy sigh. “However, I would think the further north you travel - the more miles you put between yourselves and Minas Tirith - that that pain would not only lessen, but would dissipate altogether.”
“Perhaps in good time, it will,” replied Bregolas, shifting his gaze to his beloved, who lay sleeping several feet away. “I do not want to pressure her. Miriel’s life has changed drastically and I am amazed at how well she is doing.” He glanced at the ghost of Halthor, adding, “She has given up a lot,” before returning his gaze back to the Slayer.
“Hmm,” sounded his father. He too was staring at Miriel.
Bregolas eyes swiftly darted back to his father. He studied his phantom face closely. Though Halthor merely made a sound, to the warrior, it reeked of doubt. “What is that you mean?” he queried warily.
“Huh?” replied Halthor, his gaze still fixed on the Slayer.
“That sound. That ‘hmm’ sound you made not a moment ago. Your tone sounded as if you were implying something, something that I do not clearly understand.”
“Oh, well,” began Halthor uneasily, “it is not just Miriel that has given up a lot.” He shifted his ghostly eyes to his son. “Have you not considered what you have sacrificed for her?” he asked. “I daresay, you, my dear son, have lost more than she.”
Bregolas narrowed his eyes.
“Do not get wroth with me, Bregolas,” continued Halthor, holding his hands up in submission. “I am only speaking my thoughts. If that troubles you, then I shall say no more.”
The young man’s expression softened, becoming somber. He returned his gaze back to Miriel, uttering, “I love her.”
“I do not doubt that,” remarked his father. “But, you must face reality, my son. Slayers are not long lived. They - ”
“ - I will hear no more of that!” interjected Bregolas angrily.
“Alright, my son. I will speak no more of it.”
Miriel stirred in her sleep. Bregolas hoped he had not spoken overly loud, as to wake her.
“I had best be on my way,” said the ghostly form of Halthor.
“So soon?” queried his son in dismay, looking pleadingly at his father. “You have only just arrived.”
“Alas, the enemy never sleeps. I think it best that I return to the road. You are still ever too near to the borders of Dul Guldur. I would like to travel east tonight and make sure that the enemy is not following your path along the eaves of Mirkwood.”
“When will I see you again?” asked Bregolas, wanting to spend more time with his late father.
Halthor smiled. “I will return again tomorrow night. Be vigilant, my son, for the spies of the enemy are numerous.” In an even more serious tone, he added, “And, I implore you to heed my counsel: if you hurry on your journey tomorrow, your injury will worsen. Travel slowly, but continuously. Rest when your body calls for it. I will harry any that attempt to follow you and… Miriel.”
“Thank you, Father,” said the grateful young man.
“You take care, my son.” Halthor gave a slight nod of his head before turning and disappearing into the night.
Bregolas immediately returned to Miriel’s side. He sat there, watching her sleep, and thinking of the last words his father had said about her: “Slayers are not long lived.” He had never given much thought to that. He assumed that Miriel was just like any warrior, but better, and that she would live a long life.
Yet how many of your kinsmen have fallen on the battlefield? reminded that irritating voice in the back of his mind. You know nothing of the lore regarding Slayers, the voice continued. She is considered a threat to the enemy - and they know she walks in these parts. They know who she is and seek to destroy her. Halthor was correct in saying that Slayers are not long lived, Miriel included.
The voice went silent, leaving Bregolas to his own thoughts. His heart ached for Miriel, wondering how she would meet her end. Would he be at her side, defending her to the death, as he thought? Or, would something else happen, something altogether different?
“Why am I thinking such morbid thoughts?” he whispered in alarm. He looked down at his beloved, eager to push such gloomy and dark thoughts from his mind. He lay down beside her, curling his body against hers. He wrapped his arm protectively around her, burying his face in her short, dark hair. He inhaled deeply, smelling the lilac that continued to emanate from her soft locks. When he felt her hand slide on top of his own, he felt more comforted and at peace. In his contentment, Bregolas soon drifted off to sleep.
They had both slept later than expected, waking well after sunrise. There was no feasting on delectable fresh fish as there had been the past two mornings. Instead, they each ate a bruised apple and planned to pick more berries as they journeyed north. Once their bags were packed, and their water skins topped off, the couple resumed their trek.
Miriel was a bit surprised by the lack of urgency of their march. To her, it seemed as if they were taking a leisurely stroll through Middle-earth, albeit with heavy packs on their backs. Bregolas was no longer yapping at her to keep up, as he had been since they had lost their horses. She thought it was a pleasant change of pace. They talked a lot and even sang some, though not in a loud, boisterous way. They took several breaks, usually after Miriel had begun to groan from the excess weight on her back. By late afternoon, they had stopped and set up camp.
With their food supplies rapidly depleting, Bregolas took out his fishing gear and caught their supper.
“I think it’s good that we’re traveling along the Anduin,” he mentioned while fishing from the banks of the river. “We have a constant water supply and are able to eat more heartily.”
At their new campsite, the warrior actually discovered some turnips. They were added to the pot, which gave their fish more flavor than before. They made a point to collect as many of the rooted vegetables as they could. If worse came to worse, they could eat the turnips on their own.
With her belly full, Miriel drifted off to sleep around ten thirty. As it neared midnight, Bregolas began to pace restlessly around their campsite, anxiously awaiting his father’s return.
“Good evening, my son,” said the phantom form of Halthor, appearing seemingly from out of nowhere.
“Father,” said a beaming Bregolas. “You have come back.”
“I told you I would, for I am one who keeps a promise!” answered Halthor.
“What news do you bring? Is the enemy following? Are the Uruk-hai - ”
“One question at a time, my boy,” interrupted his father with a chortle. “There are a few Uruks lingering by the western eaves of Mirkwood. But they are close to their realm and their eyes seem more fixed on the elven realm than anywhere else.”
“Lórien?” queried the young man in surprise. “Why Lothlórien?”
Halthor shrugged his spectral shoulders. “Who knows? I am not concerned with the Elves, only you and your Slayer.” His eyes immediately shifted to Miriel. Bregolas followed his gaze. After a long pause, he asked, “Have you given any more thought to what I told you last night?”
“About what?” asked the warrior, feigning ignorance.
“About the life span of the Slayer… and the sacrifices you have made for her.”
A scowl came to Bregolas’ face. “Why do you feel the need to bring that up?” he questioned in his annoyance. “What is this need to speak of my sacrifices? Whatever I have done, I have done willingly. It is no burden to me.”
“No?” replied Halthor skeptically. “Hmm.”
“There you go again,” hissed the young man, shifting his narrowed eyes to his father’s ghostly form. “You will not give me peace until you speak your mind, I gather.”
“No need to be hostile,” responded Halthor. “I am only looking out for your best interests, my son.”
The young man grumbled under his breath. “Then get on with it, will you?”
“My concern is for you and your feelings. Does this Slayer love you as you love her?” he asked point-blank.
Bregolas hesitated a moment before answering with, “I- I think so.”
“You think?” his father said, his tone riddled with doubt. “Either she does or she doesn’t. Which is it?”
“Yes. Yes, she does,” he huffed in reply.
“Then why is it that you two have not wed? Surely, if you’re both in love, you would make a commitment to one another, no?” remarked the phantom form of Halthor. Before Bregolas could answer, he continued. “As I have said, the life span of the Slayer is short. Every day is a precious gift. One can be here today, and gone tomorrow. Why put off your marriage any longer? I would deem that now is the perfect time for you to take a wife. You’re not getting any younger, my son, and I would so very much like to see my line carry on. You are my only child, after all.”
The young man stood there for several minutes, thinking. His animosity began to diminish, as he thought of the points his father had made. “How short is a Slayer’s life span?” he finally asked, his face grave. “Do they really not live that long?”
“If that girl makes it to the age of nineteen, that would be some feat. Most Slayers do not last a year after they’ve been Called.”
“A year? A year?” repeated Bregolas in dismay. He was stunned by that revelation. He had never considered that Miriel would not survive long, Slayer or not. The young warrior had always pictured him and her growing old together. The thought of his beloved dying in a year’s time was gut-wrenching. Bregolas fought back his tears. Such news left him devastated.
“It is not my intention to cause you pain, my son,” continued Halthor in a sympathetic voice. “I felt that you needed to hear the truth, to face hard facts about the Slayer.”
“My life would be over if I lost Miriel,” whispered Bregolas, a tear trickling down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away, not wanting to show weakness in front of the phantom form of his father.
“Perhaps you could change things, for nothing is etched in stone.”
“What do you mean?” asked the young man, looking hopefully at his father.
“Well, if you could convince Miriel to turn away from her Calling, to avoid this slaying business altogether, then perhaps you could have the life you’ve dreamt of, one where you both live a long, happy life, in peace.”
“And how do you propose I go about doing that?” queried the son of Halthor. “Miriel is determined to find these so-called Watchers and fulfill her destiny.”
“You are a man. Your voice matters more than hers,” replied the specter.
“What happened to marriage being a partnership?” he asked, raising a brow in question. “You said that yours and mother’s marriage was a partnership. Why would mine be any different?”
Halthor was becoming frustrated. “Because Aerin never gave any thought to killing. She knew her place was at home, rearing you and tending to the household. That is a wife’s duty. They do not belong in battle.” Realizing that he was coming across gruff, the apparition continued in a more calm tone. “Miriel has revealed herself to be the Slayer. The enemy now knows this. If you could take her to some isolated place - far from others - your chance at having a quiet life together would become greater.”
Bregolas pondered his father’s words for a long while. It seemed that everything Halthor was saying conflicted with the young man’s beliefs, with his conscious. It didn’t make any sense to have Miriel turn away from her Calling, and he couldn’t understand why his father thought that she should. Wasn’t being Chosen a gift from those in the West? Miriel was mystically enhanced by the Valar with great strength and amazing agility, greater than any man. Should she throw that gift away in order to make a life with him? It just didn’t seem right in the great scheme of things. Bregolas wanted to help her, to fight at her side, to be a team, combating the dark forces in Middle-earth. He assumed that their relationship would pick up where they had left off in due time. The torments she had suffered at the hands of Denethor were not so long ago. Shouldn’t she be allowed some time to get over that?
The young warrior’s eyes narrowed, his facial expression hardened. He slowly turned to his father and said, “No,” with an air of finality to his tone. “I will not put my desires before those of Miriel.” Despite Halthor’s pleas, Bregolas turned his back on him, and returned to his beloved’s side.
Night after night for several days afterward, Halthor returned to Bregolas badgering him about marrying Miriel and having her turn away from her life as a Slayer.
Miriel began to notice the subtle changes in her companion’s behavior. As the days passed by, he seemed to become moody, sullen even. There was a time or two when she had awakened in the middle of the night and thought she had heard him talking to himself. She was beginning to think that Bregolas was suffering from melancholy too, and no matter how hard she had tried, she couldn’t get him to talk about what was troubling him.
Her concern escalated, when, at times, she felt the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end, and that tingly sensation coursed through her body, foreboding danger, even when she saw no apparent sign of the enemy. It seemed to Miriel that there was some ominous presence following her and Bregolas on their journey. She could feel it, but couldn’t see it. She was beginning to wonder if this “thing” was affecting Bregolas’ moods. And if it was, why did it have no effect on her? Was it because she was a Slayer? She wished someone could advise her on this matter. If only she had a Watcher. She was sure that he would know what to do.
She shared her feelings with Buffy, hoping that the older and more experienced Slayer could impart some of her knowledge about such things.
“There’re lots of evil creatures in the world,” Buffy had told her. “Not all of them can be seen with the naked eye. That’s why I’ve been teaching you about honing your other senses. Trust your gut, Miriel.”
“But what am I to do against unseen forces? How do I fight that which I cannot see?” she asked, frightened and anxious by what she perceived to be a sinister presence.
“I don’t know,” answered Buffy grimly, shaking her head. “I’ve always had others to help me in that department. I don’t know what you’re dealing with. Just… just stay on your toes. Be alert. Maybe I’ll figure something out.”
Buffy’s advice wasn’t very helpful.
The tragedy of it all was that the answer lay before Miriel, though she didn’t know it. She, like Faramir and Denethor, was well versed in ancient lore. However, there were some things that she had overlooked. While she loved to read about the Elves and the Elder Days, she had glossed over the wicked abilities of the villains, particularly Sauron. It was common knowledge, in Gondor at least, that the evil Maia was referred to as the Necromancer, but Miriel didn’t wholly know what that meant. If she did, perhaps she would have had a better understanding of what was happening, for the Dark Lord of Mordor had the power to command those spirits that had refused the summons of Mandos, and had chosen to remain in Middle-earth, bodiless and bitter at their misfortune.
Before the couple knew it, the month of June had ended and July had arrived, bringing with it even hotter weather. They had now been traveling for weeks instead of days, and it seemed that they had hardly made any progress on their journey since the loss of their horses. They had started out well, putting many, many leagues behind them in a single day. But now, whenever they settled down for the night, Bregolas would whip out the map and show Miriel their approximate location. Even though they had spent the better part of each day walking, it didn’t seem as if they had gone very far. The Slayer found that most disheartening, to say the least.
On top of that, they had eaten all the rations Bregolas had brought from Minas Tirith, forcing them to forage for food. While Bregolas continued to supply them with fresh fish, which had become the staple of their diet, the young woman found herself losing her taste for fish. She would have given anything to eat real meat - beef, pork, lamb or chicken. Anything other than fish. And wine, o’ how she’d love a tall glass of wine. Any kind would do, as long as it wasn’t plain old water. Their only treat was the occasional patch of wild berries they stumbled upon. And even those seemed no longer as delicious as they had been.
Due to the lack of conversation, and to help pass the time, Miriel often thought of the future. She wondered what her Watcher would be like and if he would be impressed that she had come so far in search of him. She longed to talk with Bregolas about these things, but every time she mentioned the word “Watcher”, he got this angry look in his eyes that made her uneasy, so much so that she no longer brought the subject up. She tried to think of what could have possibly caused this radical change in his behavior. He had been such a jovial soul before they left Gondor and now he seemed to be the complete opposite. She wasn’t sure if it was simply a case of melancholy, or, if he was suffering from something much worse. Whatever it was - she hated it. She longed for the old Bregolas.
During their long, miserable treks across the plains, the Slayer often found herself fantasizing about times past. For some odd reason, she found comfort in those tales of old, even if most of them didn’t end too well. She thought of Beren and Lúthien, how their love for one another had sent them on their epic quest for the Silmaril, and how Finrod Felagund, ever a friend to Man, had aided Beren, costing the Elven King his life. How spectacular times were back then, when Man and Elf lived and died side-by-side. She wondered if she would ever go on some journey such as that, one where she would actually make a difference, and people would sing songs about her deeds of glory.
Without thinking, she began to sing the Lay of Lúthien softly under her breath. That song made her think. While there were a few stories of mortal men marrying elven women, there was none (that she could recall) regarding mortal women marrying elven men. Miriel wondered why that was, and how strange that seemed to be. Did elven men find mortal women undesirable, or, perhaps, beneath them?
Of course, thinking of such things made her wonder if she’d ever meet an Elf. That would be a dream come true, especially after reading so much about them. But, Miriel had little hope of that ever happening. Elves and Men no longer mingled together, neither socially nor economically. From what she remembered, the sundering between the two races went back centuries, to the early part of the Third Age. She wasn’t sure if that was due to the deaths of Elendil and Gil-Galad, each who was considered the mightiest and lordliest of their races, and had perished in the Battle of Dagorlad, or if it had been the shortcomings of Isildur and his failure to destroy the One Ring. Whatever it was that had happened, the unfortunate outcome was that the Children of Ilúvatar lived in their separate worlds, and, sadly, no longer interacted.
Therefore, Miriel spent her waking hours day dreaming about Elves, and at night, when it was her turn to sleep, she enjoyed the company of Buffy. Neither Slayer knew of the torments that Bregolas endured each night, that a phantom claiming to be his father, was doing all he could to drive a wedge between the warrior and the young Slayer. The apparition had been following the couple, watching and listening intently, learning all he could in order to coerce Bregolas to act in the manner prescribed by his master. Under the advisement of Sauron, the specter was told to change his tactics somewhat. The Dark Lord believed he had discovered the way to convince the young man to step into the role that he had designed for the Gondorian warrior.
In the wee hours of July the 4th, Halthor returned, confident that his latest ploy would sway Bregolas to carry out his master’s plans. Instead of materializing at the edge of camp, as he had always done before, he appeared beside the sleeping form of Miriel. He fixed his phantom eyes on the girl, while waiting for his son.
When Bregolas spotted Halthor, he hurried to his side. “Is it not best to talk over there?” he whispered, pointing to an area several yards away from his beloved. “I do not wish to wake Miriel.”
“She will not wake,” answered Halthor softly. “She has found contentment in her dreams. Do you not see the smile on her face?”
Sure enough, a small smile graced the Slayer’s fair face. In her dreams, she had just successfully delivered a drop kick to her mentor, sending Buffy flying to the ground.
“Do you know why she smiles, my son?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the Slayer.
Bregolas shook his head.
“She dreams of the future, a future… without you.”
The young man’s eyes darted to his father. “How do you know that?”
“I have been watching, watching and listening to your beloved Miriel for many days now,” replied the phantom form of his father. “When she sings, I can read her mind, her thoughts, see her future.” He paused for a moment, wanting his words to have the desired effect on the warrior.
“You can see Miriel’s future,” whispered Bregolas in awe, shifting his gaze back to a sleeping Miriel. “How?”
“When I was freed from the Halls of Mandos, those in the West granted unto me certain… powers,” he answered without missing a beat. “When Miriel sings, I am able to have visions, visions of her future… ” He paused once again. “Did you know that it is her heart’s desire to see the Elves, that she dreams of that day?”
Bregolas did not answer, but he knew that to be true. How could he forget her singing that elvish song as they traveled along Lothlórien’s borders? That stunt of hers had resulted in the attack by the Uruk-hai later that night.
“So great is her infatuation with the Firstborn, that she will forsake you, for them.”
The warrior’s head spun around. He stared at his father in stunned disbelief. “No,” he uttered, shaking his head. “Miriel would never do that.”
“No?” repeated Halthor, his tone riddled with doubt. He locked eyes with his son. “The Elves seek to harness the power of the Slayer, to command her to do their bidding. It is not everyday that a Slayer walks in their midst. They care nothing for her well-being, for her safety. She is a tool, a toy for them to play with… in more ways than one,” he added in a tone that sent chills down Bregolas’ spine. The ghost looked back at Miriel, hiding his delight. “The Slayer is young and naïve. She will be blinded by the tales of old, and how goodly the Elves are.” He shifted his eyes back to his son. “She is not like us,” Halthor hissed. “She does not see that the Elves have become an evil breed, wroth and resentful at all they have lost. And you, my son, are the obstacle that stands in their way. They will kill you to get to her.” He motioned toward Miriel with his head.
Bregolas was left speechless. He was falling for the phantom’s ploy, hook, line, and sinker. He had already been deceived into believing that the specter was his father, and had no reason to challenge Halthor’s prophetic words. The young man’s eyes welled with tears, as hope of a future with Miriel began to diminish before his very eyes.
“But it is not too late,” continued the ghost, with an air of hope to his voice. “The future has not yet been written in stone, and can still be changed - for we men have been given the gift of freewill. We can change the course of the future, but time is not our friend, and you must act swiftly if you wish to alter what I have seen,” remarked Halthor rather urgently.
The warrior’s mind seemed to be spinning with so many thoughts. His heart pounded frantically in his chest. He didn’t know what to do, what to think. Confusion had set in.
“Steer her away from those she seeks, my son,” encouraged the specter. “And do not forget all that you have sacrificed. You gave up everything for Miriel. You should be recompensed for all that you have lost. And if Miriel is what you desire - then make it so!”
In his anguish, Bregolas responded with, “I will not force myself on Miriel.”
“Who said anything about force, hmm?” answered Halthor, searching his son’s eyes with his own. “I can help. That is, if you will heed the counsel of your father.”
Bregolas stood there, in silence, pondering his father’s words. After several minutes, he nodded in reply. Halthor drifted closer to his son, whispering his advice in the young man’s ear.
Miriel awoke the following morning only to find thick, grayish-black clouds lingering above. It was the first sign of rain since they had passed through Rohan a few weeks earlier. “Oh, great,” she groaned, dreading the thought of marching in a torrential downpour.
Little did she know that that was a sign of things to come.
She stretched her stiff limps, causing her joints to pop to life. After rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she sat up, looking for Bregolas. He sat, grim-faced, against the bole of a tree, watching her. She offered him a quick smile. Unfortunately, by the looks of it, his mood looked as foul as the weather.
“Looks like rain, eh?” she said in an attempt to start a conversation. She always tried to speak to Bregolas even if he wouldn’t answer. “I hate the thought of walking all day in the rain,” she added with a shudder.
“Perhaps we should set up the tent, and stay inside today,” suggested Bregolas bleakly.
As Miriel rose to her feet, she clutched her heart in an over-dramatic fashion, surprised that Bregolas was actually talking today. “He speaks!” she exclaimed. “My Valar! Has the Lord of the Wilds returned to me at last?” Her smile widened, as she bowed several times before the warrior.
“Why do you mock me?” he scoffed.
“Oh, come on, Bregolas. Snap out of it!” she said in a cheerful voice, as she rolled up her bedding. “Can you not see that I jest? I really wish you would find your sense of humor. I miss it. You’ve been surly for far too long.” She crammed her bedroll into her pack. “I miss the old Bregolas, the one who laughs and enjoys life.” She glanced upwards, as several flashes of lightning lit up the darkening sky. “We better get the tent set up then. It looks like it’s going to pour any minute.” When Miriel turned around, she let out a small cry, startled to suddenly see Bregolas standing behind her. “Don’t creep up on me like that!” she screeched reproachfully. “You nearly gave me heart failure!”
Murmuring under her breath, she took off to tend to her morning business. Bregolas followed her with his eyes. When he saw Miriel squat behind a tree, he began the task of setting up their tent. As he worked, he heard the words of his father echoing in his mind.
When the Slayer had finished her morning ritual, which included washing her teeth and face, and brushing her hair, she helped Bregolas finish setting up their tent. Much to Miriel’s dismay, the warrior fell quiet, again. She stood by, watching him toss their bags inside the tent, thinking of how miserable the day was going to be. Not only would they be sequestered in the confines of their small domicile, but they would do so in stony silence. She was beginning to wonder if they’d be better off spending the day marching, rain or not.
Only minutes after the tent was erected, the first few drops of rain began to fall. “You better get inside,” instructed Bregolas.
Miriel climbed inside. She immediately re-arranged their bags so that she and Bregolas would be more comfortable within the canvas shelter. Bregolas then squeezed in behind her. They sat there, listening to the heavy drops hitting the roof of the structure. Ear-splitting cracks of thunder followed flashes of lightning, causing the earth beneath them to tremble.
“Looks like it’s going to be one hell of a storm,” she said, breaking the silence.
The warrior remained quiet, absently fiddling with the ring he wore on his left forefinger.
The minutes ticked by slowly. Soon, heaven unleashed its showers and the sound of the rain pounding against the canvas drowned out the silence.
Then, out of the blue, Bregolas asked in low voice, “Do you love me?”
“What?” Miriel asked. He had spoken so softly, she was unable to clearly hear him over the downpour.
“I said, do you love me?” he repeated louder.
“Oh,” she replied, slightly taken aback by his question. “Why, yes. Of course.” As soon as the words had left her mouth, she felt a prickly sensation all over her body, followed by chill bumps. She pulled her cloak around her more tightly, to ward off the sudden chill.
“Then I want you to become my wife.”
Miriel’s brows shot up in surprise. “What?!” she exclaimed, shocked by his unexpected proposal.
“You heard me,” he said in that same monotonic voice.
“I - I don’t know what to say,” she stammered, shifting uncomfortably. “I mean, where is this coming from?”
“I love you and you love me. Why should we deny our feelings any longer? Denethor has no say-so any more. We are on our own. This is our life now,” he reasoned.
“I’m - I’m… ” Miriel didn’t know what to say. She had been afraid something like this might happen. She had, unquestionably, lead Bregolas to believe that they had a future together when they were back in Minas Tirith, and now it looked as if he wanted her to make good on that promise. She had been stupid, foolish, playing with his heart when she shouldn’t have. A part of her now regretted that she hadn’t left the White City on her own. Truth be known, she had never really considered a future with Bregolas. At least, not as his wife. Now, here they were, in the middle of nowhere, and he was making the ultimate demand on her.
“You lied to me,” he sneered, noticing her face becoming paler and her apparent uneasiness. “It was all lies, wasn’t it? You used me. You used me to get away from your father and plan to desert me when you find your Watcher - ”
“ - NO! That’s not true,” she interjected, her heart racing in her chest.
“Then marry me, Miriel. Marry me on this day!” he shot back.
“I’m - I’m not ready to get married,” she stammered in reply.
“Is that so?” he replied, his eyes narrowing. Bregolas spoke in such a derisive tone that his words pierced her heart like daggers. “Only a few weeks ago you were willing to become my wife. Tell me, Miriel: what would have happened if Denethor had given his blessing? What would you have done? Played with me some more until you tired of me? Or was it your plan to flee in the night, leaving me behind to suffer?”
Miriel felt her mouth go dry. How could Bregolas possibly know such things? How could he know what she had thought? Despite the chill in the air, she felt beads of sweat forming on her forehead, and her body began to tremble uncontrollably. This was like a nightmare; her worse nightmare come true.
“So, it is true,” he continued in that same contemptuous tone. “You have deceived me, played me for a fool. I sacrificed everything for you, Miriel, threw it all away, thinking that we had a future together.” The warrior slowly shook his head, saying, “I’m a fool no longer. Either you marry me today or I am leaving. False hopes will no longer carry me further on this journey.”
The Slayer could feel her eyes burning with tears. “Don’t do this, Bregolas,” she pleaded, her voice cracking as she spoke. “This is not you. Can you not see that? Some madness has - ”
“ - So now I’m mad, huh?” he interrupted with a hiss. “Then there is nothing left to say.” The warrior began grabbing his bags.
“Please, Bregolas!” cried Miriel, tears streaming down her face. She grabbed hold of his arm, pleading with him to stay.
“Are you ready to become my wife?” he asked, ready to leave if he did not hear the answer he wanted.
Miriel found herself unable to speak. She remained seated on the floor of the tent, sobbing, in near hysterics.
“Then that’s it! Good luck, Miriel. You’ll need it,” Bregolas growled. He yanked his arm free from her grasp and stormed out of the tent.
“Bregolas!” she cried out. “Don’t leave me!”
Miriel went numb. Her heart pounded with such a ferocity that she could feel the blood rushing throughout her entire body. Her stomach became queasy. The Slayer was terrified at the notion of being abandoned in an unknown land, having to fend for herself. How would she survive without Bregolas? She couldn’t. She’d die without him. That thought alone frightened her beyond belief.
The Slayer had no other choice but to cave in to his demands. She bolted out of the tent and into the cold, lashing rain. She spotted Bregolas, already some distance away, heading south. Weeping, she chased after him. In a shrill voice, she repeatedly cried out his name…
Chapter 9 - Acceptance
“I’m cursed,” Miriel whimpered, finally able to speak after crying on Buffy’s shoulder for the past twenty minutes.
“You’re not cursed!” insisted the elder Slayer, still holding Miriel in her arms, doing her best to comfort the girl.
“How else can you explain it?” asked Miriel miserably. “The two men that I had trusted most betrayed that trust in the most horrible way imaginable. I have to be cursed.”
“No!” refuted an adamant Buffy. “It’s not you. It’s them. They’re both fucked in the head. Your father is one sick bastard. And Bregolas… ” She paused, not too sure how to comment on that one. Buffy couldn’t help but think that Miriel was partially to blame for her current predicament. All the vibes she had given to Bregolas indicated that they had a future together, that Miriel wanted a future with him. For God’s sake, they went as far as having him ask Denethor’s permission to wed! What else was the warrior to think?
She bit her lip, wondering how to answer. With Miriel in her current state, the last thing Buffy wanted to do was to tell the girl that some of the fault lay with her. The younger Slayer was in a very precarious situation. To be out in the middle of no man’s land only to have some guy basically force himself upon you was horrific in every sense of the word. But Miriel was a Slayer, and if she had some balls, she’d tell Bregolas to fuck off and carry on, on her own. She could do it - if she had the gumption to. But, did she?
Despite Buffy’s thoughts, she answered with, “Do you think he’s possessed? You mentioned that there was some unholy presence following you guys. Do you think it jumped into Bregolas’ body and is controlling him?”
“I don’t know,” replied Miriel, pulling herself out of Buffy’s embrace. She rose from the bed and walked through an open archway of the room and onto the balcony. She clutched the railing, looking out at the sea. “And if he is - what can I do about it? How do I get that thing out of him? That is, even if it can be done.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, drinking in the salt air.
The elder Slayer followed, standing beside Miriel. “It can be done,” said Buffy, leaning her folded arms on the railing. “I was possessed once.”
The girl shifted her red and puffy eyes to her friend. “You were? How did you get rid of it?”
“Magic,” answered Buffy. “A spell, I mean.” Her face twisted to a grimace. “Unfortunately, I don’t know it. I don’t know the spell.”
Miriel looked back at the waters that bordered Dol Amroth. “It’s so strange,” she said glumly. “One minute I was just Miriel, and the next, I was the wife of Bregolas. That’s not how I expected things to turn out. I have to be cursed. There’s no other explanation for it.”
“I gave you one,” replied Buffy. “The dude’s possessed!”
“And what am I supposed to do, Buffy? Slay him?” Miriel shot back with a flicker of anger in her doleful grey eyes. “You do not know the spell to free him. That is, if he is indeed possessed. I’m not convinced that you are a master of such things!”
Buffy scowled. All she was doing was trying to help, and Miriel was being a complete bitch. “You have another option - leave him,” she suggested through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to unleash her true thoughts on the girl.
“Pfft,” sounded Miriel with a roll of her eyes. “And how am I to survive in the wilds without him to take care of me? I cannot fend for myself. I’d die of starvation!”
“Bullshit! You can do anything he can do!” argued Buffy.
“Have you seen me try to fish? I’ve never caught one! I do not have the patience for that! And cooking - I do not know how to cook! I couldn’t even tell a turnip from a weed! I walked right over an edible plant without even knowing - and I’m supposed to survive on my own! I’d be dead in a week’s time,” she snapped in reply.
“That’s because you’ve already given up!” countered Buffy, annoyed with Miriel’s attitude. “You don’t know the first thing about being a Slayer, about what you’re capable of! You haven’t even tried. Maybe if you did, you’d surprise yourself, you’d see that you have an innate ability to survive, to adapt. You don’t need a man for that.”
Miriel’s bottom lip began to quiver; her eyes welling with tears. “But I have already submitted myself to Bregolas. I am already his wife,” she said, her voice cracking as she spoke.
“So what! You can still leave him. You don’t have to stay.”
“Did you not hear me? I’ve surrendered myself to him… I’ve already carried out a wife’s sacred duty,” she retorted.
“That doesn’t mean a thing!” Buffy contested, waving her hand dismissively. “So you’ve slept with him. Big deal! Call it a one-night stand and move on.”
The girl’s jaw dropped. She was appalled by the elder Slayer’s comments. She stood tall, glowering at Buffy. “I am no harlot!” she proclaimed in her most dignified voice.
“I didn’t say that you were. Just because you slept with him, doesn’t mean you have to be married to him.”
The girl’s shoulders slumped forward in defeat. She gripped the railing tightly. Her face reflected her sorrow once again. “No,” she said. “I have to be married to him. Bregolas gave up so much for me. It would be wrong of me to leave him after all he has done, all he has sacrificed.” She tried to fight back the tears that were forming in her eyes. “It would be wrong,” she added in a whisper. Miriel tried to convince herself that she had made the right decision though her heart said otherwise.
“So, you’re just gonna give up, give in to his demands?” said an exasperated Buffy.
It now appeared that the younger Slayer was getting annoyed with the elder. “What part of ‘I already did’ do you not understand?! It’s too late, Buffy. The deed is done. There’s no going back.”
“Uh-uh,” answered the elder Slayer, vehemently shaking her head. “You guys didn’t exchange any type of vows. There’s no ring on your finger. You’re not obligated to him. For God’s sake, Miriel - he gave you an ultimatum! That’s not the way relationships work. No one should force you to do what you don’t want to. He’s taking advantage of the situation. He’s taking advantage of you. And that’s wrong! What’s he’s doing is wrong. You’re just too emotionally distraught to see that.”
“Perhaps that is so,” Miriel replied softly, looking away from Buffy and back to the sea. “But there is no turning back.”
Buffy was about to explode from frustration. She grabbed Miriel by the shoulders and forced the much taller Slayer to look at her. “That’s a load of crap and you know it. Where’s that girl that planned and prepared to leave Minas Tirith on her own? Or did you forget about that already?” she said tersely. “Well, I haven’t. You can’t lie to me, Miriel. I know your mind. I know your thoughts. You weren’t stupid about it. You thought things through. Most girls in your situation would’ve fled into the night with no preparation, and wouldn’t have lasted long. You didn’t do that. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit. You’re strong, Miriel. And now’s the time to show it.”
“No. No, I’m not,” Miriel said weakly. “I may be strong, physically, but that is where it ends. I am not emotionally strong at all.”
Buffy was pissed at Miriel’s defeatist attitude. Whether this was an episode of melancholy or not, she couldn’t take it any more. Her blood was boiling. Wanting to knock some sense into the girl, she smacked her hard across the face. “Snap out of it! This isn’t you!” she exclaimed, reclaiming her grip on Miriel’s shoulders.
The young Slayer stood there, stunned. Her hand had instinctively darted to her stinging cheek. The skin was rapidly turning bright pink, and taking on the shape of Buffy’s hand. She continued to stand there with her hand protectively cradling her cheek, staring blankly at her mentor.
That was not the reaction Buffy was going for. She was hoping to wake Miriel’s anger, to stir her wrath, to have her do what she would’ve done - leave Bregolas. “C’mon, Miriel. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to stay,” she pleaded.
Miriel then turned, forcing Buffy’s hands to slide from her shoulders. She then returned to the bedroom she had always stayed in when visiting her mother’s kin. She crossed the chamber and headed out the door. Grumbling under her breath, the elder Slayer followed.
They went down the hall and descended a sweeping, spiral, white marble stairway, passing many nameless people, neither acknowledging the other. They exited through a large glass paned door that led to the back garden which overlooked the sea. Neither Slayer had spoken a word. Buffy just followed. Though irritated with her protégé, she couldn’t help but take in the beauty of her surroundings as she trailed behind the girl.
They crossed the garden and passed through a stone archway at the edge of the cliff. Carved into the rock wall was a set of steps that zigzagged down to the beach. At the bottom of the stairs, on either side, sat some long benches made out of the same rock as the magnificent Halls perched above.
Miriel sat on the nearest bench, looking sadly at the sea. Her mentor sat beside her.
Buffy figured it was time to approach the situation from a different angle. “Why do you come here?” she asked, even though she knew the answer to that question already.
“This is the safest place in the world, to me at least,” she answered somberly.
“Then why don’t you go here, for real. Imrahil would take you in. He seems to be a very understanding man. He wouldn’t let Denethor get away with - “
“ - You don’t understand my world, Buffy,” interjected Miriel. “My uncle cannot save me from my father.”
“He’s a prince! He rules his own land,” reasoned the elder Slayer.
The girl slowly turned her head toward her mentor. “Imrahil is my father’s vassal. His realm is a part of Gondor. And I do not think I need to remind you who the Lord of Gondor is.”
“You think he’d send you back to your father?” queried Buffy incredulously.
“There is no doubt that he would. He’d have no other choice. Denethor is his lord. He is bound by his lord’s will, whether he agrees with it or not. That’s life. That’s the way things work here.”
“But wouldn’t he lie, lie to your father in order to protect you,” asked the troubled elder Slayer.
“It is not in the nature of Gondorians to lie,” replied Miriel, shifting her gaze back to the sea. “And yes, I realize that I’m an anomaly and have become quite good at the art of lying. It is a disgrace to our people to do such things.” She sighed heavily. “I am a disgrace… ” she muttered. Her words were spoken so softly that Buffy couldn’t hear the last part of her sentence.
Buffy sat there, staring at Miriel with her mouth agape. She felt her own heart beginning to sink to the pit of her stomach. “So, you’re telling me that Imrahil wouldn’t protect you from Denethor, even if he knew what he was doing to you. He’d let your father continue to molest you?” she asked. Her tone was riddled with a combination of disgust and disbelief.
“Denethor’s word is law. He can do whatever he wishes, with virtually no repercussions.”
Even though the morning was warm and sunny, Buffy felt a sudden coldness come over her, chilling her to the core. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing the sleeves of her leather jacket in an attempt to ward off the chill. It was finally dawning on her how very different the people of Middle-earth were from those in her own world. Women, at least, had every chance to do whatever it was that they wanted to, and had gained equal footing with men, for the most part. While Buffy felt that there was still a long way to go with the women of her world, when compared with those of Middle-earth, they had most certainly advanced considerably. But she couldn’t help but think that someone, a woman, a Middle-earth woman, needed to make a stand, to confront her oppressors and say, “I’m not gonna take it any more!” And she felt that Miriel was that woman.
“When you consider my choices, being with Bregolas is not such a bad thing,” the young Slayer concluded in a faraway voice. “It could be worse. It was worse. At least he is not blood kin. And, perhaps in time, I will come to love him as my husband.” She stared unblinkingly into the distance. “Yes, in time I will come to love him.”
“Oh, Miriel, it doesn’t have to be this way,” said a heartbroken Buffy.
“Please, Buffy,” replied the girl, facing the older Slayer. “Let us not quarrel.” She forced a smile. “Today’s my wedding day. And as such, it is custom with our people that one should give a gift to the bride to mark the occasion. From you, I ask that we sit here, in peace, and look upon the majestic creation of the Lord of Waters. I do not have the strength to argue any more. Can you do that, for me?”
Buffy felt awful. She solemnly nodded her head in reply, finding herself too overwhelmed with emotion to speak. Miriel shifted her gaze back to the ocean and said no more. A crestfallen Buffy leaned her head against Miriel’s shoulder, feeling such pity for the newly wed bride…
“Wake up, my love,” cooed Bregolas, gently stroking Miriel’s face. He leaned over and kissed her tenderly on the lips.
Miriel’s eyes fluttered opened, only to see Bregolas’ smiling face inches from her own. She offered him a quick smile. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. I did not mean to.”
The warrior laughed heartily. “After expending such energy, you were entitled to some rest.”
The Slayer instantly felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. She covered her face with the blanket, trying to hide her embarrassment.
“There’s no need to be bashful,” said Bregolas, pulling the blanket from her grasp. “You have done nothing to be ashamed of.” His eyes twinkled with a mischievousness that Miriel had seen many times before. An impish grin came to his face, as he flirtatiously added, “In fact, I would go as far as to say - ”
“Shh,” she sounded, pressing her finger to his lips, stilling his words. “Don’t say it!”
He chuckled, noticing that Miriel’s cheeks were indeed turning redder. The warrior took her finger and planted a kiss on it. “Alright, alright,” he said, willing to change the subject. Bregolas entwined his fingers with hers. “Do you hear that?” he then asked, his eyes shifting to the roof of the structure. “The storm has passed, the rain is letting up.”
Miriel then noticed that the rain was no longer pounding ferociously against the canvas roof. Instead, she heard a spattering of rain.
“This is a great time to fish,” continued the warrior, reaching over Miriel and grabbing his shirt. “I do not know about you, but I’m famished. I think we could both use a hot meal.”
“And how exactly do you propose to start a fire when all the wood is soaking wet,” she asked, arching her brow in question.
“I’m a man of many talents,” he chortled, “as you should be well aware of now.”
Miriel wasn’t about to respond to that statement. While she was not delighted at the prospect of being Bregolas’ wife, or, more importantly, the manner in which it had happened; she had resigned herself to the hand that fate had dealt her. She wasn’t going to allow herself to fall into the abyss of despair. Things could be worse, much worse. Life was different now. And it was high time that she tried to look at the bright side of things, to see that glass half-full, as some would say. But still, she found the whole situation rather ironic. Not days ago, Miriel was willing to do nearly anything to have Bregolas return to his old self. Who would’ve thought it would come at such a price? She surely had not!
As the warrior dressed, her thoughts swiftly turned to her earlier conversation with Buffy. She thought of the elder Slayer’s words about how Miriel had given up, how she was refusing to adapt to her current set of circumstances. Although Buffy wanted her protégé to leave Bregolas, to continue on her journey alone, Miriel wasn’t about to do that. Life was too hard in the “real” world for her to contend with on her own. She needed Bregolas. However, the young Slayer was beginning to see that she relied heavily on the warrior for the simplest of things, such as food. She could agree with Buffy that she had given up, that she wasn’t really trying. But that was about to change. First up – she’d learn to master the art of patience. Come hell or high water, Miriel was determined to catch her first fish, all by herself.
“Can I go fishing with you?” she asked her companion.
Bregolas was slightly taken aback by her request. His smile broadened. “I would like nothing more,” he replied. He then tossed Miriel her clothing. She hurriedly dressed.
With their fishing gear in hand, they exited the tent into the sprinkling rain. As they crossed the spongy ground toward the riverbank, Miriel looked up at a drizzly sky. The clouds were now grey and the dark blackish clouds that she had seen earlier had moved on to the north. She pulled her cloak more tightly around her. The air felt much cooler on her skin than the warmth of their tent.
The Slayer was not dissuaded when assigned the task of digging for worms. In fact, maybe it was the rain, but to her amazement, the worms were wiggling along the surface of the ground, instead of hiding beneath it. She took that as a sign, a sign that good things were going to happen.
Her enthusiasm didn’t last long, however. She watched with envy as Bregolas pulled in fish after fish while she managed to catch nothing.
“What am I doing wrong?” she moaned after a couple of hours with no success. “Why can I not catch a fish?”
“It’s all in your technique,” answered Bregolas.
“I’m doing exactly what you told me!” she snapped back in frustration.
The warrior felt badly for his wife. “Perhaps fishing is not your strong point. Maybe hunting is something you would be better at.”
“Humph!” Her patience had reached its end. She shoved the line into Bregolas’ hand. “I’m through with fishing.” Pouting, she got to her feet and stormed off, angry that her backside was cold and wet for nothing.
Despite Bregolas’ proclamation that he was a man of many talents, he was unable to start a fire. That actually made Miriel feel good. He couldn’t do everything.
“It looks like we’ll have to eat these raw,” proposed the warrior, thrusting the pot of raw fish soup towards the Slayer.
She pushed the vessel away. “I’m not eating raw fish!” she declared, her face wrinkled in disgust.
“It won’t harm you,” said the warrior, grabbing a piece of raw fish with his fingers. He took a bite in front of a revolted Miriel. “See,” he said between chews. “It tastes good, in fact.”
“Ew,” she said, cringing away from the pot that he had thrust in her face once again. “I think I’ll pass.”
“You have to eat, Miriel. This is all we have. You need your strength. Come on.” He offered her a bite of the pinkish colored flesh. “Take a bite.”
The Slayer reluctantly took a nibble. The texture was odd and she didn’t like that burst of overwhelmingly fishy flavor. While she did end up eating her share, she kept her nosed pinch closed so she wouldn’t have to taste it.
Since Miriel had forced herself to eat something she found unpalatable, she insisted that they put some miles behind them that afternoon. The rains had stopped, and though still overcast, she thought it was perfect walking weather.
After packing up their gear, they set off on their trek, marching north once again. They had gone maybe ten miles when they caught their first glimpse of Gladden Fields. A multitude of irises in a rainbow of colors grew amidst the grasslands, gently swaying in the afternoon breeze. Miriel was disappointed that the flowers were on the opposite side of the Anduin, as she would love to have picked a bouquet of the lovely blossoms.
As they continued northward, the beauty was soon overtaken by unappealing marshes. From the base of the Misty Mountains flowed the River Gladden. Where its waters emptied into the Anduin, vast pools had formed into a great wetland filled with sedges, cattails, and rushes. The area was also home to numerous frogs, waterfowl, and, unfortunately, midges! Though the couple walked on the east side of the river, the pesky insects must have smelled them from afar. Even veering away from the stream to avoid the bloodsuckers was of no avail. The midges followed, none too eager to forego a dinner of fresh mortal blood. As the sun sank behind the mountains, their numbers grew even more. Miriel and Bregolas actually began to jog in hopes of passing that area before dark. Neither wanted to camp in the vicinity of the marshes. They managed to go on another ten miles before stopping for the night.
The couple set out again the following morning, delighted that they were nearing one of their major destinations. According to their map, they’d reach the Old Forest Road in about three days’ time, two if they were lucky. Unfortunately, the pair wasn’t progressing very rapidly due to the weather. They weren’t plagued by torrential rains as they had been the morning before, but by heat, a sweltering, muggy heat that sucked the energy from them. Onward they slowly trudged, drenched in sweat and with their backs hunched forward from the weight of their burdens. It was a relief when their day finally ended.
Unbeknownst to Miriel, Halthor returned that night, the first time since she and Bregolas had “wed”. The phantom counseled his son to make his way to Lake-town, which was in the opposite direction of Eriador, where the couple intended to go.
“Head east, my son,” said the apparition. “There you will find welcome by the lord of those lands. He will gladly receive one with such strength to aid in the defense of his realm. There, you and Miriel will be able to live the life you’ve always dreamed of, and put an end to all this Slayer business. The time has come for you to settle down with your bride and to bring forth many children so that my line can endure.”
Bregolas remained torn. Though his father’s advice had indeed worked - Miriel was now his wife - he was unsure about her giving up her Calling. Her strength seemed too great a gift not to be put to use. Since they were married, the warrior dismissed the notion that the Elves would be able to lure his beloved away from him. He controlled her, not anyone else. He shared his thoughts with the ghostly form of his father.
Halthor sniggered. “You underestimate the power of the Elves, for they are masters of manipulation. With ease they will sway Miriel from your influence, undermining all that you have worked hard for.”
“Why is it that you continue to speak of the Elves?” grumbled the frowning warrior. “We seek the Watchers, who are men, not Elves. We have no business with the Elder.”
“You have very little knowledge of the men you seek, many that continue to heed the counsel of the Elves. When the Elder Children of Ilúvatar learn that a Slayer wanders near their borders, they will seek her. They will bid her to come to them. And being still young and naïve, she will go, willing so. Then they will control her for their nefarious purposes. She will choose them over you, my son, for your wife is blinded by the tales of old. She would like nothing more than to be amongst the Elves. To her, it would be as if living in a dream.”
Talk of Elves put the warrior in a foul mood. He didn’t like them. He didn’t like them one bit. But how was he to sway Miriel to go east when she yearned to go west? How could he possibly convince her?
Halthor had the answer to that as well. “You are a man, and it’s the man’s duty to make decisions such as this. Miriel is your wife, and as such, must be compliant to your demands.”
“You do not know Miriel! She can be stubborn,” countered the warrior.
“Is that so?” replied Halthor with a smirk. “And just where was that stubbornness when you demanded that she become your wife, hmm? Did she not submit to you? She is not as stubborn as you think. She fears being alone, Bregolas. She will not leave you. Fear binds her to you. Use that. Use that to your advantage.”
Halthor’s words troubled Bregolas, particularly his ‘fear binds her to you’ statement. It was never his intent to have Miriel stay with him out of fear, and he was now beginning to see that he had done just that.
Sensing the warrior’s anxiety, and realizing a little too late that he had misspoken, that his comments were not having the desired effect he had intended, the ghostly form of Halthor began to backpedal. “I fear you may be taking my words out of context,” he quickly added, trying to hide his panic.
Bregolas glared at his father’s phantom form. “Ill counsel you have given me, Father. That, I am now beginning to see. Be gone!” He gestured for the ghost to depart. “Leave me in peace.”
“But, my son,” implored the apparition, “I am only looking out for your best interests. If you go west, death will surely await you and your beloved. I beseech you to heed - ”
“ - Be gone, I said! I am in no mood to hear the ramblings of a dead man,” commanded the warrior, balling his fists at his side. He then turned his back on the ghost and marched back to Miriel’s side.
The minion of Sauron realized that he would not be able to fix the situation, at least, not tonight. He hastily left, dreading the thought of having to inform his master of his blunder.
“My sweet Miriel, what have I done,” he whispered, caressing his sleeping wife’s cheek softly. The warrior buried his face in his hands, greatly disturbed by his actions. He feared the Miriel viewed him as she did Denethor - a heartless and wicked person whose only concern was for his own selfish desires. The warrior had now seen the folly of his ways and would do what he could to make things right with Miriel.
After a few hours, he decided to catch some fish, knowing that food would give them the strength to resume their trek in the morning. Much to his surprise, the fish weren’t biting. When Miriel awoke later that morning, he was still sitting on the bank, attempting to catch breakfast. Unfortunately, they would have no meal before starting on their journey.
The day’s march was much like the previous day’s. The couple slowly plodded on with empty stomachs, their eyes scanning their surroundings for any sign of edible plants. Unfortunately, they didn’t come across anything remotely edible. They made up for the lack of food by drinking plenty of water. The Slayer had drunk so much that she felt bloated and could hear the water swishing around in her stomach as they marched. It wasn’t a good day.
With their strength zapped, they called it a day around four o’clock. Once again, Bregolas wanted to try his hand at fishing. And once again, he failed to catch anything. It was a very dismal evening.
Exhausted, both fell asleep around nine o’clock that night. They slept until sunrise the following morning.
Upon waking, the warrior suggested that he try fishing again.
“What’s the point, Bregolas?” said the Slayer with a sigh. “I think all the fish have gone into hiding.” Trying to sound more upbeat, she added, “Today we’ll reach the Old Forest Road. Perhaps we’ll come across an inn! I’d give anything for a decent hot meal.” A dreamy look came to her face. “I’d love roasted chicken. Ooh, and a soft mattress with clean linens.”
Bregolas wasn’t as optimistic as Miriel about finding lodgings along the road. But, then again, he had never been to that part of Middle-earth and the Old Forest Road was a main highway in that region, so anything was possible.
With their hope renewed, they set off again with a little more vigor in their step. They had come such a long way, and to reach the Old Forest Road was a feat in and of itself. It would be a turning point on their journey. After walking endless miles northward, it would be a nice change to head west toward the Misty Mountains instead of walking parallel to them.
“There’s a possibility that we may come across travelers on the road,” said Bregolas whilst they marched. “I think it best that we do not use our real names, that we should call ourselves something else.”
“Do you think people would be that inquisitive as to ask our names?” asked Miriel in surprise.
“It’s a possibility. Decent people tend to stop and exchange a few kind words when they meet in passing. It would seem uncouth to pass by without so much as a greeting,” he answered.
“Do you think any from Gondor have come this far north yet?”
“I doubt it, but anything is possible. We cannot rule that out.” He shifted his gaze to his beloved. “That alone is reason enough for us to take on new identities.”
“Such as?” she queried with a half-smile, wondering what name she should call herself. “What name would you give me?”
“Let me think,” answered the warrior. After a long pause, a grin came to his face. “I’d name you Lúthien.”
“Lúthien,” she repeated with a laugh. “Would that not be considered blasphemous?”
“No!” replied Bregolas. “Why would you think such a thing? Even our forebears had names that were derived from the Lords in the West. That was done out of honor and respect. I see nothing wrong with your being called Lúthien. You are fair - the fairest woman I’ve ever seen - and brave. You are much like her, I deem.”
“I’m nothing like Lúthien,” Miriel snickered. “She was half- Maia, you know. I’m only a mere mortal.”
“You’re a Slayer, Miriel. You’ve been endowed with gifts that no mere mortal possesses. In my eyes, the name Lúthien fits you best, and that is what I’d call you.”
“And I take it that you would be Beren. Beren Erchamion,” she remarked, raising a brow in question.
“Beren would suffice,” he answered, his grin widening. “I do have both my hands, as you can see.” He waved his hands and wiggled his fingers in demonstration.
“He was called Elf-friend. I wouldn’t think you’d want to be named after someone who so dearly loved the Elves,” she teased.
The smile faded from Bregolas’ face. “Well, perhaps he did not have as good sense as me. And times were different back then.”
The Slayer chuckled. “I do not think it wise to take such legendary names for ourselves. If I were some traveler and encountered a couple by the names of Beren and Lúthien, I’d look upon them with suspicion. What are the chances of finding two people with such names?”
“Middle-earth is a vast place, Miriel. Undoubtedly, there have been people named after those two. And do you forget that one of your kinsmen was named Beren. He was the twentieth Steward of Gondor, I believe.”
“Wrong. He was the nineteenth Steward,” she said, correcting the warrior. Part of her lessons in Minas Tirith had been to memorize the line of Húrin of Emyn Arnen, her ancestor and founder of the House of Stewards. “I say we need to come up with something else. We need names that aren’t so… well-known.”
“And do you think names of our forebears are commonly known in these parts? We live in the south, Miriel. I doubt these people even know of the historic deeds of our forefathers.”
“Maybe. But I do not think we should leave that to chance. We’ll need to think of something else.”
In the end, they decided that each would name the other. Both fell quiet, mulling over possible names, as they continued their journey.
By mid-afternoon, the couple finally reached the road, just east of the Old Ford. “So, this is it, the Old Forest Road” said a disappointed Miriel. She was expecting it to be some elaborate stone road like the ones found in Minas Tirith, but instead, it was merely a dirt lane with deep ruts from wagon wheels. “I would’ve thought the road would be… more civilized,” she added, looking up and down the road in either direction. To her dismay, she saw no signs of any inns along the road.
“Not all roads in Gondor are paved with stone,” Bregolas laughed. “Have you not noticed that on your journeys to Dol Amroth?”
“For your information, I traveled by ship to Dol Amroth, not by road,” she shot back.
“Of course,” chuckled the warrior. “How could I expect differently from someone with such clout.”
“Pfft,” she sounded, rolling her eyes. “You must have me confused with someone else. I have no clout, with anyone.”
“Ah, that is where you are wrong, fair maiden,” said Bregolas lightheartedly, bowing before his beloved. “For you have much clout with me.”
Miriel shifted her gaze to the river. “How deep do you think the water is?” she asked, surveying the crossing.
“Well, it cannot be too deep. There are old wagon tracks leading into it,” he said, pointing to the ruts beneath the shallow water. “I hate the thought of getting my feet wet,” he muttered. “Perhaps I should go first.”
“Can we rest for a bit?” asked Miriel, already dumping her packs to the ground. “My back is aching. And maybe we should take our boots off. No sense in having wet feet for the rest of the day.”
“Halt!” commanded a loud, gruff voice from behind.
Both Miriel and Bregolas jumped with a start. With their adrenaline suddenly pumping, they swiftly spun around in the direction of the voice. A group of men, maybe thirty of them, dressed entirely in green, had appeared, seemingly out of the earth itself. Each was armed with a long bow; their weapons trained on the couple…
Chapter 10 - Conspiracies Unfold
Instinctively, the warrior’s and the Slayer’s hands went to the hilts of their swords, as their eyes rapidly scanned the gang of bushy, black haired men. Miriel’s first thought was that they were robbers, since they had managed to sneak up behind her and Bregolas unnoticed. She stepped in front of her bags that lay on the ground, willing to fight over her belongings.
“Who are you to make such demands on passing travelers?” demanded Bregolas, who stood much taller than the men. His face was stern, and his narrowed eyes darted from man to man. Unlike Miriel, he appeared undaunted by their presence. He had an air of authority about him that gave the strangers pause. A few even lowered their weapons, thinking that they had come upon some mighty lord.
One man, whom the couple assumed was the leader, then stepped forward from the group and spoke. “We are the Men of the Vales, and it is by our strength alone that this road and the High Pass are free from the enemy. Little love do we have for strangers, but for a fee, you may travel upon this road.”
Miriel couldn’t help but notice that several of the men were eyeing her, whispering to each other behind the back of their hands. It made her feel slightly uncomfortable. Were they struck by how odd it was to see a woman garbed in the dress of a man and wielding a sword? Or did they have some other nefarious thoughts in mind. The latter notion made the Slayer more uneasy. She found herself grasping Bregolas’ arm for comfort.
“And just how much is this toll?” Bregolas asked the leader, staring at him with the same suspicious eyes as the stranger was giving the Gondorian warrior.
“Two gold coins,” the leader answered without missing a beat.
“Two gold coins?” repeated Bregolas.
“Apiece,” added the man.
“Four gold coins!” exclaimed an outraged Bregolas. “That’s highway robbery!”
As her companion ranted and raved, cursing at the men for their attempted thievery, Miriel squatted down beside her bags and began to search the contents for the valuables she had brought with her.
“If you choose not to pay our toll,” the man argued, “then you must find another way over the mountains.” He had apparently overheard at least part of their conversation. “It is said that on the other side of the swamps of Gladden Fields is a pass into the mountains. But that way is unprotected, and rumor has it that Orcs and wargs roam freely there.” A malicious grin came to the man’s bushy bearded face. “No toll. No road!”
Bregolas was seething with rage.
“And before you get any ideas of drawing that sword of yours,” continued the leader, his eyes momentarily shifting to the hand of Bregolas’ that clutched the hilt of his blade. “I have more men in my company, many that are hidden in places that you cannot see.”
The Gondorian warrior was undeterred by the northern man’s threats. Between him and Miriel, they could take out the lot of them. He stepped closer to the leader so that he towered over his form. The company of men trained their weapons on Bregolas, even those that had lowered them moments before.
“I do not cower to extortionists and thieves,” he hissed, ready to pluck his sword from its sheath at a moment’s notice.
Each man attempted to stare the other down. Though the smaller of the two, the man of the Vales was still broadly built and quite muscular. And Bregolas did not intimidate him in the slightest. Perhaps that was because he had over a score of men as back up, each ready to release their arrows with the simplest of gestures.
Thinking that she had found a suitable item, Miriel grabbed the piece of jewelry and quickly returned to Bregolas’ side. She shot a nervous glance between the two men.
“My lords,” she began, speaking in her kindest voice in hopes of lessening the tension between the two. “There is no need for violence of any kind.” Her eyes swiftly scanned the rest of the men, hoping that her words would encourage them to lower their weapons. They did not. She turned her attention to the leader. “Please, lord. Will you accept this in payment?” she asked, thrusting out her hand. She opened her fingers, revealing a large bejeweled brooch lying on her palm.
The man’s eyes remained locked with Bregolas’. It became painfully obvious to Miriel that the two were ensnared in some idiotic display of supremacy, not atypical for those of the male gender.
Disgusted, she eased between the two, forcing them to break eye contact. “Could you please take a look at this?” she asked again. “Will this cover our toll?”
The leader’s eyes finally shifted to the Slayer’s palm. He eyed the piece with interest. In fact, his eyes seemed to light up as he picked the brooch from her hand.
Miriel felt an instant sense of relief. Maybe she was wrong, but as the man ran his thumb ran over the rough-cut stone, she could have sworn that some wistful look came to his dark brown eyes. The brooch was in the shape of a horse, and had been a gift from the Lord of Rohan to Finduilas long ago. The Slayer had never really cared for that piece of jewelry. Green wasn’t one of her favorite colors and she wasn’t really fond of horses. When it came to animal-shaped brooches or whatnot, she had always preferred the swan.
She had no idea that this man was one of the Beornings, and as such, loved all living creatures. Out of all the jewelry she had stowed in her bag, that particular piece would prove to be the best choice.
Amidst that shaggy beard of his, a small smile came to the man’s face. “Aye,” he answered softly. “This will do.”
As soon as he had spoken, the men lowered their weapons. Now that Miriel had paid the equivalent of their toll, they were free to travel upon the road.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” she continued. The man met her gaze. “Is there an inn nearby, or some place for weary travelers to rest and have a decent meal?”
Once the words had left her mouth, Bregolas grabbed her arm and pulled her backwards, causing her to nearly stumble over her bags. He dragged her several paces backwards, out of earshot from the men.
“What do you think you are doing?” he growled in a low voice. “These people are thieves, extortionists. We will have no more dealings with them!”
“They’re protecting their borders is all,” she whispered, glowering at her companion for his barbarian-like behavior.
“They’ve extorted money from us,” he shot back angrily. “That has nothing to do with protecting their borders.”
“I’m hungry,” she snapped back. “If there is some place where we can rest and have a meal, then I’m all for it.”
“You are foolish to be so trusting of strangers. What makes you think that they won’t lure us into some trap, murdering us so that they can steal our belongings, or worse? You’re too trusting, Miriel. And, I’m afraid that will be the death of us.”
“You’re over-reacting,” she countered. “I saw a look in that leader man’s eyes. He’s not evil. Cautious, but not evil.”
“You are out of your mind,” Bregolas argued. “He’s just extorted money out of us.”
“I think it’s a fair price, considering that they keep the road free from the enemy. Besides, it didn’t cost you anything. It was my brooch after all.”
Bregolas detested Miriel’s displays of stubbornness, particularly in this instance. After everything they had been through, had she learned nothing of the dangers of Middle-earth, that strangers could not be trusted.
“Fine,” he finally relented. “We’ve paid our toll, now let’s be on our way.”
Bregolas turned and began to pick up Miriel’s bags from the ground. He watched the men from out of the corner of his eye, prepared to attack in an instant, if necessary. He eyed the leader, who was huddled with five others, speaking in hushed whisperings.
“Here,” said the Gondorian warrior, handing the Slayer back her belongings.
The leader then broke away from the group. “There is no inn nearby,” he said, picking up the conversation where they had left off. “The closest on this side of the mountains is in Lake-town, which is over two hundred miles to our east.”
Miriel let out a sigh of disappointment.
“However,” the man continued, smiling. “You, my lady, are very courteous in manner and speech, unlike your companion.” He spoke the last part of his sentence rather derisively, giving Bregolas a look that matched the tone of his voice. He then shifted his gaze back to Miriel, the smile, which had momentarily faded from his bearded face, returned. “If you’d like, you can return with me to my halls. I daresay my wife would welcome fresh young faces to our home and would provide you with lodgings and food finer than any inn.”
“No,” Bregolas replied with a sneer, not wanting anything more to do with these men.
His response irritated the Slayer. Who was he to turn down such an offer without her input? Didn’t she have a say-so in this? He may not like that they were forced to pay a toll, but Miriel had assumed that bartering would take place on the road. That’s why she came prepared for such things. And, right now, the thought of food and a soft bed outweighed any decision Bregolas could make.
“Your offer is generous, my lord,” she answered sweetly. “Yet, I must ask. What fee would you charge for sharing your home and table with us?”
The man laughed. He held the brooch aloft. “This alone is worthy of my hospitality,” he replied.
Miriel’s eyes lit up. But, before she could speak, Bregolas placed an arm protectively in front of her and said, “Why would one who claims to have no love for strangers be so eager to invite them into his home?” His tone was thick with suspicion. “I deem that malice is your underlying intent.”
Several of the men grumbled and cast disapproving looks at the Gondorian warrior.
The leader raised his hand, and the men instantly fell quiet. “If malice were my intent, you would both be dead by now.” He shifted his gaze back to Miriel. “Sometimes one rewards courtesy with courtesy. My offer still stands. It’s your choice whether to accept it or not.” He offered Miriel another smile.
Despite Bregolas’ protests, Miriel quickly accepted the leader’s offer. She was too damn hungry to turn him down.
The man then said, “I assure you, er, um… what are your names again?”
This time, the Slayer spoke before Bregolas could. “I do not believe that we have introduced ourselves,” she answered. She then spat out the first two names that popped into her head. “I’m Fíriel. And this is my husband, Aratan.”
Bregolas shot Miriel an angry look.
“Good to meet you,” answered the leader with a slight bow of his bushy head. “I am Gunnulf. If you’ll follow me, we have horses tethered over there just beyond the trees,” he continued, pointing to a patch of woods to their north.
The Gondorian warrior hesitated, none too eager to stray from the road.
“Oh, come on, Aratan,” said Miriel, half-pleading to her companion. “If things go amiss - you still have your sword.”
“I assure you that no harm will come to you,” remarked Gunnulf. “We Men of the Vale are honorable and only seek to destroy Orcs and the like. Other men we do not condemn to death unless they are in league with the Dark Lord. I do not feel that you two are,” he shifted his eyes to the blade at Miriel’s side, “though, we do not see women bearing weapons of war in these parts. My heart tells me that there is some tale behind that. Perhaps, in good time, you might share that story with me.”
Neither Miriel nor Bregolas replied to that. However, the Gondorian warrior was forced to follow his beloved when she took off with Gunnulf. Bregolas was having all sorts of bad feelings about this. He only wished he could convince Miriel of that.
The five men that Gunnulf was speaking with earlier also came with them. They followed a trail into the woods for about four hundred yards. They then came upon a clearing where dozens of horses were tethered to trees, lazily grazing on the grassy turf.
Both Miriel and Bregolas were offered a horse of their own to ride, but the Gondorian warrior refused, insisting that he and his wife ride together on one steed. He feared that the men might try to separate him from his beloved if they rode separately. This way, if he saw any sign of trouble, he could take off, knowing that Miriel was safe with him.
The further north they rode, the greater disquiet fell upon Bregolas. Even Miriel began to have some doubts, not realizing how far north of the road they would have to travel. The dwellings of the Men of the Vale were nearly thirty miles from the Old Forest Road. Bregolas was not at all happy about traveling so far out of the way to experience a few mere creature comforts.
The Men of the Vale lived in scattered homesteads on both sides of the Anduin. Tall, thorny hedges formed the boundary of each man’s yard, wooden gates marking the entrances. Miriel’s excitement grew when she saw cows, sheep and chickens. That sight alone caused her mouth to salivate. She could barely remember the taste of real meat. Little did she know that the Beornings so loved animals that they refused to eat them. She would discover that bit soon enough.
A couple of young boys, barefooted and with shaggy black hair, along with their pet dog, greeted them. They seemed to be very excited to see “fresh faces” as Gunnulf had referred to the newcomers. The others that had accompanied them said their farewells and rode on to their own homes, or so Miriel thought. Once they had dismounted, the boys tended to the horses, while the dog cautiously approached the couple, sniffing them intently.
“She won’t bite,” said Gunnulf, noticing Miriel’s discomfort as the dog sniffed her in the most inappropriate of places. “Get out of here, Bestle! Get going!” he added, shooing the hound away. The dog then ran off, disappearing under the floorboards of the long front porch.
“Eirá!” the man then shouted. “Eirá, we’ve got company!”
Only seconds later, a woman came bounding out of the open front door, wiping her hands on the bottom of her apron. She brushed aside the wisps of black hair that had escaped her long braid, attempting to make herself presentable to their ‘guests’. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, tanned and slender. She smiled at the strangers. “Welcome,” she said, stepping down the steps of the porch.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought some weary travelers home, Eirá,” he said, as his wife approached.
“No, not at all,” answered the woman good-naturedly.
After quick introductions, Eirá announced, “Supper’s nearly ready.” Wanting to be a good hostess, her thoughts swiftly turned to her visitors accommodations. “We can put our guests in the girls’ room for the night.”
“Aye,” replied Gunnulf with a nod.
“Well, come on in,” said the woman cheerfully, motioning for her guests to follow her into the wooden house. “I’ll have the girls set out a couple more plates. We’ve got plenty to eat.”
Miriel and Bregolas followed their hosts into their home. As they crossed the threshold, the couple smelled the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread lingering in the air. It was a heavenly scent. The Slayer’s eyes quickly surveyed her surroundings. The entire interior was wrought of wood - the ceilings, floor, and walls. The only exception was a large stone fireplace off to her left. The room had a rather dark appearance. A couple of large, brightly colored rugs broke up the monotony of wood. Straight ahead, through an oversized doorway, was the kitchen. Two little girls, twins by the look of them, were busy doling out food into serving dishes.
“Set two more places, sweeties,” called Eirá to her daughters. “We’ve got guests tonight.” Their host then turned her attention back to her visitors. “I imagine you’d like to clean up before supper,” she commented, her eyes appraising her guests’ disheveled appearance. “We can remedy that quick enough.”
Miriel suddenly felt self-conscious and hastily combed her hair with her fingers. The woman smiled. “You look fine, dear,” she said, stepping closer to the Slayer. “But your hair,” she continued, lifting a handful of locks and examining it closely, “your hair looks like it has been butchered. If you’d like, I can even it out after supper.”
“That would be lovely,” answered a grateful Miriel.
The two boys then came barreling into the house.
Eirá instructed her husband to show their guests to their room as she dashed into the kitchen, voicing instructions to her children as she did so.
Gunnulf led the couple down a hallway to their right. They then entered through the first door to their left - the girls’ room. The room was decent sized. Set against one wall were two four-poster beds set a few feet apart. Opposite the bed was a wall covered with shelving. On each plank were neatly arranged dolls in all shapes and sizes. Sitting nearby was an elaborately carved two-story dollhouse. So intricate were the details that it brought a smile to Miriel’s face.
“‘Twas made by the dwarves,” said Gunnulf, noticing Miriel’s expression.
“It’s beautiful,” she remarked, marveling at what she considered a work of art.
Eirá then came into the room, carrying a ewer of water. She breezed by the occupants, and placed the container beside the basin sitting on the dresser. She pulled a couple of clean washcloths and a bar of soap from the pocket of her apron and laid it beside the bowl. She instructed her guests to hurry, that supper was on the table. She then returned to the kitchen.
“Don’t be long, then,” said Gunnulf. He then turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Miriel and Bregolas dumped their bags on the floor beside the nearest wall.
“This room is too girly,” complained the warrior.
“Oh, lighten up, Aratan,” said a cheery Miriel, as she made her way to the dresser so that she could clean up.
“Why is it that you called me that? Why Aratan?” he queried, watching her from across the room.
“I don’t know. It was the first name to come to my mind.” She poured some water into the basin. “Do you have a problem with it? I thought you would approve. It is a lordly name after all.”
“I care not,” he replied stiffly.
Miriel rolled her eyes. “Relax,” she said, as she lathered up her cloth. “These people are not going to murder us in our sleep.”
“How do you know that? Evil comes in many forms.”
“Pfft! Stop being so paranoid. Now you’re being ridiculous,” she remarked, washing her face and hands. “Just hurry. We do not need to keep our hosts waiting. That would be rude.”
As Bregolas washed, she removed her sword, and placed it beside the headboard of her bed. She informed her companion to do the same, deeming it inappropriate to be armed at their hosts’ table. The warrior reluctantly did so. They then left the twins’ room, and joined their hosts in the kitchen.
The men folk immediately rose from their seats when the pair entered. Two chairs had been placed on opposite sides of the table, one between the boys, and the other between the girls.
“You shall sit here, Fíriel, between my sons, Norgren and Hallvor,” proclaimed Gunnulf. Norgren, the oldest it turned out, pulled out her chair.
“What a gentleman,” she said, taking her place at the table. “Thank you.”
The boy offered her a quick smile before plopping back down in his chair. Eirá did a quick round of introductions, as Bregolas took his seat between the twins, Larsa and Lovis. Gunnulf then lead the family in prayer, thanking the Lords in the West for their many blessings. That was something that the Slayer no longer did. How could she thank any of the Valar for their blessings when her own life had taken such a terrible turn for the worse? She had stopped praying back in February, when the Valar refused to answer her pleas to thrust Denethor from her bed. Determined not to be consumed by such gloomy thoughts, she then turned her attention to the spread upon the table.
The family began passing around serving bowls, each piled high with steamy vegetables of all kinds. It took a few seconds for the Slayer to realize that there was no meat on the table. She was surprised at that, especially after seeing that the Men of the Vale kept livestock.
“I do not mean to sound rude or ungrateful,” she began. “Everything looks delicious! But, I couldn’t help but notice that there were many cows, sheep and chickens outside, but there is none on the board. Is there a reason for that?”
“We don’t eat meat,” answered Gunnulf, shoving a spoonful of peas and mushrooms into his mouth.
“Oh,” replied Miriel, feeling slightly embarrassed.
“What my husband has failed to mention,” added Eirá, “is that we so love all goodly creatures that we do not eat them.”
“They’re our friends, aren’t they, Mommy?” spoke up little Larsa.
“Yes, sweetie. They are,” she answered, beaming at her daughter.
“It is wicked to eat the flesh of any creature,” piped up young Hallvor.
“Then we are wicked,” remarked Bregolas between bites. “We eat meat.”
Miriel felt the blood rushing to her face. She gave her companion a look of warning. He turned his attention back to his plate. The air in the room seemed to change. Tension fell over all the occupants.
Eirá shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The topic of conversation had to change, and swiftly. “So, where are you two heading?” she asked, her eyes darting between Miriel and Bregolas.
“Archet,” replied Miriel, having no idea why that name had sprung from her mouth.
Bregolas shifted his eyes to her, wondering why she would say such a thing when he himself had no idea where they were going.
“We have kin there,” the Slayer continued, embellishing her lie. “The menace of Mordor grows in the south, so we thought we’d move north, far north.”
Her comments seemed to pique everybody’s interest. For the Men of the Vale dwelt far from the threat of Mordor and very seldom did they hear news from the south.
“Evil dwells in these parts too, I’m afraid,” remarked Gunnulf grimly.
“I thought you were from the south,” said Eirá. “Whereabouts? Gondor? Rohan perhaps?”
Miriel could have kicked herself for walking into that one. How could she be such a fool? An awkward silence fell about the table, as all eyes were fixed on her, waiting for an answer. To make matters worse, she didn’t understand why that all of a sudden she found herself uncomfortable at the thought of lying to strangers when she had become so good at it with her loved ones.
“Ithilien,” Bregolas finally answered, meeting Miriel’s gaze.
The Slayer looked gratefully at her companion, gladdened that he was quick to fix the situation.
“I would not take you, Aratan, as one to flee from any,” remarked a skeptical Gunnulf, raising a thick, bristly brow. “You stood unyielding against me and my company.”
Bregolas locked eyes with the man. “There are far worse things in this world than mortal men. In the south dwell the worse of the worst. You may have Orcs, wargs, and trolls in these parts. But, in the south, in the south dwell the Dark Lord’s greatest servants, whose presence alone brings utter terror upon the stoutest of hearts. The Nine. The Ring-wraiths. Nazgûl they are called in the Black Speech. They wield unimaginable powers, and are favored greatly by the Dark Lord. Yes, my good man, I am unashamed to say that I would flee before them, that the menace of those wicked creatures drove me north.”
There was such an ominous tone to Bregolas’ voice that his remarks seemed a plausible reason for him and Miriel to depart Gondor. As the warrior resumed eating his meal, an uneasy silence fell upon the occupants, and it seemed as if the room had suddenly become darker.
“Let us speak no more of such things!” demanded Eirá. “You’re frightening the children.”
Bregolas’ words had indeed frightened the children of Gunnulf and Eirá. All four continued to stare wide-eyed at the Gondorian warrior, their faces pale from talk of the Dark Lord and his most trusted servants.
Gunnulf chuckled under his breath as he rose from his seat. He reached up, and turned the key of the oil lamp that hung from a beam over the table. The flame shot up and the room instantly brightened. “How ‘bout some ale, Aratan? You seem like an ale man to me.”
The warrior’s ears perked up upon hearing that. “Yes, thank you.”
Their host went over to the sideboard where a large barrel of ale sat. He grabbed two pewter tankards and began filling them with the amber-colored beverage.
“While you’re at it, open a bottle of wine for Fíriel and myself,” instructed Eirá. “You do like wine, don’t you dear?” asked the woman, looking kindly at Miriel.
“Oh, yes. Very much so,” answered the Slayer, excited at the prospect of drinking something other than water.
Normal, idle chitchat replaced talk of the Dark Lord and his ilk for the remainder of the meal. After the women had washed the dishes, everybody went out onto the front porch where they had a dessert of honey cakes with fresh berries and whipped cream. Though the meal lacked any meat, it was hearty nonetheless and both Miriel and Bregolas were quite full.
With nightfall coming early, due to the clouds that had rolled in earlier in the evening, Eirá told Miriel that she thought it best to trim her hair in the morning. The Slayer agreed; as she was feeling rather tired after having eaten to her heart’s content. Both she and Bregolas turned in early in hopes of having an early start in the morning.
Bregolas took the bed nearest the door. “I sleep lightly,” he said. “If anyone creeps in, I’ll surely wake.”
The Slayer didn’t care which bed she slept in. She was just grateful to have one. Not to mention a pillow for her weary head. She had come to miss hers a lot. Only minutes after lying down, she fell fast asleep.
In the middle of the night, around one thirty in the morning, Gunnulf eased open the bedroom door in which his guests lay sleeping. The cool, silver light of the moon shone through the windows, providing the only light in the chamber. He waited a moment or two to make sure that the man would not wake in alarm. Aratan remained still, lying on his back, and snoring softly.
Slowly Gunnulf entered the chamber. When the floorboards suddenly groaned from his weight, he stopped, cringing, his eyes darting to Aratan, hoping beyond all hope that he would not wake. Still, the stranger slept, oblivious to Gunnulf’s presence. He tiptoed over to Miriel’s bed. She too seemed to be in a deep sleep. He crouched down, leaning over her sleeping form.
Suddenly, her eyes darted opened. Startled to see Gunnulf’s face hovering over hers, her eyes widened and before she could cry out to Bregolas, the man clamped his hand over her mouth.
“Do not make a sound. Do not wake your husband,” he breathed in her ear. She could feel his bristly beard against her cheek, the warmth of his breath on her skin.
Miriel felt herself beginning to panic. The most horrible of thoughts came rushing to her mind.
“Do not be afraid,” Gunnulf whispered. “My lord wishes to speak with you, and only you. I promise; no harm will come to you.” He then slowly pulled his hand from her mouth.
The Slayer felt herself gasping for air. Her breathing sounded so loud that she actually glanced at Bregolas to see if she had wakened him. She had not. By the looks of it, he had drunk so much ale the night before that nothing would wake him. Annoyed by that, she looked back at the shadowy form of Gunnulf.
“Shh,” he sounded softly with his finger to his lips.
Miriel thought for a moment. Should she trust Gunnulf, or wake Bregolas? She decided to go with her gut-instinct, to trust her host. She slid out of bed before realizing that she was half-naked. She swiftly concealed herself with the covers from the bed. She was dressed only in one of Bregolas’ clean shirts.
“Dress quickly. Meet me in the kitchen,” uttered Gunnulf in a nearly inaudible voice before slinking out of the chamber. When Miriel heard the floorboards squeak, she turned to her companion, who remained unfazed by the sound. She then quickly changed into her own clothing and slipped out of the bedroom, closing the door carefully behind her.
The Slayer went straight to the dimly lit kitchen. Seated at the table in her nightdress was Eirá. She sat hunched over the steaming cup of tea clutched in her hands. When she heard her guest enter, she looked up. She looked so sad. Miriel could see that something was wrong.
“What is it?” she asked, her eyes shifting from Eirá to Gunnulf, who stood behind his wife, rubbing her shoulders.
Gunnulf answered as he came around the table. “We must go. Quickly now.”
“I- I don’t understand,” commented Miriel, unsure about what was happening.
“Shh,” he sounded again. “Let’s not wake the girls.” He grabbed the Slayer by the elbow and led her through the main room where the girls lay asleep on the floor. The dog lay nearby, and lifted her head, watching, as the two exited the house.
“What’s this about?” asked Miriel yet again, as they descended the porch steps.
“It is as I told you. My lord wishes to speak with you.”
“Your lord? Who’s your lord? And why would he want to speak to me?” The questions rolled off her tongue, as they crossed the yard toward the gate. The moon shone brightly above, casting the landscape in a cool, pale silvery light.
“Grimbeorn is his name. He is a good man, Fíriel.” In a low, sad voice, he added, “Better than me.”
“But I still don’t understand what’s going on!” she argued. “And why is it that he only wants to see me? Why not Aratan?”
“Your husband… ” he began, hesitating as he spoke. “Your husband is… he can be difficult to deal with and… and somewhat unreasonable. You, on the other hand, are not so quick to judge. I can only hope that you will forgive me.”
Miriel felt her stomach lurch upon hearing that. She stopped, refusing to go any further. “Forgive you for what,” she demanded, her heart beating wildly in her chest.
Gunnulf wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Let’s go. We do not have any time to waste. You will find out soon enough.”
It became painfully obvious that Gunnulf wasn’t going to reveal what he had done, or what he was doing. She didn’t know what the hell was going on. Her head was spinning with too many thoughts and possible conspiracy theories. They exited the gate and turned right, heading north down a lane.
Miriel cursed herself for not bringing a weapon. She had left her sword back at the house beside her bed. She then wondered if she had left Bregolas vulnerable to attack. Would Gunnulf’s men attack her companion whilst he slept?
No, she told herself, attempting to calm her frazzled nerves. What about me? What do they want with me?
With her mounting paranoia, Buffy’s voice came to her head, saying, “Your body is a weapon. Don’t forget that, Miriel.”
Hearing the elder Slayer’s voice gave her a boost of confidence. If there were some sort of plot to capture her, she’d snap the necks of those trying to imprison her. She had done it before with the Uruks and she wouldn’t hesitate to do it again, even to mortal men.
They had gone maybe a quarter of a mile before they passed through another gate. Immediately, a group of dogs came running to the hedge fence, barking madly. Up ahead, Miriel saw a sprawling wooden house. Unlike the homes they had passed on their trek, light spilled out of a few windows of the abode.
Someone whistled, a man by the sound of it. The dogs stopped in their tracks, turned, and ran back through the open front door of the dwelling.
Miriel could literally feel the blood pumping through her veins. Her senses heightened. Her eyes scanned her surroundings for weapons and possible escape routes. If anything diabolical were about to take place, she’d incapacitate her captors and leap the nearest wall of hedge.
Stop thinking like that! barked the voice in the back of her mind. You’re jumping to conclusions. If any wanted to capture you, they would’ve done it whilst you slept. For goodness sakes - stop being so paranoid! You’re beginning to sound like Bregolas!
The Slayer took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled as she and Gunnulf climbed the steps of the porch. The man stood at the threshold and knocked on the doorframe.
“Come in!” a booming voice said from within.
Gunnulf motioned for Miriel to enter. He followed behind. She stopped just inside the doorway, in a long room with low beamed ceilings. Numerous dogs lay about the area, some on the furniture, others on the floor.
A large, burly man came into the room. His bulky frame nearly filled the entire doorway. He had the same bushy black hair as Gunnulf, and was dressed in a long green tunic that went nearly to his knees. His bare arms were folded across his barrel of a chest and Miriel couldn’t help but notice the bulging muscles of his limbs. Though not as tall as Bregolas, the man looked intimidating nonetheless. He studied the Slayer intently with his dark brown eyes.
“This is Fíriel, my lord,” said Gunnulf, who then turned and headed toward the door.
Miriel spun around. “Where are you going?” she asked, none too anxious to be left alone with the stranger and his beastly dogs.
“I’ll just be outside. You are safe with Grimbeorn, Fíriel. I promise,” Gunnulf said in his most reassuring voice.
The Slayer then faced the man called Grimbeorn. He continued to stand there, watching her in silence. Without saying a single word, he then turned and went back into the room that he had just come from. Miriel didn’t know what she was supposed to do. Should she wait, or should she follow? After several long seconds, she decided to follow him. She drew a deep breath, skirting around the dogs toward the adjoining room.
Grimbeorn was in the kitchen, seated in a great black chair at the table. Two more dogs lay by his feet. Miriel stepped just inside the room and waited for him to address her. He didn’t. He just sat there, staring at her.
Taking his silence for rudeness, she barked, “Why is that you’ve summoned for me in the middle of the night?”
His bushy brows darted upward. Miriel thought that perhaps he was not used to a woman making such demands of a lord, especially within his own halls.
After a long pause, he finally spoke in a gravelly sounding voice. “It seems that Gunnulf is overcome with remorse.”
It was now Miriel’s brows that shot up. She waited, expecting Grimbeorn to elaborate further, but he did not.
“Why?” she asked.
“My men are good people. Honorable,” he answered. “But sometimes, sometimes they can be - what’s the word - greedy. I do not begrudge them from collecting their tolls on the road for it is only fair that they be compensated for keeping the road free from the enemy. I’m a simple man and have no need for treasures and the like,” Grimbeorn explained. “Yet, two days ago, a company of men came out of the west. They claimed to be from Gondor.”
Miriel felt her blood run cold.
“They told my men that one of their traitorous Captains had absconded with their lord’s daughter and offered a mighty bounty for her return.” He paused and cocked his head, studying her reaction.
The Slayer tried her best to hide her horror at hearing such news. She tried her best to remain poised. However, her body’s reaction was beyond her control. The blood instantly drained from her face, leaving her paler looking than usual. Goose bumps sprung up all over her flesh despite the warmth of Grimbeorn’s halls.
“Then lo and behold,” he continued, “who should show up, not two days later, but you and your… husband. And from what Gunnulf says, you both bear a striking resemblance to the description given. In fact, they even had sketches of those they had been searching for.” Grimbeorn paused. “What do you think of that?”
Miriel’s mouth had gone dry, and she wasn’t sure how to answer that question. The thought that her pursuers were nearby was more than unnerving; it was outright terrifying. She loathed any type of confrontation with those from Gondor, but, if push came to shove, she would fight them, she would even go as far as killing them. There was no way she was going back to Denethor. She’d rather die than suffer the abuse at the hands of her father.
Grimbeorn leaned forward in his seat. “I see fear in your eyes, Fíriel. What is it that you run from? What misfortune has brought one so young and fair to travel so far from your home?”
The Slayer shifted her eyes to the floor. She could no longer bear looking into the piercing eyes of Grimbeorn. He knows, said that voice in her mind. He knows who you really are. No matter what, deny it. Do not confirm his statements. Miriel felt as if all the air was being squeezed from her lungs. She tried hiding this fact from the man who continued to stare at her from beneath his bushy brows.
“A few from Gunnulf’s party have already left. They are riding into Mirkwood as we speak. They will find the men of Gondor and will tell them that you and your husband are planning to travel west, west over the mountains.”
Miriel’s head shot up. She met Grimbeorn’s gaze. She opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it, and snapped her mouth shut. Confirm nothing! hissed her inner voice.
“Rejoice in knowing that Gunnulf’s wife has grown rather fond of you in a short amount of time, Fíriel. It is by her prayer alone that caused her husband to see the light, as some say. She believes that whatever it was that drove you from your life of leisure into the wilds of Middle-earth must have been quite terrible.” He rose from his chair. “I would say that you have at least a few days head start, if you depart soon. I would counsel you not to wait until daybreak. I will lend you a couple of my horses, but they will not go further than this side of the mountains. They are intelligent, and swift of foot, and will get you on your path by the speediest way possible.”
Feeling overwhelmed by Grimbeorn’s generosity, she found her voice, and asked, “Why would you do that?”
He studied her with those piercing brown eyes once again. “I may not have the wisdom of the elves or the magic of wizards, but I can plainly see that there is something about you, something… special, that I cannot put into words.” Grimbeorn left it at that. He didn’t dare reveal that he could perceive a certain doom awaited this young girl, and he hoped that with his help, perhaps she could avert it.
He escorted her out of his home and to the stables. He uttered something that Miriel couldn’t decipher and then two horses came trotting out of the building. By this time, Gunnulf had joined them. Both she and her host climbed atop the steeds. They would be riding bareback, something that she had never done before. Miriel looked down at Grimbeorn and mumbled a quick thank you, before the horses took off on their own, heading toward the gate.
“I’m really sorry, Fíriel,” said Gunnulf grimly. “I do not blame you for hating me. I would hate me too.”
“I don’t hate you,” answered Miriel, her mind swimming with thoughts. She was dreading the thought of waking Bregolas and telling him of what had transpired. Somehow, she knew that he would blame her for this unfortunate event. It had been she, after all, who had insisted on going to the halls of Gunnulf in the first place.
By the time they had reached Gunnulf’s home, Bregolas had already wakened, and, from the sound of it, the rest of the household too. The warrior was going off on one of his tirades, having just discovered minutes ago that Miriel was gone. Poor Eirá was trying her best to calm her guest, but to no avail.
“Shit!” Miriel grumbled, leaping from her horse and flying into the house.
Once inside, she first saw the twins huddled together, hiding behind the sofa, utterly terrified by Bregolas’ rants.
“Shut it!” she bellowed, as she headed straight to the kitchen.
Bregolas popped out of the doorway, spewing a rapid succession of questions. “Where have you been? Are you alright? Where did you go? Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Calm down,” she demanded, angry that he had upset the children.
He stopped in front of her. His eyes inspected her for any apparent injuries.
“I’m fine,” she said. “We must go. Now.”
“Why? Why now?” he queried, still wroth over the fact that he didn’t know what was going on.
“Just get our stuff together. There’s no time to waste. I’ll tell you on the way.” She swept past him and into the kitchen where Eirá stood flanked by her two sons.
“I tried to explain, Fíriel, but he would not listen,” said the distraught woman.
Miriel went up to Eirá and took her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you and your children had to go through that.” She motioned toward the front room with her head, indicating Bregolas’ raucous behavior. She then smiled. “Thank you. Thank you for your hospitality and… your understanding.”
“I apologize for Gunnulf. He… he got caught up - ”
The Slayer raised her hand, stopping the woman mid-sentence. “It’s alright. No harm, no foul. At least, not yet. We’ll be alright.” She gave Eirá’s hand a reassuring squeeze and offered one last smile. She then turned, making her way back to the main room.
“Wait! Fíriel!” said the woman, rushing to the Slayer’s side. She thrust a cloth sack into her chest. “This is for you. Some provisions, for the road. I only wish I could do more.”
“I wish there was some way that I could repay you,” said an appreciative Miriel, wrapping her arms around the bag. “You’ve done so much for us. And, I’m grateful.”
Gunnulf had entered the room and tried to hand the Slayer back the brooch.
“Keep it,” she said.
“I cannot. Not after what I’ve done,” he said, still overwhelmed with guilt.
Miriel smiled. “I think that would look lovely on Eirá.” From beyond the doorway, she saw Bregolas waiting. “Take care. All of you,” she said, glancing at those gathered in the kitchen.
She and Bregolas then left the house. Once outside, she girded her sword around her waist and the two divided their gear between them. They then mounted Grimbeorn’s horses and took off. Miriel shared her story on the way, telling the warrior everything that had happened from the moment Gunnulf had wakened her.
Bregolas became somber after all that he had heard. He couldn’t help but think that his father’s ghost had indeed helped him and Miriel on their journey. If they had not rested for those two days, they surely would’ve met up with their kinsmen on the Old Forest Road. However, Halthor had advised Bregolas to start a new life with Miriel in Lake-town. And after hearing that the company of Gondorian warriors had gone that way, he was not about to follow.
It seemed quite clear that their fate was to go west, west over the Misty Mountains as they had originally intended. But, unfortunately, the warrior found himself haunted by the words of Halthor, that he and Miriel would meet their demise if they went that way. He wondered if that was where they would meet the company from Gondor, for he knew, deep down, that being referred to as a traitor amongst his kin, that his punishment would most certainly be death.
For the first time since their departure from Minas Tirith, Bregolas felt a sense of hopelessness. He felt as if a shadow had crept over him, gnawing at his heart.
Miriel waited expectantly for the tongue-lashing from her companion, knowing that he would blame her for all that had transpired. She watched him as they rode. In the pale light of the moon, he looked grim, grimmer than usual. After much goading on her part, he finally spoke.
“At least we now have news of our kinsmen,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I knew it would only be a matter of time before our paths crossed. And I cannot say that I am surprised that it will most likely take place on a main highway. That is why I wanted to avoid them at all cost. But, alas, there is no other way over the mountains than by the road that we must travel.”
“Gunnulf mentioned there was a pass west of Gladden Fields,” reminded the Slayer. “If you think we should go that way… ” Her words trailed off. She dreaded the thought of going back.
“No. No, we cannot go back,” he answered, solemn in tone. “We will have to take our chances on the old road. If luck is on our side, we will pass over the mountains and leave the road as soon as we may.”
They fell quiet, neither speaking until they had reached the Anduin.
“This is not the same crossing that we were at before,” observed Miriel, noticing an island of rock midstream.
“No, it is not,” replied Bregolas, calling their horses to a halt. “Let’s replenish our water supply while we can, for the time has come when we will no longer be traveling along the Great River.”
“How far before we reach the next one, do you know?” asked the Slayer, as she slid off her steed.
“I can not say with certainty,” he answered, shoving his opened container beneath the cool water. “There may be some spring heads at the western base of the mountains. There are none marked on the map that I can rightly recall.”
That seemed a dismal thought. Water was essential to surviving in the wilderness. That much Miriel knew. She made a point to top off those water skins that were not yet empty, wanting to make sure they had plenty of water until they came across their next water supply.
They hurriedly finished their task, neither perturbed by their soaking wet feet. At this point, they were both eager to put as many miles behind them as they could.
Grimbeorn’s steeds took them back to the Old Forest Road at the feet of the Misty Mountains. That’s where the horses stopped, refusing to go any further.
The couple then set off on foot, beginning their trek up the winding road of the mountains. The walk was arduous, and after only a mile or so, Miriel could feel a burning sensation in the back of her calves. Apparently, those muscles hadn’t been used to that extreme in quite a while, and it took some time before the burning turned into a dull ache.
When the sun rose in the east, they could actually see how much progress they had made during the night. They were nearly three quarters of the way to the top and the view of the landscape below was spectacular.
They took a short break, sitting against the rock face of the wall. There, they looked into the bag that Eirá had provided. They were quite delighted by the vittles, and helped themselves to one honey cake apiece. Bregolas said that once they reached the other side of the Misty Mountains, they would celebrate their triumph with the mini-feast that their hosts’ had provided.
The higher they climbed, the cooler the air became. Throughout the night, they had contended with a crisp breeze out of the east, but as the sun climbed over the horizon, the heat soon became brutal, even at midmorning. Miriel began to sweat profusely, and as the cool air whooshed against her damp skin, she experienced sudden chills that caused her body to tremble and her teeth to chatter. She attempted to combat those chills by wearing her winter cloak. However, that caused her to sweat even more, and worsen her condition. By the time they began to make their descent on the western side of the Misty Mountains, the Slayer had already begun to run a low fever.
Bregolas’ concern grew. The last thing they needed was for Miriel to get sick, especially on the High Pass. It would only be a matter of time before the Gondorian warriors returned and there was still the lingering threat of Orcs and wargs that called that mountain chain home. The Men of the Vales mostly defended the eastern slope, though they also kept the High Pass free from the enemy. On occasion, Bregolas had spotted men, concealed in grey cloaks, hidden amidst the rocky ridges along the mountain pass.
As soon as Miriel began to lag behind, suffering from fatigue, Bregolas called for another break. He insisted that Miriel take some tonic to help bring down her fever. If he hadn’t been so overburdened with supplies, he would’ve happily carried her for a ways. Once they neared the bottom of the mount, the Slayer’s condition had vastly improved and her fever had broken. The day was merely hot and they no longer had to deal with the cool mountain breezes.
The warrior was eager to leave the road, but in doing so, he and Miriel would have to clamber atop steep shoulders of rock, some that looked nearly impassible from his point of view. He needed time to think about which path they should travel upon, and which risk outweighed the other. Staying on the road would make their trek much easier, but the threat of being confronted by the enemy would be greater. To transverse the mountain slopes would be perilous, but would also lessen their chances of encountering anyone.
The couple took another break so that Bregolas could ponder his decision. As Miriel sat atop a boulder on the south shoulder of the road, he climbed atop a crag on the opposite side. He looked to the north, plotting a potential course in his mind.
A tired Miriel watched the warrior intently. Since leaving Minas Tirith, she had learned a great deal more about Bregolas and his thinking process. She could see that he wanted to leave the road, to travel upon a dangerous and unfamiliar path that she was none too eager to take. While she was well aware of the looming threat of their kinsmen, she didn’t like the idea of climbing over rocks for miles and miles. From above, she had noticed many deep ravines, and now that they were on the shoulder of the mount, she could see that much of the rock was smooth and that it would be nearly impossible to get a decent foothold.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she finally said.
A smile came to the warrior’s face. He slowly turned, facing his beloved. “Is that so? And just what is it that I am thinking?” he queried, his smile never wavering.
“You want us to leave the road and to cross the rocks. I do not want to do that,” she replied. “Did you not notice the deep ravines from above? Steep drops that come out of nowhere? We would be forced to travel extra miles unnecessarily, that is, if one of us does not fall, breaking a leg, or worse, our necks.”
The smile quickly faded from Bregolas’ face. Miriel’s argument seemed sound.
She stood. “Let us stay on the road until we reach that forest,” she continued, pointing to the woods near the bottom of the slope. “Then we can leave the road and use the trees as cover.”
Shielding his eyes from the sinking sun, Bregolas shifted his gaze to the west. “But we will not reach the woods until tomorrow.” He looked back at Miriel. “I loathe the thought of having to sleep so close to the road. This area is home to the enemy.”
“We’ll sleep in shifts, as we have been doing,” she answered. “I do not want to leave the road. It’s too dangerous.”
Bregolas let out a heavy sigh. “Danger lurks everywhere. There is no escaping it.” He leapt off the crag, landing back onto the roadway. While he wasn’t fond of the idea, he relented. “If that is your wish, then so be it,” he answered rather grimly. “Let us go on a while longer and if we should come upon a suitable place to sleep, then we’ll stop for the night.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Miriel in agreement. She slid off the boulder, and once again, she and the warrior set off down the road.
They had gone on a few more miles when they came upon a natural shelf in the mountain’s shoulder. It looked to be about one hundred feet long by fifty feet wide. Scattered thickets and tufts of grass grew out of crevices in the stone ledge, offering some cover from the roadway. The couple inspected the shelf and found a few old ragged cloth bags.
“It looks like others have camped here,” remarked the Slayer, picking up one of the tattered sacks and flinging it to the side.
“Probably dwarves,” answered Bregolas, his eyes scanning the area.
“I wonder if we’ll come across any, dwarves, I mean,” said Miriel. She had never seen a dwarf. As far as she knew, none lived in the southlands.
“The longer we stay on this road, the greater the chance is that we’ll run into someone, including a dwarf,” replied Bregolas.
“So, what do you think? Will this do?” asked Miriel, eager to call it a day.
The warrior nodded. “I don’t think we’ll find any better place than this.”
“Good! I’m famished!” announced Miriel, dropping her bags to the ground.
Though some vegetation sprung from the cracks, the surface was rough and uneven, and very uncomfortable. They lay out their bedrolls and blankets in an attempt to cushion the rock floor. Beneath a beautiful pinkish-purple sky, they sat, facing west, watching the sun set as they dined on the fare provided by Eirá. The bag that their host had given them contained a couple of wheels of cheese, a loaf of bread, honey cakes and several apples. She had also packed a silver flask containing liquor, not wine, as Miriel had hoped.
“Ah,” sounded Bregolas after taking a swig. “This will put hair on your chest,” he chuckled, offering the container to the Slayer.
She frowned. “And why on earth would I want hair on my chest?” she grumbled, pushing the flask away.
“Oh, come on, Miriel. Have a taste,” the warrior urged, shoving the flask beneath her nose.
“It smells foul,” she said, wrinkling her nose in disgust as she sniffed the lip of the container. She had never drunk spirits before. She could never understand why anyone would ingest something that smelled so horrid.
“It’ll rid your body of any lingering sickness,” he added, trying to coerce her into taking a drink. “Look at it as medicine.”
The Slayer gave in, and took a sip of the bitter-tasting liquor. Immediately, she felt the warmth trailing down her throat and into her stomach. She shuddered. “It tastes as foul as it smells,” she said, her face twisted in revulsion.
Bregolas laughed. “Tastes as fine as any spirits that I have ever had,” he said, taking another swallow.
After a few minutes, when the bitter aftertaste subsided, Miriel took another gulp. Her companion seemed to be enjoying the beverage so much that she thought she would too, once she had gotten used to the taste. The more they drank, the more relaxed they became. Only a few sips later, the Slayer found herself feeling lightheaded and giddy.
“I’m hot,” Miriel declared, tugging at the collar of her shirt of mail with one hand, while using the other to fan herself.
An impish glint came to Bregolas’ eyes. “Then by all means take that off,” he said, motioning to her mail.
Miriel pulled off the shirt of metal rings and laid it to the side.
“Better?”
“Not really. It’s the air. It feels so hot,” she answered.
“Perhaps you might need to take this off,” he suggested, pulling on the sleeve of her top.
“I don’t think so,” she replied, quickly changing the subject. She turned the topic of conversation to Gunnulf and Eirá and the simple life they had. She spoke of how she could picture her and Bregolas having something similar. “Although I’m not fond of wooden houses,” she said, after taking another sip of spirits. “Ours would need to be made of stone. And two-stories… ” Miriel prattled on about all the features she would like in their house.
Bregolas was ecstatic to hear her speak of such things, even though he knew that the alcohol was responsible for the loosening of her tongue. He didn’t care. She was now sounding more like a wife, and that was something that he so desperately wanted. They continued to drink and talk of their future together well after nightfall. By the time the moon had climbed into the sky, outshining the stars of Elbereth, both were drunk, and feeling a bit amorous.
Bregolas had made the first move by kissing Miriel, and to his delight, she kissed him back. And it wasn’t one of those innocent pecks on the lips kind of kisses, but a deep, passionate one that made the warrior’s heart race and his loins ache with desire. Never before had Miriel been so eager, so willing to be with him, intimately. The warrior found that to be a pleasant change and it gave him high hopes for their future together.
Though liquor fueled her passions, at that moment, everything felt right to Miriel. She and Bregolas felt right. If she were to accept her role as his wife, then surely she would have to accept the wifely duties that went along with that position. And right now, she felt a hungering need to be with Bregolas, to be with him in a wifely way.
Before long, they were pulling off each other’s clothing, heedless to anything but their own passions.
“Love me, Bregolas,” uttered the Slayer in a husky voice, as the warrior planted ravenous kisses down her neck. With her arms loosely wrapped around his naked shoulders, Bregolas eased her down onto their bedding, eager to become as one with his beloved Miriel.
Their grunting and groaning broke the otherwise stillness of the night. The couple’s noisy lovemaking carried on the wind. For the first time in Miriel’s life, she experienced the pleasures of sex. She cried out in ecstasy when that wave of bliss crashed over her body, making her tingle from head to toe. Bregolas rolled off her and onto his back, panting. The Slayer, somewhat surprised by the entire experience, tried to catch her breath too. She stared up at the night sky, her head still spinning, watching as a cloud drifted across the moon, dimming the orb’s silver light.
A few pebbles then came bouncing down from above, causing the young woman to dart upright, into a sitting position.
Though still winded, she gasped, “Did you hear that?” as her eyes scanned the mount above them, wondering what could have caused the small stones to come rolling down the rocky shoulder.
“It’s the wind,” replied Bregolas, too content to be concerned.
“That was no wind,” hissed an anxious Miriel, suddenly feeling a sense of vulnerability at being nude, out in the wilds of Middle-earth. She grabbed her shirt, and slid it on, not caring that it was inside out.
“Then it was some animal,” rationalized the warrior.
The Slayer was aghast at her companion’s indifference. “What if it’s something else? Or someone else?” she whispered, pulling her mail over her shirt. “Have you already forgotten what Gunnulf said about Orcs and wargs being in this area?” she added uneasily, reaching for her breeches.
“You’re being paranoid, Miriel,” sighed Bregolas. He locked his eyes on her. Even in the dimness, he could see her wide eyes nervously glancing at the roadway that twisted above, as she wriggled into her pants. He smiled. With a chuckle, he added, “I like it better when you’re undressed.” He playfully pawed at her breeches, trying to prevent her from pulling them all the way up.
“Stop it!” she growled in a low voice, slapping his hand aside. “Get dressed.”
“Come on, Miriel. If you play your cards right, we might do it again,” he said suggestively, running his finger along the bare skin of her hip.
She swiftly pulled her breeches over her bottom, forcing his finger to bend painfully backwards.
“OW! What did you do that for?”
“Get dressed,” she ordered, tossing his breeches onto his bare chest. “The hair on the nape of my neck is standing on end,” she continued. “And that tells me that something’s not right.”
Bregolas reluctantly pulled his pants from his chest. Sitting up, he began to pull them on. “It’s just the cool air against you damp skin is all,” he explained. “You did work up a bit of a sweat after all.”
Miriel’s uneasiness instantly sobered her up. She was puzzled that the same couldn’t be said for her companion. He seemed to still be under the influence of the spirits they had drunk. No matter what, she couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that crept over her.
Before Bregolas even buttoned his trousers, she had already put on her stockings and boots. She tossed the warrior his shirt, as she scrambled to her feet. The moment she stood, the effects of the alcohol returned full force, making her lightheaded and unsteady on her feet. She nearly stumbled, but grabbed hold of Bregolas’ shoulder to steady her balance.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Yes. A little lightheaded is all,” she answered, eager to scope out the area above them to see what could have caused the pebbles to come rolling down the face of the mountain.
As Bregolas pulled his shirt over his head, the Slayer spun around. The moment she turned, an arrow came whizzing from the shadows above, striking her in the gut. The force was strong enough that the tip of the flying projectile lodged itself between the rings of her shirt, penetrating her flesh, but not too deeply.
She yelped, shocked to see the feathered missile sticking from her stomach.
“Miriel!” exclaimed a horrified Bregolas upon seeing the dart protruding from her belly.
“Orcs!” she cried out, grabbing hold of the shaft and pulling it from her gut.
Everything happened so fast that there was barely any time to react.
Not a split second later, a goblin leapt upon Miriel from above, clotheslining her. The momentum of the Orc sent her flying backwards several feet. Her head careened against the floor of the stone shelf, leaving her momentarily dazed. Her throat throbbed painfully, as she struggled for air. The goblin swiftly crawled atop her, sitting astride her body, and forcing her arms down over her head. She could smell the rancidness of its breath against her skin.
“Miriel!” Bregolas screamed, reaching for his sword and shield.
Gradually, Miriel’s eyes came into focus, and she could see the sharp teeth of her captor looming over her as it let out a harsh sounding howl of victory. Still struggling for breath, she jerked her body from side to side, trying to throw off the beast that had managed to wrap its legs tightly around her midsection.
The goblin cackled, taunting her at her feeble attempt to escape. “Not much of a Slayer, are you now?” he spat in a deep, gravelly sort of voice.
Miriel continued to squirm beneath him, desperate to catch her breath. The extra weight on her wasn’t helping any.
Suddenly, the creature squawked. Its back arched, as the tip of Bregolas’ sword ripped through its body. The goblin released his grip and Miriel was able to scramble to her feet.
“Take this!” ordered Bregolas, handing over his shield as a swarm of Orcs descended onto the shelf.
She grabbed it, her eyes frantically searching for her sword. The goblins were too many. There was no way she could retrieve her weapon. Bregolas, standing protectively in front of his beloved, began to engage the enemy. A weaponless Miriel could only use the shield to ward off any blows or arrows sent her way.
Buffy’s voice swiftly came rushing into her mind. “Your body is a weapon, Miriel!”
Using only her shield, the Slayer started to bulldoze those Orcs nearest Bregolas. She feared for the warrior, who was forced to battle the enemy in only his shirt and breeches. He had no protection whatsoever. No boots. No mail. And now, no shield.
Miriel did the best she could, throwing punches and trying to knock the goblins off their feet. She did feel an all too brief moment of triumph when she managed to wrestle an axe from one of the beasts’ hands. Now, she was able to fight back. Wanting to maximize her effectiveness, she threw aside the shield and wielded her weapon with both hands, hewing every lanky black creature within striking distance.
There was such a ruckus, such confusion. Before Miriel knew it, the goblins had managed to separate her from Bregolas. She and the warrior were no longer fighting side by side. The despicable creatures pressed on, forcing her backwards. She was so engrossed in battle that when she stepped backwards and her foot landed on nothing but air, she could only scream as she tumbled backwards over the edge of the shelf. She let go of the axe, wrapping her arms protectively around her head before she inevitably collided with the rocky face of the mount. She landed hard on her side, the impact knocking the wind out of her. Miriel’s body continued to bounce down the slope, hitting ridges and protuberances of stone until she finally came to a stop. She groaned in pain, thinking that she must have surely broken something.
From above, an Orc trained his bow on her. He pulled back on the string, prepared to make his kill, when a cloaked arm stopped him, thrusting the weapon to the side. “Leave her,” hissed the voice.
A distraught Bregolas, who remained on the shelf, couldn’t tell if the cloaked figure was male or female.
“Our task is done,” the cloaked figure added, turning toward Bregolas who lay on the shelf, his body pierced in many places.
“But the man is still alive,” protested the goblin, looking at Bregolas as he gasped for air.
“Not for long,” replied the figure coolly. The villain shifted its gaze back to Miriel, who remained some distance below, writhing in pain on the slope. “The games are about to begin,” added the cloaked figure with a chortle, before ordering the Orcs to withdraw. The beastly creatures then stamped on the path in which they had come. The sound of their cruel voices fading the further they climbed.
Miriel hurt all over. She slithered across the rocky ridges of the mount toward the road, which appeared to be the only way she could reach the shelf above. Once she made it to the road, she limped speedily up the winding path, calling Bregolas’ name in a hoarse voice.
Her anxiety grew when Bregolas didn’t respond to her calls. When she tried shouting his name even louder, her voice croaked and broke, making her sound more like a wounded animal than a woman in distress. To add to her misery, it seemed like it was taking forever for her to reach the shelf. The pain in her body was excruciating.
When, at last, she reached the ridge, she saw Bregolas sitting, hunched over, surrounded by dozens of dead Orcs.
“Bregolas!” she cried, hobbling toward him as fast as she could.
The warrior slowly lifted his head, and looked at Miriel. His hands clutched his stomach. She stomped over the corpses that littered the area, dropping to her knees in front of her companion. Her eyes hurriedly swept over him. Tears immediately formed in her eyes. He was injured. Badly.
“Oh, Bregolas!” she wept. “You’re hurt.”
“This is the end of the line for me, Miriel,” he sputtered.
“NO!” she cried, prying his hands from his stomach so she could more closely inspect his wound. The warrior fell back. Miriel cradled his head before it could crack against the stone floor. She then pulled him onto her lap. “Let me see,” she said, pulling up his shirt. She gasped at the sight. His stomach had been sliced in a couple of places. Blood poured from the gashes. She quickly pulled his shirt down, trying to use it to stanch the flow. “I can fix this,” she said, trying to sound hopeful, her eyes searching for their bags amidst the carnage. “Remember, you said I could be a healer.”
Bregolas fixed his bleary eyes on the Slayer. “My wounds are fatal, Miriel. There is naught you can do.”
“Don’t say that,” she argued, tears streaming down her face, as she clutched his body tightly in her arms. “Don’t say that,” she repeated in a fainter tone, now feeling his warm blood soaking through her own garments.
The warrior reached up, and touched her cheek. Miriel clasped her hand over his. She could feel him trembling all over.
“I’m sorry I failed you,” he uttered softly.
“You didn’t fail me.”
“Your hair, Miriel. Get it for me.”
“What?” she asked between sobs.
“It’s in my bag. Your braid that… that I cut off.”
Miriel remained frozen, shocked by his bizarre request.
“Get it for me. Please,” he said, now coughing up blood.
The Slayer felt traumatized. She knew he was dying. She gently lay him down and scrambled to their bags several feet away. Her mind was spinning. Her hands shook so much that she could hardly control them. She bawled as she dug through his bag, finding the braid that he had cut from her head at the start of their journey.
She rushed back to Bregolas, pulling him back into her lap. She placed the long braid into his hand. His bloody fingers closed around it. He slowly brought his clenched fist to his chest, spluttering out the blood that was rapidly filling his lungs.
“Don’t leave me, Bregolas,” she cried in despair. “I can’t do this without you.”
Struggling to speak, his glassy eyes looked back up at his beloved. “I now see my folly. I’ve been deceived.”
Miriel was confused. His words didn’t make sense. “Deceived? By whom? What are you talking about?”
“Beware of… wolves in sheeps’ clothing,” he finally said. “Beware of Hal - ” Bregolas stopped speaking mid-sentence. His glassy grey eyes stared blankly at the sky. He had died.
“Bregolas!” Miriel cried, trying to shake him back to life. “Bregolas!” Tears poured down her face, as she clung to Bregolas’ lifeless body, utterly terrified at having lost her trusted companion…
Chapter 11 - A Change of Scenery
For hours, Miriel clung to Bregolas’ lifeless body, rocking back and forth in anguish. As far as she was concerned, her worst nightmare had come true. She was now alone, in the wilds of Middle-earth, forced to fend for herself with what little skills she possessed. What was she to do? How could she go on without the warrior? How could she possibly survive?
With the slow passage of time, Miriel’s tears had dried up, and a whirlwind of thoughts plagued her mind. She couldn’t help but wonder why she hadn’t been killed too. Why would the Orcs only kill Bregolas and not her? She was the Slayer after all. According to Buffy, villains had a tendency to go after the Chosen One, almost like some sick sport, yet, they hadn’t killed her. They had hurt her - true, but hadn’t kill her. Why?
Thinking proved to be draining, both physically and emotionally. As the night wore on, Miriel fought to keep her eyes open, fearing that the goblins might come back and attack while she slept. However, her eyelids continued to grow heavy and there were moments when she dozed off, but soon snapped herself awake. By three o’clock in the morning, exhaustion had won out, and Miriel drifted off to sleep.
As always, Buffy was there, waiting for her protégé in the dreamscape. The elder Slayer’s heart went out to Miriel, knowing that what she had gone through had to be horrific, to say the least. She embraced the young Slayer, who seemed detached, dazed.
Buffy pulled out of the embrace, and surveyed Miriel with her sympathetic eyes. “Are you hurt?” she queried, noticing that the girl’s garments were saturated with blood.
The young Slayer didn’t respond. She stood there, grief-stricken, her red, puffy eyes looking off into space.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” said Buffy, her motherly instincts kicking in. Her concern for Miriel was so great that she didn’t realize that the scenery around them had changed. Buffy found herself leading the girl down the hall of her own house on Revello Drive, steering her into the bathroom. She flicked on the light and went over to the toilet, pulling the lid down before easing the young Slayer onto it. She then went to the tub and began filling it with hot water and bubble bath.
“You’ll feel better once we get you washed up,” declared Buffy. She sat on her heels before the girl so that she could remove her boots. Her eyes constantly darted to Miriel, who remained in what the elder Slayer believed was a state of shock.
Once she had removed the girl’s soiled clothing, she noticed the massive bruising to the side of Miriel’s body. Buffy winced at the sight.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked, skeptical in tone.
Miriel slowly nodded in reply. The only pain that she truly felt was in her heart, which felt like it had been shattered into hundreds of minute pieces.
Buffy then helped the young Slayer into the tub. Maybe it was the steamy water or the perfume scented bubble bath, but after a few minutes, Miriel began to return to life and started to slowly scrub away the blood and dirt that had formed a crusty layer on her skin.
Buffy picked up the pile of soiled clothing from the floor. “I’ll be right back. Will you be okay?”
Once again, Miriel merely nodded in reply.
The elder Slayer then headed down to the basement so that she could throw Miriel’s clothing in the washing machine. It still hadn’t occurred to her that they were in her own house.
Once she had the clothes in the wash, Buffy returned upstairs, stopping in her mother’s room. Nearly three months after Joyce’s death, she still hadn’t had the heart to get rid of her mom’s things. She grabbed one of her mother’s bathrobes, thinking that it would fit Miriel better than one of her own. By the time she went back into the bathroom, the young Slayer stood beside the tub, wrapped in a towel, watching the filthy water swirl down the drain.
“I brought you this,” said Buffy, offering Miriel the pink fluffy robe. “It was my mom’s.”
The young Slayer slipped into the robe. She, like her mentor, hadn’t really noticed the strange surroundings in which she found herself.
“Come on,” continued the elder Slayer, ushering Miriel to her room. She sat the girl on the edge of her bed before grabbing her hairbrush from the nightstand. She climbed onto the mattress behind Miriel and began to carefully brush the tangles out of her short, wet hair.
“Buffy?” Miriel suddenly said.
“Yeah?”
“Do you still think I’m not cursed?” she asked, dismal in tone.
“Of course,” replied the elder Slayer. “It’s like I told you, Miriel: Bad things happen to good people all the time. You just happen to be going through a period of bad luck. It’ll pass though. It always does.”
“I lack your optimism,” answered Miriel, feeling both grief and hopelessness. In an eerily calm voice she added, “The future looks bleak, dark. Sauron and his forces will triumph over the people of Middle-earth, covering all the world in shadow - ”
“ - Don’t talk like that,” interjected Buffy stiffly. She climbed off the bed and stood face to face in front of Miriel. “Just because Bregolas is dead, doesn’t mean it’s over. Life goes on, Miriel! The world hasn’t stopped turning. Now isn’t the time to give up. This is a true test of who you are, who you really are.”
“It’s my fault he’s dead,” said Miriel, riddled with guilt. “I got him killed. If we would’ve done - ”
“ - Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve,” Buffy said, cutting the girl’s sentence short. “It’s a moot point. Bregolas is gone, and you can’t bring him back. You have to deal and move on. He would’ve wanted it that way.”
The young Slayer felt her bottom lip starting to quiver. “You… you came back,” she stammered. A slight glimmer of hope returned to her glassy, grey eyes.
“That was different. I drowned. Bregolas was… stabbed to death.” Buffy softened her expression, and her tone. “There’s no coming back from that.”
Miriel shifted her eyes to the floor, feeling more miserable than ever.
“Listen, things will get better. I promise.” Wanting to assure Miriel that the world hadn’t stopped with Bregolas’ death, she grabbed the girl by the hand and pulled her from the bed. “Come here,” she said, dragging her to a nearby window. “Look. The world’s still here. Life goes on. Sauron doesn’t win, Miriel. This is proof of it.”
As Buffy spoke, it was as if a veil had been removed from both women’s eyes. They now noticed their surroundings. Miriel gasped softly upon noticing this new world, which seemed foreign and strange to her. And Buffy finally realized that she had somehow gained the mastery of the young Slayer’s mind, bringing them both to Sunnydale.
“Whoa!” sounded Buffy. She turned, her eyes scanning the interior of her bedroom. “We’re in my house,” she said, slightly puzzled, “my house in Sunnydale.”
Miriel continued to stare out the window at the houses located along Revello Drive. Her amazement at seeing this new world diminished her grief, if only for a while. Her eyes widened. She had never seen buildings of that sort before. They were so very different from the structures in Gondor. The girl’s eyes then darted to the power lines. She couldn’t help but wonder what on earth they were.
“What are those poles?” she asked in a baffled voice, pointing at the ones that ran along the street. She glanced at Buffy. “And why are there ropes tied to them? What purpose does that serve?”
The elder Slayer was unsure of what Miriel was talking about. She faced the window, looking through the glass panes. “Oh, those are power lines,” she answered. “And they’re not ropes, but cables.”
Miriel looked blankly at Buffy. “What are power lines?” she queried.
“Um, they carry electricity,” replied the elder Slayer.
“What’s electricity?” asked a still confused Miriel.
Buffy paused, uncertain how to explain electricity to someone who had no comprehension of technology. She tried to explain what it was, but found that the girl continued to stare at her in confusion. “Okay, look at it this way,” said the elder Slayer, changing her course of thought. “You know what lightning is, right?”
“Yes,” responded the girl.
“Well, we mere humans have learned how to make our own lightning and to harness its energy in a way that’s beneficial to us.”
“I do not understand,” replied Miriel, shaking her head. “How is lightning beneficial to man? And why would you want to harness it?”
Buffy groaned, finding that explaining electricity was much more difficult than she had imagined. She thought a demonstration might be more helpful. She ambled over to the light switch by the door. “Let me show you instead.” She flicked the switch on and off several times. Though it was daylight outside, the light bulbs in her lamps turned on and off.
Once again, Miriel gasped. She ran over to the lamp beside the bed, peeking under the shade. “These are not candles,” she announced in awe. She placed her hand on the glass bulb, feeling its warmth.
Buffy left the lights on. “Be careful,” she warned. “It’ll get hot.”
“What is this strange looking thing?”
“It’s a light bulb. The lightning runs from the poles outside into the house. Its energy helps produce light, among other things,” Buffy explained.
Miriel turned to her mentor, her face wrinkled with confusion. “I still do not understand how this can be?” The bulb suddenly grew hot, causing the girl to jerk her hand away. “Ouch! It is hot,” she added, mystified by the device.
“I told you,” snickered the elder Slayer.
“I still do not understand how this electricity works. I would like to know more,” said Miriel, plopping down on the bed and looking expectantly at her mentor.
Buffy had always considered herself to be a patient person, but found that her patience on the topic was beginning to wear thin. How could she explain the ins and outs of electricity when Miriel couldn’t grasp the concept of electrons and whatnot? Not that she thought that Miriel was dumb. Buffy didn’t think that for one minute. It just seemed to be too complicated a subject to put into words. An idea then came to her, an idea that would hopefully put an end to that topic of conversation.
“Look at it as a form of magic,” she finally said. Buffy knew that was a cop out, but she was eager to show Miriel so many other things and felt that this particular discussion wasn’t going anywhere.
Miriel sat there for a moment or two before her eyes lit up with comprehension. “I think I understand now,” she said with a twinge of excitement to her voice. “There’s a wizard, Mithrandir, that used to come to Minas Tirith at times. He carried a staff with a clear crystal on top.” She glanced at the light bulb. Though it looked quite different than the stone on Mithrandir’s staff, she felt that it was something similar. “At times, he could make a light emit from the stone, much like that,” she added, pointing to the bulb. “I reckon the old wizard had learned to harness lightning, long before you mere humans.”
“Ah, er, okay,” replied Buffy hesitantly. Noticing the look of satisfaction on her protégé’s face, she let out a sigh of relief. Talk of electricity had hopefully reached its end. “There’s something that I wanna show you, something that every girl loves.”
Miriel’s ears perked up upon hearing that. “What’s that?”
A smile came to Buffy’s face. “The mall,” she replied.
The young Slayer thought it odd that her mentor seemed so eager to show her a wooden hammer. She could only assume that the weapon had been used with great success in combat and that Buffy wished to show it to her. “Alright,” answered Miriel, rising from the bed. “Where is it?”
“Well, we’ll have to walk there. But, you’ll get to see a lot of Sunnydale along the way. I’ll give you a tour of Hellmouth central. Hopefully our trek will be demon-free, but I can’t promise that.”
“We might be attacked?!” exclaimed the girl in surprise. “In broad daylight?”
“It happens from time to time,” replied Buffy matter-of-factly. “It’s no biggie, really.” She went to turn, but stopped short, realizing that her friend was still dressed in Joyce’s robe. “We can’t go with you dressed like that,” she continued, surveying the girl with her green eyes. “Hmm,” she sounded. Buffy knew that her own clothes would not fit the much taller Miriel. “Why do you have to be so freakishly tall?” she murmured, wondering if her mom’s clothing would fit the young Slayer.
“Excuse me,” said Miriel, folding her arms across her chest. Had Buffy just insulted her?
“No, mom’s stuff is too old fogyish,” she surmised. “Crap! What the hell am I thinking?” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud. “This is a dream. I can dress you any way I’d like.”
Only a second later, Joyce’s fluffy pink robe melted away. In its place, a long sleeved red blouse (to conceal her bruises) and a pair of jeans covered Miriel’s body. Without thinking, Buffy had put spiked heels on the girl’s feet, adding a few more inches to her height.
“Ow!” the young Slayer complained, her eyes darting to her feet. She took an awkward step forward, nearly twisting her ankle in the process “What kind of shoes are these? They hurt my feet!”
Buffy grimaced. “Sorry! I guess you’re not into heels.” She quickly changed the girl’s footwear, replacing the heels with a comfortable pair of sneakers. “Better?”
Miriel inspected the shoes, finding them more comfortable. “They are strange looking, but feel much better on my feet than those other shoes.” She glanced up at Buffy. “Those heels, as you called them, why would anyone want to wear something that causes such pain?”
“Some of us aren’t all model-like, tall and slender,” grumbled Buffy, not bothering to conceal her envy at Miriel’s build. “We need a little help, and heels make us taller.”
The young Slayer shook her head, stunned that anyone would willingly go to such lengths to make themselves appear taller. “People in your world are very strange indeed,” she uttered under her breath.
“Yeah, well, ditto,” replied Buffy, as she turned and headed toward the door.
Miriel followed, asking, “What’s ditto?”
“It’s gonna be one of those days,” the elder Slayer whimpered.
Buffy’s hopes of leaving the house were thwarted by Miriel’s curiosity. She was already out the front door and on the porch when she realized that the young Slayer had not followed. Grumbling under her breath, she returned inside, calling Miriel’s name.
The girl had taken off, exploring the downstairs, moseying from room to room. Buffy found Miriel in the kitchen, standing before the double doors of the refrigerator.
“Come on, we need to go,” Buffy informed the girl.
“What’s this?” asked Miriel, examining the refrigerator with interest. “It’s humming,” she announced, placing her ear against the cool surface of the door.
The elder Slayer chuckled. “It’s a fridge,” she answered. “It keeps food cold. Let me show you.”
Miriel stepped back as Buffy pulled opened both doors. A burst of cool air came rushing from the contraption.
“See!” continued Buffy. “This is where we keep milk, eggs, juice. Stuff we like cold.” She shifted her gaze to the freezer. “And this freezes food until we’re ready to eat it. Meat, TV dinners, veggies, and, most importantly, ice cream.”
The girl stared at the opened fridge in amazement. She would never have thought that freezing or cooling food in such a manner was even possible. She was even astonished to see how the various products were packaged. Never before had she seen plastic containers, aluminum soda cans or Styrofoam egg cartons. She wanted to question Buffy about all those things that she had seen.
“Come on, let’s go,” Buffy finally said, closing the doors. She led Miriel from the kitchen.
“So, how does that - what did you call it - work?” asked the girl, as they stepped into the living room.
“It’s called a fridge and it works with electricity,” she replied.
“So electricity produces light and cool air,” said Miriel, her eyes scanning the living room and its furnishings.
“Yeah, among other things,” answered Buffy, feeling a little put out by all the questions.
Miriel stopped beside the desk in the living room and picked up a photograph of Buffy and Dawn. She ran her finger along the glass surface of the frame. “This is so lovely,” she said, admiring the picture. “It looks so life-like. How great an artist must be to paint something so small and detailed.”
Buffy snorted. “That’s a photograph,” she answered, stepping to Miriel’s side. “It’s taken with a camera.”
The young Slayer opened her mouth, about to ask what a camera was when Buffy quickly added, “It’s a kind of magical device that captures images on film. And that’s all I’m gonna say about that.” She took the picture from Miriel’s hands and returned it to its place on the desk.
“You’re wroth with me, aren’t you?” asked Miriel, sensing her mentor’s frustration.
“No,” Buffy lied. She paused, studying the young girl keenly. “I know all this is new to you, and strange,” she continued, motioning to nearly everything in the room. “There’s so much I wanna show you. But this stuff, the stuff in here, can wait. I wanna show you the world, Miriel. I wanna show you things you never imagined could exist. This stuff is nothing.”
“To you, perhaps. But I have never seen such things as miniature portraits, or boxes that emit cool air, or candleless lamps.”
“That’s nothing,” answered Buffy, waving her hand dismissively. “There’s so much more than that. We humans have come far since your days. We’ve advanced a lot.” A smile came to the elder Slayer’s face. “I’m gonna show you things that’ll blow your mind!”
Miriel’s brows darted up upon hearing that.
Buffy was quick to add, “Figuratively speaking, of course.” She linked arms with Miriel so she could not wander off. “Come on. Let me give you the grand tour of Sunnydale, California in the twentieth, er, twenty-first century.”
They walked out onto the porch, down the steps and onto the walkway leading to the sidewalk. With her mouth slightly agape, Miriel’s eyes darted to all the things she found interesting, things of which Buffy never gave a second thought. The young Slayer constantly pointed at objects, asking what they were, much like a young child would.
As they strolled by the neighbor’s house, Miriel pulled herself free from Buffy’s grasp and flew up the driveway, scrutinizing the silver Honda Accord parked outside the garage. She ran her hands over the metal, peering into the windows with her eyes wide with wonder.
Buffy rolled her eyes, realizing that the trip to the mall was going to be a long one. She went after Miriel.
“What kind of carriage is this?” the girl asked in amazement. “I have never seen anything remotely like this before.” She moved along the vehicle toward the front, stroking the metal and glass as she walked.
“It’s called a car,” answered the elder Slayer with a sigh. “People use them for traveling.”
When Miriel reached the front of the car, she stopped. “Where is the hitch for the horses?” she asked, inspecting the bumper.
Buffy chuckled under her breath. Images of that Halloween a few years back flashed in her mind. She remembered when she was turned into an eighteenth century noblewoman and how she thought cars were some sort of demons. The smile quickly faded from her face. Miriel’s conclusion that the vehicle was some sort of carriage made a hell of a lot more sense than Buffy’s thinking it was a demon. She couldn’t help but think how truly ignorant she had been when she had become her costume.
“There’s no hitch,” she finally answered with a frown. Knowing that she would be quizzed on the mechanics of the car, she added, “It runs by magic.” Buffy would come to dismiss most of Miriel’s questions with that phrase. It just seemed much simpler than the long, detailed explanations that the younger Slayer demanded.
While Buffy was annoyed by the girl’s barrage of questions, she did her best to stifle her true feelings. She came to believe that she had subconsciously brought Miriel to Sunnydale in an attempt to help ease the girl’s grief. Once her protégé returned to the waking world, she would have to confront a whole new set of obstacles, and, unfortunately, there was no way Buffy could help her. Miriel would soon learn what being the Chosen One really meant, and the loneliness that often accompanied it.
When they finally reached the mall, and Miriel understood what it was, she chortled in her amusement. “I thought you were taking me some place where some infamous weapon was housed,” she laughed.
“Huh?” queried a baffled Buffy. “Weapon?”
“Yes, a maul. A wooden hammer. Do you not have mauls in this day and age?”
“Oh,” she drawled in reply, the term registering with her at last. “I got it now. A wooden hammer. Yeah, I suppose we have them, but they’re pretty primitive.” She then excitedly added, “Ooh, I’ve got a troll hammer back at the Magic Box.”
“You know, Buffy,” said a concerned Miriel, as they entered through one of the glass doors of the building, “it seems to me that people today rely too much on magic. In my world, only wizards and Ainur wield such power. I think it’s folly to depend on magics for so many things. I have been brought up to believe that magic is something not to be taken so lightly, not to be toyed with.”
Buffy was in no mood to argue with Miriel. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she answered.
Though Miriel thought that the buildings of the future were quite strange, that did not compare to the people she encountered inside the mall.
As they neared a group of teens dressed like punk rockers, Buffy hissed, “Don’t stare!” in Miriel’s ear.
The young Slayer gaped at the group. She had never seen hair dyed in bright colors and was floored that one kid’s hair was shaped into pointy spikes atop his head, while a couple of others had shaved portions of their hair in bizarre patterns. She found their many facial piercings and tattoos rather disturbing as well.
“What the fuck you looking at?” spat one of the boys rudely, his narrowed eyes fixed on Miriel.
“Watch your mouth!” Buffy threatened. The tone of her voice caused the group to continue on their way without so much as another word or dirty look thrown toward the two Slayers.
Miriel felt highly uncomfortable. To hear such language for no reason at all alarmed her. She assumed the kids had to be evil. To her, they most definitely looked and acted the part.
“I cannot believe that such people are permitted to walk freely about,” she remarked in dismay. “They’re evil.”
“Oh, they’re not evil. They’re teenagers,” responded Buffy flippantly.
Miriel was stunned. While seeing those teenagers was quite distressing, she was really shocked to see how some of the girls were dressed. In her time, women were modest, and dressed appropriately. But, in Sunnydale, she was appalled to see women’s bosoms about to explode out of their tight, barely there tops. Not to mention the skirts that were so short that she was sure that if the girls bent over, their behinds would show. She even saw some girls wearing shorts apparently of the wrong size, leaving the cheeks of their buttocks exposed to the world. It was indecent and immoral!
The young Slayer was not loving the mall as Buffy had proudly predicted. In fact, she was quite eager to leave it. She didn’t like the noise, the neon lighted signs, nor the strange “music” that blared from the various shops they passed. The whole place seemed unnatural, a breeding ground for debauchery. She begged Buffy to go, to depart that wicked place, but her friend refused, insisting that everything was fine and that the people were not evil.
Buffy took Miriel into some of the shops, in search of clothing. However, Miriel found the apparel most offensive and would never garb herself in what her mentor called “trendy” clothing. She’d rather be wearing one of her lovely, floor-length gowns with normal-looking sandals, not ones with heels on them.
Still, Buffy dragged her through the mall, hoping that the young Slayer would find something that she liked. And she did, or, perhaps it would be better said that she saw something that she found intriguing - escalators. Miriel was enthralled by the moving staircases and made Buffy ride them, up and down, several times. But, after a while, even that grew boring and the girl began to whine about leaving that place.
“You’re so un-American,” grumbled Buffy, as they headed out of the doors leading to the parking lot.
“Thank the Valar for that!” replied a grateful Miriel, quite relieved to be leaving the mall at last.
Buffy found herself rolling her eyes. “You know, Giles would love you.”
“Your Watcher?” the girl queried.
“Yeah. You’re both killjoys.”
Miriel didn’t need an explanation to know that that term was unflattering. “Call me what you want,” she snapped back. “You may take pleasure in shopping for raiment more befitting a harlot, but I most certainly do not!” She gave a derisive snort. “To think that women in the future choose to dress that way is unconscionable. Thank Eru I was born in more decent times.”
Buffy bit her lip, resisting the temptation to rebuke the girl’s comment. She took offense to Miriel’s words and had to keep telling herself that the whole point of their little excursion was to help take her protégé’s mind off her current predicament.
As they walked on in silence, Buffy came to realize that taking Miriel to a place with so many people was probably not the best idea. She had spent so many weeks solely in the company of Bregolas and to suddenly thrust her into a strange world with people so vastly different than what the young Slayer was used to would more than likely be somewhat traumatizing.
She glanced over at Miriel, who appeared solemn once again. The wonderment had left her eyes and a scowl now adorned her face. Buffy feared that her mood would continue to sour, and desperately wanted to make things right with her. She was contemplating where they should go next when all of a sudden Miriel regained control of her mind, taking them back to the place where she felt most comfortable - Dol Amroth, beside the sea.
Miriel inhaled deeply, drinking in the salt air and the scenic beauty of Finduilas’ homeland. She was now garbed in the fashion of her people, not Buffy’s. “I’m sorry if I have offended you,” she said, staring out at the blue waters. “I do not think I’m ready to venture into your world just yet. It’s a bit… frightening.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Buffy countered. “I should’ve known better. I kinda got carried away. I really didn’t consider how different our worlds are and how shocking that could be.”
The young Slayer turned her gaze to her mentor. “You like the sea, yes?” she queried.
Buffy smiled. “I like the sea, yes,” she answered.
“Let us stay here then, where we both find comfort.”
“Okay.”
She plopped down on the sand. Buffy followed suit. For a while, both stared at the ocean, lost in thought. Miriel’s trip to Sunnydale was not all as she thought it would be. She felt a great sense of relief at being somewhere that she felt safe, at peace. Yet, returning to Middle-earth, even in the dreamscape, meant that she had to confront the reality of her current situation, no matter how glum it was.
“What am I to do, Buffy? What am I to do without Bregolas at my side?” she asked softly, her voice breaking as she spoke.
The elder Slayer pulled her legs up to her chest. She propped her head on her knees, looking at Miriel. “You have two choices, Miriel. You can continue on, or you can go back.”
Miriel closed her eyes. Neither prospect seemed appealing. “I’m so terrified, terrified to be alone,” she confessed in a barely audible tone.
“You’re not alone. I’m with you. I’m always with you. Don’t forget that.”
The girl’s eyes popped open, and she turned toward her mentor. “I just wish you could be with me, like this, walking and talking with me when I’m awake, not just in dreams. When I wake, I shall be alone. There is no comfort in that.”
“You’re stronger than you know, Miriel. You may not see that, but I do.” She eased over in front of Miriel with her back facing the ocean. “I know things seem scary now, but once you see how strong and independent you really are, that’ll pass. You’re a Slayer, not some weak damsel in distress. You’re a lot tougher than you realize, and in time, you’ll come to see that. I promise.”
“Were you always this way? Strong and brave?”
Buffy shook her head. “No. And I’m not brave all the time. I still get scared. You know that.”
Miriel suddenly remembered Buffy’s situation, and that she was avoiding her own personal crisis. Though she felt bad for her mentor, her circumstances were much different. “But you have a Watcher, and friends that help you. I have no one. I’m alone, and have no idea where I am going, or if I’ll ever find what I’m searching for.”
“There are rogue demon hunters out there,” Buffy answered. “You’re not alone. You might be the only Slayer living in your times, but there are others out there fighting the good fight. You’ll find them, Miriel. I know you will.” She offered the girl a reassuring smile. “You just have to take things one day at a time,” she continued. “I know that sounds cliché, but it’s true. The most important thing is not to give up.”
Miriel didn’t want to give up either. The last thing she wanted was to die from grief like her mother. She wanted to finish what she had started - to find her Watcher. As she looked into the depths of Buffy’s eyes, she began to feel a sense of calmness come over her, and some things were starting to become clearer. It was no accident that she and Buffy had met; it was destined to be. For whatever reason, they were thrust together, to help each other face their greatest fears.
She felt that the trip to Sunnydale had not been Buffy’s doing, which explained why it had taken so long for her mentor to realize where they were. It had to be the Valar, whom the girl believed were the ones that Buffy constantly referred to as the Powers That Be. Somehow, the Valar felt the need to intervene. Perhaps they wanted Buffy to begin thinking about returning to her own body, to face the inevitable confrontation with Glory.
However, if that were the case, then why were they back in Dol Amroth where Miriel felt safest? Images then flashed in her mind, images from months ago when she had begun preparing to depart Minas Tirith. At the time, no one knew what she was plotting, not even Bregolas. She didn’t fear leaving, as it was fear that drove her from her home. Loneliness was far better than the abuse she suffered at the hands of Denethor. Maybe it was Bregolas’ destiny to lead her part of the way, and that she had to finish the journey on her own. She had come to rely on him too much. Or, maybe he wasn’t meant to come at all. That would explain the drastic changes in his behavior. Even Buffy wanted her to run from him.
Miriel took Buffy’s hands in her own. She was beginning to understand things now. Slaying was a sacred duty, and she had been chosen for the task. If the Valar had felt she wasn’t up for it, then they probably would’ve killed her off so the next Slayer could be Called. She had come so far already. It was time for the seventeen year old to grow up, and to embrace her destiny with vigor.
That strength that Buffy spoke of was in her, and when the need arose, it always surfaced. Being alone would not change that. Though she wasn’t fond of Sunnydale, the visit did serve its purpose. It showed Miriel that the shadow that fell upon the lands would lift, and that the world would endure and so would its people. It gave her hope that maybe, just maybe, she had played some role in that.
A small smile came to her face. “I’ll never give up,” she said to Buffy, giving her mentor’s hands a reassuring squeeze…
Chapter 12 - Deceptive Assumptions
Only a few minutes later, Miriel’s eyes shot open. It was early morning. The sky was still grey, the rays of the sun having not risen high enough to break over the mountain peaks to the east. Her arms remained draped around Bregolas’ lifeless body, to which she had clung while she had slept. Doing a quick survey of the immediate area, she saw many dead Orcs lying in pools of thickening black blood.
The Slayer remained seated there for several minutes, processing everything that had happened.
How swiftly one’s life can change in only a few moments time, she thought gloomily.
She and Bregolas had come so far together. She wondered if she’d ever get over his death. Already, she felt an emptiness inside. Despite what Buffy had said, Miriel still believed that she had been cursed. There was no other explanation for the events that had transpired. It wasn’t just the death of Bregolas that had brought her to that conclusion, but the whole situation that caused her to leave Minas Tirith in the first place. O’ how she hated Denethor, for he was to blame for all her woes.
Get it together, Miriel, she told herself. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on the hand that fate had dealt her. She had to be strong if she were to continue on her journey. If there was one thing that Miriel was sure of, it was that there was no turning back. She had to carry on.
She carefully eased out from beneath the warrior. Cradling his head, she gently lay him back down on the stone floor of the ledge. She sat on her folded legs, looking at Bregolas lying there with his vacant grey eyes staring above. No words could express the pain she felt seeing him there, dead, his body pierced and slashed in several places. Never again would she hear his joyous laughter that had always lifted her spirits when she felt sad.
Though they had their share of ups and downs along the way, Miriel would miss him terribly. He had been her friend, her teacher, her protector and her lover. A part of her felt guilty for not loving him as he had loved her. Though she had always cared deeply for him, she found it hard to call him husband. That whole scenario had not played out to her liking. Deep down, she believed that some malevolent force had driven him to do what he had done.
With a trembling hand, she reached out, closing his eyes. She thought that in doing so, perhaps he would appear to be sleeping like the lords of old. Alas, that was not to be, as Bregolas’ blood soaked garments broke that illusion.
Miriel’s hand slipped down to the warrior’s cheek, which she cupped tenderly. His facial hair felt bristly to the touch, but the skin beneath was already cold. She hated the notion of leaving him there, surrounded by corpses of the enemy. Unfortunately, there was not enough earth to bury him, or enough stones to build a cairn. And to make matters worse, she knew that it was only a matter of time before the carrion-fowl and other beastly creatures arrived, eager for their morning meal. She was somewhat surprised that they had not yet come. Bregolas didn’t deserve that. Despite his faults, he was a good man, a valiant man who didn’t deserve to have his body eaten by any creature. But what could she do?
Her eyes shifted to the winding road above, half-expecting to see the men of Gondor popping up over the apex of the mountain. If she burned the warrior, it would alert the enemy, and that’s the last thing she needed. She looked back at Bregolas’ body, wondering what he would want her to do.
Flee, Miriel, she heard his voice say. Flee as fast as you can.
Inhaling deeply, she shuddered as she caught the first whiff of death on the air. She then leaned over Bregolas, whispering, “I’m sorry, my love,” as she lovingly caressed the warriors cheek with her fingers. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I hope some day you can forgive me.” She then kissed his forehead. “Farewell, my beloved. May you be at peace at last.”
Miriel then clambered to her feet. She suddenly became aware of the throbbing in her side from having fallen off the ledge the night before. She paused, allowing herself a moment or two to adjust to the pain and to collect her thoughts. She eyed her and Bregolas’ bags, knowing that she’d have to decide what things to take with her, as she could not carry them all.
As she stood there, she noticed the blood that had saturated her garments. Her breeches, in particular, seemed most soaked, the result of holding a bleeding Bregolas in her arms all night. The blood on the rings of her mail had already formed a crusty layer, and small chunks of Orc guts clung to the shirt like dried glue. Miriel tried to flick off the offensive pieces with her fingers, but that wasn’t enough to dislodge the sticky innards from her mail.
Cringing in disgust, she found herself eager to remove the offensive shirt of metal rings. As she attempted to do so, she heard a tearing sound. One of the rings had apparently broken during the previous night’s scuffle, and a jagged piece of metal had become snagged in her shirt, which ripped when she tried to remove her mail.
“Damn it!” she cursed. Miriel only had three summery tops and couldn’t afford to lose one. She wiggled the sharp piece of metal free so that she could pull off her shirt of mail. Once she had removed her protective covering, she noticed the large rip running straight down the front of her bloody top. Her green shirt was torn too badly to wear.
Her eyes darted to their bags once again. Would it be wrong to take one of Bregolas’ shirts?
No, she said to herself. He has no need for them any more.
Any movement increased the Slayer’s pain. Groaning softly, she limped over to their belongings, stepping over the dead Orcs that formed obstacles on the way. Already, flies had begun to arrive, buzzing around the goblins. She glanced up at the sky. A single bird circled above. She knew it had to be one of the vultures, spotting the feast far below.
She tried to push those thoughts out of her mind, as she dug through one of Bregolas’ bags. She pulled out a wrinkly green tunic. Though too big for her, it would be much better than the ragged garment she was wearing. Miriel pulled off her top and tossed it aside before doing a quick inspection of her injured side. Her skin appeared badly bruised, but nothing seemed to be broken. She considered herself very lucky.
After pulling on Bregolas’ tunic, she glanced down at her breeches. They were literally covered in blood, from waistline to hemline. There was no possible way she could wear the warrior’s pants, and the thought of wearing her own bloody garments for days made her sick to her stomach. The Slayer sat down, and pulled off her boots. She’d have to change into her black pants. She would still keep her soiled tan breeches and wash them the first chance she got. Surely, a river or springhead wasn’t too far away. If she recalled correctly, streams generally originated at the feet of mountain chains. She’d have to consult the map, which had to be somewhere in one of Bregolas’ bags, but she was almost positive that there would be a stream at the base of the mount.
One she had changed, Miriel grabbed the water skins, shaking each to determine how much water it contained. She would take all of them with her, as water was a necessity and the key to survival. She girt both Bregolas’ and her own sword around her waist, deciding not to leave the warrior’s weapon behind. She also took his knife, which had proved to be handy on the journey thus far. She strapped that implement to her leg, so that it would be easily accessible.
The food they had remaining, she would obviously bring, and after a quick debate with herself, she took the cooking and fishing gear as well. Though she had had no luck with fishing in the past, she thought that at some point hunger would drive her to try her hand at it again. She was also compelled to take the crossbow and quiver of arrows too. The tent, she determined, would most definitely be of use. The only thing she couldn’t find was the map. It was not in Bregolas’ bags, as she had assumed.
Her eyes shifted to the dead warrior. Was the map in one of the pockets of his breeches? She limped back over to his body and hurriedly checked his pockets. They were empty. Panic was beginning to set in. How could Miriel travel in unfamiliar territory without the aid of a map? How would she find water sources without it? It had to be there somewhere.
She hobbled around the ledge, checking under the corpses of the Orcs. Though she had exerted little energy, Miriel’s heart raced, her breathing coming in rasps, as she looked under body after body. Finally, beneath a severed goblin leg she found the map, soaked with blood. She whimpered at the sight. Black blood covered nearly all the northern regions of the map. She wiped the parchment with a filthy hand, causing the ink to smear. Immediately, she felt her eyes stinging with tears. She stopped, wondering what she was to do now.
“Calm down,” she said aloud, trying to compose herself. It’s no big deal, she thought. I’m heading north. That’s easy enough to do. I can do that. Maybe once the blood’s dry I can scrape it off the map. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
The sky began to grow lighter, indicating that it would not be long before the sunlight broke over the mountaintops. The Slayer had to get a move on. She planned to follow the same course that she and Bregolas had decided upon before his untimely death. She would stay on the road until she reached the forest below. Once she got there, she’d take to the woods, traveling parallel to the road so as to avoid any possible encounters with other travelers.
Deeming that it was time to go, Miriel gathered all her supplies. She heaved the straps of the heavy bags over her shoulders along with the half dozen water skins. Instantly, she felt the weight of her burdens. She stopped next to Bregolas’ body before she left the ridge. In one hand, he still clutched her braid of hair, which had unraveled during the night. She then noticed the ring on his other hand that lay limply at his side. She kneeled down, picking up the lifeless limb, and slid the ring off his finger. She examined the piece of jewelry for a moment, looking at the White Tree etched in mithril set in the center of a black stone. The ring was a symbol of the Tower Guard of Gondor, and had been given to Bregolas by Denethor when he had officially become her personal protector months ago. She closed her fingers around the ring, slipping it into the pocket of one of her bags. She would keep that, not as something to barter with in the future, but as a memento of Bregolas, who had died while trying to protect her.
Miriel then did something that she had not done in some time - she prayed. She prayed to the Valar in the West, asking them to protect Bregolas’ body from foul beasts. The Slayer then rose to her feet and looked upon the dead warrior for what would be the last time. “Farewell once again, my friend,” she said before turning, following the path to the main road, and setting out on her journey alone.
Little did the Slayer know that the Valar did not hate her as she had come to believe, nor had they forsaken her. They would answer her prayer, preventing all creatures from defiling the warrior’s body. In fact, the warrior would receive a proper burial the following day.
The trek down the mountain was much easier than the trek up had been. However, with all the additional gear that Miriel carried, her hopes of reaching the woods by nightfall would not happen. From where she had started, she guessed that she was about fifty miles from the forest. Unfortunately, with her injuries and now aching back, she was only able to travel about thirty miles before her body decided to quit for the day.
None too eager to camp on the road, she scanned the slopes to the north and south, hoping for some spot in which she could find some cover. To her dismay, she saw nothing, nothing remotely like the place she and Bregolas had camped the night before. She forced herself to plod on, all the while searching either side of the road for some place to hide.
It wasn’t until she had gone a little ways further, and had glanced up toward the mountaintop, that she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, a grouping of rocks on the south side of the road. The enormous boulders formed a cave of sorts. It wasn’t very large and there was no pathway leading to it at all. If she had not looked back up the road, she wouldn’t have noticed it. The cave seemed the ideal spot to rest for the night. Her only problem was how was she to get to it. The rocks were slick, and though she was near the bottom of the road, the drop was still steep and perilous.
She stood there for several minutes, her eyes searching the road above and below for any other travelers. The area appeared deserted. A reluctant Miriel removed all her bags, placing them on the road. She wanted to see if it was even possible for her to reach that little hidey-hole and there was no way she could do that carrying all of her things. After a quick drink of water, she carefully began to climb over the rocks, praying that her feet would not slip, sending her plummeting below. As luck would have it, she managed to reach the cramped space. Now, all she had to do was bring her belongings with her. She would end up doing that in several trips, as the extra weight threw off her balance.
Though cramped and unable to lie down, the Slayer was able to lean against the rock wall and stretch her legs out. She ate a meager supper, and watched as the sun slowly sank in the west.
When the landscape lay covered in darkness, Miriel’s uneasiness grew. Being in such cramped quarters, she figured she wouldn’t hear much of anything, but that was not the case. To her, it seemed that the typical nightly noises sounded louder and much scarier now that she was alone. At one point, she could have sworn that she heard something coming down the road. Maybe her ears were playing tricks on her, but she thought she heard a beast of some sort sniffing the air not far from where she lay hidden. She was so frightened that she pulled out her knife, prepared to attack if some creature’s head popped around the corner.
The night seemed endless, and Miriel constantly wondered what the time was. She could kick herself for not taking Bregolas’ pocket watch. She figured she had no use for it, since time no longer had any meaning. It was such a small object that she could’ve found room for it in one of her bags, if not, her pocket.
Despite her restlessness, the Slayer briefly drifted off to sleep.
The moment Buffy saw her, she praised Miriel for continuing on her journey. “I’m so proud of you, Miriel,” she said. “You can do this. I know you can.”
“I’ve encountered a problem,” the younger Slayer confessed. She and Buffy were standing on the road beside Miriel’s hideout. She pulled out her blood-covered map, showing it to her mentor. “What am I to do with this map? How am I to find my way?”
Buffy took the parchment from the girl and examined it closely. She tried scratching the blood off with her fingernail, but the inky drawing had already become a blurred mess. “Well, that’s not gonna work,” the elder Slayer said. She thought for a moment before adding, “Hey! We’re in a dream. Why don’t you move backward in time, before the map was ruined and we can look at it together.”
“Oh, alright,” answered Miriel. She tried her best to go backward in time, but it didn’t seem to work. She took them to several places in Middle-earth, none in which any maps could be found. “It’s pointless!” Miriel cried out in dismay, bringing them back to the spot on the road from where they had started. “Now, I’m lost in the wilds of Middle-earth with no idea of where I am going.”
“No, that’s not true,” responded Buffy. The sky was still dark, as it was when the young Slayer had fallen asleep. As the elder Slayer looked up at the star-speckled sky, a smile came to her face.
“What?” asked Miriel, noticing the pleased look on her mentor’s face.
“I’m no astrologer, but I’ve learned a thing or two about stars.” She shifted her gaze to her protégé. “We can thank Willow for this one.”
“What? What are you talking about?” queried Miriel yet again.
“Look!” said Buffy, pointing to the night sky above. “Do you see that cluster of stars, the one that looks like a pot with a handle?”
“No,” answered Miriel glumly. Though she often stared at the stars, she never saw those shapes that people always seemed to notice. To her, it just looked like, well, stars, grouped or ungrouped, she couldn’t tell any difference.
The elder Slayer pulled Miriel closer to her side. “Look closely,” she began again, pointing to the cluster of stars. “If you draw an imaginary line, connecting those stars it forms the Big Dipper. Can you see it? There’s the pot and there’s the handle,” Buffy said, as she moved her finger from star to star.
“Oh, yes, I see it now.”
“Now, see those two stars at the edge of the pot, not the handle, but the pot.”
Miriel nodded.
“Those are the pointer stars. They point to the North Star, right there. See it.”
“I… I think so.”
“It’s right there.” Buffy said, glancing at the girl to make sure her eyes were fixed on the same place as hers.
“I see it now,” replied Miriel.
“That’s your guide. The North Star is what you need to follow. That star always defines due north.”
The young Slayer let out a grateful sigh of relief. With a smile now adorning her face, she said, “I do not know what I would’ve done without you, Buffy. I thought I was doomed to wander Middle-earth aimlessly. Thank the Valar that was not to be.”
“I can come through in a pinch,” Buffy chuckled. “Who would’ve thought all those nights hanging out in cemeteries would teach me something other than what things can be used to kill vamps? I’m like the Queen of Knowledge,” she boasted, proud that she was able to help her protégé and alleviate the girl’s fears.
They both took a seat on the road. “Do you still think that I’ll find my Watcher?” Miriel asked, somewhat skeptically.
“Of course I do,” replied the elder Slayer. “And you never know, Miriel, he or she could be searching for you right now. Watchers have this weird way of knowing when a new Slayer’s been Called, and how to find ‘em.”
“A she? You think my Watcher could be a woman?” queried the girl in surprise.
“Why is that so surprising?” answered Buffy, forgetting that women held so little power in Miriel’s world. “There have been lots of women Watchers.”
“I have never heard of any being a woman before. But then, I have read very little on the Slayer lore.”
Buffy paused for a moment, pondering her protégé’s words. “You know, the more I think about it, the more I’m of the opinion that you are the most powerful woman in your world. You’re a Slayer. No. Let me correct that - you’re the Slayer. The one girl in all the world with the strength and skill to kill vampires and all creepy, demony creatures that lurk in the night.”
“Pfft,” sounded a doubtful Miriel. “The world is a vast place, Buffy. I cannot believe that I am strongest at… well, anything, really.”
“Bullshit!” protested the elder Slayer. “Once you get more kills under your belt, your confidence will grow. It’s just gonna take some time. Experience breeds confidence.” Buffy cringed. “Experience breeds confidence,” she repeated with a groan. “Oh, God, I’m beginning to sound like Giles!”
Miriel laughed. “Well, you are acting as my Watcher. There’s no harm in sounding like one.”
“Tell that to my friends,” she grumbled in disdain. “I’d never hear the end of it.”
Miriel was comforted by Buffy’s presence, even if it was only for little while. The young girl had been struggling to keep awake, fearing a possible ambush at any time. Suddenly, she jerked herself awake.
The sky was still dark. She remained hidden in her hidey-hole until the sky was light enough for her to climb along the rocks and back to the road. She then set off on her journey once again, gladdened by the sight of the forest, which grew nearer with each step she took. By mid-morning, she disappeared into the woods…
As soon as Miriel had vanished into the forest, the men from Gondor, who had been following her and Bregolas’ trail in great haste, had crested the mountaintop. At the forefront was none other than Faramir, who had led his company of Rangers on the long journey from Minas Tirith. When the Captain of Gondor heard news that his sister and her companion had been stopped on the Old Forest Road by the Beornings, he had ordered his men to travel nearly nonstop in pursuit of the couple.
Faramir halted his company at the top of the mount, as he surveyed the road below him in hopes of spotting his sister. Unfortunately, from his position, he was unable to see any signs of life on the winding road. Not one to give up hope, he ordered his men to continue, believing it was only a matter of time before the Gondorian warriors caught up with Miriel and Bregolas. He had learned that his sister and her companion had been traveling on foot, and felt that he would be able to catch up with them swiftly since he and his company were traveling on horseback.
Miriel had consumed his thoughts since his meeting with the Beornings in Mirkwood. He couldn’t help but wonder why she had left Gondor and traveled so far north. He found it hard to believe that it was merely so she and Bregolas could wed. They could’ve set up house closer to home. But then again, Faramir had noticed Denethor’s possessiveness of Miriel. He still didn’t understand why his father had refused to allow Miriel and Bregolas to marry.
Perhaps Denethor had promised her hand to some lord to strengthen the bonds of unity. Had he made some deal with Théoden of Rohan? Maybe his sister had been promised to Théodred, the Lord of the Mark’s son and heir. He thought that was plausible, considering how very controlling Denethor could be, not to mention how much he relished power. Uniting the House of Húrin and with that of Eorl would definitely give his father more leverage over the smaller kingdom. The more Faramir thought about it, the more he believed that to be true.
As the men rode further down the zigzagging slope, they noticed a flock of birds circling high above. Some swooped down upon the rocks far below, causing others to scatter and to ascend into the air. Squinting his eyes, Faramir tried to make out what type of birds they were. However, the flock was still a long ways off, and he could not clearly determine what breed of winged beasts they were.
Onward they rode; the horses’ pace remained slow and steady. If Faramir hadn’t been so preoccupied with thoughts of his sister, he would’ve delighted in the view from atop the Misty Mountains. He had never been to the northern regions of Middle-earth for the threat of Mordor had always kept him close to home, patrolling Gondor’s borders.
He fixed his gaze on the path ahead, refusing to allow himself to experience the beauty of the area. From out of the west a gentle breeze blew. When the cool air rushed against Faramir’s damp skin, he shuddered.
“Are you alright, Captain?” asked a concerned Damrod, who rode abreast of Faramir’s steed.
Faramir responded with a curt nod of his head. At that moment, the moment he shivered, the Gondorian Captain felt a sudden heaviness creep into his heart. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake that feeling. In fact, it seemed to intensify, the further they went.
The men continued to speak in low voices. Unlike their Captain, they were admiring the view. One of them pointed at the birds in question, announcing that they were indeed carrion-fowl.
“There must be something dead, down there below,” remarked Mablung, gesturing toward the rock shelf below on the north side of the road.
The moment Faramir heard that, he raised his head. A feeling of dread instantly replaced the heaviness in his heart.
“What is that?” asked Damrod, who rode at the rear of his Captain’s horse. “What is that glimmering in the sunlight?”
The men soon drew near enough to see the carnage. “They’re Orcs!” exclaimed Mablung. “A couple of dozen by the looks of it.”
“There’s no doubting we’re on Bregolas’ trail now,” chimed in Anborn excitedly. “Who else could hew so many of the enemy?”
The men had not yet seen the body of their fellow soldier.
“Whoa!” Faramir said to his steed, bringing the beast to a halt. He dismounted, following the path that led to the ledge. Several of his men followed.
“No!” said Faramir breathlessly, spotting his fallen comrade lying amidst the decaying corpses of the enemy. His pace quickened, as he leapt over the dead, eager to get to Bregolas’ side.
The carrion-fowl flew off with the arrival of the intruders. The sound of their flapping wings and angry cries rang out beneath the midday sky.
Faramir’s eyes swept over the carnage in search of his sister. He did not see her. When he reached the downed warrior’s body, he immediately noticed the unraveling braid of hair clutched in his hand, causing the Captain to assume the worst. He collapsed to his knees, in shock.
A grief-stricken Faramir sat there for a few moments, listening to his fellow warriors’ gasps of horror. Shouts of “Bregolas in dead!” seemed to echo against the rock face of the mountain wall to the valley below.
From behind, Faramir heard Anborn’s voice shouting, “Search the area for Miriel. Check the crags below. The lady might have fallen from the ledge.” He then took off with several of the men, hoping beyond anything that they’d find Miriel alive and well, trapped between the rocks below.
The Captain felt as if his heart had dropped to the pit of his stomach. Trembling now, he carefully tugged the hair from Bregolas’ grasp, his eyes welling with tears as he did so. He knew it was Miriel’s hair. In his mind’s eye, the scene played out before him. He assumed the Orcs had taken his sister captive, and that Bregolas had fought them valiantly, trying to prevent them from taking her. In one last desperate attempt, he grabbed Miriel’s hair, as the goblins tried to take her away. The beasts had then hewed off her hair, allowing them to take her hostage.
He buried his face in the long, dark locks, which still smelled faintly of her perfume. Tears rolled from the Captain’s eyes. He was too late. If only he and his men had ridden harder and shortened their breaks, they probably would’ve arrived on the scene in time, in time to save both Miriel and Bregolas.
Mablung and Damrod stood behind their sobbing Captain. They, like all those in Faramir’s company were devastated over the loss of both Bregolas and Miriel. Unlike Anborn, they had already concluded that they would not find Miriel, that she was gone, taken captive by the Orcs of the mountains.
Damrod skirted around his grieving Captain, wanting to take a closer look at the area. He went straight for Bregolas’ bags, searching its contents, as the remainder of their company filtered onto the shelf.
“I am truly sorry, my Lord,” said Mablung, placing his hand comfortingly on Faramir’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Anborn and some others are searching the slopes below for Lady Miriel. There is still hope we may find her yet,” he added in an attempt to be optimistic.
Faramir’s anguish was great. The loss of his sister was far greater than that of any other, including his mother. He couldn’t help but think of how frightened she must have been to encounter Orcs for the first time. Miriel had led such a sheltered life, having only heard talk of goblins, not seeing them in the flesh. The Captain clutched his sister’s hair to his chest. He opened his eyes and through his tears, he looked upon Bregolas’ lifeless body once again. He wanted to piece together the last minutes of the warrior’s life with what little clues were left behind.
Drying his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, Faramir forced himself to stifle his tears. “They must have been caught at unawares,” he surmised, his voice cracking as he spoke. “Bregolas didn’t even have time to put his boots on,” he added, looking at the naked feet of the warrior.
“It looks like the Orcs took his blade; it is missing. Curse them!” added Mablung bitterly, as his eyes surveyed the immediate vicinity. He then noticed something green crumpled up near the dead warrior. “What’s this?” he said aloud, as he reached down and picked the item up. He shook it open. “It’s a shirt.” He and the others gasped. The garment was soaked with blood and had a large rip down the front. Judging by the size, everyone knew it had to be Miriel’s and could only assume the worst after seeing that.
Faramir rose to his feet and took the shirt from Mablung. “This has to be Miriel’s,” he said in dismay. By the looks of it, she had been sliced by some type of blade. Though his heart was heavy with grief, seeing his sister’s blood-soaked shirt brought several questions to mind. If Miriel was dead, then where was her body? And why was her top removed? The moment he asked himself that last question, a horrible thought came into his mind, a thought so heinous that Faramir suddenly felt nauseous.
He scrunched the garment in his balled fist. Seething rage had momentarily replaced his emotional distress. A part of him had come to believe that his original assessment was correct: that Miriel had been taken captive by the Orcs. But why? Why would they take her and leave Bregolas behind?
Once again, the horrific answer popped into his mind. He shifted his gaze toward the mountainside. His eyes scanned the wall of the mountains, wondering if Miriel lay hidden somewhere. Even in Gondor, there was talk that goblins infested the Misty Mountain in the north. It had been said that from this region, Orcs attacked the northern kingdoms of Middle-earth. That meant that their numbers had to be greater, far greater than the twenty-four men Faramir had chosen to accompany him on the journey. However, if his sister was still alive, he should attempt to save her, or die trying, as Bregolas had.
Mablung felt as if he could read his Lord’s thoughts. “It is not possible for Miriel to have survived such a wound, my Lord,” he said glumly. “Perhaps for a brief period, she… she endured, but the blood loss… ” His words trailed off. There really wasn’t anything else he could say other than she was dead. And at that moment, Mablung didn’t have the heart to utter those words to his grieving lord.
Faramir drew a shuddering breath. Deep down, he knew that Mablung was right. There was no possible way that Miriel could have survived such a wound. An injury such as that would’ve killed even the stoutest of warriors. What caused the Captain great pain was believing that she had suffered terribly. As he stood there, in stony silence, he could almost hear her cries of despair emanating from the stones that surrounded them.
Tears filled his eyes once again. “O’ Miriel, what was it that caused you to flee from your home?” he uttered under his breath.
“Captain!” then shouted Damrod.
Faramir turned his gaze to the warrior, who remained crouched by Bregolas’ bags.
“These bags contain only Bregolas’ things. Nothing here appears to be that of your sister’s,” he announced.
“It matters not,” answered Faramir gravely. “Miriel is lost.” In each hand, he clutched the last tokens of his sister. Those items he would take back to Minas Tirith and present to his father. He shifted his eyes back to Bregolas’ body. “We will not leave Bregolas here to rot or for the carrion-fowl to feed upon his flesh,” he said, glancing up at the sky. The flocks of birds circled above, waiting for the men to depart.
Faramir then stepped back into his role as Captain, ordering the men to gather Bregolas’ body and the warrior’s belongings. They would continue to travel to the base of the mountain, where they would give the Gondorian soldier a proper burial, Denethor be damned. Though the Lord of Gondor had ordered any that found Bregolas to bring back his head, Faramir would do no such a thing. Bregolas had fought to the death to protect Miriel, and for that, the Captain would show him the honor and respect that the slain warrior deserved.
The somber company rode on; nobody spoke until they reached the bottom of the mountain. On the south side of the road, amidst the hills, the Gondorian soldiers laid Bregolas to rest. They placed a large, oblong stone to mark his grave.
Eager to return home, the company decided to follow the East Road for a ways, before turning south. Miriel, upon hearing the clopping hooves of many horses, grew fearful, afraid that the men of Gondor had caught up with her at last. She fled to the north, running along the top of a ravine in the forest, and away from her kinsmen. Perhaps if the Slayer had remained near the road, she would’ve spotted her brother amongst the company, and her life may have turned out much differently then what fate had in store for her. Alas, none shall ever know.
A fortnight later, Faramir and company would return to Minas Tirith, bringing with them grim tidings from the north. Unfortunately, recounting the tale of their travels to the Steward of Gondor fell upon the young Captain’s shoulders. While Faramir knew that the meeting would not go well, he did not expect it to be as bad as it turned out. Denethor grew wroth over what he considered his son’s act of defiance.
“You were ordered to bring back the head of the traitor who had absconded with my only daughter,” hissed Denethor from his throne. The Steward clasped Miriel’s locks in his hand so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. “Not only did you fail to do as I had commanded, but you failed my beloved Miriel - your sister - with your cowardice.”
“But, Father!” interjected Faramir, attempting to defend himself. “We arrived too late. Miriel was already gone - ”
“Silence!” bellowed the Steward angrily, spittle flying from his lips. “You failed to search the mountains for your sister and left her to be tormented by Orcs.” He lifted both Miriel’s hair and her tattered, blood-soaked garment from his lap. “These are not proof that she is dead.” Denethor’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward in his seat. “You’ve left my beloved daughter to suffer, and for that, I will never forgive you.”
The Steward’s words stung Faramir. It felt as if a dagger had been plunged into the Captain’s heart. He fought back the tears that were rapidly forming in his eyes.
If possible, the wrinkles on Denethor’s face deepened. He then coolly added, “Boromir would not have left the mountains without his sister. He would’ve fought legions of Orcs to save his only sister.”
His cutting words had the desired effect on his youngest son. In the silence of the chamber, Faramir could be heard sniffing back his tears. He quickly wiped away the tear that had escaped from the corner of his eye.
Why must Father be so cruel when I grieve so? I did all I could, but it is never good enough, he thought.
“Leave me!” ordered the Steward. “Leave me until I call for you to return. Then I will pronounce my judgment on the son who has failed me yet again.”
Feeling as though he had been beaten down, Faramir turned, and left the chamber.
Now, Denethor did not believe that Miriel was dead. His heart would not let him accept that. As soon as Faramir had gone, he took off for the Hidden Chamber in the White Tower. He felt that the palantír would show him Miriel’s whereabouts despite the fact that it had not thus far.
Once he was locked away in his secret room, he pulled that black clothe from the Seeing Stone, focusing his thoughts on what he wanted to see. A smoky-like haze swirled within the palantír until it gradually formed into images. A horrific sight greeted the Steward, one which he would never have envisioned. A badly beaten and bleeding Miriel lay on a rock floor of some darkened chamber, naked. Orcs, scores of them, took turns raping her. Though no sound emitted from the stone, Denethor heard Miriel’s shrill cries of anguish echoing in his mind. The last beast that pleasured himself with his beloved daughter arched his back (was that in pleasure?), his jaw widening before his mouth came rushing down onto Miriel’s throat. His teeth sank into her flesh, tearing out her throat, filling the entire palantír with crimson.
So sickened by the scene, Denethor slapped the palantír from its stand, sending the orb rolling across the floor. He then fell to his knees, trembling. In his hands, he clutched the last two items of Miriel’s: her hair and her bloody shirt. There was now no doubt that his beloved Miriel was dead, and that she had suffered horribly. The sight of that sickening display would send Denethor further over the edge, into the madness of grief.
Far below, those milling around in the courtyard of the Citadel heard the anguished cries of the Lord of Gondor coming from the windows in the uppermost part of the tower. They came to believe that news of Miriel’s death had finally sunk in with the Steward. Soon, all in Minas Tirith would learn of Miriel’s death, and word would swiftly spread throughout the rest of the kingdom, leading all in that nation to mourn the loss of one considered quite dear to them.
However, in Mordor, there was one who rejoiced - Sauron. His plan was working more splendidly than he could’ve imagined. Nothing could please the Dark Lord more than rewarding Denethor for his audacity by showing the Steward such graphic images of his beloved daughter. Not only had he managed to convince the Lord of Gondor that Miriel was dead, but he had pushed him closer to the brink of madness. In time, the Steward would plummet into the abyss of despair, courtesy of the Lord of Mordor, proving how weak men truly were.
Now, without having to worry about Gondor, Sauron could have a little fun with the Slayer, who was now alone in the wilds of Middle-earth, unaided by any…
Chapter 13 - False Façades
WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!
The following chapter is rated “R” due to graphic depictions of brutal and horrific violence that some readers may find offensive and/or disturbing. If you are easily bothered by such imagery, do not read! Consider yourself warned!
Miriel ran as fast as she could. She feared that the men on the road could hear her. Her booted feet crunched the dead leaves that blanketed the forest floor and the water skins draped around her neck noisily bounced into one another as she sprang over the uneven terrain. She must’ve gone a good mile or so at full speed before she found herself unable to run any further and collapsed onto the ground, breathless. She held her breath for a few moments, listening intently as to whether any had followed her into the forest. All she heard were typical woodsy sounds - birds chirping merrily in the tree limbs above, the scurrying of little critters on the bed of dry leaves, and the occasional rustling of leaves from an unfelt breeze.
She allowed herself to breathe in rasps once again, as she reached for one of her water skins. It was a hot day and the forest seemed even hotter. Miriel took a long drink, her eyes searching above for any patches of blue sky amidst the canopy of trees. There were very few places where she could actually see the sky. And, from the looks of it, the trees appeared denser in any direction she decided to tread. After a short break, she carried on, trying to stay on a north-west course, when possible.
Miriel soon came to realize that there was no way she would make it out of the forest before nightfall. Darkness always fell on the woods earlier than the open planes and fields. She didn’t like the thought of being alone in a place so unfamiliar. There were so many strange noises in the woods at night. She clearly recalled her first night on watch duty near the borders of Rohan shortly after she and Bregolas had left Minas Tirith, and how the noises amidst the darkness had frightened her so. That seemed so long ago, even though it really wasn’t.
The Slayer plodded on, lost in her thoughts. She wished that there was some way she could speak with Buffy. She longed for her company and counsel. Miriel couldn’t help but wonder if it was possible for loneliness to drive one insane. She sure hoped that wouldn’t happen to her, but she already loathed walking in silence. She began to sing softly under her breath, finding solace in songs from bygone days.
She and Bregolas had studied the map quite a bit before his demise, and she knew that she had entered Rhudaur, which, at one time, had been part of the ancient kingdom of Arnor. She couldn’t remember any other specifics from the map, other than the vast region of Eriador, and the small town of Archet, which, for some reason, stuck in her mind. She hoped that some of her kinsmen still dwelled in the hills at the feet of the Misty Mountains as they had in times past, and wondered if she would come across strangers as nice as Gunnulf and his family.
As soon as that thought crossed her mind, Miriel heard Bregolas’ voice in her head, saying, Gunnulf betrayed us. Do not forget that, Miriel. It is folly to trust strangers.
She chuckled. “Even in death your voice continues to haunt me,” the Slayer said aloud. “Do you forget, my friend that Eirá provided us with food and Grimbeorn with horses?”
Miriel heard no response from her dead friend.
“Oh no,” she said in dismay. “I think I’m already treading down the path of insanity! What am I doing having conversations with a dead man?”
The Slayer didn’t speak aloud after that, fearing that talking to herself was a sign of madness. She continued on, taking breaks every now and again to rest and check on her dwindling supplies. Since Bregolas’ death, Miriel found herself drinking more water than she should. To her, the air in the forest seemed exceptionally hot and no matter how much she drank, her mouth felt parched. Four water skins were already empty and if she didn’t ration the rest, the remaining two would be empty before she left the woods.
When the forest began to grow dark, and Miriel found herself stumbling over dead tree limbs, she decided that it was best to stop for the night. Leaning against the bole of a beech tree, she ate another scant meal of cheese and honey cakes, wishing that she had meat to sate that hungering that never seemed to go away.
When darkness settled about her, the Slayer kept the crossbow clutched in her hand, ready to fire should some beastly creature jump out of the shadows. All the nightly noises sounded louder than usual, increasing the girl’s paranoia threefold. O, how she wished that Bregolas was with her, or, better yet, Buffy, who always seemed fearless and brave when Miriel was not.
Then she heard it!
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The Slayer frantically leapt to her feet, spinning toward the sound. The hair on the nape of her neck stood on end. There was no doubt in her mind that she was hearing the sound of heavy footfalls on the bed of dead leaves, slowly coming her way.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Her mind was racing, her heart nearly beating out of her chest. She raised her weapon, pointing it in the direction in which she heard the sound. She knew that it was no squirrel or coney foraging for food at that hour. This was something… bigger, much bigger.
Mustering her courage, she shouted, “Sh-show yourself!” Her voice sounded weak, even to her. But, the moment she spoke, all fell silent. Her eyes darted from tree to tree, searching for any moving shadows. Whatever it was, it was hiding. It was hiding somewhere nearby. The sudden stillness increased her trepidation. She’d rather the thing lurking in the woods jumped out at her. At least then she could defend herself. The anxiety of waiting proved to be much worse.
Her heartbeat started to return to its normal rhythm when she suddenly heard something sniffing, the same sniffing sound she had heard whilst she was hiding by the road. The thumping in her chest increased again, and Miriel didn’t like the thought of sticking it out any longer. With her weapon trained in the direction of the hidden beast, she carefully crouched down, grabbed her bags with her free hand, and pulled the straps over her shoulder.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The moment she heard the footsteps again, she bolted. Miriel had gone maybe a couple of yards before she careened into a tree, sending her ricocheting onto her back. The unexpected collision sent her weapon flying from her hand. Terrified and dazed, she whimpered as she clambered to her knees, her hands desperately searching the forest floor for her crossbow. Finding her weapon, she then got back on her feet and took off again, keeping a hand stretched out in front of her to avoid colliding with another tree.
Brambles grabbed at her legs, their prickly thorns piercing both her breeches and skin. She moaned, trying to fight her way through the thickets. From behind, she heard a snap of a twig breaking in two. The unseen beast was following her! She was breathing so loudly that she no longer heard the crunching of dried leaves beneath her stalker’s feet. The underbrush and density of the forest caused her to run hither and thither. Miriel became disoriented and had no idea in which direction she was fleeing.
The ground then began to climb and she knew that she had come upon another hill. Her eyes sought out the night sky above, yet the branches of the trees formed a leafy dome, preventing her from using the stars as a guide. With her eyes fixed above, and her hands wildly stretched out before her, feeling for obstacles, a branch smacked her in the face, scratching her from the bridge of her nose and below her eye to her right jaw line. Miriel let out a startled cry. Her face instantly burned with pain.
Still, she continued running, weaving between trees, and pulling herself free from the briars that snagged at her clothing, which only helped her assailant by slowing her down. Sweat seeped from every pore and tears rolled from her eyes though the Slayer didn’t realize it at the time. Her adrenaline was pumping, the muscles in the back of her calves ached from climbing the incline of the hill.
The burning in her calves let up some when she reached the top of the hill. She nearly stumbled over a protruding root or rock, but luckily caught her footing again. But, as she made her descent, she tripped once again, this time losing her balance altogether. She rolled forward, head over foot, her bags flinging off her arm. The back of her breeches suddenly became wet and for a second Miriel thought she had peed herself. But it soon became painfully obvious that at least one of her water skins had smashed open, spilling out the last of her water. That was her last thought, for her head struck a rock, knocking the young Slayer unconscious…
In a hazy state, Miriel heard an indistinct voice calling her name.
She groaned.
The voice spoke again, a little bit more clearly. “Miriel! Wake up! Wake up!”
She began to feel a dull pounding on the left side of her head.
“Wake up! C’mon, Miriel! Please, wake up!” she heard the voice say again. That time, she felt her body being shaken as the voice spoke.
In her confusion, she uttered, “Andreth, I want to sleep longer.”
“Andreth?” said the perplexed voice. “I’m not Andreth. It’s me, Miriel. It’s Buffy.”
For the briefest of moments, Miriel had thought that she was home, safe in bed. As she came to her senses, that delusion was quickly broken. Not only did her head ache terribly, but also her entire body.
“B-Buffy,” she stammered with a groan, blinking her eyes open.
“Yeah. C’mon. You need to sit up,” said the elder Slayer, sliding an arm beneath the girl’s shoulder, and easing her upright.
“Oh, my head,” moaned a still groggy Miriel, placing her hand on the left side of her head. She winced when she touched the large knot on the side of her skull.
“Let me see,” Buffy said, taking a closer look at Miriel’s injury. “You’re bleeding,” she announced, as she looked at her blood-covered palm. “We need to keep pressure on that.”
The swords that hung on either side of Miriel stuck out awkwardly, the hilts thrust painfully into her hips. She readjusted the weapons to lessen her discomfort.
“What happened?” Miriel asked, still somewhat dazed.
“You fell,” answered Buffy, pulling a bandanna from her pocket and holding it to her protégé’s head.
The girl gasped. “I was being chased,” she recalled, shifting her gaze toward the top of the slope. She saw nothing moving amidst the shadows. She looked back at Buffy. “Something was following me.”
“Yeah, I know,” replied the elder Slayer, her eyes doing a swift scan of the hill. “I think it’s gone now.” She shifted her eyes back to Miriel. “You okay? Anything broken?”
“I-I don’t think so,” answered the girl. “My belongings. Where are they?” she asked, her recollection of the tumble down the hill becoming more clear. She surveyed the immediate area. “And my water skins? I think they were damaged. One of them broke.” She glanced between her legs. I’m wet.”
“At least you didn’t piss yourself,” chuckled Buffy, trying to keep the mood light. “Do you think you can stand? I think you need to stand.” The elder Slayer wasn’t sure how one properly addressed head injuries, but felt that Miriel should get on her feet as soon as she possibly could.
Miriel held the bandanna to her injury as she struggled to her feet. Her head began to spin, and she grabbed hold of Buffy to maintain her balance.
“Steady, now. Steady,” said Buffy. “You might have a concussion.” The elder Slayer began to question her own advice. “Maybe you should sit,” she then said, helping the girl onto a large boulder a foot or so away.
“I wish you would make up your mind,” barked an irritated Miriel. The pain in her head had become so excruciating that her mood had turned foul.
“No need to bite my head off. Jeez!” Buffy complained. “I’m trying to help you and that’s the thanks I get. Pfft.”
“Sorry,” groaned Miriel. “My head hurts awfully bad.” She glanced at the slope. With her eyes adjusting to the darkness, she spotted her bags scattered about the hillside. “I could use some tonic. I think that will help ease the pain.”
“Tonic. Yeah, right,” answered Buffy, before taking off up the incline to gather Miriel’s bags. “Tonic,” she grumbled under her breath. “I should just make some Tylenol materialize.” It’s not like the medicine will work, she thought to herself. Miriel’s knocked out. She’ll need the real stuff when she wakes up. Despite her view of the matter, Buffy felt it was best to help the girl out as much as possible, even if it was only in a dream. The last twenty-four hours had been traumatic for the young Slayer, and Buffy didn’t need to add to it by being ornery.
She obediently brought Miriel’s things back to her, including the two broken water skins. “I’m sorry, Miriel,” said Buffy upon her return. “Looks like you did break a couple of your bottles in the fall. If you wanna look on the bright side, this one still has some water,” she added, shaking one of the containers so that the contents swished around inside.
“What am I to do without water?” asked a disheartened Miriel. “I cannot survive without it.”
Buffy eye’s scanned below. She could hardly see anything other than black shadows against the dimness of night. “I’m sure you’ll come across a water source soon. I mean, this area was once inhabited by people, right? You might find an old well or spring or something.” The elder Slayer tried to sound hopeful.
“And what if I don’t?”
Buffy tossed the bags at Miriel’s feet, feeling a bit annoyed with her protégé. “What’s with all the negativity? Can’t you see that the glass is half full?”
Miriel glared at her mentor for a moment or two, before reaching down for the bag that contained her medicines. “That’s easy for you to say,” she remarked. “All your needs are being met! If there’s something you desire, you simply go to the market and purchase it. I do not have that luxury. Life is hard in the real world.” She found the bottle of tonic, popped the cork, and as she brought the bottle to her lips, it slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground, shattering. Miriel’s eyes instantly welled with tears. She began to cry.
With her frustration mounting, Buffy grabbed Miriel by the shoulders, and snapped, “Enough already! Christ, Miriel. This is a dream. Think your headache away. There’s no need for all this drama. We’re… in… a… dream,” she said, enunciating each word slowly.
The baffled young Slayer stared at her mentor. “Huh?”
“You heard me,” answered Buffy, folding her arms across her chest. “You can change anything here. You have control over this environment, not vice versa. If you don’t like what you’re experiencing - do something about it. You have that power.”
“I had forgotten,” sniffled Miriel, wiping away her tears. Only a second later, the pain throughout her body dissipated and the darkness that surrounded them began to wane, as the sun began to climb into the sky. “These dreams of ours seem so vivid, so real. It is hard to forget that we are not in the waking world.”
“I know,” answered Buffy, grateful that the girl was finally getting a grip. “The mind’s a powerful thing. And to think we only use ten percent of our brainpower. Imagine if we used more. God only knows what kind of things we could do.”
“We only use ten percent of our brain?” queried the girl, raising her brows in doubt. “How could you know such a thing? Who could make such a determination?”
“Scientists, I guess,” answered Buffy with a shrug. “That’s what they always say. But that’s beside the point. Right now, we have to deal with the present, with your situation.” She glanced down at the water skins. “Water’s the most pressing issue. If only we knew where we could find some,” she added with a heavy sigh.
“Perhaps I should sprout some wings and fly overhead. Then maybe I could spot a spring or some sort of water source,” she remarked jokingly, returning to her old self.
“Hmm, can you?” asked Buffy, wondering if such a thing was possible. “I mean, you don’t necessarily have to have wings. You can be like Superman, and fly through the air like a speeding bullet.”
Miriel rolled her eyes. “Do you not see that I jest?” she answered, her tone riddled with sarcasm. “I cannot fly! Men cannot fly!”
“Actually, they can.”
The young Slayer couldn’t help but feel that her mentor was toying with her. “Don’t be ridiculous! Only winged creatures can fly!”
Buffy’s lips slowly curved into a smile; a mischievous glint came to her hazel eyes. “Field trip time!” she announced, delighted at the opportunity to prove Miriel wrong.
“Field trip time? What in the name of the Valar does that mean?” The young Slayer assumed that Buffy was speaking of some place in Middle-earth, and hastily added, “I’ve seen the Gladden Fields from afar, and have no desire to look upon them again. The midges were atrocious!”
It was now Buffy’s turn to roll her eyes. “I’m not talking about the Gladden Fields. I’m talking about taking you on a trip, a journey to - ”
“Oh, no!” interjected Miriel, rising from the boulder. “I have no desire to return to that queer place you call a mall.” She shook her head. “I do not like it there!”
“I’m not talking about the mall,” replied the elder Slayer. “You said that men can’t fly. Well, I’m gonna show you that they can.”
“That’s impossible!” barked Miriel with a derisive snort. “You’re playing with me.”
The smile widened on Buffy’s face. “You’re about to see something that no one in your time could possibly ever imagine.” She reached out and grabbed the girl by the elbow. One second they were standing on the hillside, the next, they were standing on the observation tower of the Sunnydale Airport.
Miriel gasped. Her jaw dropped as she looked upon airplanes for the first time. Buffy chortled at the expression on her protégé’s face. She thought that if the girl’s eyes opened any wider, they might pop out of their sockets.
“Those are called airplanes,” revealed Buffy, pointing to the various flying machines. “They’re a type of vehicle that people ride in.”
“What? How? I- I do not see how…” Her words trailed off, as a nearby 727’s engines roared to life. The sudden, loud noise frightened her, causing Miriel to clap her hands over her ears.
A laughing Buffy tugged at Miriel’s hands, pulling them from the girl’s ears. “It’s alright!” she shouted over the din. “You’re safe. Just watch.” The jet began to back out of the terminal. “See the windows,” she continued, pointing to the many small glass panes along the side of the aircraft. “A plane’s like, like a huge carriage with wings,” she explained. “In a few minutes, you’ll see it take off.” She then turned her attention to another runway. She nudged Miriel. “Look! There’s one landing over there.” She pointed to another plane as it made its descent.
The spellbound young Slayer watched as the other plane landed, its tires screeching when they made contact with the runway. Buffy was right. Never in her wildest dreams could she have ever imagined a vehicle such as that. It was unbelievable.
“There are people inside that airplane,” commented a stunned Miriel, noticing faces in the window of the 727 that was backing away from the terminal.
“Yeah,” answered Buffy in a ‘that’s pretty obvious’ sort of way, “Ergo the word - vehicle.”
So enthralled was Miriel that she didn’t offer any retort to the elder Slayer’s comment. She continued to watch the nearby jet, as it raced down the runway and took off into the air. “Amazing,” she uttered under her breath. “Nobody at home would ever believe me if I told them that such a flying contraption existed.” She chuckled. “They would think I had gone mad.” Suddenly, Miriel became alarmed and grabbed Buffy by the arm. “I haven’t, have I? I haven’t gone insane?” She thought that, maybe, after a day in the wilderness alone, she was beginning to lose her mind.
“No, you’re not crazy. You’ve just witnessed one of the ways we travel. In the future, that is. In the far, far future. Planes are way quicker than a car.”
Questions then speedily flew from Miriel’s mouth: “How come the wings do not flap like a bird? What material are airplanes made from? How do they stay in the air? What is that noise? How does it move? What is that white mist that follows behind?”
“Whoa! Hold your horses, soul sister,” said Buffy, overwhelmed by the bombardment of questions. The elder Slayer then tried to explain, in the simplest of terms, how an airplane worked. She did her best to keep the technical jargon to a minimal and was somewhat surprised by how much she actually knew about the topic. Seeing how captivated Miriel was, Buffy added to the experience by boarding one of the planes with her charge.
The young Slayer keenly inspected the interior of the plane in wonderment. She began to have a new appreciation for the ingeniousness of mankind. To make flying machines out of metal with seats more comfortable than any carriage Miriel had ever ridden in was outstanding. She sank into one of the cushioned seats beside her mentor.
“Buckle up,” said the elder Slayer, fastening the girl’s seatbelt.
“What? What is this for?” asked a perplexed Miriel.
“That’s so you won’t fall out of your seat when we take off.”
“Take off? We’re… we’re going to fly?”
“Uh-huh,” answered Buffy, as the captain’s voice came over the intercom, scaring the hell out of her companion.
Miriel’s eyes searched the cabin for the man whose voice she heard. She thought that perhaps it was a phantom, as she could see no one other than Buffy. “Where’s that voice coming from?” she asked in a nearly frantic state. “I see no man.”
The elder Slayer cracked up, laughing over the girl’s reaction. “He’s speaking over the intercom, Einstein,” Buffy sniggered, pointing to one of the speakers. “The pilot’s in the cockpit. He’s the one doing the driving… or flying.”
Miriel clutched the arms of her seat as the plane slowly rolled down the runaway. She stared out the little window with her jaw slightly agape. The roar of the engines grew louder and the plane picked up speed. The girl tried to look at the runway, but found that that made her dizzy and queasy. The acceleration of the jet pushed her back into the cushion of her seat. The plane then left the ground, soaring toward the heavens. She continued to stare out the window, watching as the objects below became smaller and smaller. The young Slayer then felt a strange sensation in her ears. She pulled on them, not understanding what was happening.
“Swallow,” instructed Buffy.
Miriel gave her mentor a questioning look.
“It’ll help equalize the pressure in your ears,” she explained with a small smile.
The moment Miriel swallowed hard, she woke up, alone, lying on the hillside. Darkness still covered the land and Buffy was nowhere to be found. The pain in her head and body began to throb once again, reminding the girl of the tumble she had taken. The hilts of both swords were sticking painfully into her hips. She readjusted the blades as she pulled herself to a sitting position. Moaning, she touched the goose egg on the left side of her head. She felt the dampness of blood. She still felt a little queasy, unsure whether it was from her plane ride or her injury. Nevertheless, she sat there for several minutes, waiting for that feeling to subside, and picking the thorns from the legs of her breeches.
She glanced along the top of the hill, searching for her stalker. She saw nothing, no movement in the gloom of night. After a while, she got to her feet and crept up the hill, gathering her belongings. Just like in her dream, two of the water skins were broken, one which contained most of her water. She had one-half of a container left. Though quite thirsty, she refused to take even a sip, not knowing when she’d be able to find another water source to replenish her supply.
When she had gathered all her bags, she took a swig of tonic, which helped ease the pain throughout her body. Feeling wide-awake, she decided to continue on her journey under the cover of darkness. Though moving much slower than before, she followed the easiest path she could find, hoping to put many miles behind her before daybreak. She no longer heard the sound of heavy footfalls trailing behind.
With the arrival of dawn, Miriel’s visibility increased. She followed a game trail, figuring that might lead her to water. The rumbling of thunder in the distance renewed her hope. If all else failed, she could always collect rainwater to drink. Through the treetops, she could see thick, grey clouds blanketing the sky, which blocked the sun’s rays. Though she couldn’t use the orangey orb as a guide, the young Slayer stayed on the same course, eager to exit the forest.
To Miriel’s dismay, when she finally left the woods, she found herself looking upon the western wall of the Misty Mountains, again. After walking nearly all night long and most of the morning, she had somehow done a loop and had come out north of the old road. She plopped down on the ground in defeat, and wept. All that time and energy wasted. The grey skies had hindered her, preventing her from following the correct path.
She raised her head, glowering at the overcast sky above. Shaking her fist in anger, she cursed the clouds for their deception. Not long afterwards, almost as if in response to her idle threat, the clouds began to dissipate, taking away any chance of rain. The sun shone brightly, bringing with it one of the hottest days in recent memory. Even at rest, sitting beneath the branches at the edge of the forest, sweat seeped from every pore in her body.
Hopelessness crept into Miriel’s heart. She felt that no matter how hard she tried, how far she ran, Doom would catch up with her eventually. It brought to mind the tales of Túrin Turambar from the Eldar Days, how misfortune had followed that great warrior, foiling all that he had done and destroying all that he loved. She wondered if the same fate awaited her, that her own deeds would end in disaster. Things seemed to be going that way. Wasn’t Bregolas’ death proof of that? In some ways, she and Túrin were similar. Though his life was blighted by the devilry of Morgoth, she was beginning to think that hers was too. If not Morgoth, then perhaps it was his most trusted servant that was behind all her woes.
Feeling inadequate, Miriel thought back over her seventeen years of life, seeing now that she had been damned from the very start. As she took her first breath, her mother took her last. Instead of celebrating a new life, her loved ones mourned the loss of one. Miriel’s first deed in life was killing her mother in childbirth. That was when it had all began, when the curse had first reared its ugly head. She was positive of that. And though she did have a somewhat normal childhood, Denethor had cruelly taken that away from her on that cold February night. The mere memory of that harrowing ordeal caused her to shudder despite the heat of the day. She wished she could forget that night and the ones that followed thereafter.
“It’s over,” she heard herself say aloud, wiping the sweat from her brow and the tears from her flushed face. Hungry, she grabbed her bag containing the last of the food given to her by Eirá. She ended up eating it all, down to the last crumb from her very last honey cake. She washed it down with the remainder of her water, no longer caring whether she lived or died.
With her belly full, she leaned against the bole of the tree, staring into space as the afternoon slowly ticked by. Then, something happened that she did not expect. Her hope returned, and she found herself eager to continue with her quest. Her eyes then shifted to her empty water skins. O’ how she regretted consuming the last of her food and water.
She climbed to her feet, not willing to let Bregolas’ death be in vain. If she had to eat tree roots and bugs to survive, then she would. She couldn’t give up. Not now. Not after everything she had been through. There was no turning back. Determined to stay on a westerly course, (obstacles be damned!) Miriel marched back into the forest. She had decided that she wouldn’t sleep until she had exited the woods’ western side.
Day turned into night, and fatigue began to set in. Miriel had no other choice but to rest for a little while. Her mouth was so dry that she would have done nearly anything for a drink of water. She wondered how animals survived in the wilds, and if they were blessed with some extra sense that helped guide them to water. At that moment, she would have preferred that skill over her Slayer abilities.
After a brief break, she continued on, determined to stay on the right course. She had gone maybe another mile or so before the trees began to thin, and she could see the star-speckled sky above. For the first time since her trek back into the woods, she could feel a cool breeze against her skin. It felt wonderful. Looking beyond the smattering of trees, she could see a great hill. If Miriel was to stay on her westerly path, she would have to climb it. She didn’t like that thought at all. She knew that doing so would require a great deal of strength and with no food or water to reinvigorate her body, she was hesitant to take up the challenge.
As she neared the hill, she stopped, surveying its size. In the dimness of night, she could see that it stretched to the north and south as far as her eyes could see. If she wanted to go around the mound, she would definitely need to go north, since her goal was to reach the ancient kingdom of Arnor. However, she feared straying from the path she had chosen, wanting to go due west until she left the forest. Which brought another question to mind: had she finally left the forest? Was this hill the first place outside the woods? Were there open planes on the other side? Since the map had been ruined, Miriel did not know the answers to these questions.
With a reluctant sigh, she ventured forward, deciding to scale the hill under the cover of darkness. The young woman could see no trees growing upon the mound or its side, only scattered thickets and brambles. There were also no noticeable pathways or game trails which she could follow. The hillside was steep with many jagged rocks jetting from its face. At least she could hide behind the stone protrusions, if need be. Though she hadn’t heard any footsteps or strange sniffing sounds behind her, she still had that nagging feeling of being watched.
Slowly and carefully, she began to scale the mound, using the rocks to help her keep her foothold. As she climbed, she thought that the hill seemed more like a small mountain. Every now and again, one of her swords would wedge between some rocks, making the climb even more difficult.
Before sunrise, Miriel finally reached the top. She hadn’t realized how truly massive the hill was nor how wide. The apex of the mound was flat and stony, and appeared to stretch for miles. She removed her bags and collapsed on the rocky ground. Her legs were trembling with fatigue and her back ached from the weight of her supplies. Her mouth was dry; her lips parched. Her need for water was becoming dire. As she lay there, she fantasized about water in all its glorious forms. If only she could have a sip! She couldn’t believe how zapped she felt despite her midday feast the day before. The food that had filled her belly was long gone and if she didn’t find water soon, Miriel felt that she would literally die of thirst.
Going a day without water will not kill you, remarked that little voice in the back of her mind, apparently commenting on her thoughts.
As if in answer, she heard, When one exerts such energy without water - a vital necessity to life - one will swiftly decline, both physically and mentally. At this rate, you will soon see things that are not really there. As your body deteriorates, so will your mind.
Miriel buried her face in her hands, thinking that the argument taking place in her mind was a sure sign that she was going mad.
Yes, my dear, you are displaying the first sign of insanity, the second voice continued. As sure as the sun will rise, you will plummet deeper into madness.
“I’m not going mad! I’m not going mad!” Miriel repeated, her voice muffled by the palms of her hands.
The Slayer then tried to clear her mind of all thoughts, but that proved to be impossible. Water was a constant thought, still. A part of her wanted to drift off to sleep, something she could easily do if she allowed it. But, at that moment, the last thing she wanted to see was Buffy and her cheery, optimistic self. She had no desire to see flying machines or the ease in which her mentor could retrieve water. If she were to visit Sunnydale in her dreams, she would drink to her heart’s content, only to wake and find herself longing for water even more. NO! No Buffy! No seeing the glass half full! Once again, Miriel’s thoughts turned to water.
Frustrated, Miriel got back on her feet and continued to trudge along the hilltop. Soon after, the sky grew lighter, and a new day began.
A few hours later, the Slayer reached the other side. From the heights of the hill, she could see that she had not left the forest, and from the looks of it, it would be quite a while before she did. If there was one glimmer of hope that she could see, it was that the woods didn’t appear to be as dense as it had been before she reached the hill. Scattered cleared areas gave her hope that she might come across some type of natural water source, a spring perhaps.
The descent was much more difficult than the climb up. With her strength depleted, and her pace slowed, it took Miriel the better part of the morning to reach the earth below. Once again, she collapsed from exhaustion. Her limbs felt numb and tingly as if her entire body had fallen asleep. There were no trees at the base of the hill and the intense heat of the sun made her feel as though she were withering from its rays, much like some fragile flower.
Desperate for some type of nourishment, she crawled on her belly to a patch of wild grass. If grass was good enough for livestock, surely it would be helpful to her under these extreme conditions. She tore a single blade from its root and brought it to her mouth with a shaky hand. Miriel nibbled on the green plant. Immediately, a bitter taste filled her mouth, causing her to spit the offensive blade from her lips.
She laid her face on the patch of grass. She then closed her eyes. Instantly, her head began to spin. The Slayer forced her weary eyes opened, hating that queasy feeling she experienced with them closed. Not only did she feel weak and terrible, but now she had a foul taste in her mouth. She wished she had never tasted the grass.
Her thoughts then turned to her quest, and how foolish she had been to go on such a journey. Miriel actually considered returning home, thinking that Denethor’s abuse was easier to endure than the wilds of Middle-earth. His nocturnal visits were not on a nightly basis, and while she had lived under his roof, every one of her material needs had been met. She had never gone without food or drink or anything else that she desired.
You do not mean that! exclaimed the rational voice in her mind. You will die if you return to Minas Tirith. Remember thinking of Túrin Turambar yesterday and the similarities between you two? If you allow yourself to be molested by Denethor, you will end your life as the son of Húrin had his. Need I remind you that is what drove you from your home in the first place, Miriel! Would you allow Bregolas’ death to be for nothing? You’re the Slayer, one of the Dúnedain. The blood of the Elder runs through your veins. You are made of stronger stuff than you know. Do not give up! As long as you live, there is hope!
Miriel was breathing heavily. Each time she exhaled, the grass swayed back, then forward, tickling her nose. However, she was too tired to move and continued to listen to the internal debate taking place in her head.
There is no hope! contested the other voice in her mind. For one as great as Bregolas to have been conquered from the world outside, there is no hope for a mere maiden, no matter her lineage. You speak of the son of Húrin. You are a daughter of Húrin, of no lesser bloodline. Túrin’s fate is your fate. There is no outrunning Doom. It will catch up with you ere the end! The world is full of perilous creatures, creatures far greater than wargs and Orcs and Trolls. Unsavory types haunt these hills, men that have never seen the bliss of Númenor and who consider all her descendants interlopers in the land they call home. Nay, Miriel! There is no hope for you here. You are weak, gullible. The voice paused before adding, There is no shame in sharing your bed with Denethor. Is that not the purpose of women, to sate the needs of men?
The fell voice went silent. As Miriel lay there, she waited expectantly for the “good” voice to refute the statements of the “bad” one. It did not. Instead, it somehow awakened her senses, taking her back to that night in February. She could smell the warm, sour breath of Denethor against her face, feel his inappropriate touch and hear the words that she wished she could forget.
Then the “good” voice asked, Is that what you long to return to? Is that memory not enough to keep you on your path? On your feet, Miriel! it demanded. Listen not to the evil utterances from within. It is but a ruse. Go on you way, Dagnir! Allow none to hinder your destiny.
The “good” voice was much more convincing. Miriel scrambled to her feet, heaving her bags over both shoulders. She set out on her journey again, her back hunched like some old woman. What little hope she had was beginning to dwindle quickly. Hearing voices in her head certainly meant that she had already gone insane.
By late afternoon, the Slayer’s symptoms worsened. Her vision had become blurry, and her eyes seemed to be playing tricks on her. There was one such incident when she had spotted a pond up ahead. She blinked, and then it was gone. She had experienced similar episodes to that all day long. There were even times when everything went black in spite of the sun shining brightly above. Whenever Miriel suffered from one of those blackouts, as she called them, she’d plop onto the ground until her sight returned, attempting to prevent herself from falling and injuring herself further.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, the constant throbbing in her head added to her misery. Her brain felt as if it was pounding against her skull. And it wasn’t just from the knock on the head she had gotten the night before. This was something else. Her feet had felt like they had been turned into lead weights, making it nearly impossible to lift them off the ground. Forced to shuffle her feet, she often found herself stumbling over roots, rocks and fallen tree limbs. She had no idea how she was able to continue on with so little strength. She figured it must have been her Slayer powers that kept her going.
There were even instances when Miriel found herself walking through a more heavily wooded section of the forest and saw quick, shadowy figures moving out of the corner of her eye. Yet, whenever she had turned to get a closer look, there was nothing there. She convinced herself that it was just birds moving much faster than she. But, when she began to hear whisperings, it was much harder to dismiss them as some form of wildlife. She could never make out what was said, as the voice or voices as it were, spoke softly, more like murmurings. In the end, she wrote these off as figments of her imagination, illusions caused by lack of water. Isn’t that what the “bad” voice in her head had said, that she would see things that weren’t really there? Only now, she was hearing them as well.
You’ve gone mad, taunted the “bad voice” in her mind. And in record time too!
Miriel finally gave up. She collapsed to the ground, unable to take another step. She was beyond exhausted. No words could describe how terrible she felt. As she stared up at the treetops, watching the fuzzy leaves flittering in the gentle breeze, she wondered how long it would take to die. She would die there, she was sure of it. She found it taxing to do the simplest of things, such as licking her lips or swallowing what little saliva she was able to produce.
I’m some Slayer alright, she thought dismally. How ill-conceived it was for any to think that I could be the Chosen One! They were wrong. The Powers were wrong. I failed. Bregolas was my strength, the one who kept me going. I’m nothing without him. I shall die here… and no one will ever know. I will leave no mark, have no glorious ending. I shall wither like my mother. I’m coming, Finduilas! I will be joining you in Mandos, o’ so very soon.
Miriel closed her eyes, hoping that she’d fall into the endless sleep like her forebears before her. She was ready. She would gladly welcome death.
“Rule One: Never die,” said Buffy in a faraway voice. “Sometimes you gotta know when to fold ‘em, but this isn’t the time.”
“Leave me be,” mumbled the young Slayer, feeling her mentor shaking her body.
Buffy’s voice then became fainter and garbled. Miriel couldn’t decipher any words, as it sounded like multiple people were talking at once.
“Miriel!” she heard Buffy shout hazily, the sound of her voice drifting further and further away.
“Lass! Lass!” a manly voice called. “Come on, now.”
“I’m coming, Mandos,” the girl uttered in a barely audible voice, thinking that the Doomsman of the Valar was summoning her to his Halls. Miriel waited expectantly for her spirit to lurch free from her body, much like the feeling she had experienced with Buffy on the airplane.
“I think she’s in some sort of swoon, Father,” a different man’s voice said.
Father, she thought. She never recalled Mandos being called Father. Did he have children, or did he have servants that addressed him in that manner? While she had heard tales of the Valar, she never heard the Lord of Mandos referred to as “Father”.
“She’s flushed,” answered the first voice. “Probably overheated.”
Huh? thought Miriel, now very confused.
I told you you were mad, mocked her inner voice, the one that she considered “bad”.
Then Miriel felt something cold and wet trickling on her face. Instinctively, her mouth opened, desperately searching for the liquid. A gush of water entered her mouth, causing her to choke and cough.
“Sit her up! Sit her up!” ordered one of the voices.
Miriel then felt her head jerk forward off the ground, as she continued to cough.
“Easy now,” continued the voice that had spoken first. “Take a drink.”
With her eyes still closed, Miriel felt something pressed against her lips. A container! Soon, a flow of water raced down her throat, tasting more heavenly than anything she had ever had before.
“That’s it. Slowly, now” the kindly voice continued. The Slayer could actually feel the warmth of the man’s breath against her damp skin as he spoke.
The container suddenly pulled away, and water dribbled down her chin. Miriel blinked her eyes open. To her surprise, she saw a grey-haired old man with a gaunt, wrinkly face with the most piercing blue eyes that she had ever seen hovering over her. A second later, a second man appeared in her line of vision. He had straight straw-colored hair with a tuft of hair at his chin, and appeared considerably younger than the first man. He looked down upon her with the same concerned look as the other.
“You alright?” asked the grey-haired man. “Can you sit up, lass?”
Before Miriel could respond, the younger man that had lifted her head, eased her up into a sitting position.
The Slayer was very confused and disoriented. She was sure she was experiencing some sort of hallucination. Didn’t the “bad” voice say she had gone mad?
She groggily rubbed her eyes, expecting that the men would disappear in a second or two.
“Are you alright?” the old man asked again. “How ‘bout some more water, eh?”
Without waiting for an answer, he pressed the bottle back to her lips, allowing her to drink more.
“By the blessing of Béma we happened along this way,” said the old man. “Normally, we hunt in the west wood, not south.”
“Count yourself lucky, miss,” added the younger of the two. “Wicked folk dwell in these parts, and not all of them are Men.”
The old man gave the younger one a look of warning, as if to tell him not to speak of such things in the open. He then pulled the bottle away again. “You alright?” he asked, for what seemed to be the hundredth time. “You lost?”
Miriel could only nod, still uncertain if all this was real or not.
“I think we should take her back with us, Father,” remarked the younger man. “It’s getting late, and Mother would be most wroth with us if we did not aid a young girl lost in the wilds.”
“Aye,” agreed the old man. His blue eyes darted back to Miriel again. “Can you walk?”
Once again, the Slayer answered with a nod. As she was helped to her feet, she felt dizzy and swayed, nearly falling, but the younger man caught her around the waist before she could hit the ground.
“Let me carry you,” offered the younger man.
“No!” barked Miriel sharply, surprised at the tone in which she had responded. “I-I think I can walk,” she added in a gentler voice.
“Well, let us at least carry your bags then,” said the old man. His blue eyes shifted from Miriel to his companion. “Gather ‘em up, Dúilin. Hurry now. It’s getting late.”
As the Slayer stood there, she hoped that the dizziness would swiftly pass. The thought of being carried out of the forest by some stranger was not a pleasant one. She was the Slayer, a woman with untold strength. She could do this, she could walk.
“Mother will soon have supper on the board,” the old man revealed, keenly looking Miriel over. “Looks like you could use a good meal.”
The younger man handed his bow to the older man, as he began to grab the girl’s belongings from the ground.
“What’s your name?” asked the old man. “Who’s your father?”
Miriel felt like a lump was caught in her throat. She nervously eyed the man’s water skin, hoping he’d offer her another drink.
The grey-haired man stood there, waiting patiently for her to respond, the open container still clutched in his hand.
Thinking it unwise to give her true name, she blurted out, “Nimrodel. My name is Nimrodel, daughter of Húrin.” She had no idea why that particular name had come to mind. Perhaps it was her ever-constant thought of water, or, maybe, she had thought of the kinsmen of her forebear, Mithrellas.
The old man gave a quick nod of his head, as though satisfied with her answer. He then offered her a smile, revealing yellowish tinted teeth. “I’m Valandil, and this is my son, Dúilin,” he said, pointing to the other man.
When Miriel heard the old man’s name, she felt an instant sense of relief. She believed that coming across someone named “Vala-lover” had to be a sign, a sign that the Powers in the West had somehow intervened, sending these men to help her.
As soon as the younger man had all of Miriel’s things in hand, they set off, going north. Though she had been given some water, the Slayer’s feet still felt like lead blocks, and she was unable to keep up with the others. Eager to leave the woods before it grew dark, each man grabbed hold of one of her arms, and pulled her along.
Dúilin, who was on her left, then casually remarked, “I have never seen a girl carrying so many weapons. Why is that? Why do you carry two swords and have a dagger strapped to your leg?”
“The world is a perilous place,” answered Miriel, trying her best to keep her footing.
Valandil laughed heartily at that. “How true! We live in bleak times, there is no doubting that. Rumor has it that the Dark Lord stirs, that he is preparing for war.” He glanced at Miriel. “What say you about that?”
“I do not follow the Dark Lord, nor do I know of his plans,” she replied without missing a beat.
“Yet you are well-armed,” said Dúilin, his eyes looking to her weapons again. “Have you met the enemy on your travels? Have you been on your own from the start? Where is it that you hail from?”
“Come now, Dúilin. You ask too many questions all at once!” scolded the old man. “Give Nimrodel time to answer one question before asking another.”
“Sorry, Father,” replied the younger man.
Silence fell amongst them. Miriel wasn’t sure how to answer Dúilin’s questions. She had unthinkingly created another alias, and wondered what story she should tell. Should she mix some truth with lies, or lie altogether? She surely wasn’t going to tell them that she came from Gondor. But then where, where should she say she came from and where should she say she’s going? If these men were truly sent by the Valar, should she tell the truth? Or was it best to be leery of strangers, as Bregolas had always said, telling them nothing. All those conflicting thoughts left Miriel feeling confused, and, if possible, more exhausted.
“I think I know what has befallen you, lass,” the old man finally said, breaking the silence.
The Slayer didn’t answer. She kept her eyes forward, and concentrated on keeping up at the same pace as the men.
“You come from a land far from here,” he surmised. “And you traveled not alone, but with two companions, whom you lost along the way. You carry their blades as a token of their memory, I deem. Whether you have skill with the blade or not, I think they bring you comfort, and should the need arise, you are prepared to wield them.”
Miriel’s jaw dropped. While Valandil wasn’t wholly correct in his assessment, he was pretty damn close. “How could you know that?” she queried in a stunned voice, shifting her wide eyes to the old man.
“With age, comes wisdom, Nimrodel. Do not forget that.” He smiled, chuckling under his breath. “Besides, is that not a man’s shirt you wear?
The Slayer glanced at the garment, having forgotten that it was Bregolas’. “Yes,” she answered.
“Was it goblins?” asked Dúilin. “Was your party attacked by goblins?”
Miriel nodded, pained by the mere thought. The image of Bregolas dying in her arms flashed in her mind.
“Damn them!” growled the younger man. “Goblins roam these hills at will.”
“But not near our home!” boasted Valandil, sliding one of the bows off his shoulder. “I may be old, but my aim is as good as ever!” He waved the bow in his hand. “Nary a goblin comes around our farm.”
“You have a farm?” questioned Miriel, excited at the prospect of eating real food, especially meat.
“Oh, yes,” answered Valandil, nodding. “My kin have dwelled in these parts for generations. We were bred to till the soil and harvest the crops.”
Please say you raise meat. Please say you raise meat, the Slayer said to herself.
“And of course we raise the usual, chickens, pigs, cattle, sheep, horses and such,” the old man continued.
Thank the Valar for that! she thought delightedly.
“I believe Mother is preparing lamb this evening,” chimed in Dúilin, licking his lips at the mere thought. “Nothing is as tasty as the young, tender flesh of a baby sheep.” He enunciated his words very slowly, and the tone of his voice sent a shiver down the Slayer’s spine. He then looked at Miriel and smiled.
She dismissed that momentary chill, thinking it was just another symptom of her illness. She was not feeling well after all, and was exerting much energy walking briskly with her newfound companions. After having gone about half a mile or so, Miriel needed to stop and rest. She sat on a fallen tree where she was given more water.
“I can carry you, Nimrodel,” proposed Dúilin yet again. “We will reach our home much quicker if I do.”
Already, darkness was creeping into the woods.
“No, I’m feeling better,” Miriel lied, as she got back to her feet. “The water helped. I’m ready. I’m ready to go on.”
The trio then continued on their trek, following a path into an area of dense woods. The men persisted in their questioning, wanting to know more about Miriel. She lied, telling them that she had fled her home in The Narrows of Mirkwood after a raid on her village by the Uruk-hai of Dol Guldur. She embellished the story by telling them that her entire family had been slaughtered in the attack and that she, along with two others, had escaped. They had planned to journey to Western Eriador, where they had kin, but Orcs had attacked them in the wee hours of the morning a few days ago, leaving Miriel the sole survivor.
The men listened to her tale in amazement. The words seemed to flow out of Miriel. She had no idea how she was able to concoct such a story on the spur-of-the-moment. It almost seemed as if someone else was speaking through her, for she had no recollection of any place called The Narrows, nor knew of its proximity to Dol Guldur. Yet her descriptions were spot-on and her account most convincing.
“How was it that you were able to escape the goblins in the mountains?” asked a bewildered Valandil, who seemed most interested in hearing the specifics of her tale.
“I had fallen,” she answered, “off a rock ledge. I was able to crawl into a hollow formed by some boulders. The Orcs searched for me, but with the threat of dawn on the horizon, they left, returning from whence they came.” Her voice was riddled with sadness. “Once I was sure they had gone, I returned to my friends, only to find them dead. I had no other choice but to continue on our journey, so I gathered what things I would need, and left.”
“I deem that your adventure is proof that the Valar have not forsaken us mortal folk as of yet,” said Valandil thoughtfully. “Some higher power is protecting you, Nimrodel - there is no doubting that. I’ll bet that same power is what guided me and Dúilin to you. Must be the work of Béma.”
“Béma,” Miriel repeated. “I’ve heard you say that name twice now. Who is that? Who is this Béma character you speak of?”
“You do not know?” he asked, somewhat taken aback by her lack of knowledge. “He is the Great Hunter; the only Vala that still visits Middle-earth, hunting the foul beasts that seek to harm the innocent.”
Puzzled, Miriel thought for a long moment. Then, as if a light went on in her mind, she exclaimed, “Oromë! You speak of Oromë, the Great Rider!”
Valandil nodded. “He is known by many names.”
“He still comes here? He still comes to Middle-earth?” the Slayer asked excitedly.
“You can hear the sound of his horn for leagues and leagues,” he replied. “And it is said that it casts fear into the hearts of the wicked, for their doom is at hand.”
“Wow!” remarked the Slayer in awe. “I had no idea that any of the Valar ever came to these parts. I have heard of no such thing happening since the Elder Days.”
“It is true,” chimed in Dúilin. “Even I heard the horn of Béma once, when I was a lad.”
That revelation left Miriel both stunned and excited. Denethor, who was the Lore-master of Gondor, had never mentioned that Oromë continued to visit Middle-earth. She wondered why the Vala Lord never traveled south where the threat of Sauron was greatest. She expected it was because the Gondorian warriors were far superior warriors to the men in the north, whose kingdom had long been destroyed and its people scattered. Perhaps they needed his protection more. She hoped that she’d meet the Vala Lord. The notion had never entered her mind until that moment.
News of Oromë seemed to renew the Slayer’s strength, and her hope, something she desperately needed. She, Dúilin and Valandil walked for another hour or so before they exited the woods. The path ended at a great field of lush, rolling pastureland, fenced with wooden beams that formed a crisscross pattern. A dirt lane ran between the fence lines that lead to a spectacular two story stone house sitting atop a knoll. The farm was beautiful, the type of place that Miriel had envisioned having one day.
Grey clouds lingered above, promising the rain that seemed to evade the Slayer. She couldn’t help but think that that was yet another sign that she was on the right path, that the Powers had guided her to this place, at this particular point in time on her journey.
Miriel paused when they stepped into the home. Immediately, she smelled the delicious aroma of rosemary and garlic wafting through the corridors, making her belly rumble with hunger. As Dúilin set her belongings near the front door, the Slayer’s eyes did a quick survey of her surroundings. Up ahead, to her right, was a sweeping spiral staircase that led to the second floor. She glanced to her right, through the open doors of a room that had to be the lady of the house’s work area. She could see a spinning wheel and loom. Several large woven baskets containing yarn sat against the wall and fabrics of all shades hung over wooden racks. To her left, through another set of double doors, was a spacious elegant sitting room, decorated in bold colors with intricately carved wood furnishings.
“Mother!” shouted Valandil. “We’re back. And we brought a guest with us!”
Three men popped out of one of the doorways down the long corridor, and hastily made their way toward the entry.
“Ah, more of my sons,” said Valandil, a smile returning to his wrinkly face.
“Who’s this, Father?” asked one of the men, who looked to be in his mid-forties.
“This is Nimrodel. We found her in the woods, lost,” replied the old man. “Her companions were slain by goblins.”
Miriel offered a quick smile, noticing that two of the men had the same straw-colored hair as Dúilin, while the third had darker, bushy type hair. Valandil quickly introduced his sons. He spoke so fast that the Slayer couldn’t understand their names. Only a few moments later, three more men came bounding down the hallway, followed by an old woman with the same grey hair as the patriarch of the family. Valandil then hastily introduced the rest of his sons and his wife, whom Miriel was told to call Mother, even though she wasn’t kin. Her true name was never given.
The Slayer’s eyes darted from man to man, noticing that all seven sons of Valandil appeared to be in their forties. She could be wrong, though, as the Dúnedain aged much differently than ordinary men.
“Seven sons!” she remarked with a chuckle, shifting her gaze to Mother. “You’re more of a woman than most!” She glanced back to Valandil. “Your family reminds me of the tales of Fëanor.”
“Who?” asked the old man, wrinkling his face in question.
“Fëanor,” answered Miriel. “The Noldo Elf Lord from the First Age. He had seven sons. According to lore, no other Elf had that many children. For some reason, I was reminded of that. Has to be the number of sons you have, I suppose,” she added with a shrug.
“We do not speak of Elves in this house,” hissed the old woman in disdain.
“Er, um, sorry,” Miriel stammered, feeling her face instantly reddening. She could have kicked herself for her comments. She had to remember that not everyone revered the Elves as she did. Bregolas had despised them too.
“The Firstborn roused the First Evil’s wrath in times past,” the old woman continued, her dark piercing eyes boring into Miriel as she spoke. “They used us Men as a shield to ward off the foul creatures of Morgoth, then left us to our own devices whilst they set sail to the West. We continue to suffer from their greed, their misdeeds. Nay, no love do we have for the Elder Folk.”
“I-I’m sorry,” stammered Miriel. “I meant no offense.”
“Let it go, Mother,” said Valandil firmly. “Nimrodel here has had a tough time of it. I will not tolerate hostile words under my roof. Set the board. I’m ready to eat.”
The woman didn’t respond. She turned, and flanked by her three sons that had accompanied her, she stomped down the corridor and back to the kitchen.
The Slayer turned to Valandil. “I’m really sorry,” she apologized yet again. “I didn’t know that such talk - ”
“ - Think no more of it,” interjected one of the sons, waving his hand dismissively. “Mother is learned in the lore of old and lost a number of kin in the battles in Middle-earth. She harbors a great deal of resentment for the Elves because of that.” He leaned in, whispering, “She is a descendent of Barahir, who died whilst protecting one of the Noldo Lords.” He pressed his fingers to his lips. “Shh, speak no more of it.”
Valandil then wrapped his arm around Miriel’s shoulders. “Time to eat, Nimrodel. I’m sure you must be hungry. There’s no finer cook in these parts than Mother. You’re in for a real treat.”
“Thank you, Valandil. I truly appreciate your hospitality.”
“It is I that should thank you, my dear,” said the old man, his eyes twinkling with delight. “It has been a long time since one so fair has graced my table.”
The four men voiced their agreement.
Miriel’s face turned even redder, embarrassed by the sons of Valandil’s comments.
A loud clap of thunder then rang out, causing her to jump with a start.
One of the sons went over to the window, pulled the sheer curtain aside and peered outside. “Storm’s here,” he announced, as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall from the ever-darkening sky.
“We made it home in the nick of time,” added a grateful Dúilin.
“Tauron,” said Valandil, turning toward one of his yellow-haired sons. “Why don’t you show Nimrodel where she can wash up before supper.”
“Yes, Father,” replied the son, nodding obediently. “Right this way, Nimrodel,” he said, gesturing toward the long corridor. They then took off, as the others followed behind.
Tauron led her to the second door on the right. He swung the door opened, revealing a dark and windowless chamber.
“Let me get some light for you,” he said. “I’ll only be gone a minute.”
The others passed by, entering through a doorway on the left, a little further down the corridor. Miriel waited patiently, inspecting the interior of the chamber. In the dimness, she could only make out a wooden piece of furniture of some sort. Before her eyes had time to adjust, Tauron returned with a lit candle in his hand. He breezed by her, lighting the sconces affixed to the wall on either side of a large mirror.
“I’ll wait for you here,” he said, motioning her into the room before closing the door behind her. Miriel stepped up to the mirror, disgusted by her reflection. Dirt streaked across her face and her hair looked a mess.
A large shallow copper bowl, half full with clean water, sat atop the chest. To the side was a bar of soap and a couple of washcloths. Miriel eagerly began to wash her face, neck, hands and arms, wishing that she had a brush to comb the tangles from her hair. Since Bregolas’ death, she had given no heed to her appearance. It seemed such a trivial thing after all she had been through. But now, in the company of strangers, she felt self-conscious by her disheveled appearance. By the time she had finished washing, the water was no longer clear. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying her best to make herself look more presentable.
She then exited the small chamber and followed Tauron into the dining chamber. Valandil and three of his sons were already seated at the long ebony table. The men stood when she entered, and she was seated between Dúilin and Tauron.
The rain outside came down in torrents, lashing at the window panes. It had grown very dark. An elaborate candelabra with many candles hung from the ceiling, brightly illuminating the chamber.
“Wine, Nimrodel?” asked Valandil, handing her a glass full of the burgundy-colored beverage.
Miriel thanked him as her eyes scanned the table for water. She was still incredibly thirsty and felt that nothing would quench that thirst other than water.
“Do you have any water?” she asked in a hopeful voice. “I have gone without for so long that - ”
“ - But I made the wine,” spoke up one of the sons, cutting her off mid-sentence. “It’s thirst quenching.”
Once again, Miriel felt her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. It seemed that no matter what she said, she somehow managed to offend someone. How could she be so rude, so demanding in another’s house?
“Oh,” she answered, slightly taken aback. Was requesting water that much of a burden? “Alright, then.” She hastily picked up her glass and took a sip.
“Must you be so discourteous,” Valandil said, narrowing his eyes at his wine-making son. “Our guest has requested water - so go get it.”
“But I’d have to go to the well, and it’s raining outside,” whined the man, sounding very much like a child.
“Then take an umbrella,” snapped Valandil.
The man grunted, scrapping the legs of his chair against the floor as he got out of his seat.
Wanting to diffuse the situation, Miriel quickly said, “Wine’s fine,” as she picked up her glass and chugged the remaining beverage.
“No, Nimrodel. Faron is quite capable of fetching some water,” answered the old man.
Grumbling, Faron left the room. The Slayer watched him leave. When she looked back at the others, she saw that her glass had been refilled.
“Drink up!” said Valandil, raising his own glass to his lips. “No finer grapes can be found in this region outside my vineyard.”
Miriel hastily obliged her host, taking another drink as he explained the process by which he and his sons made their wine. While he spoke, the old woman, accompanied by her three sons (who seemed to never leave her side) came in carrying platters and bowls of steamy food. The Slayer’s mouth began to water when she set eyes on the roasted lamb. She was eager to dig in.
As she reached for the spoon cradled in the bowl of roasted potatoes, the old woman quickly stopped her. “We do not eat until all are seated at the board,” she said.
Miriel’s hand quickly snapped back to her lap. She uttered another apology, thinking that these people must really find her uncouth.
Manners, Miriel. Manners, she reminded herself.
An awkward silence filled the room. The Slayer took another drink of her wine, wishing that Faron would return already.
Small talk then broke out around the table. Miriel noticed that some of the men were watching her from the corner of their eyes while a couple outright stared at her, increasing her discomfort. She listened, noticing for the first time how strange it seemed that men of that age had no wives or children. She wanted to ask why that was but felt that if she did, she’d probably offend somebody. She had decided that it was best for her to keep quiet. Longing for food, she kept sipping on her wine, hoping that would stop her stomach from rumbling.
After several long minutes, which seemed more like an eternity, Mother angrily said, “What’s keeping that boy!” She let out a heavy sigh of frustration. “Supper’s getting cold.” She then fixed her eyes on Tauron. “Go check on your brother. Hurry him along.”
Tauron then rose from the table and disappeared into the other room. Miriel could hear the back door open, the increased loudness of the rain, before the door shut again.
The very moment the door snapped closed, Miriel suddenly felt strange. Her eyelids seemed to become heavy despite the prospect of a hearty meal, and her body began to tingle. She told herself it was the wine and that she had better lay off it until after she had eaten. Yet, as she sat there, listening to those talking, her head became woozy, their voices sounding muddled. Unbeknownst to her, she began to gently sway in her seat. She could no longer understand what any were saying, and her vision became so blurry that she could no longer distinguish one person from the other. They appeared to look like shadows. Then, everything went black. Miriel’s head crashed forward onto her empty plate, breaking it in two. She was out cold…
Buffy realized rather quickly that something strange was going on. More than thirty minutes had passed since Miriel had lost consciousness, yet the girl’s essence, her spirit was nowhere to be found. Normally, when the young Slayer had slept or been knocked out, she appeared in the dreamscape, where she and Buffy could interact. But now, she was nowhere to be found. The elder Slayer tried searching for the girl, to no avail, and her voice had already gone hoarse from frantically shouting Miriel’s name.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, Buffy had somehow developed this sudden keen sense of awareness that she couldn’t explain. She was very much aware of what was transpiring in the waking world, as she and her protégé referred to it. This was common when Miriel was awake, but not when the girl was asleep. It wasn’t some form of astral projection, as Buffy was still inside the young Slayer’s mind, just like always. It almost seemed as if the elder Slayer was seeing things through Miriel’s closed eyes.
Her mind raced with thoughts, trying to figure out what was happening. Was it the drugs? There was no doubt in the elder Slayer’s mind that her protégé had been drugged. Did the drugs somehow trap Miriel between the two states of consciousness? Was it possible that the girl knew of the horrors happening to her and had gone into hiding? But why hide from Buffy when she was there to help?
The elder Slayer continued to scream for Miriel, thinking that it was only a matter of time before the girl responded. It was imperative for Miriel to wake. She had to face her current predicament, as Buffy was powerless to stop the heinous acts being perpetuated on the young Slayer.
After what seemed like forever, Buffy heard a moan, soft and faint. It was Miriel’s voice.
“Miriel!” shouted Buffy in her raspy voice. “You’ve gotta wake up. NOW!” She was nearly hysterical. “You’ve walked into a trap! These people, these people are evil! They’ve drugged you!”
Miriel felt so groggy, so out of it. Numb even. Yet, she could clearly hear the urgency in Buffy’s voice, the fear in her tone. She had never heard her mentor speak like that before.
Frightened, the girl called out to the elder Slayer. “Buffy, where are you?” As her mind became less hazy, her distress increased threefold. She could only hear Buffy, not see her. There were no images in her mind, only darkness. “Buffy, I cannot see you!” cried out the panic-stricken girl.
The elder Slayer could see that her own fear, her own terror was affecting Miriel. She had to get a grip. She had to get her emotions under control if she was going to help her soul sister though this horrific situation. It was only a matter of time before Miriel became aware of what was happening. Her finally acknowledging Buffy was proof of that.
“Listen to me, Miriel,” said Buffy, speaking calmly, yet firmly. “You’ve been taken captive by these people.” She paused, unsure what to say next. “You’ve been drugged… and… and… ” She couldn’t find the words to finish her sentence.
“And what?” she heard the girl’s voice ask.
Already, Buffy could hear Miriel’s breathing quickening. “Oh, God, Miriel. The dude’s raping you,” said Buffy in dismay.
Miriel cried out, “No!” over and over again.
“Listen, Miriel,” continued Buffy, trying to keep her composure. “You’ve gotta fight back. You’ve gotta stop this. You’ve got to wake up!”
With her head cloudy, and her mentor’s words echoing in her mind, the girl’s pain receptors began to spring to life. From her nether regions, she felt a searing pain. As her cognizance slowly returned, her pain increased. The weight on her chest caused her to struggle for breath. She could feel her body being violated, the fast thrusting motions of her captor’s sex organ fiercely driving into her body, feeling as if her insides were being torn to pieces.
With her increased awareness, her body reacted in the worst possible way. She tensed up; her muscles tightened - even down there, making the whole horrid experience more painful than anything she had ever endured. She tried to squirm, to inch out from beneath the villain, but as she did so, her wrists and ankles burned.
“Buffy!” she cried out with a whimper. “I cannot move.” There was a pause and Miriel feared that Buffy had left her. “Buffy!” she screeched in terror.
“It’s okay, Miriel. I’m here. I’m not gonna leave you. I’ll help you get through this. I promise,” Buffy finally answered. She was frantically trying to conceal her own panic from her protégé and to keep a level head, something she found utterly difficult. “Alright, Miriel. You’ve gotta open your eyes,” she instructed. “You’ve gotta be able to see, to wait for that moment when we can do something.”
“I do not want to see,” the girl cried. “It hurts, Buffy. It hurts so badly.”
“Miriel!” the elder said firmly. “You’ve got to open your eyes. You need to see so you can act when the time comes.”
The young Slayer’s stomach became queasy. She could hear the villain half-grunting, half-groaning, as he drove his manhood even deeper into her loins. The pain was agonizing. She clenched her jaw, breathing like a raging bull. She peeked her eyes opened, waiting for them to focus in on her abuser.
Several flashes of lightning lit up the room for a few seconds, and Miriel’s eyes seemed to zoom in on the small tuft of hair jetting out from her violator’s chin. It was Dúilin. Her mind remained somewhat foggy, her body restrained.
The villain must have sensed her watching him, for not a second later; he shifted his eyes to her. His lips remained parted and he was breathing heavily. Slowly, a sadistic grin came to his face, and, for a moment, he stopped his assault, but remained inside her body.
“Unlike my brother, I knew I’d be the one to rouse you from your sleep,” he said sinisterly.
He then rammed his organ deep into her privates, causing Miriel to grimace and cry out in pain.
Perhaps turned on by that, Dúilin then tried to kiss her by sticking his filthy tongue in her mouth. She clenched her jaw shut, preventing him from doing so. His opened mouth covered hers, his slobbery tongue running along her lips, as she thrashed her head from side to side.
Then, Buffy’s voice screamed out, “Bite the fucker’s nose off!”
Dúilin’s movements were erratic. His lips kissed away at her mouth and face. She kept her eyes locked on his nose, waiting for the moment to strike like a venomous snake. Her heart was racing, her body throbbing, but then the perfect opportunity arose. She flung her head forward, her mouth opened, and she clamped her teeth onto his nose, biting down with all her strength. Warm blood instantly flowed over into her mouth. Her captor let out a blood-curdling shriek that cut through the darkness of night. Miriel yanked her head back, and literally ripped the villain’s nose from his face.
Immediately, Dúilin pulled himself upright, which forced his organ to dislodge from the girl’s body. His hands rushed to the empty hollow of his face, as a torrent of blood streamed from the gaping hole.
Miriel turned her head, eager to spit the offensive nose and blood out of her mouth. The organ and fluid rolled from her lips and down her cheek, settling between the mattress and her neck. She then struggled in her restraints, hoping that by some miracle the ropes would snap in two. Her bindings were secured so tightly that they merely dug into her flesh, burning, as she twisted and turned.
Unable to break free, Miriel grew more frightened. Surely, after hearing the painful wails of Dúilin, the rest of the group would come running to his aid. The young Slayer knew that death was imminent.
“Fight!” Buffy barked. “Do what you can to fight him off!”
“How?” asked Miriel in dismay.
“I don’t know. Keep trying to break free.”
Miriel frantically tried to buck Dúilin from between her legs. But due to his positioning, and with her ankles secured, all her efforts proved ineffective.
Instead, her feeble attempts roused her captor’s attention back to her. One moment, he stared at her, his eyes wide with shock and rage, his hands tented around the spot where his nose had once been, the next, his hands shot out to her neck, his fingers tightening around her throat, squeezing hard. Squishing her with his body, his face hovered over hers, blood seeping from the hollow of his face and onto Miriel. As if being choked wasn’t bad enough, it now seemed as if Dúilin was trying to drown her with his own blood, if such a thing was possible.
“Don’t give up! Keep trying! Keep fighting!” shouted Buffy half-heartedly. The elder Slayer could see both hope and life draining from Miriel’s terror-filled eyes. No words could describe the hopelessness she felt as she watched the young girl, her charge, dying before her very eyes. And there was absolutely nothing Buffy could do to help.
Miriel tried to move her head in a way that would loosen the man’s grip, but nothing seemed to help. Her surroundings began to dim. She was losing consciousness. She knew, at that moment, she was going to die.
Then, all of a sudden, Dúilin’s head violently jerked backward. A rolling crack of thunder crashed outside, rattling the windowpanes. The villain eased his grip on her throat.
Miriel coughed and gasped for air, blinking the stars from her eyes, the pain in her throat now more excruciating than that in her lower regions. She tried to keep an eye on Dúilin, not sure what was happening with him.
As several flashes of lightning lit up the room, Miriel watched as a blade ran across the man’s already bloody throat. Blood spewed from the incision, which went from ear to ear, spraying Miriel with crimson. She scrunched her eyes closed, turning her head to the side, in hopes of avoiding the scarlet shower. The warmth of his life force rained on her skin and she tasted its saltiness on her lips. She could feel the bile rising to her throat.
Glancing back at her captor, she could now see the old woman standing behind him, her eyes glowing yellow. In a surprising demonstration of strength, and using only one hand, the old woman literally flung him across the room where he crashed into the wall with a thud. Though shocked by the old woman’s sheer strength, Miriel believed that she was there to help.
Naked, and in pain, she looked pleadingly at the woman and mouthed the words, “Help me!”, as she could not find her voice.
Mother, as she was called, stepped closer to the bed. Her yellow, cat-like eyes scanned Miriel and the rivulets of blood trickling from the girl’s belly down the sides of her body. Without saying a word, the woman placed the bloody tip of the blade on the rope strapped around Miriel’s right ankle.
The young Slayer thought she was about to cut her bindings, and gratefully breathed the words, “Thank you.”
A small smile came to the woman’s wrinkly, haggard face. She did not cut the rope. Instead, she began to run the blade slowly up the girl’s leg, but not slicing the skin as she had Dúilin’s.
“Do not thank me, Dagnir,” the woman hissed in a low voice.
“Oh my God, she knows who you are!” Buffy voiced in dismay.
When the blade reached her knee, the old woman slid it to Miriel’s inner thigh, continuing to graze her skin with the dagger.
Other than the frequent claps of thunder, all Miriel could hear was her own heavy breathing. She realized she was far from safe, and that this new enemy was undoubtedly greater than Dúilin, and not of the race of Man.
When the tip of the knife neared her private area, the old woman pulled the blade from the girl’s flesh and placed it outside her vagina. Unable to close her legs, Miriel knew that the hag, as she had begun thinking of her, was going to drive the dagger into her nether regions, finishing the job that Dúilin had started. She closed her eyes tightly, swallowing the bitter bile that had made it into her mouth. While she couldn’t feel the tip of the blade just yet, she could feel the heat emitting from the hag’s hand. Gooseflesh covered her body, as she waited for the inevitable jab of pain.
The old woman cackled softly, pleased by Miriel’s reaction.
The young Slayer then felt the tip of the dagger press on her pubic bone, as the woman continued to run the blade across her skin, toward her stomach. Anguished by the ordeal, the girl’s eyes popped open, unsure of what the old woman had planned.
With the tip of her blade, the old hag swirled the blood pooled on Miriel’s belly.
Another loud clap of thunder cracked outside, startling Miriel. She feared her sudden jerky movement would cause the blade to penetrate her skin.
As another rumbling quickly followed, a loud crashing sound came from downstairs.
The old woman glanced toward the open doorway for a moment or two. The men were shouting, fighting by the sound of it. However, the old hag seemed unfazed by the commotion, and turned her attention back to Miriel.
“I reckon the boys are fighting over who’s next,” she said in a malicious voice. The hag then slowly eased onto the edge of the mattress, unperturbed by the blood-soaked bedclothes. She lowered the tip of the blade to the skin between Miriel’s bare breasts. “It’s not too often we come across such a lovely girl.”
Miriel was utterly terrified. The old woman was toying with her, prolonging her torments. She knew at any moment that the dagger would plunge into her heart, killing her. While she struggled to catch her breath, she felt the surge of bile rising up her throat. She tossed her head to the side, expelling the contents of her stomach. She smelled the bitterness of the wine and felt the warmth of her sickness flowing against her neck.
“Miriel, there’s still a chance,” said a now hopeful Buffy. “You’re puking up the poison. Get that stuff out of your system and your strength will return. See if you can vomit again.”
“Fear,” said the old woman softly. “I so do enjoy inflicting it upon others, particularly those enhanced by the Weak Ones in the West.”
Another surge of vomit spewed from Miriel’s mouth. It ran down the side of her face, pooling on the mattress with the other fluids.
The old hag then roughly snatched the girl by the jaw, forcing her to face her. She held the blade threateningly, slowly inching it toward Miriel’s eye. “You are a smart young thing,” the woman said. “So very resilient.”
Miriel tried to shake her head from the woman’s grip, but her fingers were clamped so tightly that she could barely move.
“We cannot have you making mischief, foiling the Dark Lord’s plans,” she continued, stopping the blade right before her left eye.
The girl scrunched her eyes closed, not wanting to see the dagger plunging into her eyeball. She whimpered.
“Shh,” the old hag sounded, leaning closer to Miriel’s face.
The girl could feel the warmth of the woman’s breath and smell the odor of wine mixed with garlic. The hag’s breath somehow had a paralyzing effect on Miriel. She could no longer move.
“The bitch is a witch!” exclaimed Buffy in a shocked voice.
Miriel couldn’t think clearly. Like her mentor, she was now powerless to fight off the old hag.
“This is the end of the road for you, Dagnir,” the old woman whispered in her ear. “The honor of killing you falls upon me.” She then pulled her face away from Miriel’s and looked down at the girl’s naked chest. She placed the tip of the blade onto the young Slayer’s skin, right above her left breast. “But firstly, I shall carve a symbol into your flesh to signify that yet another Slayer falls by the might of Sauron.”
Unable to move, Miriel could feel the dagger cutting into her skin. O’ how it hurt, how her whole body hurt. From deep inside, she let out a scream. She didn’t think it possible for her to screech so loudly or that the hag’s magics would allow her to do so.
“‘Tis music to my ears, Dagnir,” the old woman chortled. “A melody of mayhem. Louder if you please.”
The old woman sunk the blade deeper into the girl’s flesh. She shrieked in response.
“I’m marked,” cried Miriel in her mind, as her screams continued to pierce the gloomy night. “The Dark Lord’s mark is being engraved into my flesh.”
When the old woman was done, she wiped the blood away with her free hand, admiring her handy work. “Finished! No finer rendering has ever been done,” she boasted. “I have so delighted in the time we had together, dear girl. I daresay the men shall have another go even whilst you’re dead,” she cackled. The hag then reached out, forcing Miriel’s eyelids open. Tears streamed from the corner of her eyes, running down her bloody face. “I want to see the life leave your eyes as I kill you. There are some memories that you want to keep with you forever, and your demise shall be amongst them.”
The old woman then gripped the hilt of the dagger with both hands. She raised it over head, preparing to lunge the blade into the girl’s heart. “Fare you well, Dagnir. Our time together has been rather… amusing.”
Then, as she drove the dagger down, something struck the woman’s arm, hitting it so hard, she flew off the bed, crashing into the nightstand. The lone light that had illuminated the room went out. Miriel had no idea what was happening. A loud growling noise filled the room.
Several flashes of lightning lit up the room, revealing a bear towering beside the bed, standing menacingly on two legs. The beast’s head nearly reached the ceiling, and blood dripped from its large clawed paws.
The old woman recoiled from the beast, backing against the wall. A look of utter terror was on her face. The bear then descended on the hag, whose squeals drowned out the roaring of the beast.
Miriel suddenly found herself able to move again. She twisted her head to the side, trying to see what was happening. She could only see the broad back of the furry beast. But, not a second later, she heard the window shatter, and the hag was gone. The woman had either leapt out of it, or the bear had tossed her - Miriel wasn’t sure which.
The next thing she knew, the beast was standing over her. Miriel could only assume that by some strange twist of fate it would be the wild animal that would end her life. As she writhed within her bindings, desperate to escape, the bear lashed out at her, its claws ripping through the rope like butter, and freeing her right arm. It then did the same with the other chord, unbinding her left arm.
When the next round of lightning illuminated the room, Miriel noticed the hilt of the dagger sticking out of the beast’s chest. After it freed her arms, the bear let out a mournful growl, then turned, and disappeared from the room.
“Hurry, Miriel. Hurry!” Buffy shouted.
The chords hung from Miriel’s wrists, but she was now able to sit up. She scooted her behind closer to the foot of the bed so that she could work on the knots that kept her ankles restrained. Her hands were shaking so badly that she had a hard time undoing the bindings. As she fiddled with the knots, her eyes constantly glanced at the doorway, fearing that the old woman or possibly one of her cohorts would enter at any moment.
It took nearly ten minutes for Miriel to free herself. Her head started to spin when she stood, forcing her to sit until the feeling passed. Traumatized (in every aspect of the word) and reeking of vomit, the girl was quite anxious to leave the house of horrors. As lightning brightened up the room, her eyes scanned the interior in search of her clothing. She spotted them scattered about on the floor.
When Miriel stood again, the dizziness returned. Refusing to wait any longer, she moved slowly, unsteady on her feet. She used Bregolas’ old tunic to wipe the blood and vomit from her face. She then sluggishly dressed. Every muscle in her body was sore. Her wrists, ankles and vagina continued to burn, feeling as if her flesh had been branded with a hot, searing poker. She would not realize the full extent of her injuries until much later.
With a length of rope still dangling from each wrist, she plopped down on the floor, whimpering, as she slid her boots on.
She wearily got back on her feet, moaning from the pain. She pressed her hand onto the carving on her chest, hoping to help stop the bleeding.
“It’s over, Miriel. It’s over,” Buffy said.
“No. It’s not. There are more of them.” She turned toward the shattered window. The driving rain continued, the curtains billowing in the breeze. Miriel’s thoughts turned to her greatest threat - the old hag. Had she survived the fall? Did she lay dead or wounded on the ground below? She had to find out. She had to see for herself. Each step proved painful, but the young girl hobbled toward the window. The fragments of glass crunched beneath her boots as she neared the opening. The cool night air smelled fresh and clean. She leaned out of the window, her eyes scanning the area below. The old woman had gone.
Finding that the hag had escaped was most disconcerting. Miriel had a sinking feeling that this was not the last time she would encounter her. Glowering into the darkness, she vowed that she would be ready next time.
The young Slayer stepped back from the window. She grabbed hold of one the curtains, using that to wipe her face and neck again. The stench of vomit seemed trapped in her nose. How she hated that smell. She then proceeded slowly toward the door, listening intently for any sounds coming from outside the room. The last thing she needed was to be ambushed. She had to be vigilant, prepared for such a scenario. Adding to her problems was the fact that the effects of the drugs had not worn off, despite her vomiting. She still felt incredibly weak.
Before leaving the room, she glanced at the dead man sprawled out on the floor in the corner of the chamber. If she had had her strength, she’d have bludgeoned the bastard until he turned to goo and dust. For now, she’d have to settle for his being dead. She wondered if Mandos had a special place in his Halls for monsters such as that. She could only hope.
Miriel peeked out of the door, looking up and down the corridor for any of the “brothers”. She spotted the bear’s bloody tracks going to the left, and decided to follow them. Cautiously she went, taking one small step after the other. As she passed a table against the wall, she snatched a silver candlestick from its surface. She’d use that for a weapon until she came across something more suitable.
The young Slayer’s thoughts then turned to the bear. She would never have thought a bear capable of thinking and acting in the manner that that one had. It had saved her. That bear had actually saved her life! She thought how ridiculous such a story would sound, if ever told. And for a brief moment, her thoughts turned to her family. She was beginning to miss them, to miss them all, including Denethor. Since leaving Minas Tirith, her life seemed to have taken one tragic turn after another. Would it ever get better? Would she ever see the proverbial light at the end of the darkened tunnel?
“Yes, you will,” Buffy answered. “Take these experiences and learn from them. That’s what life is all about. You’ve survived, Miriel.”
“Pfft,” Miriel replied, rolling her eyes. Optimistic Buffy was back, and the girl was in no mood for her. She did her best to block out the elder Slayer’s voice. She had to be alert, aware of things going on in the house.
When Miriel reached the top of the stairs, she looked down at the foyer below. There, in a pool of blood, lay Valandil, dead, surrounded by bloody paw prints. As she slowly descended the steps, she could see that the once gleaming white walls of the entry were splattered with blood and guts. The girl now had confirmation that two men were dead. But what of the other six?
Once she had made her way down to the first floor, she limped over to Valandil’s remains. Despite her own torments, she was gladdened by the sight. The old man’s chest had been ripped open, his ribs broken in pieces. It was a very gory scene - blood, bones and organs peppered the area. For the first time, she felt a smile creep to her face, and she nodded approvingly at the manner of his demise.
The rain continued to lash relentlessly at the windowpanes and the wind howled through unseen cracks.
Miriel’s eyes then shifted to the fancy sitting room to her right. There, she saw her belongings strewn about on the floor. The sight of that inflamed the young Slayer. She warily made her way to the chamber, angered that her things had been rummaged through. To her, it felt as if she had been violated again. The moment she entered the chamber, she gagged from the stench. Her hand darted to her nose, pinching it closed. Two more of the brothers lay dead. Their deaths had been most horrific and gruesome, by the looks of it.
One had been disemboweled. His stomach and intestines had been slashed, spilling the foul contents onto an armchair and the floor. The reek was indescribable! The vomit in Miriel’s hair smelled like the sweetest flower in comparison. The other had had his throat ripped out. There was no doubting that the bear was responsible. Flaps of tattered skin lapped over the hollow space of his neck, flesh that had not been removed by the beast’s claws.
As her eyes continued to inspect the room, she spotted both her and Bregolas’ unsheathed swords. They lay on the floor, their blades partially covered in blood. Her thoughts swiftly turned to the bear, wondering where it was and how badly it had been injured. However, at that moment, her primary concern was to find the whereabouts of the remaining men. Until then, she could not concern herself with anything else.
She decided that now was the time to trade her candlestick for a more formidable weapon. Though she loathed going deeper into the room to retrieve her sword, she would have to return at some point to collect her things. She hurried as fast as she could, grabbed her weapon, and wiped the blood off on one of the villains pant leg.
Now properly prepared to face her foes, Miriel left the room. Longing for some fresh air, she un-pinched her nose, only to realize a little too late that the putrid particles of death had already been trapped within her nostrils. Her queasiness returned, but she forced herself to go on in search of the remaining men.
She gingerly proceeded down the corridor, all the while, listening intently for any sounds. She stopped when she reached the bathing chamber she had used earlier. The door remained open; the candles in the sconces still flickered with light. There, she saw her reflection in the mirror. Her face looked like it had been smeared with red, and portions of hair were clumped together with vomit. Yet it was her eyes that told the story of her torments. They looked different, as if the spark to them had been extinguished. She appeared older, much older than her seventeen years. With a painful shudder, she quickly averted her gaze.
The girl continued to creep down the hall, stopping before the door to the dining room. She listened. The rain sounded louder, as if it were pouring inside the chamber. She peeked into the room. It was in shambles. This had to be where it all started, where the bear had begun its attack, she deduced.
One of the tall windows had been smashed out, and the beautiful table that had been laden with food lay overturned on its side. So were several of the chairs, some broken to pieces. Food stuck to the blood-splattered walls; the partially eaten lamb lay beneath a sideboard. Cutlery and broken glass were everywhere.
Wanting to examine the room further, she stepped inside, clutching the hilt of her sword tightly. A few of the candles in the chandelier remained lit, though the majority of them had gone out. Shadows danced eerily along the walls between the flashes of lightning.
Miriel then noticed a hand sticking out from behind the table, the fingers locked around a carving knife. She stared at it for several long seconds, looking for any signs of movement. The last thing she wanted was for someone to jump out at her from behind the table. She crept around the barrier, and cringed when she discovered body number five.
The hand she had spotted was still attached to the arm, which had been ripped out of the villain’s socket. The limb lay a few feet away from its former owner. In a pool of blood and oddly, buttered carrots, lay a brother that Miriel could not recognize. The bear had raked its claw down the man’s face, removing nearly all of the flesh. An eyeball dangled by the nerve at the side of the man’s head. Upon a closer look, the stuff clinging to the walls that the girl had thought was food turned out to be strips of skin.
Three brothers still had not been accounted for, but as Miriel stood near the open window, listening to the rain pouring from the eaves of the roof, she got a sudden compulsion to stand under the stream, in hopes of washing the filth from her body. Sidestepping the corpse, she climbed out the window, avoiding the jagged pieces of glass that remained in the frame.
The rain felt icy cold as it rushed onto her head. It took a moment or two for Miriel to catch her breath, the water was that cold. She then threw her head back, letting the gush of rainwater run onto her face. With her free hand she rubbed the filth from her face, neck and hair. At times, she opened her mouth, gulping down the water.
Unfortunately, during her “shower”, Buffy’s voice returned in Miriel’s mind.
“You’re gonna make yourself sick standing in this cold rain,” warned the elder Slayer.
Miriel didn’t care. In fact, if she had known for sure that there was no chance anyone would attack, she probably would have stripped off her clothes and washed her body thoroughly under the rushing stream. She was in no mood to talk, which was a bit odd, really. If the ‘incident’ had not happened, Miriel would’ve welcomed the conversation with her mentor, especially while awake. But, now, after all she had been through, Miriel felt humiliated and ashamed. She hoped that the deluge of water would snap her senses awake. Though she was able to see and think somewhat clearly, she still couldn’t shake off the effects of the drugs. She continued to feel woozy and weak.
“You need to go back inside and change into warm, dry clothing,” advised the elder Slayer.
Doing her best to block out Buffy’s voice, Miriel let the rainwater pour down on the top of her head again. The sky then lit up again for several long seconds. Through her squinted eyes, Miriel noticed a man, naked, lying in the garden, curled up in the fetal position. And he was alive. Immediately, her thoughts turned to her tormentors. Her muscles tightened, her nostrils flared like some wild beasts, as a surge of anger swept over her.
“Don’t! Don’t do it!” screeched Buffy, as the girl took off.
The young Slayer’s boots sloshed through the puddles that covered the yard. Her hand clutched the hilt of her sword so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. There was no doubt in her mind that that naked man had raped her. He would pay, o’ how he would pay for the heinous act he had committed. Miriel welcomed the chance to unleash her wrath on the villain, to dole out the punishment befitting the crime.
“He’s a man, Miriel!” Buffy said. “Slayers don’t kill men!”
“Shut the fuck up, Buffy!” snarled Miriel in reply. Unlike her mentor, the young girl now believed that mortal men could be monsters too. They merely disguised their true being, hiding their monstrous nature. They were no different from Orcs. It was Miriel’s duty to kill them, to kill them all; no matter what façade they wore.
Miriel constantly looked around, wanting to make sure she wasn’t walking into yet another trap. Though her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she was grateful whenever the lightning illuminated the sky.
When the young Slayer neared the fallen man, she grasped the hilt with both hands, preparing to deliver the fatal blow. If she hadn’t been so tired, she’d have tortured him, as she had been tortured. However, she’d settle for being the one to kill him and ridding the world of yet another predator.
Using the heel of her boot, Miriel rolled the villain onto his back, as she drove her blade down.
“Stop!” cried out Buffy’s voice in her head.
Miriel halted before striking the man. It wasn’t Buffy’s shout of despair that made her stop. It was the sight of the hilt of the dagger protruding out of the man’s hairy chest. In that moment, that split second when she saw the hilt, the image of the wounded bear flashed in her mind.
The girl stood in the pouring rain, shaking her head, unable to understand how this could be.
“He’s a shape-shifter!” revealed Buffy. “He’s the one that saved you.”
“It is not possible,” replied a confused Miriel. She had never heard of men turning into bears. There were no such tales recorded in the annals of Gondor, at least none that involved the Younger Children of Ilúvatar.
“I promise, Miriel,” continued the elder Slayer. “He’s one of the good guys. He saved you. You’ve gotta help him. You can’t leave him out here to die.”
This man did not resemble any of the men that Miriel had seen earlier. He looked older than Valandil’s seven sons, and younger than Valandil himself. His dark wet hair and beard were streaked with grey. His shoulders were much broader than the villains she had encountered. But what convinced her that Buffy was right, was when the man’s eyes fluttered open. They were dark and somehow… familiar. The pounding rain forced the man to turn his head to the side. His every breath seemed to be a struggle.
Miriel rammed her blade into the soggy earth before dropping to her knees. She searched the man’s deep brown eyes with her own.
In her mind, she heard Buffy exclaim, “Oh, God. This man, I think this man’s one of the ancestors of the Chumash.”
The young Slayer didn’t understand what her mentor was talking about, so she ignored her altogether. She leaned closer to the man’s face. “You… you saved me, didn’t you?” she asked hesitantly.
“Yes,” he whispered faintly.
Miriel then scrutinized the man’s body. He had received many wounds other than the stab to the chest. She then shifted her eyes back to his. “I will do what I can to help you.”
Though none too eager to carry a naked man, especially after her ordeal, Miriel couldn’t leave him there to die. She slid her hands underneath the man’s body, finding it hard to get a decent grip. His skin was slick and no matter how gentle she tried to be, the man responded with groans of pain. Once she had determined that she had a firm hold on his cold, naked flesh, Miriel struggled to get to her feet. She had made it about halfway up when her legs gave out from the shape-shifter’s weight. The sudden fall caused the man’s head to jostle, striking the incisions on her chest. The girl winced. The wound began to throb terribly again.
Biting her lip, she forced herself to try again. With a moan, she scrambled to her feet. Her fingers dug deeper into the man’s flesh so that she could maintain her hold on him. Her legs trembled from the stress of the additional weight as she slowly trudged back toward the house. Flashes of lightning helped illuminate the way.
With the man in her arms, Miriel thought that entering the house through the smashed out window would be the easiest way inside. What proved most challenging was stepping over the bottom of the window frame. She had to maneuver sideways, doing her best to prevent Bear-man (as she had begun to think of him) from being cut on the jagged pieces of glass. She nearly lost her footing when she first stepped back into the dining room, as the floor was wet from rain and blood (not to mention the buttery carrots). Thankfully, she was able to recover, though her fingers were slipping from the man’s skin. She struggled to maintain her hold on him as she hastily made her way down the corridor.
“Not too much further,” she said under her breath, grappling to keep the man in her arms. Seeing Valandil’s body in the entry reminded Miriel that three men were still unaccounted for. She was beginning to regret that she had left her sword behind to help the Bear-man. What if someone jumped out, ready to attack? What could she do?
“That’s not gonna happen,” assured Buffy, whose voice just wouldn’t go away. “The house is empty.”
The young Slayer made a beeline for the front room formerly claimed by the “lady” of the house. She spotted a rug in front of the fireplace and decided to place the man there. She eased onto her knees, gently laying him on the carpeted floor. Her body continued to shake, as she scanned the room in search of something with which to cover the man’s nakedness.
As she crawled toward one of the racks of fabric, the man’s hand reached out, grabbing her arm. “You’re… you’re in… danger,” he said with much effort.
Miriel jumped with a start. She quickly looked at the open doorway, half-expecting the old hag to be standing there.
“No,” the man answered upon noticing her frightened reaction. “They… they are… they are all dead… ” revealed the Bear-man between gasps for breath.
Miriel shifted her eyes back to him. She now noticed slivers of skin and blood under the fingernails of the hand that clutched her arm. His glistening body trembled nonstop and blood continued to trickle from his many wounds. She now noticed that the dagger in his chest was the one that belonged to her.
“Except for… the old woman,” he added after a pause.
“How do you know?” she asked, pushing back her hair so that that water dripping from it would no longer hit the man’s face.
“I… I killed them.” He then let out a low growl.
“Let me get something to cover you with,” she said. “You’re freezing.” Pulling her arm free, she crawled over to the nearest sofa. She grabbed the quilt that lay over the back, using it not only to cover the man’s nudity, but also to staunch the flow of blood from his many wounds.
When she went to remove the dagger from Bear-man’s chest, he stopped her. To her surprise, he had a firm grip on her hand. “No, leave it,” he said, before coughing up spittle mixed with blood. “You… you’re being tracked,” he revealed in a faint voice.
Miriel leaned in closer so that she could hear him better. “Tracked?” Her eyes frantically searched his. “Tracked by whom?”
“The enemy.”
The man’s breathing had become shallow, so labored that it took a long time for him to get the words out. He had clung to life, in hopes that she would find him. She learned that the enemy had steered her into their trap, and that another awaited further north. He counseled her to go back south to the road, and there she had two options: one was to go back over the mountains and join his people in the Vales, the other, to continue on her journey. If she chose the latter, she would need to cross the Old Bridge, as to attempt to cross the river elsewhere would be perilous for the cliffs along the bank were of steep, sheer rock, impassable by Man or beast.
When Miriel asked how he knew all this, he replied that he had followed her and Bregolas from the Vales, that his son was greatly concerned for her well-being and wanted to follow, but the old man insisted that he go instead. Bear-man deeply regretted that he had not attacked the villains sooner, that he had come too late to save her from their fiendish attack.
Touched that a mere stranger had willingly put his life at risk for her, she asked, “Who are you?”
“B-Beorn,” he uttered with his last breath. His grip went limp, and his eyes stared blankly above.
The young girl sat there for a few moments. It then dawned on her that Bear-man was kin to Grimbeorn, and that’s why the man’s eyes seemed so familiar to her. She had no idea that he was in fact Grimbeorn’s father, nor how mighty of a man he truly was. She wouldn’t learn of those things until much later. Nonetheless, her heart ached with sorrow at his passing. She had never expected a perfect stranger to die whilst helping her.
“You’ve gotta bury him, Miriel,” demanded Buffy. “He saved you. You owe him that.”
An exhausted Miriel shot back, “That’s easy for you to say. You do nothing but bark orders. I am tired and my strength is spent.”
“So you’d leave him here with these evil bastards, tainting his honor?” snapped Buffy in reply. She had deliberately thrown out the word “honor” knowing how much that trait meant to Miriel and her people.
Buffy’s words struck a chord with the young girl. Her mentor was right. She didn’t want to leave him in that house full of villains. He didn’t deserve that. But she was so drained - physically and emotionally. The thought of having to dig a deep hole in the pouring rain after all she had been through seemed daunting.
“You can do it, Miriel,” said Buffy. “You’ve got it in you.”
Miriel continued to sit slumped over Beorn. She closed her eyes, trying to muster her strength. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and looked at the Bear-man’s face. She then reached out and closed his eyes as she had done with Bregolas.
“Where will I find a spade?” she asked with a heavy sigh.
“My guess: the barn. It’s behind the house,” answered the elder Slayer.
“Of course,” answered the girl, her eyes now locked on the dagger. She grabbed the hilt of the blade and pulled it from Beorn’s chest. Blood oozed from the deep incision, quickly forming a pool on his hairy belly before trickling down his sides. She stared at the scarlet-covered blade for a few moments, watching as the droplets of blood fell onto Bear-man’s stomach.
“Come on, Miriel. You need to get a move on,” advised Buffy.
Before the young Slayer clambered to her feet, she carefully sawed the bindings from her wrists. She then rose, sliding the dagger into the waist of the back of her pants. She wasn’t about to leave the house weaponless, especially knowing that the old hag could be lurking outside somewhere. She then wearily shuffled out of the room.
The foul stench had spread from the front sitting room to the entry. Miriel held her breath as she headed down the corridor to the rear of the house in search of the back door.
“I think you’ll need some sort of light,” mentioned Buffy when the girl reached the kitchen. As the girl’s eyes scanned the room, the elder Slayer asked, “Can you keep one of those lantern thingies alit in the rain?”
Miriel sighed heavily once again. She was getting annoyed with Buffy. It seemed like her mentor was appointing one task after another, disregarding the traumatic events that had happened to the young Slayer.
The girl spotted an umbrella by the kitchen door. She grabbed it, popped it open, then took the lamp and proceeded outside. She stood there in the torrential downpour, waiting a moment or two for her eyes to readjust to the darkness. Off to her right, maybe fifty yards or so away, she saw a large shadowy structure that she assumed had to be the barn. She headed off in that direction, scanning the area for possible burial sites.
The doors to the barn swayed back and forth from the wind. The inside felt warm, and the smell of manure and hay lingered in the air. To her immediate left were numerous farm implements, which were unknown to the girl. She tossed the umbrella aside and held the lamp aloft, looking around in search of a simple spade. She heard a horse whinny and stomp its hooves, causing her to jerk toward the sound.
For a moment, she forgot her errand, and turned her attention to the horse in a nearby stall. It was the sight of another life, of a living, breathing animal that brought much comfort to Miriel. She wasn’t alone, in the physical sense. As she affectionately petted the steed, she was gladdened to see that no evil had been inflicted upon it.
“Miriel,” Buffy said, wanting to remind the young Slayer of her task.
“Please, Buffy,” responded a dismal Miriel. “Give me a few minutes to relish the life of another. I need that right now.”
The elder Slayer fell quiet. She had to remind herself that Miriel was still fairly young, and new to the world of Slayerhood. Never before had the girl witnessed such carnage, and, maybe, for sanity’s sake, she needed a few minutes to bask in the life of another living creature. Buffy patiently watched as Miriel continued to stroke the beast, talking to it as if it were a long lost friend. It then suddenly occurred to the elder Slayer that the horse could be quite useful, a mode of transportation for the young, worn out Slayer.
Before she could voice her thoughts, Miriel slid the lock open on the door, swung it open and, waving her arms wildly, scared the horse from the stall.
“What are you doing?” asked a flabbergasted Buffy, as the girl marched to the next stall, freeing that horse too.
“Is it not obvious?” answered Miriel, shooing a second steed from the barn.
“But you can ride it. You won’t have to walk!” rationalized the elder Slayer.
Miriel continued on to the next stall. “I can barely care for myself, much less another. Now, they at least have a fighting chance.”
“That’s crazy talk!” exclaimed Buffy. “Let’s be sensible here.”
“I am. It is the most sensible thing I’ve done. I’m granting them freedom.”
When Miriel moved on to the next stall, she suddenly stopped. A fetid odor knocked the breath out of her. She swung open the stall door and there inside, lying on a floor of hay, were several dead bodies, face down. Swarms of flies and rats ate away at the decomposing flesh of seven people. Five were children; one looked to be a toddler. All had been stripped naked, their bodies molested and mutilated in the most vicious fashion.
Miriel felt her eyes burn with tears, thinking of what had transpired. She grew so angry, seething with such rage. It became painfully obvious that this was the family that had actually lived on the farm, and that the evildoers had cruelly tortured and killed them. How long they had been there, she couldn’t say, but the rats were not deterred by her presence.
Disgusted and furious, Miriel smashed the lamp onto the floor of the stall. The glass broke, spilling its contents, setting aflame the hay.
“What are you doing?” queried a shocked Buffy. “Put it out! You’ll burn the place down!”
Miriel ignored Buffy. She wanted to burn the place down. She marched through the barn and released every horse from its prison, as the fire began to spread. With the animals free, Miriel turned her attention back to her task. She could see many tools hanging along one of the walls. Unfazed by the fire, and thickening smoke, she began to snatch items from the wall that she thought might be useful. She grabbed a spade, a short handled scythe and a coil of rope. She then nonchalantly left the barn, the hay and dry wood quickly becoming engulfed by flames.
Back in the rain, Miriel found a spot a few yards from the barn. It was beneath the boughs of an old apple tree. Seeing as how the Men of the Vale didn’t eat meat, she thought that an appropriate spot for Beorn’s grave. She tossed aside the rope and scythe, and began to dig. Her ire fueled her strength and determination, at least in the beginning.
The longer Miriel labored, the more disheartened she became. Not only was water quickly filling the hole, but the dirt that she had shoveled out kept washing back in. To make matters worse, the walls kept caving in, adding to her frustration. The only high point (if one could call it that) was that the raging fire provided adequate lighting.
Tired, cold and wet, the girl decided that the hole was deep enough. It was maybe three feet deep, and half-full of muddy water. It almost seemed a disservice to put Beorn in there. But Buffy wanted him buried, and Miriel said that she would see that it was done. If her mentor wanted a better grave, then she would need to find a way to do it herself. Miriel was through digging. It was bad enough that she still had to go get the body and haul to the hole. Hopefully, she’d be able to perform that task before it became completely filled with rainwater.
Miriel sloshed her way back to the house, still feeling bitter. She returned to Beorn’s side, wrapping his naked body in the quilt. Too exhausted to carry him, she dragged him through the house, leaving a faint bloody trail behind.
Once outside, she had no other choice but to carry him. Cursing, she flung him over her shoulder, her knees nearly buckling from his weight. With her jaw clenched tightly, she slogged along back to the apple tree. When Miriel reached the side of the hole, she saw a whole new dilemma - how the hell was she to get Beorn into the hole in a respectful manner? She didn’t have time to ponder that, as the side of the grave caved in from her weight, sending both her and Beorn’s body into the sludgy pit.
A volley of curse words spewed from her mouth, as she pulled herself out from beneath the dead man’s corpse. She was ready to explode. It just seemed as though nothing was going right. Now, covered in mud, Miriel tried to position Beorn within the hole. Her ill luck continued. The hole was not long enough to fit him in properly.
She rolled him onto his side and bent his legs at the knee, much like how he had been when she had first found him alive. That would have to do. Miriel climbed out of the hole, filthy despite the downpour, and began filling the hole with mud.
When she had finished, she tossed the spade aside, picked up the things she planned to take with her and headed back to the house, cursing Buffy under her breath. She was so exhausted that a part of her wanted to collapse and sleep in the house of horrors. But with the barn ablaze, she needed to make a hasty getaway. Her goal was to seek refuge in the woods, where she would be able to rest and tend to her injuries.
Once she got back into the kitchen, she grabbed a towel and wiped the wetness from her skin. Her eyes did another quick scan of the room, stopping on the pots on the stove. With her strength depleted, Miriel knew she needed food. For a moment, her thoughts turned to Bregolas and the first battle they had had with the Uruks. She remembered being sickened at the sight of him eating amongst the dead, how revolted she was. But now, she could better understand his actions. She was hungry, famished. Though butchered bodies lay scattered throughout the house, even in the next room, Miriel wanted to eat.
She made her way to the stove, and found the pots empty. She then recalled the roast lying under the sideboard in the dining room. She hurried into the adjoining chamber, not caring that the meat lay on the floor or that blood and guts were splattered all about the place. When she went to crawl beneath the furniture, Buffy’s voice returned, admonishing her.
“Don’t eat that!” she bellowed, a hint of disgust to her tone. “Don’t eat or drink anything in this house.”
“But, I’m hungry,” whined Miriel.
“Then get something from outside, in the fields. These freaks already drugged you once. Who’s to say that the rest of the food hasn’t been tampered with?”
“They ate it,” the young Slayer reasoned.
“Yeah and look what kinda people they were! Don’t touch it, Miriel. Go outside and get stuff fresh from the ground. That should be safe to eat,” replied Buffy.
Miriel felt defeated. She longed for meat.
“C’mon, Miriel. Get up and get your stuff together,” urged Buffy, her voice sounding kindly again. “The sooner you leave this place, the better.”
The girl struggled back to her feet. She dreaded the notion of going back into the sitting room where the vile stench was strongest. However, she wasn’t about to leave her things behind. She couldn’t afford to. She shuddered, realizing for the first time how cold she felt. Utterly exhausted, she made her way back to the front of the house.
She gagged upon entering the sitting room, eyeing her things strewn about the chamber. Trying to breathe out of her mouth instead of her nose, she hastily went around picking up her things. She nearly burst into tears when she saw that some of her garments had been soiled by the brown intestinal fluids.
“Just put all the dirty things in one bag,” suggested Buffy. “You can take care of it later.”
In Miriel’s mind, everything was dirty, as it had been handled by dirty people. She placed the foul-smelling garments in one bag, sickened by the fact that that horrid stench would follow her when she left. It would be a constant reminder of the torments she’d rather forget.
As she collected her things, she grumbled and cursed under her breath. Her tent, which had been carefully packed away, had been unfolded and the stakes that she and Bregolas had whittled now lay broken. Out of spite (she deemed), her bottles of tonic had been emptied, crushing her hope of alleviating the pain throughout her body. The only medicine she had left was a jar of salve. While that would help ease the continuous burning on her chest, it was good for nothing else.
Miriel checked off the inventory list in her mind as she repacked everything. Her cookware, water skins, map, crossbow, arrows and such, surprisingly appeared to be untouched by the enemy. Both scabbards were now girt around her waist, one housing Bregolas’ blade, the other still empty. She still had to go outside and collect her other sword. She strapped her sheathed dagger snuggly to her leg, ready to retrieve it in an instant. It wasn’t until she had everything stowed away in her bags that she came to the realization that something was missing - her jewelry. After all that she had suffered through, the missing jewelry caused her to snap.
Shaking with rage, she fixed her narrowed eyes on the corpse of the first villain that lay nearest to her. There was no doubt in her mind that they had stolen her stuff. Though repulsed by the gore, wrath overcame disgust. Miriel stormed over to the body, eager to check the dead man’s pockets.
Rather than shove her hands into the corpse’s pocket, she patted them instead, unperturbed by the bodily fluids and bits of intestines that clung to his tattered garments. As she did so, she noticed a silver chain wrapped around his neck - her silver chain. Immediately, she grabbed a handful of his hair, jerking his head forward. She was angered further by having to fumble with his head while she undid the clasp. There was no way she was about to break the necklace. With the chain now in hand, she let the villain’s head fall to the floor with a crack. She then rammed her hand into his left pocket, pulling out her sapphire ring, a gold bracelet, and a handful of coins.
Miriel remained seated on her knees in the pool of bodily fluids, glaring at the lifeless man. She couldn’t explain what prompted her to do what she did next. She assumed (after the fact) that she had wanted to exact her revenge, though it was already too late for that, considering that the villain was already dead. Regardless, the girl’s hand instinctively reached out for the silver candlestick lying nearby. Once she had a firm grasp on it, she began to pummel the man’s face with a surge of strength that seemingly had come out of nowhere.
She heard Buffy howling in protest.
Blood and fragments of bone flew in the air, splattering the girl’s face. Snarling like a feral beast, she continued to strike the man until there wasn’t much of a head left. She stopped, her chest heaving from exerting so much energy.
She wiped her face with the sleeve of her shirt as Buffy continued to voice her disapproval.
“Save your energy. They’re dead. There’s no use in wasting what little strength you have on revenge. It’s over, Miriel. Let it go.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” muttered Miriel in disdain, her eyes surveying the remnants of the man. Her thoughts then turned to the one item she coveted most - Bregolas’ ring. She checked the man’s fingers, making sure that he was not wearing it.
Having gotten all of her loot from him, she moved on to the next body, the one with the ripped out throat, and checked him for any of her belongings. The only thing she found was a broken pocket watch. She held it aloft by its chain, wondering what its value might be. Deciding that it wasn’t worth keeping, she crammed the watch into the man’s opened mouth, wishing that he could’ve choked on it.
“Don’t! Don’t do it!” argued Buffy, knowing damn well what her protégé what thinking.
Miriel raised the candlestick and began striking the man’s face, bashing in his skull until he was no longer recognizable.
“Stop wasting your strength, god damn it!” screeched Buffy. “They all got what was coming to ‘em. Enough already! Just get your shit and go!”
Once again, Miriel ignored the elder Slayer’s comments. From there she went to Valandil in the entryway, and there on his middle finger she saw it - Bregolas’ ring. Why she hadn’t noticed it before was beyond her. She threw aside the bloody candlestick, then roughly tugged and twisted the ring from the corpse’s finger before breaking the digit at the joint.
“Enough, Miriel! Enough!” chastised Buffy, wishing that she could pull her protégé from the House of Depravity (as she thought of the place).
The young Slayer ignored her mentor (something she was getting good at). She studied the ring, trying to flake off the blood that had already dried on the stone. Now that she had that treasured item, she no longer concerned herself with finding the rest of her jewelry. The longer she handled the ring, the quicker her anger dissipated. Sorrow soon took its place, especially when she heard Bregolas’ voice in her head, telling her how foolish she had been to trust strangers. Upset by that, she rammed the ring into the pocket of her breeches, as her eyes darted to the weaving room. She stared at one of the racks draped with fabric.
She headed into the room and took one of the sheets of heavy cloth. She then returned to the sitting room, grabbed all her bags and took off toward the kitchen. There, she grabbed the coil of rope and scythe she had swiped from the barn before exiting the door.
“Sword. I have to get my sword,” she mumbled to herself. She headed left, knowing exactly where her blade had been driven into the earth. As she made her way to the side of the house, Miriel noticed that the storm was finally passing. While flashes of lightning still lit up the sky, the rumbling sounded further away and the downpour had turned into a sprinkle.
Once she had re-sheathed her blade, a relieved Buffy guided her toward the fields. Miriel’s sudden adrenaline rush had waned, leaving her more exhausted than before. She stumbled over something, falling face first toward the soaked ground. Instinctively, she thrust her arms out, stopping her upper body from landing in the puddles. The bags strapped to either shoulder suddenly bounced against her head, as the straps slid down her arms. Cursing, she struggled with her bags as she tried to get back on her feet. Whatever she had tripped over was soft, not hard like a fallen tree or something of that sort. As she untangled herself from her belongings, she could see that she had toppled over another body. The sight of that got her on her feet rather quickly.
She stood over another mangled corpse of one of the brothers, number five by her count. Undoubtedly, he too had been gutted by Beorn. Unfortunately, much of his innards now clung to her shirt. Miriel took several deep breaths, attempting to calm her frazzled nerves, before brushing the entrails from her top.
“It just does not stop, does it?” she grumbled bitterly.
“Just… C’mon, get a move on,” stated Buffy, not wanting to argue with the girl.
On the way to the fields, Miriel came upon the well where lay the last two brothers, dead and disemboweled. She saw this as the perfect opportunity to refill her water skins. After filling her containers, she gulped down the remaining water in the bucket, not realizing how truly thirsty she still was.
She then trudged on, irritated with herself. Buffy’s words proved true - Miriel had wasted far too much of her strength on beating the bodies of the dead. Every step was a struggle that required much effort. Her head throbbed, as did her body and she wished Buffy would just shut up and let her walk in grim silence.
When she reached the crops, her boots sunk into sodden earth, well past her ankles. She wrestled with her packs, pulling the sheet of fabric out that lay under the straps. She placed the material on the ground and began tossing various vegetables on it: corn, carrots, rutabagas. The only non-root vegetable she came across was cabbages. She broke a few heads free, tossing them in with the other foodstuffs. Miriel then heaved the bundle over her shoulder and resumed her trek toward the lane leading to the woods.
The entire barn was now ablaze, giving off a brilliant light. When she reached the slope of the hill in front of the house, she turned, and cast one last look at the homestead. Miriel knew she’d never be the same, that this night had changed her. As she glanced at the upper windows of the house, she knew that a part of her had died in that upstairs bedroom. Turning away, she resumed her hike, vowing never to make the same mistake again. Woe onto any that crossed her path, especially men…
Chapter 14 - The Art of Survival
Chapter Fourteen: The Art of Survival
Miriel trudged along the path in the woods, each step becoming more difficult than the last. Desperate for rest, she veered off the trail in what she believed was a westerly direction, and into the thickening underbrush. She had only gone a few yards when she found herself unable to carry on. She dropped her things beside a mammoth beech, thinking that that tree would shield her from any that happened along the roadway.
Rain continued to trickle down, the drops hitting the leaves and sounding like a morose symphony. Feeling worn-out and cold, Miriel plopped down onto the bed of dead, wet leaves, searching her bags for her winter cloak. She wrapped the fir-lined garment tightly around her body before lying down. Resting her head on her softest bag, she closed her eyes, and only moments later, drifted off to sleep…
For the first time since her ordeal had begun, she encountered Buffy in the flesh (so to speak).
The elder Slayer felt relieved to finally see her protégé face-to-face in the dreamscape. Wanting to comfort the girl after her hellish experience, Buffy rushed over to her with her arms wide open, eager to pull her into an embrace.
Miriel recoiled from her mentor, unwilling to be touched by any, including Buffy. She turned away and walked a few paces deeper into the woods before sitting against the bole of a birch tree. Though the rain had stopped and the ground was dry, dark grey clouds still lingered overhead, reflecting the young girl’s mood.
Hurt by Miriel’s rejection, Buffy warily followed the young Slayer, taking a seat opposite her. Leaning against the trunk of a beech tree, she watched the girl intently. Buffy’s heart went out to Miriel. She looked just as awful as she had the night before. Mud and blood caked her clothing, and a thin layer of dirt coated Miriel’s face, neck and arms hiding her normally porcelain-white skin. She could plainly see the bruises on the girl’s neck. So vivid and dark were the markings that she could make out the shape of the evil man’s long fingers.
Miriel continued to sit in silence, staring off into space. Buffy desperately wanted to help her, to advise her, but what in the world could she possibly say to make things better? Was it even possible?
“Are you alright?” she finally uttered. The moment the words left her lips, she regretted saying them. Of course, she’s not alright, dumb ass! she thought to herself.
Slowly, Miriel turned her head so that she faced her mentor. Her eyes narrowed. “What do you think?” she snapped bitterly. The girl then turned away, losing herself in her thoughts.
Buffy wasn’t sure how to reply or if she should at all. She needs time, she thought to herself. She then decided to remain quiet, to be there when Miriel was ready to talk.
After several hours had passed, Miriel finally spoke.
“Why did you not tell me,” she began, her voice weak and faint, “Why did you not tell me how evil men are?” She continued to stare in the same direction as she had been looking, reluctant to make eye contact with Buffy.
“I assumed you knew,” replied the elder Slayer.
Miriel snickered upon hearing Buffy’s answer. “No, Buffy. I did not know that men could be so… monstrous.”
The elder Slayer’s eyebrows shot up when she heard that. While there was no way she was about to start an argument with her traumatized protégé, she couldn’t help but think that both Denethor’s and Bregolas’ actions fell under the “monstrous” category. Though neither had taken the girl by force, they had used their stations, their positions of power, to manipulate her into succumbing to their selfish desires.
“It is not the same,” said Miriel, speaking in a somewhat distant sounding voice.
“What?” Buffy queried, her heart beginning to race in her chest. Had Miriel heard her thoughts? Had she spoken them aloud?
The girl fixed her gaze on her mentor. “I know your thoughts,” she answered.
“H-how? How can you know what I’m thinking?” asked Buffy, taken aback by the young Slayer’s response.
“Perhaps I am using more than ten percent of my brain,” she snidely replied. Miriel shifted her eyes away from Buffy before continuing. “What my father did to me was sick, sick and immoral. Not a day goes by that I do no think of what he has taken from me.” She paused for a moment, carefully considering her words. “But, he was not a savage. He did not drug me and tie me up, doing to me what those animals did. I was coerced by words, not brute force.” She looked back at Buffy, her eyes cold and detached. “There is a difference though you may think otherwise.”
“I… I… ” the elder Slayer stammered, surprised to find herself at a loss for words.
“Bregolas loved me,” she added, her tone riddled with sorrow. “He loved me but I was too foolish to see that, to accept it.” Miriel turned away from Buffy and slowly shook her head. “I thought there was someone else for me in this world. I see now that that was a delusion, a delusion I conjured in my mind.” She paused, taking a deep breath, then slowly exhaling.
“Miriel, you’re still young,” countered Buffy. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
The young Slayer shifted her eyes back to her mentor. “My life will never be the same. A part of me died back there,” she said, pointing in the direction of the house. “Life will never be the same. I will never be the same.”
Buffy didn’t doubt Miriel’s words. Such a traumatic event would greatly affect anyone. Buffy thought back to her first encounter with Miriel, well after her abuse at the hands of Denethor had begun. At that time, and even thereafter, the girl continued to have an aura of innocence about her, which was quite remarkable considering what she had been going through, and the secret she was harboring. Now, as Buffy studied her, it was gone. That innocence was gone. She had changed. In the course of a few hours, she had changed. Buffy could see it, especially in her eyes. That spark of life and love that shone in Miriel’s beautiful grey eyes had diminished. The girl within her had died.
What frightened Buffy was what was to come, what Miriel would become after such an ordeal. She didn’t want the young Slayer to lose faith in mankind. She wanted her to know that there was still good in the world, in its people. Not everyone was evil. Not everyone took pleasure in inflicting harm on others. Could she convince her of that? Could she help Miriel avoid having a grim outlook on life?
“There’s still good out there, Miriel,” Buffy finally said. “I know you’ve been through a horrible experience - ”
“ - You do not know what I’ve been through,” interjected the young Slayer angrily. “Unless you’ve gone through it yourself, you cannot possibly understand what I went though.”
“I was there. I saw what happened,” argued Buffy defensively.
Miriel let out a derisive snort. “No, Buffy. That is not the same as experiencing it. O’ yes, you witnessed it, but you didn’t feel it. Your insides were not torn from those bastards. Mine were!”
She thrust her arms outward, showing her mentor the rope burns on her wrists. Miriel had struggled so hard in her restraints that not only was the skin burned, but the ropes had also dug into her flesh, leaving them raw. The scars would remain for the rest of her life.
“Where are yours, Slayer?” she queried bitterly. “Where are your reminders of this night? Where are the markings on your body?”
Buffy’s eyes welled with tears. She knew that Miriel was striking out at her. She felt her pain. She felt her anguish. Choking back her tears, she answered, “You may not see them, but I have them, in here.” She pressed her palm to her chest, over her heart. “My scars are in here.”
Miriel cackled madly in response. She then lifted her top, grimacing from the sudden jolt of pain in her chest as she did so. Apparently, her tunic had stuck to her wound after the blood dried, and when she pulled up her shirt, she yanked the scab off, causing the engraving on her chest to bleed once again.
The elder Slayer’s eyes widened when she saw the mark carved into the girl’s skin on her chest - the Eye of Sauron. It was much bigger than Buffy had thought.
“As you can see, my marks are visible to the naked eye,” retorted Miriel through clenched teeth. She then pulled her shirt back down. “Don’t talk to me about scars!” she added venomously.
A tear escaped from the corner of Buffy’s eye. It grieved her to see that Miriel would remain disfigured by this night, that the markings on her body would be a constant reminder of her torments. How she wished she could’ve done something to prevent the whole thing from happening.
Miriel then leaned back against the tree. She closed her eyes, simmering in silence. It would be a long while before she spoke to Buffy again…
At daybreak, the sound of birds chirping merrily in the trees woke the young Slayer. She was sick, suffering from a raging fever. With no medicines at her disposal, the fever would have to run its course. No longer ravenous with hunger, she sipped some water before inspecting her injuries. She applied the salve she had onto her chest and wrists before pulling off her boots to do the same to her ankles.
In addition to the rope burns around her ankles, Miriel now discovered fresh blisters on the back of each heel. She assumed the wet leather rubbing against her skin in the rain the night before had caused them. She popped the blisters, smeared on some salve, and then carefully bandaged both ankles and heels. She’d keep her boots and stockings off until she resumed her trek after she got better.
If that were not bad enough, that first pee she took in nearly twenty hours added to her misery. It burned worse than the fires of Orodruin!
Buffy feared that Miriel might have caught some venereal disease and hoped and prayed that that was not the case. For the love of God, hadn’t the girl already suffered enough!
For the next two days, the young Slayer suffered with her illness, flittering between the two states of consciousness. Buffy tried to encourage Miriel to eat, and, at times, she did force herself to nibble on a raw carrot, and sparingly sip some water.
By the third day, Miriel’s fever had broken. Though parts of her body remained sore, she decided that she was well enough to travel again.
During those times of rest in the dreamscape, Miriel had thought about what she would do next. She had considered Beorn’s suggestion, to go back to the Vales and dwell with his people, but that notion didn’t appeal to her at all. She was determined to go on as she had originally planned, finding herself inexplicably drawn to that village called Archet. Whether her Watcher would be found there or not, she no longer cared. She was beginning to think that the Council of Watchers had already died out, and that she was chasing a myth. If she were to survive in this world, she would have to rely completely on herself, no one else.
Since learning what she had from Beorn, she had decided that she would take his advice by crossing the River Mitheithel at the Last Bridge. However, knowing that the enemy was tracking her and that the old hag was out there somewhere, she would take a different path than the one that had brought her to the house of horrors. Instead, she would travel due west to the River Hoarwell, and follow its course southward until she reached the bridge. She shared her thoughts with Buffy, who wasn’t too keen on her idea.
“What if that’s what they want you to do?” asked her mentor with concern. “What if the enemy plans to trap you on the cliffs of the riverbank?”
“Then I’ll jump,” answered Miriel.
“Jump?” repeated an incredulous Buffy. “Beorn said that the cliffs were high and dangerous.”
“Perilous. He said the river was perilous to cross except at the bridge,” corrected the girl.
“You could die if you make such a jump,” warned the elder Slayer.
Miriel could only snicker in reply. “I care not,” she answered.
“You don’t mean that.”
The girl shrugged. “I will do what I need to when the time arrives. It is pointless talking about such things. Whatever happens - I’ll be ready.”
Before setting off, Miriel took Bregolas’ ring and placed it on a silver necklace. She clasped the chain around her neck as a reminder to trust no one. At times, when she adjusted her burdens as she walked, the ring would bounce, hitting the sore carving above her bosom. She sucked it up, letting the pain act as a reminder of her folly.
She followed a game trail that meandered to the west, listening intently for any unusual sounds that would indicate that she was being followed. All she heard were the typical forest noises - birds flapping their wings, their joyful tunes, and the occasional squirrel foraging for food in the dry bed of leaves. The early morning fog continued to linger over the landscape, but was not as dense as it had been on some days.
Miriel had gone maybe a couple of miles when she felt the hair on the nape of her neck suddenly stand on end. A tingly sensation ran through her body, portending danger. Immediately, she stopped dead in her tracks. One of her hands automatically went to the hilt of her sword, as she slowly scanned her surroundings. Something caught her eye, only a couple of feet away. She did a double take, noticing a strand of rope peeping out from behind a leafy vine.
With her heart racing, she slid her packs off her shoulders, carefully placing them on the ground on either side of her. Her eyes followed the rope to the ground where it disappeared under the bed of leaves. She then looked upward, following the partially concealed rope over a large branch of the tree, seemingly disappearing from there.
Realizing rather quickly that she had come upon some type of a trap, she took a few steps backward, looking for the other end of the rope that went behind the mammoth birch. Wrapped in vines of ivy, the taut rope stretched behind the tree, disappearing in the thickets. Eager to inspect this contraption, she quickly surveyed her surroundings, listening for anyone that might be concealed within the woods. She then slowly and carefully made her way toward the thickets, inspecting the ground for any more traps. Amidst the brush, she saw that the rope was attached to a notch of a sapling that arched backward, nearly to the ground. Excited at the prospect of foiling her pursuers, Miriel searched for a long stick, anxious to see how exactly the mechanisms of the trap worked.
Once she had found a suitable stick, she went back to where her bags had lain. She then began to tap the leafy floor, trying to find the end of the rope that lay hidden. She jumped with a start when she sprung the trap, the coil of rope seizing the stick, yanking it from her hand. She could hear a rustling in the thickets as the rope went flying upward, stopping beneath the branch of the tree. There, the stick swung in the air, trapped.
Miriel laughed heartily, something she thought she’d never do again. She ran back to the thickets, wanting to closely inspect the sapling to see how this thing had worked. Maybe it was foolish on her part, but the young Slayer found herself eager to duplicate the trap. If she could master something like this, she felt it would be most helpful in the future.
Though tedious and very frustrating, it took nearly two hours to correctly reset the trap again so that it worked. No words could describe that feeling of accomplishment Miriel felt when the stick was finally wrenched from her hand. She had successfully learned something new, all by herself, which made her confidence soar. She reset the trap a few more times after that, wanting to make sure she had it down pat.
When she had determined that she could do this on her own, from start to finish, Miriel undid the rope, coiled it up and took it with her. For the rest of the day, she would use a stick to tap the ground before each step, wanting to make sure she didn’t stumble onto another trap.
Unfortunately, that moment of triumph was fleeting, and Miriel’s thoughts became gloomy once again. As she marched, the scenes that led up to her capture played over and over in her mind. While there were many things that she had done wrong, she believed that consuming all her food and water had been her downfall. It had been a stupid thing to do and she vowed not to repeat it again.
In fact, she became so frugal with her food that she allotted herself only very small portions for each day. And, whenever she came upon wild berries along her path, she ate every ripe one that she found in hopes of sating her hunger, and preserving what vegetables she had with her.
One gains wisdom through mishaps in life, she recalled her father once saying. Miriel thought no truer words had ever been spoken. She had to learn from her mistakes, no matter how grievous they were. She convinced herself not to dwell on the past, no matter how horrid it had been. Life went on. Her life would go on. If she were to survive, she’d have to adapt to the constant changes that one faced in the world. Her motivation was now self-preservation. Only the strong survived.
She remained vigilant, constantly aware of her surroundings. Those times when she came upon wide clearings, she waited at the edge of the woods, watching and listening for anything out of the ordinary. She dare not step into any glades until her crossbow was in hand, loaded and ready to fire. Though she did not have the energy to sprint across those open stretches, she did, however, walk briskly or jog.
Thankfully, nothing eventful had happened by the end of the day. Weary and aching from her trek, Miriel had decided to take refuge high in the treetops instead of the bush. She used the rope she had taken from the barn to hoist her belongings into the upper branches. She then wedged her things into a fork in a limb, securing them in place with the same rope that she had used to lift them from the ground. Since there were no saplings in the immediate area, she couldn’t set up her rope trap as she had hoped. As an alternative, she cut brambles and briars from nearby, weaving them around the base of the tree, forming a thorny fence. She arranged them so that the brambles looked as if they had always been there. Though her makeshift fence might not keep predators away, she thought the prickly thorns might dissuade anyone or anything from coming closer.
As an added precaution, Miriel tied the other rope around her waist, securing it tightly to the limb that would act as her bed. She feared falling out of the tree in her sleep, which, from that height, would most likely cause severe injuries.
Trying to find a comfortable position on the tree limbs proved to be impossible. As Miriel lay there, waiting for sleep, she thought of possible ways of improving her bed for next time. Eventually, she nodded off…
“I’m impressed,” said a beaming Buffy the moment she saw her protégé in the dreamscape. “You’re really using that head of yours now. Figuring out how that snare worked was a smart move on your part. And sleeping in trees - kinda strange, but clever.” She nodded her head approvingly.
“I want to practice,” declared the girl in a no-nonsense sort of way.
The elder Slayer was taken aback by Miriel’s request. “I don’t think you’re ready yet,” she countered, her eyes lingering on the bruises on the girl’s neck. “You’re still hurt, and… ” She fell quiet, as the bruises on her protégé’s skin began to fade before her very eyes. “Oh-kay,” she drawled.
Miriel stepped closer to her mentor. “I want to practice,” she repeated, firm in tone.
Buffy hesitated. She felt that Miriel needed more time to get over her ordeal before they resumed training. “I know you’re eager to train, and we will, but I just don’t think now’s - ” Buffy was stopped mid-sentence by the right hook the girl delivered to her chin. “Hey!” she replied, miffed and rubbing her jaw. “I said you’re not - ”
Wham! Miriel struck her lip that time, breaking the skin.
The elder Slayer tasted blood. Needless to say, she was pissed off.
She threw her own punch, but Miriel caught her by the wrist before her fist could make contact. The young Slayer used her height to her advantage, forcing Buffy’s body to arch backward until she had no other choice but to try to break the girl’s hold by doing a back flip.
Miriel clung to her, slamming her mentor’s back to the ground, hard. She then leapt on top of her, thrusting her forearm into Buffy’s throat, cutting off her air supply.
“Alright, Miriel. You got me,” said Buffy in a barely audible voice, tapping Miriel’s forearm so that she’d stop.
The young Slayer was non-responsive. Her arm pushed deeper into her mentor’s throat, angering Buffy.
The elder Slayer swung her right leg forward in front of Miriel’s chest and pushed the young Slayer off. She then rolled on top of Miriel, pinning the squirming girl’s arms down over her head.
“I told you, you weren’t ready,” insisted Buffy, highly annoyed by the girl’s defiance.
That riled Miriel. Breathing heavily, she stared into her mentor’s eyes. Her head then lunged forward, striking Buffy on the bridge of her nose with a loud crack. Blood spewed from the elder Slayer’s nostrils in streams, causing Miriel to flashback to that episode with Dúilin. She snapped. In her mind, she was reliving that very moment when Dúilin was raping her. Her eyes suddenly glazed over, as Buffy’s face morphed into that of the villain’s. Except this time, her arms and legs weren’t bound, and she was able to fight back against her attacker in a blind rage.
Buffy’s hands immediately went to her nose, trying to staunch the flow, as Miriel went on the offensive. The young Slayer flipped her mentor onto her back, climbed on top of her, wrapping her legs securely around Buffy’s legs so that she could not use them as she had before.
Like a feral animal, gnashing her teeth, Miriel seized hold of Buffy’s arms, pulling them down over her mentor’s torso. She then thrust her upper body down over the elder Slayer’s arms, locking them in place. She then started to pummel Buffy’s face, cursing her as though she were actually Dúilin.
The elder Slayer tried to buck the younger off her with no success. Turning her head from side to side, and trying to pry her arms free, she kept telling Miriel that she was Buffy not Dúilin.
The girl remained unconvinced.
Blood poured down the back of Buffy’s throat. She coughed and sputtered, gasping for breath. She had never been in such a predicament before, facing the wrath of a fellow Slayer whose mind appeared to have snapped in an instant. She tried digging her nails into Miriel’s wrists, knowing that the ropes had rubbed them raw. However, they were in a dream in which the young Slayer had healed her wounds, and her unbridled fury numbed her to any pain Buffy could inflict with her fingernails.
In agony, the elder Slayer continued to choke on the blood that streamed down her throat. She could feel her eyes beginning to swell shut. She felt her front teeth break from her gums, freaking her out. She had never taken a beating like this - ever! But, what happened next, Buffy could not readily explain.
Some invisible force sent Miriel flying backward through the air. She landed several feet away. Buffy pulled herself up into a sitting position, spitting out her teeth with a mouthful of blood. The elder Slayer wasn’t sure what exactly had happened, whether she had somehow managed to throw Miriel off by some innate ability that she was unaware of, or if some higher power had decided to intervene on her behalf. Dazed and in pain, she struggled to catch her breath.
Whatever had possessed Miriel was gone. Panting, she sat up and looked upon a badly beaten Buffy. Shocked and frightened by her actions, she believed at that moment, that she had truly gone mad. She could find no other explanation. Terrified at what she had become, at what she had done, she fled, running as fast as she could.
Buffy called out to her, as Miriel weaved between the trees, quickly disappearing from view.
Soon, the hard ground beneath the young Slayer’s feet turned into soft sand. The abrupt change in scenery and terrain caused her to lose her footing; she fell, landing on her hands and knees at the edge of the sea. She had run back to Dol Amroth, the only place in the whole world that she felt safe.
Day had turned into night. The full moon shone brightly over the darkened waters. Her breathing drowned out the sound of the surf.
Miriel’s hands had sunk beneath the sand, as blood, Buffy’s blood, dripped off her chin. She could still taste the saltiness of her mentor’s life force on her lips.
What have I done? she thought in dismay. I’m a monster, a monster no different from my perpetrators. I have unleashed the beast within me, hurting one who has been nothing but a friend to me.
The girl felt sick to her stomach. She collapsed onto her bottom, wiping the blood from her face with her forearm. She then began to rock back and forth in anguish, thinking of Túrin Turambar and the despair he must have felt before taking his own life. For at that moment, Miriel considered suicide as a way to escape what she was becoming, or had become, as it were.
Then, from out of nowhere, a completely healed Buffy appeared. She took a seat beside her distressed protégé.
Miriel dare not look at her. She continued to stare out at the sea, mortified by her attack on the elder Slayer.
“I’m okay, Miriel,” Buffy said in her most reassuring voice, no longer angry with her Charge. “Thank God this is all a dream. I’m fully healed. No harm, no foul.” The elder Slayer tried her best to lighten the situation. “How ‘bout you? You alright?”
The young Slayer shook her head, unable to find the words to express her regret.
“I’m fine, Miriel,” Buffy repeated. “Look at me,” she continued, taking Miriel by the chin and forcing her to face her. “I’m okay. See!” She offered her a wide smile, revealing that all her teeth were intact. “I’m as pretty as I always was,” she added with a chortle.
The young Slayer looked away, facing the sea once again. After a long pause, she whispered, “I saw his face. Not yours, but his.”
“Yeah, I kinda thought so,” answered Buffy. “That’s why I thought it best not to practice just yet. You’ve been through a lot, Miriel. You need time, time to get over this.”
“I will never get over this,” replied the girl in a distant voice.
“You’re probably right,” responded the elder Slayer. “But, I think, in time, the pain will become less. They say time heals all wounds, and I happen to agree with that.” She shifted her eyes to Miriel, whose expression remained somber. “Let’s just hold off on training for a while.” Hoping to cheer Miriel up, she added, “You’ve got one helluva right hook, by the way. Did you know that?”
The girl shrugged, too consumed with her own thoughts to reply. Feeling highly uncomfortable to be in Buffy’s presence, she awoke a few minutes later…
Miriel remained seated in the tree until daylight, when she set off on her journey once again.
Her mood remained grim. She felt horrible about what she had done to Buffy. It was uncalled for, despicable. She told herself repeatedly that Buffy was older and wiser than she was, and that it was imperative that she heed the advice of one whose experience was far greater than her own. However, over the next few days when she visited the dreamscape, Miriel would feel awkward and remained somewhat standoffish around her mentor.
Throughout the day, she steadily marched on, constantly aware of her surroundings. The day proved hot and humid; the air stagnant. With water being her most valuable resource, she continued to allow herself only sips despite the fact that she still had an ample supply. She refused to allow herself to overindulge, and took frequent breaks when she felt overheated.
It took Miriel a day and a half to reach the high bluffs overlooking the river. Beorn was right; the stone walls on either side of the waterway were steep, and from where she stood, there was no way to reach the river other than leaping off the wall. Unable to judge the depths of the River Mitheithel by sight, she wasn’t about to go against the advice of the Bear-man by plunging into the beautiful stream. She would do as he counseled, following the river’s course to the bridge.
A cool breeze flowed with the stream, providing Miriel with some much needed relief from the afternoon sun. As she walked in a south-southwesterly direction, she noticed that the heights of bluffs rose and fell with the hills. When the day began to wane, she once again took refuge in the treetops.
Miriel set out at first light the next morning. After cresting a rather large hill, she caught her first glimpse of the Last Bridge in the distance. What a sight it was to behold! She refused to allow herself to dwell on the fact that she had done a huge loop, having traveled many leagues out of the way before reaching this point. The bridge was a pivotal place on her journey. Once she crossed the river, she would enter the region of Eriador. After all the hardships she had endured, reaching that part of Middle-earth would be a most glorious accomplishment.
No words could describe her excitement as she drew nearer to the bridge. The Slayer could see that the cliffs on either side of the stream were at their shortest height thus far, promising easier access to its waters. Not only would she finally be able to wash the filth from her body, but she would also be able to wash all her clothing, and top off her water skins. She even toyed with the idea of camping there for a few days so that she could try her hand at fishing again.
As she allowed herself a swig of water, her free hand grasped Bregolas’ ring that hung between her breasts. She wished the warrior was with her, and wondered if he would be proud that she had come so far on her own. Her eyes then shifted toward the Misty Mountains and the road that zigzagged its way down from the mighty peaks. How long ago had it been since she and Bregolas had reached its apex? Miriel could no longer recall. Time had blurred, and had become meaningless.
After a brief rest, Miriel resumed her trek, picking up the pace so that she could reach the bridge as swiftly as possible.
By midday, she was at the edge of the forest that bordered the road near the Last Bridge. She hid her things behind the bole of a rowan tree, but kept her crossbow in hand in case it was needed. Concealed within the brush, she watched the roadway on either side of the bridge, listening and waiting for anyone that might be approaching. For nearly thirty minutes, she stood motionless before daring to step out of the cover of the trees and thickets.
Cautiously, she approached the stone bridge, scrutinizing the dirt on the roadway for any fresh tracks. Every now and again, she’d peek over her shoulder, wanting to make sure that no one was attempting to creep up on her, catching her at unawares.
While she was no expert tracker, it appeared to her that none had journeyed on the road since the heavy rains of several days ago. If anyone had, their footprints had been washed away. Only old wagon wheel ruts remained, seemingly so old that they had become part of the stone crossing itself.
Miriel walked about halfway out on the bridge, looking upstream and down. All was quiet except for the birds living in the nearby trees. Even the water moved silently. The young Slayer scrutinized the walls on either side of the Mitheithel, trying to determine which embankment would allow the easier descent to the water. From the looks of them, neither side would be easy.
Compelled to stick to the eastern side of the river, Miriel headed back to the woods nearest the bridge. She thought about using her rope to aid in her descent, as there were far too few places for one to maintain a foothold on the face of the cliff. She didn’t think that one length of rope would be long enough and wondered if she could tie the two ropes into one, though one was thinner than the other. If possible, she could then tie one end to a tree nearest the wall, and rappel down the face of the cliff.
With plenty of daylight left, she hurried back to her bags and quickly retrieved both strands of rope. She then busily went to work, tying both links together. She pulled and pulled, tightening her knots, hoping that they’d hold her weight. She then raced over to a suitable tree, one that wasn’t too thick, but not too thin, either. Once the rope was secured around the trunk, she tossed the much longer end over the edge of the cliff, hoping that it would reach the water. She heard the faint splash when the rope hit the river, the current taking it a little ways downstream until the strand grew taut, unable to go any further.
Excited at the prospect of bathing, Miriel heaved the rope back up to the top of the cliff. Now, she had to face another dilemma. How exactly was she to bathe, not knowing how deep the water was? Should she tie the other end of the rope around her body to be on the safe side? And, if so, how was she to undress? Surely, she shouldn’t descend the wall naked! What if someone were to come by? Puzzled, she stared at the river, pondering how she should proceed.
An idea then came to her mind. She dashed back into the woods where her belonging were, grabbing the foulest smelling bag that contained her soiled garments. She thought she could loop the rope around the strap of the bag before tying it to her body. She could then make her decent, with her things in tow, and perhaps, pull off her garments once she was in the water. If that didn’t work, maybe she could still wash her clothes while wearing them. Since she could not think of a better plan, and decided to go with it. If all else failed, at least she’d be able to top off her water skins.
Miriel gathered what things she would need and crammed them all into her one bag. She then hesitantly removed both swords from her waist. She wasn’t too keen on the idea of being weaponless, and decided to secure her dagger to the strap of the bag. She then pulled off her boots, stockings, and the bandages around her heels. She double checked her things, making sure she had all the necessary items stowed in her bag before making her descent.
Now ready, she carefully made her way back to the cliff, avoiding the briars and broken limbs that littered the ground. Once she had reached the rope, she attached her bag, then tied the rope securely around her waist.
Once again, she stopped and listened, scanning the roadway for any possible travelers. All looked deserted. She then carefully inched to the side of the cliff, praying that she wouldn’t screw this up. She pulled the excess rope over the ledge, not wanting to become tangled in it. She then took a deep breath, turned around, tightened her grip on the rope, and stepped over the edge.
That first step was frightening, terribly frightening! Her hands slipped along the rope causing her body to flip upside down. Yelping, she frantically regained her hold on the rope. With her heart beating madly in her chest, she swung her legs out toward the wall, trying to grip the rocky surface with her toes. Her bag spun in the air, striking her in the face. Her feet racked down the wall before she was able to clamp them firmly in place, pulling her body up so that she was no longer upside down.
Once stabilized, she took a minute to catch her breath. She was relieved that her head hadn’t hit the wall, knocking her out cold. Using primarily her feet, she began to work her way down the wall, finding it more difficult than she had first thought. When she neared the water’s surface, she let go of the rope, plunging into the river.
She let out another soft cry when the rope tightened around her torso, once all the slack was gone. Miriel’s body was submerged a little over waist deep in the cold waters of the Mitheithel. The rope prevented her from going any deeper. In discomfort, her toes grazed a slick rock beneath the water. Pushing her bobbing bag out of the way, she tried to grip the stone with her feet. As soon as her toes were locked in place, she took another moment to get her bearings. She then loosened the rope around her stomach, as her eyes scanned the top of the cliffs and bridge for any intruders.
She then turned her attention back to her errand. Before doing anything else, she topped off her two water skins, as water was a necessity. She then decided to do her laundry before attempting to bathe.
One by one she pulled out each item, scrubbing it with her dwindling bar of soap before rinsing it. Not wanting to put the clean garments in the bag with the soiled, she slung each item around her neck until she had washed all the contents of her bag. She did her best to wring out the excess water from her clothes before stuffing them back into the bag.
The sweet floral scent invigorated Miriel. When it was finally time to bathe, she floated on her back, allowing her hair to get thoroughly wet. She washed her hair, face and neck first, prior to contending with her body and the clothing that covered it. Miriel then slipped out of her top, washed it, slipped it into the pocket of her bag and then began to gently clean the skin of her upper body.
This was the first instance where she was able to get a real good look at the engraving over her left breast. It sickened her to see the Eye of Sauron staring back at her. The skin was still pinkish and inflamed. There was no doubt in her mind that the scar was permanent, that she would carry that hideous mark on her for the rest of her life. O’ how she’d make the old hag pay if they ever crossed paths again!
The Slayer quickly slid her wet top back on, carefully tucking the fabric under the rope. She then eased out of her breeches, cleaning them before shoving them in the pocket of her bag. She washed her undergarment before sliding that too into the pocket. Washing her lower extremities proved the hardest. She had no other choice but to wash while under water, particularly her private area. Her legs she could lift, one at a time, but she constantly lost her balance, the current pushing her from the stone, and the rope tightening around her waist.
As soon as she had finished, she slipped the sliver of soap back into her bag before dressing. It was difficult trying to squirm into her soaking breeches, but she managed. Now clean, she turned, facing the wall. Though the cliff was shortest at this point, from her perspective it looked massive. It would be much more difficult to climb the wall than it had been to descend it. She was much heavier with her garments soaking wet.
While her hands were not badly burned by the rope on the way down, Miriel knew that the friction would be much worse on the ascent. To remedy this, she pulled out a newly clean pair of breeches from her bag. She slid each arm into a leg, wanting the material to act as modified gloves. It worked! Though the climb was difficult and Miriel constantly prayed that the knots would not come undone, she did make it back to the top of the cliff in one piece. She undid the knots in the rope and coiled it around her arm.
Tired and hungry, Miriel wanted to change into dry clothes before her wet garments could chafed her skin. As soon as she returned to the place where the rest of her things lay hidden, she hurriedly changed. Her ensemble wasn’t complete until her swords were girded on each hip. She then wrung out her wet clothing, draping them over various tree branches in the immediate area.
As she brushed the knots out of her hair, her thoughts turned to food. The Slayer felt that she had earned a well-deserved feast for her ingenuity. Instead of eating raw vegetables (which were not very tasty), she thought that she’d prepare a vegetable stew. With a consistent water supply at hand, she could afford to use some to make a hearty meal. She only wished she could have some type of meat. Fishing was out of the question as her line would not reach the water from the top of the cliff and there was no way she was about to climb down the wall again, today.
Now, she knew that if she wished to spark a fire, she couldn’t do it so close to the road. She’d have to move deeper into the woods. Miriel grumbled under her breath, knowing she’d have to collect all the clothing she had just laid out. She wasn’t about to wander off, leaving anything behind.
After resting for a few minutes, she re-packed her wet clothes, gathered all her things, and headed deeper into the forest, traveling northeast of the road. She hoped to come upon a secluded clearing. With the sun now lingering over the western side of the Misty Mountains, she needed its rays to hasten the drying process as it would take forever for her things to dry in the shade of the woods.
Lost in her thoughts, Miriel had walked further than she had originally intended. She had no idea how far she had traveled when she came upon an ideal spot. The wide clearing was surrounded by hills and rock formations. Large stone shelves jutted out from the hillside, offering the perfect place to lay out her clothes. Towering pines and a smattering of beeches stood prominently along the top of the knolls, providing a good buffer.
Unloading her burdens, the Slayer then went about setting her wet garments out on the hot, flat rocks. As soon as she had finished, Miriel turned around to begin working on her supper when she happened to glimpse a coney in a little patch of grass at the edge of the clearing. At first, she thought she was seeing things. She actually blinked several times, thinking that the illusion would disappear. It did not.
Her eyes darted to her crossbow that lay by her bags. The weapon was already loaded and ready to fire. Could she reach her weapon without frightening off the coney? She remained still. The animal froze for a second, noticing her out of the corner of its eye. After a few seconds, it hopped forward a little, and began nibbling on the grass.
The coney was about twenty-five feet away from her, and she was about ten feet from her weapon. Slowly, she stepped closer to her bags. As she crouched down, her joints popped. She held her breath, glancing at the animal, which seemed unfazed by what she considered a loud noise. Moving very slowly, she eased onto the ground so that she lay on her belly behind her belongings. She grabbed the crossbow, easing it over the top of one of her bags. The coney continued to eat away at the grass, unafraid of her presence.
The Slayer trained her weapon on the animal’s head, using her bag to steady her slightly shaking arm. She then pulled the trigger, sending the bolt flying with a whish, hitting the coney in the skull, just before its ear. It let out a sharp, quick squeal before plunking over on its side.
She had done it! She had made her first kill - for food, that is. Miriel leapt to her feet and raced over to the animal. She grabbed the bolt, along with the coney, excited at the prospect that she would finally eat meat after going so long without. The exhilaration she felt was indescribable. She felt that some survival instinct that had lain dormant within her had finally awakened. Though her kill was small, it made her feel… powerful. With each triumph, her confidence grew, for without both, one would not survive long in the wilds.
Excited, she dashed back to her belongings, gently laying her kill to the side. Pulling out her dagger, she grabbed an end of sheet of fabric that held her vegetables, cutting off a section of material. She then wrapped the coney in it until she was ready to skin, and dress it.
Her vegetable stew would now become a coney stew, the vegetables being an accompaniment to the meat. In her mind, she went over each step to making the perfect meal. A fire, she needed to make a fire first. The Slayer rushed back into the woods, looking for suitable, dry kindling. She found lots of small pieces of wood that felt dry, but the larger branches seemed damp despite the heat of the day.
Gathering what she could find, she returned back to the clearing, ready to attempt her fire. In an area dominated by so many pines, it was hard to find dried leaves. She did, however, grab handfuls of dried needles, not sure if that would be good enough to ignite into flames. What leaves she did find, felt damp on the bottom, like the large pieces of wood she had found.
Using what she had, she tried to spark a fire. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get the needles or leaves to ignite. Disheartened at this development, she feared the coney would rot before she got the chance to cook it.
Then, that voice, the one that she considered good said, Use the map!
Miriel’s brows shot up, as she fixed her eyes on the bag containing her map. She grabbed the sack, and began rummaging among the contents for the folded piece of parchment. She chuckled when she retrieved it. For some reason, she had felt the need to keep the map even though it had been ruined with Orc blood. Perhaps Miriel had had the foresight to see that it would come in handy one day, like today.
The map proved useful and quickly became engulfed in flames. The Slayer carefully stoked the fire. The kindling crackled to life, the flames growing taller and taller. She spent several minutes working on the fire, to ensure that it would stay alit, before turning her attention to step two: cleaning her vegetables.
For nearly a week, she had had to contend with grit in her mouth as she ate, mostly carrots. Since she was now close to water, she didn’t mind using some to clean the vegetables that she intended to cook. Digging through one of her bags, she pulled out her tent. The stakes to hold the canvas upright had been broken, so she’d have to improvise by using sticks. She had no intention of erecting the tent, but wanted to create a hollow, using the roof as place to hold water for cleaning.
The sticks she found were not sturdy enough, so she resorted to using rock pilings instead. This worked out better because she was able to place heavy stones on top of the canvas as well, keeping it in place. Once she had formed her depression, she poured in some water, about a half a water skin’s worth. She then washed the dirt from some carrots, rutabagas, and one half of a head of cabbage, before cutting them into bite-size pieces.
She dug out the pot and had almost placed it directly on the fire when she recalled Bregolas telling her to set the pot on flat stones to prevent the cookware from eroding. Since rocks were aplenty in the clearing, she found two, and placed them into the fire as she had done many weeks ago. She poured more water into the pot and then tossed in her vegetables.
Miriel now turned her attention to the coney. She pulled the animal closer to her, keeping it on the swathe of fabric. She rolled it over on its back, the arrow still protruding from its head. With her dagger in hand, she started her incision at the bottommost part of the coney, gradually moving upward. A minute amount of blood trickled into the animal’s fur, immediately bringing to mind images of Miriel’s horrific experience. As she delicately sliced through the coney’s skin, she envisioned the old hag doing the same to her. She could literally feel the dagger, the same dagger she was using on the animal, cutting through her flesh.
A pained expression came to her face, but she did not allow that to hinder her. Guts began to spill out of the opening, and once again, Miriel’s thoughts drifted back to that horrific night. She tried to push the images (and the stench) from her mind, knowing that she’d have to stick her hands inside the animal and pull out its innards.
The creature’s insides still felt warm. Having a firm grip on its organs, she pulled, breaking the membrane that kept all the guts attached inside the coney. Miriel cringed. With her hands covered in blood, she set the innards to the side. She then quickly wiped her hands clean on the cloth on which the animal lay. Picking up her dagger, she then cut off the coney’s head at the neck. She then peeled the skin, surprised at how easily it came off. When she reached the bottom of its feet, she hacked them off and pulled the remainder the skin all the way off.
She let out a started cry when a blackish colored worm popped out of what looked to be a bruise of flesh at the animal’s side. She stabbed at the worm with her dagger, trying to hack its slimy head off, but no matter how much of it she chopped, it continued to wiggle its way out. Miriel then stuck her blade into the flesh, cutting away at the spoiled portion of meat. She threw the tainted cut of flesh toward the edge of the woods.
The Slayer then picked up the skinless coney and took it to her makeshift wash basin. She cleaned the meat thoroughly, particularly around the place where she had found the parasitic worm. She then cut the legs off, deciding to roast them over the fire, while putting the rest of the carcass into the pot with her vegetables. She sharpened two of the sticks that she had tried to use for the canvas. Piercing the fleshiest part of the coney’s legs, she propped the sticks beside the pot so that the flames would lick at the meat. Now, it was just a matter of waiting.
With so few arrows left, Miriel wanted to remove the projectile that was embedded in the skull of her kill. Afraid that pulling on the dart would somehow damage it, she cracked open the skull of the coney, thus retrieving a valuable implement. When she had finished with that, she disposed of the rest of the parts of the animal that she considered inedible.
Soon, the smell of roasting meat wafted in the air, making Miriel’s stomach rumble with hunger, and her mouth water in anticipation. She had placed her pan on top of the pot, hoping that would quicken the cooking process of the stew.
At last, the coney legs looked done, although they had shriveled up somewhat while cooking. She sank her teeth into the meat, which instantly burned her mouth. Forced to pull the leg from her mouth, she blew on it, hoping to cool it so she could try again.
Finally, she was able to take her first real bite, tearing the flesh from the bone. Though slightly charred on the outside, the taste was something that she would not soon forget. To Miriel, it was the most delicious bite she had ever tasted. The meat was juicy, though gamey in flavor. The experience brought tears of joy to her eyes.
She wolfed down the legs, kind of disappointed that there was more bone than meat. However, the stew was simmering, and with the addition of vegetables, her belly would soon feel full. With her hunger partially sated, she sat, staring at the pot, waiting impatiently for more food.
Not long afterwards, she gorged on her stew, eating nearly all of it at one sitting. Unfortunately, having gone so long without a proper meal, and gobbling up so much after eating so little, her stomach began to cramp and churn. Poor Miriel ended up suffering from one of the worst bouts of diarrhea that she had ever experienced.
When the Slayer’s stomach finally settled, she noticed that the woods were already becoming dark from the waning of the sun. She hoped to seek shelter in the trees that ran along the hillocks. As she surveyed the area, it seemed that the pines stood out more prominently than the beeches. While she preferred to find a tree that overlooked the clearing, she wasn’t about to sleep in a pine. Not only did she hate their pointy needles, but the bark of pines had a tendency to come off rather easily, which caused them to secrete a sticky sap that was worse than glue.
She climbed up the rocky protuberances that stuck out of the nearest hill, thinking she’d get a better view from above. Once she had reached the top, and taken a second look, it appeared that there were no beeches in the foremost ring of trees overlooking the clearing. Either Miriel would have to sleep a stone’s throw from the fire pit or in the actually clearing itself. She wasn’t too keen on camping in the open area. She felt that that would leave her exposed and vulnerable. Beorn’s words of warning still rang in her mind, and she didn’t want to allow herself to become easy prey for those in pursuit. No. She would find a beech tree outside of the ring of trees. There was no other option.
She wandered along the various hilltops, seeking the perfect tree. Her ideal tree would have saplings nearby so she could once again set her trap. A few yards in, she found it - the ideal beech. She hurried back to the clearing and gathered her things, anxious to get them secured in the tree before it grew too dark to set her trap.
After she had accomplished her tasks, she returned to the clearing. Her cooking gear and the pelt from the coney were the only things she had not packed away. She debated whether she should save the remnants of her stew for morning or if she should go ahead and finish it off. Her frying pan proved to be an adequate lid, keeping the flies out of her food. She pulled the pan away and took a look at how much was left. Once she had discarded the carcass, she could see that there really wasn’t that much stew remaining.
She pulled out one of the water skins she had with her, added a bit of liquid to the pot and returned it to the rock on the smoldering embers. Miriel raked her spoon along the bottom of the pot, trying to loosen the cooked on bits of meat and vegetables that coated the bottom of her cookware.
By the time she had begun to eat, the first stars had popped out in the darkening sky. From the looks of it, the creations of Varda Elbereth would soon be dimmed by the rising moon.
When her belly was filled, sleepiness followed. Miriel decided to retire early. She left her pot so that she could scrub it clean the following morning, but took the spoon and frying pan with her. She then heard the distinctive sound of a limb snapping in two. The loud, sudden crack caused her to freeze.
She could hear a deep voice speaking in hushed tones. The hairs on her body then stood on end, albeit too late to give her ample warning that someone was approaching. With her heart racing in her chest, the Slayer had no other choice but to creep back down the hill to search for a hiding spot within the clearing.
“I smell meats, I tell ya,” she heard loud and clear from above.
Miriel scrambled into a hollow grouping of rocks, much like the one she had found on the road coming down from the Misty Mountains. She struggled to pull one of her swords from its scabbard, as she felt the earth beneath her bottom tremble slightly.
“Sees, I told ya,” said the same voice. “There’s smoke o’er there.”
The speech of the intruders seemed uncouth to Miriel’s ear. But what she really found disturbing was that she could feel the footfalls of whomever it was vibrating the ground. With her blade now in hand, she waited anxiously, trying not to breathe too loudly.
Two trolls came stomping down the hillside into the clearing.
The Slayer let out a startled gasp. Her hand then shot to her mouth, fearing that the creatures had heard her. While Miriel had not entered the Trollshaws, she had tread very close to one of the paths used by the trolls. The smoke of her fire and the faint smell of her stew had lured two of the beasts from their path.
“Man’s been ‘ere,” said one of the bulky figures, inspecting the fire.
The other reached down and grabbed the pot’s handle, picking up the cooking implement. To Miriel, the pot more closely resembled a handled cup in the troll’s hand.
“Empty,” he said, slightly disappointed. He then flung the pot aside. It flew through the air and crashed into a rock formation.
“Ya think he’s still ‘round, hiding somewhere?” said the first troll, his eyes scanning the clearing.
Miriel shrank back into her hidey-hole, hoping they wouldn’t spot her. She had never seen trolls before, only heard about them in tales and such. Words hadn’t quite captured their true essence, she now realized, seeing them in the flesh. They were big, broad and appeared grayish in color (although their coloring could’ve been from the moonlight). They reeked with a foulness that she could not truly describe in words, other than the trolls smelled like walking death.
“Where there’s fire, there’s bound to be man-folk lurking about,” answered the other troll.
“You look o’er there, Pete, and I’ll check o’er here!”
“Right,” answered his companion.
Miriel did not like her current predicament at all. She wasn’t sure if she should jump out, maybe catching the creatures at unawares, thus gaining the advantage, or if she should stay put, hoping they’d somehow overlook her.
You’re a Slayer. Slayers’ slay, she thought to herself. Trolls are fell creatures, minions of the Dark Lord. Kill or be killed!
Miriel was irritated that she had wedged herself into a narrow space, seated on her behind no less. If she were to leap from her hiding spot, she would need to at least be on her knees. As she went to shift her position, her frying pan banged against the rock with a dull clang. She held her breath for moment, her eyes darting to the nearest troll to see if he had heard. He hadn’t.
Mumbling to her blade, “Don’t fail me now,” Miriel lunged from her hiding spot, and charged the nearest troll, screaming like a crazed lunatic.
Of course, that immediately attracted the attention of both of the towering creatures (who must have stood at least ten feet tall!) The troll she was rushing toward looked at her in surprise.
With her blade at the ready, she swiftly reached the first stunned beast, and drove her sword straight into his gut.
His jaw went agape, and he stood there for what seemed like several long minutes, blinking stupidly (perhaps from shock?), while looking down upon her much smaller form.
Miriel’s eyes widened to nearly twice their normal size with her astonishment that the troll hadn’t reacted in the way “normal” creatures would have, if stabbed. For a brief moment, she wondered if she could even take him down, much less two of them.
“It’s a girl-man, Pete,” he finally said, looking down at the blade protruding from his belly. “And she stabbed me!”
Pete, the other troll, was across the clearing on his knees, looking under a rock shelf. It was he that showed the first signs of anger. “Fred!” he bellowed, struggling to get to his feet.
The Slayer, growing more fearful by the second, quickly pulled out her sword. Black blood dripped from the metal as she quickly swung her weapon at the troll’s side, wanting to hack him in two, if at all possible. As the blade cut through him, he let out a sharp cry and staggered sideways, taking Miriel with him. Her blade had become lodged in the troll’s bone, cartilage, or maybe even its guts - she wasn’t sure which. All she knew was that when the beast toppled, she went down with him.
The troll moaned and groaned, wrestling with Miriel for control of the weapon.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
“I’m a’comin’, Fred! I’m a’comin!” bellowed the second troll, rapidly crossing the clearing.
Miriel rolled off the troll to his side, desperately trying to pry her weapon free from his body. She was anxious to get back on her feet before the other, more angry troll could reach her.
Unable to dislodge her weapon in time, the other beastly creature struck her from behind. He hit the side of her head, sending her flying several feet across the clearing. Not only did she see stars, but it also felt as if her brain had ricocheted against her skull, giving her an instant headache. The Slayer’s body collided with a large misshapen boulder, knocking the wind out of her and leaving her slightly dazed.
Trying to blink the stars away, Miriel began to wrestle with her other blade, trying to pull it from its scabbard.
“I’m bleedin’. I’m bleedin’,” cried out Fred, who remained on the ground, clutching his side.
The other troll, Pete, easily freed Miriel’s weapon from Fred’s side. He briefly tried to comfort his ailing comrade, which gave the Slayer time to regroup.
The stars turned into silver light, as Miriel’s eyes came into focus once again. Pete had gotten back to his feet before she had. He then let out a terrifically loud howl that instantly sent shivers down her spine. To the Slayer, it sounded as if the troll was signaling to others of his kind. And that was not a good feeling!
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The thunderous footfalls of Pete came stomping toward Miriel. He wielded her sword, black blood still dripping from the blade. The sight of a monstrous troll charging her was quite terrifying. He raised the blade over his head, preparing to strike.
The Slayer had managed to scramble to her feet, just as the creature brought down the sword with a swish. With a yelp, she dove into a roll, and out of the way. The blade careened against the boulder, breaking in two.
Miriel immediately went on the offensive, moving much faster than the troll. This time, she aimed her weapon at his knees, thinking it would be much easier to hew the smaller part of his massive frame. Sliding onto her knees, she swung her blade, severing the creature’s leg, just above his kneecap.
Fred wailed in pain, unable to keep his balance. With blood streaming in torrents from the bottom of his thigh, he fell over onto a boulder, the hilt of the sword still clutched in his hand.
“Pete!” he cried out, as Miriel got back to her feet. She stepped back a few paces, then ran toward the injured troll and leaped into the air, doing a flip, and landing on the boulder behind the beast. Leaning out over the creature, she drove her blade into his chest, twisting and turning the blade so that it would pierce his organs. The Slayer watched as the life left the troll’s eyes. She withdrew her blade. Fred’s back slid along the boulder until he fell to the earth with a heavy thud. He was dead.
Standing upon the boulder, Miriel then shifted her gaze to Pete, who was still alive, whimpering and crying several yards away. She leaped from the boulder, and slowly approached the troll.
When she reached his side, he looked at her in horror. “You’re a girl-man. Girl-man don’t fight.”
A small smile crept to her face. “This one does,” she answered, sweeping down her blade, and hacking off the troll’s head.
Miriel didn’t allow herself time to savor her moment of triumph. She feared that the two dead trolls had already alerted others. She hastily gathered her things, angry that her pot had been damaged. She took it any way, along with what was left of her sword. She then hurried back to her sleeping tree, quickly packing up her stuff.
With her adrenaline pumping, she was able to pack all her things within ten minutes. She then set out on her journey again, traveling under the silver light of the moon…
Chapter 15 - To Trust or Not to Trust
Before Miriel knew it, she had reached The Last Bridge. Since she hadn’t heard the heavy footfalls of trolls following behind, she paused for a moment, drinking in the view of the River Mitheithel. Beneath the silver light of the moon, the waterway looked even more beautiful than the last time she had looked upon it. Already thin wisps of mist hovered over sections of the stream, giving it a dream-like feel. O’ how she wished she could stay in this area a few more days. It offered everything she needed - consistent water supply, small game, and trees for concealment.
She sighed.
Alas, the area also had trolls, big, hulking trolls.
She turned toward the east, listening intently for any sounds. It was quiet. Maybe too quiet. She then shifted her gaze to the west, finding that area less appealing, at least, from what she could see. No great forests stood along the roadway, only hills, rocks and thickets. The Slayer glanced back at the river below, delighting in how the waters shimmered in the moonlight.
She resumed her trek, knowing she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep for a long while. While her adrenaline wasn’t pumping as it had been, she was however, wide-awake. As she strolled across the bridge, her thoughts turned to her battle with the trolls. Since their corpses lay a few miles behind, she could actually relish in the thought of having fought them, and won.
Though dismayed that that one troll had broken her sword, she was relieved that it hadn’t been Bregolas’ blade. She wanted to preserve what few tokens of his she had with her. Although, now, she’d have to use his sword in combat should the need arise.
The need will definitely arise, she thought to herself. But, I’ll be ready; I’ll be ready for whatever comes my way.
The Slayer pushed all thoughts of the future out of her mind, preferring to live one day at a time. And at this moment, she wanted to savor her victory at having defeated two trolls all by herself. That alone made her confidence soar. She had successfully fought Uruks, Orcs, and now trolls on her journey. A part of her wondered what new adversary awaited her. She was the Slayer, and there were bound to be other battles that lay ahead.
After a few hours, Miriel grew tired. She didn’t like her surroundings much at all. There were no decent places that offered shelter. With really no other option available to her, she ended up camping at the bottom of a ravine. She tucked her things (and herself) beneath a ridge of rock that protruded from the eastern wall, the only part of the terrain that offered any type of concealment. Resting her head on her most cushiony bag, she swiftly fell asleep…
When Buffy and Miriel reunited in the dreamscape, the tension that had built up between the two vanished. Apparently, nothing brings two Slayers together like a successful night of slaying! Buffy watched in amusement as her protégé replayed the battle with the trolls in a very animated fashion. The elder Slayer felt a sense of relief to see a glimmer of the old Miriel. For nearly a week now, she had been despondent, avoiding any deep conversations with Buffy. Of course, it didn’t help that they had had their own little skirmish. As far as Buffy was concerned, that incident was behind them.
“And did you hear what they called each other?” Miriel added at the end of her tale as she shoved Bregolas’ sword back into its scabbard. “What kind of names are Pete and Fred?” she asked with a snicker.
Buffy frowned. “What’s wrong with Pete and Fred? They sound like perfectly normal names to me.”
Miriel chuckled. “Oh, yes. Coming from one named Buffy, how could I expect otherwise?”
“Hey! What’s wrong with Buffy?” queried the elder Slayer, pouting.
Once again, Miriel chortled. “It sounds rather queer is all. I cannot say that I have ever heard the name before.”
“My name’s not… not… queer!” protested Buffy defensively.
“It is a common name in your lands then?” queried the younger Slayer, raising her brow in question.
Half-pouting, half-frowning, Buffy said, “Shut up!” She then grumbled under her breath, “What kinda name is Miriel, any way?”
“It’s a queenly name,” answered Miriel proudly. “If you had heeded our earlier conversations, you would know that.”
“Yeah, whatever,” mumbled Buffy, wanting to change the topic of conversation before it became heated. She didn’t like it when people criticized her name.
The elder Slayer quickly steered their conversation to some mundane topic in an attempt to lessen her rising blood pressure…
When Miriel awoke, the sky was already a pale blue. The morning promised another scorcher of a day. After tending to her morning ritual, she climbed the slope and resumed her journey, following the Great East Road to the west.
Every now and again, she passed patches of woods along either side of the roadway. Her hand instinctively went to her hilt when she neared them, just in case anyone tried to jump her. In the distance, she saw a great stretch of hills standing prominently north of the road. At this point, that would be her target destination.
By mid-afternoon, she came upon a pass in the hills, to her left. For whatever reason, she felt compelled to leave the road and follow the path. On either side, the rocky hills stretched upward, reaching heights of about seventy-five feet. However, only a few yards beyond the path, the hills melted away, revealing a rather large clearing with what looked to be a small lake in its center. Circled around the body of water were scattered willow and oak trees.
Miriel’s heart nearly beat out of chest with excitement. She rubbed her eyes, fearing that the heat was causing her to see things. To her delight, it was real. The lake was real. The trees were real. She swiftly went down the earthen slope toward the water’s edge, as her eyes swiftly scanned the area. Enormous hills formed a ring enclosure about the place, offering concealment from the surrounding areas. The young Slayer thought that this would be the ideal spot to rest for a day or two.
By the lake’s edge stood a massive willow. Its branches stretched out, partly over the land and partly over the water. Miriel inspected the tree closely, thinking that it might be the ideal place for her to sleep. It would probably work, but she thought it wasn’t a good idea to sleep so close to the trail. She wondered if people, or worse, Orcs and monsters knew of this place’s existence, or if she had happened to have made some magnificent discovery.
As she walked along the water’s edge, she could plainly see animal prints amidst the pebbly shore, an obvious sign that she wasn’t the first to discover this place. Regardless, it had a rather wholesome feel to it, and Miriel had already convinced herself to call this place home, at least for a little while.
She set her bags down beneath an oak on the western side of the lake where she would rest for a while. With water no longer an issue (for the time being); she drank until her thirst was quenched. Once rested, Miriel walked the perimeter of the enclosure, looking for any other escape paths from the ring of hills. From the looks of it, there was only one way in, and one way out.
Before doing anything else, Miriel wanted to set up her trap. If any were to follow the path, they would probably do as she had, follow the trail that led to the lake. In doing so, one would have to pass beneath the boughs of the old willow.
With her trap now set, the Slayer felt a bit more at ease. The lake looked inviting, and with her clothes drenched in sweat, she longed to take a quick dip. She waited a while, reluctant to strip off her clothing in broad daylight without any to keep watch. After thirty minutes or so, she decided that it was well worth the risk. If she kept at least one weapon close to the shore, she could defend herself should anyone pop into the clearing.
As she waded into the cold water, she could see schools of minnows swimming near the shoreline. Miriel knew that if there were minnows, there had to be larger fish as well. When she had finished her swim, she’d try her hand at fishing again. After having successfully killed a coney, she hoped that her luck had changed, and that she would find the same success with fishing.
Alas, that was not to be, as she later found out. Fishing proved to be just as frustrating as always. But, Miriel didn’t fret. Instead, she dined on stewed cabbage and rutabagas for her supper. While not as delicious as she would’ve liked, the fare was filling nonetheless.
Miriel remained by the lake over the next couple of days. She liked the area so much, she decided to call it home. Though she hadn’t caught any fish as of yet, she figured it was only a matter of time before wild game wandered into the enclosure. Indeed that did happen, on the second night after her arrival. Unfortunately, it was a couple of deer, which she considered too large to kill. The Slayer understood how precious life was, and didn’t want to kill something unless she could eat it all. The deer meat would rot before she could do that, and that didn’t seem right to her. She still had some vegetables left, and ate small portions at mealtime, trying to make them last as long as she could.
Now it so happened that things changed drastically on the fifth day after her arrival. With her food supplies nearly gone, Miriel had done her best to conserve her energy. She still hadn’t caught any fish, and after the two deer, no other game had happened into the clearing. It was dusk, the evening still warm. The Slayer lounged against the bole of the oak in which she normally slept, lazily chewing on a strand of wild grass. She had closed her eyes for a few minutes, enjoying the peacefulness of yet another day’s ending when she heard a sudden yelp echoing within the walls of the hills, followed by “Ahh!”
Miriel’s eyes darted open, as she let out a startled gasp. Not a second later, she was on her feet, jerking the crossbow from the ground. She could see the branches of the willow trembling, the leaves rustling. As she ran toward the tree, she heard disheartened cries coming from within the greenery.
When she neared the tree, she could see someone caught in her trap, a someone with long, bushy brown hair, dangling upside down.
“‘elp me! ‘elp me,” the figure pleaded in a gruff voice.
Her prey spun and swung, as he squirmed within the confines of the rope.
Seeing the pathway deserted, the Slayer turned her attention to the figure swinging from the tree branch.
“What do we have here?” she said, picking up the axe that lay on the ground beneath the hairy creature.
“Let me down! Let me down!” he demanded.
Miriel used the axe to stop the man from spinning. He gulped loudly when she did so. She then used his weapon to push back his bushy hair, revealing his face.
“A dwarf,” she said once she had gotten a closer look at her captive. Now there were a couple of things going through the Slayer’s mind at that moment. There was that feeling of exhilaration that her trap had worked, that she had actually caught a living, breathing creature. But more importantly, she felt powerful. She could see both fear and doubt in the dwarf’s eyes, and she liked that.
“You let me down right now, or I’ll - ”
“ -You’ll what?” interjected Miriel, waving the dwarf’s weapon threateningly. “You wander into my domain and make demands of me?” she said incredulously.
“Er, um, I didn’t know,” answered the dwarf, staring, through his hair, at the sharp blade of his axe. “Er, perhaps we can work something out here.”
Just then, six more dwarves came running into the clearing, each brandishing his own weapon.
“Stop there, or I’ll gut him!” shouted the Slayer, pulling the dwarf toward her body. She trained her crossbow on the newcomers while holding the blade of the axe to her captive’s throat.
“My son! My son!” exclaimed the grey-haired dwarf, pulling on his beard with his free hand.
Miriel had no time to really assess the situation. Were these good dwarves or bad ones? She had no way of knowing since this was the first time she had ever encountered any from that race. Under different circumstances, she probably would’ve been excited and inquisitive. But not any more. They were a threat - interlopers of her domain. Possible villains out to make mischief, or worse.
“Drop your weapons or I shall cut his throat!” she threatened.
Now, Miriel knew she was the Slayer, and had proved herself in battle, but these dwarves had never before come across a young girl like her. They were hesitant to heed her warnings, thinking that they could easily disarm her.
Their eyes swept over the area to determine whether or not she had any companions. They could see none.
“Now, listen, lass,” began the old dwarf, taking a step forward.
Miriel pressed the blade into the flesh of her captive a bit, which caused him to yelp, and the old dwarf to stop his advance.
“Do you know how much blood sprays from one’s throat when it is sliced open?” she said in her most menacing voice. “Have you ever felt the warm spray of blood against your skin, or tasted the saltiness on your tongue?” She eyed her captive. “With him hanging like this, I imagine, he’d be drained within fifteen minutes.”
“Alright, lass. Alright,” said the grey-haired dwarf, slowly placing his axe on the ground. Grumbling, his companions followed suit. “Now, we can work this out, lass. Just don’t hurt my son.”
Miriel then carefully pulled the pack off her captive’s back, her eyes never leaving the six dwarves. She then tossed the bag to the old man’s feet. “Empty it on the ground!”
“She’s robbing me!” exclaimed the upside down dwarf. “I’m being robbed by a mortal girl!”
“Shut it, you,” she said, squeezing the dwarf.
He grumbled something inaudible even to her ears.
“I said empty it! NOW!” she barked to the old dwarf.
“Alright, alright. Just don’t hurt my son.”
The old dwarf undid the clasps of the bag before emptying the contents on the ground. Other than a spare set of garments, everything was in smaller cloth bags.
“Empty them!” she ordered again.
The old dwarf loosened the string on the first bag, and poured out a variety of gemstones onto the dwarf’s garments. Even in the fading light, the jewels shone with a brilliance in a myriad of colors. A second bag contained gold coins and the third contained silver coins.
“That’s all. That’s all he has,” said the old dwarf.
“What’s in those?” she ordered, pointing her weapon at the remaining bags.
“Food. It’s only food.”
Miriel’s ears perked up upon hearing that. “What kind of food?”
All the dwarves seemed puzzled by that question . They assumed that a robber would be most interested in their treasures, not their foodstuffs. Nevertheless, they would not surrender their goods without a fight. Surely, six hardy dwarves of Erebor could take out a lone mortal girl.
“Salted pork and a couple of loaves of stale bread.”
“Give me that for the release of the dwarf.”
All the dwarves were taken aback by Miriel’s ransom demand. They were quite amazed that she showed no interest in their valuables, only their food.
“Alright, lass. Alright,” answered the old dwarf, picking up a couple of the cloth bags. “Now, you let my son go, and I’ll give you these,” he suggested, holding the bags out toward the Slayer.
“And you expect me to trust you, kinsman of Mîm?” she shot back derisively.
“Mîm? Who’s Mîm?” queried one of the dwarves, looking at his companions with a baffled expression on his face.
“Just give it to her. My leg’s gone numb!” shouted the hanging dwarf.
The old dwarf slowly approached Miriel, holding the bags in his outstretched hands. “Take it easy now, lass. We’re not going to hurt you.”
“Stop right there!” she ordered, gripping the dangling dwarf tighter. “Toss the bags.”
The old dwarf did as ordered. The bags landed by the Slayer’s feet.
“Back up now,” she said, pointing her weapon at the grey-haired dwarf.
The old dwarf complied. “Alright, now. I kept my end of the bargain. Free my son.”
“Hands on your head,” she demanded. “All of you!” she added, noticing that only the old dwarf had obeyed her command.
When all the dwarves had their hands on their heads, Miriel let go of the trapped dwarf. He began to gently swing again. She shifted the axe into the crook of her left arm so that she could retrieve the bags. As she squatted down to pick up the food, one of the dwarves suddenly charged her.
Shouts and cries reverberated against the hillsides.
Miriel dropped the food bags as she quickly stood, grabbed hold of the dangling dwarf, and kicked out her right leg, hitting the charging dwarf square in the chest. The dwarf went flying backwards a good fifteen feet before landing hard on the ground. His comrades rushed to his side, except for the old man who remained perfectly still with his hands still on his head. He shouted at the others, as the axe blade returned to the captive dwarf’s throat.
“You little bastards!” she spat, angry at being deceived. “You proved that you truly are kinsmen of Mîm, the Petty Dwarf. Liars. Deceivers, the lot of you.” She gripped her captive tighter. “I should cut his throat for your foolhardiness!”
The old dwarf scolded his companions. He and the others were alarmed by the young girl’s demonstration of strength. They had never seen one so young deliver such a powerful kick. His concern over his son reached new heights.
“Please, lass,” he pleaded, keeping his hands on his head. “No one will attack you. I promise.”
“You lie!” she barked.
“Father, please!” cried out the trapped dwarf.
Once again, the old dwarf scolded his companions. “Please, miss. I’ve done as you’ve ordered. My kinsmen here,” he pointed at his companions, “they will not attack you again. You have my word on that.”
The old dwarf sounded sincere, but Miriel wasn’t about to let herself be deceived yet again. She thought for a minute, then answered with, “If that is so, then I want you all to lay face down on the ground, with your hands on your heads. If anyone moves, then I will gut your son - make no mistake about that!”
The warning in her tone was understood by all. The old dwarf ordered his companions to do as she said. They all laid face down on the ground with their hands on the back of their heads.
Satisfied with their positions, Miriel swiftly picked up the food bags and slowly backed away from the dangling dwarf. Her eyes remained glued to the six men on the ground. She went to the other end of the rope, untied the knot, and eased the suspended dwarf to the ground. Her captive hastily got to his feet and made a beeline for his companions. Either the dwarf had overlooked the fact that his leg was still trapped in the noose or he was completely dense, but as he ran, Miriel pulled on the other end of the rope, tripping the man, and causing him to fall face first to the ground.
Before the fallen dwarf could roll over, Miriel was standing over him. In her hand, she wielded his own weapon, vowing to rip him a new one if he dare cut the cords. The dwarf kept his eyes fixed on the girl, as he loosened the noose around his ankle. Once freed, he tossed the rope to Miriel and began to scoot back away from her. The Slayer then flung the dwarf his axe. His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, as the weapon flew through the air, landing in a patch of earth between his legs, just below his crotch.
“Off with you now,” she demanded, waving them on.
The dwarves got back to their feet. A couple of them hurriedly grabbed the valuables of Miriel’s former captive and placed them back into the sacks. The old dwarf looked over his son, speaking to him in a tongue foreign to the girl. Whatever he had said caused all the dwarves to look at Miriel with pity.
As Miriel backed away, the old dwarf spoke up. “Our business here is not finished,” he said in his kindest voice.
“What business?” asked Miriel warily, narrowing her eyes.
Emboldened, the old dwarf stepped closer. The Slayer raised her crossbow - just in case. “My kin have been coming here for centuries. They had even carved runes on the outside wall, informing travelers that there is water here,” he continued, motioning toward the pathway. “We have come a long way and have need for water and a place to rest.” The old dwarf looked up at the darkening sky. Already, the first stars had faintly appeared above. “It will be night soon, and we are weary.”
Miriel remained apprehensive, unsure of what to do.
The old dwarf pulled off his pack and reached inside. “I’ve got apples, apples I’ll give to you, if we may stay.” He pulled out two pieces of fruit. “What do you say, miss?”
The girl’s eyes darted from dwarf to dwarf. She had no idea whether they were friend or foe though a part of her was slightly stunned that they were showing her kindness after she had trapped one of their kinsmen and threatened to gut him.
However, she relented. “Alright, but you and your people stay on this side of the lake, and I shall stay on the other.”
“Very well,” he said with a nod, approaching Miriel and handing her the apples.
She then backed away, keeping her eyes fixed on the dwarves. They began speaking in their own tongue, as they relieved themselves of their burdens and headed to the water’s edge.
Once the girl had determined that she was far enough away, she turned, and hurried back to her tree on the western shore. She sat down with her back against the bole of the tree, watching the dwarves keenly. She immediately tore into the salted pork, eager to sate that ever-longing need for meat that never seemed to go away.
The dwarves began to speak in the Common Tongue, and Miriel was able to hear snippets of their conversation, even from afar. She had decided to forgo sleep for the night, wanting to keep an eye on the travelers. She had serious trust issues, and even now, a part of her told her not to trust these dwarves. She figured that as long as she remained awake, the dwarves wouldn’t be able to ambush her.
Gradually, darkness engulfed the area, and the only light came from the campfire that the strangers had built. Miriel remained vigilant, keeping a constant eye on the dwarves. There was a time or two when she found herself rolling her eyes in disgust, as the dwarves appeared to be having some sort of belching contest. While she was unfamiliar with the customs of that race, she did find their behavior rather crude.
For some reason, the old dwarf could not push the girl out of his mind. In all his days, he had never encountered one so young, roaming the wilds of Middle-earth alone. Something wasn’t quite right, and he shared his thoughts with his son.
“Do you not wonder why she’s alone, out here, companionless?” he asked.
“It’s no business of mine,” answered the younger dwarf, as he chewed on the rations given to him by the others.
The old dwarf looked toward the area where he knew the girl was. Her form remained hidden in the shadows of night. “There is something peculiar about that girl, something… ” He paused. “I cannot quite put my finger on it. There is some sad tale behind her loneliness, I deem. My heart goes out to her.”
The young dwarf stopped chewing. He shifted his dark eyes to his father, unmoved by his comments. “Mine does not!” he answered, as he resumed chewing again. “And yours shouldn’t either. Have you forgotten that that wild thing had me hanging from a tree - and had put my own axe to my throat. My own axe!” he said, emphasizing his last words.
The old dwarf looked thoughtfully at his son. “Did you not see how forcefully she kicked Frór? No mere mortal girl wields such strength!”
“Then that suggests that she’s in league with the enemy. The Dark Lord probably used his magics to imbue her with great strength,” he said, nodding his head, pleased with his deduction. “I say she’s trouble.”
“You should not assume the worst in people.”
“One must assume the worst, in this day and age. The darkness is spreading - you’ve said so yourself,” answered his son.
“Aye,” answered the old man with a sigh. He shifted his gaze back toward the spot where he knew Miriel sat. “I cannot help but feel pity for that girl. She is frightened, though you may not see it.”
“I was too busy dangling upside down to notice,” remarked the younger dwarf sardonically.
As the night wore on, Miriel became sleepy. The thought of dozing while others camped so closely was not the most comforting of thoughts. She had decided that the best way to keep awake was to resume her march under the cover of darkness. She wasn’t thrilled with the idea of leaving her little sanctuary, but if the dwarves were right, and the area was marked as a haven for weary travelers, then it was best for her to go on her way. Surely, it would only be a matter of time before others showed up, and the likelihood that the next group of strangers were of the not friendly variety was all too probable.
The Slayer climbed back up the tree and began tossing her bags to the ground. In the still of the night, the lone dwarf on watch duty heard the sound of her luggage hitting the ground. Though dark, he locked his eyes in the direction of the noise, wondering what the girl was up to. She topped off her water skins before making her way toward the only pathway out of the area, not knowing when she’d come across water again.
Now, it so happened that the dwarf on sentry duty was the same one that had been caught in the Slayer’s trap. With his father sound asleep with the others, and his belief that the girl was coming in their direction, he thought it was high time he gave her a piece of his mind. He slipped away from the campsite, axe in hand, and as quietly as he could, he went over to the hill beside the path, where he anxiously waited for the girl to approach.
Seemingly, from out of nowhere, she appeared before him, causing the dwarf to jump with a start.
“How did you do that?” he yelped, rattled that he hadn’t heard her approach. “How did you sneak up on me like that?”
Miriel offered the dwarf a smile. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to frighten you,” she replied softly, not wanting to wake the others.
The dwarf was peeved that the young girl had called his courage into question. He puffed his chest out proudly. “I was not frightened,” he said firmly. “You caught me by surprise is all.”
Cocking her head to the side, the Slayer scrutinized the dwarf standing before her. He stood at least a foot shorter than she. “You’re the dwarf I caught in my trap, no?”
He answered with a deep, throaty groan, which sounded more like a low growl.
“I apologize,” she said, taking his response as a yes. She glanced down the dark path between the hills. “There are… unsavory types lurking about,” she murmured. Miriel fell silent for a moment, staring into the darkness. Unpleasant memories came rushing to her mind. She shuddered, then turned her attention back to the dwarf. “One cannot be too careful nowadays. It is sometimes difficult to distinguish friend from foe.”
There was something in the girl’s voice that stirred pity within the dwarf. He now had a better understanding of his father’s earlier words. There was an air of sadness about the girl, some hidden torment that lay just below the surface. The dwarf could not perceive what it was, but came to believe that she was no minion of the Dark Lord.
“Aye, you speak truly,” he answered with a nod of his head. With his misgivings about her melting away, he hastily added, “There is no need to leave at this hour. You’re welcomed to stay here, by the fire, with me and my kin.”
“I thank you, master dwarf, but I think it’s time for me to be on my way.”
“It’s Gimli. My name is Gimli,” answered the dwarf, quickly warming up to the young girl.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, Gimli,” said Miriel, adjusting the straps of her bags that were already digging uncomfortably into her shoulders. She then reached into her pocket. She held out her hand, opening her fingers and revealing a gold chain on her palm. “I do not want to be seen as a thief. Take this in payment for the bread and meat.”
Gimli reached out, and closed her palm with his rough, calloused hand. Even in the dimness of the firelight, he could see the scars around her wrist. Seeing that caused his heart to ache even more. “No lass, you keep it,” he uttered, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with emotion.
“I do not want to be thought of as a robber, a highwayman, some might say,” she answered. “I insist. Please, take it.”
Gimli was probably the first dwarf in history to turn down treasures in payment of goods. He felt that the girl had greater need of the gold chain than he. He thought for a moment, and then said, “Wait here. Don’t go anywhere just yet.”
He then headed back to his campsite, rummaging through one of the bags. Shortly thereafter, he returned carrying a few bundles in his arms. He felt the girl had need of food, more so than he and his companions. Why else would his ransom have been a couple of loaves and some salted pork?
“If you want me to take that fine chain of yours, then I must add this to the bargain. There’s some meat, bread and apples,” he said, offering her the bundles. “That way our exchange is fair.”
“I don’t know,” she responded, hesitant to take the dwarf’s food. It wasn’t that she thought it was poisoned or anything like that. But, after traveling as long as she had, she understood how precious food was, and how one had to ration it along the way. She feared that by taking the victuals, she would be depriving the dwarves of some much-needed sustenance.
Seeing her reluctance, Gimli added, “We’ve got plenty of food for the journey home, if that’s your concern.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Take it, lass. Come now, the chain for the food. That’s a fair trade, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re getting the short end of the stick,” she replied with a chortle, exchanging the necklace for the bundles.
“Nay,” he said, holding the gold chain up before his eyes. “This is fine quality gold made by a skilled hand,” he observed. Gimli then clasped the chain around his neck.
Miriel eased her packs off her shoulders, sifting through her bags in search of one with enough room in which to store her food.
“I don’t mean to pry, but how is it that you’re out here by yourself, without an escort? I mean, you look so young, a child still. You should be safe at home, not out here. The world’s a dangerous place,” remarked Gimli, his voice riddled with concern and curiosity.
With the food now stowed away, Miriel heaved the straps of her bags over both shoulders and rose to her feet. Frowning, she answered, “I am no child.”
“I meant no offense, um, er,” the dwarf stammered in reply. He wanted to address her by her proper name but had no idea what it was. “Er, sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
The Slayer locked eyes with Gimli and said the first name that popped into her head. “Morwen. My name is Morwen.” For whatever reason, Miriel felt the need to protect her true name, as well as her identity. When it came to her back story, she didn’t reveal much. “My companions were slain by Orcs,” she revealed, leaving it at that.
Gimli gasped, surprised that this young girl had survived a goblin attack. Dozens of questions came rushing to his mind, but Miriel wasn’t about to elaborate further.
“I must be on my way,” she hurriedly added. “I have a long way to travel, as do you, I deem.” She glanced toward the sleeping, snoring dwarves, particularly the old one. “Give your father my regards.” Miriel looked back at the dwarf. “I rather liked him very much.”
“But, where will you go?” Gimli blurted out, a little too anxious sounding to his ears.
Miriel shrugged. “Fate is leading me on my path. Farewell, Gimli,” she added with a nod, starting down the trail. “Oh.” She stopped, glancing over her shoulder. “Be careful once you cross the bridge. I’m afraid the trolls might be riled up.”
“Why is that?” asked Gimli.
“I expect it’s because I killed two of them. Use care, Gimli. Use care.” She then gave a curt nod of her head and continued on her way, leaving the baffled dwarf behind. With his jaw slightly agape, he stared at the girl as she disappeared into the darkness, unable to believe her claim.
“No. No, it cannot be,” he mumbled to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. “No girl is capable of such a feat.” Yet, something inside gnawed at him, telling him that her claim was most definitely true.
Years later, Gimli would learn “Morwen’s” true identity, and from the Elves, no less…
Chapter 16 - The Slayer's Last Stand
“So, what’d you think of them, the dwarves that is?” asked Buffy, later that night in the dreamscape.
Both she and Miriel sat atop one of the hills overlooking the secluded lake near which the younger Slayer had stayed over the past several days.
Staring down at the body of water, Miriel started with, “Well,” then paused, wanting to choose her words carefully. “I think they’re nothing at all like what has been written in the histories. Mind you, I haven’t read that much about them.” She turned, facing Buffy. “The records in Minas Tirith center on our own people, and the Elves, whom we still regard highly, for the most part. I had always heard that dwarves were a greedy breed, but I didn’t find them to be that way at all. In fact, quite the opposite, I’d say. I found them to be generous and kind, though quite hairy. I didn’t realize that dwarves were so hairy. My goodness! Did you see how long some of their beards were? They nearly reached the ground!”
Delighted to see that Miriel was showing signs of recovering from her horrific ordeal, Buffy chuckled, “Yeah, I agree with you on the hairy bit. They could be mistaken for mini-sasquatches.”
“What are mini-sasquatches?” queried the puzzled young Slayer. “I have never heard of them. Are they a race of people?”
“Um, I’m not sure how you’d classify them, really,” answered Buffy. “They’re creatures, human-like creatures, but I’ve never seen one.” She furrowed her brow as she thought. “In fact, I’m not sure if anyone’s ever really seen one. I guess someone had to, for us to know about them, but so many claims have been debunked.” She shook her head, seeing that she was rambling off topic. “Any way, it’s said that they’re really big, hairy, human-like creatures that live in huge remote forests, far away from people.”
“They have long beards then?” asked Miriel, intrigued by the description that her mentor had given.
“Well, no,” drawled the elder Slayer. “They’re kinda hairy all over, their entire bodies.”
“But they have no beards?” questioned the girl. “Then how are they similar to dwarves? I’m confused on that.”
Buffy now wished she hadn’t brought up the subject at all. She was merely making a casual observation, and had no desire to debate the discrepancies in the descriptions between the two races. She should have known that only someone familiar with the legend of the sasquatch would appreciate her comments, which were meant to be somewhat witty.
“I’m ready for a change of scenery,” she finally said, getting to her feet. “How ‘bout you?”
Miriel was a bit leery. Not by the sudden change in conversation, she was used to that by now, but more so by the fact that she knew that Buffy’s remarks meant that she was going to take the young Slayer somewhere, somewhere in her mentor’s strange world, not Miriel’s.
“Alright,” she said with trepidation. “But I do not want to return to the mall, nor do I wish to fly on an airplane.”
“We won’t,” she answered, crossing her heart with her finger. “Promise.” The elder Slayer held her hand out, and helped the younger one to her feet. As they started down the slope of the hill, she said, “Did you notice that there were seven dwarves?”
Miriel was slightly taken aback that Buffy continued to talk about the dwarves. She thought that perhaps her mentor was more fascinated by them than she was. “What of it?” asked the girl.
The scenery then changed. They were now walking down one of the main streets of Sunnydale.
“Have you ever heard the story of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs?” asked Buffy.
“No, I cannot say that I have,” replied the young Slayer, somewhat distracted by her newfound surroundings. Miriel’s eyes scanned the shops lined along either side of the vacant street. The entire area was devoid of people. Buffy thought that Miriel would be more at ease that way.
“It’s an old fairy tale that’s been tweaked over the years,” replied Buffy with a gleam in her eye. “It’s about this young girl, whose wicked stepmother is a witch - ”
“ - I do not want to hear about it,” interjected Miriel, instantly put off by her mentor’s use of the words “wicked” and “witch” in the same sentence.
“It has a happy ending,” countered Buffy in that optimistic voice of hers. She really wanted to share the story with Miriel. In a way, her protégé resembled Snow White, especially with her short dark hair, and porcelain white skin.
“When I hear the words “wicked” and “witch”, I get the impression that something bad is going to happen. Am I wrong? Is this wicked stepmother not evil? Do the words “wicked” and “witch” not hold he same meaning in your tongue as it does mine?”
Buffy pouted. “The stepmother dies in the end. And Snow White marries the prince. That’s a good thing, right?”
“So, you’re telling me that the stepmother does no harm to Snow White?” queried a skeptical Miriel, raising her brow in doubt.
“Well, she does turn into an old hag and give Snow White a poisoned apple,” remarked Buffy matter-of-factly.
Miriel stopped in middle of the street with her hands on her hips, and a frown on her face. Her mentor had walked on a few more paces before noticing that the younger Slayer was no longer at her side.
“What?” said Buffy, oblivious to the fact that her comments were having a negative effect on Miriel.
The girl’s mood had instantly soured. “I don’t know whether you’re just heartless or an idiot.”
“Hey!” interjected Buffy, considering herself neither heartless nor an idiot.
“If you cannot see the similarities between your tale and the horrors I recently experienced, then you are a foolish, heartless idiot!” she spat angrily.
Miriel then marched off in a huff, leaving a slightly dazed Buffy behind.
“Oh my God,” uttered a shocked Buffy. “Is Miriel Snow White?” She couldn’t help but now see some similarities between the two. And as Buffy said, the story had changed over the years. Could the original tale from long ago have been inspired by Miriel’s life? True, there was no evil stepmother in her life, but a lot of the other elements of the story fit - seven dwarves, poison, old hag, apples.
No way! Buffy thought, as she chased after Miriel. There’s no freakin’ way that I’ve met Snow White!
Once the elder Slayer caught up with Miriel, she breathlessly said, “I’m sorry, Miriel. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t see - ”
“No, you didn’t!” barked the still wroth girl. “I’m desperately trying to put that behind me. I do not need any reminders, especially from you.”
“I’m sorry,” Buffy said pleadingly. “How can I make it up to you?”
“You can’t,” replied the seething girl, taking longer strides than her companion.
The elder Slayer had to jog to keep up with her younger counterpart. “How ‘bout we resume our training?” she suggested, hoping that would make peace between the two.
Miriel stopped. That got her attention. They hadn’t practice since… well, for a long while. “Really?” she asked, her tone riddled with hope.
“Really,” repeated Buffy, trying to catch her breath.
“I didn’t think you thought I was ready,” admitted Miriel. The spark had now returned to her grey eyes and the frown had left her face.
“I think you are. That whole thing with the dwarves convinced me that you are,” explained the elder Slayer. “That’s why I brought you here. I wanna take you to the place where I train, using my equipment, my gear.”
“What is it about the dwarves that changed your mind?” queried Miriel out of curiosity.
“You didn’t kill ‘em,” answered Buffy without missing a beat. She linked her arm with the girl’s and continued down the street. “That’s a start. At least, the way I see it. You haven’t given up on people, and that’s a plus in my book.”
Buffy took Miriel to the Magic Box. The young Slayer wasn’t thrilled to be in an establishment where magical items were sold, however, the building look like any average shop. A little different than those found in Minas Tirith, but shop-like nonetheless.
The elder Slayer led her charge to the back room where she always trained. As Miriel’s acting Watcher, Buffy planned on mirroring the actions of Giles. She wanted to divide their time with exercising the body as well as the mind. While the young Slayer wasn’t too keen on the meditation part of her training, Buffy convinced her that it was just as important as the physical workout.
“Honing the senses goes hand-in-hand with exercising your body,” she had said to the girl.
The two spent hours upon hours in that room, utilizing all the equipment on hand. In fact, they had trained so long that when Miriel awoke in her own world, it was already nearing dusk. The young Slayer had slept nearly the entire day away! After a quick meal, she set off again, following the road to the west.
For several days afterward, Miriel’s sleeping schedule changed. She spent most of the daylight hours sleeping in thickets and underbrush, and traveled at night. In some ways, she felt that this was better.
Firstly, the enemy tended to attack under the cover of darkness. At least, that had been her experience thus far. Now, she found herself most alert during the nighttime, lessening her chances of a surprise assault.
Secondly, the weather was much more tolerable. The summer sun had been intense, and with its absence, the air was much cooler, and she didn’t sweat as much as she had. When she considered the “stink factor” as Buffy so eloquently put it, Miriel couldn’t help but see that as a positive.
The only drawback was her limited eyesight. Though her eyes were able to adjust to the darkness, they could not spot animal tracks in the earth leading to possible water holes. With her limited supply of water, this would become a grave issue in the not too distant future.
Night after night, she followed the road, somewhat grateful that she hadn’t encountered any other people. To help alleviate her boredom, Miriel imagined that the hills looming ahead in the darkness was a great dragon, much like Ancalagon from the Elder Days. She pictured the menacing beast lying in wait, ready to pounce upon her when she came near enough. Then she, like Eärendil, would battle the dragon to the death. It was a silly thought, but imagining the various ways of killing such a beast really helped pass the time.
When Miriel got closer to the hill nearest the road, the one that was separate from the chain to its north, she couldn’t help but notice how different it looked from the others. Its top was flat, looking as if its topmost peak had been snapped off. Allowing her imagination to get the better of her, she wondered if, in times past, Morgoth, in a fit of rage, had snapped off the top of that hill for some reason or another. She had not studied the map thoroughly enough to know that that was Amon Sûl, or Weathertop, as it was called in the common tongue.
Seven days after parting with the dwarves, the Slayer finally reached the base of Weathertop. Longing to get off the road, she began to walk along the hill’s eastern side, following its curvature to the north. The earth was rocky, and uneven, causing Miriel to stumble in the growing darkness.
From out of the west, she heard a low rumbling, following by the first flashes of lightning that she had seen since that night. The threat of rain was one she welcomed wholeheartedly, as her water supply had dwindled dangerously low. Her dilemma was to figure out how to catch the impending droplets. The tent seemed the most obvious way of collecting the rainwater. However, that was easier said than done.
Even though wild grass grew sporadically on the rocky floor, Miriel could find no way to penetrate the surface with one of her wooden stakes. There just wasn’t a big enough spot within the rocks. She resorted to plan “B”, having learned that one must always have a backup plan.
As the storm drew closer, the Slayer gathered up many heavy stones. She had decided to drape her canvass tent between two ridges, forming a hollow in its center to collect rainwater. She just needed to weigh down the edges so that the weight of the water wouldn’t cause the whole thing to collapse. Once she had finished, she crawled beneath the shelter with her bags, and waited for the rain to fall.
The first drops hit the roof of her structure. As Miriel sat there, hunched over, staring at the drooping canvass, she wondered how difficult it would be to actually transfer the water into her water skins. It then occurred to her to use her frying pan to catch the droplets as well, as one could never have too much water. She dug through her bags, retrieved her pan, and slid it outside the shelter.
Nearly bored out of her mind, Miriel sat there, listening to the storm, and staring at the pan as it filled with water. Whenever the pan became half-full, she would carefully pour its contents into a water skin. It must have rained for an hour or so before the storm finally passed.
When Miriel went to crawl out of her shelter, she somehow un-wedged the canvass, causing one side of the shelter to collapse, and spilling all the rainwater she had collected.
“Damn it!” she grumbled, angry that she hadn’t used enough care as she moved beneath the canvass.
At least, she had collected some water with her pan, though it wasn’t nearly as much as she had wanted.
Still wide-awake, Miriel decided to resume her trek. She packed up her stuff and continued to follow the curvature of the hill. She had walked for hours, forced to climb over wet, slick slopes of the hillside. By the time she reached the northern side of the mound, the Slayer was utterly exhausted. With dawn on the horizon, Miriel found shelter beneath a rock shelf, and soon fell asleep.
Now, while she slept, both Miriel and Buffy had walked along the flattened top of Amon Sûl. In its center stood a broken ring of rock, the remnants of the great watchtower from long ago. To the northwest was a pathway, winding along a ridge on the hillside.
It was Buffy that spotted the bowl-shaped hollow far below on the mound’s slope, slightly west of the path. Her gut told her that that’s where Miriel should go.
Therefore, when the young Slayer awoke late that afternoon, she set off, following the curvature of Weathertop. She climbed the steep slope of what was known as the Fortress Path that linked Weathertop to the Weather Hills. Once she had reached the trail, she followed it toward Amon Sûl.
Just like in her dream, she saw the sheltered grassy dell on the northwestern slope of the hill. Miriel was pleased to see the swathe of green grass growing amidst the rocky terrain. She nearly burst with excitement at finding a spring nearby. The young Slayer couldn’t help but feel an affinity for that place. She felt a sense of belonging, as if destiny had led her to this location. Even now, she could sense vestiges of the people from long ago - her kinfolk. She knew it. She could feel it. This place was most definitely part of the old northern kingdom of Arnor. And now, Miriel would call it home, if only for a while.
The Slayer was able to quickly adapt to her new surroundings. Though the area lacked trees to hide her from unfriendly eyes, the grassy hollow happened to lure coneys to the area, which provided her with an ample supply of meat. She began to collect the pelts from her kills, hoping that one day she could sew the skins together to make a coat, or some other practical garment. Unfortunately, she hadn’t given any thought to taking a needle and thread on her journey, so, in the meantime, she’d just keep the soft furry skins as trophies.
As the days swiftly passed by, an uneasiness grew in Miriel’s heart. She had spent most nights sitting or lying in the bottom of the hollow, watching as the mists rolled eerily overhead. She couldn’t help but feel that the dell was indefensible. What if Orcs gathered over the top of the valley walls and descended upon her all at once - how could she escape? It was damn well near impossible to climb Weathertop from the small valley. Its sides were much too steep. Maybe she was becoming paranoid, but Buffy told her it was always best to err on the side of caution.
After debating the issue with her mentor, Miriel had decided that it was best to spend the nights atop Amon Sûl. From that position, she could survey the landscape for leagues and leagues, in all directions. Besides that, there was only one path by which one could reach the summit. At least, it would be easier to defend, or so she assumed. That move seemed to lessen her anxiety, and the girl’s life fell into a somewhat normal routine once again.
Gradually, Miriel found herself returning to a more traditional sleeping pattern - slumbering at night, atop Amon Sûl. Though the stone floor was more uncomfortable than the grassy earth, it didn’t affect her sleep much at all. She came to believe that having slept in the treetops in the past had helped her to adjust to her current conditions rather easily. The only thing she found strange was that no matter how much time she spent with Buffy in the dreamscape, even if it was eight or ten hours, she’d awaken after only having slept for maybe four hours.
She found that very odd, but as her mentor had said, “Life’s odd. Look at us. It’s not every day you meet with and talk to a fellow Slayer in dreams, is it? Especially one from the future, or in my case, one from the past.”
Buffy made a good point. Some things just couldn’t be explained. Perhaps that was one of life’s mysteries.
Now it came to be that many weeks later, some peculiar things began to happen. At the time, the Slayer gave no thought to it, but in hindsight, she should’ve known better. She should have been more acutely aware of these odd occurrences. For example, a large flock of black birds had come flying out of the south, circled Weathertop a few times, and then heading back south again. It never occurred to her that they could be spies of the enemy. Perhaps she had grown too complacent - who knows? The disturbing thing was that this had not happened only once, but several times. Still, Miriel overlooked it, thinking that that was normal behavior for the feathered animals. She was no expert on birds and their habits, after all.
Not long after that, she began to hear what she presumed were wild dogs howling in the night. At first, their baying came from the south, then the east, followed by the north and west. That rattled Miriel. It seemed to her that it was not a solitary pack, but multiple packs, each creeping in toward Amon Sûl from all directions. If she hadn’t known better, she might actually have thought that their cries and yips were some form of communication.
The worst part was that she could never spot them, whether in the day or at night. The region was rocky, and many thickets dotted the landscape. Were the four-legged beasts able to hide in the brush, using the mists at night to conceal them as they drew closer to Weathertop? And how should Miriel react to such creatures? Were they just some unwanted pets abandoned in the wild? Or had their former masters died, leaving them homeless? Or, (and even a more frightening thought), were they minions of the Dark Lord? She couldn’t be too careful. She had learned that the hard way.
From the moment Miriel noticed that the dogs were gathering around Amon Sûl, she forced herself to stay awake at night. She had moved all her belonging to the summit of Weathertop where she kept a near constant vigil. When her body demanded sleep, she mostly napped during the day.
It was at this time that the Slayer thought it was best to wear her shirt of mail at all times. Unfortunately, she soon discovered that she no longer had it amongst her belongings. She couldn’t believe that she hadn’t realized that it had been missing for all this time. How could she have overlooked such a thing? There was no doubt in her mind who had taken it and when. She figured she must have been too traumatized to notice.
She made a point to be even more vigilant. At night, she walked along the perimeter of the summit, searching the mists below for moving shadows. A few nights after the howling had begun; she caught her first sight of the intruding dogs, slinking near the base of the hill. Since she was a good thousand feet above them, she merely kept her eye on the winding pathway, watching and waiting to see if the dogs would dare make the climb.
The dogs did not. In fact, Miriel was wrong in her assessment. These beasts were not wild dogs, but wargs, which were more vicious than any dog, or wolf, for that matter.
Unbeknownst to the Slayer, Sauron had ordered her capture. The Dark Lord was astonished to learn that she had not only survived the attack in Rhudaur, but had also escaped. He had assumed that after having suffered from her torments, she would’ve killed herself, as most women had a tendency to do after such a violent and invasive assault. She was no mere mortal, he surmised. The daughter of Denethor had proved to be resilient and strong - a definite asset to his dark forces.
Sauron had dispatched messengers to both Moria and Goblin-town, promising a great reward for the capture of the Slayer. Whoever would bring her to his throne in Barad-dûr would receive treasures from the days of Gwaith-i-Mírdain which Sauron had been given whilst under a different guise, items so rare and beautiful, that the likes no longer existed in Middle-earth in the Third Age.
His minions in Moria sent out fifty of their greatest Orc-warriors, thinking that that amount would be sufficient for capturing a lone mortal girl, Slayer or not. Those from Goblin-town had already encountered Miriel once before and had seen her skill in battle. Therefore, they had sent out seventy-five of their roughest and toughest soldiers, which they thought would guarantee them the prize and favor of the Lord of Mordor.
The spies of Sauron had informed both groups of Orcs that the Slayer was on Weathertop, and had been there for many weeks. To pinpoint her exact location, the goblins had sent out their wargs first. However, they were not far behind.
Whether by chance or not, both groups of Orcs met up on The Great East Road, none too happy to see the other, for each team desired the promised reward. But, instead of fighting each other, the two Captains grudgingly agreed to join forces and split the prize between the two factions, though neither Captain intended to keep his promise, for goblins were evil through and through, and lusted after the works of Man, whether mortal or elven in nature. Whichever team failed to capture the Slayer would kill the other to ensure that they would receive the reward.
Like Man and Elf, the Orcs too were familiar with the lay of the land. They knew that if the Slayer was on the summit of Weathertop, they would have to climb the pathway from the northwest. From all indications, she was somewhere on the northwestern slope of the hill, for that’s where the wargs had congregated.
No longer employing stealth, for the night was slipping away, the Orcs jogged along the curvature of the western side of Weathertop, following the yips and howls of their four-legged companions.
Beneath the light of the full moon stood Miriel, still and silent, at the top of Amon Sûl. From out of the west, blew the ever-constant breeze, cooling the sweat that had formed on her face and neck. Down below, she could make out dark shapes within the fog that lingered over the land. Occasionally, she could see a glimmer of metal in the moonlight, an obvious sign that the enemy had arrived.
She shifted her gaze to the silver orb above, wondering if its appearance would always be indicative of battle. To Miriel, it seemed that the enemy always chose to attack beneath the cold, silver glow of the moon. She couldn’t help but feel disdain for that orb, preferring the pitch-black darkness to the light.
She turned her eyes back toward the pathway that led up the hill. Already, her muscles were tightening, a Slayer’s reaction to an impending assault. That tingling sensation that normally accompanied the tenseness began to spread throughout her body too. Her senses were awakening.
The region was no longer quiet, as Miriel could now hear noises coming from below. She could hear the sound of marching feet, metal banging against metal, and the grunting of warriors, not of her race. She wished the haze would lift so that she could see how many she would have to confront. Just how many of the enemy were coming her way? From the sounds of it, this was no mere traveling band of villains, but more, much more. Could she endure the assault? And from what position? Was it folly to wait upon the summit, or should she take the battle to them?
The dogs were now clambering up the path. Miriel continued to stand where she was, watching and waiting. Instinctively, each hand went to hilt of the sword that hung from the belt on either of side of her waist. Though her own blade had been broken, there was still enough metal attached to the hilt to inflict damage on her foes.
Then, it seemed to her, that some higher force had answered her prayer, and the mists near the base of the hill began to dissipate, revealing the enemy’s numbers, which left her with no hope of victory. Her courage wavered. Her mouth instantly went dry. Her bottom lip quivered, as a coldness swept over her.
I’m going to die, she thought in a moment of hopelessness. There is no way I can defeat that many Orcs.
With her heart thumping madly in her chest and the palms of her hands becoming sweatier, she swallowed the lump in her throat.
Do not think that way! encouraged that voice in the back her mind. Never give up! Never surrender!
Miriel’s eyes remained fixed on the dark figures running up the winding path. In that moment, she mustered her courage, convincing herself that if she were to die, then she’d take as many of the enemy with her as possible. That was her duty, her <i>sacred</i> duty, as the Slayer. Her senses kicked into survival mode, driving her to action.
She started down the steepest part of the path, not wanting a confrontation to take place on the summit of the hill. If she were to remain on the top of Amon Sûl, it would be easier for the enemy to swarm in around her, which would ultimately lead to her defeat. No, she wasn’t about to have that.
The Slayer concluded that it was best to meet the enemy about halfway down the path. She thought that that would be advantageous for a number of reasons. The trail was so narrow that no two creatures (of any kind) could climb the slope shoulder to shoulder, thus Miriel would only have to fight one combatant at a time. She also believed that her position on higher ground would be more beneficial.
There was also the perilous drop on one side of the path. There was always the possibility that she might be able to knock some of the enemy over the edge and to certain death. Though the same could happen to her. She too could fall to her death. But, Miriel wasn’t afraid of dying. Her greatest fear was to be taken captive, like before. And there was no way on Eru’s green earth that she would ever let that happen again. If worse came to worst, she’d jumped off the damned ledge herself.
As the dogs ran along the bend of the road beneath her, she could see that they were not dogs at all. They were bigger, much, much bigger. Their size more closely resembled that of a pony than some mere dog.
Wargs, she told herself, wondering why she hadn’t realized that sooner.
Miriel pulled both Bregolas’ blade and the remnants of her own from their scabbards, readying herself for the onslaught. Her adrenaline was pumping. Her breathing quickened along with the beating of her heart. Those last few moments of waiting were just awful.
The first warg then raced toward her. Its hackles stood on end, and its lips were curled back, revealing long, sharp teeth, glistening with saliva. The snarling beast sprang up from the path, flying toward her with its mouth widening.
The Slayer swiftly dropped to one knee, hoping that in doing so, she could use the beast’s own momentum against it, as well as lessening any chance of her being flung over the ledge. She awkwardly gripped the hilt with both hands, pointing the tip of Bregolas’ sword toward the airborne warg’s underbelly. As the creature zoomed closer, Miriel drove her blade upward, nailing the beast in the breast. It let out a brief shrill yelp, as its body crashed down on top of her. The weight of the creature caused her knees to buckle and she fell backwards, cracking her head on the rocky path. Not only did she see stars, but the heaviness of the animal knocked the wind out of her.
Groaning, she struggled beneath the vile smelling beast as she rolled it off her, and over the ledge. Once free, she gasped for air. Not a second later, she saw yet another warg rapidly approaching. Easing her bottom backwards, up the slope, she let go of the broken sword, as she grabbed the hilt of her good sword with both hands.
The second warg leapt at her, as the first one had. She swung her blade, lopping off the head of the furry four-legged creature. The head bounced against the wall, before rolling down the slope, as its body collapsed onto the trail.
Miriel swiftly picked up her broken blade before backing up a bit more, wanting to put more space between her and the next warg. She desperately wanted to get back on her feet. She had a moment of good fortune as the charging beast coming up the path stumbled on the body of its fallen comrade, and then slipped over the ledge.
That allowed the Slayer the opportunity to get back on her feet. With the back of her head throbbing, she glanced down at the twisting road below her. The first Orcs were winding their way up the pathway, armed and garbed for battle.
As Miriel continued to fend off the wargs, she found herself constantly stepping backward, going back up the slope.
The few wargs that had separated her from the goblins had been destroyed, and now she faced her first two-legged foe. O’ how she wished she had her crossbow with an ample supply of bolts. That would’ve come in handy at that moment. The more space between her and the enemy, the better.
She fought as hard as she could, killing the first Orc. Much to her amazement, as the horde pressed on, some were actually tossing their cohorts over the edge in their attempt to get nearer to Miriel.
As she was forced to continue to step backwards, up the slope, a loud snapping noise rang out over the enemy voices. In the second that followed, the skin on Miriel’s left calf burned like hell, as a thong of leather wrapped tightly around it, pulling her off her feet. Her stomach lurched, as she landed hard on her butt bone and let out a sharp cry. The Orc at the other end cackled, yanking on the whip, causing her rear to painfully skid along the stone slope.
Whenever Miriel found herself in such perilous situations, time seemed to come to a standstill, and her thoughts drowned out all other sounds. Having her leg bound brought to mind her past torments and triggered something within her - her will to live. She wasn’t so keen to die just yet. She couldn’t help but notice how dangerously close she was to the precipice to her left. In that split second, she feared that another Orc would push the one that had her captive over the edge, sending both her and him to their deaths.
The Slayer bucked and kicked, trying to loosen the leather strap around her leg. The goblin drew closer, looking much taller than he actually was. Miriel hacked at the cord with her sword, hoping it would break in two. One blow was not able to break the leather strap, even with her Slayer strength.
With her heart pumping frantically, the goblins behind the one pulling on the whip were becoming more agitated, pushing and arguing. Miriel just knew she’d end up going over the edge. She hacked at the cord again, which finally snapped in two.
The moment her leg was free, the Slayer hastily scooted her rear up the slope, waiting for the chance to get back on her feet.
The Orc brandishing the whip was suddenly shoved over the ledge by the next barbarian, who then charged at Miriel. He lunged at her. As he flew through the air, she kicked up her feet, hitting him square on his armor-covered stomach. Knocking him off balance, he flew over the edge of the pathway, but managed to grab hold of the rocky ledge, clinging on in desperation. That was until the next Orc came rushing up the trail, stomping his comrades gloved fingers with the sole of his boot, which caused the dangling goblin to loose his grip, and sent him plummeting to his death.
Miriel’s senses tuned back to her surroundings after having escaped from a potentially fatal situation. With her hearing now normal, it sounded as if the goblins had become more riled up, as if they were starting to fight amongst themselves. Regardless of what was going on with the Orcs, the diversion allowed her to get back on her feet, just as she was rounding the last bend in the roadway.
Hugging the hillside, she continued to back up. She was hesitant to engage the enemy near the curve of the path. Once the road straightened out a bit, Miriel took the fight to the Orcs, battling them with both weapons.
Now, the goblins from Moria had insisted that they be at the forefront of the line, having no knowledge of the skill and resourcefulness of the Slayer. Their numbers were dwindling, which increased their frustration and anger. The desire to kill Miriel was beginning to eclipse their orders to capture her.
The Orcs from Goblin-town were far wiser than their comrades from Moria, (if one could use the word wise when describing Orcs). They had a greater knowledge of Slayers in general, and of this one, in particular. Not only had some seen her in combat, but they were also privy to the events that had taken place on the farm in Rhudaur. And they knew this girl was no typical Slayer. While their orders were to bring her to Mordor alive, Sauron had said nothing about her not being injured.
The way their Captain saw it, was that the Slayer would eventually tire herself out. That was inevitable, especially with the numbers on their side. His goal was to let her take out as many of the Orcs from Moria as she could, lessening the “dirty work” they’d have to do themselves. Then, as she grew fatigued, they’d strike, and, if need be, break both her arms and legs, so she couldn’t escape. Wounds and bones can be mended! Besides, if they broke her too badly, they had one in their midst to heal such wounds. Goblin-town had not endured for all these years without being under the direction of someone with greater powers than they.
As the Orc Captain watched the bodies of those from Moria plummet over the precipice, he couldn’t help but smile to himself. He had observed the young Slayer in the Misty Mountains, had witnessed her strength firsthand. Never before had he seen a mortal woman fight as she had. A part of him desired to take her back to his home, to make her his bride. Her appearance was most pleasing to the eye, not to mention the strength she possessed. For a few brief moments, he fantasized about how enjoyable it would be to make little hell-spawns with that girl. If only…
He then wondered what Sauron’s intentions were with the Slayer, and if they mirrored his own desires. He knew that once the girl was taken to Mordor, her looks would undergo a drastic transformation. Although, he thought, if any could endure the Eye of Sauron, it just might be this girl. However, if the Dark Lord could not break her will, then most certainly the torture devices of Barad-dûr would.
The Orcs continued to press on, forcing Miriel to continue stepping backwards. While she had been successful in killing many of the enemy, they kept on coming. It seemed never-ending, and she was already beginning to tire. When she reached the steepest part of the slope, she had to make a decision, and quick. There was no way she could climb it backwards. So, that left her with the choice of turning, and climbing to the top of Amon Sûl, or, admitting defeat and leaping to her death. Neither option seemed appealing, but Miriel wasn’t ready to give up just yet. There was still some fight in her.
She just needed some more space between her and the villains. Suddenly, it dawned on her. She dropkicked the nearest goblin, which, in turn, caused a domino effect. That gave her what precious time she needed to begin the ascent up the steep slope, as there was no way she could fight and climb at the same time.
She scrambled up the hill as fast as she could. When she heard arrows ricocheting against the rocky wall beside her, tears came to her eyes. She didn’t want to be shot in the back. That’s not the way she wanted to die. Her muscles felt so tight, so tense, that they ached. Trying to maintain her hold on the hilts of her swords was also problematic. She dearly wanted to wipe the sweat from the palms of her hands but that was damn near impossible.
Words could not describe the sense of relief she felt when she finally reached the apex of Weathertop. Miriel turned, facing the path, deciding that that was where she would make her last stand. There was nowhere to run, except over the ledge.
Seeing how the Slayer was blocking the path to the summit, the Orcs resorted to using flying projectiles to force her out of the way. This came in the form of arrows and spears. Those goblins nearest the top could no longer resist the urge to go for the kill. Too many of their brethren had fallen at the hands of that Slayer, and they were most eager to hack her to pieces - if they could just get close enough.
The flying missiles diverted Miriel’s attention away from those goblins nearing the top of the hill. She had to defend herself by ducking and swatting the various projectiles. One spear, in particular, caused her to dive out of the way. While she managed to turn her dive into a forward roll, it displaced her from the pathway, allowing the first few goblins to reach the surface of the summit.
The instant she turned to face her adversaries, she heard the snap of a whip, and the leather cord zipped at her, striking the knuckles of her left hand. The sudden, searing pain forced her to drop her weapon. She glanced down at her hand and noticed that the skin had been shaved off. As she tried to shake off the pain, the Orc lashed his whip at her again, striking her chin. As he snapped the whip back, Miriel grabbed hold of it, only to discover that sharp metal barbs stuck out from the leather cord. She grimaced in pain as the spurs sank into the palm of her hand. She then jerked the whip. Still maintaining his hold on the other end, the Orc lurched forward. When he stumbled within striking distance, Miriel ran the broken blade in her right hand across his throat. Black blood sprayed from the incision, raining down on the Slayer like a warm, morbid waterfall.
Releasing her hold on the whip, she hastily picked up Bregolas’ blade with her now bloody left hand. She squeezed the hilt tightly, hoping that the pressure would help staunch the flow of blood, as well as lessen the pain.
Miriel had maybe a three second reprieve from battle before she resumed her counterattack. Her situation was becoming dire with each Orc that popped up over the crest of the hill. While she did her best to defend herself, the goblins were beginning to encircle her. It would only be a matter of minutes, perhaps less, when they closed in on her, bringing about her defeat.
For a brief moment, Miriel’s thoughts turned to Húrin Thalion, the legendary Adan from the First Age. She couldn’t help but think that her current predicament was somewhat similar to that mightiest of warriors. According to the Annals of Gondor, he slew seventy, single-handedly, during his last stand in Nirnaeth Arnoediad.
Thinking of her ancient kinsman renewed her vigor, if only for a brief time. After each kill, she shouted the same phrase that Húrin had, “Aurë entuluva!” (Day shall come again)
Alas, much like Húrin, fatigue had overcome the Slayer. In that one, single moment when she was preoccupied in combat, goblins jumped her from behind, thrusting her face first to the stone floor. Orc after Orc then piled on top of her, crushing her with their weight. The rigidness of their armor dug into her flesh, as their hands poked and prodded her body in the most unpleasant and unspeakable of ways. If only her reflexes had been quicker. If only her senses had honed in better on the enemy behind her, things might have gone differently. Miriel assumed that she’d suffocate to death, for there was no hope of breaking free.
Her senses were dimming. She could barely hear the muffled grunts and vile whisperings of those goblins heaped on top of her.
Miriel’s thoughts suddenly turned to Buffy, and what her mentor would have to say about the manner in which death was about to take the young Slayer, and how she had failed to live up to her potential.
“Don’t give up!” she heard Buffy demand in a faraway voice. “Fight, Miriel! Fight!”
Instantly after hearing the elder Slayer’s words, the weight on top of Miriel began to lift, becoming more bearable. A stream of air slipped in between the bodies of two Orcs. The girl breathed deeply, sucking in as much of the cool air as she could. There seemed to be something in the air that renewed the Slayer’s determination. The more air she drank in, the stronger she felt.
As the weight became less, she was able to move her body beneath her foes. A cacophony of sounds reverberated on the hilltop. Miriel could hear metal striking against metal. It sounded as if the Orcs had begun fighting amongst themselves.
When the last goblin fell off her back, Miriel was able to clamber onto all fours, gasping for air. Her hands had gone numb from the weight of so many crushing on them that she wasn’t able to handle either weapon at the moment. She was desperately waiting for the feeling to return. She eased her bottom onto the back of her folded legs, waiting for her eyes to come back into focus, her vision blurred as the result of oxygen depravation.
Miriel then felt a hand on her shoulder, warm breath against her sweaty neck. Without even turning, her balled fist automatically went flying backward, striking her foe in the fleshy part of his face. She then sprang to her feet, trying to blink her eyes back into focus. Only able to make out indistinct shadowy forms, the Slayer began to attack any figure within striking distance.
Gradually, her eyes began to focus and she could see that men, mortal men, were also on the hilltop. She had not noticed them earlier, and assumed that they were in the company with the goblins. The sight of those mortal men actually added to Miriel’s anxiety. Admittedly, she was more frightened of them than the Orcs. After what she had been through, how could she not be.
As she battled a goblin, she could see, from the corner of her eye, that the men were actually fighting the Orcs too. She found that odd, but only for a moment. Surely, these men had something more unbecoming in mind. Life’s experiences had proved that to be true. She could only surmise that after the men had killed the remaining Orcs, they’d try to claim her as their prize. The Slayer would die before letting that happen.
“Watch out!” one of the men shouted, pushing Miriel so hard then she lost her balance. As she fell, she felt a blade graze the skin across her left shoulder blade. She hit the ground as one of the men jumped over her, killing the goblin that had come from behind.
Hurrying to her feet, she turned, facing the one that had knocked her to the ground. Wielding both of her weapons, she charged him in an attempt to slay him. To her surprise, this mortal was able to block every blow she delivered. She found that frustrating. How could it be that Orcs were easier to slay than a mortal man?
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he panted, still blocking every one of her strikes.
There was no way Miriel was about to fall for that line. “That’s what they all say,” she snapped back, angry that she couldn’t get in a fatal blow.
The man then stepped back and held up both hands, one still grasping his blade, which seemed to glimmer in the moonlight. “Truce,” he said.
Miriel took this opportunity to swing her blade at him one last time. The man’s blade moved in a blur of motion, once again blocking her blow. He then used his own weapon to force hers down, toward the ground. Her body was trembling from a combination of fatigue and pain. Seeing that she was losing this test of strength, she resorted to one last desperate attempt to defend herself. She kicked the man hard in the testicles, a move that immediately brought him to his knees, and caused him to drop his weapon, thus freeing hers.
Miriel brought back her blade in an attempt to hew off the man’s head, when, from out of nowhere, someone jumped her from behind, putting her in a choke hold, as they both fell to the ground.
“Aragorn! Aragorn!” she heard some of the others shout out.
The man on Miriel’s back had such a hold on her throat that she had to drop her weapons so that she could work on releasing his grip.
“We do not want to fight you,” the man said, keeping a tight hold on Miriel so that she couldn’t even roll over.
The Slayer raked her fingernails across the man’s forearm. She could actually feel the strips of skin under her fingernails. But, the man, merely grunted, refusing to loosen his grip.
Seeing that she was about to blackout, Miriel whimpered. The stars she saw were not the ones faintly lingering in the sky above. It was over. She had lost. As she slipped into unconsciousness, she couldn’t help but think of what kind of horrors she’d be subjected to by these new captors…
Chapter 17 - Northern Kinsmen
“Arvellas, what have you done?” screeched Aragorn in dismay. He staggered to his feet with his hands still protectively cradling his throbbing loins. “You were supposed to restrain her, not kill her!” He started to limp toward his fellow Ranger, whose arm remained tightly around Miriel’s neck.
“She’s not - ” Arvellas paused, as he hastily laid the girl on the rock floor, feeling the side of her neck for a pulse. “ - Dead,” he added with a sigh of relief. “She’s just out cold.”
“You need to mind your strength,” added Aragorn, as he and the sons of Elrond kneeled down on either side of the Slayer. “She’s just a girl.”
“Just a girl,” repeated the scathing Ranger with a sneer. “She tore my arm to pieces!” he cried out, holding up his blood-streaked limb. He then shifted his narrowing, pale grey eyes to Miriel’s right hand. “Humph! Look!” he added, picking up her hand and showing them the clumps of skin beneath her fingernails. “I’ll have you know that’s my skin. My skin!”
“Come over here, Arvellas,” said a slightly amused Elrohir. “Let me put some salve on those scratches before they become infected.”
Arvellas dropped Miriel’s hand on her stomach as he got to his feet. “You best restrain her while she’s out, Aragorn. That girl’s like a wild cat!”
“Look at her knuckles,” pointed out Elladan, grimacing. “That looks painful.”
“Battle wounds, my friend. Battle wounds,” answered Aragorn, as he more closely examined the injuries to her left hand. “Her palm has been pierced as well. Poor child.”
“We should tend to them whilst she’s out, as I’d rather not have a swift kick to my groin should she wake,” suggested Elladan. “Which reminds me, how are you feeling?”
“I’ll survive,” answered the son of Arathorn. “Do you have any salve on you, Elladan?”
“Of course,” replied the Elf before digging through his satchel for some salve and clean strips of cloth.
Aragorn then ordered his men to begin the cleanup. There was no way he was about to let the Orc corpses continue to defile Amon Sûl any more than they already had. Under the dull grey light of morning, the Ranger Chieftain began to smear the elvish ointment on Miriel's wounds.
Elladan let out a startled gasp. “Look at her wrist, Aragorn. Look at the scar tissue.” He pointed to the discolored area on her skin. Their eyes then shot over to her other wrist. Scars adorned the flesh of that arm too.
“I think we’re beginning to better understand why the Orcs were tracking her,” said Aragorn thoughtfully.
“You think she escaped, escaped from their captivity?” queried the Elf, somewhat surprised to think such a feat possible for one as young as she.
“It appears so.”
Aragorn had just finished wrapping her hand when Elladan pointed out the abrasion on her chin. As the Chieftain of the Rangers smeared some of the salve on Miriel's chin, he noticed a small metallic object tangled in her hair.
“What’s this?” he said more to himself than to his companions. He plucked the ring and the chain to which it was attached from her hair.
“The White Tree,” announced Elladan, peering at the ring.
“Worn by the Guards of the Citadel of Minas Tirith,” added Aragorn softly, tracing the mithril branches with his fingertip. His thoughts immediately turned to Arwen, and many years earlier when they had plighted their troth on Cerin Amroth. As a token of his love, he had given her one of the treasured heirlooms of his house - the Ring of Barahir. He became misty-eyed as he thought back to that day, and he could only assume that this ring around the girl's neck was most likely an indicator that she was the beloved of one from the Tower Guard. It seemed to him that things were beginning to make sense, that the pieces of the puzzle were coming together.
“Aragorn?” said Elladan with concern. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
The Ranger took a deep breath before laying the ring tenderly on Miriel’s chest. He turned to the Elf. “This girl so happens to be the daughter of Denethor, the one that they say had been abducted and is now presumed dead.”
“The Steward's daughter?!” exclaimed Arvellas, who was seated nearby. “How in the name of the Valar did she end up here?” he asked, his eyes wide with wonder.
“I think I know the answer to this riddle,” announced Halbarad, who had come walking up with Miriel’s belongings.
The men gathered around Miriel, looked up at the Ranger, waiting for him to elaborate further.
As the tension mounted, he revealed, “She’s the Slayer.”
“The Slayer,” said a stunned Elrohir. “How can you be sure?”
“Did you not see her fight? Her strength? Any why else would the Orcs be tracking her? They had been sent to kill her, I deem. She’s a threat to their Master’s plan.”
“A Slayer,” repeated Elladan in disbelief. “There hasn’t been a Slayer in these parts for thousands of years.”
Aragorn’s expression became grimmer. He, like his kinsmen, was familiar with the Slayer lore. “She’s being hunted,” he concluded, his eyes filled with pity for the noble girl. “And I fear that much sorrow has already befallen her.”
“It’s tragic, really,” added Halbarad. “Slayer’s are known for having short life spans.”
“But what of the scarring on her wrists?” queried a puzzled Elrohir. “Clearly that’s a sign that she has been physically restrained, held against her will.”
The others concurred, nodding in agreement.
“I do not think we will know the true tale behind that until she tells it,” Aragorn remarked.
“That is, if she tells it at all,” added Elladan.
Miriel began to stir, groaning softly.
Arvellas quickly got to his feet and out of striking distance of the Slayer. “If I were you, my good fellows, I would move away from that girl. She’s a feral beast if ever I saw one!”
The Slayer had been out for several minutes, much longer than she should have been. Perhaps exhaustion had caused her to linger in the state of unconsciousness longer than usual. Her breathing deepened, as her senses began to awaken. Her entire body felt sore.
As the voices of the men grew louder to her ears, Miriel's eyes suddenly opened. Upon seeing the faces of those hovering over her, she bolted upright, hastily scooting her backside along the stone floor, away from the strangers. Wit her heart racing, her eyes frantically scanned her surroundings. Not fully cognizant yet, Miriel was unable to comprehend what was taking place.
“We’re not the enemy,” started Aragorn, revealing his weaponless hands. “We’re here to help you.”
The Slayer was trying to get a grasp of the situation. She was confused, and afraid. “I do not believe you,” she said, her eyes doing another quick sweep of the immediate area. She fixed her gaze on Halbarad, who not only held Miriel’s bags, but also her weapons. “My belongings! You’re stealing my belongings!” As she scrambled to her feet, she became aware of the searing pain in her left leg.
“I’m not stealing anything,” insisted Halbarad. He kept an eye on the Slayer as he placed her things back on the stone summit of Weathertop. “I did not want the men to mistakenly discard these, thinking that they might belong to the Orcs.”
“Belong to the Orcs,” shot back Miriel incredulously. “Orcs do not carry baggage of that quality! You are a thief, an enemy, and shall be treated as one!”
“We are not thieves, nor the enemy,” said Aragorn in his kindest voice. Slowly, he got to his feet, doing his best to ignore the persistent pain in his nether regions.
Miriel fixed her eyes on him, as the others rose to their feet as well. “You’re the one that attacked me!” she blurted out. “You tried to kill me!”
“Kill you?” he replied in amazement. “I was not trying to kill you.”
“You’re the one that gave him a kick to the loins! Probably won’t be able to bear children after that!” chimed in Arvellas.
“Shush!” ordered Aragorn, motioning to his fellow Ranger to be quiet. He locked eyes with Miriel. “The howls of the wargs lured me and my men to Amon Sûl,” he began to explain. “We came across the Orc tracks and followed them here. If we had not arrived, things would have gone ill for you, my dear lady.”
Miriel remained skeptical, though a small part of her desperately wanted to believe him. She could not allow herself to be so easily convinced by words alone. Who’s to say that these men were not in league with the Orcs, and they were now trying to bait her into another trap. It happened before. And her heart warned her that it was happening now.
“Men are not trustworthy,” she scoffed. “They are liars.” She shifted her contemptuous eyes to Halbarad. “And thieves.”
Elrohir then took a step forward, and boldly declared, “My brother and I are not Men, but of elven kind.”
The Slayer’s eyes darted to the Elf. She looked him over. With a derisive snicker, she answered, “Undoubtedly the bastard sons of Eöl, I deem.”
Elrohir looked aghast. His brows shot up and his jaw dropped at such a suggestion. His brother, on the other hand, turned his head, attempting to stifle his laughter.
A small smile came to Aragorn’s face. “You are leaned in the ancient lore, I see.” He paused before adding, “This is Elrohir.” He motioned toward the Elf, whose jaw had finally snapped shut. “And this is his twin brother, Elladan. They are the sons of Elrond, Lord of Rivendell.”
Miriel’s facial expression must have flickered with some type of recognition of that name, for she most certainly knew of Elrond, the brother of Elros, the first King of Númenor, and the son of Eärendil the Blessed. She was left momentarily speechless to be in such great company, though she did her very best to conceal that fact.
“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain of what's left of the Northern Kingdom. Rangers some people call us.”
Miriel was astonished. After all this time, after everything she had been through, she had finally come across the very people she had been searching for. However, after all that she had suffered through, she could not let herself easily be taken in by the mere words of these folk alone - distant kin or not! How could she? Even of those she had trusted, most had ended up betraying her. Denethor and Bregolas were prime examples. No, Miriel had to harden her heart and not trust these people, even the Elves, or Half-elves as it were. It could be a ploy devised by the Dark Lord. He was extremely cunning, after all.
The Slayer’s internal conflict was not lost on Aragorn and the twin sons of Elrond. All three were wise and could read people well. Though the Slayer tried to hide her thoughts, both her eyes and facial expressions revealed snippets of what she was thinking.
“You doubt me,” replied Aragorn. He still wore that small smile on his rugged face. “That is good. It is unwise to trust one too easily.”
Miriel frowned. “I want my things back.”
The son of Arathorn gave a slight nod of his head. He walked over to Halbarad and picked up Miriel’s belongings which rested by his kinsman’s feet. He then cautiously stepped toward the girl, and held out her bags. Keeping an unblinking eye on the Ranger Chieftain, she snatched her bags from his hands. He then turned the blade of Bregolas’ sword over in his one hand, holding the hilt out toward her. She grabbed it, wiped the Orc blood on the leg of her breeches, and slid the weapon back into its sheath.
“This blade is broken,” he then said, as he handed her the damaged sword.
Miriel took the weapon, holding it firmly in her hand. “Gee! You must be the clever one of the bunch. No wonder you’re the Chieftain,” she answered back sardonically.
Aragorn chuckled. “I have never before met a warrior-maiden with such wit.” Feeling as though he had broken the ice with the Slayer, he said, “Now, tell me, where is that you hail from? Where is it that you are going?” While he thought he already knew the answers, he longed to hear them from Miriel’s mouth.
“What business is it of yours?” she snapped back indignantly. “You may be the Chieftain of these men, but you are not the Chieftain of me!” Miriel then heaved the straps of her bags over her shoulders. A jolt of sharp pain went through her left shoulder. She attempted to hide the pain, but it clearly showed on her scrunched up face.
As she started across the top of Amon Sûl, Aragorn and the sons of Elrond began to converse in Sindarin, instead of Westron.
“Are you just going to let her go?” asked a baffled Elrohir.
“I will do more harm if I attempt to restrain her,” replied Aragorn, a hint of sadness to his voice.
“She’s hurt, Aragorn,” added Elladan in alarm. “Look at her back. It's covered with blood. Her wounds need tending to.”
“I’m afraid her wounds go much deeper than what is visible to the naked eye,” concluded the son of Arathorn with a sigh.
“Then that’s all the more reason for us to help her,” insisted Elladan, watching as Miriel limped away.
“And how exactly should we go about doing that?” queried Aragorn, turning, and facing the twins.
Elladan did not have the answer to that. “We should take her to Father,” he suggested. “If any can heal that girl’s torments, it is he.” He shifted his eyes to the Slayer, who had stopped and glanced over her shoulder upon overhearing the men’s conversation. “She has been tormented.” The Half-elf turned his eyes back to Aragorn. “I know you can see that. Anguish seeps from that girl.”
Miriel quickly turned away and hurried toward the pathway with her broken sword in hand. None of the men hindered her passing. She then began the descent down the steep slope, grateful for the arrival of morning. The path was slick with Orc blood, and there was a time or two when she lost her footing and slipped painfully down the incline on her rear.
Every now and again, she would look up at the hilltop. At the peak stood four men, watching her intently. She tried her best to ignore them. Miriel was now forced to figure out what she was to do next, for she could no longer remain anywhere near Weathertop, not with the Rangers lurking about.
After hearing what the sons of Elrond had said, the Slayer couldn’t help but think what it would be like to go to Rivendell. She had heard of that elvish realm since she was a small child and, under different circumstances, she would’ve jumped at the chance to go there. Yet, now, she found it hard to believe anything said by strangers, even Elves.
She wished she could speak with Buffy, whose counsel she valued. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. There was no way Miriel would let herself doze off with so many Rangers nearby, no matter how tired she was. She couldn’t risk it.
When she neared the bottom of the hill, she peeled off the pathway, and headed toward the hollow. Before she departed, she wanted to wash up a bit, and replenish her water supply. Miriel’s mind was spinning with so many thoughts, some conflicting with others. Where would she go? Her original goal had been to reach the town of Archet, but that seemed pointless now. If she truly wanted guidance form the Watchers of old, wouldn’t she be better off with these Rangers? Weren’t they the ones she had been seeking all along? Confusion and uncertainty set in.
I’m better off on my own, she thought, as she made her way to the spring. I’ve learned to survive on my own, to adapt. I do not need the aid of anyone. I can hunt on my own and slay those villains that cross my path. I can be like... like some rogue demon hunter. Yes, yes, I like that.
When Miriel removed the straps of her bags from her left shoulder, she could see that blood had saturated the cloth. While she knew her shoulder had been sliced, it was in such an awkward spot that she was unable to tend to it herself. She convinced herself that the injury would heat itself over time. Slayers did have super fast healing abilities, after all.
It wasn’t until the girl went to scoop some water from the spring that she finally noticed the bandage wrapped around her left hand. She thought it strange that she hadn’t noticed sooner. She could only assume that her mind had been so preoccupied with the events taking place that she had overlooked it. That happens.
Not wanting to get her bandage wet, she used her good hand to rinse the black blood from her arms, face and neck. All the while, her thoughts continued to linger on the Rangers and her desire to believe that they were good people. Since Bregolas’ death, Miriel had had to contend with her growing loneliness. A part of her believed that that was why she had so eagerly trusted Valandil and his people. Of course, being extremely weak and vulnerable at the time had factored into the equation as well.
While Buffy had brought her much comfort when she slept, it wasn’t the same. Those long waking hours always seemed to pass by so slowly. Miriel feared that, in time, the isolation would eventually drive her mad. For Eru’s sake, she already grappled with those contesting voices in her head! Was that not a sign that her mind was already breaking?
By the time she had begun to top off her water skins, Aragorn, Halbarad, and the twin sons of Elrond had silently entered the dell.
“Miriel?” called out Aragorn.
Startled, the Slayer dropped her container in the spring, leapt to her feet, and spun around, facing the intruders with her broken blade in hand. “How dare you sneak up on me like that!” she snarled, not yet realizing that she had been addressed by her true name.
“We did not mean to frighten you,” continued the Ranger Chieftain in a gentle voice.
Trying to compose herself, her eyes darted from one man to the next. “What is it you want? Why are you following me?”
“We've come to offer you counsel in your hour of need.”
“I do not need your counsel!” she shot back.
“Listen, Miriel - ”
“ - My name’s not Miriel,” she interjected between gritted teeth.
“Oh,” answered Aragorn, raising a dubious brow at her response. “My mistake then.”
The Slayer was now on edge, having realized that she had been called by her real name. “You have no business with me,” she replied sharply. “Leave me be.”
Her words did not deter the men in the slightest. “I’m afraid we cannot do that,” answered Aragorn. “We cannot leave you here, alone. It won’t be long before this place is swarming with Orcs. They will not stop until they recapture you, or worse. We will not allow that to happen.”
Miriel was doing everything in her power to maintain a steely facade in the Rangers’ company, especially after having been addressed by her true name. “I can contend with Orcs,” she said, the determination in her voice wavering ever so slightly as she spoke. Damn it! Why did she have to show weakness in front of these people?
“You are only one. Hundreds more will come. You cannot fight them all,” countered Aragorn.
“Then I will die trying,” she retorted, the resolve returning to her tone.
There was a brief moment of silence, and Miriel, whether unwise or not, turned away from the men and resumed collecting her water. She didn’t hear anyone utter a word, but she could feel their piercing gazes nonetheless. If any got the wild notion to jump her from behind, she’d gut him like a coney.
“We know that you are the Slayer,” proclaimed one of the sons of Elrond.
Miriel couldn’t tell which Elf had spoken, as the brothers looked and sounded very much alike. Regardless, hearing that little revelation instantly sent a shock wave through her body.
The voice in the back of her mind demanded that she keep her guard up. The enemy already knows who you are. Do not fall for the bait. Do not let them lead you into a trap.
“A Slayer needs guidance, and training,” continued the Elf, (or was it the other one, Miriel couldn’t tell). “Come with us back to Rivendell. There, you will be safe from the enemy and we can prepare you, prepare you for upcoming battles.”
The girl closed her eyes for a few seconds, as she carefully considered the Elf’s offer. O’ how she had longed for such an invite! How long had it been since one from Gondor had actually set foot in Rivendell? Centuries, it had to be centuries. And here it was that Miriel was being offered a chance to go there and be taught by the Elves. What an honor! How rare an opportunity that was!
This is what you’ve been waiting for. Do not let this opportunity pass you by, insisted the “good” voice. Though these men look grim, there is no doubt that they are your kinsmen, that they are good, honorable men. For goodness sake, Miriel - the sons of Elrond are amongst them. They’re the descendents of Eärendil! They are no more the descendents of Eöl than you are of Sauron! Trust in them and you will live longer.
The enemy takes on many guises, warned the other voice in her head. Who’s to say that these men are not minions of the Dark Lord. Who’s to say that they are not attempting to lure you with false hope? The Land of the Elves. Pfft! They are reading your heart, which they will rip out, 'ere the end. Trust no one, Miriel, including the Elder Children.
“We will not force you to do anything against your will,” added Aragorn. “You will be free to go whenever you so choose. The world is a perilous place, as you well know. Let us help you survive in it. Let us teach you about your gifts, otherwise they will wither.”
Miriel remained conflicted. Both of the voices in her mind had made some valid points, thus making it that much more difficult to decide what to do. She was leery about traveling among so many, who could easily overpower her, and take advantage of her like before. That was a frightening thought!
She opened her eyes, still undecided about what to do.
“We’re setting out for Rivendell,” Aragorn finally said. “You’re free to travel with us, or to follow, if your heart is still full of doubt. We will see to it that no harm befalls you on the journey. But there is need to make haste before the enemy sends out more forces.” The Ranger and his three companions then climbed out of the hollow, leaving a still undecided Miriel behind.
A while later, as the men were making their way around the base of Weathertop toward the road, Halbarad glanced over his shoulder, looking for the Slayer. “She’s not coming, Aragorn.”
“Yes, she is,” answered the son of Arathorn. “She’s moving furtively, using the landscape to help shield her from our eyes.”
“Once we reach the road, there’ll be nowhere to hide,” remarked Elrohir, taking a peek behind him. “I reckon the Slayer will maintain what she considers a safe distance from us.”
“Why do you think she runs from her name, Aragorn?” asked Elladan. “Slayer or not, she still has a name. Why deny it?”
“She’s being hunted, my friend,” replied the Ranger Chieftain. “The enemy, undoubtedly, knows who she is. I deem that is why she refuses to answer to her true name.”
“She did turn her head when you called her Miriel,” commented Halbarad. “She acknowledged it, when her guard was down.”
“But that could have been from the shock of us catching her at unawares. Remember, she had said that we snuck up on her,” reminded Elladan. “She wasn’t too please by that.”
“As she should not be,” said Aragorn. “A Slayer should be alert at all times. She should have heard our approach.”
“But how can you be so sure that this girl is truly Denethor’s daughter” queried Elladan, his tone riddled with doubt. “The ring around her neck is not evidence enough to confirm that. She could most certainly be the daughter of some nobleman, but the Steward of Gondor’s daughter?”
“I can see it in her face, Elladan,” answered Aragorn without hesitation.
“Can you not see that that girl has traces of elvish blood in her, Brother?” asked an ever-observant Elrohir.
“Her mother was descended from the line of the princes of Dol Amroth” added Aragorn. “The blood of Mithrellas, the Sinda, runs through the veins of their descendents.”
“I suppose what baffles me most is how she has survived alone so long in the wilds,” continued Elladan. “Was it not rumored that one from Gondor absconded with the girl?”
“Yes,” said Halbarad. “And I deem I can say with certainty that he was killed by the Orcs.”
“I agree,” chimed in Aragorn.
Yet the elder son of Elrond remained flummoxed. “Hmm,” he sounded. “Surely, the lords of Gondor didn’t teach that girl to fight. How is it that she has acquired such skill for one so young? Are Slayer’s born with innate abilities for warfare? I’m afraid that I have not studied their lore to know these things.”
“According to ancient lore, the Slayer’s abilities are activated at the time when she is chosen,” replied Halbarad. He glanced over his shoulder once again, only to see Miriel a safe distance behind. “It is said that Slayers experience prophetic dreams, as well.” He paused. “I wonder if she has had any,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“Why such doubt, Elladan?” asked Elrohir.
“Perhaps it is not doubt that I’m feeling,” he replied grim-faced. “Thinking of Miriel’s torments makes me think of Mother, and what happened to her. She never found peace in Middle-earth after her... abuse. Some wounds cannot be healed, even by the magic of Elves. I cannot help but think that the same may apply to this girl.”
Talk of Celebrían’s past torments altered the mood of all four men. They did not speak for a long while after that.
Miriel couldn’t believe that she was following these Rangers. “Trust your gut,” Buffy always told her. In this instance, she was doing just that. She could only hope that she wasn’t being deceived, again. Yet, she told herself that she would remain vigilant, keep a safe distance between her and the men, and avoid sleep at all costs. As long as she was cautious, she’d be alright.
Under the blazing hot sun, they marched nonstop until midday, when the men finally stopped for their first rest since leaving Weathertop. Two hundred yards separated Miriel from the Rangers, a safe enough distance, she thought. She sat on the slope of the embankment along the road’s shoulder, keeping one eye on the men while she chugged some water.
Her belly rumbled with hunger. It had been two days since she had last eaten. She wondered if they’d be crossing the river, which was still a long ways off. If so, she’d have to try her hand at fishing again, or better yet, scour the woods for a coney or some other small edible creature. Water would keep her going for a few more days, but the lack of food was of great concern.
As Miriel rested, her eyes surveyed the road in either direction. The rest of the Rangers did not appear to be following. She couldn’t help but wonder where they might be. She was prepared for a possible ambush from behind - just in case.
After maybe fifteen minutes, the men started off again. Maintaining a safe distance, Miriel followed. When she neared the spot where the Rangers had stopped, she noticed a leaf-wrapped package lying in the middle of the road. It looked as if it had been placed there deliberately for her to find. Barely slowing down, she scooped up the package and carefully unwrapped it as she walked. Inside the leaf was a flat, lightly golden cake with a bite taken out of one corner.
The Slayer chuckled when she saw that. Indeed the men truly understood her suspicion of them and one had taken a bite to prove that the cake-like treat was safe to eat. Though her mouth was watering and her belly grumbling, she had to remain leery. She wasn’t about to cram the whole thing in her mouth, as she was tempted to do. To be on the safe side, she took the tiniest nibble off a different corner, wanting to wait and see if the cake was poisoned or not.
Though she had no more than a crumb-sized bite, the morsel left a pleasant tasting sweetness in her mouth. Miriel thought she’d give it a few hours before she dare take another bite.
After three hours or so of marching, and having experienced no ill side effects, the Slayer took a slightly larger bite of the cake. This time, the sweetness really awakened her taste buds. The cake was light and moist with a hint of honey to it. She wouldn’t let herself overindulge, not yet at any rate.
When darkness began to blanket the landscape, the men stopped for the night. Though the moon provided some light, the Rangers looked like shadows skulking about on the road up ahead. The Slayer left the road and climbed up the embankment. She didn’t like the thought of sitting in the open. At least the brush would give her a little bit of cover.
The night was still; quiet, except for the faint, indistinct murmurings of the men, their whisperings carrying on the air. Surprisingly, merely hearing voices from others made Miriel feel less lonely despite the fact that she wasn’t participating in their conversation. For now, she preferred staying apart from the Rangers. Perhaps in a few days time, she would feel more at ease, even to the point of walking alongside them.
A short while later, the girl could see a shadowy form coming down the road toward her. It was clearly one of the four, but which one she did not know. As a precaution, her fingers tightly gripped the hilt of her dagger.
The man had walked a few paces pass her before he stopped. He cocked his head for a second or two, listening intently. He then turned and walked to the exact spot where she was hiding.
“There you are. I nearly missed you,” said one of the sons of Elrond lightheartedly. “You have concealed yourself rather well.”
“How did you know where I was?” Miriel had remained motionless and quiet, and was somewhat impressed that the Elf had found her exact location.
“We Elves are in tune to our surroundings,” he revealed. “And I could hear your heart beating.”
That stunned the Slayer. She had no idea that Elves could hear so well as to hear one’s heartbeat from several feet away.
“We’ve decided to stop and rest for the night,” the Elf continued. “And none of us like the thought of you being out here all alone. You’re welcomed to come join us, if you’d like.”
“I’m not one for crowds,” answered Miriel. “I’d prefer to stay here.”
The Elf nodded. “Would you mind if I kept you company then? I assure you - my intent is true and noble,” he professed.
A part of her wanted to shout out “yes”. Speaking with Elves had always been a dream of hers. However, Miriel didn’t want to seem overly eager, so she answered with, “I suppose.”
The Elf sat on the slope of the embankment, a few feet away from the girl.
“Which son of Elrond are you? You and your brother look so much alike, I cannot tell the difference.”
“I am Elladan,” he answered.
They chitchatted for a while, not talking about anything of great importance.
Elladan then asked, “Did you find the lembas that we left you?”
“Lembas?” the Slayer queried, nearly forgetting the little packet of food left for her.
“The elvish way-bread,” he went to on to say. “We had left a packet on the road for you.”
“Oh, yes, lembas,” Miriel drawled, acting as if she knew what he was talking about all along. “Yes, I found it.”
“Aragorn insisted on taking a bite from it,” he said with a chuckle. “He thought you might think that it was poisoned.”
“Imagine that,” she answered with a snicker. “I did say he was the clever one of the bunch.”
“You should count yourself lucky. Very few mortals have tasted lembas, particularly in recent times. A small amount gives one the strength for a long day’s march. My grandmother had made it - Galadriel, the Lady of Lórien,” he added proudly.
“Galadriel,” murmured Miriel, thinking over her elvish lore. “She’s the daughter of Finarfin, and the sister of Finrod Felagund.”
“Wow!” remarked a stunned Elladan. “You do know your elvish lore.”
“I’ve read some, about the Elder Days,” she answered matter of factly.
“Hmm,” he sounded, turning his gaze to the sky. The Elf fell quiet for a while. He then looked back at Miriel and said, “Very few in Middle-earth speak of the Elder Days, aside from the Firstborn, that is. In fact, the only ones that I’ve encountered with such knowledge of times past are the Dúnedain, those descended from the noble houses of Númenor, much like Aragorn and his people.”
Silence fell between them, but the Elf continued to stare at Miriel. She didn't know if he was waiting for her to reply. She did not. She actually began to feel a little uncomfortable though she didn’t know why. Elladan’s penetrating eyes bore into her so much so that she had to look away.
“Your point being?” she finally said, still refusing to make eye contact with the Elf.
“I know that you’re Miriel, the daughter of Denethor,” he revealed.
Immediately, the Slayer’s heart began to pound, and beads of sweat instantly formed on her forehead.
“You’re the Slayer, that we witnessed plainly enough,” Elladan continued, speaking in a mere whisper. “But, it wasn’t your Calling that sent you from Minas Tirith. Something else drove you from your home, something that I cannot clearly see.”
A prickly sensation shot through Miriel’s body as the Elf spoke. She told herself to remain composed, especially after learning that Elladan could hear her heartbeat. Her discomfort was rapidly increasing.
“What was it, Miriel? What was it that you fled from?”
She took a deep breath in an attempt to steady her nerves. She slowly turned toward Elladan, her eyes narrowing. “My name is not Miriel,” she said. Her jaw remained clenched as she spoke. “I do not deny that I’m the Slayer, but I am no daughter of Denethor.”
Her words sounded so venomous to Elladan’s ears, that he realized too late that he had overstepped his bounds. Though he tried to apologize, Miriel no longer wanted his company and sent him away.
Sitting alone, in a near panicked state, the Slayer didn’t know what to do next. Would she be better off to flee into the night, wandering in exile as she had planned? Or, was it her doom that the Rangers and Elves would learn of her past, and discover her deepest and darkest secrets?
Miriel was more confused than ever before...
With Elladan banished from the Slayer’s side, he quickly returned to the others.
“You were right, Aragorn. There is no longer any doubt that that girl is the daughter of Denethor,” confirmed the Half-elf.
“She admitted it to you?” asked the Ranger in surprise.
“No, but I could read it in her.”
“Then it is as I figured,” replied Aragorn bleakly, puffing on his pipe again. He had requested that Elladan speak with Miriel, thinking that she would be more willing to speak with an Elf rather than Halbarad or himself. Besides, Elladan was the only one in their party who doubted who she was. He knew that if the Elf spoke with her, he could use his gift of discernment to see through her facade, to see her heart. And Aragorn wanted to make damn sure that this girl was Miriel, the missing daughter of the Steward of Gondor.
That confirmation brought about a new dilemma for Aragorn. His whole adult life had been devoted to reclaiming the kingship of both Gondor and Arnor, to reunite the two kingdoms of old. Knowing Denethor as he did, he was well aware that the Steward would not be so willing to relinquish his lordship over Gondor. However, if Aragorn were to return Denethor’s only daughter to him, then perhaps the Steward would view things differently. While nothing had come easy for the son of Arathorn, he had to carefully consider this possibility. If it could help him ascend to the throne, then he should not so easily dismiss this notion. Miriel could most definitely be the key he had been waiting for...
Chapter 18 - Unguarded Moments
Shortly before daybreak the following morning, Miriel heard one of the men whistle, signaling that it was time to resume the trek. Feeling tired from yet another sleepless night, she stomped down the embankment and onto the road. In the distance, she could make out the four shadowy figures lingering on the road, waiting for her. During the night, her paranoia had waned and she had decided to trust her initial instinct to follow the Rangers to Rivendell.
Feeling lethargic, Miriel recalled Elladan’s words from the night before and took a large bite of lembas. She hoped that that would give her the energy boost that she needed. About an hour later, she began to experience some drastic physical anomalies. She had hot flashes where she’d sweat profusely, followed by cold chills that caused her to shake uncontrollably. She suffered from lightheadedness. Her feet felt as if they had been turned into lead blocks, and she constantly found herself stumbling over them.
What’s wrong with me? she thought to herself. It felt as though her symptoms were getting worse with each passing minute.
You’ve been poisoned, said the suspicious voice in her mind. I told you not to trust these Rangers. And those Elves, those Elves are no better. They’re men, Miriel. Why do you seem to overlook that fact? They are all the same. They’ve drugged you, and soon, when you fall into unconsciousness, they will have their way with you. You’re merely a plaything, a device to sate their bodily needs and to help pass the time until the next young maiden comes around. You were foolish to follow them, to trust them. Will you ever learn?
That’s not true, contested the other voice. They’re the Dúnedain, your kin. They are not evil! They helped you! They tended to your injuries!
They poisoned you! argued the first voice. They are no better than Valandil and his bunch!
But the sons of Elrond are amongst them! protested the other voice. They are Elves. Noble Elves.
Pfft! Why do you insist on believing that Elves are such noble people, that they are incapable of committing wicked deeds? hissed the first voice. You’ve read about the Elder Days, how the Noldor came to be in Middle-earth. Tell me, Dagnir, what deeds did the Elves commit that led to their banishment from Valinor? Before the other voice could protest, the mistrusting sounding one continued. They murdered their own kin, in cold blood. And now you run to the realm of those people, those murderers, whose sole pleasure is to stir up the wrath of the Dark Lords, then flee by the droves, leaving Man to deal with the repercussions. The Elves are responsible for all ills in this world. Trust them not!
Miriel’s head was spinning as she listened to this internal debate taking place in her mind. She found it frightening, horribly frightening. She wiped the sweat from her brow with a trembling hand, trying to think, to make sense of it all. Was it her youth and inexperience in life that made her overlook the heinous crimes that the Elves themselves had committed in times past? And what was it, exactly, that caused Men and Elves to become sundered from one another? Who betrayed whom?
Stumbling over her foot, Miriel crashed down onto the ground. Panting, she could feel the sweat running into her eyes, burning them. Her vision became hazy. “Buffy,” she whimpered, as all turned to black…
The moment Miriel fell unconscious, Buffy appeared. “It’s happened again,” the girl cried out, tears streaming down her face. She tried to get back on her feet by using Buffy as a crutch. “They’ve drugged me, Buffy. They’ve drugged me and are going to rape me!” Miriel was hysterical. She pulled on the elder Slayer so hard that Buffy was forced to her knees.
“Calm down, Miriel. I’m here,” said the composed elder Slayer, not wanting to jump to conclusions without having time to think and access the situation.
The girl rambled incoherently between sobs. Buffy grabbed hold of Miriel’s shoulders, and could feel her blazing hot skin through her shirt.
“Calm down, Miriel,” she said again. She quickly placed the back of her hand on the girl’s forehead, and then her neck. She was burning with fever. “It’s okay. I’m here. It’s okay.” Buffy tried to do her best to reassure her protégé, but to no avail. Miriel continued to blubber, refusing to listen or calm down. “You’re sick, Miriel. You’ve got a fever. Listen to me!” Buffy shook the girl by the shoulders, hoping that might knock Miriel back to her senses. “Listen to me!”
“ – I’ve been poisoned!” the girl repeated hysterically. “They’re going to rape me!”
Having no other choice, Buffy slapped Miriel hard across the face. The girl, her eyes wide with shock, stopped her ramblings, and looked at Buffy. “I’m sorry, but you’ve gotta calm down,” demanded the elder Slayer. “Miriel, you’re sick. You’ve got a fever. A high one too.”
“It was the lembas,” the girl croaked, the tears continuing to stream down her face. “The lembas was poisoned.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Buffy, shaking her head. She didn’t know why she felt so sure of that, but she did. Maybe it was her gut instinct. Whatever it was, she didn’t believe that the Rangers were anything like Valandil and his gang of thugs. “Let’s think this through, take things slowly,” continued Buffy, who was thinking rationally. “Okay, you’ve been hurt.” Her eyes immediately went to Miriel’s wrapped hand. “Maybe you have an infection or something.”
“Maybe I was poisoned,” said Miriel between sniffles.
“You weren’t poisoned,” replied Buffy, unwrapping the bandage on Miriel’s hand to see if her wounds were infected.
“How can you be so sure?”
“I just am,” answered the elder Slayer resolutely.
While Buffy inspected Miriel’s injuries in the dreamscape, the Rangers noticed that they had lost sight of the Slayer. They had already rounded a small bend in the road, where they stopped, waiting to see if Miriel would come bounding around the corner in a few minutes.
“She’s been lagging behind this morning,” remarked Aragorn, his face riddled with concern.
“You think so?” queried Halbarad. “I haven’t noticed.”
“It’s true,” chimed in Elrohir. “Dagnir has been slower this morning than yesterday.” He looked at his twin. “How was she when you spoke to her last night?”
“I suppose she was a bit tired, but otherwise, she seemed fine.”
“She probably left the road to relieve herself,” suggested Halbarad.
“Probably,” answered Aragorn. “Though we haven’t been on the road very long. I would’ve expected her to take care of her business before we set out.”
“She’s a woman, Aragorn,” said Elladan with a chortle. “They do as they want, when they want, especially if it keeps us waiting. You should’ve learned that by now.”
The Ranger Chieftain answered with a small smile.
After several minutes, and with no sign of Miriel, Elrohir went back down the road to see what was keeping the girl. Surely, if she had been ambushed, they would’ve heard something. Orcs were not known for stealth, by any means. Whatever the delay, the Slayer should’ve rounded the bend by now.
The rest of the men lingered on the road, waiting for word from Elrohir. Not a minute later, they heard his fair, elvish voice, shouting, “She’s down. Miriel’s down!”
In that moment, Aragorn feared the worst, that Miriel had been killed. The men took off running, heading back in the direction from which they had just come.
Elrohir reached Miriel’s side before the rest of his companions. He fell to his knees, and quickly determined that she was not dead, only out cold. As he pulled the straps of the bags from her shoulders, he could feel the heat emanating from her skin. Fresh blood soaked the back of her shirt. For a moment, he thought that she had been struck by some hidden foe. His eyes swiftly surveyed the road, looking for tracks other than his and his companions.
“Is she alright?”
“Is she dead?”
The others, breathless from their sprint, had arrived on the scene, asking questions.
“She’s alive,” answered Elrohir, pulling her into his arms. “She’s burning up with fever.”
“She has an infection,” announced Elladan. “I can smell it.”
“Pull your blanket out and lay it on the ground,” instructed Elrohir. “There’s fresh blood on her back.”
Elladan hastily did as his brother had asked, spreading out the blanket in the middle of the road. Elrohir placed Miriel on her stomach, thinking that the wound to her back was the culprit.
“I’ll check her hand,” said Elladan, as he unraveled the bandages. “It’s not her hand,” he said after a quick inspection of her knuckles and palm. “It’s nearly healed.”
Elrohir tugged on Miriel’s shirt, lifting the back of it up to her neck. “Oh, no. This is not good,” he said in dismay.
The others grimaced when they noticed the infected wound on her shoulder blade. The incision was partially closed, but the tissue looked inflamed and a bloody fluid leaked from the open parts. Streaks of red radiated from the area. Elrohir pushed down on a swollen part of the skin and a thick, foul-smelling, yellowish-green pus oozed from the incision.
“We need to clean this,” advised Elrohir, the odor nearly taking his breath away.
“It looks like Miriel had been struck by a poisonous blade,” remarked Halbarad, observing the scene over Elladan’s shoulder.
Aragorn leaned in closer. “I think you’re right, Hal,” he replied.
The sons of Elrond, who were trained in the art of healing by their father, quickly went to work. “We’ll need hot water,” said Elrohir. “Get a fire going, Aragorn.”
“I knew we should have tended to this wound yesterday,” added a dismal Elladan, regretting that he hadn’t inspected her injury the night before when he was with Miriel.
The two Half-elves busily tended to the wound, bathing it with hot, clean, herbal water and trying to expel as much as the poison as they could.
Miriel then began to stir, murmuring Buffy’s name repeatedly.
“What’s a Buffy?” Aragorn asked Halbarad, as though he would know the answer.
The Ranger thought for a moment or two. With a shrug of his shoulders, he answered, “Maybe it’s the name of her sword.”
“What a strange name that is,” uttered Aragorn, his brow furrowed in thought. “That name is unknown to me.”
“I have never heard it either,” remarked Elrohir, as he smeared his elvish salve along the incision on the girl’s shoulder. “Perhaps it’s some secret language known only to Slayers.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing, but I suppose it’s possible,” answered Halbarad. “Most of the Watcher Diaries have been lost. The ones that we still have in our possession do not mention such a thing. We cannot rule it out though.”
Once the wound was covered in a thick layer of ointment, Elladan covered it with a clean strip of cloth. He then pulled Miriel’s top back down. “I think it’s time to wake her.”
“Gird your loins, Aragorn,” teased Halbarad. “She’ll probably come straight for you.” Not wanting to take any chances, the Ranger protectively guarded his privates.
“I’ll take my chances,” replied the Ranger Chieftain. “Wake her, Elladan.”
The Half-elf nodded. With Miriel still on her stomach, he leaned in closer, his lips nearly touching her flaming hot ear. “Wake, Miriel,” he said softly.
Those two little words roused Miriel from her slumber. In a dazed state, she slowly eased up into a sitting position, her eyes unable to focus.
“You’re burning with fever,” Elrohir informed the girl. “You were hit with a poisoned blade, Mir-, eh, Dagnir,” he said, correcting himself.
Seeing that the Slayer was non-combative, Halbarad dropped his hands to his side, no longer cupping his nether regions.
The girl remained woozy, swaying to one side. Elladan caught her, holding her upright.
“You need medicine,” continued Elrohir, as he poured some elvish elixir into a small wooden bowl. “This will help with the fever.” He put the bowl to Miriel’s lips. “Drink it slowly, now. That’s a good girl,” he said, as Miriel obediently downed the contents.
It tasted like fruity syrup. Smacking her lips, she faintly said, “I’m sleepy.”
“Alright. You can sleep,” answered Elladan, slowly laying the Slayer back down on her side.
She then closed her eyes and was out like a light.
Aragorn rose to his feet. “It looks like we’re going to be here a while yet.” His eyes surveyed the road in either direction. “I do not like being out in the open like this.”
“There is naught else where we can go, where we can hide,” replied Elrohir, looking to the east. “Not until we reach the forest, that is.”
“If you feel that uneasy, Aragorn, should we go down into the ravine?” queried Elladan.
The Ranger Chieftain pondered that option for a few minutes. “I think we’ll be alright here,” he finally answered. “Orcs aren’t fond of sunlight. We should be safe until dusk.”
Elladan then got to his feet as well. “Perhaps two of us should stay with Miriel while the other two keep watch. We can sweep the area, making sure the enemy isn’t lurking nearby.”
Aragorn nodded. He liked that idea. He and Elladan took the first watch. The Ranger patrolled the hills to their south, while the Half-elf wandered along the road, both to their west and east, to make sure none were coming their way.
After a few hours, they switched, and Elrohir and Halbarad patrolled while Aragorn and Elladan kept watch over Miriel. The Ranger Chieftain and eldest son of Elrond sat silently, each lost in his own thoughts.
Elladan stared at a sleeping Miriel, amazed that she was a real, honest to goodness Slayer. It had been so long since a Slayer had been in those parts that the Half-elf had come to believe that they were mythological figures, merely existing in old wives tales of Men. As he stared at her sleeping form, he couldn’t help but notice how very young she looked. She was no more than a child in the eyes of the Elves. Pity filled his heart. How cruel it seemed for one so young to be burdened with such a fate. He couldn’t help but wonder why the Valar had decided to bestow such gifts upon a young, mortal girl as opposed to a stout-hearted man of elven kind, or even one from the race of Man. It seemed unjust. He hoped that when he returned home, he could learn more of the Slayer lore from his father, for Elrond was knowledgeable about all things pertaining to Middle-earth and beyond.
A while later, the Half-elf reached out and grasped Miriel’s forearm, checking on her temperature. “She feels cooler.” Elladan shifted his gaze to Aragorn. “Her fever is breaking.”
The Ranger Chieftain didn’t answer. He still appeared to be preoccupied with his thoughts.
“Aragorn?” The Half-elf nudged his friend. “Aragorn?”
“Huh?” answered the Ranger, shaking himself out of his reverie, and fixing his eyes on the Elf. “Did you say something?”
Elladan cocked his head, scrutinizing the man. “Are you alright? You look troubled?”
Sighing heavily, he replied, “I’m fine.”
“You do not look fine,” said Elladan. “What troubles you?”
“It’s nothing,” answered Aragorn dismissively.
“I’ve known you since you were a small child, Estel. I can see when something is troubling you. Now, tell me, what is it?”
He forced a smile. “I should’ve known I could not hide anything from you, my friend.” The smile quickly left his face, as he turned his gaze to a sleeping Miriel. “I am troubled, deeply troubled.”
“About what?”
“About her,” he replied, motioning toward the Slayer with his head. “I have been thinking about her since we left Amon Sûl.”
“How so?”
The Ranger Chieftain paused, collecting his thoughts. “I cannot help but think that Miriel could help me ascend to the throne of Gondor. Denethor is... stubborn, hard-headed. He will not easily relinquish his lordship.” He shifted his gaze to the Elf. “What if I brought back his missing daughter? What if we took Miriel back to Minas Tirith? I think he would be so grateful that it would make it that much easier for him to accept that I’m the heir of - ” Aragorn’s words were cut off, and replaced with a yelp.
Unbeknownst to the two men, Miriel had awakened, but was pretending to be sleeping and had heard this conversation taking place. In one swift motion, she lunged at the Ranger, sending him to the ground with one of her hands tightly wrapped around his throat while the other fumbled for her dagger. Everything happened so fast that Aragorn and Elladan were slow to react.
“I’m not going back,” she snarled like some rabid beast. “I’ll kill you. I swear! I’ll kill you!”
“Miriel! Stop!” shouted Elladan, trying to wrestle her hand free from Aragorn’s throat.
Aragorn’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. His hands automatically went to Miriel’s wrist, trying to pry her hand off his neck. Her hand was like a vice, unmovable.
“Let go of him, Miriel!” yelled the Half-elf, now having to contend with her other hand, which clutched the dagger.
“I’ll kill you, you bastard. You’ve deceived me! You’ve lied to me!” she bellowed, squeezing harder.
Cursing, Elladan had no other choice but to put the Slayer in a choke hold. He kept his hold on her arm that wielded the dagger while he wrapped his free arm around her neck, pulling her backward as he did so. Miriel had no other choice but to let go of Aragorn. He gasped for air, as she and the Half-elf wrestled for control of the knife.
“Help me!” screeched Elladan, clutching the girl tightly, while rolling around on the ground.
Aragorn had not yet caught his breath and could do nothing. But Elladan’s cries for help were answered by his twin and Halbarad, both of whom came running to the scene, stunned by what was taking place.
“What the hell’s going on?” queried Halbarad, his eyes darting from the Half-elf and Slayer rolling about to Aragorn, who was coughing and clutching his throat.
Elrohir immediately joined the skirmish, and disarmed Miriel.
“Let go of me!” she croaked, her voice muffled by Elladan’s hold.
“Only if you calm down,” ordered the Half-elf.
Miriel played along, and stopped struggling. The Half-elf then let her go.
Immediately, Miriel sprung unsteadily to her feet. Now in a fighting stance, she wielded her broken blade in one hand, while the other rubbed her throat. Her face was red and sweaty, as she waved her sword threateningly. “Stay away from me!” she panted, her voice hoarse.
“Calm down, Miriel,” said Elladan, pushing the long streaks of dark hair from his face. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”
“You choked me!” she screeched at the eldest son of Elrond, angered at the audacity of his words.
“You were trying to kill Aragorn,” the Half-elf said defensively.
“You’re damn right I tried to kill him,” she said, shaking with rage. Her eyes darted to Aragorn, who remained seated on the ground, still trying to catch his breath. “You lied to me,” she hissed. “You said we were going to Rivendell. And it was all a lie. I’m never going back to Minas Tirith. And I’ll gut anybody that tries that shit again.”
Elrohir and Halbarad were quite confused by what was going on. They hoped that someone would bring them up to speed regarding the situation and what Miriel was talking about.
“We are going to Rivendell,” insisted Elladan. “No one is deceiving you.”
“You people – stay away from me!” she spat, shifting the direction of the blade from man to man. She inched closer to her bags, eager to get her things and be on her way. There was no way she’d trust these people. Not after hearing what Aragorn’s true intentions were. “One false move and I’ll kill the lot of you!”
“Calm down, Miriel.”
“Shut it, Elf!” she shouted to Elladan. “You just keep away from me!”
“What the hell is going on?” demanded Halbarad, hating the fact that he had no idea what had happened.
“It’s my fault,” said Aragorn with a cough, staggering to his feet.
Miriel used her foot to sweep up her bags by the straps, never letting her mistrustful eyes stray from the four men.
“Your fault?” questioned a bewildered Halbarad. “What are you talking about? What happened?”
Now on his feet, Aragorn tried to explain. “I foolishly shared my thoughts with Elladan, about taking Miriel back to Minas Tirith.”
“I’m not going back - you hear!” she roared, not caring the slightest that she had confirmed her true identity. “I’ll kill you. I swear.” That was most definitely a promise Miriel would keep.
“It was wrong of me,” continued Aragorn, his tone full of remorse. “I apologize, Miriel. I do not know what I was thinking.”
Pulling the straps of her bags over her shoulders, Miriel kept her eyes fixed on the Ranger Chieftain. “Oh, I do. Your own self-interests, that’s what! I’m not your bargaining chip to reclaim anything with. You can go to hell, Ranger. If you cross my path, again - I will kill you. That’s not a threat, but a promise.” She then turned her livid eyes to Elladan. “Shall we fight for the dagger or will you surrender it willingly?” she said scathingly.
The Half-elf hesitated. Miriel lifted her blade. “Here! Take it!” he said, offering her the handle.
“Drop it! And kick it over here,” she demanded, refusing to get within arm’s reach of the Elf.
“Please, Miriel. You’re sick. You’ve been poisoned,” Elrohir tried to explain.
“Undoubtedly by you people. How foolish I was to trust an Elf. Live and learn, they say,” she added with a derisive snicker.
Elladan had kicked the dagger over to the Slayer, and she cautiously bent down to pick it up, her eyes never leaving the men.
“This is all a big misunderstanding,” Aragorn said, desperate to convince Miriel not to leave. “I should have never thought such a thing, Miriel. I am merely a man. I am not perfect. I make mistakes.”
“So, your mistake was telling the truth?” she cackled in response. “Now, I have a better understanding as to why the Northern Kingdom failed. With people like you in charge - it’s a wonder it lasted as long as it did.” Keeping an eye on the men, she started to back away, ignoring their pleas for her to stay. Since they had been leading her east, she decided to go back to the west. From there, she’d have to figure things out.
“Miriel! Please do not go!” begged Halbarad, taking a few steps toward her.
The girl kept her blade at the ready, prepared to gut any that came too close. “Go find yourselves another plaything.”
“I’m your Watcher,” revealed Halbarad. “You need me.”
Somehow the Slayer wasn’t shocked by that revelation. She merely replied with, “I don’t need a Watcher.” When Miriel had put a considerable distance between herself and her betrayers, she turned, and ran as fast as she could in the opposite direction.
With Miriel becoming smaller in the distance, Elladan hurriedly told his brother and the Watcher what had happened.
“What were you thinking, Aragorn?” chastised Elrohir. “How could you say such a thing in her presence?”
“I thought she was asleep,” he admitted, his shoulders slumped in disappointment.
“Asleep or not, that was folly!” the Half-elf continued. “How will she trust us now?”
“Dagnir cannot be left in the wilds like this,” chimed in Halbarad. “She’s ill. She will die if we leave her to fend for herself. Who knows how long before the Orcs return!”
“We’re well aware of that, Hal,” replied Elladan, trying to come up with a way to fix this situation.
“I’m sorry,” said a defeated Aragorn again, wishing that he could go back in time and prevent this whole ordeal from happening.
“The damage is done. There is no changing it,” added Elrohir with a sigh. “We have to come up with some way to convince Miriel that we have not deceived her.”
“How?” asked Aragorn. Both his eyes and voice revealed his anguish.
“I think it’s best if you and Hal go on to Imladris,” suggested Elladan to the Ranger Chieftain.
“What?” said an incredulous Halbarad. “You want us to go? But I’m supposed to be that girl’s Watcher.”
“At this point, you have no Slayer,” replied the eldest son of Elrond. “What little trust we’ve earned is gone.”
“I’m sorry,” mumbled Aragorn again.
“Apologizing will not help the situation,” commented Elrohir.
“I think it’s best if Elrohir and myself try to convince Miriel to come back. I do not think she will come if you two are present. Some ill deed caused that girl to flee Minas Tirith, though, exactly what that was, I do not know. She mistrusts men, in particular, it seems.”
“But she no longer trusts Elves either!” exclaimed an irritated Halbarad. “She said it was foolish to trust them. What makes you so sure that she’ll believe anything you have to say?”
“I’m not sure of anything. We may not be able to convince her to come back with us,” answered Elladan. “But we must try nevertheless.”
“I trust your judgment,” said Aragorn in agreement.
“Tell Father the reason for our delay. Should we talk Miriel into coming back, Father’s counsel would be most helpful. Hopefully, we’ll only be a day or two behind you.”
The Ranger Chieftain nodded. As the twin sons of Elrond gathered their things, Aragorn and Halbarad worked on putting out the fire before resuming their journey to Rivendell. The Elves did not want Miriel to see them following her and began their trek at a snail’s pace...
The Slayer ran and ran until the cramps in her side forced her to slow down. She glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see that none were following. Hot, tired and breathless, she decided to stop for a few minutes. The intense heat from the sun had left her quite thirsty. Sitting on the slope of the hill to her south, she guzzled some water, thinking that she just might return to Weathertop.
Deciding to rest for a short period, Miriel pulled the straps from her shoulders. As she plopped her bags on the ground, the packet of lembas fell out. Though hungry, there was no way on Eru’s green earth that she was about to eat any more of the poisoned food of the Elves. She stomped the package with her foot, grinding it into the dirt.
As she sat there, waiting for her heart rate and breathing to normalize, she felt a sudden coldness sweep over her. She shuddered. Goosebumps popped up all over her flesh. She began to shiver, her teeth chattering. The Slayer reached down for one of her bags, digging through the contents for her cloak. She draped the garment around her shoulders, attempting to ward off the chill, despite the fact that it was a hot and humid afternoon.
Leaning against the slope, her injured shoulder throbbing as she did so, she buried her face in her hands and began to weep. Miriel wasn’t sure why she was crying. Perhaps it was because her perception of her northern kinsmen and the Elves had been shattered. For so long she had believed they were good and decent, of upstanding character. But now, she could see that that had been an illusion, an illusion conjured by the sages of old. No wonder the ancient scrolls had been covered in thick layers of dust!
“Pull yourself together, Miriel,” she said aloud, drying her eyes. The Slayer felt drained, emotionally and physically. Regardless, she got back on her feet, grabbed her belongings, and set out once again. It seemed that fear and doubt had given her that energy boost she had needed to escape the Rangers and sons of Elrond. But now, she found that it took every ounce of effort to put one foot in front of the other.
Before long, the chills dissipated, and Miriel began to sweat. She forced herself to sluggishly move on, though her pace had slowed considerably. She was anxious for nightfall, despite the increased chances of an enemy attack. If threatened, her body would react accordingly, sick or not. She was still alive, and that’s all that mattered.
After hours of walking and with the arrival of dusk (finally!), Miriel trudged off the road, and down into a nearby ravine. She had no idea that the sons of Elrond had been stealthily following her. Exhausted and famished, Miriel consumed lots of water, in hope of sating her appetite. Feeling overheated, she splashed a little water on her face in an attempt to cool off. The Slayer’s eyelids felt heavy, and she struggled to keep them open. She leaned against the wall of the hollow that faced the road, since any attack would most likely come from that direction.
I just want to close my eyes for a minute, she thought. Her eyes felt soothed the moment she closed them. She started to nod off, but caught herself, and forced herself to stay awake. A sudden, gentle breeze began to blow out of the north, rustling the clusters of wild grass that dotted the ridge of the ravine. That unexpected noise caused Miriel to jump with a start and pull her dagger from its sheath. After listening intently for several long seconds, she began to relax again. She eased back into a more comfortable position, pulled her cloak around her concealing her weapon, and closed her eyes one more time. When her heart rate had returned to normal, Miriel dozed off...
“You were wrong about those men,” she snidely said to Buffy the moment she encountered her in the dreamscape.
“I can’t believe I was wrong,” replied Buffy in disbelief. “I didn’t pick up any evil vibe from them.”
“Or perhaps you’re not as perceptive as you thought,” commented Miriel, glowering at her mentor.
“Why the hell are you getting pissy with me?”
“You told me to trust them.”
“I never said that!” shot back Buffy angrily. “I told you they didn’t poison you.”
“Well, they did! So, you got that wrong too.”
Buffy was getting tired of being Miriel’s punching bag - verbally and physically. She had been letting things slide since Miriel’s ordeal, but her patience was wearing thin. Here she was, trying to help the girl, and now it almost sounded as if her protégé was accusing her of being an accomplice of the Rangers.
“One Mississippi... Two Mississippi... Three Mississippi,” Buffy began, trying to keep her composure.
“Some help you’ve been,” Miriel continued with a roll of her eyes.
“For your information, it was your crappy decisions that lead you to disaster!” exclaimed Buffy in annoyance. She folded her arms across her chest, staring the girl down. “And they didn’t poison you. You have an infection. You’re sick. But, of course, you have to jump to your own conclusions, thinking the worst of everyone.”
Miriel stepped closer to Buffy, towering over her mentor. “It’s called surviving,” she snapped back. “Not everyone has the luxury of a Watcher and friends to help them along - like you. If not for them - you would’ve been dead long ago. Some of us have to rely on our own wits!”
“Yeah, and how’s that been working out for you?” asked the elder Slayer, her tone thick with sarcasm. Buffy dropped her hands to her side, balling her fists.
“My mistake has been in heeding your advice. That’s been my folly!” Miriel looked her mentor up and down, noticing her balled fists. “You’re not worth the energy.” She then turned on her heel and marched away from the elder Slayer, no longer in the mood to hear any more of Buffy’s smart-ass comments.
As Miriel stomped away, Buffy tried to come up with some snarky comeback. “Yeah,” she began. “Well, who the hell says stuff like... like ‘heed’ and ‘folly’ any way? It’s the twentieth century, you know. Get with the program.”
Miriel answered with the finger gesture that she had seen during her trip to the mall in Sunnydale. Minutes later, she left the ravine, leaving the elder Slayer behind.
“Twentieth century,” grumbled a peeved Buffy. “What the hell was I thinking?” She was not happy with her comeback. “Stupid.” She plopped down on the ground, wanting to give Miriel time to cool off.
The young Slayer was still steaming. It just seemed that she could trust no one, not even Buffy. Miriel was aware of her mentor’s predicament outside the dreamscape, the situation with her sister. She couldn’t help but wonder why she was taking advice from one who’d rather hide in the dreamscape than confront her own demons. And Buffy had the nerve to talk about Miriel?! As far as Miriel was concerned, she was on her own, in every aspect of the word.
Once she reached the top of the ridge, the landscape instantly changed, and the girl found herself on the coast of Dol Amroth. She trudged along the shoreline, finding the salty sea breeze comforting. She had come here in hopes of clearing her mind, and stifling her anger. And right now that was something she desperately needed.
After a while, she took a seat on the sand, staring out at the sea, and the waves, glimmering in the moonlight. The ocean had the desired effect she had been looking for, and her nerves were no longer as frazzled as they had been. Miriel half-expected to see Buffy popping up at any minute, but so far, she saw no sign of her.
Closing her eyes, she drank in the salt air, which relaxed her even more. Miriel was well aware that she had fallen asleep, but, at that moment, she needed to be here if she were to keep her sanity intact.
Then, from out of nowhere, a hand clamped over her mouth, jolting Miriel awake. Before she had a chance to do anything, she heard, in a barely audible voice, one of the sons of Elrond say, “Shh. Do not make a sound. Yrch.”
Her wide terror-filled eyes searched the dimness for the intruders, which she could not see. However, from her position at the bottom of the ravine, she heard the unmistakable sound of marching feet upon the road. Her heart raced, pumping blood and adrenaline rapidly through her body. Her heartbeat sounded so loud that she feared being detected. She tightened her sweaty palm on the grip of her dagger.
When Elrohir determined that Miriel wasn’t going to fight him, he slowly backed off, removing his hand from her mouth. He quickly pressed his finger to his lips, indicating that she remain quiet. Miriel could see that the Elf looked worried. She glanced around, looking for his twin, assuming that the brothers most likely traveled together. But, if he was anywhere nearby, the girl couldn’t see him.
Soon, the sound of marching feet grew fainter, and the threat of being discovered passed.
A look of relief came to Elrohir’s face. “That was a close one,” he sighed in a low voice, still being extremely quiet.
The Slayer was still trying to process all this. She couldn’t help but wonder if the Orcs would’ve discovered her if the Elf had not been there. Though Miriel could curse herself for having fallen asleep, sleep was a necessity in life, much like food and water. She could only fight it for so long. The whole experience left her conflicted and nauseous.
“Are you alright?” Elrohir then asked, his eyes swiftly looking her over.
Miriel was at a loss for words and could only nod in reply.
Not a second later, the other twin silently sprang into the hollow with his bow in hand. “They’ve gone on,” Elladan said, speaking softly like his brother.
“I take it they did not see our tracks?” whispered the Elf seated by Miriel.
“Thank the Valar I was able to wipe them away before they came.” He looked back toward the top of the ridge. “By the sounds of it, they’re heading to Amon Sûl.” Elladan shifted his eyes back to Miriel. “Looking for you undoubtedly.”
“Listen, Miriel, you’re being hunted,” said the seated Elf, his tone full of the same urgency he had spoken in when she first woke. “You cannot fight them alone. You need us. We want to help you. Please let us.”
Finding her voice, the Slayer answered, “I don’t trust Aragorn.”
“I understand that,” he replied. “If I were in your position, I wouldn’t either.”
Miriel was quite surprised to hear the Elf say that.
“But, Aragorn is a good man. He merely misspoke,” Elrohir said in defense of the Ranger Chieftain.
“Misspoke?” she repeated, her tone riddled in disbelief and disdain. “How can you say that he merely misspoke? He wants to take me back to Minas Tirith. I won’t go, I tell you. I will never go back.”
“He will not take you back, if you do not want to go. I promise. I promise on the stars of Elbereth that he will not do that,” vowed the Elf.
His twin then crouched down beside them. “You do not know Aragorn like we do. He shared his thoughts, is all. He had no intention on seeing it through. Sometimes, we say what we think, but do not act upon it. As Elrohir had said, we will not let anyone take you back home, if that is your wont. We want to help you. You cannot do this alone, Miriel. The enemy grows stronger, their numbers greater. All it takes is one second, one split second... and it’s all over.”
“Come with us to Rivendell,” encouraged Elrohir. “You will be safe there. Our borders are well protected. There we can prepare you, train you. The mightiest warriors in Middle-earth reside there. Take advantage of this opportunity to learn from them, from us.”
Miriel was hesitant. A part of her desperately wanted to believe them, to believe that these Elves were of the kind that she had read about - noble, true, trustworthy. But after all she had been through - trust had to be earned, not granted at first meeting. What if she was being duped, again?
“Let us be on our way whilst the enemy heads west,” said Elrohir, getting to his feet. He offered the girl his hand. “Come, Miriel, and we will explain all to you on our journey. We still have several days of traveling ahead of us.”
Trust your gut, Miriel, the girl thought to herself. She took the Elf’s hand, and he heaved her to her feet. The Slayer hoped she wasn’t making a mistake. If worse came to worse, she could take on two Elves. “Where are the others? That Aragorn and that man that claims to be a Watcher?” she asked skeptically.
“They have resumed their trek to Rivendell,” replied Elladan. “They are a day or two ahead of us.”
“How do I know they’re not hiding somewhere,” she remarked suspiciously, her eyes searching the immediate vicinity, “waiting to attack me?”
“If we wanted you dead, we would’ve killed you already. We’ve had ample opportunity to do so,” answered Elrohir. “That is not our desire.”
Elladan began to pick up Miriel’s belongings from the ground. “Do you think our meeting was by mere chance?” he asked, dividing her belongings between him and his brother. Not allowing her time to answer, he continued, “It was fated to be. By the grace of the Valar, we were meant to find you, to protect you.”
Miriel then revealed the dagger concealed beneath her cloak. “Just so you know,” she started, brandishing the weapon threateningly, “if you try anything - I’ll kill you. Both of you.”
The twins chortled softly. “Now that we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way - we need to get a move on,” said Elladan, the urgency returning to his voice.
“You and Miriel stick to the valleys,” suggested Elrohir. “I’ll walk along the top of the ridge so I can keep an eye out for the enemy. Its best that we avoid the road until daybreak.”
“Good idea,” replied Elladan, nodding his head approvingly. “The more leagues we put between us and the Orcs, the better.”
Elrohir then seamlessly scaled the wall of the ravine, disappearing in a blink of an eye.
“Let’s go, Miriel. We have far to travel.”
Relieved of her bags, but with her weapons at hand, Miriel and Elladan began the long trek to Rivendell. Whilst they walked, the Elf discussed Aragorn, as promised.
“I do not think you know who Aragorn truly is,” he began, walking beside her.
“He’s an asshole,” she retorted with disdain.
The Elf chuckled softly. “I can see why you would think that. But he’s not really that bad. It’s unfortunate that your first impression of him was... not for the good.” He paused for a moment. “He’s the heir of Isildur, you know,” he added offhandedly, glancing at Miriel as he spoke.
That remark caught her by surprise. Yet, then again, that explained a lot. “I guess that’s why he’s so self-involved. He’s very much like his forebear! Thinks only of his own self interests to the detriment of others,” she added with a derisive snicker.
“He’s not that way at all,” contested Elladan. “Aragorn is a very giving person.”
“Pfft,” sounded Miriel, rolling her eyes.
“He has played a critical role in protecting the free people in the north!” the Elf continued. “He’s devoted his whole adult life to combating evil in this world. He has even fought in the defense of Gondor, years ago.”
Miriel looked at the Elf, thinking that she had caught him in a lie. “Aragorn has never fought for Gondor!”
“Oh, yes he has. In fact, he fought when your grandfather Ecthelion II was Steward. He was responsible for the defeat of the Corsairs in Umbar.” He smiled slyly.
“That’s preposterous!” Miriel just couldn’t overlook the fact that Elladan was trying to deceive her. Of course, she was familiar with all battles in Gondor. For Eru’s sake, she was the Steward’s daughter. It was demanded of her to know about such things!
“Does the name Thorongil ring a bell with you?” he queried, his grey elvish eyes twinkling with amusement.
The Slayer stopped in her tracks. Oh, she had most definitely heard of Thorongil. She had heard of him during her studies. Thorongil was loathed by her father, and had been adored by her grandfather. Many old timers spoke of him in reverence, but none had dare done so in Denethor’s presence.
“Aragorn is Thorongil?” she said in disbelief. She found it hard to believe that the man she had met was the reputable warrior she had heard about. It seemed impossible, to say the least.
“They’re one and the same,” said a beaming Elladan, enjoying Miriel’s reaction.
Miriel fell quiet, resuming the trek again. If Aragorn was really Thorongil then he was most certainly a mighty warrior. It was said that he was responsible for defeating an entire fleet of Corsair ships. An entire fleet! That was an impressive feat no matter how you looked at it. She thought back over her lessons, trying to remember what she knew about that battle, and about Thorongil. From what she could recall, the warrior had arrived when Gondor’s need was greatest, conquered the enemy, and disappeared back into the wilds. She seemed to recall that her grandfather had looked upon that stranger so fondly that he wanted to appoint him one of Gondor’s Captains, a rarity for one who was not Gondorian by birth. Miriel thought this was one of those times when she wished she had paid a bit more attention to her studies.
“You know that I speak the truth,” remarked Elladan, watching her with a keen eye.
“How am I to know if what you say is true or not? Where is the proof of this so-called claim?”
The Elf pondered her questions for a few moments and then answered, “The name Thorongil was actually given to Aragorn by your people because he had borne the Star of the Rangers. They knew he was a kinsman from the North though they were unaware of his actual lineage, that he was indeed a descendant of Elendil.”
“So that’s Aragorn’s goal, to strip the lordship of Gondor from the Stewards and take it for himself.”
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” replied Elladan. “Surely, you’re familiar with the lore of your land, that it has been said that the King will one day return.”
Miriel shrugged off his comments. “I suppose.”
“You do not seem enthusiastic about it,” he observed. “How great it would be for the King to return! How could you not think so?” the Elf asked, somewhat baffled by her attitude.
“Probably because I’ve met him! I told you - I don’t trust Aragorn, nor do I like him.” She shifted her gaze to the Elf. “Whilst it wouldn’t break my heart to see Denethor ousted from his seat of power, it grieves me that Boromir will not get his turn. I think he would make a great Steward.”
“And why would you think Aragorn would do away with the Stewards?” queried Elladan. “The Kings have had their Stewards for many centuries.”
“It’s all about the power,” she answered. “Mark my words: If Aragorn becomes King, he’ll do away with the Stewards. He’ll see them as a threat.”
“Now that’s what I call preposterous!” said an adamant Elladan. “You and Aragorn have started off on the wrong foot. That’ll change, once you get to know him.”
“I don’t want to know him! As far as I’m concerned, I hope I never see him again.” She turned, glaring at the Elf. “You seem to forget that he tried to kill me.”
“He did not try to kill you!” contested Elladan. “It was you that tried to kill him.”
“Apparently your memory isn’t that good. I was defending myself. He attacked me!”
“No, no. That’s what not happened at all. It’s you who’s remembering the events wrong.”
Miriel and Elladan bickered back and forth over the first meeting between the Slayer and the Rangers, each having a different take on it. If anything, their arguing proved that she was at ease with the Elf, and hopefully, given some time, the same would apply to the son of Arathorn...
Chapter 19 - The Naked Truth
It wasn’t long until the conversation about Aragorn fizzled out, and Miriel and Elladan walked along in silence. Every now and again, Elrohir would pop out from behind some craggy rock, checking in on the two and updating them on the enemy’s position.
A couple of hours later, the Slayer found herself stumbling on the uneven terrain. “I need to rest,” she informed the Elf, plopping down on the ground.
“I’ve forgotten that you’re sick,” said Elladan, taking a seat beside her. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. And weak,” she answered, grabbing one of her water skins that the Elf had been carrying. She was thirsty, very thirsty.
Elladan, wondering if Miriel’s fever had returned, reached out, wanting to feel her forehead. She eased away from the Elf, uncomfortable at the thought of him touching her.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I want to see if your fever has returned,” he said to the girl. “Trust me, Miriel.”
The Slayer returned to her original position, allowing Elladan to check her temperature. His hand felt cool against her skin. “Alas, it is as I thought,” he concluded grimly. “Your fever has returned.”
Miriel gulped down some water, as the Elf rifled through his own bags, in search of something. “We need to give you another dose of medicine to help break that fever of yours,” he declared. “And I’d like to check the wound on your back to see if it’s healing properly.”
The girl wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, finding herself feeling worse than before. At this point, she was willing to take anything to feel like her old self again.
Elladan gave her another small bowl of the fruity elixir, and offered her some of his lembas.
“No, thank you,” she said, pushing away his hand that held the elvish bread.
“It will help,” he replied, taking a bite, before offering her some again. “It will renew your strength, for a time.” He inched the cake-like food toward her mouth. “Just one bite.”
Miriel gave in, and took a mouthful. Her taste buds instantly came alive.
At that moment, Elrohir appeared, seemingly out of thin air, startling the Slayer. “How do you do that?” she asked, her heart suddenly pounding feverishly in her chest. “How is it that you manage to creep up on me without so much as a sound?”
The Elf smiled. “Ancient elven secret,” he replied with a wink. He then pressed his forefinger against his lips. “Shh.”
“The enemy?” queried Elladan, his head darting up, his widening grey eyes fixed on his twin.
“Still moving west,” replied Elrohir. “They’ll have a rude awakening when they reach their destination.”
“Can we take to the road now?” asked Miriel, almost pleadingly. “I hate climbing up and down hills. It’s exhausting!”
The brothers exchanged a look. “I do not think it is wise to do so just yet. We need to wait for morning,” answered Elrohir.
Miriel grumpily sighed, none too eager to face the uneven ground again.
“Her fever has returned,” said Elladan to his brother. “Perhaps if we’re wary, we can walk the road some.” He shifted his gaze to the Slayer. “I think it will be easier for Miriel.”
The youngest son of Elrond stepped away from them and returned to the road, staring toward the west. He was reluctant to take to the road. However, the Orcs were moving rather quickly in the opposite direction. He then turned, facing the east, his elvish eyes scanning the area for any sign of the enemy coming from the Misty Mountains. After surveying the area, he returned to his traveling companions.
“If you think it will make things easier for Miriel, then we may take to the road, though we must remain vigilant. I fear there might be other yrch roaming in the hills.”
The brothers then checked on the Slayer’s injury to her back, finding that the wound had closed and was healing nicely. Several minutes later, they resumed their trek to Rivendell.
For a long while Miriel was able to keep up with the twins, but after a few hours she began to fall behind again. She was given a drink of miruvor, which invigorated her weary body, and allowed her to walk at the same pace as the twins for some time.
With the arrival of dawn, the girl could clearly see the woods that ran along the west side of the River Mitheithel. They would soon be approaching The Last Bridge, a place that brought back many memories to the young Slayer. She had called those woods home, for a time, though that seemed like ages ago. She wondered how long it had been since she had left that area and if the trolls were still prowling about. She wanted to share her story with the sons of Elrond, but figured they would find her tale of taking out two trolls insignificant. They were Elves! Surely, they had seen more impressive battles than she had.
When they reached the pass in the rock wall that lead to the lake where Miriel had met the dwarves, she stopped. A wistful smile came to her face as she traced the dwarvish runes etched on the rock’s smooth surface with her fingertip. She turned to the twins, asking, “Can we rest by the lake for a while?”
The Half-elves were somewhat taken aback that the Slayer knew of the hidden lake, and from the look on her face, it appeared to have brought to mind some delightful memory. Upon seeing that rare smile, they found themselves unable to deny her request. Elrohir insisted that he lead the way down the path, followed by the Slayer and then Elladan.
When they stepped out into the enclosure, the place looked just as beautiful as Miriel had recalled.
“You’ve been here before, no?” asked Elrohir, smiling because she was smiling.
“Yes,” she answered fondly. “I met some dwarves here, a while back.”
“The Naugrim have been coming here for centuries,” revealed Elladan, as his eyes continued to scope the area for any signs of other people.
“Hmm, yes, so I’ve been told,” remarked Miriel softly, her eyes stopping on the willow tree beside the lake. She then took off toward the water’s edge, thinking how refreshing it would be to wash her face with the cool, clean water.
The trio rested under the boughs of the willow for a while. And it was there that Miriel shared her story about her first meeting with the dwarves, and how she happened to capture one in her snare.
The sons of Elrond were fascinated by her tale, and found it all the more remarkable to learn that she had been on her own for so long. While the Elves tried to get a time frame out of her, Miriel was uncertain whether her encounter with the dwarves had happened weeks or months ago. She had given up on trying to track time when Bregolas was still alive. It just didn’t seem to matter any more.
After another bite of lembas and a sip of miruvor, the trio set out once again. Miriel’s spirits remained high, (whether that had to do with the elven cordial or not, she couldn’t tell). She was somewhat surprised to find herself feeling so at ease around the sons of Elrond. In some strange way, it almost seemed as if she had known them her whole life, like they were long, lost friends. Maybe it was that elvish air about them that made her feel that way. At least, that’s what she believed because any time Aragorn’s name was mentioned; the Slayer scowled and felt nothing but contempt for the Ranger Chieftain.
Despite her comfort with the twins, she kept her guard up all the same. The sons of Elrond had proved to be a crafty pair, each trying, in their own fashion, to subtly gain information about her life prior to leaving Minas Tirith. Yet, Miriel wasn’t about to divulge her life story to anyone, not even the Elves. It was one thing to talk in generalities, but it was altogether different to get into specifics, and that was something she would not do – ever!
The day’s march was long and tedious. It appeared that the bridge had looked much closer than it actually was. Elladan and Elrohir had done their best to help pass the time by telling old stories about their kindred and singing ancient songs about the stars. They really seemed fixated on the stars.
It’s no wonder, she thought. Their grandfather is Eärendil the Beloved, who sails the skies in his ship, wearing the last remaining Silmaril of Fëanor.
Regardless, the sons of Elrond seemed a tad bit overly fond of stars. They got this certain gleam in their eyes when they spoke of the various creations of Varda Elbereth. Miriel just didn’t get it. She preferred day to night, and the sun to the moon. Perhaps that was a trait that distinguished the younger children from the eldest. Man seemed to have a natural affinity toward the sun, though there were some in Gondor that looked upon the moon and stars with greater affection. The Slayer assumed that those Gondorians were mirroring the Elves, remembering times past, as there were still a great many in Minas Tirith that looked upon the Elder with reverence.
By late afternoon, they finally reached the bridge. As they crossed, Miriel’s eyes lingered on the face of the wall where she had rappelled down to the river to refill her water skins. Even to this day, she considered that one of her greatest achievements, as it showed how resourceful she could be when the need arose. She felt a bit of excitement at returning to this part of Eriador. In the woods of Rhudaur she had experienced some major triumphs. Besides slaying two trolls, she had also caught and cooked her first meal here, learned the art of setting traps with only rope, and learned to nest in the treetops.
Under the advisement of the twins, they left the road and would stick to the woods for a time. The trees offered them greater concealment and would make it more difficult to be espied by the enemy. The Slayer didn’t question the Elves for she too, preferred walking through the forest than the open road.
Yet, as the sun waned and light within the woods grew fainter, Miriel grew uneasy. She kept one hand wrapped around the hilt of her sword, wondering if they were anywhere near her former camp where the trolls had discovered her. Every little noise caused Miriel’s head to spin in the direction of the sound, half-expecting to see something undesirable in nature.
“Why are you so jumpy?” asked Elrohir after seeing the girl’s head jerk toward a fallen pine cone.
“There are trolls in these woods,” she answered. Her tone revealed her trepidation.
“The Trollshaws are many leagues away,” remarked Elladan indifferently, seemingly unworried that they would encounter any of the enormous creatures. “As long as we remain cautious, we’ll be fine.”
“We know these parts like the back of our hands,” added Elrohir. “We would not come this way if it was perilous.”
“Fear not, Miriel!” interjected Elladan, a smile coming to his fair face. “You have Buffy with you! That should bring you comfort.”
Miriel’s jaw nearly hit the ground when she heard that. She snapped it closed, biting her lip, wondering how on earth Elladan knew about Buffy!
Can he read my mind, my thoughts? she anxiously thought to herself. How is that possible? While Miriel knew that she and Buffy had a special Slayer bond, that didn’t explain how Elladan knew of her mentor’s existence. In the words of Buffy, she was “freaking out”, although doing her best to hide it.
“B-buffy?” she stammered.
“Yes, your sword,” he replied, pointing to Bregolas’ blade that hung at her side. “We heard you mumbling that name whilst you slept. We presumed that that was the name of your blade.”
“What a strange name it is?” observed Elrohir. “What does it mean?”
Relief instantly came over Miriel, seeing that the Elves had drawn their own conclusion, wrongly though it was. She chuckled, thinking it was best to let the Elves think that.
“Yes, my sword,” she said, still giggling. “I don’t rightly know what the name means. It… it just came to me one day.”
“Well, from what I have seen, Buffy is notched and we’ll need to whet it the first chance we get,” advised the eldest son of Elrond.
The young Slayer couldn’t stifle her laughter. Deep down, she knew that her mentor had heard the Elves comments. She wondered what Buffy would think about being referred to as a notched sword.”
“What is so amusing?” asked Elrohir, chuckling along with the girl.
“It’s nothing,” she replied, unwilling to mention her meetings with a Slayer from the future when she sleeps. That was something that she considered private and would keep to herself.
When the brothers determined that it was getting too dark to continue, they called an end to the day’s march. Just like the last time Miriel had slept in the woods, she scoped out a suitable tree to sleep in. She didn’t care if the Elves thought that odd. She felt safer in the treetops, especially knowing that there were nefarious types lurking about. Maybe the sons of Elrond didn’t feel threatened by the forest, but Miriel did.
Surprisingly, the Elves didn’t mock the Slayer when she told them what she was doing. In fact, they told her that their kin in Lórien actually built their houses in the treetops as a means of defense. Truth be told, that made her feel better. And she found it comforting that both Elves had decided to join her, finding their own branches to nest in.
They started the day’s march at dawn, meandering their way through the woods. According to the brothers, they could reach Rivendell in four days if they kept at a good pace, and took shorter breaks. Miriel’s fever had finally broken, and she was feeling better, but her strength had not returned to normal as of yet. Somehow, (maybe it was sheer determination!), she managed to keep up with Elladan and Elrohir nonetheless.
It was the following day, around midmorning, when Miriel’s bout of melancholy returned, full force. It so happened that they came across that long, massive hill that she had crossed when she left the road after Bregolas’ death. This time, however, they were south of the mound. Yet, for some reason, the sight of that hill triggered all those awful memories from when she was held captive by Valandil and his henchmen. The memories were so vivid, so real, that in some ways Miriel felt like she was reliving them all over again. The scars on her body throbbed painfully; the smell of death and decaying flesh wafted into her nostrils, making her feel sick to her stomach. And worst of all, she knew, somewhere out there, was the old hag, lying in wait for the moment when she would rear her ugly head, confronting the Slayer once again. Miriel didn’t just know it. She felt it. She felt it in every fiber of her being. And right now, she wasn’t strong enough to face such a formidable foe.
Of course, both Elladan and Elrohir noticed the swift change in Miriel’s mood. She had been in relatively high spirits since she had joined them, but now, she had become withdrawn, distant. Fear emanated from her essence. She cast nervous glances to the north, her eyes seemingly searching the woods for some unseen menace. Her hands remained in constant motion, whether rubbing at her wrists and chest or fiddling with the man’s ring that hung from the chain around her neck. It was obvious that she was in a state of distress, but what the cause was, neither could say.
“What is it, Miriel?” asked Elladan, his voice rife with concern. “What is it that troubles you so?”
The Slayer wouldn’t answer, which rattled the brothers even more. They too began searching the northern woods with their elven eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that seemed to be silently terrorizing the young girl. They could see nothing, nor did they sense any unseen fell presence. All appeared normal.
Though they had been traveling due east (for the most part), Miriel kept veering to the south, back toward the road. Whenever the Elves steered her back on the correct course, she’d follow it for a while, but then swerve back to the south again.
Desperate to leave the woods, Miriel finally uttered, “I no longer feel safe in here.”
The twins exchanged glances. Neither spoke a word, but both decided it was best to exit the forest as soon as they could. They assumed the Slayer had some innate ability to perceive an unseen threat, and that it would be in the best interests of all three to heed that warning.
Miriel quickly led the way, moving faster then she had all day. The brothers had no problem keeping up, and found themselves anxiously looking over their shoulders in case any were pursuing them.
Once they stepped out of the wood, the Slayer had thought she’d feel better. But she didn’t. To her, it seemed as if some black shadow had crept over her, filling her with fear and dread. Unsure of where Rivendell was (she had never thought to question her companions on its whereabouts), her eyes surveyed the winding road leading over the Misty Mountains. She wondered if they would climb its heights and come across the remains of Bregolas. She felt horrible that she had left him up there, left him for the carrion fowl to feed upon. Ghastly images plagued her mind, making her feel even more depressed.
Apprehension gnawed at the sons of Elrond, a result of Miriel’s despondency. One of the twins remained with her at all times, while the other scouted the road up ahead, fearing an ambush of some sort. All were quite eager to reach their destination as quickly as possible.
The following evening, the trio finally reached the ford at the Bruinen River, much to the relief of Elladan and Elrohir.
“The River Bruinen forms the border of our lands,” announced Elrohir, his eyes surveying the tall bank on the other side.
Thin wisps of fog lingered above the stream, gently gliding along with the current that sprang from the shoulder of the mountain chain to their east. In the fading light, Miriel could still see swirling foam covering the water’s surface, as the stream rushed over the rocky bed.
“It’s not deep, is it?” she asked, fearing that after another long day’s march, the river would sweep her off her weary feet.
“No, it is not deep,” replied Elladan, his eyes scanning the high bank on the other side of the stream. “No more than a foot,” he added, as the shadows of night seemed to rapidly close in on them.
Miriel eyed the steep embankment on the other side. Climbing that with wet leather boots would most certainly guarantee blisters on the back of both heels. She was nearly tempted to pull off her shoes and stockings, but thought better of it. Chances were, the rocky bed was slick with moss, and, with her luck, she’d probably slip and fall, thus injuring herself.
“Let’s get a move on,” counseled Elrohir. “Night is nearly upon us.” He then went forward into the river.
Grumbling, the Slayer then stepped into the water, her boots instantly becoming soaked. She slowly sloshed along, afraid of losing her balance on the slick rocks beneath her feet. Sure enough, about midway across, she lost her footing and let out a sharp cry. Elladan, who had been walking behind her, steadied her before she could fall into the water.
“Thanks,” she said, grateful at the Elf’s quick reflexes.
“You’re welcome.” Elladan kept a hold of Miriel’s elbow until she had safely reached the other side.
Once on the pebbly shore, the girl flexed each foot, trying to squeeze the excess water from her boots. “How much further?” she asked, her eyes lingering on the steep hill before them.
“We’re about six leagues from our home,” answered Elrohir.
Miriel knew there was no way she could travel another eighteen miles tonight. If she could make it up the steep embankment, she’d consider that a feat in and of itself.
“Let us at least get up over this bank,” suggested Elladan. “We’ll camp amidst the pines tonight.”
The Slayer wasn’t fond of pine trees with their sticky sap, and pointy needles. But, at least, they were now in the elvish realm, which brought her peace of mind.
Unlike the twins, Miriel had to clamber up the embankment, nearly on all fours. The day’s hike had left her exhausted. When she reached the top, the land leveled off, and a cleared pathway ran between the towering trees.
“What say you, Miriel? Can you walk a bit further?” asked Elrohir, who didn’t seem to be lacking energy.
“I think so,” she answered, panting from the climb.
The three then started down the trail, as the shadows thickened around them. They had gone maybe a mile or so when the discomfort of the wet leather rubbing against the back of the Slayer’s heels became unbearable and caused her to stop.
“My feet hurt,” she complained. “I think I have blisters.”
“Then we will stop for the night,” said Elladan, heaving the bags off his shoulders.
“We should reach home tomorrow afternoon,” remarked the youngest son of Elrond. He too began removing his burdens. “That is, if your feet hold up.”
“I can’t help it,” she said defensively. “Does the wet leather not bother your feet?”
“No,” both brothers answered in unison.
Miriel plopped down on the ground. “I guess the elven cobblers are superior to those of Minas Tirith,” she said, as she pulled off her boots and stockings. “Any chance of a girl purchasing boots of such fine craftsmanship?” she asked, nudging her head toward their booted feet.
“We’ll see what we can do,” responded Elrohir with a chuckle, happy to see that Miriel’s mood had greatly improved.
“Let’s take a look at those blisters of yours,” declared Elladan, as he sat by the Slayer. He inspected her cold feet and could see the skin had been rubbed raw on the back of both of her heels. “Some salve will help soothe the pain.”
The oldest son of Elrond then dug through his bag, and smeared the elvish ointment on the broken blisters. Just like his twin, he was gladdened to see that Miriel showed signs of her earlier self.
It was true. Since entering the realm of Rivendell, that ominous feeling that had enveloped the Slayer had dissipated. Maybe it had to do with the elvish magic she had read so much about, or, perhaps it was the company that she kept. Elladan and Elrohir restored her belief that the Elves were still a goodly people, that they were very much like the Elves of old - noble, caring, and most importantly, trustworthy.
As she sat there, at ease, talking with the twins, she felt an air of excitement at being in a genuine elven realm. She had always dreamed of such a thing, and now, it was a reality. Sure, she hadn’t seen any Elves other than the sons of Elrond, but tomorrow, that would all change. The brothers informed her that she would first meet with their father, the Lord of Imladris himself. How could she not be excited by that?! Though, perhaps nervously excited described her feelings best.
Miriel couldn’t help but wonder when the last time one from Gondor had set foot in Rivendell. It had to have been many generations ago, probably during the times of the Last Alliance, which was during the Second Age! That thought made her even more nervous.
Despite the brothers’ urging her to sleep, the Slayer found herself unable to. While physically tired, she remained mentally alert. It appeared that her companions felt the same way, as neither of them slept a wink that night. Instead, they spent the night in idle conversation.
Before setting off the next morning, Miriel was given some cloth to wrap around her ankles to help cushion her heels against the wet leather of her boots. The final leg of their trip would be about seventeen miles, and one that promised a decent meal once they reached the House of Elrond.
Perhaps it was Miriel’s perception, but it seemed that the last stretch of their journey seemed the longest. They continued climbing in and out of ravines, (something she had already become accustomed to), although now, the leather from her boots rubbed painfully against the back of her heels. The cloth that was meant to act as a cushion instead absorbed the blood that oozed from her raw flesh. It took everything she had to keep up with the Elves.
She had discovered it was wise to keep one’s eyes focused on the pathway. The one instant when she looked up at the morning sky, she ended up tripping over a gnarled tree root that protruded from the earth. From then on, she kept her eyes fixed on the trail, trying to follow the steps of Elrohir.
No one really spoke much, not like they had throughout the night. Perhaps they were all talked out for the time being. They took their first break around midday near the ridge of a deep valley. As soon as they had sat beneath the boughs of an oak, Miriel, no longer able to tolerate the constant rubbing on her heels, pulled off both her boots and stockings. Each strip of cloth was saturated with a combination of the salve and blood.
“I cannot wear these any longer!” grumbled Miriel, shoving her stockings into her boots.
“Why did you not say anything?” queried Elladan after hearing the girl’s complaint.
“I’ve been too much of a burden to you both already,” she answered. “I do not want to add to it. Besides, the pain is less now. I just need to go a while without wearing shoes.”
“Let’s put a bit more salve - ” started Elladan before Miriel cut him off.
“ - No, it’s alright,” she interjected. “I think a bit of air will do some good. I’ve been down this road before. But thanks, anyway.” She offered the Elf a quick smile, hoping she hadn’t offended him.
They ate and drank a bit while they rested. Prior to setting off again, Miriel felt the call of nature, and had to pee. Like she always had since traveling with the brothers, she wandered away from the twins, looking for a suitable place that offered her some privacy. A few yards off the trail she found such a place behind a huge old oak tree, its girth offering her ample concealment.
As Miriel squatted, doing her business, she heard a rustling in the treetops. Shifting her gaze upwards, she nearly fell over when she spotted a few Elves, dressed in green, hidden in the upper branches.
“What the - ” she exclaimed, quickly pulling her breeches up, angered that the Elves had not revealed themselves prior to her peeing. “Perverts!” she screeched, looking around on the ground for something to hit the voyeurs with. She found a rock and chucked it at one of the Elves, nailing him in the arm. As she hurled every curse word she could think of at the Elves, Elladan and Elrohir came rushing over to see what the commotion was all about.
Apparently, this episode, especially Miriel’s heated reaction, amused the Elves. One by one the Elves sprang out of the tree, landing effortlessly on the ground.
Smirking, one of them said, “Calm down, Dagnir.”
The girl continued with her tirade, as the sons of the Elrond tried to diffuse the situation.
“Why did you not announce yourselves, Geldur?” queried Elladan.
“We’re on sentry duty, my lord,” replied the Elf, still wearing a smirk on his face. “We are to maintain our position at all times.”
“ - You sick bastards!” Miriel finished her rant and stomped back toward the path.
“So that’s the Slayer, eh?” commented the Geldur, watching as the girl took off. “I like her. She’s feisty.”
“Should there be a next time, I hope that you’ll have the decency to announce yourselves before she... ” Elladan paused, not really wanting to finish his sentence. Regardless, Geldur and the other guards understood his message loud and clear.
Miriel’s mood soured. When the twins returned, she had her boots in hand and was ready to go.
“I’m sorry about that,” apologized Elladan.
“You should be!” she shot back angrily. “You knew they were there, and didn’t say a word.”
“I did not! I swear!” protested the eldest son of Elrond. After everything they had been through, the last thing he wanted was for Miriel to be wroth with him.
“He’s telling the truth, Miriel,” added Elrohir. “We did not know they were there.”
Still steaming, the girl said, “Let’s go.” She then took off down the path, not bothering to wait for the sons of Elrond to gather their baggage. Miriel would not pee again until they reached the House of Elrond.
The Slayer simmered in silence for a few miles. But, gradually, her anger waned and she no longer blamed the twins for that unfortunate incident.
Her spirits were raised when she began to smell the sweet fragrance of flowers and freshly cut grass lingering in the air.
“We’re nearly there, Miriel,” said a delighted Elrohir, as they stamped down a steep slope. “We’ll soon reach the bridge leading into the valley.”
The path steadily sloped downward, which made it far easier to walk. Elves appeared more openly now, some patrolling, others going about their business, but all greeted the sons of Elrond while scrutinizing Miriel with their keen elvish eyes.
Miriel heard the sounds of the waterfall long before she actually saw it. The brothers informed her that the falls ran into the River Bruinen, which wound its way through the south side of the valley.
They came upon a narrow stone bridge that crossed the swift-moving current of the Bruinen. The river was just as foamy there as it had been at the ford. Once they crossed the bridge, the road continued to slope down until it reached a stairway, cut into the rock wall. It was there that Miriel first glimpsed the magnificent House of Elrond.
As she descended the steps, Miriel drank in her surroundings, finding them more spectacular than she could have ever imagined. From what she could see, the house itself looked to be wrought from both stone and wood, married in perfect harmony, and fit perfectly into its natural setting. The Slayer was somewhat surprised that Rivendell was not a city like Minas Tirith or Dol Amroth, that it contained one massive building in which all the residents resided. There were a few other structures, off to her left, but they were not dwellings except for the stables, which, of course, housed only horses.
The sons of Elrond happily explained these things along the way. There were a lot more Elves on this side of the bridge than the other. Those that she passed looked her up and down with their wide grey eyes, some whispering behind their hands to their traveling companions. That made her highly uncomfortable and very self-conscious.
Noticing Miriel’s discomfort, Elrohir said, “Fret not, Miriel! Our kin marvel at the fact that a Slayer walks amongst them, something that has not happened for ages untold.”
Miriel glanced at the youngest son of Elrond, stunned to hear that the Elves viewed her in the same manner as she did them.
“You’re a myth come alive,” added Elladan with a chortle. “And, it seems that word of your coming has spread throughout all of Imladris.”
The Slayer could feel many eyes watching her. It suddenly occurred to her how horrid her appearance was. Her garments were soiled with blood and grime, her hair unkept, and of course, she walked barefoot. Not to mention her body odor. Miriel did not smell like freshly cut daisies. No wonder they were all staring at her! She looked uncomely.
Shifting her boots to one hand, the girl tried to nonchalantly comb her hair with her fingers, an act that caused the twins to laugh.
“No, no!” said Elrohir, brushing her hand away from her head. “You’re battle-worn. That’s part of the Slayer appeal.”
“I look like a street urchin!” she grumbled in discontent.
“You look wonderful!” chimed in smiling Elladan.
“Pfft!” she sounded, rolling her eyes. “Elves,” she mumbled under her breath.
The trio climbed the steps leading to the columned porch that stretched before the front doors of the house. Miriel’s nervousness was rapidly reaching new heights. The doors were swung opened, and a long hallway ran from the front of the house all the way to the back. They followed that way, passing by a winding staircase and more Elves, who, like the others, stared at Miriel with widening eyes.
Not wanting to make eye contact with any, she kept her head hung low, missing out on the beauty of Elrond’s house. She was steered down another corridor to her left at the rear of the house. They went down that hall until they neared the end. She was stopped before a set of double doors to her right.
Elladan swung open one of the doors, and motioned for Miriel to enter. As she stepped into the room, Elrohir grabbed the boots from her hand. “Here! I’ll take those.”
The eldest son of Elrond then started to close the door, but the Slayer stopped him. “You’re not staying?” she queried anxiously, holding the edge of the door.
“No,” he answered. “We have to get Father.”
“We shan’t be long,” added his brother, giving the girl a reassuring smile. “Make yourself at home.”
The door then closed. Miriel turned around, surveying the chamber. She appeared to be in a study, Elrond’s she assumed. It was a fine room, most certainly befitting an Elf Lord. The afternoon sun spilled in through the tall arched windows that lined the western wall, providing the only light within the chamber. Along the northern wall were multiple sets of glass doors that opened onto a porch that overlooked the back garden. Nestled catty-cornered by the windows was an elaborately carved wooden desk covered with stacks of papers and a few books. To Miriel’s right, along the eastern wall, was a large fireplace with built-in bookshelves that covered the walls on either side, stretching from floor to ceiling. The shelves were crammed with books, rolls of parchment, and miniature statues that doubled as bookends.
A seating area was located nearest to the door, where Miriel stood. Two couches and fours chairs, all comfortable looking, were positioned around a coffee table; its legs carved in the shape of flowering trees. The walls were paneled in a very light colored wood, contrasting with the deep, rich colors of the fabric of the furniture, which were deep green, red and gold. Paintings adorned the walls not covered with shelving or windows - some of people, some of cities that Miriel did not recognize. The largest was a portrait that hung above the mantle of the fireplace, that of a woman with long, golden hair.
The Slayer found herself drawn to that portrait, in particular. She stepped further into the room, wringing her increasingly sweaty palms in nervous anticipation at her impending meeting with the Lord of Rivendell. She stopped before the painting, and stared at the woman, who almost seemed to be staring back at her. Miriel slowly moved her head from side to side, noticing that the woman’s eyes did indeed seem to follow her. She surmised that that must have been some form of elven magic. She had never seen anything like that before.
For several minutes Miriel stood there, somewhat spell-bound by the painting, especially those captivating grey eyes of the woman.
Then, from out of nowhere, she heard a man’s voice say, “That’s Celebrían.”
The girl let out a startled gasp, spinning around toward the voice.
There stood Elrond, who had silently entered the room, catching Miriel off guard. He gave her a small smile before adding, “My wife.” He stood just inside the doorway, loosely clasping his hands before him.
Miriel was speechless, and looked upon the renowned Elf Lord with awe. His red tunic accentuated his long, dark, straight hair, which was draped over either shoulder, falling nearly to his waist. His tan breeches looked similar to her own, but of course, were neatly pressed and impeccably clean. Yet it was his eyes that she found bedazzling, hypnotic. They shone with a light, very different from his sons. She thought that strange until she remembered that this was the son of Eärendil.
The Elf Lord slowly crossed the room, approaching Miriel. “She has sailed West, long ago,” he continued, speaking solemnly of his wife.
There was air of sadness to Elrond’s voice, and that soft smile had momentarily left his face. Though he had said so little, what he had said, filled Miriel with sorrow. She wondered why Celebrían had departed Middle-earth, leaving behind her husband and children. Didn’t those that sailed West depart together, as a family? There was no way she was about to question the Elf Lord on such a personal matter, and not knowing how to respond, she remained silent.
The warm smile returned to Elrond’s face. He stopped before the girl. His eyes did not inspect her as his kinsmen had done, but remained locked with hers. “Well met, Dagnir,” he then said in greeting.
Still at a loss for words, Miriel replied with a slight nod of her head, finding herself unable to break eye contact with the Elf Lord. She remained silent, transfixed, staring into the intense grey eyes of Elrond. It soon became abundantly clear that Elrond was utilizing his elven powers to search Miriel’s mind. Images of past events flashed in her mind, beginning with that meeting with Gandalf a few years back when he had suggested that she search the Slayer lore.
The girl began to panic when she realized what the Elf was doing. She feared that he would discover her deepest, darkest secrets, the ones that were at the root of her greatest humiliation. Of course, trying to hide those thoughts brought those images rushing to the surface for Elrond to see. Miriel’s unblinking eyes welled with tears, and her breathing came in rasps as if she were in some great contest of strength. She was mortified, feeling as though she stood naked before the Elf Lord, her mind betraying her, exposing every secret she had ever kept.
Miriel could feel the warmth of her tears trickling down her dirt-streaked cheeks, as she prayed for Elrond to stop his trespass on her mind.
When the Elf Lord had seen every degrading act the girl had been subjected to, he broke eye contact and took a step backward.
The Slayer immediately turned away from Elrond, burying her face in her hands, and wept over what had just transpired. No words could describe the humiliation she felt.
Elrond was greatly disturbed by all that he had seen. There was no doubting that this girl was indeed the Slayer, for even he could feel her power before entering the study. I t was the horrors that she had endured, the torments, that filled him with both sorrow and anger. To see that this girl, this mere child, had been abused repeatedly by those whom she trusted was unconscionable. He would never have expected such a thing from Denethor, and now had a better understanding why she had refused to acknowledge her parentage. The Steward of Gondor’s actions were deplorable, unforgiveable.
The Lord of Imladris needed a few moments to compose himself. He had not expected to see anything like that! He shifted his gaze to Miriel, who continued to sob into the palms of her hands. He glanced at the portrait of Celebrían, thinking of his own wife’s past torments, and how she had been unable to find peace in Middle-earth afterwards. Would the same be true for the Slayer? It had not been so long ago that those heinous crimes had been committed against her. It had taken Celebrían a year to admit that Elrond had failed to heal her wounds, wounds that ran far too deep to be healed outside the Blessed Realm.
Elrond looked back at the girl. How his heart ached for her. Fate had been so unkind to Miriel. Not only would she have to live with her past torments, but being a Slayer meant that her life would be short-lived. That made it all the more tragic.
He stepped closer to the crying girl, wanting to comfort her. He hesitated before placing his hands on her shoulders. He could feel her muscles tighten when he touched her.
“You’re safe, Miriel,” he said softly. “I promise no harm will come to you in my lands.”
The Slayer wasn’t sure if she could believe Elrond, for she couldn’t help but feel that he too had violated her, though in a different way. Perhaps the Lord of Imladris sensed this. He gently turned her around and pulled her hands from her face.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his fingers tenderly lifting her chin, so that they made eye contact. “I had to know, for my peoples’ sake, whether your powers were bestowed upon you by the Lord of Mordor or the Lords of the West,” he explained. Both the tone of his voice and kindly eyes revealed his sincerity. “I can now say that you are not under his thrall.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the tears on the girl’s face. In a firmer voice, Elrond added, “You’ve done nothing wrong. And your past is just that - in the past. We will speak no more of it. Your secrets will not be shared with anyone, if that is your will.”
Miriel could only nod. She stifled her tears, feeling a bit better after what Elrond had said. She hated the thought of not being able to trust the Elves. And, if what Elrond said was true, as she believed, how could she blame him for wanting to protect his people? Surely, it was not everyday one encountered a girl with powers such as hers, Elf or not.
The Lord of Imladris then poured her a small glass of wine to help ease her anxiety. Whatever kind of wine it was, it most certainly did make her feel better.
Only a few minutes later, there was a soft tapping on the door to the room. The door eased open and a young woman with long, dark hair entered, wearing a smile on her face.
“Oh, Arwen, your timing couldn’t be any better,” Elrond said, as the woman crossed the room with a gracefulness that Miriel could only envy. The Lord of Imladris then shifted his gaze to Miriel. “Miriel, this is my daughter Arwen.” He then looked at his daughter. “This is - ”
“Dagnir,” she interjected, her eyes doing a quick survey of the girl. “You’re the talk of the entire house!”
“I think Miriel could do with a bath. Will you see to it that she is cleaned and garbed in more suitable clothing?”
“Of course, Father,” answered Arwen. The elleth took Miriel by the arm.
“You’re in good hands, Miriel,” reassured Elrond, as the two women started to leave.
Once again, Miriel could only nod, as Arwen led her out of the room.
“You and I look to be around the same size. Perhaps we’ll find something in my wardrobes for your to wear,” said Arwen, her eyes doing another quick sweep of Miriel’s frame. She steered the girl down the corridor. “I am stunned to be in the presence of a real Slayer. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, even for one of the Elder.”
There was an air of excitement in both her voice and demeanor, something that Miriel noticed immediately. She couldn’t believe an Elf would show so much interest in her - a mere mortal girl.
“Have you ever encountered false Slayers before?” asked Miriel, out of curiosity. She couldn’t help but notice that the elleth had used the term ‘real’ before the word Slayer.
Arwen chortled. “No, I cannot say that I have. According to Erestor, he’s Father’s Chief Counsellor, Slayers identities are supposed to be kept secret.”
Miriel glanced around the hallway, noticing all the elvish faces keenly watching her. “Apparently, I have failed miserably in that department!”
The elleth eyed those lingering in the corridors. “Do not worry about those that dwell in Imladris. All here are honorable and trustworthy. Your secret’s safe, Miriel,” she added in a whisper, nodding her head.
Having Arwen as a companion was a nice change of pace for Miriel. It seemed as if it had been forever since she had last spoken with another female. The elleth continued to chit-chat with the girl, as they climbed the many steps of the winding stairway.
The Slayer was a little taken aback that she was brought to Arwen’s own rooms, and even more stunned to see that the tub in her bathroom was full of hot, steamy water and bubbles galore. An assortment of bath oils and soaps were at Miriel’s disposal.
Miriel blinked her eyes several times, thinking that this was some sort of illusion. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had had a hot bath.
“We knew you were coming,” remarked Arwen, watching Miriel, who looked nearly dumbstruck. “We heard that you had been in battle, and were in need of a good washing.”
Staring almost trance-like at the steam rising from the top of the bubbles, Miriel softly replied with, “Do not take the small things for granted, as I had, Arwen. Baths are truly a luxury, one that I dearly miss.”
“There is no reason to delay. It’s for you.” The woman motioned toward the tub.
The Slayer turned to the Elf, and smiled. “Thank you, Arwen.”
“You’re welcome.”
Miriel faced the tub, a smile returning to her face. Tossing modesty aside (Arwen was a woman after all!); the Slayer pulled her tunic up over her head. Before she could even remove the garment, she heard the elleth’s sharp intake of breath. When she pulled her top off, she glanced at Arwen. The woman’s eyes were wide, fixed on the scar on Miriel’s chest. Arwen’s hand shot to her mouth, which hung open in shock. The Slayer could see the blood rapidly draining from the young woman’s fair face.
“What?” queried the girl, having momentarily forgotten about the scar carved into her chest.
Arwen began to softly utter a prayer under her breath.
The Slayer then realized that the Elf woman was staring at the hideous Eye engraved in her flesh. She immediately covered the offensive mark with her filthy top, her cheeks turning bright red. Overwhelmed with both embarrassment and shame, she turned away from Arwen, fighting back the tears that were swiftly filling her eyes. How could she have forgotten such a thing? Would Arwen assume that she was an emissary of the Dark Lord? Or, even worse - would Miriel have to explain how the scar got there in the first place? That was something that she did not want to do.
“Oh, Miriel,” she heard Arwen whimper. “What happened to you?”
The Slayer brushed away the tears that had managed to escape her eyes. She took several deep breaths before turning toward the woman once again. She was surprised to see a teardrop rolling down Arwen’s cheek.
“What did they do to you?” she asked faintly, shaking her head in dismay.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Miriel answered, not wanting to break down in front of the elleth as she had done in the presence of her father. “Please do not make me.”
Arwen had to pull herself together. She saw that her reaction was upsetting the Slayer. “I’m sorry.” The Elf was not wholly apologizing for her reaction, but more about what the girl had been through. Aragorn had mentioned to her his belief that Miriel had been held captive. And, there was no doubting that. But what troubled Arwen greatly were the torments that Miriel had obviously suffered at the hands of her captors. To have one’s body disfigured with the Eye of Sauron was beyond cruel. Arwen found herself wondering what other horrors to which this young child had been subjected.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Miriel pleaded, fearing that all of Rivendell would soon learn of her scar, as they had about her being the Slayer.
“I won’t,” answered Arwen, her eyes filled with pity. The daughter of Elrond would keep that promise, and not even tell her beloved Aragorn of the scar engraved on the girl’s chest.
Miriel then quickly finished undressing, and climbed into the tub. Arwen tried to change the subject, and talked of the various oils and soaps which she had laid out for the Slayer. Much to the relief of both women, the tension that had crept into the room soon passed.
Arwen pulled up a stool beside the tub, wanting to assist Miriel. When she washed the girl’s hair, she noticed how uneven the strands were. She offered to fix it when the Slayer had finished her bath. Miriel gladly accepted the elleth’s offer.
Between baths (Miriel took two to get clean), Arwen cut the Slayer’s hair so that it was more evenly shaped. As she carefully clipped away, she finally mentioned the ring dangling from the chain hanging from the Slayer’s neck.
“I could not help but notice the ring you wear around your neck,” mentioned Arwen, thinking that speaking of the ring was a perfectly acceptable topic of conversation. She stopped for a moment, shifting the comb into the same hand that held the scissors. She reached under the bodice of her gown and pulled out her own ring on a silver chain. Smiling, she said, “I have one too. A betrothal gift from the love of my life.”
“You’re betrothed?” queried Miriel. She was somewhat surprised, thinking that Arwen looked closer to her own age than she actually was. She had no idea that the elleth was over twenty-seven hundred years old.
“I have been for many years now,” she answered in a wistful voice. “Hopefully it won’t be much longer before Aragorn and I wed.”
“Aragorn?!” exclaimed Miriel in shocked disbelief. “You’re going to marry Aragorn?” The Slayer did not hide her disdain for the Ranger Chieftain, and actually began to question Arwen’s judgment at wanting to marry the son of Arathorn. Something had to be wrong with a woman that wanted to be with him!
Arwen smiled at Miriel’s response. Aragorn had told her that his first meeting with the Slayer hadn’t gone well. So the girl’s reaction was quite predictable. “He’s a good man, Miriel. I know that you and he got off on the wrong foot - ”
“ - He tried to kill me!” interjected the Slayer, still astounded that such an apparently lovely young woman would be attracted to the likes of Aragorn.
“He did not try to kill you,” replied Arwen, chuckling at the absurdity of the girl’s statement. “He was trying to protect you, to save you from the Orcs.” Her tone turned serious. “Things would’ve gone awry for you, Dagnir if he and his fellow rangers had not come along. You should thank him for that.”
Miriel couldn’t help but feel that Arwen was scolding her like a mother would a child. That was the first time that Arwen appeared older than Miriel. The elleth let the ring drop on the outside of the bodice of her dress. The Slayer could see its reflection in the mirror. She didn’t know how to respond to the woman’s comments.
“He’s wise beyond his years,” Arwen gushed, as she resumed trimming Miriel’s hair. “He’s very much like the Edain of old, his kin.” She looked into the mirror, meeting the girl’s gaze. “And yours too.”
The Slayer remained speechless, still too shocked by the news that Arwen wanted to marry Aragorn. That was going to take some time to process. However, Miriel felt it was best not to criticize Arwen’s lover in her presence. It was the elleth, after all, that was betrothed to him, not Miriel.
When Arwen finished trimming the Slayer’s hair, and the girl returned to the tub for a second time, the daughter of Elrond turned the topic of conversation to her first meeting with Aragorn, and their courtship, which had taken place many years earlier.
“... And he had thought that I was my forebear, and he called out to me,‘Tinúviel! Tinúviel!’” Arwen’s voice was dream-like, and it seemed to Miriel that that meeting with Aragorn was the Elf’s fondest memory in her entire life. Not only that, but the more Arwen spoke of Aragorn, the less the Slayer detested him. She had no idea that that was Arwen’s intention from the get-go, to turn Miriel’s loathing toward the Dúnadan to one of love and respect.
By the time the Slayer had finished bathing, and dried off, Arwen felt as if Miriel was a long lost friend in whom she could confide. As the Elf helped the girl back into her robe, she sadly added, “For so long I have been compared to my foremother. I’ve walked in her shadow. Yet, I’m not at all like her, save in appearance.”
“That’s not true,” contested the Slayer. Though, deep down, she didn’t believe that any woman could be compared to the likes of Lúthien, at least none outside of Valinor. No other woman in the history of Middle-earth, Elf or otherwise, had ever accomplished such deeds of prowess and bravery than Lúthien the Fair. For Eru’s sake - she confronted Morgoth Bauglir on his own turf! No other woman, or man for that matter, had the guts to do something such as that! No, there were none that even came close to matching the valiance of the daughter of Thingol.
Arwen knew that Miriel had voiced her protest out of the goodness of her heart, that her comments had no basis in reality. “I’ve accepted my lot in life,” concluded the daughter of Elrond. “I relish the thought of becoming Aragorn’s wife and queen one day. No greater gift can I give him, than an heir, and hopefully there will be many.”
Miriel cringed at the thought of having such a purpose in life. Hearing Arwen talk made her grateful to be the Slayer. At least she had a sacred duty to fulfill, which, in her opinion, was far better than dreaming of becoming a wife and mother! Perish the thought!
As they went into Arwen’s dressing room, the Elf continued to talk as somberly as before. “But, you, Miriel, are more like my forebear than any I’ve known.”
“I think the fumes from the perfume have gotten to you, Arwen,” replied the girl with a chuckle. “I’m not like any Elf, especially your foremother.”
The elleth shifted her gaze to the Slayer. “You have elvish blood in you - I can see that!”
“It’s so minute, it’s only detectable by the Elder,” remarked Miriel lightheartedly, attempting to dismiss Arwen’s comments.
“You’re strong, Miriel, stronger than you know,” she continued, sifting through her wardrobe for possible outfits for her new friend. “Love might have driven my forebear to do what she did, but that’s not wholly different from what you do. Do you not slay to protect those you love? Does that not motivate you to action? You will do great things. I see that. And should my time come, I will see to it that others never forget your deeds of valor.”
The Slayer’s head was spinning with thoughts unimaginable. While she was well aware that the Elder had the gift of foresight (even some mortals possessed such gifts), did Arwen actually foresee Miriel doing great things similar to those of Lúthien? Would her name be remembered in the annals of history? Was it Miriel’s task to take down one as powerful as the Dark Lord himself? All these questions went racing through her mind, making the Slayer excited about what the future had in store for her. She was beginning to think that her luck was changing, and that, with the help of the Elves, she’d take out Middle-earth’s enemies one by one, gaining infamy along the way. However, she overlooked the fact that Arwen had said that she would see to it that people remembered her deeds of valor, that Miriel would not be relating the stories herself. For the elleth could see that the Slayer’s life would not only be a hard one, but would also be a short one...
Chapter 20 - Living Legends
Though Miriel had bathed and was now dressed in clean clothing, she had no desire to join the rest of the household at supper time. After being on her own for so long, she was not yet ready to deal with so many people watching her every move. It made her self-conscious and nervous. Instead, she remained in the room that had been assigned to her. While it was by no means anything like the elaborate rooms of Arwen, it was comfortable, and overlooked the back garden.
When the bells rang out at meal time, the twin sons of Elrond brought dinner to her, and much to her delight, both stayed and ate with her. The food was to die for, seasoned and cooked to perfection, unlike the fare that Miriel had cooked for herself, which she tended to overcook. And there was meat – delicious, savory meat! To her, it was the best meal she had had in her entire life.
With her belly full, the Slayer became drowsy. The twins had wanted to take her on a tour of Imladris, but she turned them down. She wanted to wait a few days until talk of her died down some before exploring the house and grounds. At that moment, all she wanted to do was to crawl into the bed that beckoned to her with its soft, feathered pillows and clean linens.
Both Elladan and Elrohir had bid her goodnight, but promised to return in the morning.
Arwen had been generous enough to loan Miriel some additional garments to wear until the Slayer’s own clothes were finished being washed and mended. She changed into a nightgown before sliding under the covers of the bed. For the first time in a long while, Miriel felt completely safe. Not long after closing her eyes, she drifted off, and entered the dreamscape...
She was somewhat surprised to find herself standing on the bank along the Anduin. It seemed like it had been a long time since she was last here in her dreams. She stood amidst the trees, watching Buffy standing on the shore, skimming stones on the waters surface. Things had not been so good between the two Slayers, not since Miriel’s blow up days earlier. Since then, each young woman avoided the other, too stubborn and proud to put an end to the rift that had divided them.
Though Miriel didn’t feel that she was wholly to blame, she thought the time had arrived to put an end to this nonsense once and for all. She stomped loudly down the embankment, hoping that Buffy would hear her footfalls. She then climbed atop a large rounded boulder situated by the shoreline. Though she had made ample noise, her mentor did not acknowledge her presence.
“You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?” she asked, breaking the silence between them.
“What ever gave you that idea?” replied Buffy, her tone as cold as the peaks of the Misty Mountains.
“I’ve come to make peace and... and to say I’m sorry, for the other day,” Miriel grudgingly said. “I was out of line.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
Buffy tossed the last stone in her hand. It skipped along the waters surface four times before sinking, leaving ripples in its wake. Wiping her hands on the legs of her leather pants, she turned around and looked up at Miriel, sitting on the boulder. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she said, “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” She had been waiting for said apology for days now.
“No,” answered Miriel dismally.
Buffy’s shoes crunched along the pebbly shore as she made her way over to Miriel.
Here it comes, thought the young Slayer. She could see by the stern look on her mentor’s face that she was about to be lectured. Bite your tongue, Miriel. It’ll be over before you know it.
The elder Slayer then climbed up onto the boulder and sat beside Miriel. She remained quiet for a few minutes, collecting her thoughts. “I know things have been rough for you,” Buffy began, wanting to choose her words carefully. “I know you’ve been through a lot.”
Miriel felt the need to interject her thoughts, but when she took a breath to speak, her mentor raised her hand, saying, “Not now. Let me finish.”
Buffy’s gaze remained fixed on the river. She pulled her knees to her chest and loosely wrapped her arms around them, one hand clutching the other wrist. “I’ve put up with your bullshit for some time now,” she continued, speaking coolly. “I’ve tried to let things go, but I can’t take it any more.” She turned her hazel eyes to her protégé. “I’m sick and tired of being your punching bag. I’m sick and tired of taking your crap. I’m not the enemy here, but you treat me as if I am. I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to make you a better Slayer, but instead, you shit on me, over and over and over again. I can’t take it any more, Miriel. It’s gotta stop.” She shook her head. With a heavy sigh, she turned her eyes back to the Anduin.
“I don’t mean to be that way,” Miriel said softly. “I don’t mean to take my hostilities out on you.”
“But you have been!” snapped Buffy, her narrowed eyes returning to the girl.
The young Slayer felt horrible for the way she had been treating her mentor. She really didn’t mean to be so volatile. “I’m sorry. Is there any way I can make it up to you?”
“Yeah, just stop doing it,” the elder Slayer retorted, shifting her eyes back to the river.
For a long while they sat in silence, both staring at the current as it swiftly passed by. Despite Miriel’s apology, tension continued to linger between the two. The young girl racked her brain, desperate to find a way to lighten the mood. Her eyes lit up when an idea occurred to her.
“Did you hear that the Elves thought Buffy was the name of my sword?” she asked, an impish grin on her face.
Buffy replied with a combination of a snicker-snort. “Yeah, I heard.” She rolled her eyes. After a brief pause, she asked, “So, is Riverdale what you thought it’d be?”
“Rivendell,” Miriel corrected. “It’s called Rivendell.”
Once again, the elder Slayer rolled her eyes, but waited for the girl to reply.
“It’s not at all as I thought it would be,” she answered. “I mean, I thought Rivendell was a city – a real city, like Minas Tirith.” She shifted her gaze to her mentor. “Do you not find it strange that all the Elves live in one, big house? Do people live that way in your world?”
“No, not really,” replied Buffy thoughtfully. “I guess the closest thing would be prisons, which houses criminals. They do call it ‘The Big House’. And then there’s the hippie types that are into that whole communal living thing. But that kinda died out in the 70’s, I think.”
“Hmm,” sounded Miriel, falling quiet.
Buffy studied the girl, who seemed to be consumed by her thoughts. She figured that her protégé would be quite eager to talk of the Elves and their realm. It had been a life-long dream of hers. She leaned back, using her arms to support her, as she let her legs hang over the boulder. “The Elves seem really taken with you. You’re a living legend to them!”
“Pfft,” replied the girl with a roll of her eyes. “I’m no legend.”
“Of course you are,” said Buffy. “You’re the Slayer! Even the Elves see the significance of that.” The elder Slayer chortled under her breath. “Enjoy it while you can, Miriel, because outside of River... er, Rivendell, you need to keep your identity secret.”
“It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think,” responded the girl, feeling as though everyone knew who she really was.
“I think those that have an inkling of who you are, who you really are, are dead. That’s the way you need to keep it.”
“The old hag knows,” said Miriel, her eyes shifting to the stream. “And she’s still out there, somewhere.”
“Yeah, and when you guys meet again, you’re gonna kick her old, wrinkly ass!”
Miriel glanced at Buffy. “You really think so?” she asked hopefully.
“I know so,” answered the elder Slayer confidently. “If you’re up to it, we can do some training. A Slayer can never train too much.”
“Alright,” answered Miriel.
While the two Slayers began to spar in the dreamscape, in the waking world, Elrond had summoned a few select members of his household to his study for an informal meeting concerning Miriel. Both of his sons were in attendance, as were Aragorn and Halbarad, since, by all rights, those from the Northern Kingdom wielded the power of the Slayer. He had also asked Erestor and Glorfindel to be present, deciding that those two Elves could assist Miriel until Elrond deemed that she would be ready to return to the wilds of Eriador with the Rangers.
Since Erestor and Glorfindel didn’t have the back story on how the Rangers had first met the Slayer, Elrond asked that Aragorn inform them about what had transpired on Amon Sûl. He explained how he and his men were drawn to Weathertop by the howls of many wargs, and that when they reached the mound, they found the Slayer, alone, battling numerous Orcs and wolves. He relayed all the events that had happened until he was forced to leave the party on the road due to Miriel’s distrust of him. From there, Elladan and Elrohir picked up the story, telling of their journey to Rivendell, accompanied by the Slayer.
Once they had finished recounting their tale, Elrond then spoke briefly of his own encounter with the Slayer, making a point to be deliberately vague.
“You have not said much, Elrond,” commented Erestor, noticing that his lord had not divulged much information about his initial meeting with the Slayer. “Did you not use your gifts to find out about the girl? Is she indeed the daughter of the Steward of Gondor? Is she truly the Slayer, or a spy of the Dark Lord, sent to Imladris to make mischief?”
“I can assure you, my friend,” started the Lord of Rivendell, “that Miriel is no servant of Sauron, and that she is indeed the daughter of Denethor.” He shifted his grey eyes to Halbarad. “I can say without question that she is truly the Chosen One, that her powers were bestowed upon her by those in the West.”
“I knew it!” exclaimed Halbarad, excited that his gut feelings had been confirmed by the mighty Elf Lord. “I could tell that she was the Slayer the moment I saw her fight. No mere maiden has such skill to fend off so many goblins!”
“That was not her first clash with Orcs,” revealed Elrond, “This Slayer has seen combat before.”
“She was captured, wasn’t she?” asked Aragorn grimly. “I saw scars on both of her wrists, scars resulting from one struggling within tight bindings.”
Elrond paused. He didn’t want to reveal too much so that he could keep his promise to Miriel. “The road that brought Dagnir to Imladris has been dark, and one of much pain. I would counsel you all not to press the issue with her, not to question her past. Some wounds have not yet healed, and perhaps, never will. It is my hope that whilst Miriel is here, we’ll be able to ease her suffering, to help make her whole again. She has already demonstrated a resiliency that is not often seen in Man.”
The Elf Lord paused again, as the others pondered his comments. What wounds had not healed? What did the Orcs do to her while holding her captive?
“It seems to me, Father, that some misfortune had befallen Miriel before she had set out from Gondor, that some grief caused her to leave her home,” remarked a perceptive Elrohir.
“Nay! It was her Calling that caused her to leave!” voiced Halbarad, his tone full of certainty. “I believe her prophetic dreams sent her on her way, that she understood her Slayer skills would be needed outside of Gondor.”
“I think its best not to discuss that which drove Miriel to depart Minas Tirith,” cautioned Elrond. “If and when Miriel decides she’s ready, let her be the one that brings up her past. From this day forward our concern will be with doing what we can to help Miriel become a more effective Slayer.”
“And what is it that you want us to do, Elrond?” asked Glorfindel, as it seemed that he was to have some role in his lord’s plans.
Elrond shifted his gaze to the mighty Noldo. “Miriel will need to be properly trained – ”
“ – But that’s my task!” interjected Halbarad, nearly leaping out of his chair. “She’s my Slayer! My responsibility!”
Elrond’s brows darted upward; a wry smile coming to his face. “You speak of her as if she’s your possession, Halbarad. The Slayer is a person, and does not belong to you or anyone else.”
“With all due respect, Lord Elrond, I am her designated Watcher. It’s my birthright to train her, not Glorfindel’s,” contested the Dúnadan. He did not like the thought of the Elves interfering with his life’s mission, especially seeing as it had been centuries since a Slayer had last appeared in this part of Middle-earth.
Before Elrond could respond to the Ranger, Elladan spoke up. “She does not trust you, Hal. And, as far as I can see, it will be some time before she will.”
Halbarad seemed insulted by the Half-elf’s comments. “I’ve done nothing wrong! I’ve said no ill words to Miriel, nor have I done her wrong.”
Aragorn shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Though his name had not been said aloud, it seemed obvious to the Ranger Chieftain that he was the one that had caused Miriel’s mistrust of men.
“Trust is something that must be earned and will not be granted simply because you’re a Watcher,” said the Lord of Rivendell. “Miriel’s mistrust of men happened long before she even met you.”
“But, she trusts the Elves?!” queried Halbarad, somewhat insulted by that notion.
“She is wary, even of us,” replied Elladan. “We are the first Elves she has ever met, and, in her mind, we have not wronged her… ”
“Yet!” added the Watcher, sinking back into the cushions of the couch.
Elrohir narrowed his eyes . “What are you implying, Hal? Do you think we seek to do harm to the Slayer?”
“No,” he grumbled, folding his arms across his chest.
“I can assure you, Halbarad – your time will come,” said Elrond, understanding how upset the Watcher was. “Let the Elder work with her first. Then, we’ll introduce you into her daily routine, allowing you and Glorfindel to work together, for a time. Once we see that you have earned Miriel’s trust, we will step aside and let you take charge.”
All eyes turned to Halbarad. He wasn’t fond of the idea, but it seemed that he had no other choice but to accept Elrond’s plan.
“Fine,” he answered. “But I would like to watch these training sessions. I want to see for myself what Dagnir’s current skill level is, so I can adjust my future training sessions accordingly.”
“I think that can be arranged,” answered Glorfindel with a nod of his head.
“And how is it that I fit into this design of yours, Elrond?” asked Erestor, who had remained quiet throughout most of the conversation. “I am no mighty warrior – at least, I cannot compare to the likes of Glorfindel here.” He motioned toward the golden haired Noldo, offering him a quick smile.
“The Slayer will have questions that she will seek the answers to, and that is where you come in.”
“But why not you?” queried the puzzled Councilor. “You are master of this land. I would think that you would be the one Miriel would seek.”
Elrond sighed heavily. “I’m afraid that things will be… awkward, between the Slayer and myself for a while. She will avoid me in coming days.”
“Why is that, Father?” asked Elrohir.
“Miriel is displeased with my method of extracting information from her. But, let us drop the matter, for now. We all know our parts to play. Let us do all we can to make Miriel comfortable here.”
“Should I go?” asked Aragorn, thinking that he was the one that had caused the Slayer the most distress. “Is it best for me to return to the wilds?”
“Nay,” replied the Lord of Imladris. “Arwen is doing what she can to help dispel Miriel’s distrust toward you.” He smiled. “The Slayer will eventually come around.”
Elladan and Elrohir woke Miriel the following morning, and brought her breakfast in bed.
“You’re spoiling me!” she said, eyeing the victuals on the tray set before her. “A girl could get used to this.”
“We hope this is temporary, and that you’ll soon be joining us in the main hall at mealtimes,” remarked Elladan as he sat on the edge of her bed.
“It’s a shame that you want to stay locked up in this room when we could be outside enjoying the last days of summer,” chimed in his brother, sitting across from Miriel.
“The last days of summer,” said the skeptical Slayer, shoveling a forkful of eggs into her mouth. “Surely, you jest! I thought autumn had already arrived.”
“How can it be autumn when the leaves are still green? Do the leaves not turn color in Minas Tirith?” asked Elladan.
“There are not many trees in the White City.” Elladan’s comments made Miriel curious about the date for the first time in a long while. “What is today’s date?”
When Miriel heard Elladan reply August the 28th, the fork fell from her grasp and landed on the plate with a clatter. She couldn’t believe that so little time had passed since she had departed Minas Tirith. She could’ve sworn that much more time had passed since then.
“Are you alright?” asked Elrohir, his face anxious. “What’s wrong?”
The Slayer was still somewhat dazed by the date.
“Miriel? Miriel?” Elladan said with concern.
Refocusing her attention on her companions, the girl said, “I cannot believe that time has moved so much more slowly than I had thought. I thought the date was somewhere between September and October.”
“The leaves have long turned color at that time of year,” pointed out Elladan.
“And have begun to fall from the trees as well,” added his twin.
“How long has it been since you set out from Gondor?” asked the eldest son of Elrond, hoping his question wouldn’t upset the Slayer.
“I left on June the 21st, a little over two months ago.” She shook her head in dismay, still finding it hard to believe that so much had happened to her in such a short amount of time.
“Do not let such a trivial thing cause you distress,” counseled Elrohir. “Eat. It will make you feel better.”
Elrohir was right. There was nothing Miriel could do about the date or how little time she had actually spent on her own. It was pointless to dwell on such things. Though still stunned, she resumed eating, nibbling on a strip of crispy bacon.
“We had a discussion about you last night,” disclosed Elladan, helping himself to a strip of bacon.
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” mumbled Miriel, tossing down the bacon for a sip of tea. “And what did the illustrious Elves of Imladris have to say about me?”
“We talked about properly training you for combat – when you’re ready, of course,” answered Elladan between chews.
“Father thinks it’s best that you practice with us,” mentioned Elrohir.
“Ooh, so you and Elladan are going to be my sparring partners,” she said, blowing on her tea before taking a sip.
“Well, no. He thought Glorfindel – AHH!” Elrohir’s sentence was cut short by his sudden shriek. The Slayer had spewed hot tea on the Half-elf at the mere mention of Glorfindel’s name.
“Sorry,” she coughed, choking on some of the hot liquid.
Elladan laughed at his brother’s misfortune. “If only we could elicit that same reaction from Dagnir!”
Miriel handed her napkin to the youngest son of Elrond, apologizing again. “You don’t mean the Glorfindel,” she said excitedly. “As in Glorfindel of Gondolin fame. As in he who slew the Balrog?”
“The one and the same,” answered Elrohir, wiping his face. “Though, he’s been a resident of Imladris for far longer than that of Gondolin.”
“And, technically, he didn’t slay that Balrog. They both fell to their deaths, in combat,” corrected Elladan.
“That’s a touchy subject with Glorfindel,” said Elrohir. “I advise you not to bring that up in discussion. It still pains him so to talk about it.”
Miriel nodded. She was speechless to learn that she would be training with possibly the greatest Elf-warrior to ever set foot in Middle-earth. Not only that, but as far as she knew, Glorfindel was the only Elf ever to die and come back to Middle-earth. Well, other than Lúthien, but she came back as a mortal, having given up her immortality out of her profound love for Beren.
The Slayer now contemplated giving up her self-appointed isolation for a chance just to meet the mighty Noldo. When it came to living legends - no one could possibly top Glorfindel of Gondolin. And to think that she would be taught the intricacies of warfare by one of such great esteem. Wow!
With a dreamy look on her face, she picked up a piece of bacon and went to put it in her mouth. She was so caught up in her thoughts that she missed her mouth entirely, the bacon sliding along her cheek.
Of course, upon seeing that, the twins both burst out laughing, causing Miriel’s cheeks to turn beet red from embarrassment.
“How can one be so instantly infatuated with one whom they’ve never met?!” exclaimed Elrohir, shaking his head.
“He’s just a man, Miriel,” added Elladan. “He’s no different than us.”
“So you say!” she replied, taking the napkin from Elrohir and wiping the grease from her still flushed face.
Any possibility of Miriel falling into a melancholy state immediately dissipated. In fact, her mood became almost euphoric. Even the teasing of the Half-elves didn’t faze her one bit. She had decided to give up her solitary confinement and venture outside of her room, exploring both the house and grounds with the twins.
After eating, Miriel dressed in one of Arwen’s gowns, (since her own clothes had not yet been mended and returned). She continued to walk barefoot, wanting to give her heels time to heal. This time, the Slayer was undaunted by the gawkers in the corridors, some even greeted her with a “Hail, Dagnir,” or “Well met, Dagnir,” when she passed by.
At the end of their tour, she and the brothers ate a picnic lunch by the waterfall. Its roar could be heard virtually everywhere in the valley. As the afternoon waned, Miriel’s hope of meeting Glorfindel became dashed.
When the supper bells rang out, Elladan and Elrohir convinced Miriel to eat with the rest of the household. She had agreed, until she reached the doorway of the massive chamber and spotted Elrond. Though their eyes met for the briefest moment, Miriel’s cheeks turned bright pink, just knowing that the Elf Lord had seen the most horrible events in her life played out before him. She fled the hall, returning to her room.
Since Elrond had informed his sons that things would be awkward between himself and the Slayer in the coming days, her reaction was not surprising. The brothers prepared a tray of food for themselves and Miriel, and then took off to her room.
After that episode, Miriel remained sequestered in her room for a few days. Seeing Elrond proved that she wasn’t ready to face any Elf that might possess the same power which he had. She felt as if she would die if anyone else witnessed the horrors of her past.
There came a day, nearly a week later, when there was a knock on her bedchamber door. Miriel left her chair by the window, crossed the room, and swung open the door. Her jaw nearly hit the floor (figuratively speaking) when she saw a man with shimmering golden hair standing in the corridor.
“Hail, Miriel,” he said with a smile. His voice sounded like the sweetest melody she had ever heard. “I’m Glorfindel, and I’ve come to see if you’re ready to begin your training.”
The Slayer was speechless, staring wide-eyed at the Noldo. Her heart began to race in her chest as she stared at this beautiful man standing before her. Stop it, Miriel, she said, chastising herself. He can hear your heartbeat. Calm down. Unable to find her voice, she nodded instead.
Glorfindel tried to engage Miriel in conversation as they headed toward the staircase. He wanted to hear from her, on what she considered to be her strengths and weaknesses. Unfortunately for the Slayer, she found herself awestruck by the Elf Lord, and was unable to utter a single word. Every time Glorfindel looked at her with those mesmerizing eyes of his, waiting for a response, her cheeks turned red.
“Very well then,” he said with a laugh. “I shall find out what you are capable of soon enough.”
Miriel wished that Elladan and Elrohir were with her. She felt so at ease with the twins, and at that moment, would’ve relished their company. She felt like a small child in the presence of such a mighty lord.
Glorfindel led the Slayer out of the doors at the back of the house and into the garden. There were Elves milling about, glancing at the duo as they walked by. They left the garden, turning to the south, to a training area used by the Elves. A variety of weapons had already been laid out, mostly wooden replicas of the real thing. The only “real” weapons were bows and arrows, and, unfortunately it was the bow that Glorfindel first picked up.
“Let us start with the bow,” he suggested, much to Miriel’s dismay.
Why o’ why did the Noldo choose the one weapon with which she wasn’t proficient? She frowned at his selection.
“By the expression on your face, I gather you’re not fond of this weapon,” he said, smiling.
“No,” she said, speaking for the first time since meeting the Elf Lord. She glared at the bow, hoping it would somehow break in two. “I’ve never been able to master the bow,” she grumbled in discontent.
“Then I’ve chosen rightly,” he replied, picking up an arrow from the pile on the ground. “The key to archery is technique.” Glorfindel then handed Miriel both the bow and an arrow. “Let me see you shoot, then I’ll be able to judge what you’re doing wrong.”
The Slayer stood in alignment with the nearest target, armed her weapon, pulled back on the string and let go. The arrow did a nose dive into the ground a few feet away. Frustrated, Miriel cursed under her breath. She hated looking like an incompetent fool in front of such a seasoned warrior. Why couldn’t they practice with a sword, or axe, or spear? Those weapons felt more natural to the Slayer and were much easier to wield.
“You’re not handling the weapon correctly,” observed the Noldo. “That seems to be the problem. We can remedy that easily enough.” He grabbed another arrow from the pile and stepped behind Miriel.
The moment he touched her, to reposition her hand on the arch of the bow, she flinched. Glorfindel immediately pulled his hand a few inches away. The Noldo’s touch both frightened and exhilarated Miriel, which she found quite disconcerting.
“It’s alright, Miriel,” he said reassuringly, gently placing his hand on top of hers and sliding it down the wood to the correct position.
The Slayer bit her bottom lip, desperate for her rapid heart beat to return to normal. No one’s touch had ever affected her in such a way. Miriel’s body got all tingly when she felt his chest press against her back, when the naked skin of his arm brushed against her own. That feeling was momentarily dashed as he positioned her fingers on the string, squeezing a bit too tightly for her liking.
“Now, pull back,” he instructed, his fingers clasping hers on the string, as he guided her arm back. The girl could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck. Goosebumps rose all over her flesh. “Let go,” he then said. Miriel released the arrow, which flew through the air, hitting the target. “Not bad,” said the Noldo, stepping aside, and nodding approvingly.
“I missed the bulls-eye,” the Slayer sighed in disappointment. Actually, she didn’t care if she had hit the target’s center or not. What really disappointed her was that Glorfindel was no longer touching her, and had moved a couple of paces away.
“We’ll try it again,” he said, as he bent down and picked up another arrow. Miriel’s eyes remained fixed on the Elf until he looked at her once again. She then shifted her eyes to the arrow clutched in his hand. “Do it just as I showed you,” he added, handing her the projectile.
The Slayer nodded. In true womanly fashion, she deliberated handled the weapon incorrectly, causing the Noldo to once again step behind her and position her hand and fingers correctly on the weapon. She did that a few more times until the Elf seemed frustrated by her inability to follow directions. She didn’t want him to think that she was some nitwit, so she made a point to fire correctly. To the joy of the Noldo, she hit the target, dead-center.
“Well done, Miriel. Well done!” Glorfindel said, applauding her success.
“Thanks,” she said, smiling. The Slayer was glad that she had been able to actually hit the target – a first for her.
“Now, do it again.”
The smile left Miriel’s face. Though she had managed to hit the target, she wanted to move on to a different weapon, one which she had already mastered.
“Again?” she whined in dismay.
“You must continue to practice until you’ve mastered this skill. Merely hitting the target once is not good enough. Try again,” he ordered, patiently waiting for her to arm her weapon.
Much to Miriel’s chagrin, she wasn’t able to hit the target’s center again. Despite the long time she spent practicing, her aim became worse as her annoyance increased. She had become so frustrated that she threw her weapon to the ground and gave up. “I have a blister,” she complained, inspecting the swelling on her finger.
“That’s bound to happen,” the Noldo answered, coming over to Miriel to take a look at her finger.
“It hurts,” she whined, pouting over the fact that she had to contend with a new blister, just when her others had finally healed.
“Blisters lead to calluses. And in time, you will feel no pain when handling the bow.”
“Pfft,” she sounded, rolling her eyes. “I do not understand why I have the need to learn archery when a crossbow is just as effective, if not more so!” she argued.
“A Slayer must be proficient in all weaponry,” counseled the Elf Lord. He lifted her hand, looking at the blister. “That’s not bad.”
When Glorfindel touched her, that tingly feeling coursed throughout her body. It was one thing to have him touch her when he stood behind her, but it was altogether different when he was standing in front of her. She quickly pulled her hand away, hoping that the Noldo couldn’t see how his touch affected her. “I reckon I’ll live,” she said, avoiding eye contact with him.
“Let’s take a break.”
“You mean we’re not finished!” she exclaimed, ready to call it a day.
“By all means – no. We’ve only just begun,” replied the Elf Lord. He and Miriel then headed toward a shady spot beneath a beech tree where some refreshments had been set out. As they walked, Glorfindel glanced at her and in a lighthearted tone added, “I did not realize that Slayers were so delicate. We can wrap that finger of yours before we resume.”
In that moment, Miriel suddenly realized that she was acting incredibly childish in the presence of one whom she admired greatly. She felt stupid in having done so, and made a mental note to stop straight away. She became a bit more reserved after that, thinking things over before actually saying them aloud.
The abrupt change in Miriel’s demeanor didn’t go unnoticed by Glorfindel. But, being a Noldo of considerable age, he knew that it would hinder things between him and the Slayer if he mentioned it. The Elf wasn’t blind. He could sense the girl’s attraction to him. He thought it would be best to ignore it, and eventually, her feelings would subside.
In the days that followed, Miriel became more comfortable around Glorfindel though their exercises became increasingly more difficult. No matter what weapon she wielded, the Noldo bested her every time. Though he explained that he had millennia of experience over her, that didn’t quell her wounded pride. She was the Slayer for goodness sakes! Shouldn’t she be victorious over him from time to time? The answer was apparently no. At least not in those early days when they had first begun sparring together.
Glorfindel’s workouts left Miriel exhausted and sore at the end of each day. She must have begun using muscles that had been inactive or something. However, being in Rivendell did have its perks. Whenever they finished their sessions, the Slayer was rewarded for her efforts with a massage by one of the truly wondrous and talented elleths of Elrond’s house. If not for those women, Miriel wouldn’t have been able to climb out of bed the following mornings.
As the days rolled by, others came to watch their practices, gathering around the edge of the glade, yelling suggestions and comments whenever the Slayer battled the golden-haired Noldo. Sometimes those Elves proved to be positively distracting, but at other times, their words of encouragement gave Miriel hope that she would one day defeat the mighty Glorfindel.
It didn’t take long for the Slayer to adjust to her daily routine. The better part of each day was spent practicing with the Noldo, their exercises usually ending late in the afternoon. That’s not to say that they spent hour upon hour in physical combat – that was far from the case. Just like her sessions with Buffy, the Elf Lord expected Miriel to use meditation to become more in tune to her surroundings. Part of her training was devoted to honing her senses. Sometimes, they were more physical. For example, Glorfindel would blindfold her, and then he (and a privileged few) would then throw bags of dried beans at her, sometimes bombarding her all at once and from various directions. She, in turn, would have to hit or kick the bags before they struck her. That was not only a test of her perceptiveness, but also demonstrated how quick her reflexes were.
Then, there were times when she just sat there, in silence, with her eyes closed. The Noldo would slowly walk around her, speaking softly in elvish. There was something about his voice, the tone and rhythm of it, that somehow made her more aware of her natural surroundings. If outside, she could feel the air moving against her skin, even when there was no breeze, or hear the footfalls of the smallest of creatures scampering across the grass or up a tree despite the constant roar of the waterfall. Miriel found it frightfully amazing how perceptive she could be, when she tried.
Evenings were about the only time Miriel had free – down time she called it. Often she would be in the company of the children of Elrond, whom she enjoyed being around most. Not that she didn’t enjoy the others of Elrond’s household, though she found the Elves to be a peculiar sort of people.
The younger Elves seemed more joyous, enjoying the days of their youth, despite the peril outside their borders. There were even a few that were quite the pranksters, reminding Miriel of her young cousins in Dol Amroth. Then, there were some, the older ones, who were more solemn in nature. They seemed to cling to bygone days when the world was young. Now, they felt much sorrow as the world around them continued to change when they did not. These were the Elder. They delighted in the simple things in life that the Slayer tended to overlook, or not heed at all.
Take a flower, for example. The Elder would marvel as the shoot turned into a bud. And when it blossomed fully, their hearts would rejoice, but then, as the flower began to wither, each petal falling off one by one, they would mourn that loss, that loss of life. For they considered all things to be alive, whether it be dirt or stone or wood. Perhaps that had to do with the myths of old, that they had sprung out of the ground beneath a starlit sky.
But, those Elves that had dwelled in Middle-earth since the beginning put the kibosh on that theory. There were still a few, including Glorfindel, who had lived since the very beginning, when the Elves had first awoke by the bay they named Cuiviénen. These were the same Elves that had followed Oromë into the West, and lived in bliss within the Light of the Two Trees. To meet such an ancient people was definitely awe-inspiring, and Miriel, being a mere mortal, had numerous questions about Valinor and times past. But trying to get an answer, a simple answer, to a simple question, never happened. Every reply was lengthy and so detailed in description that inevitably the Elf whom she had questioned would go off topic, or would take so long to get to the point, that Miriel had lost interest, or had forgotten what she had asked in the first place.
Glorfindel seemed the only one of those fair folk that didn’t exhibit these signs. But, at this point in time, under the advisement of Elladan and Elrohir, Miriel never questioned him about times past. Her conversations with the Noldo, for the most part, revolved around combat and weaponry.
One of the things that Miriel enjoyed most about the Elder was their story-telling abilities. For when they shared tales of old, they were able to conjure images of those times in the listener’s mind. The Slayer was able to see the likes of Fingolfin, and Finrod Felagund in all their glory, and she saw ancient elvish kingdoms of such beauty and majesty that rivaled none in Middle-earth today. To her, that was true elven magic, and as such, something she would never forget for the rest of her life.
The days soon turned into weeks, and the first signs of autumn appeared in the valley. The leaves, now red, gold, orange and yellow began to flutter from their branches, gracefully falling to the earth, and the air became cooler, the nights longer. There were times, infrequent though they were, when Miriel was able to walk the grounds alone, thinking.
There came one such day, near the end of September, when the Slayer was following a pathway through the gardens and came upon the strangest sight. Seated on a bench beside the path was a small person, one who did not appear to be a Dwarf. She stopped, now finding herself a gawker, staring fixated on this rather small creature. While she loathed referring to the person as a creature, she couldn’t help it. He appeared to be a man, a man of old age with grey bushy hair, but it was his feet that caused her to stare wide-eyed. They were not ordinary mortal-like feet, or even elvish feet. They were large, (at least for his size) and hairy, which surprised the girl. She had never seen anything like that before. The “man” appeared to be reading a book and was dressed in fine garments.
After several long seconds, he scornfully said, “It’s rude to stare, I’ll have you know.” His eyes never left the pages of his book, but obviously, he had been watching her from the corner of his eye.
Miriel stood there for a few moments before continuing down the path, approaching the little fellow. “I meant no disrespect,” she said, regretting her uncouth behavior. It hadn’t been that long ago that the Elves were doing the same thing to her. She clearly recalled how uncomfortable and unsettling she found that to be. “I... I haven’t seen you here before,” she remarked as she neared the little old man. Her eyes remained locked on him, wondering if he was some other breed of Dwarf that she had not encountered before. “You do not look like any Dwarf that I have seen.”
The little man snapped his book shut and shifted his gaze to her. “That’s because I’m not a Dwarf, but a Hobbit.”
The Slayer was baffled. She had never heard that term before. “A Hobbit? I know of no such word. Are you from around these parts?”
“I see that your manners are a bit rusty, hmm?” he scolded. The lines on his face then deepened as he gave her a small smile. “Before one questions another, introductions are called for, wouldn’t you say?” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, feeling her cheeks reddening with embarrassment at her lack of decorum. “My name’s – ”
“Oh, I know who you are,” said the Hobbit with a wave of his hand. “You’re Miriel, the Slayer. I must say, the whole place has been abuzz about you since your arrival.” The little man began to swing his legs, which didn’t quite reach the ground. “I think you’re the first female of the Big Folk to come to Rivendell in some time.”
Miriel couldn’t help but smile. This little Hobbit seemed a likeable fellow though he had a sharp tongue. She stopped in front of him. “And who might you be?”
“My name is Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire. Hobbiton to be more precise.” He then leapt to his feet and bowed, in more typical dwarvish fashion than that of a Hobbit.
Miriel’s smile widened. “Nice to meet you. But, I’m still confused about what a Hobbit is.”
Bilbo leapt back onto the bench, patting the vacant place beside him, offering her a seat. He was as curious about her as she was him. The Slayer sat beside the Hobbit, her eyes never leaving him for even one moment.
“I hear you’re from the south. Gondor, I believe.”
“Yes,” she replied, nodding.
“If the rumors are true, the elvish is tongue is still spoken some in those parts,” he continued in a cheerful voice, swinging his legs once again. “We are called Periannath in the elven tongue. Halflings.”
A look of recognition came to Miriel’s face . “Oh, yes.” She then furrowed her brows. “But I had always thought that the Periannath were mythical creatures, that they never existed in real life.”
“You thought wrong then! I’m living proof of that!” he said jovially.
“You make a good point,” she chuckled. “What brings you to Rivendell?” Miriel asked, wanting to strike up a conversation with the Hobbit.
“Oh, I’ve retired here,” he answered, glancing around the garden. “There really is no finer place in all Middle-earth. It’s rather peaceful here.”
“You’ve traveled a lot, I take it,” she remarked, finding herself somewhat surprised by that notion.
A wistful smile came to his face. “Back in the day, I had. I’m much too old to venture out like I once did. Old age is creeping up on me,” he sighed. “But I had my share fair of adventures, having traveled as far as the Lonely Mountain, east of Mirkwood.” He shifted his eyes back to Miriel. “I’m working on my book,” he continued, waving the tome in his hand, “writing about my adventures with the Dwarves.”
Miriel smiled. “That’s nice. Hopefully, one day I’ll get to read that book of yours,” she said.
“Once it’s finished,” he replied. “I still have much more to write.” He paused before asking, “Have you given any thought to writing about your experiences thus far? I’m sure the life of a Slayer is quite fascinating.”
The smile faded from the girl’s face. “No,” she answered, somewhat glumly, shifting her eyes to her feet. “I wouldn’t want to put my experiences into print. If I could, I’d rather forget them.”
Seeing the sudden change in the girl, Bilbo placed his hand on her arm, saying, “I’m sorry, dear, did I say something to upset you?”
“No,” she replied, getting to her feet. “My life’s far from fascinating.”
“You’re not running off, are you?” Bilbo was quite interested in learning more about this girl.
“I’m tired,” she lied. “It was nice to meet you, Bilbo. Perhaps we’ll get a chance to talk more at another time.” She offered the Halfling a quick smile before starting back to the house.
“Alright then,” he said, wondering what he could have possibly said to cause this sudden change in the Slayer. Watching her walk off, he uttered, “Poor child,” under his breath before returning to his book.
Miriel went straight to her room. For some reason, her melancholy had returned. She felt so depressed that she climbed onto her bed and lay there, thinking about how crappy her life had been. The thought of writing a book about her own life experiences horrified her. She would never want her story put into print for others to read. Little did she know...
Chapter 21 - The Magnificence that is Glorfindel
Miriel’s latest bout of melancholy kept her from training the following day. Not wholly understanding what ailment plagued their friend, the twins questioned her, trying to determine whether her condition was physical or emotional. The Slayer’s outright refusal to answer any of their questions made them realize that it was most likely the latter of the two. They should’ve spotted it right away, considering they had witnessed a similar episode while on the road. Whatever was behind Miriel’s latest slump, they thought it best to give her a couple of days to get over it on her own.
When three days had passed, and the Slayer still claimed to be ill, Glorfindel’s concern grew.
“Do you think that I’ve worked her too hard?” the Noldo asked the twin sons of Elrond, thinking he was responsible for Miriel’s emotional distress.
“No,” answered Elrohir. “We have witnessed this before. I think there’s some sorrow in Miriel’s past that surfaces from time to time. But what that might be – I don’t know.”
That’s when Glorfindel decided to take matters into his own hands. He came to believe that Miriel was becoming burned out on their workouts, that perhaps their sessions had been overly long. There had to be a happy medium, some balance. What she needed was a relaxing hobby of some sort. Unfortunately, Glorfindel had never given much thought to Miriel’s interests outside of slaying. He had focused so much of their time on making her a better warrior that he knew nothing of her, the girl. The time had arrived when that had to change.
The Noldo marched upstairs to her room. He rapped on the door a few times before cracking it opened. “I hope you’re decent,” he called out. He then entered the room, closing the door behind him. The Slayer lay curled up in bed. “Rise and shine, Miriel,” he ordered as he stomped over to her bed.
She didn’t move or acknowledge Glorfindel in any way.
“So, that’s how it is, eh?” he remarked, standing over her curled up form. He pulled the covers back. “Out of bed, Miriel!” he ordered, his voice much more demanding.
He whipped the covers off the girl, which finally brought about a response. “Leave me alone! I’m sick!” she exclaimed, reaching for the covers once again.
The Noldo took the bedclothes and threw them onto the floor. “I’ll have none of this, Dagnir. You have five minutes to get dressed and meet me downstairs,” he commanded. As he started toward the door, he added, “The countdown has started. Hurry it up!” He then left the room, closing the door behind him.
Miriel sat up in bed, running her fingers through her disheveled hair. By the tone in Glorfindel’s voice, she could tell that he meant business. Why else would he barge into her room without an invite? The Elf Lord had never done that before. The girl reluctantly crawled out of bed and changed into her own clothing, her eyes constantly darting to the clock, watching the time. Once dressed, she ran a brush through her hair before leaving her bedchamber.
Glorfindel stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking somewhat annoyed. “You’re four minutes and twenty-seven seconds late,” he announced, slipping his watch back into his pocket.
“Whatever,” she mumbled, trying to skirt past him.
The Noldo grabbed her arm, stopping her. “We’re not training today,” he informed her. “Come with me.” He then led her down one of the corridors that she seldom frequented.
“What are we doing?” she asked, her interest piqued now that she knew they weren’t going to practice.
“We need to balance our exercises with something more relaxing.” He glanced at the Slayer. “Since I’m unaware of your interests, I’ve decided to show you mine. Perhaps you’ll be as fond of it, as I am.”
“And what exactly are your interests?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” he replied, turning down another hallway. A short ways down the corridor, he flung open a door to their right. “In here,” he said, motioning her inside.
When Miriel stepped into the chamber, she froze. She was in an enormous kitchen. A dozen or so people were inside going about their daily routine, undeterred by her presence. “What are we doing here?” she queried in disdain, none too pleased with the thought of cooking.
“I would think that’s obvious. We’re going to cook,” replied the Elf, slipping past her, deeper into the kitchen. “Nothing is more relaxing or rewarding than preparing food for those that you love.”
The Slayer’s jaw went agape. She had never imagined the mighty Glorfindel as a cook. That seemed unnatural. He was a warrior – a great warrior, not a servant!
“This morning we’re going to make apple tarts,” he announced, heaving a crate of apples onto the countertop. “Of course, with a household this size, we need lots of apples.” He then lifted another crate of apples, setting it on the counter too.
Miriel’s jaw dropped further. “I’m not a cook,” she announced in dismay.
Glorfindel looked up at her with a smile on his handsome face. “Then that’s about to change. Come on over here. Grab a knife and get to peeling.”
The Slayer was still shocked. “Shouldn’t that be their job?” she asked, pointing to the other men going about the kitchen.
“Today it’s your job! Now, come on. We have a lot of work to do.”
With a heavy sigh, Miriel shuffled over to Glorfindel. There must have been hundreds of apples in those crates!
The Elf Lord handed her a knife. “We’ll put the peelings in this box,” he said, as he speedily peeled an apple, letting the skin fall into a large wooden container on the floor. “The apples need to be cored as well. But, we’ll do that after we get all these peeled.”
Overwhelmed, the girl’s eyes darted from the apples to the Elf. “You’re serious then? You expect me to peel apples?”
“I know you’re not dim, Miriel,” answered Glorfindel. “Now, come on. Get a move on. The quicker you start, the faster we’ll get done.”
Miriel grabbed a piece of fruit and started to work, grumbling under her breath.
“You’re taking off too much of the flesh,” chastised the Elf. “Just the skin. Watch me.” Glorfindel moved quickly and precisely. He was able to remove all the skin in one long piece, something the Slayer couldn’t do.
After a little while, she managed to find her groove though she didn’t move nearly as fast as the Noldo. She glanced around at the other men in the kitchen. Most were in various stages of making bread; something she would learn was done throughout the day, each and every day. Others were busy making the pastry for the tarts.
“What’s on your mind, Miriel?” Glorfindel asked. “I can see that you’re preoccupied with your thoughts.”
The girl tossed her peeled, misshapen apple into the tall pot sitting on the counter. She gave another uneasy glance at the others in the room. She leaned a bit closer to the Elf Lord. “Isn’t this demeaning for one of your stature? I mean, you’re Glorfindel, the greatest warrior in Middle-earth,” she whispered anxiously. “And this is... ” she paused, leaning even closer to the Elf, “... servants’ work.”
Glorfindel let out a hearty laugh, which seemed to echo within the enormous room. “Servants’ work?!” he exclaimed.
The other Elves looked at the Slayer and Glorfindel, shaking their heads, but smiling.
“I enjoy cooking, and I think you will too. We all need to do our parts, don’t you think? We all need to contribute if we’re able.”
Miriel snapped her head back, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks. She watched the others out of the corner of her eye, hoping she hadn’t offended anyone. From that point on, she kept her mouth shut, and did as she was told. She had no idea that cooking with Glorfindel would actually bring them closer together in the long run, and that she would finding cooking quite rewarding.
With the tarts baking in the numerous ovens, the aroma of cinnamon and apples filled the kitchen. It was a heavenly scent that made the Slayer’s mouth water, and her stomach rumble. When the first batch was ready, Miriel pulled them from the oven.
“And do you know what the best part is?” asked Glorfindel, as he inhaled the tart in her mittened hands. Before she could answer, he added with a wink, “We get to sample them first.”
The Noldo instructed Miriel to take the first steaming tart over to the table in the corner of the room. Once it had cooled, all the cooks took a break from their various assignments and enjoyed a slice of what would be tonight’s dessert. Hearing the others’ praises lifted Miriel’s spirits. She had learned a new skill, though she couldn’t see how this would be useful to her in the future.
From that point on, Glorfindel rearranged their daily schedule. Mornings would be spent in the kitchen cooking, while their afternoons would be devoted to training.
As they settled into this new routine, Miriel couldn’t help but notice how relaxed and at ease the Noldo was whenever they were in the kitchen. She soon learned that this was the best time to question him about his past, the Elder Days and beyond.
Without hesitation, he answered her questions, telling her of Valinor and Eldamar, in which Tirion was the main elvish city, and home to most of the Elves that eventually returned to Middle-earth in the First Age. He even told her about Gondolin, Turgon, Idril and Tuor - Elrond’s kinfolk. She was surprised to learn from Glorfindel that Tuor had been admitted into Aman and is now accounted amongst the Eldar, even to this very day.
“I wonder if any other Men have been granted that same gift,” Miriel wondered aloud. “Or if the Valar would allow another to become immortal.”
“That I cannot say,” answered Glorfindel, glancing at the girl, thinking that she was speaking of herself. “Immortality is a double-edged sword,” he added.
“Yes, yes. I know,” Miriel sighed with a roll of her eyes. “All the Eldar seem to refer to life in that way.” She continued to busily knead the dough with which she was working. “You know there are those in Gondor that are still displeased with Elros’ choice from long ago. They felt he chose wrongly. That they should have immortality.”
“And do you happen to be one of them?”
Miriel thought for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You sure about that?” he queried, his brows raised in question.
“I’m sure. I mean, as a people, the Dúnedain have been given a longer lifespan, though, in Gondor, our bloodlines have become mingled with those of lesser folk and our years have shortened.” She snickered. “And then there are those like me, whose lifespan is to be cut much, much shorter.”
It pained the Noldo to hear the Slayer say that. His heart went out to her. She was so young, so very young. “You don’t know that,” he said, not wanting her to lose hope.
“I’m not a fool, Glorfindel,” she replied, locking eyes with the Elf Lord. “I know I haven’t learned a great deal about being a Slayer just yet, but I do know they are not long lived. I do not see me being the exception.”
“You seemed to have accepted that rather well,” he said, studying the girl with his keen grey eyes.
“What choice do I have?” she answered with an uneasy chuckle, breaking eye contact with the Elf.
The mood in the room suddenly changed to one of trepidation. All those in the kitchen felt it. The topic of conversation had led to that one inevitable question that the Elves knew Miriel would ask of her elven mentor. The silence was nearly deafening.
And then, in a faint voice that all could clearly hear, Miriel asked, “Does it hurt?”
She needn’t have said any more than that, as all knew what she was talking about, including the golden-haired Noldo. The Slayer continued to knead her dough, but her eyes shifted back to Glorfindel standing on the opposite side of the table. The others watched the mighty lord out of the corner of their eyes, anxious to see how he would respond to such a question.
After a long pause, he softly said, “Yes, but only briefly.” He then turned his gaze to the Slayer. His eyes revealed his sorrow, his tone riddled with pain. “Then it stops. The pain stops.”
Miriel felt herself becoming misty-eyed. She had never seen an emotional Glorfindel before, but she couldn’t help but follow up that question with another. She had to know. “What happens then?”
“You hear the Call, beckoning you... ” His words trailed off.
“Beckoning you where?” she prodded, unable to drop the subject.
“To Mandos,” he replied, still speaking softly.
“And then what happens?”
“You are put in a chamber, alone, to think over your life’s deeds. In time – I cannot rightly say how long, for time seems to come to a standstill – you are brought before Mandos’ throne, to be judged. It is he that decides your fate.”
Miriel found that terrifying. She looked down at the dough she was kneading, trying to hold back the tears that were forming in her eyes.
Glorfindel sadly added, “I can only share with you my own experience, Miriel. And, I’m afraid that I must tell you that Men are not reborn in Valinor. Where they go after they die, I do not know.”
The mood in the kitchen became somber. Conversations of that sort had never taken place in there before. Even Glorfindel’s normally good spirits seemed to diminish, and he fell quiet. The Slayer constantly sniffed back her tears. Instead of finding peace of mind in the Noldo’s words, she became fearful, wondering what happened to Men when they died.
Glorfindel called off practice later that afternoon. There was no doubt in Miriel’s mind that she was responsible for that. She hadn’t meant to stir up any gloomy memories in the Noldo, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. She was curious about death. And whom else could she ask, other than one who had died and come back? She hoped and prayed that she hadn’t upset Glorfindel to the point where he would avoid her. Over the weeks, her feelings for him had grown deeper, way beyond “infatuation” as Elrohir had called it. Miriel was in love with the Elf Lord. She had been since the first moment she laid eyes on him…
That night, when Miriel fell asleep, she had her first dream – her first real dream since Buffy came into her life. It was nighttime. Thousands of stars glimmered above in the otherwise pitch-black sky. She was alone with Glorfindel in a small clearing in the woods of Rivendell that she had not seen before. He had just asked her to become his wife.
“Of course I will,” she gushed, throwing her arms around his neck, kissing him for the first time.
Then, to her dismay, she heard a familiar voice say, “Miriel, you slut!”
She jumped, startled by Buffy’s sudden appearance. When she looked back where Glorfindel had been only a split second before, he was gone, leaving Miriel crushed.
“Damn,” she muttered, disappointed in her mentor’s timing. Why o’ why couldn’t Miriel dream like normal people? Could she not dream as she wished?
“He’s so outta your league, girl,” Buffy snickered, as she walked over to her protégé. “He’s like, what, a gazillion years old?”
Miriel was thankful for the darkness. She knew her face was bright red. She could actually feel the heat emitting from her skin, as the blood rushed to her cheeks.
“Your timing sucks!” said Miriel, frowning.
“Sorry,” drawled Buffy. She stopped before the young Slayer. “You know he’s too old for you. You’re like a child to him. No, an infant,” she said correcting herself. “No, wait. A zygote. An embryo.” The elder Slayer was quite amused over the little scenario she had wandered up on.
“Why would you say that?” asked Miriel in dismay.
“Because it’s true. And I don’t want you to get your hopes up and have your heart broken,” replied Buffy in a more serious voice.
“Age is just a number. It means nothing,” mumbled Miriel, looking down at her feet.
“Miriel, you’re seventeen. Glorfindel’s – God only knows how old – don’t go there,” she cautioned her protégé.
The young Slayer lifted her head, locking eyes with her mentor. “Did you think the same thing about Angel? That he was too old for you?”
Buffy cleared her throat, taken aback that Miriel knew anything about Angel. “H-how do you know about,” she paused, clearing her throat again, “Angel?”
“Do you think that it’s only you that knows about me?” replied Miriel. “I have never said anything because there was no point. But, if I recall correctly – and I believe I do – he’s over two and half centuries older than you, and, a vampire.” The girl made a point to emphasize the word vampire, since it was illogical for a Slayer to have any romantic feelings for one of the purported bad guys.
“He has a soul,” said an uncomfortable and slightly shaken Buffy. “That makes a difference.”
“If you say so,” replied Miriel, somewhat skeptically.
“What does that mean?” The elder Slayer felt as if her blood was beginning to boil. Angel was off limits, as far as topics of conversation were concerned.
“It doesn’t matter, Buffy,” said Miriel. “Let’s just forget it. Suffice it to say, the heart wants what the heart wants. I do not think either of us have a say so in the matter. Can you agree with that?”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” sighed the elder Slayer. “Love sucks,” she added with a groan.
“I wouldn’t know,” remarked the girl, shifting her gaze to the starlit sky.
Buffy stared at her protégé. There was such sadness to her tone that the elder Slayer found it gut-wrenching. She didn’t want Miriel to not experience love. “What about Bregolas? Didn’t you love him?” Buffy could only surmise that that was true, especially seeing how Miriel always wore his ring on that chain around her neck.
The young Slayer faced Buffy. “You know it’s not the same. That he wasn’t the one,” she answered glumly.
“And Glorfindel is?” queried the elder Slayer.
Miriel nodded. “It feels right.”
Buffy placed a hand comfortingly on the girl’s shoulder. “Just be careful. I don’t wanna see you get hurt. Love can be painful, sometimes.”
“But it can also be blissful, right?” said a hopeful Miriel.
“Yeah, right,” replied Buffy, forcing a smile. Her voice was not as convincing as it should have been. Love had always tasted bittersweet to Buffy, and she could assume that with Miriel being a Slayer, the same would be true for her. Especially if the girl was going to fall for someone who’s immortal. That had disaster written all over it.
Alas, talking about love proved to be a downer for both Slayers. They didn’t really say much more after that, as each girl pondered her own heart’s desire…
To Miriel’s delight, Glorfindel did not avoid her. In fact, quite the opposite. While she was sleeping, the Noldo slipped into her room, waking her. When her eyes fluttered opened, she saw him leaning over her, his body emitting a soft light in the otherwise darkened chamber. Her heart pounded in her chest. She thought she was in a dream.
“Get dressed, Miriel,” he said softly. “You and I are going on a hunting trip. Pack what you may need for a few days journey. When you’re ready, meet me in the kitchen.”
He then slunk out of the room as quietly as he had entered, leaving Miriel breathless and wide-awake.
She scrambled out of bed, lit a lamp, and dressed as quickly as she could. Her hands were literally trembling with excitement as she crammed a few essential items into her bag. The mere thought of going anywhere with the Noldo, especially alone, made her think that he had the same feelings for her, as she for him.
When her things were packed, she raced down the hall to the nearest bathroom, washing up before meeting Glorfindel downstairs. She hurriedly walked along the dimly lit hallway on the second floor of the house. Once she reached the stairs, she took them three at a time in her eagerness to reach the kitchen. The house was still; quiet, as most of those that dwelled here lay in their beds, sleeping. They should be. After all, it was nearly four thirty in the morning.
As soon as she entered the kitchen, Miriel was greeted by those Elves that were always awake at that hour – the cooks. They were already busy preparing baked goods for the morning meal since it took a long time to cook enough food for a household of that size.
“Good morning, all,” she said cheerfully, nearly bouncing across the massive chamber to the table where Glorfindel sat, eating breakfast.
“How about some breakfast, Miriel?” queried one of the elven cooks. “I can have it ready in no time flat.”
“Thanks, Amdir. That’d be great!” she replied, dropping her bag beside the table. “Good morning, Glorfindel,” she said, taking a seat across from the Elf Lord.
“Good morning,” he said between chews. “I see that you’re ready for our little excursion.”
“Yep, all packed and raring to go,” she answered with a smile, sounding remarkably like Buffy. She plopped down on the wooden chair. “So what will we be hunting?” the Slayer asked anxiously.
“It’s hard to say, really,” responded Glorfindel, wiping his mouth with his napkin. He smiled. “I reckon it depends on what we come across. The valley’s flooded with deer and boar at this time of year. Who knows? We may find both.”
“I’ve never hunted big game before,” Miriel revealed, pouring herself a cup of tea. “Only conies.”
“You’ve hunted coney?” queried the Noldo in surprise.
“I had to, to survive,” she replied. “I can’t fish for the life of me, and hunting seems to have come more naturally.” She shrugged. “I guess it must be my Slayer prowess.”
“Perhaps,” he chortled, taking a bite of toast.
Before Miriel knew it, a plate full of food was placed in front of her. She dug in, having a sneaking suspicion that this would be her last “real” meal until she and Glorfindel returned. She assumed they would be eating lembas on their journey, as it seemed that that was what the Elves ate when they traveled abroad.
Nearly fifteen minutes later, they were ready to depart. To her surprise, they weren’t going on foot, but on horseback.
“How does one hunt from atop a horse?” asked a dumbfounded Miriel, as they walked to the stables.
“How does one bring back one’s kill without the aid of a mighty steed?” he queried in response. Glorfindel glanced at her, adding, “We’ll be hunting on foot. But carrying deer or boar is too burdensome, and very unpleasant.”
“That’s a good point.”
There was a chill in the air, which was typical for that time of year. It was now mid-November; nearly three months after the Slayer had first arrived in Imladris. She shivered, pulling her cloak more tightly around her.
“Cold?” the Noldo asked, having seen her shudder.
“Just a little chilly. I’m fine.”
Before long, they were riding northeast under a blanket of stars. The air was even more crisp, lashing at Miriel’s face as the steeds trotted across the grass. She couldn’t believe that she was going off with Glorfindel. Early into the ride, she actually pinched herself to prove that she wasn’t dreaming.
“Is something wrong?” asked the Elf Lord when he heard her muffled whimper of pain.
Trying to come up with a quick, plausible excuse, she said, “I somehow twisted my ankle in the stirrup.” Miriel looked away from Glorfindel, wondering if he’d buy that story. It sure didn’t make any sense to her. She pretended to be looking at the forest, off to the east.
“Oh,” he replied, buying her lie hook, line and sinker. “Be careful.”
The Slayer let out a sigh of relief.
Under the cover of darkness, they rode across the vast plains of the valley, passing lush pastures and rich farmland that Miriel could not see. Glorfindel indicated that they would begin the hunt at the shoulders of the Misty Mountains, for there were a few watering holes in the northeast corner of the valley that attracted an abundance of wildlife.
The grey, dim light of morning greeted them just when they were to make their ascent up the narrow stony trails that lead to their desired location.
“Timing is of the utmost importance,” announced the golden-haired Noldo. “It is far too dangerous to have the horses climb these pathways at night.”
No truer words could have been spoken. The horses crept along the trail, which wound its way up from the feet of the mountains. As they rode, Miriel’s eyes constantly surveyed the region. She could see why Elrond had chosen this place long ago as an abode for him and his people.
Since being on her own, the Slayer had learned that if one was to survive in a world filled with monsters of all kinds, one had to be wary and think defensively. That was the key to survival. As her eyes scanned the valley from this new perspective, she could see how defensible a place it was. The tall, sheer rock walls of the Misty Mountains formed a natural barrier on three sides of Imladris; impassible by any on foot. The swift Bruinen with its high banks acted as a moat of sorts, protecting the valley from a possible attack from that direction. She now understood why the Elves had built such a narrow bridge, for if the enemy ever dared to attack, they would have to march in single file across the stone pass. Rivendell had built-in natural defenses, the likes she had never seen before. That gave the place an even more elvish feel to it, as the Elder Children loved everything about nature.
From time to time, Glorfindel would glance over his shoulder and could see that Miriel was doing a visual inspection of the terrain.
“You’re safe here,” he said, thinking that she was concerned about a possible ambush. “I can assure you that Rivendell is well protected. War has never come to our door, yet.”
“I’m not worried about that,” she replied, her eyes still scanning the area below them. “I can’t help but think how perfect a place this is, how defensible it is.”
The Noldo laughed. The sound of his laughter warmed Miriel’s heart. It was so uplifting! “You think like a lord should, and that’s a good thing.”
“Security is imperative!” she acknowledged. “There were times, when on the road, that I even sought refuge in the treetops. I found it safer than being on the ground.” That was the first time Miriel had ever brought up her life prior to her arrival in Rivendell, with Glorfindel. She had only discussed tidbits with Elrond (not by choice!) and his children; no one else.
“That is wise, when the trees are not barren,” remarked the Elf Lord, delighted that after all their time together, the Slayer was beginning to open up more. “Our kin in Lórien dwell in the treetops as well. They have since the Elder Days. Though, I must say, I’m not rather fond of living on talans, no matter how fair they may be. As a Noldo, I prefer the ground firmly under my feet.”
“You sound more like a Dwarf than an Elf,” Miriel chuckled.
“And what would you know about the Naugrim?” he asked lightheartedly, trying to see if he could get her to open up a bit more about her past.
“Not much,” answered a thoughtful Miriel. “I’ve only met Dwarves once. They were kind, though. We did a little bartering a while back.”
“The Dwarves are notorious for being shrewd negotiators!” commented Glorfindel. “I hope they didn’t fleece you too badly.”
“I think I made out alright,” she boasted, sounding as if she had gotten the upper hand on the hagglers.
“Pray tell, what was it that you bartered, then I can judge who bested who?”
Of course, being asked such a question put Miriel in a precarious situation. While she deemed that it was okay to lie about her earlier wince, it was altogether different to concoct a story, painting her as a better negotiator than the Dwarves. As much as she wanted to, the Slayer could not lie to the Elf Lord. Perhaps it was her feelings for Glorfindel that prevented her from doing so. At that moment, she was grateful that he was riding in front of her. She knew her cheeks were flushed.
“A gold chain for food,” she admitted, her tone sounding much glummer than she wished.
The Noldo did not immediately respond. When he heard Miriel say that, it broke his heart. He couldn’t fathom what she had endured on the road, and bartering for food proved that she had suffered hardships along the way. He heard the pain in her voice though she tried not to show it. Glorfindel felt that he needed to rein in his questioning. The last thing he needed was for the Slayer to suffer another bout of melancholy.
“It sounds like you bested them, Miriel,” he finally said after some time. Trying to lighten the mood, he added with a chortle, “The Naugrim like their food nearly as much as their treasures! They are not known for easily parting with either!”
“I found them to be quite fair – generous even.” The Slayer made a point to emphasize the last part of her sentence. She hated that the histories of Men (and, apparently Elves) depicted the Children of Aulë as a greedy people. She hadn’t found them to be that way at all. Well, at least not those Dwarves that she had met.
As she thought back to her meeting with Gimli, his father, and their fellow travelers, a smile came to her face. “Perhaps having caught one of them in my snare gave me some leverage,” she added with a chortle. Miriel couldn’t believe she had actually said that out loud.
Glorfindel’s head spun around. His bright, grey eyes widened. “You what?” he asked, stunned by that revelation.
Hoping to keep the mood light, the Slayer then shared her story with the Noldo, telling him how she had come to meet the Dwarves on her travels. It did seem to be a rather amusing tale, especially after the fact.
When she had finished her story, Glorfindel replied, “Consider yourself blessed to have met friendly folk on your journey. Not all those that travel outside their lands can say such a thing.”
Unfortunately, the mere mention of unfriendly folk brought to mind images of the atrocities Miriel had suffered at the hands of Valandil and his cohorts.
Don’t, Miriel, she pleaded to herself. Don’t think about that. Push it out of your mind. This is supposed to be a pleasant trip. Don’t let yourself become stricken with melancholy. Not now. Not while with Glorfindel.
“But I suppose you had your own dealings with unfriendly types,” Glorfindel continued. “Having to fend off yrch and wargs all by yourself - that is an impressive feat, especially for one so young.” He glanced over his shoulder. “There is no doubt that your skills have vastly improved since then,” he added with a smile.
Miriel’s heart fluttered at the Noldo’s beautiful smile. All morbid thoughts left her mind. “That’s because I’ve trained with the best,” she responded.
Glorfindel laughed heartily, as his gaze returned to the path. “Say that to Halbarad and he’ll have a fit!”
“Why is that?” she queried, glad that the conversation had shifted to a more pleasant topic (if one could refer to Halbarad as that!) “Surely, he knows that a great lord like yourself is more skilled in warfare than he could ever dream of.”
“You flatter me, Miriel,” answered the Noldo with a chortle. “Halbarad is quite eager to train with you. He views being a Watcher as a birthright and was most displeased when Elrond decided that I was to train you myself.”
“One of these days I’ll need to thank Elrond for that,” she uttered. While Miriel had not conversed with the Lord of Imladris since her first meeting with him, she no longer ran when she saw him in the corridors. Now, she nodded as she briskly walked by him, still too uncomfortable with the thought of speaking to him. Perhaps that was rude, but she just couldn’t face him yet.
“You know there will be a time when you’ll have to train with him. He is your Watcher, after all.”
“Yes, I know,” the Slayer replied with a sigh. “He’s been skulking about lately, watching us practice. Same as Aragorn. He tries to hide, but I can see him watching me.”
“Aragorn is a good man, Miriel. It really disturbs him that you mistrust him so. He regrets all that has happened.”
“So, I guess I’ll add you to the list of those that sing the praises of the Ranger Chieftain!”
“And heir to the throne. He is destined to be king one day,” added Glorfindel.
“Do you really think he will be?” queried the girl, somewhat skeptically. “I mean, Arwen tells me that Elrond will only let her marry Aragorn if he reunites the two kingdoms, and rules over both. That hasn’t happened since the days of Elendil!”
“What greater motivator is there than love?” replied the Elf Lord. “And yes, I do believe Aragorn will one day be king.”
“Denethor will shit,” Miriel mumbled under her breath.
“What’s that?” asked Glorfindel, looking over his shoulder at her. He hadn’t heard her last comment.
“Nothing,” she replied. The Slayer would give anything to see the look on her father’s face when he was stripped of his office and station. True, he would probably keep the title of Steward, but the powers he had wielded since Ecthelion’s death would be stripped away. A just punishment, she thought.
The path began to slope downward as they neared the forest. It was midmorning, and the sun’s rays shone over the snow-covered peaks of the Misty Mountains, bathing the valley with a glowing orangey light. The trail they had been following meandered into the woods, running along the base of the mountains. Glorfindel had said that it was fifty some odd miles to their destination. At the horses slow pace, they would get there sometime that afternoon.
Around midday, Glorfindel halted and announced that they would take a break. An ever grateful Miriel dismounted from her steed, eager to walk off the stiffness in her legs and rub her sore rear end.
“You’re not much of a rider, I take it,” said an amused Glorfindel, watching as the Slayer massaged her backside.
“Not really,” she replied, walking around the small glade in which they had stopped. “I prefer walking to riding, any day.”
“Walk the stiffness off and I’ll ready things for our meal,” he declared, as he began to rummage through his pack.
Miriel had thought that they would be eating lembas, but she should’ve known better, seeing as how Glorfindel prided himself as a cook. They had an entire roasted chicken that the Noldo had stashed away from last night’s supper. That, and a loaf of bread made early that morning, proved to be the perfect feast. Since the best time to hunt was either right before dawn or right after dusk, they took their time, leisurely eating their lunch.
That food which they did not finish was wrapped in cloth, and placed back in the Elf Lord’s bag to be eaten later. Before long, they climbed atop their horses and set off once again.
Later that afternoon they reached the spring heads. There were actually quite a few of them, but their streams disappeared underground, flowing into the Bruinen River some distance away. Before allowing the horses a drink, Glorfindel wanted to inspect the earth for animal tracks around the watering holes.
“Look at that, Miriel!” said the Noldo pointing to a recently dug hole in the dirt. “Boars have been rooting here in search of food.” He crouched down, and touched the dirt with his fingers. “This is recent. Most likely from this morning.” He then rose to his feet, brushing the dirt from his hands. His eyes followed the tracks that disappeared into the woods. The Elf Lord then began to follow the tracks, calling for Miriel to follow.
“See here!” he said, now pointing near the bottom of a tree where its bark had been stripped off. “Boars sharpen their tusks on trees. Though these markings are old, that tells you that they come here often.”
Though the Slayer understood that Glorfindel wanted to teach her these new skills, she really wasn’t all that interested. She had never hunted big game because she thought it would be wasteful to kill something so large for only herself. And let’s face it, her motivation for coming was to spend some alone time with the Noldo. Pure and simple! However, in typical womanly fashion, Miriel feigned interest in all that the Elf was showing her.
“How do you know that a boar left those markings? Do deer not sharpen their racks on trees as well?” She thought by asking those questions, it would show that she wanted to learn.
“You are correct,” he answered, smiling. “But deer tend to leave their markings higher up on the tree. Boar have shorter legs and are highly aggressive, especially if their young are nearby.”
Glorfindel then decided to search the forest to show Miriel the difference between the markings left by deer and boar. They had a lot of free time on their hands. First, they watered the horses, before leading them deeper into the woods and out of sight of the springs. The Elf Lord worried that his and Miriel’s scent might prevent the big game from returning.
“They have to drink, don’t they?” Miriel asked after the Noldo had voiced his concern. “No creature can go without water.”
“True, but there are other means in which wildlife can hydrate themselves. They are highly adaptable animals, and can quench their thirst from the dew on leaves or from whatever greenery they can find. Plants contain water, and animals can make due with that for some time,” he informed her.
The Slayer stifled a yawn. She and Glorfindel stomped around in the woods, but never did find any markings left by deer. As much as Miriel was loathed to admit it, she now wished that she hadn’t come along. Wandering around the forest, inspecting the ground and trees for signs of big game was not at all what she thought it would be. It was tedious, boring. She had assumed they’d just shoot some passing deer as they went along. Funny how things never go as one expects!
While Miriel thought that was bad enough, hunting proved to be worse. She and Glorfindel hunkered in the brush, down wind from the spring heads. The Noldo demanded absolute silence, which was easier said than done! Any time the Slayer felt the need to move, to stretch the stiffness from her legs, the leaves that covered the forest floor crunched loudly. Glorfindel’s response was always the same. His head would spin in her direction, his eyes narrowed, telling her to shush. When she tried to apologize, he’d shush her again. It was a no win situation. It seemed to Miriel that she didn’t have enough patience for this sport. For some reason, hunting conies was a hell of a lot easier than hunting big game. She could only assume that deer and boar had bigger brains, so they must be smarter.
As darkness began to engulf them, the Noldo finally gave up for the night. “I’m afraid our scent has scared them off,” he said, sighing in defeat. However, he quickly added in a more hopeful voice, “There’s always tomorrow.”
“Great,” replied Miriel, feigning enthusiasm that time. Her joints popped as she stood up. Her body ached all over.
“Let’s head back to camp,” instructed Glorfindel, sliding his bow over his shoulder.
The Slayer murmured in agreement, grateful to be moving once again. Their campsite, where the horses were tethered, was further down wind from the watering holes. Glorfindel hoped that other critters would visit the springs throughout the night, which would mask whatever lingering smell he and Miriel had left behind.
When they got back to their camp, Miriel gathered some wood so Glorfindel could start a fire. As the sun sank, so did the temperature. It was cold, so cold that the Slayer could see her and the Noldo’s breath. What a welcomed sight it was when the Elf Lord sparked their fire. The wood crackled and popped as the flames licked at the wood, filling the immediate area with both light and heat.
They finished off the remnants of their earlier meal, along with a couple of apples each. It was still early, but the day had been long, very long. Miriel was already feeling sleepy. Since Glorfindel appeared to be in a talkative mood, she fought sleep. Lying stretched out on her bedroll beside the fire; she listened as the Noldo told her stories from the Elder Days. Though she always found herself captivated by his tales, at some point, Miriel fell asleep.
Way before dawn, Glorfindel woke the Slayer. Their fire had burned out, and it felt colder than it had the night before. She pulled on a thick sweater over her shirt to help ward off the chill. After a quick breakfast, they armed themselves, and crept back through the woods toward the springs. Once again, they concealed themselves amidst the brush and waited... and waited... and waited. Gradually, the blackness was replaced by the dim grey light of morning. Luck didn’t appear to be on their side, as no wildlife of any kind visited the watering holes that morning.
Miriel’s frustration clearly showed on her face, which prompted Glorfindel to say, “Hunting requires patience, Miriel. That’s why I told you to pack things for a few days journey. Our luck will change,” he vowed, trying his best to reassure the Slayer.
“So what are we going to do, just sit around until dusk?” she queried, stretching the stiffness from her limbs.
“Well, we can explore the woods if you’d like,” he suggested.
“What about the horses? I’m sure they’re miserable just standing around. As much as I loath riding, I think they would enjoy a walk.”
“Alright then,” he replied. “We’ll go for a ride.”
That’s how they spent their second day in the wilderness, riding in one giant loop until they ended up back at their campsite later that afternoon.
As the afternoon waned, they returned to the thickets, playing the waiting game yet again. As the sun went down, Miriel found herself dozing off.
She was jolted awake when Glorfindel elbowed her ribs. Without speaking, he motioned toward the springs with his head. Miriel followed his gaze. In the clearing near the spring stood a lone deer, a female. She stood perfectly still, her head raised, her ears erect. Her nose twitched as she sniffed the air. After what seemed an eternity, she stepped to the water’s edge and began to drink.
Miriel lifted her bow, but Glorfindel stopped her. With a shake of his head, he mouthed the word, “Wait”. His eyes then returned to the spring. A few minutes later, another doe came into the clearing, followed by another, and another.
The Noldo leaned closer to Miriel. His lips grazed her ear, giving her instant goosebumps. In a barely audible voice he said, “Aim right behind the front shoulder. Shoot at my signal.”
The Slayer nodded. As quietly as she could, she armed her bow, hoping and praying that she’d hit her target. One of the deer suddenly froze, and so did Miriel. She held her breath, fearing that the animal could hear her breathing.
Only a minute later, a buck with enormous antlers crept into the clearing. Miriel’s eyes darted to him. Her heart began to pound frantically in anticipation. If only she could kill that deer! The buck then eased between two females at the spring, making it impossible for her to get a clear shot. From the corner of her eye, she kept watching Glorfindel, waiting for his signal.
In a puff of breath, the Noldo said, “Shoot.”
They both shot at the same time. Miriel could hear the ping of the strings, singing in unison, as their arrows raced through the wind. She watched as the ears on the male swiveled in their direction. Two females let out a low grunt before collapsing onto the ground. The rest of the deer began to high tail it out of there. The buck was the first to disappear from sight. To her amazement, another female dropped before she could escape into the woods. Glorfindel had moved so swiftly that Miriel had never seen him rearm his weapon. Even when it came to hunting, the Noldo again bested the Slayer, killing two deer to her one.
“Go get the horses,” instructed the Elf Lord, leaping to his feet. There was an air of excitement in his voice.
Miriel scrambled out of the bush, her heart still thumping wildly in her chest. She too was excited. This was the first time she had killed big game. She raced between the trees toward their campsite. When she reached the small clearing, the horses were nosing the ground in search of something to eat. She untied the reins as fast as she could before leading the steeds to the springs.
By the time she reached Glorfindel, he had tied ropes to the back legs of one doe. His eyes then scanned the nearest trees, looking for one that was suitable to hang the deer from.
“You mean we have to gut them here?” asked Miriel incredulously.
“Yes, the sooner we do, the better off we are.” He handed Miriel the two strands of rope attached to the female’s legs. “Toss these over that limb,” he ordered, pointing to a specific birch tree. “And then secure them tightly to that smaller tree.”
Miriel threw each rope attached to the doe’s legs over a branch that hung about fifteen feet above them. She then pulled on each rope, lifting the deer off the ground. As she struggled to tie the knots around the smaller tree, she could hear Glorfindel whetting his knife.
“Do you need my help?” he asked.
“I’m quite capable of tying knots, thank you very much!”
The Elf Lord sniggered, waiting for Miriel to complete her task. When she had, he offered her the knife, saying, “Do you want the honors?”
“What am I supposed to do?” she queried, looking from Glorfindel, to the knife, to the doe.
“Slice her throat, of course.”
Miriel’s eyes shifted to the deer, gently swinging from the tree limb. “Um, why don’t you do the first one. Then I can see how it’s done.”
“It’s not difficult at all,” he said, stomping over to the deer. He pulled the head back and in one swift motion, ran the blade across the beast’s throat. Blood gushed from the incision, rapidly forming a pool of crimson on the ground. “It’ll only take a few minutes for her to drain.”
Miriel stared at the puddle of blood, watching as it expanded. Images from the House of Horrors flashed in her mind. She could clearly see in her mind’s eye similar pools of blood surrounding those villains that Beorn had killed, not to mention, her own blood. She wished she could forget that nightmare and wondered if she ever would.
She was so consumed with those thoughts, that she didn’t notice Glorfindel approaching, his fingers dripping with blood. As his hand reached out toward her face, she finally came back to her senses. The Slayer jumped back, shouting, “What the hell are you doing?”
The Noldo was slightly taken aback by her response. “It’s an elvish custom. When one makes their first kill, they are marked with the animal’s blood,” he explained.
“This wasn’t my first kill,” she stated firmly, none too pleased with the thought of having blood of any kind deliberately smeared on her face.
“Oh, come now, Miriel,” the Noldo said, downplaying the whole thing. “It’s tradition. And this is your first kill with me.” He raised his brow. “I thought you liked the elvish ways, hmm.” Before she could respond, he stepped closer and smeared blood on her face, saying, “You’re now a full-fledged hunter.” His smile broadened. He then nodded approvingly at the streaks he had drawn on her face.
He then turned his attention back to the deer, whose blood now fell in drips. “Watch carefully, Miriel, for you will do the next one.” She watched as Glorfindel ran his blade from between the animal’s legs to the incision in its throat. She watched (in horror) as its steaming innards plopped down into the puddle on the ground, splattering blood on both her and the Elf.
“It is of the utmost importance not to cut the bladder or bowels,” said Glorfindel as he cut the membranes that acted as an adhesive for some of the deer’s insides. “That will contaminate the meat, and render it worthless.”
When the first deer was gutted, it was Miriel’s turn to repeat the process on the second. She slit the throat, waiting for the blood to drain out.
“I really wished I could’ve shot that buck. Why o’ why did he have to step between the two females?” she moaned.
“It’s instinct,” replied Glorfindel. “Females nearly always leave the cover of the woods first, in case there are any predators nearby. When the males are assured there are no threats, then they’ll step into the open, though they try to limit their exposure to any possible foes.”
“Imagine that,” Miriel snickered, rolling her eyes at the absurdity of it all. “Using the females as a shield! Why does that not surprise me?”
“It’s that survival instinct – everybody has it. Even people.”
“Well, just so you know, if you try to use me as a shield, I’ll kick your ass all the way to Mount Doom!” warned Miriel, waving her finger in the Noldo’s face.
Glorfindel mockingly appeared aghast. “I would do no such thing! I would act as your shield, if the need arose.”
The Slayer smiled. “That’s more like it. Spoken like a true gentleman!”
In a overly dramatic fashion, the Elf Lord bowed before her. “I would risk my life and limb to protect you.”
“And I would you,” replied a beaming Miriel. And she meant it too.
She then ran her fingers under the stream of blood. “Since this was your first kill with me, I get to mark you as a full-fledged hunter as well,” she informed the Noldo, wanting to paint his face with the deer’s life force. While he had smeared some type of streak-like marking on her face, Miriel decided to paint flowers on his. Every part of his face was covered with flowers. She thought it was befitting, considering that he had once been the lord of the House of the Golden Flower in Gondolin. She only hoped that the blood would remain on his face until they returned to the house. She’d love to see the other Elves’ reactions when they saw the mighty Glorfindel’s face painted with bloody flowers.
Night arrived before they were able to finish cleaning the last deer. Glorfindel started a fire, deciding that they’d wait until morning before beginning the journey home. After all three deer had been gutted, they were each wrapped in tarps until they departed at first light. The Noldo decided that they’d salvage some of the organs for their supper, choosing the livers to cook over the roaring fire. He cut the meat into chunks, skewered them on sticks and placed them over the fire.
While the food cooked, they sat beside one another in front of the fire, talking.
“Can I ask you something?” Miriel finally had the nerve to question him about something that had been gnawing at her since she had first met the Noldo.
“You can ask me anything,” he answered, stoking the fire with a stick.
“Why is it that Elrond is Lord of Rivendell and you’re not? I mean, you’re an Elda of great wisdom, far older than Elrond.” She turned her gaze from the fire to the Elf. “It just seems to me that you’re more deserving of your own kingdom, to be the lord of Elves.”
Glorfindel’s eyes remained fixed on the fire, but he answered, “Elrond is very deserving of being Lord of Imladris. It was he that discovered the valley long ago.” He paused for a few moments before continuing. “You seem to forget, Miriel, that I did not dwell in Middle-earth for a long, long time. When I was released from Mandos, I returned to Tirion, for a time. It was in Yr 1000 when I returned to these parts to aid my kin that still called this land home.” He then turned his grey eyes to her. “One does not have to be ruler to be a mighty lord.”
Miriel’s heart sank. “I wasn’t implying that you weren’t,” she replied hastily. “I… I just think you’re the greatest… ” As soon as the words had left her mouth, she regretted saying them. Not the part about his being the greatest Elf alive – she wholeheartedly believed that. It just made her sound like a love-sick puppy. Cringing inside, she looked back at the fire, embarrassed beyond belief.
“I appreciate your sentiments,” said Glorfindel, recognizing that the Slayer was mortified by what she had said. He refrained from laughing, smiling even. “Elrond is very deserving of his title. He’s earned it. Did you know that he was Ereinion’s heir?”
“Who?” Miriel’s eyes darted back to the Noldo. She had never heard that name before.
“I daresay that the annals in Gondor probably did not record the High King’s birth name. You most likely know him by the name Gil-galad. Am I right?”
Recognition came to the girl’s face. “Oh, yes. I do know that name,” she said, nodding. She stopped, tilting her head to the side, as she looked at Glorfindel. “But, I’m confused. How is it that Elrond is the heir of Gil-galad when Eärendil is his father?”
“Gil-galad had fathered no children whilst here in Endórë, and Elrond was his herald and second in command. Even back then, Elrond’s wisdom was great, having gained considerable knowledge from Eönwë himself, after the fall of Morgoth. Do not underestimate the son of Eärendil’s abilities, for they far greater than you know.”
Miriel tried to explain herself. “I wasn’t implying that he wasn’t great. And I think I’ve seen his abilities first hand. He’s… he’s very perceptive in ways that I find… uncomfortable.”
“I suppose if one was harboring secrets they would find his ability to probe one’s mind unnerving.”
Miriel bowed her head, looking down at her lap. “That’s the truth,” she murmured.
Glorfindel knew that Elrond had seen the Slayer’s past, and he could see that it still bothered her. Gently lifting her chin, he said, “Whatever it was that Elrond has seen, whatever secrets you are keeping, they are safe with him. One of Elrond’s greatest qualities is his trustworthiness. You can trust him… and me.” He softly caressed her skin with his thumb, hoping that she’d find his words comforting.
Miriel looked dreamily into the Elf’s eyes. She was grateful for his kindly nature, and thankful for his friendship. Whether it was the heat of the fire or Glorfindel’s touch, the Slayer suddenly felt hot. So much so, that little beads of sweat formed on her forehead and the palms of her hands. As much as she was loath to, she pulled out of his grasp.
“Is it me or has it suddenly gotten hot!” she exclaimed, pulling at the neck of her sweater.
Her unexpected proclamation made Glorfindel laugh. “It’s just you,” he said, turning his attention to the skewers of meat, which he rotated on his makeshift stand.
Miriel took off her cloak before pulling off her thick sweater. She could instantly feel the cool air on her upper body. She crammed her wool garment into her bag before combing her hair with her fingers. Glorfindel watched her from the corner of his eye.
Shortly thereafter, the Elf Lord turned his attention back to Miriel. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“That ring you always wear – who did it belong to?” he asked.
Miriel had become so used to wearing Bregolas’ ring around her neck that it almost felt as if it was a part of her. She glanced down at her chest and could see the ring glimmering in the firelight. She picked it up, holding it between her fingers.
“His name was Bregolas,” she said softly. “He was a dear of friend of mine.” She paused. “He died whilst trying to protect me.”
“May I?” asked the Noldo, reaching out for the ring that hung from the silver chain around her neck.
Miriel nodded.
He eased closer, taking the ring with his fingers. “Mithril,” he uttered as his keen elvish eyes inspected the piece of jewelry.
“Uh-huh.”
“He loved you,” revealed Glorfindel, speaking as softly as she had. “This ring meant the world to him because it signified his bond, with you.”
“How do you know that?” queried a stunned Miriel.
“Sometimes, we leave traces of ourselves on things we hold dear,” he replied, still holding the ring. He then added, “And I can see that your love for him was not as his for you.”
The Slayer’s brows shot upward, stunned that the Noldo could perceive her feelings for Bregolas. “You can see that in the ring?”
Glorfindel shifted his eyes to Miriel. “I see it in you,” he answered.
The girl began to worry, fearing that the mighty Elf Lord possessed that same ability as Elrond and could see her mind, her thoughts, her past. She swiftly shifted her eyes back to the ring, hoping that by breaking eye contact with the Noldo, he wouldn’t be able to see anything else.
Though she avoided Glorfindel’s gaze, his eyes remained locked on her, studying her intently. For a brief moment, she had let her guard down and he had felt certain emotions emanating from her essence: fear, pain, betrayal, and guilt.
Deeply concerned, he asked, “What is it in your past that haunts you so?” He paused, allowing Miriel time to answer. When she did not, he continued. “Did he hurt you? Did this Bregolas wrong you in some way?”
The Slayer did not like Glorfindel’s line of questioning. It brought to mind memories she’d rather have forgotten. She turned toward the fire, her movement causing the ring to slip out of the Noldo’s grasp. Her mind was racing, her heart pounding. A part of her wanted to tell Glorfindel everything, every horrible thing that had ever happened to her. But another part of her warned her to keep her mouth shut. She was conflicted by the numerous thoughts running through her mind, and by her feelings for the Elf Lord. To Miriel, Glorfindel was the one, the one she had been waiting for all her life – her true love, her soul mate.
Her eyes began to well with tears. Her stomach was in knots, and she felt a sudden tightening in her throat. “Yes,” she finally whispered after what felt like an eternity of silence.
Grieved to hear that, and going against the counsel of Elrond, Glorfindel then said, “What did he do? What did he do to cause you such pain? You can tell me, Miriel. Whatever you tell me will stay between the two of us. I can promise you that.”
A tear escaped the corner of Miriel’s eye. As it trickled down her cheek, she quickly wiped it away. “It no longer matters,” she croaked, her voice breaking as she spoke. “Bregolas is dead. And it’s my fault,” she confessed weakly.
“No!” replied the troubled Elf Lord. He cradled her face in his hands, forcing her to face him. “You are not responsible for anyone’s death. Whatever ills that have befallen you were not your doing. Sometimes bad things happen to good people.” He had spoken, nearly verbatim, what Buffy had told her some time ago.
However, the Slayer found herself replying, “Yet sometimes it is rightly deserved.”
“How could you believe such a thing?” asked the Noldo, his tone riddled with disbelief.
Unable to hold back, she answered, “Because when I was born, I took a life. I killed my mother and that proved to be an omen of things to come.” Miriel couldn’t believe she had just said that. The floodgates opened. She scrunched her eyes closed as tears streamed down her face.
Glorfindel’s jaw went slightly agape. His heart ached for this child seated beside him. His initial thought that this Bregolas was at the root of Miriel’s inner turmoil had been wrong. It went deeper than that, much, much deeper by the looks of it. He now wished that he had heeded his lord’s advice, and had not opened this door. Yet, over the weeks, he had come to love Miriel, to care deeply about her. And, if by having her talk about these things it could bring her healing, then perhaps it was a necessary evil.
The Noldo wrapped his arms around the Slayer, wanting to comfort her. He stroked her hair, encouraging her to let it all out, telling her that there was no shame in tears. His words were soothing and had a calming effect on the girl.
It was several minutes before Miriel was able to pull herself together. How could she break down like this in front of Glorfindel? “I’m sorry,” she said, drying her wet face with her cloak. “I’m ruining your trip.”
“No, no you’re not,” assured the Elf Lord. He wrapped an arm around the Slayer’s shoulders, holding her close to him. “Listen to me, Miriel. Do not think for one moment that you’re to blame for your mother’s death. Unfortunately, there are times when women die during childbirth, when they forfeit their own life to create a new one. You are not to blame for that, and I cannot fathom why you would think so.”
In a faint voice, Miriel answered, “That’s what my father always said, that I took Finduilas from him.”
A look of contempt came to the Noldo’s handsome face. “Believe not the words of your father!” he said angrily. “How dare he say such a thing to his only daughter!” Not wanting to inflame her ire about Denethor, he tried to rationalize the Steward of Gondor’s comments. “He spoke out of grief, I deem. Sometimes when we’re in pain, we lash out at those whom we love most.”
The Slayer snickered.
“What?” asked Glorfindel, his eyes shifting to the girl nestled in the crook of his arm.
“Denethor does not know what love is, or perhaps his perception of it has been twisted. I hate him.”
“You do not mean that,” the Noldo countered.
“Yes, I do. As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead.”
“You cannot mean that. He’s your father,” protested Glorfindel.
“You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s really like,” argued Miriel.
“Then tell me what he’s like. Tell me why you feel such enmity toward your father.”
“I don’t want to talk about him any more,” stated the Slayer firmly.
Glorfindel could obviously see that Denethor was a touchy subject with Miriel and decided to steer the conversation in a different direction. He hoped that in due time, he could get Miriel to talk in more detail about her past. For one cannot run from one’s past, because, in the end, it will catch up to you…
Chapter 22 - Follow Your Heart?
Such an emotionally charged conversation left Miriel feeling exhausted. It almost seemed as if she had undergone one of Glorfindel’s rigorous workouts. She ended up falling asleep nestled within the crook of the Noldo’s arm. When their supper was ready, he had tried to wake her, but Miriel was no longer hungry, and had chosen sleep over food.
Early the following morning, she and Glorfindel placed the dead, gutted deer on both horses in preparation for the journey home. She considered herself fortunate, having to ride with only one carcass slung over her steed’s back unlike the Elf Lord who had two. Regardless, the ride home was long and burdensome, especially after a torrential thunderstorm hit, slowing the horses’ pace even more.
By the time they reached home, Miriel was soaked to the bone and freezing. Her teeth constantly chattered, as she trudged her way through the pools of water that covered the ground. She counted down the minutes until she could submerge her frigid body into a hot, steamy bath.
Not long afterwards, the Slayer was enjoying her much anticipated bath, washing away the remnants of her hunting trip. As she finished rinsing the soap from her hair, the door to the bathing chamber suddenly swung open, startling Miriel. She sunk deeper under the water, on the verge of hurling curses at the intruder, when she saw Arwen pop into the room. She sighed with relief, grateful that it was only the daughter of Elrond.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” the elleth announced with a smile. “Glorfindel says that you’ve successfully killed your first deer.”
“It was just a deer,” said Miriel dismissively. “It’s no big deal.”
“Glorfindel seems to think so,” replied Arwen, sitting on the edge of the tub. “He’s planning a great feast for tomorrow to celebrate your triumph.”
“Why is he doing that?” groaned the Slayer. “It was just a deer.”
“Apparently, it’s a pivotal moment of some sort or another,” she answered with a wave of her hand. “He’s very proud of you.”
Miriel rolled her eyes.
“So, how was it? Hunting, I mean.”
The Slayer paused for a moment before replying. “Boring. Very boring. Did I emphasize the word boring?” She shook her head. “Hunting game is not my cup of tea. Hunting Orcs and the like – I can take, but I have no patience for hunting deer, and hope I’m never asked to go again.”
“Oh, Miriel, it could not have been that bad,” said Arwen with a chuckle.
“You have no idea!”
“That’s true. I have never been hunting,” revealed the elleth.
“Well, maybe I should tell Glorfindel to take you next time. Then he can shush you anytime you breathe or move too loudly.”
“Father would never approve. Hunting is considered a man’s sport,” she replied, somewhat solemnly.
“A man’s sport?” repeated Miriel incredulously. “I was not aware that I was a man!”
“You know what I mean,” said Arwen. “Women are supposed to do womanly things.”
The Slayer’s brows shot up. She stared at the elleth. Her eyes widened. “Women can do anything that men can.”
“That did not come out right. I mean, you’re a Slayer – you slay. Most women tend to do normal every day things like needlepoint and… well, mundane things like that.” She let out a heavy sigh.
Miriel lowered her brows. “What’s wrong, Arwen? Something appears to be bothering you.”
“I’m fine.” She rose from the edge of the tub. “Look at me barging in on you while you’re bathing. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
Before the Slayer could respond, Arwen had hastily fled the chamber. There was no doubt in Miriel’s mind that something was troubling the elleth, but there was no way she was about to go chasing after Arwen half-naked. When she finished her bath, she slipped into her robe and slippers and headed to her room. As soon as she finished dressing, she’d search for the daughter of Elrond, and find out what was bothering her.
Unfortunately, Miriel never got a chance to speak with Arwen. She got sidetracked along the way by the sons of Elrond, who felt that she had been ignoring them over the past few weeks. She had been spending nearly every waking moment with Glorfindel, and felt badly that the brothers could think such a thing. At that moment, Miriel felt it was important to spend some time with the twins. The trio ended up spending the evening huddled before a fire in one of the many sitting rooms, talking well into the night.
As always, Glorfindel woke Miriel early the following morning, continuing their daily routine of preparing food for the massive household. While working, the Noldo informed her that she would resume her training with Halbarad later that day.
“Will you be there too?” she asked hopefully.
“I don’t think Halbarad would be pleased by that,” answered Glorfindel, as he slipped several loaves of soon-to-be bread into the oven.
“I don’t understand why he’d be bothered by your being there as a casual observer,” remarked the Slayer.
“Casual observer, eh?” the Elf Lord chortled.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. Look at how many people have watched our training sessions. Your being there would be for... for moral support,” she rationalized. “Besides, it’s not like he’s an experienced Watcher. You could always advise him on... things.”
“I’ve already spoken with Halbarad and advised him on your strengths and weaknesses – ”
“ – Weaknesses!” she interjected with disdain. “Pfft! I have no weaknesses!”
“You’re impatient, Miriel,” revealed the Elf Lord. “That can be a detriment on the battlefield.”
“Surely, you jest!” she said incredulously. “I’ve just spent two days with you, hunkered down in the brush, waiting hours upon hours for deer. If that is not a demonstration of my patience, than I don’t know what is.”
“We shall see soon enough,” replied the Noldo with a smile.
Later that afternoon, Halbarad summoned Miriel. Due to the drizzling rains, they’d be practicing inside. Like numerous times before, many of Elrond’s household gathered in the large room, viewing the Slayer’s training exercises as a form of entertainment. To Miriel’s delight, Glorfindel was present. He was leaning against a column, standing alongside the sons of Elrond, Erestor and Aragorn.
It seemed that Halbarad was a little nervous to have so many of the immortal folk watching his every move.
“Let’s begin with the sword,” said the Watcher, handing Miriel a wooden replica of the real thing.
“What’s the point?” she moaned. “I’ve done this hundreds of times already.”
“Not with me,” answered an annoyed Halbarad, his teeth clenched as he spoke.
Miriel’s eyes darted to Glorfindel. He gave a slight nod of his head, indicating that she should comply with the Watcher’s demands.
With a heavy sigh, she took the weapon from Halbarad. “Now what?”
Tightening his grasp on his own wooden sword, he replied, “Now, disarm me.” He took a couple of steps backward, sizing her up.
Miriel half-heartedly lifted her weapon. Her lack of enthusiasm did not go unnoticed by her Watcher.
“Pretend that I’m the enemy,” he said, starting to slowly circle her.
“Pretend, huh?” she shot back with a snicker.
Halbarad frowned. “Could you at least have the decency to show me the same courtesy that you’ve shown Glorfindel?” he asked, pointing his wooden blade at the Elf Lord. “I understand that you do not adore me as you do him, but at least make an effort, will you?”
If the Watcher’s comments were meant to embarrass Miriel, mission accomplished. The Slayer’s face instantly turned bright red, and her stomach felt as if it had twisted into knots. The muffled laughter from a few of the spectators didn’t help any. She’d make Halbarad pay for that.
Her eyes narrowed, as she slowly raised her weapon, preparing to attack. Miriel then lunged at Halbarad with a crazed glint in her eyes that caused the Watcher to back away. Her wooden sword swooshed through the air, straight at his head. He ducked in the nick of time, feeling the breeze from the weapon sweeping over his head.
Many in the audience gasped. Glorfindel’s booming voice echoed over all the other noises, scolding the Slayer for her actions.
Miriel then realized that she had taken things too far, albeit, after the fact. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to embarrass the Watcher as he had her.
Angered, Halbarad then charged the Slayer.
With one eye focused on his weapon, and the other on him, she did a roundhouse kick, striking the Dúnadan’s fingers that tightly clutched the hilt of his blade. He let out a shrill yelp. The sword went flying out of his hand, skidding across the wooden floor.
Once again, Glorfindel chastised the Slayer. This time, however, he came rushing onto the floor with Aragorn and the twins, and headed straight to Halbarad.
Grimacing in pain, the Watcher clutched his injured knuckles.
From amongst the small huddle of men, Miriel heard various voices, saying:
“Are they broken?”
“Can you move them?”
“They’re swelling fast.”
And then she heard Halbarad’s voice, as cold as cold could be. “One hundred laps, Miriel.”
“What?”
“You heard me. A hundred laps around the house. NOW!”
The girl’s eyes shot toward the nearest window. The sprinkle had now turned into a gentle shower. “But, it’s raining,” she whined.
An enraged Halbarad stomped over to her. He stopped inches away from her face, and hissed, “I do not care if it’s snowing. Now get out there, and do a hundred laps!”
Miriel took a step backward. Her eyes darted to Glorfindel. The Elf Lord shook his head disappointedly. “Do as Halbarad says.” His tone mirrored his face.
Having Glorfindel look and speak to her in that manner left her crestfallen. She quickly turned her attention back to the Dúnadan, and tried to apologize. He pointed toward the door, unwilling to say anything else to her until she had completed her punishment.
Miriel wasn’t going to talk her way out of this. Having no other choice, she ran up to her room, grabbed her cloak, and headed outside. She began the first of many laps to come.
While she was gone, Halbarad voiced his complaints to Glorfindel. “Do you not see that as long as we remain here in Rivendell, the Slayer will not heed me?”
“And yet you want to make with the swordplay?” the Noldo responded. “At this point, it does seem impractical.”
“Then that’s all the more reason for us to leave. It’s been nearly three months, Glorfindel. We’re needed in the field, not here. The time has come to put Miriel’s skills to the test. She needs to be out there where the threat of the enemy runs rampant, not holed up in Imladris as a cook.”
Glorfindel had been dreading this conversation for some time now. While he knew the day would come when Miriel would have to leave Imladris, he wasn’t at all excited at the prospect. He had come to enjoy her companionship over these many weeks. She made him feel young again, which was no easy feat, considering he was one of the Eldar.
The Noldo shifted his eyes to Aragorn. “What say you, Estel? Do you think Miriel is ready?”
Aragorn pondered Glorfindel’s question for a few moments before answering. “To tell you the honest truth, I think Miriel was ready from the beginning. She survived whatever calamities that had befallen her long before we came along. I think that you have strengthened what skills she’s possessed, and that Hal’s correct – that it’s time for Miriel to face her adversaries outside the borders of fair Imladris.”
“I agree,” chimed in Elrohir. “We have been home overly long. I feel useless as long as I’m here.”
“Too true,” added Elladan, nodding his head in agreement. “I am eager to get back out there, defending those who are unable to defend themselves.” He lowered his voice. “And I do not feel that the Shire is nearly as safe whilst we remain here. I’d feel better knowing my eyes were keeping watch on the comings and goings there.”
To that, all were in agreement.
“Then perhaps tonight’s feast will double as a farewell party,” sighed Glorfindel sadly.
Aragorn gave the Elf Lord’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “We all know how fond you are of Miriel. This does not mean that we will leave tomorrow at first light. We’ll need a few days to prepare for our departure, and I, for one, would like to seek Elrond’s counsel before doing so.”
“I fear that this news will not be welcomed by Miriel,” added Glorfindel dismally.
“Leave it to us,” said Elrohir, referring to himself and his brother. “We can handle Miriel.”
“It is you that I worry about,” replied the Noldo, locking his eyes on Halbarad. “Do not be too hard on her. Much grief lies beneath Miriel’s merry exterior.”
“Merry exterior?” repeated the Watcher, his eyes widening in stunned disbelief. “That girl is as contemptuous as they come!”
“Then you do not know her well at all. Show her respect, and she will do the same.”
“I deem I’ll earn her respect when she has completed fifty laps,” Halbarad snickered in reply.
Glorfindel shook his head in dismay.
“Fret not, my friend,” said a cheerful Elrohir. “We’ll keep Hal in line.”
“My fear is what should happen if Hal steps over that line,” answered Glorfindel grimly. He then took off, leaving not only the small group of men, but also the room.
By the time Miriel was on her tenth lap, she could feel the wet leather of her boots rubbing her heels raw. She viewed the pain as part of her punishment. It was stupid of her to have attacked Halbarad as she had. But what had made her feel even worse was the look on Glorfindel’s face. She vowed to be more respectful of her Watcher, even though he didn’t come close to matching the skill, brains and looks of Glorfindel. She had to accept Halbarad’s role in her life, whether she liked it or not. He surely couldn’t be that bad of a person and still be on friendly terms with the Elves. She could only surmise that the Watcher had to have some redeeming qualities hidden deep beneath the surface, since Miriel had not seen any, just yet.
On lap fourteen, the cramps started, first in her sides, then in muscles at the back of her legs. She slowed down to a brisk walk, rubbing her sides as she went along. She grumbled in discontent, seeing how she was the only fool outside in the cold rain.
“If I end up getting sick because of this,” she mumbled to herself. But, then, it occurred to her that if she were to get sick, perhaps Glorfindel would nurse her back to health. That was a most appealing thought. She pictured the Noldo bringing her a bowl of his hot, steaming soup, spoon-feeding her in bed.
She sneezed. That voice in her mind snidely remarked, Oh, yes, Miriel. What man does not desire a woman with a runny nose? I’m sure Glorfindel would find your leaking of body fluids very attractive.
“Thanks for the imagery,” she grumbled aloud. As the Slayer approached a porch, she thought she’d seek shelter from the rain, and hoped that after a few minutes rest, her cramps would lessen.
Not even thirty seconds after stopping, a window flung open and Halbarad shouted, “I did not say that you could stop. Get a move on!”
If possible, her heart raced even more when she heard the unexpected voice of her Watcher. “But I’m tired and wet,” she complained. “And my heels are bleeding.”
“Perhaps you should’ve thought of the consequences of your actions beforehand. Now get going!” Halbarad demanded.
Whimpering softly, Miriel clambered back to her feet. It was the look of disappointment on Glorfindel’s face that forced her to carry on with this ridiculous punishment. If the Slayer had not known better, she’d have thought that Halbarad was trying to kill her by having her run in such dismal conditions. Maybe he wanted her to get sick and die!
Nevertheless, she resumed her sprint, thinking of various punishments she’d like to inflict on the Dúnadan. As she ran along the front of the house, completing lap number nineteen, she spotted both Aragorn and Halbarad seated on the covered porch, smoking their pipes, and keenly watching her. They looked so dry, so warm.
Unfortunately, by taking her eyes off the path, she slipped on a slick stepping stone, twisted her ankle, and lost her footing. With her arms flailing dramatically about, trying to regain her balance, she fell backwards, landing hard on her butt bone. As she lay there, with the rain beating down upon her face, both her lower back and ankle began to throb painfully.
Moaning and groaning, she struggled to sit upright. A hand then shot into her line of vision. She looked up, only to see Aragorn standing there.
“Let me help you,” he said, as he grabbed her hand and helped pull her to her feet.
Miriel moaned again when she placed her left foot on the ground.
“Where does it hurt?” asked the Ranger Chieftain, unfazed by the fact that he was now getting soaked.
“My left ankle,” she groaned. “I twisted it when I fell.”
Aragorn swept her off her feet, and carried her to the porch. He sat her down on the dry surface. “Let’s take a look at your ankle, Miriel.”
As he helped pull off her boot, she looked up at Halbarad, who continued to puff away on his pipe. “It’s a ruse, Aragorn,” he said. “Miriel is trying to get out of her punishment.” With a stern look on his face, he added, “Just so you know, it won’t work.”
Once her boot was off, Aragorn gently touched her ankle. Miriel winced, grimacing from the jolt of pain.
“This is no ruse, Hal,” said the Ranger Chieftain. “Miriel’s ankle is already swelling.”
“Good,” the Watcher snapped in reply. “The Lords in the West must be smiling down upon me, doling out sweet justice in recompense for my hand!”
Aragorn shot Halbarad a dirty look. “How could you say such a thing? The Valar had no part in Miriel’s fall.”
“Be that as it may. Justice has prevailed!” He then resumed smoking his pipe.
“Come on, Miriel. Let’s get you inside and into some dry clothing.” The Ranger Chieftain then helped her to her feet.
“No, Aragorn,” said Halbarad angrily, leaning forward in his chair. “Miriel has not finished her laps.”
“Oh, yes she has,” replied the Ranger Chieftain with an air of finality in his voice.
As Aragorn reached down to pick up Miriel’s boot, she and the Watcher locked eyes for a brief moment. She smiled broadly, realizing that Aragorn had the power to overrule Halbarad. That was good to know, especially since Aragorn had been doing everything he could to make amends with Miriel since the incident on the road months earlier. Having the future king on her side would change everything. That newfound knowledge seemed to lessen her pain.
By the time Aragorn was standing again, the smile on Miriel’s face was replaced by a grimace. Halbarad scowled. He could now see that this Slayer of his was a master manipulator. He pondered on that thought, as she limped off with his lord.
Once Miriel was away from Halbarad, she told Aragorn that she could get back to her room on her own. She took her boot from his hand and hobbled down the corridor, happy that she didn’t have to complete her punishment. When she got to her room, she changed into dry clothing and decided to take a nap before the feast which was to be later that night.
When the dinner bells did not bring Miriel to the dining hall, the twins were sent to wake her.
“Wake up, sleepy head,” said Elladan, nudging Miriel awake.
“How can we have a celebratory feast without the guest of honor,” added Elrohir, tickling the bottom of Miriel’s feet.
The Slayer suddenly felt quite nervous. She didn’t at all like the thought of being the center of attention. She hadn’t liked it in Gondor, and she didn’t like it any better in Rivendell. The twin sons of Elrond tugged and pulled on her until Miriel had no other choice but to get up out of bed and face whatever the night had in store for her.
The feast turned out not to be as horrible as Miriel had imagined. The worst part was being seated at Elrond’s table on the dais. She had never sat there before, always preferring to sit at one of the lower tables with the rest of the household whenever she ate in that hall. Not only did she dislike being on “stage” as she referred to it, but the Lord of Imladris himself sat two seats away from her. She had not been in such close proximity with Elrond since she had first arrived in Rivendell. After all the time she had spent in his realm, she still felt highly uncomfortable around him.
She only had to endure a few minutes of embarrassment when Glorfindel began to sing her praises at having made her first kill. This was a tradition normally shared between fathers and sons, but an exception was made in Miriel’s case, and Glorfindel’s too, since he had no son.
After she said a word of thanks to the Noldo, the feast began. Of course, deer was on the menu.
When all had finished eating, they ventured out of that hall and into another called the Hall of Fire. This too was a first for Miriel. Since her arrival, she had done her best to avoid big crowds, preferring the company of a few over many. Nearly every member of Elrond’s household filled the enormous room. Most sat on pillows on the floor while some preferred chairs.
Miriel was one of those seated on the floor, near the fireplace. Several chairs were arranged in a semi-circle to one side of the fireplace. This is where Elrond, Arwen, Erestor and other important people of Imladris sat. Although tonight, three were on the floor by the Slayer - Glorfindel, Elladan and Elrohir. A lone chair was placed on the other side of the fireplace. Those who wished to share a tale or sing a song would sit in that chair for all to see.
Various Elves paraded up to the chair, entertaining the crowd with their songs and tales. Miriel found herself staring at Glorfindel from the corner of her eye. She was bedazzled by the way his golden hair shimmered in the firelight. She was so entranced by his beauty that she didn’t hear when Elrond called her name. Elrohir had to nudge her back to her senses.
“Huh?” she said, staring blankly at Elrohir.
With his head he motioned toward his father.
Miriel shifted her eyes to the Lord of Rivendell.
He smiled. He had noticed the way she was looking at Glorfindel. “Come, Miriel,” he said, motioning her to the empty seat. “Why don’t you share with us a story from the south.”
The Slayer could feel the many eyes upon her, causing her to cringe inside. The Elves cheered her on, wanting to her whatever story she had to tell.
“Go on, Miriel,” encouraged Glorfindel, giving her a little nudge.
Reluctantly, she rose from her place on the floor. Her heart was pounding, her mind racing. The palms of her hands began to sweat. After hearing the fair voices of the Elves, there was no way she was about to sing. That left her with having to come up with a story. But what story? Surely, the Elves have heard every story she knew.
The room fell quiet when she sat in the chair. Her eyes scanned the many eager faces in the crowd. “I’m sure you’ve all heard this tale before,” she began. “I learned it from my mother’s people in Dol Amroth.” She then told the mannish version of the Lay of Nimrodel. Her eyes surveyed the people. Many smiled politely as she shared her tale. Miriel’s eyes stopped on Bilbo, who sat against one of the walls, seemingly asleep. She could only assume that her story was so boring that she had put the little Hobbit to sleep.
When she had finally finished, the Elves applauded, wanting to hear her tale yet again. Miriel’s eyes darted back to Bilbo. His eyes were still closed. Feeling emboldened, she said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to share another story with you all. One that none here has ever heard.” She paused for a moment, and then said, “Once upon a time, there was a girl named Snow White... ”
The moment she uttered that first sentence, she noticed that one of Bilbo’s eyes popped open. He, like the Elves, had never heard the story of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and was immediately intrigued when he heard the unusual name of Snow White. Why that particular story had popped into Miriel’s head, she couldn’t say, but she was now most grateful that Buffy had shared this story with her months ago. To see every single person in the room riveted by her tale was a glorious feeling.
“... And they lived happily ever after.” When she had finished her last sentence, those in the room (including the Lord of Imladris!) rose to their feet, giving the Slayer a standing ovation, and begging her to tell the story again.
Yet, in the back of her mind, she could hear Buffy saying, ‘Nah. Always leave them wanting more.’
“That’s it for me, my friends,” said a beaming Miriel as she rose to her feet. “I, for one, need some air.”
There were still calls for her to retell her tale as she left the room. The Slayer sighed with relief, delighted that her story was a hit with the Elves. She was sure Buffy would be pleased by that.
She marched out the front doors of the house and onto the porch. The cool air felt good. She glanced toward the heavens, only to see the night sky blanketed with thousands of stars. Light spilled out from the many tall windows along the front of the house, illuminating the porch and part of the front garden. After having been the center of attention, Miriel was in need of some solitary time. She descended the steps of the porch, and wandered down the nearest pathway. She sat on the first bench she came to. Gazing up at the stars, she soon became lost in her thoughts.
She was so preoccupied (thinking mostly of Glorfindel), that she didn’t hear Arwen approach.
“I enjoyed your story about Loss Faen very much,” she said, taking a seat beside the girl. “I had never heard it before. Where did you come by it?”
“Oh, it just came to me in a dream,” replied Miriel with a warm smile.
“Your dreams are rather vivid, are they not?”
“Sometimes,” answered the Slayer. Though, at that moment, she thought, You don’t know the half of it!
Arwen went quiet, shifting her eyes to the stars above. It then occurred to Miriel that Arwen had come to her once again. There was definitely something on the elleth’s mind, but this time, the Slayer wasn’t going to let her flee.
“What’s troubling you, Arwen?” asked Miriel, studying the daughter of Elrond keenly. “I know there’s something you want to talk to me about.”
Arwen looked at Miriel. “I would not want to burden you with my – ”
“ – You’d never burden me,” interjected the Slayer. “You can tell me anything. You know that.”
The elleth sighed, turning her gaze to the ground. “It’s my beloved,” she revealed softly.
“Aragorn?”
Arwen nodded. “He has been in Imladris for a long while now. Very seldom does he stay here this long.”
“Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?” queried Miriel, somewhat surprised by the sorrowful tone of Arwen’s voice.
“It is bittersweet. A part of me is gladdened that he’s here.” She looked back up at Miriel. “I do love him so.”
“But... ” said the Slayer, knowing there was more to tell.
“But, he yearns to return to the wilds, to fulfill his destiny,” she added. “Each day he spends here in Rivendell delays our life together, our marriage. Father will not allow us to wed until Aragorn reclaims the lordship of Arnor and Gondor. My fear is that the longer he tarries here, the less time we will have as husband and wife.”
“I see,” replied Miriel, suddenly having a sinking feeling in her stomach. “And I reckon I’m the reason for his delay,” she added miserably.
“Not entirely,” the elleth responded half-heartedly.
The Slayer could sense that Arwen was not telling the truth, that Miriel was indeed solely responsible for Aragorn’s delay.
“You must think I’m being incredibly selfish,” moaned the daughter of Elrond. She tried to explain herself, but struggled with putting her thoughts and feelings into words. “It’s just that... Aragorn isn’t one of the Eldar, his life is... He’s mortal, and time is so very precious... ” Her words faltered. Arwen now regretted saying anything at all. She sniffed back her tears. “I’m sorry, Miriel. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She attempted to escape, but Miriel grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her back down on the bench. “Don’t run off, Arwen. And you have nothing to apologize for.”
The elleth looked at the Slayer with tear-filled eyes. “No?” she queried, her bottom lip quivering.
“No,” repeated Miriel, trying her best to sound reassuring despite the sudden queasiness she felt at the thought of leaving Rivendell. It suddenly dawned on her that Arwen wasn’t the only one that thought it was time for the Slayer to venture into the outside world. How could she not see it? Halbarad’s taking a more proactive role in her training sessions was no mere coincidence. He, like the Elves (she surmised), had to be of the same opinion.
There must have been some drastic change in Miriel’s expression because Arwen abruptly added, “You are wroth with me!” as tears trickled down her pale face.
“No! No, I’m not!” disputed the Slayer. “It’s… it’s just… ” She now found herself in the same predicament as Arwen had been moments ago. She couldn’t clearly put her thoughts into words, or, perhaps she was reluctant to. There were several reasons why she loved being in Imladris, her love for Glorfindel being one of them.
“I am being selfish,” cried the elleth, burying her face in her hands.
“No. No, Arwen. You’re not the selfish one. I am,” admitted Miriel.
The daughter of Elrond lifted her head and looked at the Slayer with bleary, grey eyes. “What?”
“I knew this day would come, eventually,” she replied, gently wiping away the elleth’s tears. “I do like it here. You and your people have made me feel so welcome. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that.”
“I’m not trying to push you out! That is not my intent!” Arwen was quick to reply.
“I know,” sighed Miriel, offering her a reassuring smile. “It’s alright, Arwen. I mean, it isn’t like I have to leave tomorrow, right?”
The elleth clutched Miriel’s hands in hers. The Slayer could feel the dampness of Arwen’s tears on her palms. “You do not have to leave at all if that is your wont. If you want to stay – ”
“ – I just… I just have to put some things in order first,” said Miriel, speaking her thoughts aloud. “Give me a few days.” She then rose from the bench.
“You don’t have to, Miriel. You don’t have to go.”
“Good-night, Arwen. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, Miriel turned away and headed back to the house. She had done her best to put up a strong front, but deep inside, she was heartbroken. She never wanted to leave Rivendell, the Elves, and especially Glorfindel.
Keep it together, she mumbled to herself repeatedly. She hastily made her way through the corridors, up the stairs and to her room. When she was safely inside, she collapsed on her bed, and wept.
After several minutes of wallowing in self-pity, Miriel decided that she had to pull herself together. She rolled onto her back, thinking that the time had arrived when she had to make her move. She had no other choice but to profess her love to Glorfindel. It was now or never. But, she was inexperienced in matters of the heart. Should she just walk up to him and tell the mighty Elf Lord that she loved him?
No, she thought to herself. It should be something more special, more memorable. She lay there, deep in thought, pondering the many options before her. I could write him a poem, she concluded. Who am I fooling? I’m no poet. Not like Faramir. He was the only one in the family with a gift for words.
Who’s to say that you do not also possess such a gift? queried that voice in the back of her mind. It’s not like you’ve tried to write poetry before. It wouldn’t hurt to try, don’t you think?
Miriel thought the voice had a point. What harm would it do if she tried? Before she even got started, she drifted off to sleep…
The young Slayer was now wide-awake in the dreamscape. Lying on her stomach, on the bed, she began working on her soon-to-be poem. All was silent except for the sound of her quill scratching across the parchment. She was so engrossed in writing her poem that she didn’t notice Buffy sitting in the chair across the room.
“What cha doin’?” asked a bubbly Buffy, scrutinizing her protégé from the comfort of her chair.
“Writing a poem,” replied the girl, her quill racing across the parchment.
Buffy’s brows shot upward; her interest piqued. “Hmm, this would be the love poem to a certain golden-haired Elf Lord, I presume.”
“You presume correctly.”
“So, how’s it going?” asked the elder Slayer.
“I’ve only just started,” replied Miriel, pausing and re-reading what she had written thus far. She shifted her gaze to Buffy. “What rhymes with Glorfindel?” she asked, finding herself stuck on the second verse.
Buffy leaned back against the cushion of the chair. “What rhymes with Glorfindel?” she uttered several times under her breath.
Miriel began scratching the quill over the parchment.
“Spindle!” shouted Buffy with a pleased look on her face. “Spindle rhymes with Glorfindel.” She smiled brightly.
“And how do you propose that I work the word spindle into a love poem?” responded the younger Slayer with a scowl.
“Um, okay, let me think for a sec,” replied Buffy. She closed her eyes and began tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair as she thought. Her eyes popped open. “Okay, maybe spindle isn’t the best word.”
“No, it isn’t,” answered Miriel, the frown still on her face. Her eyes then lit up. “Kindle!” she exclaimed. “Kindle rhymes with Glorfindel.”
She then crossed out what she had written and re-wrote something entirely different.
With a roll of her eyes, Buffy bounded out of the chair. She strolled over to the bed, looking down at the parchment. When Miriel finished had her sentence, she snatched the parchment from the bed.
“Hey!” cried out the girl. “I’m not finished with that!”
“Let’s have a look-see,” said the elder Slayer amusedly. She took a few steps backwards so that she was out of her protégé’s reach and striking distance. Her eyes read over the few lines. She chuckled. Then, she read what Miriel had written aloud:
“My love for you is not fleeting;
I knew that from our first meeting.
Oh, Glorfindel! Oh, Glorfindel!
The love in my heart you did kindle.”
Buffy grimaced. “Really, Miriel?” She was cringing inside at how awful the poem was.
The young Slayer’s face turned bright pink. After hearing her words said aloud, she could see that her attempt at poetry was horrible. “I’ve never claimed to be a poet,” she groaned in her defense.
“By the looks of this,” Buffy’s eyes scanned the words again, “you’re right.”
Embarrassed, Miriel jumped off the bed, grabbed the parchment from her mentor’s hand, wadded it up, and tossed it across the room. “What am I suppose to do?” she whimpered, slumping onto the mattress. “I’ll soon leave Rivendell and I want to tell Glorfindel how I feel about him.” She looked up at Buffy. “Should I just tell him,” her eyes darted to the crumpled up ball of parchment, “since I don’t seem to have a way with the written word?”
Buffy was unsure how to answer. She knew that Miriel’s pursuit of Glorfindel would end badly. From what she had observed thus far, the Elf showed no romantic feelings whatsoever for the young Slayer. And why would he? For God’s sake, Miriel was just a kid – a seventeen year old kid, no less. The Noldo wasn’t just old, he was ancient. Buffy could see no future for them.
On the other hand, she too had been seventeen once, and could somewhat relate to Miriel’s feelings. At that age, she was head over heals in love with Angel, and had given him her heart, body and soul. However, there was one big difference between her and Angel and Miriel and Glorfindel – Angel loved her back. The Noldo had shown no outward signs that he loved the young Slayer as she “loved” him. If anything, he appeared to be more of a father-figure to Miriel. Nothing more.
As Buffy struggled with this internal debate, she had to give credit where credit was due. For Miriel to even exhibit feelings of love was pretty remarkable, considering all she had been through. If Buffy had gone through what Miriel had, she didn’t think she’d be capable of trusting, much less, loving any man.
Though she didn’t want to give her protégé false hope, she thought perhaps she should do what she could to help, and just be there to help pick up the pieces when things fell apart. As cruel as that might sound, maybe Miriel needed to experience love’s bitter sting.
“What should I do?” queried Miriel, desperate for Buffy’s advice.
Seeing the pitiful look on her protégé’s face helped the elder Slayer to make up her mind. She offered the girl a smile. “Every woman knows that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” she said, as she strode across the room and took a seat beside Miriel on the bed.
“It is?”
“Of course it is,” replied Buffy. “What you need to do is cook Glorfindel a romantic dinner. And since he’s a cook, I’m sure he’ll appreciate the gesture.” The elder Slayer felt a pang of guilt for encouraging Miriel, but it seemed to her that one way or another, Miriel was going to share her feelings with Glorfindel, Buffy be damned!
They spent the remainder of the night discussing the dinner. Having recalled Arwen’s earlier comments about how precious time was, Miriel decided not to waste any time and would ask Glorfindel to dinner the following evening...
Miriel woke up around three o’clock the next morning, an hour earlier than usual. She hurriedly tended to her bodily needs before dressing. She then flew down the stairs, heading to the kitchen. If she were to successfully pull off this dinner, she’d need the help of others.
Predictably, Amdir was already in the kitchen with a few other cooks, prepping for the first day’s meal.
“You’re up early,” he announced when she came rushing into the room, nearly breathless. “Where’s Glorfindel? Is something wrong?” It was the first time she had come down so early without the Noldo.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she replied, trying to catch her breath. “I think Glorfindel’s still in bed. I need to talk to you.” Her eyes darted to the others in the room. “In private.”
“Oh,” replied the Elf, setting the stack of mixing bowls onto the counter.
Miriel motioned for him to follow her over to the table on the far side of the room. Huddling close to Amdir, she then hurriedly whispered her plans to him, asking if he would help.
The Elf thought it was sweet that she wanted to do something special for Glorfindel. Though she had emphasized that the meal would be her way of thanking the Noldo for all his help over these many weeks, Amdir knew better. Miriel’s affection for the Noldo was quite obvious to everyone in Rivendell. One would have to have been blind not to see it.
“I would be delighted to help in any way that I can,” said Amdir with a smile.
“Thank you, Amdir,” replied a relieved Miriel. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to go over the details with you.” She then ran out of the kitchen and back to her room. She then quickly wrote an invitation to dinner for Glorfindel, hoping to slip it under his bedchamber door before he woke.
She blew on the ink, attempting to speed up the drying process as she left her room. When she stepped into the corridor, a sudden realization dawned on her. After all her time in Rivendell, Miriel had no idea which room was Glorfindel’s. Her heart sank at that thought. She remained in the hall, frozen, wondering what she should do.
Calm down, Miriel. Think, she told herself. It then occurred to her to entrust this task to Amdir. Surely, he knew where Glorfindel’s private quarters were. She then raced downstairs and back to the kitchen. She spoke with the Elf, who happily agreed to slip the note under the Noldo’s door.
Miriel waited impatiently in the kitchen while Amdir delivered her invitation to Glorfindel. When he returned, they sat down together and went over menu ideas. It was Amdir that suggested that she do a three-course dinner, instead of just the main meal and dessert, as she had originally planned. Her main goal was to not prepare what the rest of the household would be eating that night. This was a special dinner, after all.
Within thirty minutes, they had planned the menu. Miriel had to take into account what was available at that time of year. She had decided on pumpkin soup for the first course, roasted chicken with buttered herb vegetables for the main course, and a spice cake for dessert. She wouldn’t start cooking her meal until later that afternoon, but she felt somewhat relieved at having the menu planned.
Shortly thereafter, Glorfindel came into the kitchen. “Look what I found on the floor of my room,” he announced, waving Miriel’s note in his hand. “I gladly accept your invitation.”
Miriel beamed in response.
“What’s for dinner, then?” he asked, neatly folding the parchment and slipping it into his pocket.
“You’ll find out tonight,” she replied coyly.
They then began the daily routine of making the dough for the bread that would be eaten throughout the day.
Later that morning, after breakfast, Bilbo cornered Miriel in one of the hallways. “I just loved your story from last night, the one about Snow White. Would you please tell it to me again?” he asked hopefully. “I’d like to take notes, if you don’t mind. I deem its worthy of being in print.”
Elladan and Elrohir, who were with Miriel, chuckled at the Hobbit’s request. “Goodness, Bilbo!” exclaimed Elrohir. “At this rate, we’ll have to devote an entire chamber to house your books.”
“Is it wrong to leave some stories for future generations?” queried the Hobbit.
“Not at all,” answered Miriel. “I’d be happy to tell you the story again.”
“Wonderful!” said a delighted Bilbo, clapping his hand in excitement. He turned his gaze to the twin sons of Elrond. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, my good Elves, Miriel and I have work to do.”
He then led the Slayer to his room, where she proceeded to tell him the tale of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs once again. But this time, he took detailed notes, stopping her at certain points asking questions and whatnot. She never expected that she’d end up spending the rest of the morning sequestered in the Halfling’s room working on a story told to her by Buffy.
After the midday meal, Halbarad summoned Miriel to practice. Still bitter over the events that had transpired the previous day, he refused to allow anyone to attend today’s session. They would train inside one of the large empty chambers even though it was a glorious day outside.
They started off with a series of stretching exercises, something that Miriel didn’t find taxing at all. With one eye on the clock, she did her best to play the role of obedient Slayer, following Halbarad’s commands despite the fact that she resented the manner in which he was speaking to her. Instead of asking her to do something, he barked orders, a bit too unkindly to Miriel’s liking. She had to keep reminding herself that Glorfindel wanted her to be the dutiful Slayer and not give Halbarad a hard time.
When her Watcher wanted to test her agility and limberness, she didn’t argue. She didn’t even complain when he criticized her for not moving with the speed and intensity he demanded.
“It seems that Glorfindel has coddled you over these past few months,” he said derisively. “Your moves should be more precise, more exact. At this rate, you will not long survive in the wilds.” Sneering, he added, “You lack discipline, proper training!”
Miriel could feel her blood beginning to boil. How dare Halbarad hurl such accusations at her beloved Glorfindel! Who in the hell did this Watcher think he was? Her distaste for the Dúnadan was growing to new levels she had never thought possible. Yet, she bit her lip and voiced no opinion, knowing that’s what Glorfindel would want.
When the clock struck three, the Slayer said, “Let’s call it a day, shall we? I’m spent!” She wiped the sweat from her brow, feigning exhaustion.
“Spent, eh?” queried Halbarad, his brow raised in doubt. “I find that hard to believe, Dagnir. Perhaps you fail to remember the many times I’ve watched you train with Glorfindel. Why is that you were able to practice for hours with the Elf, but find yourself tiring whilst under my direction?”
“What can I say? You work me harder than he does.” She thought that was a compliment.
“Pfft,” he sounded in obvious disbelief. “We shall proceed on for at least another hour or two.”
“What?” she exclaimed, her heart sinking at the thought. “I told you – I’m tired, exhausted! I can’t go on any more. My body is fatigued!”
Halbarad stepped closer to Miriel, so close that she could feel his breath on her face. “Lies, Dagnir. Lies,” he hissed. His cold, grey eyes gave her the once over. “You’re a cunning girl, I see. But you cannot fool me. You have undoubtedly made some previous engagement during our scheduled time. Why else would you constantly be looking at the clock?”
At that moment, Miriel had to fight the temptation to sock Halbarad in the nose. Who was he to tell her what she could and couldn’t do? His job was to train her, not dictate her entire life. She pressed her lips together so tightly that they were beginning to turn white. She feared that if she bit her tongue (as Glorfindel had suggested), that she’d literally bite it in two.
Her fall from the previous day flashed in her mind. Keeping a straight face, she said, “My ankle hurts.”
“You’re lying, Miriel. I can see that in your eyes.”
Trying to keep control of her anger, she shot back with an air of finality, “Perhaps I should have a talk with your Lord Aragorn. I’m sure he’d be most displeased by your mistreatment of me.” She paused before adding, “Good afternoon.” Miriel then spun around and marched toward the door, making a point to walk without limping.
I dare you to stop me, she thought to herself. The Slayer was nearing her breaking point with that insufferable man.
Once she had slammed the door behind her, Miriel felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her thoughts instantly turned to Glorfindel, which greatly improved her mood. She headed straight to the kitchen to begin preparations for her romantic dinner with the love of her life.
Upon entering the kitchen, Amdir pulled her aside. He had already gathered all her ingredients together and kept one of the ovens free for her use only. That Elf was vital to her pulling this whole dinner off. Before she began, he led her down the corridor to a nearby chamber where he had set up a cloth draped table for two. It looked perfect.
Immediately afterward, Miriel got to work. Amdir once again proved his value by assisting the Slayer with some of the rather tedious tasks that were required in making her meal. They slaved over the stove for a couple of hours until it was time for Miriel to get ready. The finishing touches would be left to the elven cook.
The Slayer drew a bath, adding some of Arwen’s fabulous lilac bath oil to the hot, steamy water. As soon as she had finished bathing, she hurried to her room, and searched for the perfect dress. Arwen had been quite generous in allowing Miriel access to her finest garments. The girl had decided on a red velvet dress, thinking that that color suited her best.
As each minute ticked by, the Slayer became increasingly nervous. She tried to convince herself that this whole thing was no big deal, but it was. This, to her, was the most important night in her entire life. She had never done anything remotely like this before and hoped and prayed that she would have a happy ending much like that of Snow White.
At precisely six o’clock, there was a knock on her door. A second later, the door swung open and there stood Glorfindel, looking more handsome than ever.
“Good evening, Miriel,” he said in greeting. “I do believe we have a dinner date.”
“Your timing is impeccable, as always,” she replied, suddenly feeling warm and tingly all over.
“And don’t you look lovely this evening,” he continued, stepping into the room and offering the girl his arm.
“As do you,” she answered with a slight nod of her head.
“Shall we?” He gently took her arm and looped it through his.
Miriel beamed in response.
They had a lighthearted conversation as they made their way downstairs to the little sitting room where they would be dining. As they went down the corridor, Amdir popped his head out of the doorway to the kitchen. He and Miriel locked eyes for a moment. He winked before disappearing into the kitchen once again.
Miriel steered the Noldo into the small chamber where they would be dining. The room glowed with a soft light from numerous candles. The few pieces of furniture that normally filled that space had been pushed back to the dark recesses of the wall. In the center of the chamber sat the little cloth-covered table for two.
“How lovely,” commented Glorfindel, as he, in true gentlemanly fashion, pulled out one of the two chairs for Miriel to sit upon.
“I’m glad you approve,” answered the girl, her heart racing at the prospect of what the night had in store for her and the Noldo.
Not a minute after they had sat down, Amdir returned carrying a bottle of wine. “Good evening, lady and gentleman,” he said in a mocked dignified voice, bowing his head as he addressed each one. “May I tempt you with a glass of Rivendell’s finest?” He displayed the bottle in his hand. “It’s from Yr 1000 – a fine year indeed.”
Glorfindel’s brows shot up. “Yr 1000?” he repeated in an astonished voice. “I had no idea that we had any wine from that time.”
“Very few still remain, my good man,” replied Amdir in that same tone of voice. “Miriel here,” he nodded toward the girl, “felt that this particular vintage seemed most appropriate for this special occasion.”
A still stunned Glorfindel turned his gaze from the bottle to Miriel.
“It was the year you returned to Middle-earth,” she said with a shrug.
“Yes, it was,” replied the Noldo, his grin widening. “What a special treat this is!”
Amdir popped the cork from the bottle. “I suggest that you let the wine breathe for a few moments,” he proposed, setting the bottle on the table. “I shall return shortly with the first course.” He then bowed before leaving the room.
Glorfindel picked up the bottle and sniffed its lip. “It’s hard to fathom that this wine is from the year of my return. I cannot believe that I’ve never come across it whilst in the cellar.”
“I guess it was fated to be opened tonight,” offered Miriel.
His beautiful grey eyes twinkled in the candlelight, as he shifted them to the Slayer. “I believe that too.” Not wanting to wait any longer, he filled both glasses with the dark red wine. When they had each lifted their flutes from the table, he said, “To us,” before clinking his glass with hers.
Miriel’s stomach twisted and turned with nervous excitement. “To us,” she whispered before taking a sip. Everything seemed to be going better than she had expected. After Glorfindel’s toast, she no longer had any doubt that he had the same feelings for her as she had for him. Why else would he say, “To us”?
The Noldo smacked his lips together, savoring the wine’s sweet aftertaste. He then set his glass back on the table. To Miriel’s surprise, he took her hand, gently caressing her skin. “I cannot tell you how deeply touched I am that you went through all this trouble for me.”
Grateful for the dim lighting, she blushed, answering with, “You’re well worth all the effort.” Her heart began to race, and she was somewhat taken aback to find herself entwining her fingers with his. It was a rare moment of affection, one that Miriel wished would last forever.
But, then to her chagrin, the door swung open and in walked Amdir accompanied by Galdor, each carrying a bowl of piping hot pumpkin soup.
Glorfindel immediately pulled his hand away. It almost seemed as if he had gotten caught doing something inappropriate. The smile quickly faded from the Slayer’s face. Whether or not the Noldo had noticed, Miriel wasn’t sure. He covered-up his actions by hastily grabbing his napkin and placing it on his lap.
Feeling awkward that her hand remained on the tabletop, she slid it toward her glass, desperate for a deep drink of alcohol.
Neither Elf said a word. They simply placed each bowl before the couple then silently left the room.
The moment was lost. Glorfindel turned his attention to the soup. Leaning over his bowl, he deeply inhaled the aroma, and nodded his head approvingly. “It smells good,” he remarked before blowing on a spoonful of the pumpkin soup. “Mmm, delicious.”
Miriel smiled politely in return. “I’m glad you like it.”
From there on out, their conversation revolved around the more typical things they usually talked about on a day to day basis. The Slayer hoped and prayed that another opportunity like the one before would present itself again before the night was over. Damn Amdir and his crappy timing!
Glorfindel complimented Miriel during and after each course. By the end of dessert, she deemed that her dinner had been a success since the Noldo had cleaned his plate, leaving nary a crumb.
Once Amdir and Galdor had cleared away the dishes, Miriel, knowing how every Elf loved the stars, said, “It’s a beautiful, clear night for star-gazing.” She rose from her seat. “Would you like to join me in the back garden?”
The Elf Lord smiled. “That would be a perfect ending to this wonderful evening.” He too then rose from his seat. He offered her his arm, which she gladly took. They left the chamber, strolled down the corridor and out one of the many doors at the rear of the house.
The air was crisp, cool. Miriel snuggled a bit closer to Glorfindel, feeling the warmth emanating from his well-toned body. They slowly made their way down one of the paths and into the darkness. This was the Slayer’s last chance. She had to make her move. It was now or never.
When they stopped, Glorfindel turned his gaze toward the heavens, staring at the thousands of silver stars that dotted the black canvas of night. Miriel locked her eyes on the Noldo instead of the stars, for he was far fairer than any creation of Varda Elbereth.
“What’s on your mind, Miriel?” he asked, his gaze still fixed upward.
“I’ll be leaving soon,” she announced with a sigh. She continued to cling to Glorfindel’s arm, her body pressed close to his.
The Noldo shifted his eyes to her. “What makes you think that?”
“Come on, Glorfindel, I can see the writing on the wall,” she replied with a snicker.
He furrowed his brow. “What a strange way of putting it,” he said.
Miriel winced silently inside. Maybe she shouldn’t have used one of Buffy’s expressions. “Well, I suppose I’m strange in some ways. I am a Slayer, after all. If that does not qualify me as strange, then I don’t know what does!”
Holy Eru! You sound like Buffy, she screeched in her mind. Stop it! Stop it this instant!
Glorfindel turned and faced Miriel. He looked kindly upon her. “You’re not strange. Not at all.”
“Well, I’m glad you think not,” she answered, her heart beginning to thump madly in anticipation of her soon-to-be proclamation of love. “There’s something… something I wanted to tell you… before I leave, that is,” she admitted hesitantly.
“And what is that?” he asked, the smile returning to his face.
Feeling a sudden chill deep in her bones, Miriel shuddered as she looked into the Noldo’s eyes.
“You’re cold,” he said, stepping closer and rubbing her arms with his manly hands.
The Slayer thought her legs would give out. Before that could happen, she blurted out, “I love you.”
Glorfindel smiled and replied, “I love you too.”
Miriel thought she’d pass out from elation when she heard the Noldo utter those words to her. At that moment, she saw the two of them making history, an Elf and a mortal united by love. So rare was a coupling of that sort, and so few existed throughout all the histories of Middle-earth. What a wonderful feeling that was.
The Slayer then did something that she would regret for the rest of her life. She inched closer to Glorfindel, feeling that this moment called for a kiss. When she puckered her lips, the Elf Lord stepped back.
“What are you doing?” he asked in dismay.
“What?” said a shocked Miriel, feeling as if her heart had just sunk to the pit of her stomach.
He pulled his hands away. “I think you misunderstand me, Miriel,” he tried to explain in the kindest way possible. “I love you like a daughter.”
Those words echoed loudly in Miriel’s mind. How foolish she had been to think that a mighty Elf like Glorfindel would love her.
“You’re like the child I’ve never had.”
Those words stung worse than the daughter bit. Glorfindel now confirmed that he had never viewed her as a woman, merely as a child.
Miriel found herself struggling for a breath. She felt humiliated and ashamed. Her eyes began to burn with tears. Not knowing what else to do, she fled, running as fast as she could back to the safety of her room. She heard Glorfindel shouting her name, but at that moment, she had decided that there was no way she could ever face the Elf Lord again…
Chapter 23 - Time to Move On
Blinded by tears, Miriel ran through the corridors, crashing into Erestor at the foot of the stairs. The poor Elf Lord went flying backwards, landing on his backside. Horrified at having just knocked down Rivendell’s Chief Councilor, the Slayer froze for a moment, her jaw agape, as tears streamed down her pale face.
Stunned by the sudden collision, Erestor quickly regained his bearings as he scrambled to his feet. “Miriel, what is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, deeply concerned to see her in such a distressed state.
Once she realized that the Elf Lord was alright, she turned, and flew up the steps, taking them three at a time. When she reached the safety of her room, she slammed the door shut, and, through bleary eyes, searched the chamber for something to use as a barricade. With no lock on the door, Miriel wanted to make sure that no one could enter. The last thing she wanted was to see Glorfindel, who, she feared, wasn’t too far behind.
Breathless from both her sprint and her anguish, Miriel ran over to the wardrobe and skidded the heavy cabinet across the floor until it blocked the doorway. She then leaned against the wardrobe, gasping for breath between sobs.
She felt queasy, sick to her stomach. Perhaps it was the physical activity combined with her emotional turmoil that caused her three-course dinner to churn uncomfortably within her belly. Feeling her meal rise to her throat, she rushed over to the wastebasket and vomited inside. Unfortunately, the woven basket wasn’t designed to hold anything liquid, and her sickness gradually oozed out through the bottom of the bin. She ignored the mess, unsure whether she’d survive the night. To Miriel, it felt as if her heart had been ripped out of her chest and had been hacked into thousands of itty-bitty pieces.
She threw herself onto the bed, weeping into her pillow. Everything was different now. Why, o’ why had she done something so foolish? What had she been thinking? Buffy was right – Glorfindel was way out of her league. Why hadn’t Miriel realized that sooner?
Not long afterwards, Glorfindel banged on the Slayer’s door, wanting to talk.
“Go away!” she shouted between sobs.
“Please, Miriel. We need to talk,” pleaded the Elf Lord.
“Leave me alone!” she yelled. She grabbed her other pillow and placed it over her head so she wouldn’t have to hear the Noldo’s voice.
When Glorfindel discovered that Miriel had barricaded the door, he thought it was best to leave her be, for now. She needed time, and he would give her that. Once she had calmed down, he’d have a heart-to-heart conversation with her. In the meantime, the Noldo thought that he’d better speak with Elrond and inform him of what had happened.
Miriel literally cried herself to sleep, and was quite grateful that Buffy was waiting for her when she first entered the dreamscape.
“Come here, honey,” said a sympathetic Buffy, sitting on the bed with her arms wide open.
The young Slayer accepted her mentor’s embrace. She rested her face on Buffy’s shoulder and wept some more.
“It’s alright, sweetie,” said the elder Slayer, offering her support to the heartbroken girl. She had predicted that things would end in disaster, and once again, she had been proven right. But Buffy wasn’t about to remind Miriel of that. Instead, she found herself stepping into a new role to her protégé, that of mother. Or perhaps mother figure was more accurate. It wasn’t so new to her. She had played the part for Dawnie, or at least tried to.
She held Miriel in her arms, one hand stroking her dark hair while the other remained wrapped tightly around her waist, holding her close.
“These things happen,” said Buffy, trying to find the right words to make Miriel feel better. She leaned her head against the girl’s. “The main thing is picking up the pieces and moving on. Things will get better.”
“I’ll never be able to face Glorfindel again,” whimpered the young Slayer.
“Sure you will.”
Miriel lifted her head, wiping her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her gown. “How could I ever possibly look him in the eyes again? How foolish I was to think someone like Glorfindel would be interested in someone like me?” she bemoaned.
“That’s crazy talk,” replied Buffy. “You’re a beautiful, young girl.” She gave Miriel a reassuring smile. “You just picked the wrong guy. There’s plenty of other fish in the sea.”
“But I love him,” protested the younger Slayer. “I thought he was my soul mate,” she added with a quivering sigh.
“You said the magic word: thought. You thought he was your soul mate. Deep down, you knew Glorfindel wasn’t the one for you.”
“There’s no one for me,” said Miriel, sniffing back her tears.
“Bullcrap!” countered Buffy. “You know what you need,” Before her protégé had a chance to reply, she said, “a change of scenery.”
A split second later, both Slayers sat on the sandy shore of Dol Amroth, a favorite place of Miriel’s. Buffy thought that being away from Rivendell was just the thing Miriel needed to help cope with Glorfindel’s rejection. After a few, long, silent minutes, she realized that the ocean wasn’t working its wonders like it had in the past.
“Okay, that’s it,” Buffy said, rising from the beach and brushing the sand off her rear. “We’re gonna turn that frown upside down if it’s the last thing I do.” She offered her hand to the girl. “Come on, Miriel. Apparently, this change of scenery isn’t enough.”
As the young Slayer was being pulled to her feet, everything around them changed in a momentary whirling of light. One second they were on the beach, the next, they were standing in Sunnydale, in the alley, outside the Bronze.
The leap forward in time had happened in an instant, and it took Miriel a moment or two to come to her senses. She was no longer blubbering (had that been Buffy’s doing?), and immediately noticed that her attire had changed. She was now garbed in clothing more suitable for her mentor’s time – a pair of black jeans and a tan and white striped turtleneck sweater.
In a much calmer frame of mind, she drank in her new surroundings. The driving beat of the music coming from within the building could be heard even in the dimly lit alleyway. About a dozen people or so lingered outside, some puffing away on cigarettes, while a few, sticking to the shadows, smoked something far more potent than just ordinary tobacco.
Miriel cast a disapproving eye on a few of the girls’ choices of raiment, finding it offensive that girls would dress so scantily. Apparently, modesty meant nothing in Buffy’s day and age! And the girls’ behavior mirrored their garb. They acted like harlots, vying for the attention of their male counterparts. It was a disgusting display.
The young Slayer then turned her attention to what she perceived to be a constant rhythmic banging. “What’s that noise?” she asked Buffy, warily eyeing the wall of the building. To her, it sounded as if there were a bunch of Orcs on the other side, pounding their drums right before battle.
“It’s called music,” laughed Buffy, dragging Miriel to the front door.
“That is not music,” countered the young Slayer in disdain.
“Granted, it’s not like that old fogy music you’re used to. This is hip in my time. Its got a good beat to dance to.”
Miriel grumbled under her breath, as Buffy continued to pull her along. The bulky bouncer standing outside the doors motioned them inside without so much as a second glance. The music was much, much louder once the two Slayers entered the building. Miriel jerked her arm free from her mentor’s grasp, clamping a hand over each ear in an attempt to deafen the horrid noise that Buffy called music.
Glaring at her protégé, the elder Slayer snatched Miriel by the elbow and pulled her through the throng of people, toward the dance floor. Several of the individuals that they had passed sneered at the young, tall Slayer, finding it rather insulting that she covered her ears to muffle the music of one of their favorite bands.
Of course, Buffy noticed this immediately. Though they were in a dream, she found herself embarrassed by her protégé’s actions. “Will you stop it!” she shouted over the din, tugging on Miriel’s nearest arm.
“This noise is hurting my head!” yelled the girl in response, unfazed by the scornful looks of those in the establishment.
Look at them[/], she thought, not bothering to hide the look of disgust on her face. Her eyes lingered on those on the dance floor. [i]Gyrating their privates against each other. How truly sad it is that society has devolved to this. Do these people have no moral decency? And for the love of the Valar, why would Buffy bring me to such a place? What purpose could this possibly serve? Surely, she doesn’t expect me to emulate these degenerates!
“Will you stop that!” growled the elder Slayer once again. This time, she forcefully removed Miriel’s hands from her ears. “You’re making an ass outta yourself!”
“I don’t care,” Miriel snapped in reply. “I don’t like it here.” She couldn’t help but notice the couple standing nearby, groping each other as they rammed their tongues down each other’s throats. “I have no desire to witness such debauchery.”
“Come on, Miriel. Lighten up!” begged Buffy. “This is supposed to be a fun outing.”
“If you think this is my idea of fun, then you do not know me at all!”
An ear-piercing shriek, (one that could be heard over the noise of the band), ended the possibility of any further argument. Not a second later, others near the main door, cried out. The high-pitched squeals of fear were not lost on either Slayer. The sudden commotion instantly stirred up the crowd, who began to push and shove their neighbors in an attempt to get a better look at what was going on.
“Can you see anything?” asked Buffy, craning her neck to see what was causing the ruckus. Jostled by those people standing next to her and Miriel, the elder Slayer grabbed her protégé’s arm to prevent them from becoming separated in the crowd.
The much taller Slayer stood on her tippy-toes, trying to get a better view. A wave of people swept backward, in their direction, toppling over some of the girls unable to keep their balance in their high-healed shoes.
One by one, the members of the band stopped playing. Feedback from one of the electric guitars diverted Miriel’s attention to the stage. She watched as the band fled the raised platform. A tall, skinny guy rammed into her, nearly knocking her off balance. He then quickly disappeared into the thickening mob.
With Buffy clinging to her arm, the young Slayer shifted her gaze back to the front of the building. She now had a clearer view of what was going on. Some type of brawl was taking place.
“Looks like rabble-rousers,” she informed her mentor. “Out for a night of mischief, I guess.” She then spotted the faces of these newcomers; they were unlike the other patrons in the Bronze. Their faces were distorted, bumpy. “Wait a minute,” she added quickly, as her heart began to beat frantically in her chest. She noticed the yellow-colored eyes and fangs, fangs dripping with blood. “These are not people.” She looked down at Buffy, her eyes widening. “I think… I think they’re vampires.” Miriel had never seen an actual vampire in the flesh, but by all accounts, these things, these creatures fit the profile.
“Then you know what needs to be done,” said Buffy in a take-charge kind of voice.
Feeling slightly panicky, Miriel replied with, “I have no weapon. No sword. No dagger. No nothing.”
“You are a weapon,” the elder Slayer reminded her. “Now let’s kick some vampire ass!”
Of course, Buffy had planned this whole incident. She hoped a bit of fighting would help Miriel let out some of her frustrations after Glorfindel’s rejection. Not only that, but it would also be good practice. Her protégé had never faced any vampires in the dreamscape before. Since it looked like Miriel would soon be departing Rivendell, it wouldn’t hurt for her to get in a little one-on-one combat experience with some vamps. There was always the possibility that she’d actually come across these types of villains in her world.
The two Slayers then began to push their way through the horde toward the melee that was becoming more chaotic by the minute.
I am a weapon, Miriel kept repeating to herself. She wasn’t too keen on the idea of confronting the enemy without so much as a knife, and had to constantly remind herself that she had strength far greater than ordinary mortals.
With so many people in the Bronze, it was hard to determine the number of vampires that had invaded the club. Though, through the pandemonium, Miriel noticed that a few of the creatures had separated from their kinsmen. Little did she know these vamps were heading to the other doors, wanting to bar any from escaping.
That innate instinct to slay kicked into overdrive. Pulling her arm free from Buffy’s grasp, the young Slayer took off after her prey who was heading backstage, from where the band had fled only moments before.
“Miriel!” Buffy shouted after her protégé. She preferred having the young Slayer close to her side, just in case things went amiss. Unfortunately, the din drowned out her voice.
The long-legged Slayer swiftly caught up to the vampire near the steps, leading to the stage. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.
The vamp, dressed entirely in black, spun around, growling. He then leapt at Miriel, his mouth widening, revealing his fangs that glistened in the dim light. The young girl caught him in mid-air, one hand on his throat, the other between his legs. She heaved the villain up over her head before tossing him toward the stage. The vampire flew through the air and crashed into the drum set, scattering the various pieces about.
Miriel bound onto the stage. As she charged toward her prey, who was trying to unbury himself from the various drums and cymbals, she thought of the various ways in which one kills a vampire. Stake through the heart. Beheading. Fire. Sunlight, she repeated in her mind.
She flipped through the air, landing astride the vamp. He snarled, lifting his head from the floor, snapping at her in a feral way.
The young Slayer pressed one hand on her foe’s throat, keeping his head pinned down as her balled fish crashed into his nose. She could hear the crack the instant her knuckles made contact. Blood poured from his nostrils, as the beastly creature twisted and turned beneath her, trying to throw her off. She tightened her legs around his, preventing him from dislodging her. Her second punch struck him square in the mouth. A few of his front teeth broke from the impact, including one fang, which somehow raked across the flesh of her hand, breaking the skin.
Momentarily distracted by her wound, the vampire grabbed hold of the snare drum and knocked it into the side of Miriel’s head. With the young Slayer dazed by the sudden strike, the villain was able to grab a handful of her hair and pulled with such force that Miriel toppled off him, and into the bass drum.
“You fuckin’ bitch,” he snarled, his speech sounding strange because of his missing teeth. Blood continued to stream from his nose and mouth as he climbed on top of Miriel, clamping his legs around hers, as she had done to him. He pinned her arms over her head.
Miriel was startled by the vampire’s unexpected strength. She couldn’t believe that, in a split second, things had changed, and that her foe had gained the upper hand. But a lot can happen in a moment’s time. As the blood streamed from the vamp’s nostrils, raining down upon Miriel’s face, she was reminded of the horrors of her past, which vividly flashed into her mind. Instead of some unknown villain upon her, she saw the face of Dúilin. In that instant, her adrenaline kicked into overdrive. There was no way she’d allow a repeat of those earlier events.
Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, though, in actuality, things were moving rather quickly. As the vamp began to lower his head, eager to sink his one fang into the throbbing artery of her neck, Miriel’s head shot up, striking her assailant’s skull with a loud crack, causing both to see stars for a few seconds. Despite the sudden, splitting headache, the young Slayer threw off the villain. His head smashed into the bass drum, breaking the covering, and disappearing inside.
As she dove on top of the creature, her eyes spotted a long, slender stick protruding from beneath the overturned cymbals on the floor. A stake, she thought to herself as she grabbed the weapon and plunged it into the vampire’s un-beating heart. Miriel was amazed to see the vamp explode into a pile of dust, and how her body suddenly plopped to the floor when her enemy was no more.
Using the sleeve of her sweater, she wiped the blood from her face. She rose to her feet and looked out into the mass of people. Many had just witnessed her moment of triumph and stood there in shock, with their jaws agape. Miriel’s eyes darted to Buffy, who was engaged in combat with several vamps. Wanting to assist her mentor, the young Slayer got a running start and did a summersault off the stage, landing in a gap within the crowd. The people stepped backwards, forming a pathway for the girl to continue the assault with her fellow Slayer.
Having come back to her senses, to the present, Miriel marched down the path, clutching the drumstick tightly in her right hand. Though the threat of Dúilin was simply a mirage, the whole experience had lit a fire in her belly. She wanted nothing more than to kill every single vampire herself.
As she neared the fray by the front door, a female vamp charged her, shouting, “You killed my lover, slut!”
A wry smile came to Miriel’s face, as the angry monster swiftly approached. Perhaps the woman fiend was distraught over her loss, or maybe she just lacked that enhanced physical strength that her kind normally possessed, but as the two came face-to-face, the young Slayer easily subdued her, quipping, “How heartbreaking for you,” before thrusting the drumstick into the bloodsucker’s chest. She vanished in a poof of dust.
“Hey! Looks like I’m rubbing off on you!” said Buffy proudly, as she delivered a roundhouse kick, sending a vamp flying in Miriel’s direction.
Grabbing the foe that came soaring into her arms, the young Slayer drove the wooden weapon into his chest, smiling as she eliminated yet another villain.
Buffy let Miriel slay the rest of the vamps, happy to see, that with each kill, the girl’s mood improved that much more.
When all was over, the two Slayers lounged about on one of the pool tables, sipping cappuccinos while they basked in Miriel’s victory. The Bronze was devoid of people, except for the orchestra on the stage. Though Buffy wasn’t fond of classical music, she thought it would be a fitting end after a successful night of slaying. It was Miriel’s night after all.
“Thank you, Buffy,” said a grateful Miriel, licking the whipped cream from her fingertip. “This has been a wonderful night. I needed it.”
“I know you did. I’m glad I could help out,” replied the elder Slayer with a smile.
“I’ll tell you, though: vampires are much stronger than I thought,” Miriel confessed. “And, it’s rather nice to see that their bodies turn to dust.” She eyed the nearby piles on the floor. “You don’t have to worry about decay, and the stench, or the carrion fowl giving away your position to the enemy. It’s a shame there aren’t more of these creatures in Middle-earth.”
“Oh, they’re there,” answered Buffy with a knowing glint in her eye. “You just haven’t come across them yet. But, you will.” She lifted her cup. “Now you know you can beat them.” She clanked her cup against Miriel’s. “Cheers!”
As they each sipped their hot, frothy coffees, they heard someone, from above, clapping slowly. The orchestra had ceased playing, and both Slayers’ eyes darted to the upper level. There, leaning against the railing, was a lone figure, cloaked entirely in black from head to toe. There were no discernible features other than that the form was man-shaped. His face was concealed by the hood of his cloak.
As the Slayers gaped at this unexpected visitor, he stopped his applause, and gripped the upper railing with his leather-gloved hands. “I suppose congratulations are in order, seeing as you’ve defeated your enemy,” he proclaimed coolly. There was an air of arrogance about the stranger, and even though he was some distance away, both girls could feel power emanating from his very essence. If that wasn’t bad enough, his mere presence instantly instilled fear and dread into the hearts of both Slayers, which neither revealed to the other.
“But, on the other hand, that’s bound to happen when one is in a controlled environment,” he added. The darkly clad intruder slowly walked along the railing, one hand brushing across the topmost bar. “This,” he waved his other hand, “is naught but a fantasy, an illusion devised for the sole purpose of arousing confidence in one who lacks true combat experience.”
Though Miriel couldn’t see this person’s eyes, she could feel them boring into her nonetheless. She assumed that this scenario was something that Buffy had set up. That is, until her mentor leaned forward and anxiously whispered, “Who’s that?”
“You don’t know,” hissed Miriel in reply.
“No. I thought you were doing this.”
“I thought it was you,” gulped the younger Slayer.
“I am responsible,” bellowed the man in a voice so chilling that the hair on both Slayers’ necks suddenly stood on end. “My powers far surpass that of any Slayer – past, present, and future.” He then began to slowly descend the staircase, which was only a yard or so away from the pool table that the young ladies were sitting upon.
Both Slayers were absolutely stunned that an interloper had the ability to enter their dreams uninvited. It had never happened before and both young women found it rather unsettling.
Buffy was the first Slayer to speak. “Who are you?” she asked, trying to be nonchalant as she set her cup of coffee on the green felt surface of the pool table.
“I am the one whose name all fear to utter,” he replied with a sinister cackle. “I am evil incarnate.”
Sauron, thought a terrified Miriel. A sudden coldness swept through the room, so chilling was it that the young Slayer trembled all over. She was shaking so badly that her coffee sloshed over the lip of her cup and onto her hand. Yet that penetrating cold was so great that she didn’t feel the scalding liquid burning her flesh.
Then, to her amazement, Buffy rose to her feet, seemingly undaunted by the menacing figure that was growing larger the closer he got. “Just so you know – I’m the incarnation of good,” she boldly declared, challenging the darkly clad intruder.
The black figure stopped on the steps, about halfway down. The tension was insurmountable. Slowly, he raised his left arm. And then, out of the blue, Buffy went flying through the air backwards, as if she had been hit by an invisible blow. She crashed into the wall of the Bronze with a loud bang, before falling in a heap to the floor.
Miriel’s eyes grew twice their size. She was frozen, unable to move. All she could hear was her heavy breathing and her heart racing in her chest. She had been seized by such utter terror that she thought she had wet herself, when, in fact, she had dropped her cup, spilling the coffee between her legs.
Then she heard his voice, only inches from behind. He was so close; she could feel the warmth of his breath. “You’re frightened. That is good,” whispered the hooded figure in that chilling voice of his. “You and I shall meet again ere the end. Until then… farewell, Dagnir, daughter of Denethor.” And then he was gone. The frigid cold that had pervaded the Bronze vanished in an instant, and the large space became warm once again.
“Buffy!” she cried out, clambering off the table and rushing to Buffy’s side. She was so afraid that her mentor had been seriously injured by the Dark Lord, whose powers were rivaled by none outside of Valinor.
When she heard Buffy groan groggily, she let out a sigh of relief. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” she frantically asked, as she helped ease the elder Slayer upright, into a sitting position.
“I’m okay. Got the wind knocked out of me.” Buffy’s eyes went to the stairway. “Where is he?” Her eyes swiftly swept across the interior of the Bronze, anxiously searching for the villain.
“He’s gone. He’s left,” replied Miriel.
“Was that… was that… ” For some reason, Buffy found herself unable to finish her sentence.
“I think so,” answered the young Slayer, nodding her head. “I’ve never seen him in the flesh, but so few have.”
“So does he have like invisible fists or something?” she moaned, rubbing the back of her throbbing head.
“I don’t know,” responded Miriel with a shake of her head. “He’s a Maia. And they’re very powerful beings.”
Thinking of her own plight with Glory, Buffy murmured, “God-like, huh?”
“Yes, I suppose you could say that.” While relieved that her mentor was not seriously injured, Miriel was still shaken up over the fact that Sauron had somehow found a way into her and Buffy’s dream world. “How did he get in here, Buffy?” Both her tone and face were grave.
“I don’t know,” answered her mentor, using Miriel to help herself get back on her feet. “You did say he has God-like powers. It looks like he’s decided to use them.”
Though the cloaked figure had been gone for several minutes, an air of lingering fear was left in his wake. Miriel was incredibly frightened by the whole experience. It was a shame, for the night had started out so well.
“One thing’s obvious,” Buffy continued, limping away from the wall. “He feels threatened by you, Miriel.”
“Me? Sauron feels threatened by me?” exclaimed the young Slayer in disbelief. She couldn’t fathom the likes of Sauron being threatened by her, at all.
“Maybe it’s because you’re one of those that dare to utter his name,” replied Buffy, rubbing both the back of her head and her hip. She looked at Miriel, and for the first time noticed the wet spot between her legs. “Did you pee your pants?”
“No!” she shot back somewhat defensively and feeling suddenly embarrassed. “I was shaking so badly that I spilt my coffee.”
Though still in pain, Buffy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Uh-huh,” sounding none too convinced. Her eyes did another quick scan of the interior of the Bronze. “I think this place is beginning to lose its luster, to me, anyway.”
As they took their next step the two Slayers disappeared in a momentary whirling of light, and reappeared in a place Miriel had never been before.
“Where are we?” asked the younger Slayer, her eyes scanning this new environment.
Buffy hobbled from the living room into the kitchen. “It’s Giles’ apartment.”
Miriel’s gaze stopped at the coffee table, which was laden with many thick books. “Your Watcher?”
“Yeah,” answered the elder Slayer, opening the freezer in search of an ice pack. “I think we’ll be safe here.” Truth be told, Buffy actually needed a minute to herself, to collect her thoughts. Sauron’s unexpected visit had really freaked her out, and she was trying her best to hide that fact from her protégé. She couldn’t figure out how the Maia had managed to enter this little dream world that she and Miriel had conjured up, and if he would return again.
Grabbing an icepack, she shut the freezer door, wondering if Sauron had been eavesdropping on their earlier conversations and had only decided to reveal himself tonight. She shuddered after placing the pack against her head, unsure whether it was the ice that caused her to tremble or if it was some aftereffect caused by the Dark Lord’s presence. She couldn’t help but think that she and Miriel were facing very similar enemies. Glory was one that Buffy saw no hope of defeating, and the same thing could be said for her protégé. That Sauron guy had given off some wickedly scary vibes.
“You can make the pain go away, or have you forgotten that,” remarked Miriel, watching Buffy as she made her way back into the living room.
“Sometimes pain is for the good,” replied the elder Slayer. She was hoping that the soreness in her body would help distract her from her thoughts. So far, it didn’t appear to be working. Sauron was occupying her thoughts too much for her liking.
Buffy plopped down on the couch with a moan.
“What happens now?” asked a nervous Miriel, taking a seat beside her mentor.
The elder Slayer leaned back on the sofa, keeping the icepack pressed to her head. “I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. She then closed her eyes, thinking of this new predicament.
Both Slayers sat there in silence, each consumed with her own thoughts. That is, until a light tapping on the door pulled Miriel out of the dreamscape and roused her from her slumber.
Her eyes popped open, only to find that she was back in her darkened bedchamber in Rivendell. Undoubtedly, it was four o’clock in the morning, and Glorfindel, keeping with their routine, had come to get her to begin preparing the morning meal for the household. Miriel remained silent, refusing to answer. After a few minutes, the Noldo gave up, and left.
When the young Slayer was sure that the Elf Lord had gone, she lit the lamp beside her bed. She was now wide-awake, and had the strong urge to pee. She wasn’t sure if that was from the coffee incident or all the wine she had drunk the night before. Regardless, if she didn’t relieve herself rather quickly, she would end up wetting herself.
Now that she was back in the real world, thoughts of Sauron were replaced by those of Glorfindel. Even though she was still brokenhearted, she wasn’t about to get all weepy again. At this point, Miriel more or less felt numb. She climbed out of bed and wandered over to the wardrobe that barricaded the door. Not wanting to wake anyone in the house by scrapping the feet of the cabinet against the floor, she took several deep breaths (praying that her bladder wouldn’t empty) before lifting the heavy wardrobe and moving it just enough so she could squeeze out the door. Grabbing a few personal items, she crept quietly down the corridor to the nearest bathroom.
After peeing and washing up, Miriel returned to her room and barricaded the door. Using the wet towel she had brought with her, she then proceeded to clean up the vomit from the wicker basket and floor, gagging in the process. It seemed the wetness of the cloth awakened the sour smell in the foul substance that had partially congealed overnight. Once she had most of the sickness mopped up, she placed the soiled towel in the far corner of the room, furthest away from her. She felt too drained to move the wardrobe again so that she could place the towel in the receptacle for things that needed to be laundered.
Miriel then changed back into her traveling clothes. She lay back down on the bed, waiting for daybreak, pondering her next move. After the disaster of last night, there was no way she could remain in Rivendell. As far as she was concerned, she’d never be able to look Glorfindel in the eye again. Her dilemma was whether she should leave on her own, or join the Rangers in the hunt, as was expected of her. While contemplating the choices before her, she drifted off to sleep.
She was snapped awake when she heard someone knocking on her bedchamber door. Upon opening her eyes, she could see that light flooded the room. It was morning. Eight thirty-seven to be exact. She assumed that Glorfindel had returned after breakfast.
“Go away,” she cried out, sounding more like a young child than a young woman.
“Miriel. Please open the door.”
The young Slayer shot upright in bed. That wasn’t Glorfindel, nor Elladan or Elrohir, not even Arwen. Elrond, the Lord of Rivendell himself, was standing outside her door. He had never paid a visit, to her room or otherwise, since their initial meeting weeks and weeks ago.
Unable to refuse the command of the master of the house, Miriel sprang out of bed and ran over to the wardrobe. She awkwardly placed her arms around the cabinet, heaved it off the floor, and moved it back to its original spot. By the time she opened the door, she was panting.
“Winded, are we?” he remarked, offering her a small smile.
There was no doubt in Miriel’s mind that Elrond knew that she had blocked the doorway with the heavy piece of furniture. Still trying to catch her breath, she made no response.
“We grew concerned when we did not see you at breakfast,” he continued. The Lord of Imladris paused for a moment or two, perhaps waiting for the Slayer to reply. When she did not, he asked, “May I come in?”
She nodded, swinging the door further open. Noticing her unmade bed, she made a beeline towards it. She didn’t want Elrond to think she was a pig.
“There’s no need to worry about that,” said the Elf Lord lightheartedly, as he shut the door behind him. He glanced around the room. His eyes stopped for a second on the skid marks from the wardrobe that marred his floor, but he didn’t comment on that. Instead, he said, “Have a seat,” patting the foot of the bed as he passed it by. He went over to the corner and grabbed the chair, which he then carried nearer to the bed.
Miriel quickly combed her hair with her fingers as she sat on the edge of the mattress. She felt extremely nervous in Elrond’s presence. She kept her gaze fixed on her lap, fidgeting with her fingers.
“I’ve heard about what happened last night,” Elrond said softly. “I cannot help but feel that I’m partially to blame.”
Miriel’s eyes darted to the Elf Lord, surprised to hear him say such a thing.
“You and Glorfindel had bonded so quickly that it gave me hope that he could help heal the wounds in your heart. I thought he would be the perfect substitute for a father and encouraged him to spend as much time with you as he could.”
The Slayer was crushed when she heard that, thinking that Elrond, Lord of Imladris, had forced the mighty Noldo to spend time with her.
Her facial expression must have changed, or the Elf Lord perceived her thoughts, for he quickly added, “No one can force Glorfindel do something he does not want to do himself, Miriel. He does love you! But, as a daughter, not a lover.”
Miriel could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. She swiftly shifted her eyes back to her lap. The whole topic of conversation was making the Slayer highly uncomfortable.
“I can see that once again I’m making you ill at ease,” Elrond sighed. “You’d think that for one who has lived as long as I have, I would have great wisdom in matters of the heart. But alas, that is not so. I am a lore-master, a healer, and a warrior at need. These things I have learned to master over time. Love is something that strikes at the most unexpected of times, and I did not foresee Glorfindel rousing these… feelings in you until it was too late.”
By now, Miriel’s face was beet red. She just wished Elrond would stop talking about this. She thought the less she talked about it, the quicker she’d get over it.
“I’m… I’m over it,” she stammered, now fiddling with Bregolas’ ring that hung from her neck.
The Lord of Imladris’ brows shot upward. He knew that wasn’t true. Yet, he was no fool and could see that Miriel was desperate for him to change the conversation to something else.
“Very well then,” he replied, watching as her cheeks began to turn to a pinkish hue. “My heart tells me that you’re eager to depart my lands. Is that true?”
“Yes,” she answered faintly. Lifting her head, she met Elrond’s gaze. “I’m quite grateful for all you’ve done for me.” The Slayer could feel her eyes beginning to tear up. “No one has ever been so generous, asking nothing of me in return. I wish there was some way I could repay you for your generosity.”
The Elf Lord offered her a kindly smile. “Your mere presence has brought such joy to my house. So few of mortal-kind have dwelled in Imladris, and never before has a Slayer set foot in these parts. My people and I have found your youthful perspective quite refreshing. So seldom has anyone shown such an interest in our lore save Bilbo Baggins, that is.” His smile broadened.
Miriel couldn’t help but chuckle softly at hearing Bilbo’s name mentioned. That Hobbit was quite the character. She sniffed back the tears that had been forming in her eyes.
“Bilbo is one of those rare few that has accepted my invitation to call Rivendell home,” Elrond continued. “Here, he will live in peace for the rest of his days, or so we all hope.” His face turned grave. “Not even the Elder can predict how long peace will last. For we fear that war will return to our borders one day, ending the bliss that we’ve known for so long.” He shook his head, wanting to push those gloomy thoughts out of his mind. Those with the gift of foresight believed that Rivendell would not see battle for many years to come.
His thoughts returned to Miriel and the perils that lay ahead of her. As lore-master he was well aware of how short lived a Slayer’s life was, and could unfortunately foresee that Miriel would not be an exception to that rule. A dark cloud lingered over this girl, one that portended that her doom was near. How could that knowledge not fill him with sadness and move him to pity? Hadn’t life been cruel enough to this young child?
“I want to make you the same offer as I made to Bilbo years ago,” Elrond continued.
Miriel’s eyes had darted back to her lap during that brief silence that fell between her and the Elf Lord. However, when he resumed speaking, she shifted her eyes back to him.
“Offer?” she queried, baffled.
“To forego your birthright, and live out the rest of your days here in Imladris under the protection of the Elves.”
The Slayer was totally blown away by Elrond’s proposition. How could she not see that was coming based on his previous comments? That made her feel stupid. Despite that, she was stunned by Elrond’s invitation. So many thoughts were swimming in her mind that she didn’t immediately answer. Instead, she rose from the bed and wandered over to one of the windows, peering outside.
Elrond followed her with his eyes, allowing her time to mull over his offer. Whilst he felt he already knew the answer, he wanted to hear it from her.
How fair Rivendell is, even at this time of year, Miriel thought. A part of her couldn’t believe that she could live here, with the Elves, if she so chose. That would be a dream come true. In that moment, thoughts of Bregolas popped into her mind. She could recall quite clearly his disdain for the Elves and wondered what he would’ve thought of her being here, living amongst them.
As she looked out upon the Misty Mountains, she was reminded of how she had left the fallen warrior out there, unburied and alone. The memory of the sudden attack by the Orcs on their encampment rushed to her mind. She could hear the noise of battle, the cries of pain. It was almost as if she was reliving it once again. She could even feel the weight of Bregolas’ body, as she cradled him in her arms, and the despair that engulfed her when he had taken his last breath. A tear escaped from the corner of her eye, trickled down her face, and dripped off her chin. Miriel took a deep, shuddering breath as she wiped the dampness from her skin.
Folding her arms across her chest, she continued to stare out the window. “There was a time when I would’ve gladly accepted your offer, Lord Elrond,” she finally said. “How I’ve longed to meet the Elder since I was a small child, and now, I can say that I have. One of my dreams has come true.” She paused, finding it difficult to put her thoughts into words.
“Since the Valar have chosen me to be their instrument against the dark forces in Middle-earth, it would be wrong for me to walk away from my destiny.” She continued to stare transfixed at the mountainside. “I don’t know if I’ll accomplish any great feats of valor out there in the wilds, but I feel I have to try, that I have to use these special gifts to do what I can to aid the free people in this world.”
In a faraway voice, she said, “Into each generation, a Slayer is born… That’s me. This is my time, my time to shine.”
She then felt Elrond’s hands gripping her shoulders. “I think you’ve made the right choice,” he whispered. He slowly steered her around so that she faced him. “Know this, Miriel Dagnir: You will always be welcome in my home, by me and my people. When you find yourself growing weary, come back here, to your home, where everyone loves and respects you.”
Elrond’s words touched Miriel so deeply that she regretted having avoided him over the past few months. He was a decent man with a good heart and she could’ve learned so much from him, if she had given him the chance.
“Thank you,” she uttered, finding herself suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. If she spoke another word, she’d probably break down and cry.
The Lord of Imladris smiled, cupping her cheek with one hand. “You’re are an extraordinary, lovely young woman, Miriel, and any man that can win your heart should consider himself most fortunate.” Elrond left it at that. He then turned and left the chamber.
Miriel felt that she had made the right decision. As she shifted her gaze back out the window, she pondered what the future had in store for her. She hadn’t overlooked the fact that Lord Elrond had made no comments when she suggested that she might do great things on the battlefield. Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn’t. Regardless, she felt a hungering need to slay and the only way she could satisfy that urge was to leave Rivendell.
For nearly half an hour, Miriel stood there, silently staring out the window, consumed with her thoughts. She only snapped out of it when both Elladan and Elrohir came barging into her room, uninvited no less. Each Elf carried a bunch of cloth wrapped packages in his arms.
“We come bearing gifts,” announced Elrohir, dropping the packages on the bed.
“And muffins - for if you’re hungry, that is,” added Elladan.
Miriel strolled over to the bed, her wide eyes fixed on the presents. “What’s the occasion? It’s not my birthday.”
“Don’t get too excited. These are things you’ll need out on the road,” replied Elrohir, sitting on the bed. “Father says that you’re ready to leave Rivendell, and these things,” he waved his hands over the packages, “will come in handy out in the wilds.”
“Gee, Miriel, can you guess what this one is?” asked Elladan, holding up an object that looked to be shaped like a sword.
Taking a seat at the foot of the bed, she accepted the long, heavy package wrapped in blue and white material from the eldest twin. “Hmm, I can’t imagine what this could be,” she said, untying the string that kept the fabric together.
Elladan rolled his eyes, as he set the muffins on the nightstand. “I’m quite glad that you’re ready to go. It seems like we’ve been home for ages.”
“No one’s kept you here,” replied Miriel, her eyes shifting to the eldest twin, standing beside the bed. “You could’ve resumed the hunt without me.”
“Aragorn and Hal insisted that we wait for you,” said Elladan. “And, of course, in typical womanly fashion - you were in no hurry.”
Miriel turned her attention to the sword on her lap. She immediately recognized the hilt. It was her sword, the one that Bregolas had given her at the start of their journey, the one that had been broken while she was battling the trolls. Pulling the blade from its sheath, she could see that it had been repaired. As she inspected the blade, she couldn’t even tell where it had been broken.
“I’ve got to say: it’s a pleasant change to see a woman’s eyes light up at being given a sword,” chortled Elrohir. “You don’t see that very often.”
“I like weapons,” answered the Slayer. “Except for the bow,” she was quick to add.
Miriel ripped through the packages one by one. Most were new garments for the winter that lay ahead. She was also given new bags in which to pack her things, since her old bags were badly stained. Tears came to her eyes when she saw that she had been given her very own pair of elvish boots, the kind that prevents blisters from forming on one’s heels.
“You remembered,” she said, choking back the tears. She quickly pulled off her own man-made boots, eager to put on these new ones.
“Actually, they’re from… they’re from… Glorfindel,” responded Elladan hesitantly. Well aware of what had transpired the night before, the Elf was reluctant to mention the Noldo’s name.
When the twins noticed that Miriel didn’t react with some emotional outburst at the mention of Glorfindel’s name, Elrohir added, “They’re all from Glorfindel. He wanted to give them to you himself, but… well, under the circumstances… ” He left it there.
“He thought it would be best that we brought these to you,” added Elladan.
Miriel felt an aching sorrow in her heart. These gifts were so thoughtful and would be very useful, but she just wasn’t ready to face Glorfindel, to thank him.
“When are we leaving?” she asked the twins, keeping her gaze on the stuff on her bed.
“Hey! You forgot this bag,” said Elrohir, tossing a draw-string bag on her lap. “It’s from Arwen. I think its female things, so don’t feel pressured to open it up in front of us.”
Elrohir tried to keep things lighthearted, as he could see the pained expression on the Slayer’s face.
“When do you want to leave?” asked Elladan, keening watching Miriel as well.
“I’m ready whenever everyone else is. We can go now if you so choose,” she replied.
“Ooh, I like the sound of that,” said Elrohir, rubbing his hands together. “I’m ready to hunt some Orcs or trolls, or whatever beastly creatures come our way.”
Miriel lifted her head. Though there was a frown on her face, her eyes glinted with an eagerness, an eagerness to slay. “Me too,” she added.
“Alright then,” said Elladan. “Get these things packed and we’ll inform our traveling companions.”
“I think they’ll be excited to leave at last,” added Elrohir, rising from the bed. “We’ll be back in a while. We need to see about getting our supplies together.”
The Slayer nodded.
The twins then left the room.
Miriel took her time, packing both her new and old things into her bags. If given the opportunity, she’d like to wear her old clothes in battle since they were already stained and worn. She nibbled on a muffin as she completed her task.
About fifteen minutes later the twins returned, garbed for the journey. “We’re all set,” announced Elrohir. “Finished?”
“I think so,” replied Miriel, girding Bregolas’ sword around her waist. She then heaved her bags over her shoulders. “Now, I’m ready.”
“Wonderful. Aragorn and Halbarad are waiting on the porch,” said Elladan, heading toward the door.
Miriel cast one last glance around the room, wondering if she’d ever sleep in here again. Taking a deep breath, she slowly exhaled, following the twins out of the room and down the corridor leading to the staircase.
Apparently, word of her leaving had already spread throughout the house. Those Elves that she passed bid her farewell, wishing her luck on the hunt.
“Be safe, Dagnir!” said Amdir, giving her a quick hug on the staircase. “And hurry back.”
The Slayer was somewhat surprised to see that she was becoming emotional over her departure. How strange it seemed that these people had greatly affected her in such a short amount of time. She’d miss them. She’d miss them all.
Choking back her tears, she continued to follow the twins down the last steps, through the vestibule and onto the front porch. Miriel first noticed Aragorn and Arwen off by themselves, holding hands, staring deeply into each others eyes as they said their good-byes. Congregated at the bottom of the steps were Elrond, Erestor and to Miriel’s horror - Glorfindel.
Her heart felt as if it had dropped to the pit of her stomach, and she became tingly all over. Though it was rather cold outside, she instantly felt hot, probably from embarrassment at having to face the one person she wished to avoid.
Not realizing that she had frozen to the spot where she had noticed the Noldo, Elladan nudged her forward.
“It’ll be over before you know it,” he whispered.
Grateful that she hadn’t eaten much that morning, Miriel began to descend the steps, her feet feeling as if they had been turned into lead blocks.
Glorfindel broke away from the other Lords, making his way toward the Slayer.
“Can we have a word?” he said. It really wasn’t a question for the Elf Lord took her gently by the arm and led her away from the others.
Miriel’s mouth felt dry. Her stomach churned and that prickly sensation seemed to intensify.
She and the Noldo stopped several yards away from the everyone else.
“I’m truly sorry about last night,” said Glorfindel, his tone riddled with sadness. “The last thing I would want to do is cause you pain.”
The Slayer refused to meet his gaze, preferring to stare at her feet. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I do worry about it,” he replied. “It grieves me that things have become strained between us. You mean a great deal to me, Miriel, and I do not want us to part without this being resolved.”
“It’s fine. Everything’s fine,” Miriel lied.
Glorfindel gently lifted her chin, forcing the Slayer to meet his gaze. “You’re like the daughter I’ve never had. And I do love you dearly. You take care out there. Be careful. Don’t do anything… hasty.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Patience is important in battle. There is no need to rush into things. Use care!”
“I will,” she answered, swallowing the lump in her throat.
Tears filled the Noldo’s grey eyes, as he pulled her into a tight embrace. “I will miss you terribly. Promise you’ll return soon. Promise me that, Miriel,” the Elf said.
Miriel couldn’t help but feel safe in Glorfindel’s arms. If only… “I promise,” she vowed, finding her own eyes beginning to burn with tears.
When the Elf Lord pulled out of the hug, the Slayer could see a tear rolling down his cheek. That touched her very deeply. “Please, be careful. Remember everything we’ve practiced and you’ll do fine. Come back soon, Miriel.” Glorfindel then leaned forward and kissed Miriel on the forehead. His soft, warm lips caused her heart to flutter. He gave her another hug, his cheek brushing against hers. She could feel another warm tear trickling down her face. “Farewell, my dear Miriel. Farewell.”
Too overcome with emotion, Glorfindel swept passed her and back toward the house.
Miriel struggled to keep it together. “Glorfindel!” she shouted after him.
The Elf Lord looked over his shoulder and the Slayer could see tears streaming down his beautiful face.
“Thank you! Thank you for everything!” she said, choking back her own tears.
The Noldo gave a curt nod of his head before flying up the steps of the porch and disappearing into the house.
Trying to retain her composure, Miriel waited for the others. When all had said their good-byes, they set out on their journey, not knowing what new perils awaited them on the road…
Chapter 24 - Monotony
After climbing the steps that led out of the valley, Miriel turned, and looked down upon the House of Elrond one last time. A chilly breeze came out of the northwest, blowing her hair across her face. She had never anticipated leaving Rivendell at this time of year, on the cusp of winter, having always envisioned leaving in spring, when the weather was fair and ideal for traveling. Funny how things never go as one expects.
“Let’s get a move on, Miriel,” said Aragorn, giving her a quick pat on the back as he passed by. The Ranger Chieftain would lead the way out of the elven realm.
With a heavy heart, the Slayer turned and followed Halbarad, who was walking behind Aragorn. They marched in single file with the twins at the rear. For a long while they went on in silence, each preoccupied with his or her own thoughts.
Miriel kept thinking about her time with the Elves, how it seemed as if she had only arrived yesterday, though, in actuality, three months had passed. While she had met many new people whom she considered friends, she continued to dwell on Glorfindel, and how badly she had screwed things up with him. She wondered if she’d ever see him again, if she’d ever feel comfortable in his presence as she once had. She reckoned only time would tell.
There had been no real conversation until late that evening when the group stopped for the night. They had made it to the patch of woods that bordered the road, atop the tall cliffs with steep, sheer walls that overlooked the moors far below. They moved off the path, into the woods, using the trees to help break the wind that whipped across the top of the ridge.
“We’ll rest here tonight,” announced Aragorn, dumping his packs onto the ground in a small clearing.
The others followed suit. Once relieved of their burdens, they began to search for dry kindling for the much anticipated fire.
Shortly thereafter, the twins had set ablaze a roaring fire. Its warmth was welcomed by all. They sat around the fire and ate their last meal of the day, savoring the elvish victuals provided by the most excellent cooks of Imladris.
After taking a sip of water, a curious Miriel asked, “So, where exactly are we going?” Her eyes shifted from one man to the next, eager to hear the response. When she didn’t immediately get an answer, she continued, “I mean, do we hunt these villains down, or what? I’m not sure how this all works.”
“We’re heading north,” answered Aragorn between chews.
“Aragorn is the finest tracker there is,” boasted Halbarad proudly. “Chances are we’ll come across the tracks of some enemy or another. Then and only then will we decide if it’s worth the pursuit.”
“Worth the pursuit,” repeated the Slayer with a snort. “Surely you jest!” Her eyes were wide with disbelief. She locked them on her Watcher. “Aren’t we hunters? Isn’t it our duty to pursue all evil and eradicate it?”
“That depends,” chimed in Elrohir. “There are only five of us, Miriel. It would be folly to pursue a great number of the enemy without the aid of more men.”
“Besides, there are other… tasks assigned to us,” mentioned Elladan.
Miriel’s eyes darted to the eldest son of Elrond. “What tasks?” she queried, having heard no mention of such a thing before.
The Elf shifted uncomfortably. He turned his gaze to the dancing flames of the fire, taking a mouthful of food to avoid answering.
“What tasks?” she repeated, her uneasiness growing with each passing second.
“That, you will learn in good time,” replied Halbarad with an air of finality to his voice. “For now – just do as I say, and finish your supper.”
Miriel’s jaw dropped, aghast at the manner in which Halbarad had spoken to her. Who the hell did he think he was? It wasn’t like he was her father.
Aragorn, coming to the Slayer’s defense, said, “There’s no need to speak so harshly to Miriel, Hal. It’s only natural that she’d have some questions.” The Ranger Chieftain shifted his empathetic grey eyes to her. “Let us see where our path leads, Miriel. There are times when we have no need to hunt the enemy, for they delight in hunting us as well.”
“Well, I appreciate your telling me something,” replied a grateful Miriel. She shot a rather nasty look at her Watcher, believing that she and he would come to blows at some point on their journey.
“Let us change the topic of conversation to something more pleasant, shall we?” suggested Elladan, in hopes of diffusing the mounting tension between Slayer and Watcher. He looked up at the stars that blanketed the sky. “That stars of Elbereth shine brightly tonight.” From the corner of his eye, he watched Miriel, hoping that she’d follow his lead, and drop the line of questioning.
It seemed rather obvious to the Slayer that the Rangers were withholding some vital information from her. Elladan’s lack of eye contact was proof of that. Staring into the fire, she wondered what these so-called tasks could be. Were they dangerous? They would have to be. Wasn’t that what the Rangers did – hunt and kill the enemy? But, if that were the case, why not tell Miriel? Surely, she had proved that she was quite capable of fighting – all the Rangers and the sons of Elrond had seen her in action firsthand. So, why be so secretive? Did Aragorn and others not trust her, or, was it that these assignments were so perilous they feared she wouldn’t go along? That seemed rather preposterous. As far as Miriel was concerned, she’d battle anyone. Okay, maybe not anyone. She’d never, ever dare confront the Dark Lord of Mordor himself. Even the armies of Elendil and Gil-galad weren’t able to defeat him, permanently, and they were legendary warriors in their time.
Other than Sauron, who else presented such a threat to the peoples of Middle-earth? Certainly, the Rangers weren’t thinking her incapable of battling Orcs, wargs or trolls! She had already slain those types of beastly creatures. She had even killed some Uruks while alongside Bregolas on their journey north. She didn’t fear the minions of Sauron, especially now, after having trained with the greatest warrior in all Middle-earth.
Miriel let out a heavy sigh. Why o’ why did thoughts of Glorfindel spring into her mind, again? For a few brief moments she was getting quite excited trying to figure out what villain she’d face next, but now, thoughts of the mighty Noldo deflated what little enthusiasm she had built-up in her mind.
“Eat, Miriel,” said Elrohir, nudging her arm.
The Slayer was shaken back to her senses. “I’m not hungry,” she answered softly, wrapping up what food she hadn’t finished, before sticking it into one of her bags for later.
The conversation ended there. No one spoke another word for the rest of the night. The mood in the encampment became grim, a word Miriel would come to associate with the Rangers after spending more time with them in the wilds of Eriador. Elladan and Elrohir stared up at the star-lit sky, seemingly entranced by the creations of Varda Elbereth while both Aragorn and Halbarad were more like her, looking fixatedly on the flickering flames of the fire.
Miriel didn’t remember falling asleep, but at some point, she had. If she had dreamed at all, she had no memory of it when she was awakened the following morning by the soft elvish voice of Elladan.
“Time to get up, Miriel,” the Elf said to her.
With a yawn, the Slayer sat up, her stiff joints popping as she did so. The cool brisk morning air caused her to shudder. The sun had not yet risen and only a few glowing embers remained of the previous night’s fire.
“It’s going to be cold today,” announced Elrohir, as he dug through his pack, pulling out breakfast for the group.
Aragorn was already on his feet, staring to the northwest. “If we march steadily, we should reach the ford in two days time.”
“Hooray,” murmured a dispirited Miriel, already dreading the thought of getting her feet wet. Though her elven boots would prevent her heels from blistering, they were not, in fact, waterproof.
The Ranger Chieftain shifted his gaze to the Slayer; a half-smile adorned his rugged face. “Why so glum, Dagnir? I thought you would have been most eager to pursue the legacy of your foremothers.”
“Not with wet, cold feet,” she grumbled in reply.
“Perish the thought,” Aragorn chortled. “If that dismays you so, then I’m sure one of us men would be more than happy to carry you across the ford, thus keeping your delicate and dainty feet warm and dry,” he added teasingly.
“My feet are neither delicate nor dainty,” she scoffed. “And I don’t need any man to carry me anywhere!”
“Very well then,” answered the Ranger Chieftain.
After a quick meal, the group set off, beginning the day’s march. They left the patch of woods, returning to the roadway that ran along the steep cliffs. With no barrier, the wind rushed across the vast openness, its coldness stinging Miriel’s face and left ear.
The trek proved miserable, mostly from the winds, which never let up over the course of the day. Only rain would have made it worse, but thankfully, the sky remained cloud-free. By the time the Rangers stopped for the night, they had put another fifty miles or so behind them.
Unfortunately, their encampment for the night left much to be desired. There were no trees to shelter them from the wind. Though the road was beginning to slope downwards the closer they got to the River Bruinen, there was still a steep drop bordering the east side of the road. To their west, a tall wall of rock stretched upward, insurmountable by any creature without the aid of wings.
Due to their surroundings, there would be no fire tonight. The group would have to rely on whatever garments and blankets they had packed in their bags to keep warm for the night. With their backs against the frigid rock wall, they sat huddled together in hopes of sharing their body heat. The winds continued to blow, nipping at their faces.
Once Miriel had finished eating, she pulled her blanket tightly around her, as well as over her face, to help keep the cold wind at bay. Unfortunately, the stone floor and wall remained constantly frigid, and the material of her cloak and blanket were not thick enough to ward off the icy chill on her back and rear end.
Under these conditions, sleep came intermittently. On those rare occasions when the Slayer dozed off, she used either Elladan or Elrohir (whom she sat between) as a pillow. Neither Elf minded. To them, Miriel’s body was like a furnace, and every time she slumped on one or the other, they got an extra dose of body heat. Her drool, on the other hand, was something they could’ve lived without, but they accepted that that was the price one had to pay for the additional warmth.
The following morning, they awoke before dawn, ate another small meal, then resumed their trek. The winds had finally died down and the weather, though chilly, was much more tolerable than it had been. It seemed to Miriel that she and her companions were making more progress today than they had on the previous day’s journey. She surmised that that was because the road was sloping more downwards than before, and that that aided their progress.
By late afternoon, they were standing amidst the trees on the ridge of the valley that overlooked the river below.
Looking over his shoulder, Aragorn said, “Rejoice, Miriel! We’ve finally reached the ford.”
“If you’d like, Miriel, I’ll carry you across the stream,” suggested Elladan lightheartedly.
“I’m quite capable of crossing on my own,” Miriel answered.
Elrohir looked at Miriel. There was a mischievous glint in his eye that matched the grin on his face. As he took a breath to speak, Miriel waved her finger threateningly, interjecting, “And if anyone mentions the words ‘delicate’ or ‘dainty’, I’m tossing you into the river!”
Taking the Slayer’s threat seriously, the youngest son of Elrond decided not to tease her about her feet, as he had intended to.
“Let’s get a move on,” announced Aragorn. He then started down the embankment, the others following behind.
When they reached the bottom, Miriel plopped down on a flat rock and began to pull off her boots.
“What are you doing?” asked Halbarad, frowning.
“I would think that’s quite obvious,” she shot back. “Perhaps you don’t mind having cold, wet feet, but I do.” She then pulled off one of her stockings.
“Then you should just let one of us carry you across,” the Watcher remarked, not bothering to conceal his annoyance. “It’s faster, you know.”
Miriel ignored his comments altogether. But she had to smile when the twins plunked down and began to pull off their boots and stockings too.
“What are you doing?” Halbarad queried, his eyes darting from one twin to the other.
“Miriel makes a good point,” answered Elladan. “Why suffer the night with wet boots when there’s no need.”
Much to Halbarad’s chagrin, Aragorn too decided to pull off his boots before crossing the ford. Disgusted by what he was seeing, he trudged across the stream in his booted feet, undaunted by the icy cold water that reached halfway up his calf.
The others rolled up the legs of their breeches, and with their boots in hand, carefully crossed the rocky riverbed. Once they had reached the other side, they used their cloaks to wipe their feet dry before putting their boots back on. The Slayer gave her Watcher a smug look, delighted that the twins and Aragorn had done as she had.
“It’ll take days for your boots to dry,” she remarked, watching as Halbarad tried to squeeze the excess water from his footwear.
“And what will you do when it rains, Dagnir? Walk barefoot?” he snapped back.
“Don’t be silly, Halbarad! Why get my feet wet when I don’t have to?” she replied with a roll of her eyes. “And I couldn’t help but notice that you directed your questions at me, when three mighty lords have also done as I have. Is there a reason why you’ve singled me out, and not them? Or is it just you being a typical ass?”
“Let’s have none of that, Miriel,” said Aragorn with a hint of caution to his tone.
“He started it,” she whined, casting a disapproving look at her Watcher.
“Well, let’s just put it behind us, alright?” replied the Ranger Chieftain. Considering the subject closed, Aragorn looked first at the pathway leading out of Rivendell, then up at the sky. “We can still put some distance behind us before the sun sets,” he observed.
“Lead the way then,” replied Elrohir, heaving his packs from the ground and the straps over his shoulders.
The group resumed their trek, marching in single file as they had been. Miriel kept a few paces between her and Halbarad, mostly to avoid the temptation of walloping him in the back of the head. She found that man to be incredibly irritating, and couldn’t understand what she had done to earn his enmity. Sure, she had smarted off to him at the beginning of their training sessions, but, for the love of the Valar, he was no great warrior, Watcher or not. How could he compare to the likes of Glorfindel?
Miriel cringed inside. Would there ever come a day when thoughts of the dashing, handsome, brave, golden-haired Noldo didn’t come to mind? No matter how hard she tried to think of something else – anything else, she kept picturing snippets of the good times with the Elf Lord.
As her heart grew heavy, so did her feet, and the Slayer began to lag further behind Halbarad. Though Elrohir and Elladan tried their best to prod her along, after having gone on another hour or so, they called the group to a halt for the night.
Relieved that the day’s march was finally over, Miriel dropped down onto the leaf-littered ground, feeling utterly exhausted. The shadows of the woods deepened, as the men began to hurriedly collect what wood they could find for the night’s fire.
The Slayer had been seated for roughly thirty seconds when Halbarad barked, “Miriel! Clear a spot for a fire!”
Miffed that her Watcher, once again, had spoken unkindly, Miriel remained seated, refusing to carry out his order.
When she did not do as he commanded, an angry Halbarad stomped over to her, his wet boots crunching the dry leaves on the forest floor. “Are you deaf, girl?” he exclaimed, glaring down at her with narrowed eyes. “I told you to clear a spot for a fire. Get off your ass and do as you’re told! Now!”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” she shot back, fed up with the way Halbarad constantly berated her.
“As your Watcher, I most certainly can tell you what to do,” he replied between gritted teeth.
“Enough!” bellowed Aragorn from several feet away. He approached the bickering duo, his arms laden with dry wood. He fixed his gaze on Miriel. “You’re no longer in Minas Tirith, Miriel. And we are not your servants. We must all do our part, you included.”
The Slayer felt her heart drop when gently scolded by the Ranger Chieftain. However, that feeling dissipated when Aragorn locked his eyes on Halbarad, and said, “And you must stop speaking to Miriel the way you do, Halbarad. She is not your child… or a dog. Don’t speak to her as if she is.”
Miriel rejoiced inside when she heard Aragorn’s condemnation of her Watcher. He was right. Halbarad did treat her like a dog!
“I’m sorry, Aragorn,” she apologized. “I do not want to be a hindrance and will do my part.” She immediately began to rake away the leaves with her hands, smiling inside when she heard Halbarad’s apology to his lord.
In Miriel’s eyes, Aragorn was fit to be king. He was fair, and didn’t wholly blame her or Halbarad over their brief, heated exchange. She only wished that fate had chosen Aragorn to be her Watcher, instead of that insufferable man.
Playing the part of dutiful companion, Miriel cleared a large spot for the fire. Shortly thereafter, the fire crackled to life, courtesy of the Ranger Chieftain. The group sat around the fire, warming themselves as the flames devoured the wood, growing taller and taller.
Halbarad, the only one with wet feet, pulled off his boots and positioned them by the fire in hopes that the heat would help them dry. He then draped his damp, smelly stockings over the tips of a couple of sticks, which he had stuck in the earth beside the flames. It took everything the Slayer had to refrain from commenting on the horrid odor emanating from her Watcher’s feet, as she didn’t want to be accused of starting a new argument.
They ate their cold supper in silence. Miriel would’ve given anything to eat something hot, such as stew or soup, something that would warm up her insides on such a cold night. When the fire had burned down some, Elladan heated some water. As a treat, each person was given half a cup of tea. Though there was no cream or sugar, the hot beverage seemed to hit the spot.
Since leaving Rivendell, they had followed the same routine, rising before dawn, walking until dusk. The change in the terrain was the only sign that they had made any progress. It wasn’t until they reached The Great East Road that Miriel felt like they had actually made some headway.
The trees that lined the south side of the road swayed and groaned as the damp, frigid winds blew from that direction. Grey clouds lingered overhead, blocking out the sun, and offering no warmth to the otherwise dreary day. Now the Slayer couldn’t help but notice that the men seemed uneasy, apprehensive, their eyes constantly searching the wooded hills to their north.
When she saw Aragorn’s hand grip the hilt of his sword, she grew deeply concerned, for she could sense no impending danger.
“What is it, Aragorn?” she asked, warily eyeing the woods. “Is there something lurking nearby?” As a precaution, she too grabbed the hilt of her sword.
“No, not that I can see,” he replied, his eyes still scanning the forest as they continued their march.
“Elladan, Elrohir, do you two see anything?” she then asked the sons of Elrond.
They too were searching the woods with their elven eyes, although their hands remained at their sides.
“I see naught but trees,” answered Elrohir.
Miriel shifted her gaze back to the Ranger Chieftain. “Then why so paranoid, Aragorn? Why is your hand on your weapon?”
“The wind blows out of the south.”
“Um, yeah. What of it?” she asked, not seeing the significance of that.
“Our scent carries on the wind, and these woods are infested with trolls,” he replied gravely.
“But isn’t it said that trolls only come out at night?” she queried. “It’s midday. We’re in no danger, are we?”
“Trolls avoid sunlight,” Aragorn answered. “And as you can see, we have none today. They hunt along the road when they may, looking for wary travelers to feed upon.”
“That is why we must use caution, particularly with the winds out of the south,” added Elladan. “If any trolls are nearby, they may pick up our scent.”
That didn’t concern Miriel at all. She had encountered trolls before and found that they weren’t the smartest of Morgoth’s creations. In fact, she had defeated two of them all by herself. Surely, with four seasoned warriors by her side, they would have no problem, should they encounter any. Besides, after having trained with Glorfindel – the greatest warrior in all Middle-earth, Miriel was quite eager to see how she’d do against beasts of any sort.
Not long afterwards, she could see, over the treetops, the great hill to their north, the same hill that she had scaled months ago that had inevitably led to her captivity by the evil men. Though she didn’t fall into a state of melancholy as she had on the way to Rivendell, her body nonetheless prickled all over at the mere sight of that mighty mound. It brought to mind memories of the torments that she had suffered at the hands of her captors. As Miriel looked away from the hill, she couldn’t help but wonder if the old hag was still around, waiting to ambush her, for there was no doubt in the Slayer’s heart that the two would meet again.
Onwards they went, traveling west along The Great East Road, under a dark grey sky. Miriel expected a deluge of rain at any time, which would just make the trip even more miserable. She hated the cold, and thought about how much worse it would be once the woods disappeared altogether. She was well aware that once they crossed The Last Bridge, they would enter a rugged, treeless terrain that would offer no protection from the winds – no matter which direction it blew from.
At the end of the day’s march, the group took refuge in a ravine on the south side of the road. The men felt it was best to stay off the road. Once again, they sat around the roaring fire, each savoring the warmth, as they ate their supper.
Since leaving the borders of Rivendell, at least one man had remained awake, on sentry duty, while the others slept. Miriel had, thus far, been fortunate to not be appointed as lookout since they had begun their journey. However, it was decided amongst the group that she should be on watch tonight. She was a bit surprised that she had been chosen for the task, considering the uneasy feelings the men had felt throughout the day.
Nevertheless, she was most willing to accept her assignment, as this wasn’t her first (nor would it be her last) time on guard duty. Feeling that she needed to keep an eye on the roadway, she crept up the wall of the ravine, saddened that she had to leave the warmth of the fire behind. When she reached the shoulder of the road, she searched for a decent spot from which to keep watch. Nestled amongst some trees was a large boulder that overlooked the roadway. She climbed on top of the massive stone, deciding that it offered a good view of the surrounding area.
That cold wind continued to blow from the south, and the boulder on which she sat felt like a large block of ice to her backside. Yet, Miriel was resolved not to complain and would endure what she considered to be a hardship for the greater good of her team.
The wind howled through the trees and the branches creaked and groaned in protest, making the night even more creepy. There was no moon, no stars, no light whatsoever. Everything looked to be different shades of black. The fire which her companions were enjoying seemed a far way off, for the Slayer couldn’t even catch a whiff of smoke from where she was sitting.
Nothing eventful happened for many hours (or so it seemed). That is, until late in the night when Miriel heard the unmistakable sound of a tree cracking, breaking from its base, and crashing to the earth with a loud thud that caused her heart to race. Though the noise sounded several hundred feet away, at a minimum, she froze, holding her breath, her eyes scanning the woods north of the road, from where the booming crash had come. Her body prickled all over as she waited for any additional sounds.
Had an old tree finally fallen due to the winds? Or, an even more ominous thought, had someone or something hacked down the tree
No, she thought, after pondering her latter question. I heard no axing noise.
When several long seconds of silence had passed, the Slayer began to breathe again. Though she thought that it was probably nothing more than a dead tree that had finally fallen over, Miriel felt compelled to inform the others of what she had heard, just to be on the safe side.
Keeping her eyes fixed on the northern woods, she slid off the boulder. When she turned around and saw a shadow amidst the darkness, she let out a yelp as she reached for her blade.
“It’s just me, Miriel,” said Elladan, softly but quickly.
As the Slayer let out a sigh of relief, the Elf added, “We felt the ground tremble - ”
“Yes, yes,” she answered, nodding her head. “It sounded like a tree breaking, then crashing to the ground.”
Elladan narrowed his elven eyes, studying the dark woods across the road.
Searching the Elf’s face, Miriel asked, “Do you see anything?” before shifting her gaze back to the woods from which the sound had come.
“I’m afraid not,” he answered bleakly. “But I think it’s unwise for us to linger here any longer.” He looked up at the night sky in hopes of seeing a glimmer of stars, or, even better, the moonlight. Blackness hovered over them and around them, bringing a disquiet upon the Elf. “Let us return to the others,” he said with an air of urgency to his voice. Taking Miriel by the elbow, he guided her back down into the ravine.
Already, the others were stamping out the remnants of the fire. From the looks of it, they had done this many times before.
Within minutes, they had collected their gear and were trudging up the wall of the ravine. As soon as they reached the road, they marched rather quickly west. Everyone was on high alert, eyeing the darkened forest to their right, as if expecting something or someone to leap out of the shadows at any minute.
They walked all night long, not stopping until the dimness of morning. Once again, thick, grey clouds appeared above, portending rain that would not come.
“Can we stop, please?” asked an exhausted Miriel. Her back was aching and she longed for sleep.
“Yes, we can rest for a while,” replied Aragorn. He too was ready for a break after the night’s long march.
After putting so many miles behind them during the night, they had reached the region along the road where the density of trees on the south side of the road thinned, only to be replaced by crags, thickets, and briars. If Miriel recalled correctly, they were not too far from The Last Bridge. Whether or not they’d reach it by day’s end, she wasn’t sure.
Not wanting to stay on the road, the group was forced to climb up the rocky embankment on the south side of the road in hopes of finding a satisfactory place to rest amidst the hills. They took shelter behind a hillock several yards from the road. Aragorn promised that they would rest for a couple of hours before resuming their trek.
With everyone experiencing exhaustion, Elladan broke out lembas for the first time since leaving Imladris. Though the elvish way bread was meant to invigorate the body and mind, the Slayer actually found herself dozing off as she chewed on her portion. She was that tired.
“Sleep, Miriel,” suggested Elrohir, watching her nod off.
She swallowed what was in her mouth, leaned against the hillside, closed her eyes, and swiftly fell asleep…
Encountering Buffy in the dreamscape, the two Slayers sat atop a large hill set further back than where Miriel and her companions were currently resting.
“God! Another depressing day,” groaned the elder Slayer, frowning at the grey sky above.
“I know,” remarked Miriel, following her mentor’s gaze. “I wish it would rain already.”
“It’d be nice if the sun came out.” She turned her eyes to her protégé. “So what’s up with that? How come the sun hasn’t been out for days?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like I have control over such things.” The younger Slayer moaned, falling back onto the mound’s surface.
“I bet you miss Rivendell, don’t cha?” asked Buffy, a small grin creeping to her face.
“Oh, yes. It’s been dreary and o’ so cold. I miss sleeping in a warm, soft bed.” She sighed heavily, sitting upright once again. “Do you think there’s something out there?” Miriel asked, shifting her eyes to the north. “Some evil watching us?” she added softly.
Buffy turned her gaze to the north as well. “Probably. The world’s a dangerous place, Miriel. You know that.”
“I reckon you’re right,” she answered. Miriel paused for a moment before asking, “I just wish that if there’s something out there, following us, it would rear its ugly head already. I’m in the mood to kill.” When Buffy didn’t immediately respond, she turned toward her mentor and said, “Is that wrong? Is it wrong that I’m eager to kill?”
“Actually, I prefer the word ‘slay’ over ‘kill’,” answered Buffy. “And no, it’s not wrong that you feel that way.” She paused, raising her brow in question. “You are talking about slaying the bad guys, right?”
Miriel rolled her eyes. “What - you think I’m going to kill my companions?” she shot back derisively.
“Of course not!” With a snicker, Buffy quickly added, “But I could see you offing your Watcher. He’s such a dick.”
“While I’m not fond of Halbarad, I would not take his life, dick or not!”
“It was a joke, Miriel. Jeez.” The elder Slayer rolled her eyes. “Lighten up, ‘kay?”
Feeling a sudden chill, the young Slayer began to feverishly rub her arms in an attempt to keep warm. “I hate the cold… and being dirty,” she complained. “I’m beginning to wonder if I’m cut out for this whole Slayer business.”
“Don’t talk that way,” said Buffy. “It’s this lousy weather,” she continued, eyeing their depressing surroundings. “Don’t let it get you down. Hey! Why don’t we go to Sunnydale? A little sunlight will do us both some good.”
Miriel thought that was a good idea. Maybe a bit of sunshine would lift her spirits. However, before she could even get to her feet, she was shaken awake by Aragorn.
“Time to move on, Miriel,” he said, using his softest voice.
“I’ve only just closed my eyes,” she groaned in reply.
“It’s been two hours,” answered the Ranger Chieftain. “Take another bite of lembas. That will help reenergize you.”
The Slayer’s eyes popped open. “I fell asleep after eating some earlier. What makes you think it’ll help this time?”
“Come on, Dagnir,” Aragorn insisted, grabbing Miriel by the arm and heaving her off the ground.
Whimpering softly, the girl forced herself to wake completely. As she stretched her tired and sore back, Elladan thrust a piece of lembas toward her mouth. “Eat it,” he said, tapping her lips with the way bread.
Miriel opened her mouth and let the Elf slip the food into her mouth. She looked up at the gloomy sky, longing to see sunshine. “Why won’t it rain already?” she whined, as she pulled her packs from the ground.
After glancing upwards, Elrohir answered, “Those are not rain clouds.”
“They look like rain clouds to me,” argued Miriel.
“And so the illustrious Slayer now proclaims to be learned in art of weather forecasting,” scoffed Halbarad.
In no mood to deal with the derisive remarks of her Watcher, Miriel shot him a dirty look, and said, “You’re about three seconds away from my fist - ”
“ - Let’s have none of that,” interjected Elladan, attempting to make peace before the situation escalated. “Hal, keep your comments to yourself. No antagonizing of Miriel today, alright?”
“Only today?” grumbled Miriel under her breath.
“We’re all weary,” the Elf said, shifting his gaze to the Slayer. “Let’s save the fisticuffs for the enemy, shall we?”
Miriel grudgingly agreed before they set off again.
No one spoke for a long while. It seemed that the lack of sunshine and the constant cold wind made everyone miserable. They had taken more breaks today than they had the previous days, perhaps due to the (seemingly) endless marching and lack of sleep. This, of course, hindered the group from reaching the bridge by the day’s end. They were getting close though, as the fog was becoming denser the nearer they got to the river.
The men avoided stepping into the woods that continued to stretch along the north side of the road, preferring to seek refuge amidst the rocky hills to the south. Though the shoulder of the road remained treeless, if one were to travel about a quarter mile, one could see some clusters of stunted trees that dotted the hilly region.
There was no discussion over the matter. Aragorn led the way over the first hill, intent on reaching the spindly trees further south. When they arrived at the area where they would rest for the night, everyone began to gather what wood they could find. The dampness made it much more difficult to get a fire started, but with the aid of the sons of Elrond, they soon had a fire going.
Miriel struggled to keep her eyes open, but once she felt the heat of the fire, she yielded to sleep, choosing that over food.
If she had encountered Buffy during her slumber, she had no memory of it when she awoke.
Of course, the morning proved no different from the previous mornings. The sky remained grey, but now they were surrounded by a thick blanket of fog, which reduced their visibility considerably. After tending to their morning rituals, the group set out again.
“We’ll most definitely reach the bridge today,” said Elladan with an air of relief. “I’d say we’re about six leagues away. Maybe seven.”
The Slayer’s thoughts went back to when she had been alone, when she had first reached that waterway. That seemed like ages ago, when she had rappelled down the cliff’s wall in need of water and slept in the treetops for safety reasons.
Strangely, Miriel felt uneasy this morning. Perhaps the paranoia that the others felt had finally spread to her. No matter, she felt a weird, twisting feeling in the pit of her stomach and her senses seemed more heightened than any time before.
When they reached the road, it seemed that her trepidation grew heavier. The men felt it too. As they briskly walked, (sticking more to the south side of the road), they constantly eyed the woods to their right. Miriel found her gaze shifting upwards, praying that the sun would finally burn through the clouds, thus increasing her visibility and mood.
After some time, she finally asked, “Do you think it’s magic? The clouds, I mean. Do you think it’s some devilry concocted by Sauron?”
Halbarad’s head spun around. “Do not speak that name aloud!” he chastised.
For the first time, Miriel felt a twinge of guilt instead of anger at having her Watcher speak to her in that manner. “Sorry,” she quickly apologized. After several seconds, she added, “I just cannot shake this feeling that some… power has summoned those clouds. I feel ill at ease.”
“For you to now feel ill at ease portends danger, I deem,” replied Elrohir, nervously eyeing the forest once again.
“But what of the clouds?” she asked again. “They are not like the ones that hang over Mordor - ”
“Shh!” hushed Halbarad. “Do not speak that name either!”
Miriel couldn’t understand why no one would answer her question. To her, it seemed a plausible thing to ask.
“It is possible,” Elladan finally replied, “but doubtful. Much evil lurks in the world, Miriel. And though the tendrils of the Enemy stretch far and wide, I do not believe he is behind this menace.”
“Then who is?” she persisted. “Certainly trolls do not possess such power, do they?”
“I would think not,” answered the eldest son of Elrond. “I cannot rightly say who is behind this, if anyone at all. Just remain vigilant and prepared for battle, should the need arise.”
With that, Miriel’s right hand immediately clutched the hilt of her sword. Though it was awkward to walk with her hand gripped on her weapon, she felt comforted by feeling the handle in her grasp.
Hour after hour, they marched on in near silence, the road seemingly growing longer. The day was rapidly waning by the time the Elves first spotted the bridge from afar.
“We’re nearly there,” announced Elrohir.
“It is now where we must exercise extreme caution,” said Aragorn, calling for one last break before they approached the bridge.
“I don’t know about you, but I’ve been extremely cautious all day,” answered Miriel, before taking a drink from her water skin. Her mouth felt very dry.
Aragorn feigned a smile. “Then use even more caution, for my heart tells me that danger lingers nearby.” After a quick bite of lembas and a couple of swigs of water, the Ranger Chieftain added, “Stick to the south shoulder of the road.”
The group then resumed their trek. When the Slayer first caught sight of the bridge, her heart began to race. It only seemed logical that if there was to be an ambush of some sort, the bridge looked to be the ideal locale since there was no other way to cross the river for many miles.
When they were about a half mile from the bridge, Elladan stopped and murmured something unintelligible. Pointing toward the ground, he then clearly said, “Look!”
Everyone dashed to the Elf’s side. There, in the dirt, were massive footprints. The size and shape indicated that they obviously had been made by trolls.
Aragorn squatted down beside one of the footprints and gently touched the dirt ridge of one of the tracks. The dirt crumbled at his touch. “Alas! These are fresh,” he revealed, rising to his feet and brushing the soil from his fingers. “It looks like the trolls came through here yesterday.” His eyes followed the tracks toward the woods where the foliage and underbrush had been stamped down by the enormous feet of the creatures. “They came out of the forest there,” he added, nudging his head toward the pathway through the trees.
For several minutes, they stood in silence, listening intently for any sounds. Miriel’s heart pounded in her chest as her eyes frantically searched the fog for the enemy.
“I hear nothing, nor do I smell anything foul,” voiced Elladan with concern. It was the nature of trolls to attack at bridges, as this was the most vulnerable place to ambush weary travelers. The fact that he didn’t smell the beastly creatures only increased his trepidation.
“Then they have crossed the bridge and are waiting on the other side,” said Halbarad, his eyes trying to pierce through the haze that lingered over the terrain.
“What do we do?” Miriel found herself nervously asking.
Aragorn unsheathed his sword, the sound of the metal scrapping against the scabbard seemed to echo throughout the area. “We prepare for battle,” he replied. His eyes went from his blade to Miriel. “It is best that you unsheathe Buffy, and have it at the ready.”
Normally, Miriel would have found it amusing that the Ranger Chieftain referred to her blade as Buffy, but due to the seriousness of the situation, she merely followed his command. Halbarad too had his weapon at the ready, while the sons of Elrond chose to arm themselves with their bows.
The group formed a line as they warily began to cross the bridge. Miriel expected the trolls to attack when they reached the midway point. As her mouth went dry, and her heart pounded so hard that she could hear its beating in her ears, she spun around, half-expecting the trolls to close in around them on both sides.
She cursed the fog. Though the winds continued to blow out of the south, the mists merely moved along with the current. Resuming her position, she walked slowly with her companions. Every now and again, the wisps of fog lessened, but only a moment later, the density returned, obscuring the visibility of all except for maybe the twins.
The Slayer clutched the hilt of her weapon so hard that her hand was turning white. Already, her palm felt sweaty in anticipation of a sudden attack.
They reached the other side of the bridge without incident, though that did not lessen anyone’s anxiety.
“Something’s amiss,” remarked Elladan gravely. “Trolls are notorious for ambushing people at bridges, yet these did not. There’s something more diabolical at work here.”
“What do you mean?” asked Miriel, nervously looking around for any sight of the enemy.
“They’re drawing us out, for some reason or another,” replied Aragorn, narrowing his eyes, as he shifted his gaze to the footprints in the earth.
“Why?” the Slayer asked, troubled that these trolls were not demonstrating normal troll behavior.
“I don’t know,” replied the Ranger Chieftain, deeply disturbed by the whole scenario.
“We should continue on,” suggested Elrohir. “Be on guard.”
“Any idea of how many trolls we’re looking at, Aragorn?” queried Halbarad, his eyes scanning the footprints on the roadway.
“It’s difficult to say,” he sighed in response. “The trolls have walked over each others tracks, making it hard to determine their numbers. Let us hope there are only a few wandering about.”
“Let’s get a move on before it grows too dark,” repeated Elrohir.
The terrain changed for good once they had left the bridge. No longer were there any woods to their north. Instead, the road ran between rolling hills of mostly rock. The wind howled eerily over the hillsides, rustling withered, wild grasses and weeds that grew out of the fissures.
Having now become the hunted, the group moved along slowly, their eyes desperately searching the mists for any sign of the enemy.
Elladan, who was walking beside Miriel, whispered, “Look for the enemy to our north.”
“How do you know that?” the Slayer uttered in reply. Instinctively, her eyes darted north, watching for any movement within the fog.
“The wind acts as our enemy,” he murmured, “carrying away the stench of the trolls, and leaving nary a trace of their foulness behind.”
“We Elves were blessed with, not only a keen sense of eyesight, but also a keen sense of smell,” added Elrohir. He inhaled deeply. “I smell no troll reek. That is an ill sign.”
They warily continued on. The anticipation of being attacked at any minute was horrible. Miriel wished that the trolls would go ahead and ambush them. At least that way, they could battle it out. They had gone maybe another half mile or so when the hair on the nape of her neck suddenly stood on end, and a prickly sensation coursed through her body, portending danger.
Miriel’s right arm and wrist were already aching from the heaviness of her weapon, as she scanned the north side of the road, searching for the enemy that she knew was nearby. With each step, that feeling of dread dramatically increased to the point where she lifted her blade, drawing the attention of her companions.
The blanket of fog had turned to thin wisps, allowing for a few moments of better visibility. They had reached an area where the hills had arced away from the road, forming a horseshoe-shaped opening. Many, large, moss-covered boulders dotted the clearing.
Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, and the coldness of late afternoon caused her to shudder. It was then that Miriel realized that those were no boulders, but trolls hunkered down, waiting to strike.
“Trolls!” she screeched before taking off, charging the creatures of Morgoth at full speed. The others shouted for her to come back, but it was too late. The trolls, seeing that they had now been discovered, sprang to their feet, looking twice the size of the Slayer and her companions.
Miriel’s eyes widened when she saw that these beasts appeared much different than the trolls she had encountered previously. They didn’t have the “mannish” qualities like the two she had fought. They looked more like broad pillars of stone than anything else. Their greenish-grey hides were covered with animal skins that had been crudely sewn together. In their monstrous hands, each brandished a wooden club that more closely resembled the bole of a tree.
There were a couple of quick pinging sounds, and two arrows went whizzing by either side of Miriel’s head. The sons of Elrond, believing that the Slayer had acted in haste, were hoping to incapacitate the troll she was rapidly nearing.
Both elven bolts struck the beast, one over each breast. The troll half-growled, half-grunted, snapping the foreign objects that protruded from its flesh. The stench of the creature’s putrid breath nearly caused Miriel to fall over. No words could describe the foulness of it. Seeing as the troll had to be around fourteen feet tall, she thought the best way to take it down was to go after its legs.
The irritated beast swung its club at the Slayer. She dove down, feeling the swish of air over her head as she swung her blade, striking the troll just below its knee. Her sword cut through the beast’s scaly hide, embedding into its bone. The creature groaned in pain, and dropped down onto its knees, which caused the earth to tremble with the impact. As a result, Miriel was thrust toward the troll, as she feverishly tried to pry her weapon free.
The creature stretched out its long, thick arm, wrapping his enormous fingers around the Slayer’s throat. He tightened his grip. Her eyes bulged, as she felt herself being lifted off the ground. The troll then began to raise his weapon in preparation of knocking her head off her body.
Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, though in actuality, everything was occurring very fast. From behind, she could hear the shouts of her companions as they joined the fray. A thick cloud of fog rolled across the terrain, temporarily obscuring, not only Miriel’s view, but also that of the troll.
Instinctively, Miriel’s hands went to the troll’s hand, in a desperate attempt to break his hold before she passed out from lack of oxygen. Dangling in midair, she kicked at the beast, her blows having no effect whatsoever on the creature. As her vision began to dim, she heard a cry from behind. Only a second later, she fell to the ground with the troll’s massive hand still wrapped around her neck, though its grip had loosened. A blurry figure then leapt between her and the wounded beast. Gasping for breath, Miriel pulled the severed hand from her neck. Blood streamed from the hacked off portion of the limb. As she scooted away from the skirmish, she heard the troll that she had been fighting fall to the earth with a thunderous thud.
The figure spun around. Aragorn had been the one to come to her rescue. “Are you alright?” he asked, hurriedly pulling her to her feet.
“Yeah,” she breathed heavily, deeply embarrassed and ashamed that in her eagerness she had put herself in a potentially fatal situation.
Before the Slayer had a chance to get her bearings, Aragorn flung her aside, preventing yet another troll from squashing her with its club.
Although Miriel had maintained her grasp on the hilt of her sword when she was hurled to the ground, the rocky floor had shaved the skin off her knuckles. Wincing in pain, she clambered back to her feet, wanting to do her part in the battle.
The trolls’ constant stomping sounded like thunder and the ground shook violently with their every footfall. For a brief moment or two, Miriel glimpsed the enemy’s numbers and, sadly, it appeared that they outnumbered her and her friends by at least four to one. All things considered, those were not very good odds, considering the size of their foes.
Miriel jumped back into the fracas, trying her best to help reduce the numbers of the enemy so that she and the Rangers would have a chance of coming out of the fight alive.
Things seemed to go from bad to worse as more trolls popped out from behind the hills, stamping madly toward the road so that they could encircle the warriors.
While the sons of Elrond had successfully shot several foes, they, unfortunately, had a limited number of flying projectiles.
“My quiver is empty!” informed Elrohir through clenched teeth, now forced to draw his sword. Like his mortal companions, he had to resort to going after the trolls’ legs instead of delivering potentially fatal shots from his bow.
Elladan then sent his last arrow, striking a particularly nasty troll in the throat. As the beast reached for the feathered shaft protruding from his neck, Halbarad leapt out of a patch of fog, swinging his blade, which cut through the troll’s thigh like butter. Black blood sprayed from the stump of the creature, as it teetered on the spot for a second or two, before crashing to the ground with a loud boom.
The situation looked bleak. The trolls had now formed a circle around the five warriors, standing shoulder to shoulder. Several of their brethren lay dead, their enormous bodies taking up much needed fighting space for the Rangers.
Then, over the din, a howl-grunt-like cry came from hilltops, causing everyone, trolls and mortals alike, to shift their gaze toward the sound. Surrounded by wisps of fog was yet another troll, standing atop the highest mound. While as tall as his cohorts, this one was of broader-build and garbed in leather. Even its bald, round head was covered in a cap of leather. In its left hand, it wielded a spiked club, which was held aloft over his beastly head. It let out a single, deep grunt, immediately causing his fellow trolls to fall silent.
Miriel surmised that this troll had to be the leader. It then locked its eyes on her. Instantly, a cold, paralyzing chill ran throughout the Slayer’s body, freezing her to her spot. The troll captain then made a series of short, grunting sounds that appeared to be his way of communicating with his comrades.
All the trolls then shifted their gaze to Miriel, bringing about a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“I think they’re talking about you,” whispered Elladan anxiously, as he and the Rangers began to form a ring with their backs toward one another.
“You think?” the Slayer gulped in reply. Somewhat surprised that she was able to say anything, she tried desperately to put up a brave front, though her body had begun to tremble all over.
All the trolls kept their eyes fixed on Miriel. Not a second later, they raised their clubs menacingly and charged – all heading for the Slayer. Horror-stricken, she stared at the large leather-clad troll flying down the hillside.
“Find your courage, Dagnir. We need you,” commanded Halbarad, his tone riddled with fear and despair.
We’re going to die, Miriel thought in dismay. And it’s all my fault. If only I had waited for one of the more experienced men to lead the charge. Their blood is on my hands.
“Snap out of it, Miriel!” shouted Elladan, nudging her back to her senses. “We need your strength to help fend off the enemy.”
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Miriel regained her composure and prepared for the onslaught.
“Let’s kill us some trolls,” added Elrohir, determined to fight it out to the death.
“Never surrender!” shouted Aragorn before raising his blade and rushing the wall of trolls that were rapidly closing in around them.
The noise of a horde of stampeding trolls would forever be engrained in Miriel’s mind. Even though she had her weapon at the ready, her hope had diminished, for she could see no way that five people could take out dozens of these monstrous beasts.
Then, from out of the mists came a horn blast, a long, sweet note that instantly renewed hope in the warriors and cast doubt into the stone hearts of the enemy. The Rangers from the North had arrived in the nick of time. The thunderous footfalls of the trolls had drowned out all sounds of the galloping horses.
There was no time to offer any words of greeting (or gratitude) to their northern kinsmen, as the fighting had once again resumed. Regardless, the timely arrival of the Rangers helped to divert the attention of many of the trolls nearest to the roadway.
Though the Slayer could hear a symphony of pinging bow strings, she was much too busy to see if the newly arrived Rangers were successfully hitting their targets. She was confronted by two monstrous trolls that were trying to beat her to death with their mammoth clubs. It seemed that Miriel had established a pattern of duck, dive and roll to avoid being struck. Wielding two blades now, she slashed at the flesh of the trolls’ trunk-like legs whenever she managed to dodge one of their blows.
Unbeknownst to her, several Rangers were trying to take out the troll captain. The leader of the beasts had been hit by several flying projectiles, mostly around his face and neck, but unfortunately, that had barely slowed him down. The leather-clad creature had now entered the clearing, swinging his spiked club at anything that moved. Perhaps his actions were due to his injuries, or maybe luck was on the side of the Rangers, for the troll captain had taken down a couple of his own comrades, the barbs of his weapon penetrating their hides. Black blood rained down upon those closest to the scuffle, most coming from the spines of the troll captain’s weapon.
When the creature realized what he had done, he let out a frightful bellow. Its rancid breath felt like a sudden gust out of the north. Through the mists, the troll captain once again raised his club, his beady eyes searching for one from the race of man.
He then noticed Miriel, of whom he had temporarily lost sight, between her rolling and diving amongst the trolls. Gnashing his teeth like some rabid beast, he came barreling toward her. The Rangers on horseback tried to stop the troll captain by shooting him with arrows, many of which had pierced his flesh.
The Slayer, who rolled out of yet another dive, looked around only to find herself squatted between the legs of another troll. Both she and the creature realized at the same time that he could easily squash her to death by merely sitting on her. As she started to crawl out from beneath him, the troll began to lower his body. When Miriel found herself in the clear, she turned. The stupid beast was still sinking toward the ground. She rammed the blade, which she wielded with her left hand, deep into the creature’s most vulnerable spot - his nether regions, the metal easily penetrating the scaly hide. The troll let out a painful wail, yet his body continue to drop. The Slayer had no other choice but to let go of her weapon or risk both her wrist and arm turning into a gooey paste from the trolls weight.
Only a second later, her attention was turned to the troll captain, his club already swinging down toward her. She managed to roll to the side, feeling the whoosh of air as the club struck the ground beside her, renting the earth. She sprang onto her feet in one fluid motion, waving the one blade in her hand, ready to fight the Big Bad, as Buffy would call him.
Before she had a chance to deliver any type of blow, she heard Halbarad cry, “Miriel! Watch out!” Her Watcher, seeing that the troll she had hit in the nether regions had not been incapacitated, only pissed off, had swung its club at her. Halbarad, seeing that the weapon was going to make contact, shoved the girl out of harm’s way. What would have been a fatal blow, instead struck Miriel’s right arm, cracking it upon impact. The pain was instant. The blade in her dominant hand went flying from her grasp, and hit a horse that had just come into the area in its left front ankle.
The sudden jolt of pain caused the horse to buck its rider from its back, sending him into the path between the troll captain and the Slayer. Halbarad then dove on top of Miriel, intent on protecting her from friend and foe alike. Unbeknownst to the Watcher, he had submerged the girl’s face in a puddle of troll blood, nearly drowning her.
Not having expected Halbarad to do what he did, Miriel swallowed a mouthful of the vile life force of the trolls, gagging when she managed to pull her head inches up from the pool. She struggled beneath her Watcher, whimpering, not only from the pain that was radiating up her right arm, but also from her eyes, which burned like hell fire. She rubbed her face against Halbarad’s cloak and hair, the only things she was able to use since both of her arms were still pinned beneath the weight of the man.
When the Watcher realized what he had done, he eased up off the Slayer, still shielding her with his own body as he began to pull her away from the troll captain. He could see that her right arm was mangled, twisted in the wrong direction. He quickly grabbed part of his cloak, using the cloth to wipe away the blackness streaked across her face.
Crying now, Miriel rolled to her side, cradling her injured arm. As she blinked away the haze from her eyes, she watched in horror as the troll captain’s club struck the Ranger that had fallen off the horse. An ear-shattering shriek reverberated throughout the region as the barbs pierced the man’s flesh in many places, lifting him off his feet, and flinging him several yards through the air. His battered body crashed into the hillside, bouncing wildly down to the base of the mound.
The Slayer couldn’t tell if the Ranger lay dead or not. She became blinded with tears, as Halbarad dragged her away from the melee.
After having seen one of their own taken down, the other Rangers’ ire became inflamed. The sons of Elrond were the ones credited with killing the troll captain, having hacked his body into several pieces. A few trolls, seeing that their doom lie near, took off down the road, running toward the bridge in hope of fleeing the enraged men. Several Rangers rode in pursuit, slaying the creatures on the roadway, well before they reached the bridge.
Once the situation with the trolls had been contained (they would all be annihilated), Aragorn, Elladan, Elrohir, and several others ran over to their wounded kin. Arvellas was the one who had been stricken by the troll captain. Not only were there massive holes in his body, but hunks of meaty tissue hung out of the shredded parts of his garments, which were covered in his own blood. He whimpered, suffering horribly from his injuries.
A tearful Aragorn was desperate to aid his ailing friend. He ripped the cloak from his back, trying to staunch the flow of blood from numerous wounds that covered Arvellas’ torso. It was for nil, for Arvellas’ injuries would be fatal. His ribs had been broken in several places, and the spikes had pierced many of his vital organs.
He locked eyes with Aragorn and, with his last breath, uttered, “If only… I could… see you… become king.” Arvellas then died. His lifeless eyes remained fixed on his Captain. With tears rolling down his blood streaked face, Aragorn closed his friend’s eyes, dismayed by the loss of one whom was dear to his heart…
Chapter 25 - The Road to Archet
“Arvellas was a good man,” said Elladan sadly. “But now we should tend to the living, Aragorn, for there are those that are wounded and in need of healing.”
Aragorn took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. He nodded, quickly wiping his tears away with the sleeve of his sweater. Glancing around, through the mists, he saw the carnage left behind from battle. From what he could see, only troll carcasses littered the area. “Elrohir, will you check on the injured?”
“Of course,” replied the youngest son of Elrond, immediately disappearing from the grieving man’s side.
“Are you alright?” asked a concerned Elladan, knowing how deeply Aragorn cared for Arvellas.
“I will be,” answered the Ranger Chieftain solemnly. Over the voices of his kinsmen, Aragorn could hear the faint, whimpering cries of Miriel. “Dagnir is hurt,” he said, rising to his feet, along with Elladan. The two then followed the sound.
When they came across the Slayer and her Watcher, both men stopped. They were stunned to see Halbarad comforting Miriel in a way that neither man had ever witnessed before. They could only hope that this tragic incident would act as the catalyst to heal the strained relationship between Miriel and Halbarad.
Aragorn and Elladan approached the duo. Crouching down beside them, the Ranger Chieftain could see Miriel cradling her right arm. “What has happened here?” he asked, his eyes shifting to Halbarad.
“Her arm is broken,” replied the Watcher, still holding the Slayer in his arms.
“Did it break through the skin?” asked Elladan, squatting beside an injured Miriel.
“Thank the Valar, no,” replied Halbarad. “We’ll need a splint, and something for the pain.”
Miriel tried to put up a brave front, but silent tears continued to stream down her face.
“It will be alright, Miriel,” said Aragorn. “Let me take a look.” He reached for her arm, but the girl shrank away, continuing to cradle her injured limb protectively. “Please,” he uttered, locking his glassy eyes with the Slayer.
The Slayer relented. Turning her head, she buried her face in her Watcher’s chest, not even wanting to look at her swollen arm. She winced as the Ranger Chieftain examined her injury.
“The arm is surely broken,” concluded Aragorn. “We’ll need to set it so the bone can properly mend.”
“But what can we use as a splint?” asked a concerned Halbarad. “There is no wood nearby.”
“Then we shall have to find some,” replied Aragorn, getting to his feet, eager to check on the others.
“I have some tonic in one of my bags that will help reduce the pain,” informed Elladan, looking around the area. “That is if my bags haven’t been buried beneath troll corpses.”
As the Elf Lord disappeared, a golden-haired Ranger strode up to Aragorn, who still stood near Miriel and Halbarad.
“Well met,” said Aragorn gratefully, embracing his fellow Ranger. “Tell me, Gúron: how did you know where to find us?”
“Gandalf,” replied the warrior.
Despite her pain, Miriel’s head spun toward the men when she heard mention of the Wizard’s name.
“We ran into him two days ago. He told us that danger awaited you near the Last Bridge, so we rode as fast as we could, hoping we’d reach you in time,” reported the golden-haired Dúnadan.
“Bless him,” uttered the Ranger Chieftain. “Your timing could not have been any better, my friend. And I must thank Gandalf the next time I see him.”
“His business has taken him elsewhere, but you know how Gandalf is – he seems to show up when our need is greatest.”
Despite the tragedy that had taken place, Aragorn softly chuckled under his breath, knowing that Gúron had spoken no truer words.
Aragorn then took off. Gúron then looked at both Watcher and Slayer. “You alright, Hal?” he asked.
“We will be,” answered the Watcher.
The golden-haired Dúnadan gave a quick nod of his head before he turned and joined his kinsmen in doing their appointed tasks. Like a well-oiled machine, the Rangers broke up into smaller groups. Some were preparing the troll corpses for burning by dousing them with oil, while others traveled up the road and across the bridge to find much needed wood.
After several minutes, Elladan returned, carrying his packs. “We’re in luck, Miriel,” he said. “My bags were not damaged and I have something here to help with the pain.” He revealed a small corked bottle in his hand. He popped the top and then handed the Slayer the bottle. “One sip should do it.”
Miriel did as instructed, thanking the Elf for the much needed tonic. He then left. A few minutes later, she began to feel dopey and her entire body started to go numb.
The Slayer couldn’t clearly recall how much time had passed when Aragorn returned with the sons of Elrond by his side. They brought items to take care of her arm. Her splint was made from two sticks placed on either side of her arm, which was then wrapped tightly with bandages. Aragorn then carefully placed her arm in a sling that he had made from some spare cloth. He smeared some ointment over her knuckles and covered them with a strip of clean cloth.
“There,” he said, once he had finished. “How’s that, Miriel?”
“Fine. Thank you.” Miriel was feeling pretty good from the medicine, and as she watched fires spring up all around her, she wondered what would happen next. Surely, she couldn’t fight in her current state, especially with her strongest arm broken. While she could wield a weapon with her left hand, she didn’t have the same control as she did with her dominant arm. Considering her injury, and how little use she would be in any type of combat situation, she assumed that she would return to Rivendell to recuperate. That only made sense. Elrond had told her to consider Imladris her home, and, at that moment, that’s exactly where she wanted to be. Even thoughts of seeing Glorfindel again didn’t bother her in the slightest.
Miriel closed her eyes and became lost in her thoughts of returning to Rivendell. She pictured the kindly Elves, the food, her warm bed, and hot, steamy baths with perfumed water. It was such a lovely thought, especially the bathing part. She hadn’t had a bath since departing the elven realm several days ago. The sudden change in topic by her companions disrupted the lovely imagery.
“I think Miriel should be taken back to Imladris until her arm heals,” suggested Elladan. “It seems rather pointless to keep her on the road, given the circumstances.”
“I agree,” said Elrohir, thinking that Miriel would heal faster if taken back to the realm of his people.
Though Halbarad was Miriel’s Watcher, Aragorn was their leader, and it was to him that everyone looked for the final say. He remained quiet, staring intently at Miriel, wondering if she had fallen asleep or was in some blissful state from the medicine.
“Chances are we will not see combat for a while,” chimed in Halbarad, feeling that he needed to voice his opinion before any final decision could be made. “Slayers are known for their rapid healing abilities. I say we continue on our journey. I deem Miriel would be effective in battle even with only one arm.”
The twins were aghast at the suggestion. “That is foolishness!” blurted out Elladan in disgust. Glowering at Halbarad, he hastily added, “Should we see combat, Miriel’s injury could be worsened, considerably.”
“How heartless can you be, Hal?” said Elrohir. “It is folly to risk worsening Miriel’s injury by staying on the road.”
“You do not understand the healing abilities of a Slayer,” contested the Watcher. “It will not take long for her arm to heal.”
“You have no proof of that!” interjected Elladan heatedly. “You’re merely going by the lore of your – ”
“ – It’s written in the Watcher Diaries!” exclaimed Halbarad. “And it is I that possess these books, not you!”
“The lore of your forefathers is limited, at best,” added Elrohir. “Most of those journals have been lost!”
“Exactly how long has it been, Hal since the Council of Watchers has wielded the power of the Slayer?” queried Elladan sharply. “You and your Council have been incapable of even finding the Slayer. If not for Miriel seeking you, you would not even know of her existence!”
To that, Halbarad could make no reply. He sat there, simmering quietly, knowing that Elladan was right.
Everyone now looked to Aragorn, who had remained quiet throughout the fiery exchange. “What say you, Estel?” asked Elladan, the tone of his voice much calmer as he addressed the Ranger Chieftain.
Aragorn continued to stare silently at Miriel. Though her eyes remained closed, she couldn’t help but hear the conversation taking place. At that point, she felt no need to comment, since the twins’ arguments for her to return to Rivendell seemed sound to her.
“I think it would be in the best interest of all if Miriel goes to Archet with Halbarad,” said Aragorn, his eyes remaining locked on the Slayer. He couldn’t help but notice her face twitch after making his comment. “I believe that it’s important for Miriel to mend, not only her broken bone but also her relationship with her Watcher. I think they need to do this without interference from others.” The Ranger Chieftain shifted his eyes to the sons of Elrond.
“Mark my words, Aragorn: you will have a dead Watcher on your hands if you send the two of them away,” uttered Elladan under his breath. He knew how volatile the Slayer-Watcher relationship had been, and it seemed absurd to send the two away alone together.
“Need I remind you that we’ve already suffered such a loss. Arvellas lies not yards away, dead,” replied the miffed Ranger Chieftain. “Let us not speak of anyone else dying.”
“I was not referring to Arvellas, and you know that,” said Elladan. “I think it unwise for Miriel to go off with Halbarad, considering their past.”
“I see this as an opportunity to heal the rift between myself and Miriel,” voiced Halbarad, agreeing with his Captain. “Some time away from everybody else will do us some good.”
Miriel’s eyes suddenly popped open. “Do I have no say in this matter?” she queried dopily. “I think that I should have some input, wouldn’t you agree?”
Cocking his head, the Ranger Chieftain asked, “What is your will then?”
“I’d like to go back to Rivendell,” she answered without hesitation. “There is no better place to go for one in need of healing, and Lord Elrond is a master healer, after all.”
By the look on Aragorn’s face, one would’ve thought that Miriel had suggested they go to Mordor. If possible, the Ranger Chieftain’s expression grew grimmer, the frown lines on his ruggedly handsome face becoming more pronounced. “Long we have stayed in Rivendell,” he said softly. “Overly long, if you ask me. There my love awaits… And if I were to return, it would delay that which my heart desires, prolonging my destiny to reclaim what my forefathers have lost.” Aragorn’s tone was riddled with pain; an air of sadness emanated from his very essence.
Of course, the son of Arathorn was referring to Arwen and his bid to reclaim the kingship of both Gondor and Arnor – the one obstacle that stood in his way of his marriage to his true love.
While Miriel understood that love seemed rare for a Ranger, love between a Man and an Elf was even rarer. None of her companions had a wife, not even Elladan or Elrohir.
“You need not come,” whispered Miriel in reply, her heart aching for the Captain.
“That is true,” he answered, speaking in that same, sorrow-filled voice. “But my heart tells me that should you return to the land of the Elder, the rift between you and Halbarad will deepen, for you will lose yourself in the company of the Elves. I’m not saying that is an evil thing, but it should be avoided, for now.”
The Slayer found herself at a loss for words. It seemed that Aragorn’s remarks had some underlying meaning that she did not comprehend. Perhaps his words were, in some way, prophetic. She watched Elladan and Elrohir bow their heads, seemingly accepting Aragorn’s pronouncement.
Feeling that she had no other choice, the Slayer tried to choke back the tears that were forming in her eyes and nodded in agreement.
Aragorn then shifted his gaze to Halbarad. “You will need to take the fastest road to Archet. Take Arvellas’ horse, for he is quick-footed and will hasten your trip.”
Halbarad nodded and rose to his feet, intent on following his Captain’s orders.
Miriel’s jaw dropped. “You mean for us to leave now?” she queried in disbelief.
“The sooner you leave, the better,” replied Aragorn.
“But… but… that horse is injured,” she argued, recalling how her own blade had hit the horse in the ankle.
“The wound was superficial and Thalion is fit for travel.”
None too eager to depart right then and there, Miriel continued to voice her protest. “It’s dark! And… and the likelihood that more trolls lie in wait further down the road seems quite possible.”
“Which is all the more reason for you to leave now,” pressed Aragorn. “It may have escaped your notice, Miriel, but the trolls were after you. You were their target. Until we can figure things out, such as who was behind all this, you need to be taken somewhere safe.”
“What about safety in numbers?” she cried out. “We’ll be safer as long as we’re all together. Sending me and Halbarad out there – alone – is madness! It’s… its suicide!”
“You’re being overly dramatic, Miriel. Thalion can outrun any troll – ”
“ – And what of wargs and Orcs?” she interjected in her fury. “Can he outrun them? Can he outrun arrows or spears or, or hurling axes?”
“He has thus far,” replied Aragorn calmly.
“Come now, Estel,” spoke up Elrohir. “I see no harm in Miriel and Hal leaving at first light tomorrow. It is highly unlikely that we’ll be under attack again tonight. I do not understand the need to send them away so soon.”
“I feel it’s for the best, Elrohir,” answered the Ranger Chieftain, unwavering in his decision. “You’re welcome to ride along with them, if that’s your will.”
“This sounds like ill-counsel to me,” grumbled Elladan, agreeing with his twin.
“I’m holding no one here captive. All are free to come and go as they wish,” declared Aragorn. “I’m merely doing what I think is best, for all us.” He then turned back to Miriel. “Your stay in Archet won’t be long. If what Hal says is true about Slayers healing swiftly, you’ll be rejoining us in no time. But we need you at your best, Miriel. Our numbers are so very little as it is. We cannot afford to lose anyone else.”
Reminded once again of Arvellas’ death, a pang of guilt shot through Miriel’s heart. Had she already forgotten about the Ranger (and apparent Watcher) that lay dead not far away from where she sat? And who was she to not trust the judgment of one who would one day be king of her people? For even the Elves revered Aragorn and had complete faith in him.
“Alright,” she finally said, feeling defeated in more ways than one.
“Thank you, Miriel,” answered Aragorn with a sigh of relief.
Only a minute later, Halbarad returned, leading Thalion by the reins. He had also found Miriel’s baggage, which she had slipped off her arms at the onset of battle.
“Let me help you,” said Aragorn, rising to his feet and assisting Miriel to hers.
She looked the Ranger Captain in the eye and uttered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for causing Arvellas’ death.”
“You did no such thing,” insisted Aragorn. “People die in battle.”
“But, if I hadn’t led the charge, none of this would’ve happened,” she argued, feeling her eyes well with tears yet again.
“That is not true,” replied the Ranger Chieftain, putting a hand comfortingly on Miriel’s shoulder. “Look around you, Miriel. We’ve lost one. And though I grieve the loss of Arvellas, whom I loved dearly, the enemy has paid greatly for that. Nary a troll escaped! Do not burden yourself with blame.” He leaned forward, kissing Miriel on the forehead. He then whispered, “You take care of yourself and Halbarad. We’ll see you soon.” He gave her arm one last reassuring squeeze before releasing his hold.
To the Slayer, it felt as if she was saying her last farewell. With her bottom lip beginning to quiver, Aragorn stepped aside and the sons of Elrond took his place.
“You take care, Miriel,” said Elladan, offering her a smile. “We’ll see you in a few weeks, alright?”
She nodded.
The eldest son of Elrond then pulled her into an embrace, causing her right arm to suddenly throb. Ignoring the pain, she wrapped her good arm tightly around the Elf Lord. She felt her tears trickling down her cheeks.
Elladan then stepped away and Elrohir hugged the Slayer. “Heal quickly, Dagnir. When you’re better we’ll embark on a new adventure and will make the enemy fear your name.”
Once again, all she could do was nod. She felt that if she had tried to talk, she’d start sobbing, uncontrollably. And, at that moment, that was the last thing she wanted to do.
“Oi!” shouted another Ranger, waving at the small group. They all turned to see one of their kinsmen briskly approaching. In his hands were two swords. “You don’t want to leave without Dagnir’s weapons,” he said. “They’re notched in a few places, but they’re still in fine shape.”
“Thank you, Damrod,” replied Aragorn, taking the blades from his fellow Ranger. The son of Arathorn then slipped the swords into Miriel’s scabbards. “You do not want to leave without these.”
The Slayer mouthed the words, ‘thank you’ since her voice seemed to not be working. Halbarad then helped her up onto the horse, allowing her to sit on the saddle. He then climbed on behind her, having to carry all of their baggage plus manning the reins.
“Farewell!” he said, before weaving Thalion through the obstacle course of flaming corpses. The others watched until Watcher and Slayer became lost in the thickening fog.
“Whilst I do not know Dagnir as you all do, for some reason, my heart aches at her parting,” remarked Damrod, as she and Halbarad disappeared. “‘Tis a strange thing, I know,” he added with a shrug.
“No, not at all,” replied Elrohir with a heavy heart. “Miriel has that way with people, I deem. She has a good heart and a strong will.”
“That she does,” agreed Elladan. “My heart aches too at her parting, Damrod, for I’d rather she be here with us.”
“It is for the best,” uttered Aragorn. “Miriel must heal, and learn to trust Halbarad.”
“Do you think such a thing possible?” queried Elladan, raising his brow in doubt.
“I think we’ve just witnessed the first step only minutes ago.” Aragorn paused. “I hope you will come to understand why I did what I did. If Miriel does not learn to trust Hal, our group will begin to fracture. Without trust, we’re doomed. Miriel must learn that.” The Ranger Chieftain took a deep breath, adding, “That, and the rules of engagement. That’s where I failed her. We’ve trained her to be a warrior, but failed to teach her our methods of attack. I shan’t make that mistake again.” A grim-faced Aragorn then wandered off, leaving the others behind.
“Now my heart aches for our Captain as well,” said Damrod. “He need not feel guilty.”
“Give him time,” answered Elrohir, as he started to walk off. “Give him time.”
He, Elladan and Damrod then rejoined their fellow Rangers, cleaning up what was left of the battle with the trolls.
Miriel and Halbarad had traveled many miles when the Watcher suddenly called Thalion to a halt. After slipping off the back of the steed, the Ranger said, “Wait here until I come back. Should you hear me shout – flee! Ride as fast as you can to Amon Sûl.”
The Slayer, whose mind was somewhat hazy from a combination of both the medicine and exhaustion, looked down at her Watcher with half-opened eyes. “Wait. What?” she asked, unsure of what he had just said.
Halbarad tried to keep his annoyance in check. “I’m going to see if any are by the lake. Wait here until I return.”
“But didn’t you say something about riding to Amon Sûl?”
“Only… if… I… shout,” he said, no longer concealing his annoyance. “If the enemy is by the lake, then you must ride on to Weathertop. Aragorn and the others will be traveling there once they’ve finished with their tasks.” He unsheathed his blade. “Wait here.”
“Alright.” She watched as Halbarad slowly disappeared from sight. She sat there, trying to process her Watcher’s comments. After several seconds, comprehension dawned on her. Now she knew exactly where they were. Her heart fluttered with excitement as her eyes darted to the stone wall beside the pass in the hills. She searched for the dwarvish runes that she knew had been etched into the rocky face long ago. Miriel felt comforted when her eyes fell upon the dwarvish script. While she couldn’t read the writing of the Naugrim, she knew that the words informed their kinsmen that water laid at the end of the pathway. She would love nothing more than to see the Dwarves again, particularly the ones she had met months earlier.
She listened intently for any sound from Halbarad. She grabbed hold of the reins that hung loosely in front of her, in case she and Thalion had to bolt from the scene. The waiting was horrible. Miriel knew it didn’t take long to walk down the pathway to the lake. What on earth could be taking Halbarad so long? Of course, being in this situation made her think unpleasant thoughts. Maybe her Watcher had been captured and gagged – or worse.
Feeling that too much time had passed without any sign from Halbarad, Miriel decided to follow. She nudged Thalion forward along the path between the hills. The horses’ hooves clunked on the rocky track. Though the fog had thinned the further west they traveled, wisps of the moist mist still floated eerily over the terrain.
When Thalion finally stepped into the clearing, Miriel spotted Halbarad some yards away, relieving himself. Perhaps he sensed her presence for he glanced over his shoulder, looked directly at her, and then started cursing up a storm.
“Damn it, Miriel!” he growled, as he finished his business. “Why can’t you listen? I told you to wait for me.”
“I was worried that something had happened to you,” she replied, keeping her cool.
Unsure whether or not Miriel was lying, Halbarad did not immediately answer.
“I’ll go back if you want,” she added, steering Thalion around.
“No, no,” answered the Watcher. He turned and faced her. “Ride on down to the lake,” he said. “Thalion’s probably thirsty and we need to refill our water skins before resuming our journey.”
The Slayer obediently followed Halbarad’s orders. They met at the lakeside, where the Ranger helped her off the steed. He led Thalion to the water’s edge, allowing the horse to drink to his heart’s content.
Not overly fond of riding, Miriel began to walk off the stiffness in her legs and backside while Halbarad filled their bottles. She wandered over to the old willow tree. A smile came to her face as she recalled the Dwarf, Gimli, dangling upside down after having sprung her trap months ago.
Maybe ten minutes had passed when Halbarad said it was time to go. A part of Miriel wanted to stay, to relax by the lake. She felt safe here. But, alas, that was not to be.
They rode on for several more hours, the Slayer dozing off and on throughout that leg of their trip. When they finally stopped, Miriel’s legs were numb. As she climbed off Thalion, her legs gave out and she would’ve toppled to the ground if Halbarad hadn’t caught her. They rested amidst the hilly region for a couple of hours before setting out once again.
The following evening, they reached Amon Sûl. Halbarad had decided that they’d stop there for the night. Poor Thalion was exhausted and drenched in sweat. The Ranger felt that the beast needed the rest, especially since he was carrying so much extra weight.
They left the road, riding along the western slope of Weathertop. Miriel thought they might return to the hollow on the north side of the hill, but because of the darkening sky and the rough, uneven terrain, Halbarad thought the path was too perilous for Thalion to take. Instead, they took refuge between the shoulders of two slopes running down the west side of Amon Sûl. At least, the rocky ridge would protect them from the frigid wind that continued to blow out of the south.
Halbarad took first watch, giving Miriel the opportunity to sleep since she was injured. Wrapping herself in her blanket, she lay beside the shoulder of the hill, closed her eyes, and fell asleep almost instantly.
A dull, persistent ache in her arm woke her only a couple of hours later. Opening her eyes, she could see the shadowy form of Thalion standing nearby, his tail whooshing back and forth like the pendulum of a clock. Halbarad was seated beside her, puffing on his pipe. The fog that haunted them for days had finally dissipated, and the clear night sky was blanketed with numerous glimmering stars.
Halbarad must have noticed Miriel moving out of the corner of his eye. “Up already?” he asked, still staring straight ahead.
“My arm hurts,” she said, her voice sounding raspy. She protectively cradled her injury though that didn’t lessen the pain.
“Well, let’s see what we can do about that,” he replied. Halbarad clamped his teeth on the stem of the pipe as he rummaged through one of his bags. He pulled a bottle from his sack, popped the cork and handed her the bottle. “Just a sip.”
Miriel gratefully swallowed a mouthful of the tonic before handing it back to her Watcher. “Thank you.”
The Ranger nodded, corked the bottle and shoved it back into his bag. He then resumed puffing on his pipe.
“How long before we reach Archet?” she asked.
“Two days,” he answered.
“Do you have a home there?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s just a cottage. Nothing special.”
“Do all the Rangers live there?”
“It’s a cottage. There’s only room for me.” Halbarad’s tone was not very friendly.
“I meant Archet,” said Miriel with a roll of her eyes. “Do all the Rangers live there?” she repeated.
The Ranger sighed loudly, blowing out a trail of smoke as he did so. He then slowly turned his head toward the Slayer. “I am in no mood for talk. I am in mourning. I’ve lost a dear friend and a fellow Watcher.”
His words stung Miriel’s heart. She quickly turned away, not wanting the Ranger to see the pain his comments had caused. She now wished she hadn’t left with him and dreaded what awaited her once they reached Archet. Halbarad had disliked her from the get-go, and with the loss of Arvellas, it seemed that he disliked her even more.
She rose to her feet, eager to leave her Watcher in peace.
“Where are you going?” he barked.
“I need to move my legs,” she replied, fighting back the tears that were forming in her eyes. “Why don’t you sleep? I’ll keep watch.”
Surprisingly, Halbarad agreed. Miriel stood beside Thalion, stroking his neck and wondering if the others were on their way to Amon Sûl. If they happened to arrive whilst she and Halbarad were still here, she’d beg them to let her go along with them. At this point, she was willing to risk losing her arm to get away from her Watcher.
Miriel let Halbarad sleep until dawn. The last thing she wanted to do was to wake him, as it seemed he was in need of sleep more than she. Shortly after he woke, they collected their things, mounted Thalion, and rode back to the main road. From there, they continued west, traveling in parts unfamiliar to the young Slayer. There were many questions she would’ve like to have asked her Watcher, but thinking that his mood was probably still foul, she kept her mouth shut.
For the first time in days, the grey clouds had departed and the sun shone brightly in the pale blue sky. Miriel hoped that was a sign of things to come, that maybe Halbarad’s mood would improve along with the weather. Unfortunately, they rode on in silence. The only time her Watcher spoke was when he announced that they’d be stopping for a pee break or when he deemed it was time for a quick bite.
Sometimes they rode at a full gallop, but most of the time Thalion traveled between a trot and a canter. At midday, they reached the southeastern section of the Midgewater Marshes, an unappealing place no matter what time of year. Learning the name of that swampy area was about the only thing that Halbarad revealed voluntarily. Otherwise, he said very little.
As they rode pass those wetlands, Miriel’s thoughts turned to food. She had already grown tired of eating lembas and longed for something hot, preferably some form of meat. What better place to hunt than by a consistent water supply. Surely, that place attracted many forms of wild life. She wanted to ask her Watcher if he’d kill them something to eat, but knew, deep down, he would say no. The word “no” seemed to be a favorite word of his.
Instead, she remained quiet, daydreaming about ‘real’ food. Her hunger pangs had gotten so bad that her stomach began to grumble loudly. Even Thalion seemed to hear her belly growl. After one particular loud rumble, his ears stood up. Much to her disappointment, Halbarad offered her a piece of lembas to satisfy her hunger. It didn’t.
After passing the marshes, Miriel noticed a woodsy area some distance ahead. They hadn’t seen any woods since crossing the Last Bridge, so that was a welcomed sight. As they rode on further, she noticed something else - thin plumes of grey smoke rising in the sky. Unsure what that could be (the enemy perhaps?) and with her curiosity piqued, she had to ask Halbarad.
His response: “That is no enemy, but smoke from the chimneys of the Forsaken Inn.”
“Inn? Did you say inn?” asked Miriel excitedly, nearly knocking Halbarad off the horse as she turned to look at him.
“Oi! Watch it!” he shouted, grabbing her tightly around the waist to steady himself.
“Sorry,” she answered, telling herself to be more careful. “But you did say inn. As in a place that serves food? Real food? Home-cooked food?”
“Yes, I imagine so.” Halbarad noticed Miriel’s delight, but there was no way he was going to stop at the inn when they were so close to home. If all went well, they’d reach Archet by nightfall.
The Slayer’s eyes remained fixed on the plumes of smoke; her excitement growing the nearer they got. She wondered what kind of people would be there - Men, Dwarves, Elves? All three?
When they had gotten close enough that Miriel could actually see details of the inn, her heart began to race. The three story stone and wood structure stood on the south side of the road, several miles from the edge of the woods beyond. With the sun sinking in the west, blinding her, she tried shielding her eyes to get a better look at the inn. To her dismay, all the curtains were drawn, preventing her from seeing anyone or anything inside the building. She soon smelled the smoke from the fires burning within the building.
“Do you smell that?” she said, imagining those inside the inn, seated before a roaring fire, eating steamy bowls of some hearty soup. Her mouth watered at the thought. “Food,” she uttered longingly.
“We’re not stopping,” answered Halbarad sharply.
Miriel’s heart sank. “Why not?” she whined.
“We’re nearly home, and I refuse to waste my money needlessly.”
Pouting, Miriel averted her gaze, refusing to even look at the old inn. While she had a few items of worth in her possession, she wasn’t nearly hungry enough to part with them for a measly hot meal. At least, that’s what she tried to convince herself, as they rode past the building. If she would’ve looked at the old inn, she would’ve noticed a couple of Dwarves peeping out from behind the heavy curtains, watching as she and Halbarad rode by.
“Take heart, Miriel,” the Watcher said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. He actually felt a twinge of guilt over his curt reply. “We’re only a couple of hours from our destination, at most. And there, up ahead,” he pointed to the patch of woods, “is Bree-land. Our road runs through the town of Bree, where you will see many folk, some akin to Master Baggins.”
“Halflings?” she answered, somewhat surprised that Halbarad was initiating an actual conversation.
“Well, Bilbo Baggins and the Little Folk actually prefer to be called Hobbits. But, yes, there are some Hobbits that dwell in Bree alongside the Big Folk - that’s what they call us Men.”
“Then Bree is part of – what’s it called - Shire-something?” she asked, thinking back on her previous conversations with Bilbo.
“The Shire,” corrected Halbarad, emphasizing the word ‘the’. “And no, the Shire is not part of Bree-land, but is a separate land where only Halflings dwell.”
Miriel was actually feeling more upbeat now that Halbarad was talking to her like a normal person. So much so, that she dismissed her hunger pangs in hopes of keeping her Watcher engaged in an actual conversation. “Have you ever been to the Shire?” she asked.
There was a pause, and Miriel thought that she had said something that had offended her Watcher. Cringing inside, she feared that he’d revert to his unsociable self. He never would answer her question. Instead, he smacked Thalion on the rear, and the horse took off, going from a trot to a full gallop. Miriel grabbed hold of the horse’s mane with both hands, trying to steady herself and to keep from falling off.
Assuming that their brief conversation had ended (what had she said that was so wrong?), the Slayer fixed her gaze on the approaching town. At this point, she could see that the land was gradually sloping upwards, indicating that Bree was built on a prominent hill or several hills. She couldn’t’ tell which, as of yet, since she wasn’t close enough to see things in greater detail.
When they were about one mile from the town, Halbarad slowed Thalion down to a trot and spoke again. “Do you see that up there?” he asked, stretching out his arm beside her head and pointing a little further south of the road. “The wall?”
“Uh-huh.”
“In defense of the town, the men of Bree built a tall hedge-wall along a deep dike, which they had dug in times past. At one time the town flourished, as it’s located by the intersection of the Great East Road and what we now call the Greenway,” he explained. “The road that we’re on crosses the dike by way of a causeway, and leads to a wooden gate at the southern entrance to town.”
“Was Bree founded by our people, our forefathers?”
“No. The men of Dunland settled these lands before Elendil and his people came,” he replied. “Though, at one time, it was under the domain of Arnor, before its fall.”
“Are they evil men?” she asked, finding herself leery of those not of Númenorean descent.
“No…not for the most part,” he answered, somewhat hesitantly. “Keep in mind, Miriel, evil comes in all forms and has a way of luring some people under its deceptive spell. Man has been gifted with free will and can choose which path he wants to follow. Some, unfortunately, choose to tread down the path of wickedness. Even some of our own kinsmen have. Surely, you are learned in the lore of your forefathers, and the decay of the Men of Westernesse.”
“Of course, I’m familiar with our lore,” she answered. “But it was the guile of the Dark Lord that brought ruin to our people.”
“Not all of our people,” he said, gently correcting her. “For Elendil and his lot were not deceived, and by the grace of the Valar they were able to flee the destruction of Númenor and come to these lands and start anew.” He paused. “Arnor was the first settlement founded by Elendil and our kinsmen, and was great, at one time.” Halbarad paused. “Were you not taught the history of Arnor?”
“Not so much,” Miriel answered honestly. “Father always said that Arnor was the weaker of the two kingdoms and because of its weakness, it never flourished like Gondor.”
The Watcher sniggered. “Leave it to Denethor to say such things,” he scoffed, “when Gondor is falling under his stewardship!”
“Yet it still stands!” defended Miriel proudly. She straightened her back so that she no longer sat slouched in the saddle. “We Gondorians are a strong people. Even with the threat of Mordor and Minas Morgul ever so close - we’re still holding strong.”
“Hmm, but was Minas Morgul not called Minas Ithil at one time? And I do believe that Osgiliath had become overrun by the enemy and now lays deserted and in ruins.”
“Alright, alright, you made your point,” said Miriel dejectedly. “War will destroy us all in the end, I deem.”
“Do not lose hope, for I am not saying that all is lost. The White City still stands and much of Gondor is intact. There are other things at work, Miriel, things that you do not know of, that give us hope that the Enemy will be destroyed and the two kingdoms will once again be united under one king.”
“You sound like Arwen,” chuckled Miriel. “There’s a lot riding on Aragorn, isn’t there?” she asked very seriously.
“Indeed. The blood of Westernesse runs thick in his veins. He is more like the kings of old, and possesses such qualities of greatness that have not been seen in our kind for some time. I believe in him. As do the Elves. He is our only chance at reclaiming that which we had lost. And my heart tells me he will one day succeed.” In a softer voice he added, “I only hope to live to see that day.”
“Me too. I think Aragorn will make a great king.” Miriel meant it too.
Now, it so happened that they were nearing the causeway, and the Slayer could clearly see the sweeping dike that arched in a semi-circle from the south upward to the north, taking in the road on which they were traveling. The shadows of the fence were growing taller as the sun continued to sink deeper in the west, leaving the sky pinkish-purple.
As she drank in the scenery, she thought how strange it seemed that she and Bregolas had started out on this journey together, seeking Archet, and now, here she was on her way to that town in the company of her Watcher.
Miriel noticed how little things would trigger memories of Bregolas. In this case, it was the hedge fencing that surrounded Bree. It brought to mind the time when she and Bregolas had encountered the Beornings at the ford, and when she had gone on to meet Grimbeorn, whose own halls were fenced by tall hedges similar to the one that enclosed Bree. She still missed the mighty Gondorian warrior, her protector and friend. She could only hope that he was now at peace, surrounded by his loved ones in Mandos.
Miriel was temporarily lost in her memories when Halbarad said, “Ah, we’re in luck! The gate is still open.”
Shaking herself out of her reverie, she replied, “Is that not normal?”
“It is nearing dusk. That’s when the gates are closed. By the time we pass the Western-gate, the door will be closed,” informed her Watcher.
They began to cross the causeway, and Miriel looked down into the dike that stretched out on either side of them.
“If ever you set foot in Lórien, you will see something similar to this dike surrounding their chief city,” mentioned Halbarad, as Thalion carried them toward the gate.
“You’ve been to Lórien?!” Miriel said in surprise.
“Once or twice,” he answered. “Very few mortals have set foot in the Golden Wood. Perhaps one day you will be fortunate enough to look upon that fair place and see the mallorn trees - taller than any tower - that exist nowhere else in Middle-earth save in those lands.”
Miriel could only hope.
As they slowly approached the gate, the Slayer could see that the hedges were not as tall as she had thought, though much thicker. They probably stood about eight feet tall, and the leaves looked similar to those of a holly tree - glossy and prickly.
An older man with brown and grey hair ambled out of a small cottage that sat just beyond the fenced wall on the north side of the road. He stepped onto the roadway, his eyes doing a quick inspection of Halbarad and Miriel. A frown came to his face.
“Oh, you’re back, eh?” he said in an unkindly voice. “And brought someone else with you.”
Miriel offered the man a smile, but his expression remained stern, uninviting.
“Saddened to see I still live, huh Thistlewood?” replied Halbarad in the same scornful tone that the man had used. “Now out of my way before my horse mows you down!” As if he had heard the Watcher’s unspoken command, Thalion leapt forward, startling the man, and forcing him to jump out of the road.
The Ranger snickered. Looking over his shoulder, he could see that the man was shaking his fist and cursing Halbarad.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Miriel said, scolding Halbarad.
“He’s not very nice,” replied the Watcher, still sniggering.
“Why did you insult him by calling him Thistlewood?” demanded the Slayer. She didn’t want anyone in Bree to think she was as contemptuous as Halbarad appeared to be.
“That’s his name,” he answered, slowing Thalion down to a slow pace.
“How strange a name it is,” murmured Miriel, trying to take in her surroundings. Her eager eyes swept the immediate area, excited at the prospect of being in some foreign village.
“It may sound strange to one from the south, but it is quite common for those that dwell in Bree-land.”
The Slayer made no comment. She was too busy looking at everything. The road on which they were riding angled somewhat, running northwest through the town. By the looks of it, Bree was built on a large hill with most of the homes on the right side of the road, adorning the hillside.
It was quite obvious to her that the hands of the Dúnedain had had no part in the building of Bree. There were no similarities between it and any city in Gondor. If one were to compare the village to, say, Minas Tirith, it would be like comparing a magnificent jewel to a lump of coal. Bree looked primitive in design and construction, lacking the beauty and splendor of the White City. Perhaps it was more akin to some parts of Rohan, where homesteads dotted the countryside.
If there were any similarities between Bree and Miriel’s place of birth, it would be that in both places the inhabitants had preferred building out of stone. In the northlands, however, the stone was not smooth and white, the prominent color of most dwellings in Minas Tirith (and Gondor, for that matter), but were dark, rough looking, and stacked by masons not as skilled as those descended from Númenor. The rocks must have been what were available in the region.
Secondly, both Bree and Minas Tirith took advantage of the terrain, using it in the design of their cities (though, technically Bree would not be classified as one). The people of Bree used the hillside, the people of Minas Tirith, the mountainside. Maybe the Bree-landers (as Miriel begun to refer to them) didn’t have to worry about the threat of many enemies and only needed the hedge wall for defense, but Minas Tirith was built with defense in mind and was much stronger and fortified with multi-tiered walls and numerous gates.
In the end, there really was no comparison. However, Miriel told herself that Bree was a quaint enough place and hoped that the people would be much more civil than the gate-keeper.
With nightfall rapidly approaching, men were already beginning to light the lamps that ran along either side of the street. Wisps of smoke rose from nearly every chimney she could see. Perhaps her eyes were deceiving her, but it also looked like there were some chimneys protruding from the ground, up ahead and higher up along the hillside. After rubbing her eyes, and seeing nothing had changed, she asked Halbarad why the people of Bree would build such things.
The Ranger heartedly laughed in a way that Miriel had never witnessed before. “Those are Hobbit holes,” he informed her. “They like to build their dwelling into the earth, when they may. If you look closer, you’ll see little round windows in the earth.”
Sure enough, the Slayer then noticed the little windows and the little doors. She would have given anything to have gone into a Hobbit hole, that is, if a person her size would fit in one.
Miriel’s fondness for Bree was now growing. For Man to live alongside Halflings, it had to be a decent place, with decent people, if Bilbo Baggins was an example of one of the Little Folk.
Despite the cold weather, there were people out and about. Every now and again, the Slayer caught a delectable whiff of food cooking. Supper time was approaching, and her stomach began to rumble again, reminding her that it was empty.
Now it so happened that they were nearing a group of four men standing beside the street, just feet away from one of the stone abodes. Miriel was contemplating speaking to the strangers, offering words of greeting when they passed. Those thoughts quickly diminished when the men heard the sound of the horses’ hooves, and turned in hers and Halbarad’s direction. She could only describe their expressions as a mixture of bewilderment, fear, and suspicion, all wrapped in one. They actually backed away from the road as she and Halbarad passed by, staring with their mouths agape.
That made Miriel highly uncomfortable. “Why are they looking at us that way?” she whispered to her Watcher.
“I imagine they’re looking at you more so than me.”
“Why is that?” she asked, stunned and saddened that anyone would look at her in that manner.
“It has been a while since you’ve looked at your reflection,” Halbarad chuckled. He paused, then lightheartedly continued with, “Let’s see now. Ah, yes. You’re covered in troll blood with a sword hanging from each hip. And let’s not forget that you’re dressed in clothing more customarily seen on men. Truly these things are not seen all too often on any women, particularly those in Bree.”
Miriel immediately felt self-conscious. She tried her best to cover her weapons with her cloak, but due to the fact that she was sitting on it, that made it damn near impossible. She lifted her rear slightly from the saddle, pulling her cloak out from under her bottom. She then swept the fabric over both blades. To any casual observer, it was obvious that she was armed, though she had hidden the scabbards of her blades.
From behind, she could hear Halbarad softly chuckling. He stopped when she began to comb her hair with her fingers, sickened by the fact that she could feel dried troll guts clinging to the strands. She had gotten so used to being dirty, stinky even, that she had given no thought as to how others would perceive her. Deeply embarrassed now, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, wanting to hide her face as well.
Halbarad pointed out various places he was familiar with along their route, but Miriel’s hood muffled his voice, and she missed out on a lot of informative stuff. She did hear the part about how the road going off to their left led to the West-gate, as they continued traveling north.
About a quarter of a mile passed the road that went west, they veer to the right, taking a road that wound up the hill, (past the area called Hobbit Holes), then down the other side into the valley where the village Combe was located. With the light quickly fading, Miriel couldn’t make out much of Combe other than it didn’t seem as heavily populated as Bree.
They followed the road into Chetwood, the great forested area of Bree-land. It was already dark when they entered the wood, but Thalion seemed to know the way and continued along the pathway, unhindered by the lack of light.
When they neared the end of the trail, Miriel could see muted lights from within the homes in the area known as Archet. At this point, it was hard to see much of anything. It almost seemed like night had blanketed them in the blink of an eye. Cold, tired, hungry, and eager to get off Thalion, the Slayer wondered which house was Halbarad’s.
His, it turned out, was the last house on the far north side of the village, at the edge of the woods. Miriel slid off Thalion, her legs trembling with fatigue. She took what bags her one arm could carry, waiting impatiently for her Watcher to finish collecting their things, and tie Thalion’s reins to a tree branch near the front door.
“Hurry,” she groaned, as Halbarad reached in the pocket of his breeches in search of his key.
“I’m hurrying,” he snapped back, just as tired and miserable as Miriel.
Finding his key, he slid it into the lock, turning it until it clicked. He swung the door open, motioning for Miriel to go inside. She stepped across the threshold into the cottage, instantly greeted by gloom and cold, damp, stale air. It seemed befitting, the initial feel of Halbarad’s home mirroring the man…
Chapter 26 - Bonding
“Let me by,” muttered Halbarad, brushing pass Miriel as he entered the cottage.
Not knowing the floor plan of the place, the Slayer remained where she was, waiting until her Watcher could provide some light. The straps of her bags were already beginning to dig uncomfortably into her shoulder, so she slid them down her arm and onto the floor.
A minute later, the soft glow from an oil lamp illuminated a small portion of the sitting room. With most of the room still in shadow, Miriel could not really see much.
“Shut the door, will you?” asked Halbarad, carefully carrying a flaming stick to yet another lamp.
An obedient Miriel closed the door, suddenly feeling as if she had been locked in Barad-dûr itself. Oh, Miriel what have you done? asked that little voice in the back of her mind. You should never have agreed to come here!
The dank chill of the room was beginning to consume her, causing her teeth to chatter. With the room now bathed in more light, Miriel’s eyes did a quick scan of the small space. The main area was one room with wood columns dividing the sitting room from the much smaller kitchen.
Her eyes were drawn to the fireplace along the wall opposite from where she stood. The entire face of the wall was rock (similar to the ones used in the construction of the homes in Bree) and the actual opening looked overly large for such a small amount of living space. A stack of neatly piled wood lay on the hearth. She immediately began sending subliminal messages to Halbarad to put that wood to use and start a fire.
“Come in, come in,” said Halbarad, who, perhaps hearing her telepathic demand for a fire, stepped over to the fireplace and began to arrange logs on the grate.
Miriel took a couple of steps forward, deeper into the room. Placed parallel before the fireplace was the seating area. Across from the dark green sofa were two wooden back chairs. There were two small round tables, one between the two chairs, and the other at the end of the couch, nearest to her. A lit oil lamp sat on the closest table.
To her left was the kitchen, though there wasn’t much to it. Unlike Elrond’s house, there was hardly any counter or cabinet space. There was a stove, sink, and a table with two chairs. That was it. The white plaster walls throughout the main living area were devoid of ornamentation, except in the nearby corner (by the front door), where a spider had woven a web some time before.
Just beyond the kitchen, along the left wall was a single door that was closed. Miriel assumed that it probably led to Halbarad’s bedchamber. From what she could see there were no other doors.
A thought then occurred to her. Where am I to sleep? she asked herself. Surely, knowing Halbarad as she did, he wasn’t about to give up his bed for her. Maybe there’s a corridor to different rooms beyond that door, she thought hopefully.
The sound of crinkling paper diverted her attention back to her Watcher. Waiting for Halbarad to engage her in conversation, Miriel’s gaze shifted to the exposed beams overhead. If not for the high ceilings, the space would’ve seemed cramped.
As soon as the fire crackled to life, the Slayer wandered over to the fireplace, eager to feel its warmth. She sat on the floor beside Halbarad, stretching her cold hands closer toward the heat source.
“Cold?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s freezing in here,” she answered, her teeth still chattering away.
“Well, it has been many months since I’ve been home,” Halbarad replied. “It won’t take long for the place to warm up.”
Feeling slightly apprehensive, Miriel had to ask, “Is there any chance of my having a hot bath tonight?”
The Watcher responded with a heavy sigh.
“I only ask because I’m covered in troll blood and guts, as you so kindly reminded me of while we were in Bree.” She quickly followed that up with, “I don’t want to be a burden, but… ” Her words trailed off. Was she being too demanding?
“I have no running water in the house,” admitted Halbarad. “We have a community well in the heart of the village.”
“Oh,” said the Slayer disappointedly. She remained quiet for a few minutes. “Do you have a bucket? I don’t mind getting the water.” Miriel really wanted to bathe. If that meant she’d have to haul the water herself, then so be it.
Without replying, Halbarad jumped to his feet and went to the kitchen. She could hear him fumbling with something, but didn’t look to see with what. She then heard the front door open and close. He had left. Was he possibly getting the requested bath water?
She remained before the fire, waiting for her Watcher’s return. Slowly, the time ticked away, so much so that Miriel thought that perhaps Halbarad had taken off, abandoning her in his little cottage, in a foreign land far from Rivendell. That made her wonder – could she even find her way back to the elven kingdom, on her own?
Nearly an hour passed before she heard the front door open again. This time, she looked over her shoulder. Halbarad came in carrying a lantern in one hand and a covered pot in the other. Tucked between his arm and body was a bundle wrapped in burgundy cloth. He placed all the items on the kitchen table.
“I’ve brought some supper, Miriel,” he finally announced.
The Slayer didn’t need to be told twice. She clambered to her feet and made her way over to the kitchen table. Halbarad grabbed a couple of bowls, spoons and a ladle from the cupboard.
“Sit,” he ordered upon his return to the table.
Miriel did as she was told. “Where did you get this?” she asked, her mouth beginning to water at the thought of eating something other than lembas.
“A friend,” was his only reply. The Watcher removed the lid from the pot and began to ladle steamy soup into each bowl. “No one, and I mean no one can know that you’re the Slayer.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “People in the village like to talk, gossip, so after giving it a lot of thought, I have created a back story for you.”
“Oh,” she answered, raising a skeptical brow when she heard that.
“If anyone asks, you’re my cousin, visiting from the south,” he revealed. “You’re kin to me on my mother’s side.”
“Is your mother still alive?”
“No.”
“Is she from the south?”
“No.”
With their bowls now filled, Halbarad pulled out the chair across from Miriel and sat down. She stared at him with a bewildered expression on her face as he dove into his soup. For one who supposedly had concocted a back story for her, he sure wasn’t forthcoming with much information. What if she ran into one of the neighbors and they questioned her? How could she possibly answer them when she knows so little of this man seated before her?
“I think you’re going to have to tell me more than that,” she said. “Suppose I’m questioned in detail about aspects of our family, what am I to say? I don’t even know your mother’s name, or where she hails from.”
Halbarad looked up from his bowl, locking eyes on Miriel. “You complained that you were hungry - now eat.”
The Slayer glared incredulously at her Watcher for several seconds before shaking her head and turning her attention to her supper. Maybe Halbarad will be more talkative once he’s eaten, she told herself.
She watched the Ranger as they ate, looking for any similar features that they both possessed. She had never really looked at him before. His unpleasant personality, (which had always managed to shine through), had played a part in that, she supposed. But now, as she studied him more closely, she could see that they could pass for kin. He had the same dark hair as she, and the eyes – both were grey, like many of their kinsmen. Another feature they shared was their fair skin. If she had to guess, she’d say he was probably about Boromir’s age – twenty-seven, twenty-eight. He was tall and well built. Once again, very much like Boromir.
However, his constant slurping reminded her of qualities they didn’t have in common. Manners, for one. Halbarad also had a temper and was cold, to her anyway. On the other hand, he did seem to show genuine concern when she had gotten injured, so maybe there was hope for him just yet.
The Watcher then unwrapped the bundle on the table, revealing half a loaf of bread. He pulled off a hunk and then slid the remainder toward her. “Have some,” he said, dunking his piece into his broth.
Though her fingers were dirty, Miriel pulled off some bread for herself. It would’ve been nice if she could’ve cleaned up before eating, but, right now, she was grateful to have decent food.
“Are you ever going to tell me anything about you?” she finally asked.
Surprisingly, an impish grin came to the Ranger’s face. “What do you want to know?”
Miriel’s jaw dropped. Was Halbarad playing games? Had she not already asked about his mother, their ‘link’ in kinship? She snapped her mouth closed and set her spoon inside her bowl with a dull clank. “Will you actually answer my questions?”
“That depends on the questions,” he responded, noisily sipping the broth from his spoon.
“Alright then,” she said, leaning back in her chair and protectively cradling her injured arm. “Tell me about your mother, since she is supposed to be our common relation. What was her name? Where was she from? How many children did she have? When did she pass on?”
Halbarad looked at her for maybe half a second before he answered, “Next.”
Exasperated by his unwillingness to cooperate, she narrowed her eyes. “Next?” she repeated. “What is so wrong with the questions I’ve asked? How can I be expected to know anything about our so called familial bond if you refuse to tell me?”
“Next,” he said once again, the tone of his voice much firmer.
“Forget it,” she snapped in reply, deciding that she was in no mood for Halbarad’s mind games. She turned her attention back to her supper, doing her best to ignore he-who-was-seated-across-from-her. While she ate, her thoughts drifted to her Watcher’s mother. The only thing she knew for sure was that she had died, just like her own mother. However, if they were to present some ruse to the people of Archet, Miriel needed to know more, a lot more.
They finished their supper in silence, something to which the Slayer had become accustomed. Once again, her thoughts turned to bathing.
“Do you have a bucket somewhere around here?” she asked, looking around at the visible nooks and crannies of the room for something suitable to carry water from the well.
“Your bath will have to wait until tomorrow,” answered her Watcher in a stern voice. “It’s dark, and the cottage is far too cold for one to bathe in this evening. I don’t need you sick on top of everything else.” Halbarad considered the matter closed. The legs of his chair scraped against the floor as he rose from his seat. He collected their dirty dishes and placed them in the sink. He would leave the washing until tomorrow.
After clearing the table, and without saying a word, he disappeared through the door to the left of the kitchen, leaving Miriel alone, again. She sat in her chair for a few more minutes, expecting Halbarad to return, but he never did. Annoyed, she left the table, grumbling her discontent, and plopped down in front of the fire. She tried to convince herself that things weren’t that bad. She had eaten a hot meal and would be warm for the night. She supposed that was something to be thankful for.
With her blades awkwardly jutting from her sides, she struggled to undo her belts with one hand. She then placed the scabbards on the floor beside her, keeping them close should she need them. As the evening turned to night, she tended the fire when needed, delighted by the warmth that was engulfing the room.
When a couple of hours had passed, and Halbarad still hadn’t emerged from behind the door, she assumed she wouldn’t see him for the rest of the night. She had gone over to the kitchen and retrieved her bags, wanting to keep them close to her. Having no other choice, she pulled out her blanket and laid it on the floor. She’d use that as her makeshift bed. Lying down, she wrapped her cloak around her, waiting for sleep to take her. Eventually, the popping and crackling of the fire lulled her to sleep…
“This place ain’t so bad,” observed Buffy, her eyes doing a quick survey of the cottage’s interior. “It’s furnished on the sparse side and could definitely use a woman’s touch,” she remarked, running her index finger through a thick layer of dust that covered the nearest little table. “And a good cleaning. But, hey, it sure beats sleeping outside in the cold, right?”
Seated on the floor before the fire, Miriel replied, “I suppose,” with a heavy sigh.
Wiping her finger on her leather pant leg, the elder Slayer turned her attention to her protégé. “What’s wrong? Is it your arm?” she asked, as she curled up on the sofa.
Miriel shrugged. “I feel that I have made a terrible error by coming here. I cannot quite explain it, or put it into words.” She glanced around the room. “I feel like I’ve been imprisoned, that things are going to go ill for me.”
“That’s crazy talk,” declared Buffy, pulling her legs to her chest and loosely wrapping her arms around her leather-clad limbs. “You’re not a prisoner. You can leave any time you want. The door’s right there, sweetie.” She motioned toward the front door with her head.
Miriel looked glumly at the door bathed in shadow. “I’m useless,” she replied. “How can I survive in the wilds with my dominant arm in a sling? I’m not capable of battling much of anything in this state.”
Buffy fixed her gaze on Miriel, knowing how badly it sucked when one was incapacitated, especially when that one is a Slayer. “Listen, Miriel, I know Hal is… a dick, but I really don’t think he’d harm you in any way. You’re a Slayer, and Slayers heal fast. Maybe in a week or so, you’ll be back to normal.”
“You think so?” asked the young Slayer hopefully.
“Absolutely. Don’t worry about it. Just be glad you’ve got a roof over your head. You’ve been through worse, ya know.”
“I suppose,” answered Miriel, still feeling down.
“The question is,” said Buffy, suddenly rising to her feet and rubbing her hands together excitedly, “What’s Halbarad hiding?”
Even in the dim light, the younger Slayer could see a mischievous glint in her mentor’s eyes. Cocking her head, she raised a brow, asking, “What do you mean?” Her tone was riddled with suspicion.
“Oh, come on, Miriel – look around you,” replied Buffy with a wave of her hand. “There’s hardly anything in this room. No books, scrolls, whatever. If Halbarad’s the head honcho of the Watcher’s Council, he’s gotta have books, and weapons and stuff.” She turned, locking her eyes on the door by the kitchen. “I bet it’s behind door number one.” She started toward the door.
Miriel leapt to her feet, chasing after her mentor. “We can’t go in there!”
“Sure, we can.”
“But, what if he’s in there?” queried Miriel nervously.
Buffy stopped and faced the much taller Slayer. “No one comes into our little dream-thingies – ”
“ – That’s not true,” interjected Miriel with a shake of her head. “That cloaked figure, at the Bronze that time. The one who sent you flying across the room with an invisible blow! The Dark Lord! Remember?”
“That only happened once,” said Buffy dismissively. “Besides, your Watcher’s human. A mortal man. He doesn’t have any powers.”
“But it would be an invasion of his privacy. I have no business entering his… bedchamber, nor do I desire to.”
“You wanna learn about him, don’t you? The answers to all your questions lie behind that door.” Buffy paused, wanting her comments to sink in with her protégé. She knew that her words were having their desired effect, as Miriel was now biting her lower lip and staring at the door in question. “We can read his diaries,” suggested the elder Slayer. “Every Watcher keeps a diary. They write down everything. I’ll put money on it that Halbarad’s got diaries from long ago too. Think about that, Miriel. Can you imagine reading about your predecessors, how valuable that information could be?”
“But, but, it would be wrong,” protested the younger Slayer. Though a part of her was rather eager to invade Halbarad’s private space, deep down, she just felt that it was wrong, no matter what kind of information she could glean. If the shoe were on the other foot (so to speak), Miriel sure wouldn’t want anyone invading her space, or reading her most private thoughts.
Seeing the signs that her protégé was beginning to waver, Buffy quickly continued, “He’s written about you, you know. All Watchers write about their Slayers. You can see what he really thinks of you.”
“Pfft,” sounded the young Slayer, rolling her eyes. “He hates me. That much I know.”
“Maybe it’s all an act,” said Buffy, tossing out that possibility. “Maybe he’s pretending to hate you.”
Miriel snickered. “No, he definitely hates me. And I’d rather not incur his wrath by sneaking into his bedchamber, especially when I’m at his mercy!” With her mind made up, she spun around and returned to the fire.
Buffy’s eyes followed Miriel until the girl sat back down in front of the fireplace. She then shifted her gaze back to the door, wondering if she should go in by herself. With a sigh of defeat, she decided that she’d wait. There would be no fun discovering Halbarad’s secrets on her own. It would be a much more enjoyable experience if Miriel were at her side.
There was time, still. Her protégé wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Eventually, boredom would compel Miriel to sneak into Halbarad’s room. Buffy was sure of it. All she had to do was give it a few more days. Smiling inside, she returned to the sofa, suppressing her own curiosity to learn more about Miriel’s Watcher, for now…
Miriel awoke early the next morning. The fire had burned down to a few glowing embers and the room was pitch-dark and considerably cooler than when she had fallen asleep. Shuddering, she pulled herself upright, debating what she should do first - restart the fire or pee. She gave herself a minute or two to completely wake, then decided that she’d get the fire going first.
Several minutes later, flames began to lick away at the dry wood, gradually illuminating the immediate area surrounding the hearth. The Slayer climbed to her feet, the stiffness in her joints popping as she rose. Turning, she looked into the darkness of the cottage, wondering if the lamps had burned out of oil or if Halbarad had turned them off sometime during the night.
She grabbed the nearest lamp off the table, examining the glass basin for any oil. She was in luck - it was half full. Carrying the lamp back to the fireplace, she lit the wick so that she’d have some light to search the cottage. Her need to pee was becoming dire. She quietly strolled over to Halbarad’s bedchamber door, pressed her ear against the wood and listened for any sounds on the other side. All was quiet. Should she wake him, informing her Watcher of her predicament? No. She decided it was best to let him sleep.
Instead, she began her search for a chamber pot or some other container suitable for relieving her bladder. The only thing she could find was the soup pot from the night before. Since there was no way she’d ever pee in a receptacle for food, she concluded that she had no other choice but to pee outside. Having only one hand to work with, she set the lamp on the kitchen table, adjusting the wick so that it gave off more light. She went over to the front door, and noticed that it had been locked. Carefully, she unbolted the door. The loud click seemed to echo within the cottage, causing Miriel to pause. She hoped to Eru that the noise hadn’t awakened her Watcher. After a few moments, she opened the door and slipped outside.
The frigid cold of early morning greeted her. She quickly closed the door, trying to be as quiet as possible. Needing a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she pulled her cloak tighter around her, her teeth beginning to chatter from the sudden coldness.
No one in the village appeared to be awake at that hour, whatever time it was. Darkness blanketed the entire region, and a smattering of stars faintly glimmered above. Miriel’s eyes shifted to the nearby woods. Since she wasn’t about to pee on Halbarad’s doorstep, she decided that the woods would be the best place to go. With her teeth chattering nonstop, she hastily made her way to the trees, begging her bladder not to empty with each step.
No words could describe the relief Miriel felt when she finally peed. With that obstacle out of the way, she gave thought to exploring the village in the darkness. But, as she stepped out of the woods and felt that icy chill in the air, she decided to return to the warmth of the cottage and wait for daylight.
Creeping back inside, she returned to the fire, which was now burning brightly. As she sat there, basking in the fire’s warmth, she wondered what time it was and what she could do until morning. With no other option available to her, she remained seated before the fire, thinking. Her thoughts drifted to her earlier conversation with Buffy about Halbarad and his diaries. At that moment, she would’ve given just about anything to be able to read them.
Miriel soon became drowsy. She lay back down and eventually drifted off to sleep. She didn’t wake again until Halbarad came stomping out of his room at first light. Wanting to keep things amicable between her and her Watcher, she was about to offer him a proper morning greeting, but he disappeared out the front door before she got the chance. Feeling fully rested and wide-awake, Miriel got up, rolled up her blanket and shoved it back into her bag.
About fifteen minutes later, she heard a dull banging on the front door. She ran over and swung it open. A burst of cold morning air came rushing inside. There stood Halbarad, carrying a bucket of water in each hand. She stepped back, allowing him entry.
“Get the other door, will you?” he asked, heading toward the closed door off the kitchen.
After closing the front door, the Slayer sprang to the other one, opening it for her Watcher. She had been right. Halbarad’s bedchamber was on the other side. The water sloshed around in the buckets as he went over to the large fireplace (similar to the one in the other room), where a low fire was burning. The bail of a large cast iron cauldron hung from a hook within the fireplace.
“Do you need help?” she asked, having followed Halbarad into the room.
“Put one of those gloves on,” he said, nudging his head toward a stool beside the hearth where two thick mitts sat. “Tilt the cauldron forward, so I can empty these into them,” he instructed.
Miriel slid her good hand into one of the gloves and tilted the pot forward so Halbarad could begin filling it. “Do you want me to help you carry water from the well?”
“Nay, too many people are there,” he replied. “I don’t want you interacting with anyone until we have our story straight.”
“When will that be?” she asked, somewhat eager to talk with other people.
“I don’t know,” he answered, emptying the second bucket. “Just wait here.” Halbarad then picked up the other vessel and left the room.
Miriel remained by the fire in her Watcher’s bedroom. When she heard the front door slam shut, she turned, inspecting the room with curious eyes. Buffy’s assertion that Halbarad’s room would be filled with a treasure-trove of items proved to be false. His bedroom was nearly barren, just like the rest of the cottage.
An unmade bed was set against the northern wall, flanked on either side by nightstands, one with a lamp. His sword, nestled in its scabbard, rested in the corner by the windows. The only other piece of furniture was a wardrobe, which sat against the wall by the door. A thick, faded green rug with frayed edges lay on the empty space of the wooden floor between the bed and another door. Miriel’s heart began to race, thinking that that door must lead to a chamber laden with Watcher paraphernalia from throughout the ages.
Before daring to peek into the adjoining room, she listened intently for any sign of Halbarad’s return. Hearing nothing, she crept across the rug toward the door. Placing her hand on the handle, she paused, listening again for her Watcher. When she heard no noise from the other room, she turned the knob and pushed the door open. She peeped inside, disappointed to see that the room was merely a bathing chamber.
Shaking her head, she closed the door, thinking how wrong Buffy was about hidden Watcher artifacts. Finding herself highly uncomfortable in Halbarad’s bedchamber, she quickly left, returning to the main area of the cottage.
It took many trips to the well to fill the cauldron inside the cottage. When the water had become hot enough, Halbarad and Miriel began the tedious task of filling the tub in the bathing chamber.
Once the tub had been filled with an adequate amount of water, Miriel came to realize that she was in an awful predicament. How was she to remove her sweater with her broken arm in a sling? Her dilemma did not go unnoticed by her Watcher.
“We’ll need to take this off,” he said, sitting the Slayer on the edge of the tub. He undid the knot of the sling behind her neck and set the cloth aside. “After your bath, we’ll redress this properly,” he continued, carefully pulling the sleeve of her sweater up her arm. As Halbarad unrolled the bandages, the sticks that had acted as a brace fell to the floor with a clatter. The wood had left indentations on Miriel’s skin, but thankfully, no splinters. She winced as Halbarad inspected her arm. It was still slightly swollen and badly bruised.
“I would’ve thought it would have healed more by now,” he remarked dismally.
“So much for super Slayer healing powers, eh?” she replied, attempting to keep the mood light.
“Yes, I suppose,” Halbarad answered. “Can you manage on your own from here on out?”
“I think so.” She rose from the edge of the tub and started toward the door.
“Where are you going?” asked the baffled Watcher.
“To get my bag. I need clean clothes, and want to use the perfumed soap that Arwen gave me.”
Halbarad rolled his eyes and followed Miriel out of the room. While she went to retrieve her bag, he went to his wardrobe and grabbed a couple of towels and washcloths. Before she returned, he placed one of the towels on the floor to soak up the water when she exited the tub. He laid the rest on the table by the washbasin.
When Miriel returned with her bag, she shooed Halbarad out of the room and closed the door behind him. She then began to disrobe, starting with her boots, which, out of habit, she had continued to wear, even to sleep. She didn’t run into any problems until she tried to remove her sweater. She let out a cry as she struggled to free her injured arm from the sleeve.
“You alright in there?” inquired Halbarad from the other side of the door.
“I’m having a hard time getting my arm out of the sleeve,” she said breathlessly. Her arm was beginning to throb painfully.
“Here, let me help you,” suggested the Watcher, starting to turn the knob of the door.
“Don’t you dare!” she roared, leaping toward the door. Her good hand shot out and grabbed the handle, preventing him from entering. “I’m naked from the waist down!”
“You have nothing I haven’t seen before,” Halbarad said with a snort.
“I don’t care! Go away!” Her hand remained firmly on the knob until she felt her Watcher release his grip on the other side. When she heard his footsteps moving away, she let go and carefully finished disrobing.
Once undressed, and with her arm hurting badly, she dug through her bag, pulling out clean garments and the bag of toiletries given to her by Arwen. She used her teeth to uncork a bottle of bath oil. Instantly, the scent of gardenias escaped the lip of the bottle. She poured some of the liquid into the steamy bathwater. The sweet fragrance swiftly filled the chamber. Miriel grabbed her bar of soap and the washcloths that Halbarad had set out for her before stepping into the tub.
The water was very hot, too hot for her to submerge her entire body at one time. She put one leg in until she got used to the temperature, then the other. Gradually, she lowered her body into the water, relaxing for a bit before she turned her attention to actually washing the grime from her skin.
When her body had become acclimated to the hot water, she dunked her head beneath the surface, eager to wash away the troll guts and blood that were caked to her hair. Unfortunately, having gone days without running a brush through her locks, her hair had become matted as well. And with only one good arm, she found it nearly impossible to effectively wash her hair clean.
She somehow kept bumping her arm against the wall of the tub, or moving it just so, so that jolts of pain shot up the appendage. She feared that she was making her injury worse.
Her muted whimpering brought Halbarad back to the door. He knocked. “You alright in there?” he asked, his tone riddled with concern.
“No,” she whined, as another jolt of pain shot through her arm.
“Are you ready for me to help?”
Miriel paused. She was naked and the thought of her Watcher seeing her that way was not appealing. But her struggle to get her hair clean by herself was proving to be more difficult than she had thought. She grabbed both wash clothes and stretched them over her chest, trying to hide as much of her nakedness as she could, as well as the hideous scar that would remain forever etched in her flesh. When she had covered much of her torso with the cloths, she pulled her knees to her chest to further hide her bosoms.
When Halbarad heard no response, he said, “I’m coming in,” before pushing the door open and stepping into the room.
Miriel’s eyes shot down to her body once more, making sure that none of her cloths had moved out of place. When she saw that she was still covered, she turned her gaze to Halbarad. She was about to inform him of her dilemma when she noticed a strange look on her Watcher’s face. It wasn’t his usual grim expression, but one that she would describe as wistful, as if by entering the room, he was reminded of some fair memory.
“Hal?” she asked, surprised by his demeanor.
“Gardenias,” he uttered softly, still in some weird trance-like state.
“Yeah, what of it?”
Halbarad then came back to his senses with a shake of his head. “What’s the problem, Miriel?”
Seeing that he was back to his normal self, she replied, “I’m unable to wash my hair. It’s all matted, and my arm keeps moving or striking the side of the tub when I try.”
The Watcher stepped over to the tub. His tried to run his fingers through her hair to see how severe the knots were.
“Ow!” she cried out as his actions caused her head to jerk forward.
“Mmm, I see what you mean.” He turned and exited the room. He returned only a few moments later, carrying the little stool that had been by the fireplace and a thick-toothed comb. He placed the stood next to the tub and began to comb out the knots in Miriel’s hair.
For some reason, the Slayer couldn’t help but think of Aragorn’s words before they departed, about how she and Halbarad needed to learn to trust one another. And here they were. Day one in her Watcher’s home, and Miriel was sitting in the tub, naked, while Halbarad combed out the knots in her hair. She would never have thought any thing like that would ever happen.
In some respects, she trusted him. No, she took that back. She did trust him. If there was one thing she felt certain of, it was that Halbarad was of upstanding character. He wouldn’t harm her, intentionally, she believed. It just seemed that, for whatever reason, their personalities clashed. That happens sometimes.
Miriel’s thoughts then drifted back to Halbarad’s expression when he had entered the bathing chamber, and his comment about gardenias. What was it about that scent that had softened his mood, if only for a moment or two?
With her curiosity aroused, she said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes,” he answered, as he worked on a particularly nasty knot.
“What is it about the smell of gardenias that moved you so?” She studied him intently. However, his response did not come in words, but rather in actions. Scowling, he tugged on the comb too hard, which pulled her hair at the scalp. She knew that was his way of telling her to drop the subject. She did.
They didn’t speak much after that. Despite the friction between them, Halbarad did work out all the knots and washed all the filth from her hair. She was grateful for that. She was even more grateful to slip into clean garments: a thick grey wool turtleneck sweater and black breeches, courtesy of Glorfindel.
After she had dressed, she went back to the main room of the cottage, where Halbarad waited to reset her arm. As soon as he had finished, he retreated to his bedroom, leaving a now famished Miriel alone. She had no idea that her Watcher had decided to bathe too and had climbed into the tub, washing in Miriel’s old bathwater.
In the meantime, the Slayer threw a couple more logs on the fire to keep the blaze going. She was bored, hungry and restless. Having spent the past few days on horseback, her limbs felt stiff. She was eager to walk it off by exploring the village, cold weather be damned!
However, she knew that if she left the cottage without Halbarad’s permission, she’d be in deep trouble. And after he had spent half an hour on her hair, she wasn’t about to do that. Instead, she paced the room, finding herself unable to sit still.
By the time Halbarad emerged from his bedroom, the orangey glow of the morning sun shone through the frost-covered windowpanes. The Ranger’s shoulder length, dark hair was still wet and he was now dressed in clean clothes as well, indicating that he had also bathed. He was in the process of putting on his worn, fur-lined green cloak.
“Hungry?” he asked, seemingly in better spirits.
“Starved,” Miriel answered.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Wait here.” He then left out the front door.
Miriel was so hoping that she’d be able to go along with Halbarad and was disappointed when she was left behind, again. For the love of Eru, they had better get their story straight, or she’d go out on her own, and make one up on the spot if questioned by one of the villagers!
Not long afterwards, Halbarad returned carrying a wicker basket laden with goodies. There was bread, butter, blackberry jam, a slab of bacon and half a dozen eggs. Miriel’s mouth watered just looking at the food. It was food fit for a king!
Together, she and Halbarad prepared their breakfast, and the food was even more delicious than she had expected. When they had finished eating, the Ranger brought some water from the cauldron and filled up the sink. Miriel, wanting to do her part, offered to wash the dishes, but found that that was no easy task. In the end, her Watcher washed the cooking utensils and she dried them.
With the kitchen cleaned and everything put up, Halbarad decided it was time to reveal some of their back story. They moved over to the sitting area by the fire. The Watcher settled on one of the chairs, crossed his legs, and began to puff away on his pipe. An attentive Miriel sat across from him on the couch, eager to hear whatever story he had concocted.
The first thing he said was, “I feel that it’s unsafe for you to go by your true name.”
“What? Why?” she asked, shocked by his remark.
“It has not been that long ago when men from Gondor came to Bree-land, searching for the Steward’s daughter, and offering a handsome reward for her return,” he began. “Chances are that none would dare make the journey to Minas Tirith to collect the promised reward, but one can never be too sure. Not everyone in these parts can be trusted. There are a few that I deem opportunists, and would do just about anything for money.”
A dismayed Miriel shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. She couldn’t easily dismiss Halbarad’s comments since she had experienced a similar instance with Gunnulf months earlier. If the Beorning had not had a change of heart, Miriel would probably be in Minas Tirith right now, subjected to the abuse of Denethor. She couldn’t help but shudder at the thought.
“I had spoken in depth with Aragorn and the sons of Elrond about this, before we left for Archet, and all agreed we should give you an alias,” he continued.
The Slayer’s eyebrows darted upward, wondering what name the men had chosen for her. Obviously, it wouldn’t be Dagnir, which they sometimes called her.
“Glossien,” he revealed.
“Glossien?” she repeated with a laugh.
The Watcher gave her a rare smile. “Elladan wanted to call you Loss Faen.”
“Why Snow White?” she asked in her amusement.
“Because the Elf Lord so enjoyed your tale,” replied Halbarad. “But Aragorn thought it best to choose a variant of the name - Glossien.” He leaned forward in his chair, the smile widening on his face. “We can only hope that that name brings you luck and that you too will have a happy ending like the maiden in the story.”
Miriel no longer smiled. Her thoughts drifted from the tale she had told in Rivendell and to the similarities in her own past. “I have been poisoned before,” she uttered, speaking her thought aloud.
“What? What was that?” queried the Watcher, placing both feet firmly on the floor and looking at Miriel with a grave expression on his face. Had he heard her correctly?
The Slayer refused to meet the Ranger’s gaze. She shifted her own eyes to the fire. “It’s nothing,” she said glumly.
Still alarmed to hear such news, Halbarad bombarded her with questions. “When were you poisoned? And by whom? Why was I not told about this?”
Miriel could have kicked herself for having spoken her thoughts aloud. She could feel the intensity of her Watcher’s eyes upon her, as the blood drained from her face. She feared that he would not drop this topic unless she offered him some type of explanation. That was something she wasn’t ready to do. Not yet. Not with Halbarad, or anyone else for that matter.
Taking a deep breath, she turned and faced her Watcher once again. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, her voice cracking as she spoke. Don’t cry! Don’t cry! Don’t cry! she repeated to herself, as she felt her eyes welling with tears. She swiftly turned her gaze away, choking back her tears.
Halbarad continued to stare at Miriel with his lips slightly parted. In that instant, his heart was moved to pity for his Charge. In that moment, when their eyes met, he caught a glimpse of great sorrow and pain lying beneath the surface. Why hadn’t he seen that before? Was he such an awful Watcher that he could not perceive Miriel’s underlying anguish? He pressed his lips tightly together, pondering their strained relationship. She needed him, he thought, as much as he needed her.
He placed his hand on her knee. “I’m here for you, Miriel,” he said. “If you ever need to talk - about anything, I’m here for you.” And he meant it too.
The Slayer faced her Watcher once again. “Thanks, Hal,” she said faintly. She offered him a grateful smile, then cleared her throat. “Can we get back to the story then?” she asked, pushing all gloomy memories from her mind. “I think I’ll go mad if I’m locked in this cottage much longer.”
Halbarad withdrew his hand, nodding his head as he took a deep draw on his pipe. “Where was I?”
“Well, you had told me of my new name, the name I’m to go by - ”
Not wanting the name Glossien to be a reminder of some past torment, the Ranger interjected with, “ - If that name troubles you, we can come up with something else.”
“It’s alright,” she answered. “I’ve gone by several names since I left Minas Tirith. There’s nothing wrong with the name Glossien.”
“You sure?” he queried skeptically.
Miriel nodded. Folding her legs beneath her bottom, she urged Halbarad to continue.
He then got to the gist of the story he had devised. Miriel was the daughter of his sister, Melbeneth, who dwelled in the Southlands.
“The whereabouts,” he had said, “is unimportant, for those that dwell in Bree-land are not very familiar with and care very little about the lands outside their own region.”
She learned that those in Bree-land identified themselves differently than those in the more “civilized” areas of Middle-earth. Whereas the Elves, Men descended from the Three Noble Houses, and even Dwarves identified themselves by naming their father (Miriel’s “father’s” name was Berior, by the way), the people in the northern parts of Beleriand had a tradition of giving themselves what was called a “surname”. He used Bilbo Baggins as an example of that, telling her that the Hobbits were weaning themselves from identifying with their father’s names. That same custom applied to those in Bree-land.
“Would I not be better off to go by the name Loss Faen?” she asked, finding the whole naming business rather odd. “Wouldn’t I fit in better if I were to follow their traditions?”
“Nay, I’ve already told people that you’re from the south where people follow different customs than those up in these parts. Only take the name Loss Faen if it’s your heart’s desire.” He chuckled under his breath. “Elvish names are uncommon here - no matter what name you go by, it’ll sound queer to the ears of Bree-landers.”
Miriel shrugged, but was eager to hear more. Though she found the customs of those that dwelled in the northern part of Eriador vastly different from her own, she wanted to know more about her connection with Halbarad.
“What is the reason for my visit?” she inquired. “What shall I say, if any question me about that?”
“The wars in the south brought you here,” he answered without hesitation. “My sister and her husband - fearing for your safety, sent you here.”
“You mean these people know of ours wars with Mordor?” she asked, somewhat surprised.
“Rumor of it has reached here,” Halbarad replied. “Two major highways intersect near these parts, and many a weary traveler stop at the inn in Bree, for food and rest. The Bree-landers are always eager to hear news from afar.” He scowled, adding, “If not for us Rangers, they would know no peace. It is by our valor and strength alone that war has not spilled over their borders. Yet they are thankless and look unkindly upon us, calling us ruffians and other names of that sort.”
“Then why protect them?” she asked out of curiosity. “If they are so ungrateful, let them taste war firsthand. Eru knows, Gondor has seen her share of battles and the people are most certainly grateful and appreciative of our strength in arms!”
Halbarad eased back in his chair, studying Miriel with his thoughtful grey eyes. “I’m rather surprised to hear you say such a thing, Miriel, particularly knowing that you’re the Slayer. Could you sit idly by, watching the weak and feeble come under attack by creatures far greater than they?”
Miriel was overcome with shame, so much so that her cheeks were quickly turning pink. “No, I suppose not,” she said glumly, her shoulders slumping forward.
“These lands were once part of our domain, of Arnor,” he continued. “Though our numbers may have dwindled, we continue to fight and protect the lands that were under the rule of the High King. One day, we will reclaim our kingdom, and Aragorn shall rule over both Arnor and Gondor, as Elendil had done long ago.”
The Slayer made no reply, but turned her gaze to the fire, thinking that she had once again offended Halbarad with her comments. They fell silent for a while. Miriel continued to stare at the flickering flames, while the Ranger kept his eyes locked on her, smoking his pipe.
“One last thing,” he finally said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.
Miriel looked back at the Watcher.
He leaned forward in his seat. “No one, and I mean no one can ever know that you’re the Slayer.”
She was about to say that he had already told her that last night, but before she could, he continued.
“Do not speak of battles of any kind. Do not display any skill in weaponry. Do not let anyone witness your strength. As far as anybody’s concern, you’re a mere maiden, defenseless against the world.”
The Slayer snickered. She found his comments quite offensive, but decided it was best not to voice her opinion at that particular moment.
“Promise me, Miriel. It is so very important that none learn that you’re the Slayer. Things shall go ill for you otherwise. If the Enemy hears whispers of your existence, then he shall hunt you down.”
“I will say nothing to anyone,” she vowed. “But, alas, I’m afraid the Enemy already knows who I am.” Miriel locked eyes with her Watcher. “And the hunt has already begun.”
Chapter 27 - The Watcher Diary
“What makes you think the Enemy knows about you?” queried the Watcher.
Miriel couldn’t help but snort in response. “Come now, Hal,” she chortled. “Do you not remember the first time we met on Amon Sûl? Do you think those hordes of Orcs just happened to come across me?” She rolled her eyes. “I was already being hunted. You know that.” The Slayer made a mental note to add ‘bad memory’ to the list of traits that she and Halbarad did not share. How could he possibly forget their first meeting? She surely had not.
“I reckon that must have slipped my mind,” he remarked with a quick shrug.
“Slipped your mind?” she repeated, her eyes widening in disbelief. “I suppose you’ve been struck in the head one too many times, eh? Might’ve affected that memory of yours.” She snickered, mumbling, “That would explain a lot.” Her remarks were meant to be witty, but apparently came across a bit too sardonic for Halbarad’s liking.
“It’s good to see that you haven’t lost your sense of humor – all things considered,” he replied before blowing out a stream of smoke in her direction. “I’m not as young as I used to be, and perhaps, our long stay in Rivendell has caused me to briefly forget our initial meeting. If I recall correctly – and I believe I do – it was not very pleasant.”
The tone of his voice put Miriel on the defensive. “I thought you all were trying to kill me,” she shot back angrily. “What did you expect me to do? Fall on my knees and show gratitude to a bunch of strangers attacking me?”
“We didn’t attack you,” laughed Halbarad.
“That… that one man did. He grabbed me from behind, choking the life out of me!”
Anger now flashed in the Watcher’s eyes. “That man was Arvellas, who now lies dead because of your reckless disregard for others in battle.”
And just like that, their amicable conversation took a turn for the worse. Miriel sat there for a moment, absolutely dumbfounded. Halbarad’s words were like a devastating blow that knocked the wind out of her. Though she had been told she was not responsible for Arvellas’ death, (by her own Watcher, no less), she felt both a surge guilt and rage at the accusation. She rose, snatched her cloak off the arm of the sofa, and stomped toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” he called out after her.
Miriel replied by slamming the door behind her. She was livid and hurt. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her wet head, as she started down the rutted roadway. She had no idea where she was going. She just needed to get away from Halbarad so she could simmer down some.
After clasping the button of her cloak, Miriel looked up and noticed several villagers staring at her. She hadn’t realized how loudly she had slammed the door, which had drawn the attention of those neighbors out and about on that cold, yet fair, morning. In no mood to converse with anybody, she spun on her heel and bolted to the woods, seeking solace amidst the trees of Chetwood. She followed no path, but made her own, leaping over fallen trees that she came upon like a frightened deer fleeing from potential foes. She ran until the cramps in her side became unbearable, and the breakfast that she had so enjoyed rose to her throat. Breathless, she plopped down on a fallen pine, trying to catch her breath.
As she sat there, Miriel replayed the events that had just transpired over and over in her mind. Was it her fault? Was she responsible for this new friction between her and her Watcher? Feeling sick to her stomach, she shifted her gaze above, looking at the patches of blue sky through the treetops. O’ how she wished that she had never heeded Aragorn’s advice! There was no hope of repairing her fractured relationship with Halbarad. It was doomed from the start, she concluded.
Maybe I should just run away, she thought to herself. Surely, once healed, she could survive on her own in the wilderness. She had before, so why couldn’t she do so again?
Would you have it that you should die alone? queried the ‘bad’ voice in the back of her mind.
Slayers are meant to be alone, argued the ‘good’ voice. Those with great power walk alone.
Miriel was beginning to think that she had already gone mad. Why else would she hear these dueling voices in her mind? She clasped her hands over her ears, not wanting to hear any more debate on what she should do. She’d have to take things day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute.
Trying to calm her frazzled nerves, she took several deep breaths, and slowly expelled her breath until her lungs felt empty. The last thing she needed right now was to fall into a state of melancholy. Those episodes generally last for days at a time and left her feeling weak and useless.
Once her breathing had returned to normal, Miriel explored the woods further, since she was not yet ready to go back to the cottage and face Halbarad. After having ridden for days on horseback, her limbs were grateful for the exercise. She felt comforted to be amidst the trees, hidden from view from friend and foe alike.
When she finally stepped out of the woods, many hours later, she was nowhere near the village of Archet. Before her was a vast openness of withered grasses. Wisps of fog still lingered over parts of the area. In the distance, she spotted some hills. She looked to the sun, hoping that that would tell her in which direction she had wandered. But, the sun shone directly above her, surrounded by white puffy clouds, making it impossible to tell if she had journeyed west, east or north. She was nearly positive that she hadn’t gone south, as she would’ve been able to see the Great East Road or the deep dike that ran along the southern border of Bree-land.
Her heart began to race, as her alarm grew. Here she was alone, weaponless, in a region of Eriador with which she was totally unfamiliar. What if Orcs attacked? How could she defend herself with so severe an injury? She now felt foolish for having gone off so far on her own. Her immediate dilemma was what to do now. Should she follow the edge of the forest until she found the Great East Road, or maybe The Greenway? Or would it be wiser to go back into the Chetwood, hoping that she’d find her way back to Archet, or maybe Combe or Bree? It was winter, and nighttime would come earlier at this time of year. Was it worth the risk to reenter the forest?
As she stood there, dwelling on this matter, she hoped that the sun would move, pointing her in the right direction. However, she was growing impatient, and feared remaining where she was. At this rate, nightfall would come, bringing with it greater cold, and the threat of unfriendly creatures. Without even realizing it, her feet decided for her, following the tree line of Chetwood to her left.
The whole time she walked, she thought how stupid she had been to travel anywhere without so much as a knife. It wasn’t long before her stomach began to rumble with hunger. Her hearty breakfast was long gone, and her strength felt like it was beginning to wane. To make matters worse, low, grey clouds were swiftly drifting over the region, devouring both the bright blue sky and the face of the sun.
Grumbling under her breath, she tried to hasten her pace, now that rain seemed imminent. As the sky grew darker, the temperature began to plummet. The trees to her left creaked and moaned from the sudden winds, and a feeling of uneasiness gripped the Slayer’s heart.
When the first drops of rain began to fall shortly afterwards, Miriel discovered that she was walking nearly parallel to a roadway. Having traveled on the Great East Road only yesterday, she could see that this was not the same road. She had found the Greenway, much to her relief. She remembered Halbarad saying that the Greenway intersected with the Great East Road just outside of Bree.
A sudden deluge of icy cold rain marred that brief moment of joy in knowing where she was. The rain came down so hard that Miriel could barely see more than a few feet ahead of her. Bowing her head, she kept her gaze fixed on the grassy roadway, surprised at how quickly pools formed on the ground beneath her booted feet.
If she found her way back to Archet, the Slayer vowed to herself never to wander off again. Her misery only grew. Within minutes, she was drenched to the bone, and shivering from the cold. She hurried on, her feet now sloshing through the puddles in her path. A sudden clap of rolling thunder startled Miriel. It was so loud and unexpected that she literally jumped from the ground. Several flashes of lightning followed, illuminating the dark sky for several seconds.
Cursing to herself, she plodded on, feeling more miserable than she had in a long while. When she finally came upon the intersection of the two roads, she felt neither relief nor excitement. She started down the Great East Road, toward the gates of Bree. Yet, with the torrential downpour, she was able to see very little.
She hadn’t walked long when she reached the gateway to Bree. Thankfully, her way was not barred. Lights twinkled in the windows of the villagers homes. From what she could see, no one was outside. She veered off the main road, taking the first one to her left, hoping that she had chosen the correct path to Archet.
The rain had eased up just a little, and she constantly looked more at her surroundings than the road itself. When she could see the light shining within the little round windows of the Hobbit holes, she knew she was on the right path.
Her thoughts now turned to Halbarad. How would he react when she arrived back? Would he be wroth? Upset? Worried that she had been gone for so long? She kept visualizing possible scenarios of her Watcher’s reaction upon her return to the cottage. With her head bent and her eyes fixed on her path, she became heedless of her immediate surroundings. That is, until she felt someone forcefully seize hold of her broken arm, sending a jolt of searing pain up and down the extremity. In a split second, a dozen or so thoughts flashed through her mind, including her regret that she had no weapon on her person. As she tightly clenched her jaw, she heard her own voice say, I am a weapon.
There was no time to think. Her body reacted to what it considered a threatening situation. With her adrenaline now pumping, her left hand shot out from beneath the folds of her cloak and grabbed the cloaked figure by the throat. She raised the smaller figure off the ground, flipped him through the air and pounding him to the ground. The hood of the figure’s cloak slid back off his face, just as a flash of lightning lit up the area. To Miriel’s horror, she could see that she was holding a young boy under a rather large puddle. She released her grip, grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him out of the murky rainwater before he could drown.
Coughing and sputtering for air, the boy, rubbing the soreness in his throat, looked up at Miriel. His big brown eyes revealed both bewilderment and wonder. “How’d you do that?” he gasped, clambering to his feet.
O’ crap. Think of something quick, Miriel. Grimacing from what she had done, she quickly apologized. She then pulled back her cloak, and showed the boy her injured arm. “You grabbed my broken arm,” she said.
The boy’s eyes darted to her arm in a sling. He winced at the sight. “Sorry about that,” he said hastily. “But your strength! I’ve never seen a girl with such strength before.”
Miriel pulled her cloak tightly around her. “When one is under attack, one is capable of great feats of strength,” she explained, hoping that the boy would find that believable.
He stood there, in the pouring rain, staring at her with his jaw agape.
“Why’d you attack me?” she asked, eyeing him warily.
“I didn’t attack you,” the boy protested. “Your Halbarad’s niece, Glossien, right?” Without allowing her time to respond, he continued. “He said that you had taken off this morning, and presumed that you had gotten lost and asked that if any of us were to cross paths with you, to escort you back home.”
As Miriel digested the boy’s words, she noticed that her arm was not throbbing so badly now. Perhaps the adrenaline rush had numbed the pain some. She now wondered what kind of mood Halbarad was in. “Is he mad?” she heard herself ask.
“Worried is more like it,” the boy answered. “He’s been searching for you all day.”
The Slayer bit her bottom lip. She had hoped that would be the case once she got back, but, somehow she thought that Halbarad would be quite angry with her.
“I best be getting back then.” She eyed the boy, adding, “Sorry that I… about everything.” She then started down the road again.
“I’ll accompany you,” said the boy, trailing after her. “I only live a few doors down from your uncle.”
“Is that so?” answered Miriel. She gave the boy a sideways glance. “What’s your name?”
“Heath. Heath Hawthorn,” he replied, “son of Sage.”
Miriel snorted softly, finding both of those names very strange, for people, that is. The boy, Heath, seemed to have recovered rather quickly from the incident and prattled on as if nothing had ever happened. They continued on their way. The boy nearly had to jog to keep up with Miriel’s much longer strides. She watched him from the corner of her eye, noticing that he looked to be a couple of years younger than she, and about six inches shorter. Though his cloak concealed his frame, she could tell by the ease with which she had tossed him that he didn’t weigh much, and was on the scrawny side. His drenched, light brown hair stuck to his neck, just above his shoulders. Bits of dried leaves and whatnot clung to his locks.
After they entered the village of Archet, Heath pointed out his house as they passed it by. Though she told him he should go on home, he refused, insisting that he walk her to her door.
As they approached Hal’s cottage, Miriel could see that the lamps were burning within the foggy windows. She began taking deep breaths, fearing what awaited her on the other side of the door.
“Thank you, Heath,” she said when they had reached the door. “You best go on home and get into some dry clothes.”
“Alright, Glossien. I’ve seen to it that you’ve made it home safe and sound.” He smiled broadly. “I’m still in awe of your strength. Perhaps one day you could show me that trick of yours.”
“Perhaps,” she answered, offering him a quick smile.
“Good-bye,” he said with a wave before running off to his home.
Taking one last deep breath, Miriel pushed open the door and entered the cottage. Halbarad, being the Ranger that he was, had watched her approach. He was already standing at the threshold when she stepped inside. Upon seeing him, she froze, afraid of what might happen next. She had been preparing herself for a verbal spanking, as Buffy called it.
When their eyes locked, she was somewhat taken aback to see that her Watcher looked relieved at her return. “You’re soaked,” he said, ushering her further inside and shutting the door behind her. “Let’s get you dried off.”
Miriel tried to conceal her surprise at seeing Halbarad showing actual concern for her well-being. It was one of those rare moments. She undid the clasp of her cloak and swapped it for the towel that her Watcher had grabbed off that back of one of the kitchen chairs.
“Come on, let’s get you over to the fire,” he proposed, guiding her to the sitting area. “I was so worried, Miriel.”
The Slayer glanced at her Watcher. His face was full of grave concern, still.
“I feared that something horrible had happened to you.” He took a deep breath, and actually shuddered as he exhaled. “Promise me you will do no such a thing again.”
Miriel bowed her head, remembering what had driven her out of the cottage in the first place. Though she was now riddled with guilt, she was still hurt by Halbarad’s earlier comments.
As if reading her thoughts, he said, “I’m sorry,” as he gently set her onto the chair nearest to the fire. He took the towel from her hand and began patting the glistening wetness on her exposed skin. “I should never have said what I did. It was a mistake, on my part. I shan’t make it again.”
Satisfied with his apology, Miriel nodded. She then uttered, “I promise,” in response to his previous statement.
“Good,” he replied with a nod. “You need to get out of these wet clothes before you end up sick. I’ve laundered your clothing you had worn on the journey,” he said, pointing at the neatly stacked pile on the kitchen table. “That’s fit to wear.”
Miriel was stunned. Before she could even say thank you, Halbarad began unlacing her boots. “Let’s get these off so I can set them by the fire to dry.”
The Slayer was still taken aback by Halbarad’s demeanor. It was so very unlike him. However, if her absence had brought about this change, then she was happy for it.
When her boots and stockings had been removed, her Watcher said she could change in his room. She mumbled a word of thanks before doing just that.
By the time she had exited his room, Halbarad was at the stove. “I think we’ll eat supper by the fire tonight,” he said. “Go ahead and sit while I ready things.”
Miriel was still floored by this change in Halbarad. He was being so nice, so considerate, so thoughtful. She was beginning to wonder if the real Halbarad had been abducted and had been replaced by this one. Regardless, she gladly accepted her Watcher’s kindness, and sat down upon the rug in front of the roaring fire.
After they had eaten, they continued to sit by the fire. Halbarad, now seated in the wooden chair, puffed away on his pipe while Miriel remained on the floor, watching the dancing flames lick away at the logs. She had been pondering, for a while now, whether she should tell her Watcher that that boy Heath had witnessed her strength firsthand. In some ways, she was loathed to do it, as Hal had warned her not to tell anyone she was the Slayer. Sure she hadn’t said anything, but tossing the boy to the ground with such ease may have revealed her true nature. That alone was a frightening thought.
For a while, they sat in silence, listening to the crackling fire and the storm outside. The rain continued to beat upon the roof, and occasionally, the winds whipped through the village, pattering the rain against the windowpanes. And there must have been some unseen cracks around the windows or something because there were times when the wind passed through them, making a high-pitched whistling sound. However, that had little effect on the inside temperature, for the cottage remained cozy and warm.
Miriel retrieved her blanket from her bag and spread it out before the hearth. After such a long day’s march, she needed to stretch her tired limbs. She sprawled out on her blanket; all thoughts of the earlier incident swiftly drifting from her mind. Soon, the sound of the crackling fire and pounding rain lulled the young Slayer to sleep…
“Is it just me, or does it always seem like its raining?” groaned a frowning Buffy. Her eyes were fixed on a nearby window, watching as the rain continued to lash at the glass pane.
“It’s just you,” Miriel replied with a sigh. She still lay on the floor before the roaring fire, feeling comfortable and content.
The elder Slayer strolled over to the seating area and plunked down on the sofa. She sat there for a few minutes, twirling a strand of her blonde hair. “You wanna train or something?”
Perplexed by her mentor’s suggestion, Miriel sat upright, pointing to her injured arm.
“We’re in a dream, Miriel,” countered Buffy. Smiling coyly and mimicking the voice of Master Po from the old Kung Fu TV series, she added, “You are hereby healed, young grasshopper.” She then leapt to her feet. “Come on, let’s do something. I don’t wanna just sit around here bored out of my wits.”
“I’m tired, Buffy,” argued the younger Slayer. “It’s been a long day. I don’t feel like doing much of anything.”
“But, we’re in a dream,” repeated Buffy, trying her best to persuade Miriel into doing something, anything other than lying around. “And you don’t have to be hurt if you don’t want to be.” She paused, raising a brow in question. “Or is it that you choose to be all helpless, suffering from damsel in distress syndrome?”
“Pfft,” sounded Miriel, rolling her eyes. “That’s utter nonsense! I just don’t feel like doing anything, training or otherwise. If you’re so bored, then go do your own thing. I’m not stopping you!” She then lay back down.
Buffy stood there for a few moments, stunned that Miriel had no interest in doing anything but acting all sloth-like. They could virtually go anywhere, do anything. However, the elder Slayer didn’t want to go traipsing off by herself. She longed for company and always looked forward to the hours when Miriel slept.
Seeing that her protégé had no interest in anything, Buffy’s eyes shifted to Halbarad’s bedroom door. She cast one last look at Miriel, who continued to lie on the floor with her eyes closed. With a shake of her head, Buffy strolled over to the bedroom door and slipped inside, determined to find whatever she could in regards to Miriel and the Slayer lore.
Miriel had no idea that Buffy had left the room. She was too preoccupied with her own thoughts, thinking over the events of the day. It seemed to her that she and Halbarad had reached some type of understanding, a truce, if you will. Her only concern was the incident with Heath, and the fact that she hadn’t told her Watcher about it. At this point, she feared doing so, believing that the Dúnadan would be angered by her displaying her Slayer strength in front of one of the villagers, no matter the circumstances.
Buffy had been gone for nearly an hour when she finally exited Halbarad’s bedroom, wearing a smug smile on her face. In her hands, she carried a dusty, discolored black leather-bound book. Moseying over to the seating area, she curled up on the couch, watching Miriel out of the corner of her eye. She flung open the book to where she had been reading; a red silky ribbon marked the page where she had stopped.
Still, Miriel paid no attention to Buffy. Even in the dreamscape, she remained half-asleep. She had no idea that Buffy had hit the jackpot, finding Halbarad’s secret stash of Watcher-Slayer memorabilia.
Though the journal was written in a foreign tongue, Buffy was able to understand every word written (so far). She assumed it had to do with being in the dreamscape, where the impossible becomes possible. The tome had been written thousands of years ago, during the Second Age, before the fall of Númenor (obviously). Buffy had heard Miriel’s tales of her ancestors, the Dúnedain of Númenor many times over, and thought that her protégé would be quite interested in hearing about one of their predecessors.
From what Buffy had read thus far, the diary belonged to a Watcher named Istyaro. The year was 3271. The Slayer in question, Tulcë was thirty-three years old at that time. Buffy was rather shocked by that Slayer’s age. She considered thirty-three way too old, especially for a newly called Slayer. However, Buffy didn’t wholly understand that Númenoreans at that time still lived a long life, much longer than Men in her time. By Númenorean standards, Tulcë was considered a child, for one did not reach adulthood until the age of fifty.
Before reading where she had left off, she carefully turned the yellow, brittle pages back, using care not to tear any additional leafs from their binding. Two pages back she had found the folded piece of parchment, which she then gently unfolded. A heaviness fell over her heart as she re-read the letter for the fourth time.
Wanting to share its contents with her protégé, she said, “Isn’t that Sauron guy the Big Bad here in Middle-earth?”
“What of it?” answered a disinterested Miriel.
“I found this letter in Hal’s stuff – ”
The younger Slayer bolted upright so unexpectedly that Buffy stopped speaking mid-sentence. “You went through Halbarad’s belongings?” she queried, staring disapprovingly at Buffy.
“Well, yeah,” replied the elder Slayer, not seeing why Miriel was so upset. “It’s no big deal. It’s not like he’s here or anything,” she added dismissively.
“You have no right going through his things,” rebuked the younger Slayer.
“But don’t you wanna know what I found?” asked Buffy, holding up the fragile piece of parchment so that her protégé could see it. “It’s a letter. From long ago. Written by a Slayer to her Watcher. I think you’ll find it interesting. She mentions Sauron by name.” Buffy made a point to speak in short poignant sentences, attempting to entice Miriel’s curiosity. “It’s tragic, really,” she continued, her eyes shifting back to the letter. She sighed heavily. “But if you don’t want to see it – ”
“ – I didn’t say that!” interjected the younger Slayer. Though she was most certainly opposed to Buffy’s snooping around in Hal’s bedchamber, she found herself eager to hear more. How could she not want to learn more about another Slayer, particularly one from long ago. Who wouldn’t? She turned, facing Buffy, her eyes twinkling with anticipation. “Go on. Read it.”
“You sure now?” said Buffy teasingly. “I mean, I did swipe it from Hal’s personal belongings.”
“For the love of Eru, just read it,” demanded Miriel.
“Okay, if you say so:
“‘My dearest Istyaro,’” Buffy’s eyes flashed to Miriel. “That’s her Watcher.”
Miriel gave her mentor a threatening look, disinterested in hearing Buffy’s commentary.
“‘Forgive me, I pray!’” Buffy continued, reading from the fragile parchment. “‘Loathe am I to go against the will and wisdom of the Council, but I must. I now see that I am our only hope, and perchance none in Armenelos, whether it be the King, his Men, or the Dark Lord himself know that a newly awakened Slayer no longer sleeps on this Isle. What hope have we if none dare attempt to overthrow Sauron?
‘You say it is folly. I say it is destiny. My destiny. Darker days await. I have seen it in my dreams, or nightmares, as they more closely resemble – black smoke issuing from a silver domed tower, blood running along the roadside gullies, the stench of death lingering heavily in the air. We are the Faithful, the Persecuted. The slaughter will continue. How many more of our loved ones must die, lord, before the horror comes to an end? I can no longer hide in fear, waiting for the King’s henchmen to take us away one by one until none are left.
‘Who will come to our aid? Who will deliver us from such evil? The doom of Númenor is drawing near. It cannot be mere chance that I’ve been Called at this time. Is the Slayer not an instrument of those whom we love in the West? Is it not my sacred duty to save us from ruin? Sauron’s tendrils of hate and malice spread ever more. Now is the time for it to end.
‘Take care my beloved mentor, my teacher, my friend. My heart tells me that there will be no coming back. Maybe we will meet again across the vast waters, in the halls of our fathers.
Yours in Peace,
Tulcë’”
When Buffy had finished reading the letter, she said, “That’s so sad.” She then carefully folded the parchment. “Looks like Tulcë went on a suicide mission.”
Miriel’s heart was still thumping madly in her chest at Buffy’s reading of the letter from a former Slayer that had lived in Númenor during its darkest days. “Does it say what happened to her?” she asked.
“Well, kinda,” answered Buffy, placing the now folded parchment to the side. “Her Watcher actually went after her, but never made it to… ” She paused, shifting her gaze to the diary, searching for the name of the city, “Armenelos.”
“Was it the King’s Men? Was it they that captured him?”
“No,” replied Buffy, her eyes still fixed on the page. “It looks like Tulcë had actually spiked her Watcher’s wine.”
“Spiked?” queried Miriel, baffled by her mentor’s choice of words.
“Um, drugged it with a sleeping draught, or so he’d thought.” Buffy then read from the journal:
“‘Curse her! Curse Tulcë and her stubbornness. Undoubtedly, she had put something, a sleeping draught, I deem, in the wine she offered me at the midday meal.’
“Looks like our ‘foremother’ was determined to face off with Sauron,” remarked Buffy. She looked up at Miriel and smiled. “She was a ballsy chick, don’t you think?”
“She sounds foolish to me,” observed Miriel. “And desperate.” She felt saddened by Tulcë’s quest. “So, what happened to her?”
“Well, it doesn’t say for sure, unless you want to believe, as this Istyaro had, that the Lady of the Seas set an enchantment upon him on his way to Armenelos.” Buffy’s eyes darted back to the page. She had read most of the entry dated the 21st of Nárië (June). Looking back at Miriel, she thought she’d give her the gist of the story instead of reading it in the Watcher’s words.
“Her Watcher started the trip to Armenelos, but after only a few miles, he slipped into a sudden sleep, and fell off his horse - ”
“No!” interjected the younger Slayer, shaking her head. “I want to hear what Istyaro had written, word for word. Please.”
Buffy sighed. “Okay, okay. Let me find my spot.” She babbled the few sentences that she had already read aloud. “Okay, here it is,” she added, marking the spot with her finger where she had left off.
“‘I write this as my horse is being readied, as I shall race to Armenelos as swiftly as I may. I do not know how long ago Tulcë had departed these halls, as none here had seen her go. How she managed that, I‘ll never know. Yet, my heart despairs. I foresee no victory for my Slayer. Though Sauron wears the guise of a fair mortal Man, he is not! He is an Ainu of great power, and even greater cunning. He has learned well from his Master, Morgoth Bauglir.
“‘I am being summoned. My horse is ready.’”
Buffy paused there. “It stops on that part, and then a little ways down the page he continues.”
“Go on,” urged Miriel, eager to hear the rest of the diary’s entry.
The elder Slayer took a deep breath before continuing:
“‘I have failed, failed my dear Tulcë. I had only traveled a few miles on the road to Armenelos when a sudden weariness came over me, so much so that I fell into a sudden sleep whilst still upon my horse. I fell to the ground and experienced what I can only describe as visions, visions of what Tulcë faced ere the end. I write now at great speed before the memory wholly fades, for I believe that these visions were not the work of Sauron, but of one with greater authority. The Lady of the Seas, I deem, or perhaps even the Lord of Waters himself had me witness the tragic events that befell my beloved Tulcë in the King’s halls.
“‘I had witnessed these events as if seeing them through the eyes of Tulcë. She had departed as I slept, taking our speediest steed from the stables for her journey. She arrived at Armenelos at twilight, just as the first stars glimmered above. Riding down the street, approaching the Citadel, she noticed a new structure in the making – the foundation greater than Elros’ tower that stands proudly to its west. She shuddered, seeing in her mind’s eye the silver-domed tower of her nightmares already underway.
“‘Driven by desperation, she pleaded with the door wardens, the wicked King’s Men, that she longed to enter the service of the greatest of lords, Ar-Pharazôn. At first glance, the guards look upon her with suspicion, thinking that this maiden offered naught for the King. But then, as they looked upon her more closely, noticing the beauty of one descended from the House of Hador, a girl on the cusp of womanhood, their thoughts turned evil.
“‘At that moment, the gong sounded, denoting a changing of the guard.
“‘Come with us,’ said one of the men, ‘and we will take you to the King.’
“‘Tulcë, in her youth and inexperience, did not notice the gleam in the mens’ eyes. And each took her by the arm, leading her away from the front door, promising to take her to see the King by another way. The men took her to a guesthouse beside the King’s halls, intent on defiling her, each in his turn.
“‘Neither man could have foreseen what was to happen next, for when they began pawing, tearing at my beloved Slayer’s raiment, she withdrew from beneath her cloak an elven blade, gifted by the Eldar of Tol Eressëa, and slew each man so quickly that they were unable to shout in warning.
“‘Terrified, yet justified, Tulcë stayed in that house, trembling with fear. She had not come to Armenelos to kill Men, and had not expected this turn of events. When she looked at her reflection in the mirror on the wall, she saw that the bodice of her gown was torn and splattered with blood. She did not know how she could get to Sauron without any noticing. However, her blue eyes revealed her resolve, and she renewed her determination to finish the task that she had appointed unto herself.
“‘Waiting for nightfall, she crept out of the house, pulling her cloak tightly around her body, and made for the Citadel. If the rumors proved to be true, that the King spent most of his time in that fair place with his chief councilor as his only companion, then Tulcë was on the correct path.
“‘Whether it be good fortune or no, Tulcë found a way inside. No guards or passersby hindered her going. Guided by a higher force, or so it seemed, she arrived outside the doors of the King’s high chamber and with cunning words was able to pass inside.
“‘There she was in the heart of shadow, striding towards the King’s throne. So intent was she on completing her task that her eyes did not stray to take in her impressive surroundings. She remained steadfast. Her eyes fixed, not on the King, but on his chief councilor, who sat to his right. Fair he was, in face and body, yet Tulcë was not deceived. She knew him for what he was – evil incarnate, and the most ardent of Morgoth Bauglir’s disciples.
“‘As she approached the dais, both villains’ eyes remained locked on this newcomer, eager to know her purpose. When she reached the throne, she curtsied, as she would with any mighty lord. Wisely foregoing not only the elven tongue but also her true name, she named herself Lôminzil in Adûnaic, the favored tongue of Ar-Pharazôn. She uttered such words of flattery upon both King and Councilor that they relaxed in her presence, fearing no ill from this mere maiden.
“‘The King’s eyes glinted in amusement. And then he said, ‘What could one so young seek to do in my service?’
“‘And Tulcë standing tall and proud looked Ar-Pharazôn in the eye, and answered, ‘I would seek to restore Númenor as it once was.’
“‘Ar-Pharazôn chortled, replying with, ‘Under my lordship, this land has become more glorious than ever before. And, as a people, we have prospered, having greater knowledge and wealth than any time in our history.’ He leaned forward, smirking, ’And let us not forget the majesty and strength of our fleets, which have multiplied and are unconquerable.’
“‘You misunderstand me, lord,’ answered Tulcë. ‘For the Dúnedain were once an honorable and virtuous people, but no more. In your folly, you have heeded the evil utterances of one who has been under the tutelage of the Nameless Enemy. As a result, you have, unwittingly or no, thrust the goodly people of this Isle into the Abyss.’
“‘What happened next happened so quickly that it bordered on mayhem. Tulcë pulled her elven dagger from the pocket of her cloak, and lunged at Sauron, whose eyes widened with fright as he leapt backward, (as did the king). Armed guards charged from the hidden recesses of the chamber, brandishing their sharp swords.
“‘Tulcë’s blade pierced the flesh of Sauron’s left shoulder, causing the Maia to shriek in pain. Only a second or two later, many guards stabbed Tulcë, slaying her upon the king’s throne.
“‘And then I awoke, feeling an emptiness in my heart that told me that the vision was true - that my beloved Slayer had fallen in the Citadel of Kings not long ago. Despair has now replaced my grief, for I have failed Tulcë. I should have been at her side, guiding her in some way.
“‘For I now see the world darkening before my very eyes, and that the doom of the Dúnedain is creeping ever closer.
“‘O’ Tulcë, my beloved: why leave me behind? I would have fought beside you in that fateful hour. No peace will I ever know again, having lost one so dear to me. Farewell. Farewell cruel world. My time is over.’”
Buffy paused, and looked up at Miriel. “That’s the last that Istyaro wrote.”
“I wonder what happened to him,” uttered the young Slayer, amazed by the valor of one so young.
“Actually, it does say,” replied Buffy, her eyes shifting back to the pages of the book. “Um, it looks like someone found the book, and Istyaro. There's a space and then someone wrote:
“‘22nd of Nárië
“‘It was I, Elendil, son of Amandil that happened to find the body and diary of a friend and fellow Watcher whom I dearly loved…’”
“Elendil!” exclaimed Miriel upon hearing that. “He was the lord of our people when they first settled Middle-earth. I had no idea he was a Watcher!”
“Do you want me to keep reading or not?” asked Buffy, slightly annoyed by the interruption.
Miriel nodded, wanting her mentor to go on.
“‘Woeful tidings do Istyaro’s writings bring, for alas our Slayer has fallen, and her Watcher as well. If I read the signs correctly, it seems to me that in Istyaro’s despair, he slew himself like Túrin Turambar before him. What a great loss to the Council this is. We will bury our kinsman near the sea in Rómenna.
“‘We now anxiously await some sort of retribution from the King’s men to befall the Faithful. Things shall turn ill for us all, I fear.’”
“That’s all there is,” said Buffy, carefully thumbing through the rest of the pages for any more entries. “The rest of the pages are blank.”
“What a sad tale that was,” said a misty-eyed Miriel. “To think that one of our foremothers had dwelled in Númenor during the reign of Sauron.”
“I’m confused,” said Buffy, wrinkling her face. “I thought that Ar-Pharazôn was the king, that this stuff happened under his rule.”
“Well, that’s true, but according to Gondorian lore, Ar-Pharazôn became corrupted by Sauron.”
“How? I mean, I thought that Sauron lived in Mordor,” said a baffled Buffy.
“He did. But you see, back in those days, Ar-Pharazôn was a mighty king and had become overly proud. When he heard that Sauron called himself Lord of Men, a title that Ar-Pharazôn felt he deserved, he decided to bring his armies to Middle-earth and challenge Sauron. It is said that when the minions of the Dark Lord saw the strength and splendor of the Númenorean armies, they deserted their lord and fled into the wilds. Sauron was forced to come out of his Dark Tower and humble himself before Ar-Pharazôn. The King then took Sauron captive and brought him back to Númenor - ”
“ - Wait a minute,” interjected Buffy. “Did you say captive, as in he who is a prisoner?”
“Yes.”
“But it says in the diary that he was the king’s chief councilor,” remarked a baffled Buffy. “How does someone go from being a prisoner to a councilor?”
“You underestimate the guile of Sauron, Buffy. It is said that within a few years, Sauron had bewitched the king and most of his court, and that he was made Ar-Pharazôn’s chief councilor. The lore masters of Minas Tirith say that Sauron was so cunning that he easily corrupted Ar-Pharazôn, who then carried out the Dark Lord’s every whim, including murdering the Dúnedain in tribute to his former master, Morgoth Bauglir.”
“That name, Morgoth Bauglir sounds eerily familiar,” said Buffy, feeling herself shudder from a sudden cold chill. “It’s like déjà vu. But for the life of me, I can’t place it. I know I know that name” The elder Slayer narrowed her eyes, struggling to remember where she had heard the name Morgoth Bauglir before.
“He was much worse than Sauron, or so it has been said. It frightens me enough knowing there’s an evil Maia in Middle-earth; I wouldn’t want to even think about what it would be like to have an evil Vala on the prowl.” Miriel shuddered at that thought. “Nevertheless, I feel sorry for Tulcë. What a tragic way to go!”
“All Slayers bite the dust at some point or another,” added Buffy. “Us included. It’s the when, where and how that we don’t know.”
Miriel shrugged off Buffy’s comments. She wasn’t remotely interested in thinking about her own mortality. Not now. The tale of Tulcë now consumed her thoughts. She found it remarkable how brave the Dúnadan must have been to confront Sauron as she had. It made Miriel wonder. Perhaps it was her destiny to assume her foremother’s role and confront the Dark Lord and do away with him once and for all…
Chapter 28 - “Assess, Then Reactâ€
WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!
The following chapter is rated “M” due to graphic depictions of brutal and horrific violence that some readers may find offensive and/or disturbing. If you are easily bothered by such imagery, do not read! Consider yourself warned!
A few days after Miriel had read Istyaro’s diary, Halbarad declared that her arm had healed and that they could now resume their training exercises. “Put your cloak on and come with me,” ordered the Watcher before wrapping his own cloak around his shoulders.
Miriel obediently did as commanded, following the Dúnadan out the front door. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“You’ll see.”
Though the sun was shining above, the mid-morning air was rather crisp. The Slayer pulled her cloak tightly about her in an attempt to ward off the chill that was rapidly consuming her. She followed Hal around the corner of the cottage, wondering what he had in store for her.
“Have you ever split firewood?” he queried, as he approached what Miriel could only describe as a wall of unsplit firewood, five feet high by twenty feet long.
The girl stopped in her tracks. “Why?” she asked, apprehensively eyeing the wood.
Hal grabbed one of the pieces and carried it to a stump in the yard. “Because that’s exactly what you’re going to do – split firewood.”
“What for?”
“We’re in need of it,” he replied, pointing to the dwindling stack of split wood piled beside the stone cottage. “Besides,” he continued, now prying an axe out of a weatherworn notched stump and setting the log upright on it, “it’ll help strengthen your arm.” He then swung the axe down onto the wood, splitting it in two, sending each half flying to the ground. “It’s fairly easy work,” he added. “Just stack the wood over there with the rest.” He then thrust the axe back into the stump and started to walk away.
“Wait!” Miriel cried out. “Where are you going?”
“Inside,” he replied. “It’s cold out here.”
Miriel’s eyes darted from her Watcher to the wall of wood. “How much am I supposed to split?”
Hal glanced over his shoulder, grinning. “All of it!”
The Slayer’s jaw dropped as she watched her Watcher disappear around the corner. A few seconds later, she heard the front door close. Pouting, she stared at the wall of wood, thinking that it would take the rest of her life to split that amount.
A few seconds later, she heard a couple of loud raps on the glass pane that caused her to jump with a start. Turning, she saw Halbarad standing at the window, smoking his pipe and motioning for her to get to work.
Grumbling under her breath, she stomped over to the wall of wood, grabbed a piece, and took it back to the stump. She snatched the axe, placed the firewood on the stump, and then, imagining that the wood was Halbarad, she swung the axe down, cleaving the wood in two, and sending the pieces flying to the ground.
She then gathered her pieces and the ones that Hal had split and stacked them beside the cottage. After a few minutes, she noticed that her Watcher had vanished from the window. Miriel’s annoyance grew as she continued her labors. She could picture Halbarad sitting before the fire, savoring the warmth of the cottage, while enjoying his pipe and a cup of hot tea. Meanwhile, here she was, outside in the cold, doing man’s work!
This has nothing to do with training, she thought to herself. I’m Hal’s slave. She couldn’t help but think that he was taking advantage of her, having her do the most unpleasant of tasks. It was demeaning! It was unfair. It was…
“Hello, Glossien,” greeted a chipper voice.
She turned and saw Heath approaching. “Oh, hello,” she replied with a sigh, letting the axe fall to her side.
“What are you doing?”
Miriel snorted. “Isn’t it obvious? My dear uncle is forcing me to split all this wood,” she answered, motioning toward the row of uncut wood.
The boy’s eyes shifted from Miriel to the wall of wood. “Well, that’s just not right.” Heath grabbed the axe from her hand. “Let me help you,” he said with a quick smile. “I was hoping we could go for a walk or something.” His cheeks turned slightly pink. Averting his gaze, he placed a piece of wood from the stack onto the stump and brought down the axe on the wood, splitting it in two.
The Slayer’s eyes shot to the window. Halbarad wasn’t there. Smiling, she replied, “That would be great.”
About thirty minutes after Heath had taken over for Miriel, Halbarad peeked out the window to see her progress. When he spotted his Slayer seated on the ground, watching the young boy chop wood, he flew out the door enraged.
“What are you doing here, Heath?” barked the Dúnadan. “Off with you!” he ordered with a threatening wave of his hand.
Heath, frightened by the Watcher, dropped the axe and fled.
“What do you think you’re doing?” questioned an angry Halbarad, his eyes narrowed to slits. Before Miriel could respond he added, “I told you to split the firewood, not that boy!”
The Slayer refused to bow down to her Watcher. “This is not training,” she shot back. “You’re treating me as a slave and I’ll have no more of it!” She defiantly folded her arms across her chest, intent on standing her ground.
“A slave, eh?” he answered, his nostrils flaring as he spoke. “I’ll have you know that I’m paying for your keep. I’m the one putting a roof over your head. I’m the one putting food in your belly. And that does not come cheap! I expect you to do your fair share around here. You’re not on some holiday. I refuse to wait on you any more. Time to pay the piper. Now, get back to work!” he snarled, picking up the axe and shoving it into her chest.
Miriel was forced to take the axe or risk the blade falling on her foot. The last thing she needed was another injury. She stood there as Halbarad stormed off, stunned by his sudden temper tantrum. Feeling as though she had no other choice, the Slayer went back to work…
In the days that followed, Miriel’s relationship with Hal remained strained, at best. There were times when things looked promising, when she thought that they had reached a happy medium (of sorts). Such as the time when Halbarad cordoned off an area of the sitting room, hanging blankets from the rafters so that Miriel would have more privacy where she slept. She thought that was a tremendous gesture on his part. But, then, when it seemed like things were going well, he’d pull away, becoming more distant from her.
She wished that her relationship with Hal could be more like Buffy’s with her Watcher. From what she had been told, Buffy and Giles had their ups and downs, but they were close, and he had become a father figure to her. That was something Miriel envied since her relationship with Denethor was… well, not at all to her liking, though it hadn’t always been that way. She still held out hope of repairing her relationship with her Watcher.
There came a day, not long after her arm had mended, when Halbarad announced that he was going away for a few days. He wouldn’t reveal any details of his journey, other than to say that Miriel would not be going with him. His only rule was that no visitors were allowed inside his home whilst he was away. Before departing, he left her with enough provisions to last until his return. Then he was gone.
Now, Miriel found Hal’s taking off like that rather suspicious. She couldn’t help but think that it was some sort of test. Why he felt the need to do that, and what he was testing her for, she couldn’t say. No matter, she wasn’t about to fail this test of his.
As she stood beside one the of wooden columns that separated the kitchen from the sitting area, surveying the interior of the cottage, she thought that this would be the perfect opportunity to score some points with her Watcher by scrubbing the whole place clean from top to bottom. Eru only knows when that had happened last! She was determined to have the entire place spotless by the time Hal got back.
About fifteen minutes after the Dúnadan had departed, she grabbed a couple of buckets and took off to the communal well. The morning was cold. The sun was already shining overhead, occasionally disappearing behind white puffy clouds that glided beneath its rays. As she approached the well, she noticed a line had already formed. Fifteen people, most pulling wagons or carts full of barrels, were in front of her.
She exchanged pleasantries with some of the locals, something that Halbarad had prevented her from doing thus far. The only exception had been Heath, who always seemed to pop up whenever Miriel went outside. This day was no exception. Maybe a minute after getting in queue, the boy showed up, pulling a wagon of empty barrels.
“Good morning, Glossien. You sure look lovely this morning,” he said, beaming.
Sheer willpower kept her from rolling her eyes at his comment. Miriel looked anything but lovely, dressed in the clothing that she had worn when she had left Minas Tirith, the fabric stained with blood and patched in many places (courtesy of the Elves of Rivendell). Her hair was loosely tied back with some string, half of the strands having already fallen out, framing her face.
She could only offer Heath a smile in reply.
“I hear Hal left this morning,” he rambled on. “Can’t believe he left you all alone like that. That just doesn’t seem right.”
“Actually, I’m glad of it. I can do with the peace and quiet.”
“Yeah, I imagine so,” Heath chuckled. “He won’t be around to work you to death. Why don’t we do something today? We can go to Bree, if you’d like.” He looked hopefully at her.
Miriel suddenly felt uncomfortable. Mostly due to the way the boy was looking at her. She knew that look. “I’m sorry, Heath, I cannot go. Even though my uncle’s gone, I have many chores to do whilst he’s away. He’s seen to it to keep me busy.” She wasn’t delighted by the fact that she had lied, but in all honesty, she really was looking forward to being alone for a few days. Even with all the cleaning she planned to do, it would still seem like a mini-holiday with Halbarad gone.
“Oh,” said the boy dejectedly, bowing his head. “Maybe another time then?” he asked, looking back at her again.
“Yes, of course. Perhaps when he gets back,” she replied, offering him a smile.
Heath returned to his perky self. “I can always help if you’d like. I’m not afraid of work and I can do just about anything.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I have to decline,” she said in her politest voice. “I’m not allowed any visitors and I’ll mostly be doing woman’s work – cleaning, laundry and the like.”
Heath seemed to accept her response and continued to make small talk until he had filled his barrels, insisting that he wheel her buckets back to the cottage. She attempted to protest but he would not take no for an answer. When they reached the cottage, the boy insisted on taking the buckets inside. Miriel was reluctant but then thought, what harm would it do if Heath emptied her buckets into the cast iron cauldron.
Hal said no one was to enter his home whilst away, warned that little voice in the back of her mind.
Miriel ignored the warning and invited the boy inside. He followed her into Hal’s bedchamber where he proceeded to empty the water into the vessel hanging from the hook within the fireplace.
“That’s not much water, Glossien,” he remarked. “Why don’t I fill this up with the water I have. It’ll save you from making more trips to the well.”
“That would be great, Heath. Thanks!”
Not even an hour after Hal has left and you have broken his only rule. Tsk, tsk, tsk, chided that voice again. Test or no, you’ve failed.
The Slayer once again ignored the voice, having rationalized her actions with the fact that she needed more water than she had actually collected. She could see no harm in Heath providing her with extra (and as it turned out) much needed water. And once he had filled the cauldron, he left. No harm, no foul.
Miriel then turned her attention to the cottage. She thought she’d dust the place first. Deciding to start from the top and work her way down, she eyed the series of beams above. Smiling to herself, she leapt upward – a good fifteen feet – and landed on a rafter. She had never realized that her Slayer abilities could be so useful. Clumps of dust rained down on the floor and furniture below, piling up like grayish snow.
After laboring well into the night, Miriel finally had the main living area spotless. She felt a great sense of accomplishment. As she sat on the sofa, sipping a cup of hot tea, she looked around the room, noticing how everything seemed to gleam and sparkle in the fire light. She knew Halbarad would be most pleased upon his return.
When she had finished her tea and washed her cup, she was ready to retire for the night. Even though it was only about eight-thirty, all that hard work had left her utterly exhausted. She started toward the couch, which doubled as her bed, but suddenly stopped. She shifted her gaze toward the bedchamber door. With Hal gone, why not sleep in his bed? She had worked hard, and sleeping on a mattress would be an appropriate reward. How wonderful it would be to sleep with her legs stretched out instead of being elevated on an armrest since the Dúnadan’s couch was much smaller than her body!
She extinguished the lights and shuffled into her Watcher’s bedroom. Tomorrow she would work on his room and the bathing chamber. She then crawled under the covers and fell fast asleep…
After a quick breakfast the following morning, Miriel started working on Halbarad’s bedroom. Just like the day before, she began working from top to bottom. When a layer of dust covered the entire room, Miriel stripped the bed of its linens and immediately washed them so that they’d have time to dry on the line. Upon her return, she noticed the faded green area rug now appeared grayish-white. Grabbing the rug so that she could shake it clean, she was surprised to discover that hidden beneath it was a trap door.
An image of Buffy carrying the ancient Watcher Diary from the bedroom flashed in her mind. “So this is where he hides it,” she uttered. For several minutes she stood there, frozen to the spot, wondering what kind of artifacts were housed below. She actually considered descending into the secret chamber, eager to see its contents, but found herself quickly dismissing that notion. Whatever was down there belonged to Halbarad and she had no right to rummage through his personal belongings. Perhaps in due time, he’d invite her down there himself. Until then, the place was off limits.
Miriel then went about her business, vigorously cleaning the last two remaining rooms. By midday she had finished all her housework and rewarded herself with a nice hot bath. After eating supper, she curled up on the sofa and was lulled to sleep by the crackling of the fire.
During the wee hours of the morning, Halbarad returned, earlier than expected. He had taken care of his errand sooner than he had thought and returned home as swiftly as he could. As he stepped into the darkened cottage, he immediately caught a whiff of some floral scent lingering in the air. Closing the door quietly, he turned his gaze to the sitting room. The fire burned low, softly illuminating the shadowy form of Miriel, who lay curled up on the sofa, sound asleep. He was somewhat surprised that his makeshift curtains had been removed, though the ropes that had held them still hung from the rafters.
The Dúnadan set his bag on the floor before creeping toward the kitchen table. A few seconds later, the small flame of the oil lamp flickered to life. The interior gleamed in the firelight. A rare smile came to Hal’s face. He nodded approvingly, seeing that Miriel had kept herself busy by cleaning the place. Taking the lamp from the table, he quietly retreated to his bedchamber.
The embers in the fireplace had burned as low as those in the main room. However, the room was delightfully warm and welcoming especially after journeying in the frigid night. The topmost part of his covers was already folded back, beckoning him to slide beneath what he undoubtedly believed to be clean linens. The soft fragrance of flowers lingered in his private chamber as well. He was unaware that Miriel had added a few precious drops of her perfume to the soapy water.
Tossing aside his cloak, his eyes shifted to the frayed green rug that covered the cellar door. He frowned, wondering if Miriel had gone into the cellar. Surely, after cleaning as thoroughly as she had, she knew full well that that rug covered the trapdoor to his stash of Watcher memorabilia.
His frown lines deepened as he wrinkled his face at the thought. Despite the hour, Halbarad felt the need to see if she had indeed entered the secret chamber. Pulling aside the rug, he grabbed the recessed handle and pulled the hatch open. A rush of cold, musty air escaped from the pitch-black opening. Grabbing the lamp by the handle, he carefully descended the ladder, slowing making his way into the bowels of the cottage.
When he reached the bottom, he paused, holding the lamp aloft as his eyes scanned the shadowy depths. Halbarad raised the wick, desperate for more light. He squatted down, inspecting the stone floor. Only the imprint from his shoes had disturbed the thick layer of dust that covered the flagstone floor.
As he rose to his feet, his knees popped in protest; and the weariness of his journey seemed to hit him all at once. Relieved to know that Miriel hadn’t violated his trust, he climbed the ladder, eager for bed…
Miriel awoke at first light. Feeling the slight chill in the air, she immediately worked on reigniting the fire, stoking the wood until the flames crackled to life. That had pretty much become a morning ritual for her. She liked to keep the place warm and cozy.
Then, turning toward the kitchen, she spotted Halbarad’s bag on the floor by the door. He’s back, she thought, her eyes darting to his bedchamber door, which was now closed. Thank Eru I didn’t sleep in his bed last night.
Unsure of how long Hal had been home, Miriel was reluctant to wake him. Instead, she slipped on her boots and cloak and headed outside. She was in need of more wood and some water. Once she had lit the fire for the stove, she took off for the well.
There was no need to go further than the next cottage, as Heath was coming from the well, pulling his wagon of water barrels. “Good morning, Glossien,” he said in greeting. “I saw that you were out and about and thought you could use some water.”
Her eyes swept past the boy to the long line at the well. “That’s so thoughtful of you, Heath. Thank you so much.” She chatted with the boy a few minutes while he filled her buckets. Then, bidding him farewell, she returned to the cottage so that she could prepare a good hearty breakfast for Halbarad.
Before she had finished cooking, Halbarad came out of his bedroom, carrying a bundle under his arm. Mumbling, “Morning,” he swiftly passed through the kitchen and out the front door.
His hasty departure baffled Miriel. Where was he off to in such a hurry? A part of her was a bit annoyed that he hadn’t acknowledged how clean the place was. Surely, he had noticed, hadn’t he? With a heavy sigh, she resumed cooking.
Miriel’s annoyance grew when breakfast was ready, but Halbarad had not yet returned. Refusing to wait, she dug into her food. She had already finished eating when her Watcher finally came back.
“Your breakfast is cold,” she announced coolly, keeping herself busy by washing the dishes.
“That’s alright,” he replied, taking a seat at the table. He then started to wolf down his breakfast. He spoke no word about his trip or the cleanliness of the cottage.
When Miriel finished the dishes, she returned to the table, taking a seat across from Halbarad. “You came back earlier than expected,” she remarked. “I take it things went well on your journey.”
“Yes,” he answered between chews. “How ‘bout here? No problems whilst I was away?”
“No. No problems,” she replied with a sigh.
“Any visitors?” he queried, sipping his tea.
The blood began to rush to Miriel’s face. He knows, she thought to herself, half-panicked. The one thing Hal had told her not to do, she did. And he obviously knows. Why else would he bring it up? “Well, um, actually, Heath had come by,” she answered hesitantly.
The Dúnadan’s eyebrows shot up. He took a breath, as if to speak, but the Slayer was quick to follow up her sentence with, “It wasn’t a social call. He helped me carry in some water. He wasn’t here longer than five minutes. I swear.” She glanced down at the table, expecting a scolding from her Watcher. “Are you angry with me?” she asked softly.
She could hear him sigh heavily. “No,” he answered.
Miriel’s head shot up, surprised by Hal’s response.
“You told me the truth, and I respect you for that.” A small smile came to his face. “Had you lied… ” He didn’t finish that sentence. “Why don’t we get these dishes cleaned up and do a bit of training this morning?”
“Alright,” replied a relieved Miriel, glad that Hal wasn’t wroth with her.
She scooped up his dishes and went to the sink.
“By the way,” he added, rising from the table, “the place looks great.”
Smiling, the Slayer thanked him.
When the dishes were done, Hal grabbed some weapons and led Miriel outside. They went down a path into the woods to a clearing where they were able to practice in private. In the end, it turned out to be a very good day.
Nearly a week later, after a particularly strenuous workout session, Miriel lay in the tub of hot water, attempting to soak the soreness from her muscles. Whenever she felt that way, she’d fantasize about being back in Rivendell, feeling the skillful hands of the Elves massaging away her aches and pains. But, alas, she was in Archet where no Elves dwelt and only time would heal the soreness in her body.
Halbarad knocked on the door. “Everything alright in there?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m just having a good soak,” she replied.
“I have something for you. I’ll leave it on my bed and you can put it on when you get out.”
“What is it?” she called out.
Instead of a reply, she heard Hal’s bedchamber door close. He had already gone. From his comments, it seemed obvious that he had some type of clothing for her. That alone got her out of the tub. She quickly dried off, and peeked out the bathroom door. Yes, he was definitely gone. Her eyes widened when she saw the lovely lavender dress neatly laid out on the bed.
In typical girly fashion, she dashed over to the bed for a closer look. She picked up the garment and held it close to her body. It felt velvety soft and looked perfect for winter. She hurriedly slipped it on, wishing that there was a mirror in the cottage so that she could see what she looked like.
Once she was completely dressed, she wove her wet hair into one long braid down her back. When she stepped out of Hal’s bedchamber, she could see that he was sitting by the fireplace, puffing on his pipe. When he heard her, he rose from his chair and turned, facing her.
“How do I look?” she asked, whirling around. The last time she had worn a dress had been in Rivendell, which seemed like ages ago. Miriel was thrilled to look like a woman again. It was one thing to wear breeches out of necessity, but she wasn’t on the road fighting Orcs or trolls. Under the circumstances, this was more fitting attire.
Halbarad did not immediately reply. He stood there, his jaw slightly agape, staring transfixed at Miriel. When she saw his eyes beginning to water, she stopped. “What’s wrong?” she asked, quickly smoothing out the fabric with her hands. “Do I look horrible?”
“On the contrary,” he replied softly. “You look lovely.” He smiled warmly at the Slayer.
“Thank you, Hal,” she said, beaming. “I love it!” Miriel rushed over to Hal, threw her arms around his neck, and gave him a big hug.
“Ow! Not so hard. Not so hard,” he said with a laugh.
“Sorry.” Miriel pulled out of the embrace. “How did you do this? I mean, the dress fits perfectly.” Actually, it was an inch shorter than what Miriel normally wore, but that could easily be overlooked.
Hal took a deep draw on his pipe. “Never you mind that,” he answered, sitting back down on his chair again. “I’m just happy that you like it.”
Miriel spun around again. “I look normal again,” she observed. “I only wish you had a mirror in this house of yours. I’d like to see what I look like.”
“I assure you, Miriel, you look fairer than any maiden in Middle-earth, even one of the Elder race.”
“Now, you’re teasing me,” said the Slayer, feigning a pout.
“You should know by now that I do not tease, and that I speak my mind as I see it,” admitted Halbarad. He then chuckled, adding, “If I had known that a mere gown would’ve brought you this much joy, I would’ve done it sooner and lessened my grief.”
“How about some tea?” she asked, eager to do something to please Halbarad for such a thoughtful gift.
“That would be nice,” he replied.
As Miriel went about making the tea, the Dúnadan watched her from the corner of his eye. The dress stirred such old memories. Halbarad couldn’t remember how many years had passed since he last laid eyes on that gown. He had decided to reward Miriel with the dress before it rotted away in his cellar. His beloved wouldn’t be wroth with him over that, would she?
Halbarad felt the warmth of a tear trickling from the corner of his eye. He hastily wiped it away before his Slayer could see. No, he thought to himself. I have not wronged her by giving this gift to Miriel.
The following day, the Dúnadan surprised Miriel with yet another item from out of the cellar - a full-length mirror. That delighted his Slayer even more.
As the days turned into weeks, Halbarad gradually brought up more things he had stored in the cellar. He’d place them in the sitting room so that when Miriel woke up, it would be the first thing she would see. One of the items was a seascape tapestry.
“I thought this would be a pleasant reminder of your mother’s kin that dwell in Belfalas,” he had said one fair morning.
Miriel was so moved by Hal’s thoughtfulness that she broke down and cried. She dearly missed her loved ones in Dol Amroth, as well as her brothers in Minas Tirith. She had Halbarad hang that tapestry over the fireplace so that she could see it from anywhere in the main living space. With Miriel’s influence, the house was once again becoming a home - even pale green curtains adorned all the windows.
Most days were spent training in one form or another. Sometimes it was hard labor that Hal insisted, “Helped strengthen muscles and developed coordination.” At other times, they practiced dueling or wrestling, and then there were times when an entire session was devoted to gymnastics or meditation. At night, after supper, Hal would often regale Miriel with stories of the Rangers’ past adventures.
Life seemed good. The Slayer seldom complained any more, having adjusted to her current living arrangement. And the same could be said for Halbarad, as he too had become more comfortable around Miriel. They had established their own little routine, and could easily work side-by-side without invading the other’s space.
Now it so happened that spring had come earlier than normal that year, arriving in mid-March. The village was abloom with wildflowers in a myriad of colors and a sweet fragrance lingered throughout all of Archet. The weather was spectacular - warm days and cool nights. The windows in the little cottage were kept open, allowing a stream of fresh air to pass through. This was most helpful in combating the heat from the wood stove on which they cooked, which had been most welcome in the winter, but not so much in spring.
There came a day, the fourth of April to be precise, when Halbarad and Miriel received unexpected visitors. They were in Hal’s bedchamber, putting the freshly laundered sheets on his bed when there was a knock at the door. Visitors were uncommon, (though most of the times it turned out to be Heath), but this time, there seemed to be a glint in the Watcher’s eyes.
“I wonder who that could be,” he remarked as he strolled out of the bedroom.
Miriel snickered, assuming it was the neighbor boy again.
A few seconds later, Miriel heard the sound of familiar voices, voices she had not heard for quite a few months. She dropped the pillow onto the bed and flew out of the room. She shrieked with delight when she spotted Elladan, Elrohir, Aragorn and Gúron standing in the kitchen. Despite the men’s haggard appearance, she leapt into the nearest man’s arms (Elrohir), hugging him tightly.
“I’ve missed you all so much,” she gushed, planting a kiss on the Half-elf’s dirt-streaked face.
“Look at you, Miriel,” said Elrohir, his bright grey eyes doing a quick sweep over her. “You look even lovelier than the last time I saw you.”
“Thanks,” she replied, now embracing his twin.
Elladan took a step back and looked over the Slayer. “Your hair has gotten longer,” he said, remarking on the most noticeable change in her appearance. “And that dress… Is that one of Arwen’s?” he asked, unsure whether or not he had seen it before.
“This?” answered Miriel, taking a step back. “No. This was a gift from Hal.” She spun around, showing off her recently acquired gown. This one was more appropriate for the warmer weather - pale blue and sleeveless. “Do you like it?”
“Indeed,” he answered with a smile.
Miriel then gave Aragorn a big hug. “It’s good to see you again, Miriel,” greeted the Ranger Chieftain. “How’s your arm?”
“Stronger than ever.”
The Slayer even embraced Gúron, though she didn’t really know him much at all.
The arrival of the Rangers meant only one thing to her - it was time to go back into the wilds, fighting the dark creatures of Middle-earth. She was quite ready, and excited at the prospect.
“I’ll change quickly, so we can get going,” she said, starting toward the chest by the fireplace where her belongings were now stowed.
“We’re not leaving right yet,” announced Aragorn, dropping his bag to the floor.
“They’re going to stay a few days with us, Miriel,” explained Halbarad. “They need to rest a bit before setting out again.” He then explained that the Rangers often leave the hunt and stop at a kinsmen’s home so that they can get some rest, a hearty meal and a much needed bath.
“Oh,” she responded. “We… we have plenty of room.” She didn’t believe that for one second. With the sudden addition of four men, the cottage already felt much smaller. Regardless, she was going to do her best to be the perfect hostess and make her friends as comfortable as possible.
As she fluttered about the place, assigning places on the floor for each man, Aragorn pulled Halbarad aside.
“Perhaps my eyes are deceiving me, but is that not one of Idhien’s gowns?” the Ranger Chieftain queried, his brow raised in question.
“It is,” replied the slightly uncomfortable Watcher. “No sense in it rotting away in the cellar, eh?”
Grinning broadly, Aragorn placed his hand on Halbarad’s shoulder. “I agree.” His eyes swiftly scanned the interior of the cottage. He could most certainly see the dramatic changes that had taken place. “It’s been many years since this place has looked like a home. It gladdens my heart to see that you are moving on.”
A pinkish hue came to the Watcher’s cheeks. “It’s not what you think,” he was quick to reply.
The Ranger Chieftain studied his friend’s face for a few moments. “As long as you and Miriel are on better terms, I cannot ask for more.”
“We are.”
“Then I am most pleased.”
“Hal!” Miriel repeated for the second time.
Both Halbarad and Aragorn turned toward the Slayer. She stood across the room with her hands on her hips and a look of annoyance on her face.
“Yes, Miriel?” asked Halbarad.
She sighed heavily. “Well, apparently, you’re not listening to a word I say!” she said indignantly. “We need water from the well. These good men are in need of baths, and there’s still enough daylight left so that I can start washing their clothes.” She then shooed him out the door, telling him to borrow barrels from the Hawthorns.
“They act like an old married couple, don’t they?” observed Gúron, as he sunk onto the sofa.
The others chuckled, nodding in response.
Miriel allowed her friends some time to rest while she finished her chores. In the meantime, she offered them some cheese and bread to tide them over until supper, promising them a feast if they could wait. They agreed.
When Hal returned, he and Miriel proved how effective and efficiently they could work together as a team. When the first tub of hot water was ready, the Rangers debated over who would be the first to bathe. Miriel couldn’t believe it. She settled the argument with her nose.
“Aragorn, you go first since you smell the worst,” she concluded.
The Ranger Chieftain chortled. “I don’t know if I should be honored or offended.”
“Take it for what you will,” she replied, handing him a towel and cloth. “The soap’s by the tub. We have plenty, so feel free to use it liberally!” She motioned him toward Hal’s bedroom. “Leave your dirty clothes on Hal’s bedchamber floor and I’ll get them as soon as you get in the bath.”
“Looks like there’s a new mistress of the house,” commented an amused Elladan.
Aragorn hesitated.
Miriel gave him a look since he was not obediently following her orders.
“My bag, Miriel,” he said, pointing to his satchel sitting on the kitchen floor.
She dashed into the kitchen and grabbed his bag from the floor. When she went to hand it to him, she pulled back, asking, “Why do you need your bag?”
“If you’re going to launder these,” he motioned toward the soiled garments he was wearing, “then I shall need to put something else on. Surely, you do not expect me to sit around in the nude.”
The Slayer rolled her eyes. “Of course not. But what’s the point of putting on filthy clothes after you’ve bathed?” She looked the Ranger Chieftain over, surmising that he and Halbarad were of similar build. “Put on something of Hal’s,” she suggested. “He’s got clean clothing in his wardrobe.”
Aragorn looked questioningly at Halbarad, seeking his approval.
Hal wished that Miriel would’ve asked him first, but he consented nonetheless.
“I’ll wash what you have in here,” said Miriel, as she opened the Ranger Chieftain’s bag. “Now, go. There are others waiting for their turn.”
“Yes, my lady,” responded Aragorn with a bow of his head, disappearing into Hal’s bedchamber.
As Miriel pulled out the son of Arathorn’s dirty garments, she pulled her Watcher aside, instructing him on what she wanted done next. He was assigned the task of getting their supper. When he received his orders, he left out the front door.
The sons of Elrond and Gúron watched the Slayer as she knocked on the bedroom door. When she discovered that Aragorn was already in the tub, she entered Hal’s bedchamber, snatched the Ranger Chieftain’s dirty clothing off the floor and exited the room.
“I need to get these washed. I’ll be outside,” she announced.
“Do you need any help, Miriel?” asked Elrohir.
“No. Relax awhile. Hal and I shouldn’t be too long.” The Slayer started to the door and then stopped. “Why don’t you all get out your dirty clothes as well. No sense in anybody putting on soiled garments after bathing.” She disappeared outside, as the others dug through their bags, pulling out their filthy clothing.
A few minutes later, she returned, accompanied by Hal, to get a couple of buckets of hot water from the cauldron before Hal refilled it with fresh water. She then hastily left again, taking with her all the men’s dirty garments. Miriel always preferred to do the laundry outside so she wouldn’t slosh water all over the floor. About twenty minutes later, she returned. Half of the items had been washed and were hung on the clothesline to dry.
When she came back into the cottage, Gúron was about to take his bath. “I think not!” Miriel protested. “What is the point of bathing if the bath water is filthy?” She shook her head. “No, the water must be dumped, the tub cleaned and then filled with fresh water.”
“That is too much trouble,” argued the golden-haired Dúnadan. “I am fine with - ”
“I will not have any guests bathing in filthy water in this house,” remarked an adamant Miriel. “I work swifter than you may think. Give me a few minutes to get things ready.”
The Elves and Rangers were somewhat taken aback by the Slayer’s insistence on washing the tub between baths. Seldom had any of their hosts done such a thing. After being in the wilds for weeks on end, the men were more than satisfied with a cloth, a basin of water and some soap to wash away the grime. Miriel was definitely going beyond the call of duty. And, remarkably, she had worked rather fast. Within ten minutes, Gúron was slipping into a tub of clean, steamy water.
Once everyone had bathed, and Miriel had all their clothing washed and hung to dry, she began to work on supper. Halbarad had been appointed the task of gathering all the ingredients for the meal. While Slayer and Watcher busily worked on dinner, the others took advantage of the safety that Hal’s home provided and got some much needed sleep, each man garbed in Hal’s cleanest clothing.
A few hours later, all was ready. Since the tiny kitchen table could not accommodate seven people, they split into two groups. Aragorn, Gúron and Hal sat at the table while Miriel and the twins sat in the seating area.
“This reminds me of Rivendell,” remarked Miriel to the sons of Elrond, referring to the many meals they ate together alone in her bedroom. “That seems so long ago.”
“It hasn’t been that long,” replied Elrohir.
“It feels like it. I feel like I’ve been locked away here for years,” Miriel said with a sigh. “I’m eager to hit the road again, to act the part of Slayer, instead of just practicing it.”
“Fret not, Miriel,” chimed in Elladan. “In a few days we’ll be off again, and you’ll soon find yourself longing to be in lodgings as fine as this.”
Miriel rolled her eyes. “I doubt that! I haven’t been anywhere, haven’t done anything, other than doing my chores and attempting to perfect my Slayer skills.”
“You haven’t been anywhere?” queried Elrohir in disbelief. “Not even to Bree?”
“Well, we had to pass through to get to Archet, didn’t we? And there was that time when I got lost in the woods and ended up on the main road in Bree. But other than that, no.”
“Then we must do something about that,” proclaimed Elladan. “Before we depart we should visit The Prancing Pony.”
“The Prancing Pony?” queried Miriel, oblivious of the name.
“It’s an inn,” continued Elladan, between chews. “Good ale. Music. Singing. Dancing. Sounds like the ideal reward for a young lady that’s been locked away in the woods for months on end.”
Miriel’s eyes lit up at the thought. “Ooh, I would love that very much.” She then glanced over at Halbarad seated between his two fellow Rangers. Her heart immediately sank. Shifting her gaze back to the twins, she added, “I’m afraid that Hal will say no. He has forbidden me to interact with the villagers, for the most part. I’ve only spoke with one of the neighbor boys. That’s about all.” Miriel’s momentary excitement dissipated, only to be replaced with glumness.
“Leave it to us to convince Hal that your having an evening out is called for,” added Elrohir with a wink.
“What’s more,” began Elladan, shoving a piece of chicken into his mouth, “with you looking so lady-like, we’ve got to take you somewhere. Soon you’ll be looking very much like us men-folk!”
The smile returned to Miriel’s face. She knew that if the twin sons of Elrond supported the idea of a festive evening at The Prancing Pony that there was no way Halbarad would deny them, since the Elves were much older and wiser than he. Besides, it was highly unlikely that anything bad would happen. Bree was far from danger, or so Miriel thought.
The sons of Elrond and Miriel talked well into the night, just as they had in Rivendell. When they others were ready for bed, the trio moved their conversation outdoors, sitting next to the cottage, basking in the light of the silver moon.
The following morning, Miriel awoke with a renewed spirit. Elladan and Elrohir had promised to take her to Bree that evening and she had much to do beforehand. Her pale blue gown needed to be washed and after smelling the men’s stinky blankets all night, they too needed a good cleaning.
After breakfast, Aragorn wanted to test Miriel’s abilities by having the men ambush her in the deep of the woods. The Slayer agreed, but only after she did the laundry so that the things would have time to dry before the night’s festivities. As she finished her chores, the Rangers took off into the forest, positioning themselves in strategic locations for the staged attack.
Once she had completed all her tasks, she readied herself for the woods. Ever since that time when she had gotten lost in the woods, Miriel had made a point to never leave the cottage without a weapon. Usually it was her dagger since it was the easiest to conceal. The villagers looked at her strangely, mostly because she was dressed in manly garb, and the thought of stomping off into the woods carrying a bow or sword was out of the question. Before exiting the cottage, she slid the sheathed blade inside the leg of her boot so that it fit snugly against her skin.
She was about to open the door when thoughts of Heath sprang into her mind. Chances were that the lad was already outside, waiting for her. Not wanting to risk the boy following, she ran across the room and dove out the rear window, hit the ground with a perfect roll, and then sprang to her feet.
The cool air felt good against her damp skin. The sweet fragrance of flowers and freshly cut grass wafted into her nostrils, convincing her that spring was the best time of year. She took a deep breath as her eyes scanned the forest’s edge, looking for any signs of the Rangers. She turned her attention to the ground, looking for their tracks. Miriel had already made up her mind that she would be the hunter, instead of the hunted.
She walked closer to the tree line, searching for flattened patches of grass that the men had stomped on. She found their trail easily enough, but once she entered the woods, their tracks were not so clearly visible. Her heart started to race, thinking that her plan to find her pursuers had come to a screeching halt before it even began.
Calm down, Miriel, she told herself. The Slayer closed her eyes, and took several slow and deep breaths, listening intently to the sounds of the wood. She could hear birds chirping merrily in the treetops, the sound of their wings flapping as they flew from one tree limb to another. Several squirrels chattered as they played a game of chase, running down the bole of a tree and jumping onto the dried leaves that littered the forest floor. Though their feet were tiny, she could hear them crunching on the leaves as they ran across them. Other than that, she could hear the occasional breeze rustling the treetops. She heard no sounds from the men.
Opening her eyes, she now saw the group of squirrels, still happily chattering away, scampering in single file along an exposed birch root, hurrying up the trunk, and disappearing into the canopy of greenery above. Miriel then turned her attention back to the ground, thinking about her hunting trip with Glorfindel.
She squatted, inspecting the ground more closely. When she noticed that some of the vegetation amidst the trees lay bent and broken, she figured this had to be from a heavy foot. Plucking one of the damaged stems from the ground, Miriel lifted it to her nose and inhaled the sweet fragrance. It had recently been broken to emit such a strong smell and the absence of morning dew from the stalk only confirmed that at least one man had gone stomping off to the north.
Rising to her feet, she mumbled, “Thank you, Glorfindel,” before heading in what she believed to be the direction that one of the mortal men had taken. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to find the sons of Elrond since the Elves had this uncanny ability to leave hardly any tracks at all.
Deeper into the woods she went. Things seemed to grow more quiet the further she went. She had gone maybe a mile or so when she noticed a single green leaf fluttering to the ground a few yards ahead. She looked more closely at the tree and spotted Elladan standing on a limb with a huge grin on his face.
Chuckling, she marched toward him, proclaiming, “By the looks of it, you wanted me to find you.”
The Elf leapt out of the tree, landing softly on the ground. “I was bored,” he replied. “No luck finding the others, I take it.”
“Not yet.”
He leaned in closer, whispering, “If you need some help finding them, I can – ”
“ – Absolutely not!” interjected the Slayer, cutting the Half-elf off mid-sentence. Raising a brow, she snidely added, “Or is it that you find me incapable of tracking my pursuers on my own, son of Elrond?”
Elladan raised his hands in submission. “I was just offering my assistance. If you’re uninterested, then so be it. I’ll follow along, that is, if you do not mind.”
Miriel smiled. “I don’t mind. I can use the company.” She started off again with the Elf following behind. “Just so you know; I do know a thing or two about tracking. I survived on my own for a long while without the aid of anyone. I do have some survival skills.”
“I never said that you didn’t,” responded Elladan.
The Slayer came to a stop, so sudden was it that the Half-elf nearly bumped into her. “Look!” she said, pointing to a broken spider web strung between two trees before them. “Someone walked through this recently,” she observed. She looked at the ground and saw no other obvious signs that someone had trodden over the ground. However, trusting her instincts, she found herself veering west.
From behind, she heard Elladan sounding his approval at her choice.
Being somewhat familiar with these woods, she knew that the way in which she was going led to a clearing about two hundred yards ahead. She and Hal had practiced weaponry there before. Her Watcher had chosen that place because it was far enough away from the villagers that none could hear their clashing weapons.
Miriel glanced over her shoulder at Elladan. “I’d think Hal wouldn’t choose such an obvious place for an ambush. I’ve been here before, you know. Where’s that whole element of surprise?” she queried with a snicker.
The moment the words came out of her mouth, the Slayer walked right into someone. Jerking her head back around, she looked up into the handsome face of Elrohir. “You were saying something about the element of surprise, I believe,” he remarked, his grey eyes twinkling in victory and amusement. “I’ve captured you, Dagnir,” he added, taking hold of her arm.
“Like hell,” she countered, speedily grabbing the Half-elf by the shoulder and flipping him onto the ground. She leapt onto his chest, pinning his arms to the forest floor. “It looks like I’ve captured you, son of Elrond,” she said in triumph, wrapping her legs around his lower extremities so that he could not use his legs to buck her off.
Having had the wind knocked out of him, Elrohir gasped, “I can see that you have been practicing.”
“Do you give up, or are you eager for more?” she asked, grinning from ear-to-ear.
Elrohir fixed his gaze on his twin. “I suppose you’re not going help me, eh, brother?”
“I’ve already been captured,” answered Elladan, throwing up his hands. “You’re on your own, I’m afraid.”
“Actually, Elladan surrendered,” laughed Miriel. “He knows when he’s met his match! So what about you, my dear Elrohir? Do you surrender as well?”
The Half-elf squirmed beneath the Slayer, but relented when he saw that there was no escaping her clutches. “Aye,” he finally sighed in defeat.
“Two down, three to go,” said Miriel, clambering off Elrohir. She offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet. “I would never have thought that you two would be the first ones I’d capture,” she added before stomping toward the clearing.
The sons of Elrond exchanged looks. Didn’t the Slayer see that they had wanted to be caught? They took off after her but stayed several paces behind.
For a split second, Miriel spotted a glimmer of gold in the sunlight on the western side of the glade. She knew that had to be Gúron’s golden hair. Perhaps his restlessness had caused him to reveal his hiding place. Or, maybe he had overheard Miriel talking with the sons of Elrond and his curiosity had gotten the best of him. Who knows what had prompted him to peek out from behind that tree. Regardless, the Slayer now knew his position.
She rushed toward him, ducking branches that jutted out across her path. Gúron seemed oblivious to the fact that he had been detected. Though focused on her prey, Miriel couldn’t overlook the fact that two more Rangers were lurking about somewhere in the vicinity. She watched out of the corner of her eye for sudden movements and listened intently for the sound of crunching leaves or snapping twigs.
When Miriel entered the clearing, both Aragorn and Halbarad came charging from the north and south. She stopped dead in her tracks. Both men were unarmed, so she would have to engage the “enemy” in hand-to-hand combat, something that she had not only worked on with Hal, but with Buffy more times than she could count.
Her muscles tightened, as her eyes darted from man to man. She delivered a roundhouse kick at Aragorn, striking him in the side, which sent him soaring across the glade. As she came out of her spin, Halbarad had jumped on her back with full force. She countered by flinging herself backward, causing both to fall to the ground. With Miriel’s added weight, the Watcher hit the earth hard, leaving him dazed.
Aragorn had already gotten back on his feet and came racing toward Miriel yet again. Though Hal was trying to blink the stars away, he kept his arms tightly clamped around her body. She squirmed, her eyes widening as Aragorn came nearer. Her adrenaline was pumping. Her legs shot out in an attempt to kick the Ranger Chieftain in the stomach again, but he slid to the side in the nick of time and avoided being hit. Fearful that he’d leap on top of her, she swung her legs around, trying to sweep the Dúnadan off his feet.
Having surprisingly good reflexes, Aragorn leapt over her legs, and then dove toward her. Miriel’s body reacted instantly. She head-butted Halbarad, which caused him to loosen his grip so that she could roll off the Ranger, just as Aragorn landed, his body crashing down on top of his friend.
The Slayer took advantage of this situation by leaping onto Aragorn’s back. Straddling him, (he was still on top of poor Halbarad); she reached around and grabbed his stubbly chin with both hands, bringing it back so that his body arched painfully in response. Victory was in her grasp.
“Do you surrender?” she breathed heavily.
Aragorn grunted. Halbarad continued to twist and turn beneath them both, hurling every obscenity known to mankind.
The Ranger Chieftain was nearing his breaking point. But then, much to her surprise, Miriel was struck from behind. Elladan, deciding to help his friends out, hit the Slayer across the back of her shoulders with his forearm, thrusting her forward into the Ranger Chieftain. As a result Aragorn ended up head-butting Hal, and Miriel was forced to loosen her grip on her captive. Elladan swiftly slipped his arms under hers, pulling her back and off the men while clamping his hands at the base of her neck.
Elladan maintained his balance, as Miriel attempted to counter the hold. She wanted to retaliate by head-butting the Half-elf, but it was too painful to even try. She then resorted to stomping at his feet, but the Elf was too quick and she kept missing them. Having no other choice, she reached back and grabbed a handful of his dark hair and yanked, hard. To her dismay, Elladan did not loosen his grip. He responded by tightening his hold. The pain in Miriel’s neck was so great that she was forced to let go of his hair. Many strands of his fine elvish hair remained entwined around her fingers.
She watched as Aragorn helped pull Hal to his feet. She knew she needed to act fast. With Elladan’s body pressed against hers, she knew that he was within striking distance of her elbows. She rammed each one into his ribcage, knowing that would have to inflict some pain on the Half-elf.
By the sound of the groan that escaped his lips, Miriel was right. His grip did ease up, but somehow Aragorn was suddenly there. He grabbed her and body slammed her onto the ground. That alone knocked the wind out of her, but it became much worse when she felt the Ranger Chieftain climb atop her, pinning her arms over her head.
“Not bad, Dagnir,” he panted, tossing his head in an attempt to get his hair out of his eyes.
Miriel was also breathless, but she wasn’t about to give up. She brought her left leg forward, wedged it between her and Aragorn, and pushed. But the Ranger Chieftain refused to let go of her wrists and when he went backwards, she went forward. The momentum caused her to roll over him, thus breaking her free from his hold. Her wrists burned from the friction, as she leapt onto her feet in one swift motion, and resumed her fighting stance.
“I think we’ve had enough,” said Halbarad, pinching his nose in an attempt to stop the stream of crimson.
Miriel hadn’t noticed her Watcher was bleeding. “Sorry, Hal,” she apologized.
“I believe Aragorn’s head is responsible,” he answered.
“Sorry, Hal,” said the Ranger Chieftain, still hunched over and trying to catch his breath.
“Hold your head back,” advised Elrohir, who went over to assist the injured Watcher.
“I agree that we should work on something else,” chimed in Elladan, rubbing his throbbing scalp. “I think Miriel can handle herself in hand-to-hand combat.”
The Slayer watched as the eldest son of Elrond pulled stray strands of hair from his locks. “I’m sorry, Elladan, but you left me no other choice.”
“We were only practicing, Miriel,” replied a grimacing Elladan.
“I know. I did go easy on you though.” The Slayer found herself feeling badly about having pulled out some of Elladan’s hair, but let’s face it - he had her in a hold that felt as if he was going to snap her neck in two! What was she supposed to do?
They took a break for several minutes so that all could catch their breath and allow the pain to subside. In Halbarad’s case, they waited until the bleeding stopped. From that point on, they went over the rules of engagement and the importance of following orders, more specifically, Aragorn’s orders, since he was leader over all, including the sons of Elrond.
They then went over battle tactics, both offensive and defensive. Aragorn stressed the importance of not jumping into the heat of battle as Miriel had done with the trolls.
“In combat situations, you assess, then react,” he advised. “This can be done in a matter of seconds. But you must assess the situation before reacting. If you choose to react first, you may end up with a broken arm!” he said lightheartedly. Aragorn hoped that by mentioning Miriel’s own past experience on how not to fight, his message would hit home.
And it did, though none would discover that until a short while later.
They worked on various exercises, exercises that weren’t taxing or painful. Time seemed to fly by. Before they knew it, the shadows had deepened in the woods, signaling that evening was rapidly approaching. As the group marched back to Hal’s cottage, Miriel’s thoughts turned to supper. She, like the others, was ravenous.
“Any thoughts on supper, Miriel?” asked Hal, knowing that the two of them would be responsible for feeding their guests.
However, before she could respond, Elrohir spoke up. “If you do not mind me interjecting here,” began the Half-elf. “Elladan and I would like to take everybody out this evening for a meal at The Prancing Pony.”
“Ooh, I like that idea very much,” Miriel was quick to agree.
“Then it’s settled,” added Elladan, not wanting to give Halbarad any time to voice his disapproval.
Surprisingly, Halbarad also agreed.
As soon as they reached the cottage, Miriel grabbed everything off the clothesline, including her pale blue dress. She asked Hal to get more water so she could bathe before enjoying a night in Bree. If there had been a record for speed bathing, the Slayer would’ve broken it hands down. She had never washed so fast. Usually, she loved a good long soak, especially after a lengthy practice. But her muscles weren’t aching or throbbing. Even her neck felt better.
Once Miriel was ready, the group set off for Bree on foot. It was no longer than a mile and a half walk, an easy trek for Rangers. Aragorn led the group, walking alone several paces in front of the others. Miriel and the twins followed behind him while Gúron and Halbarad stayed at the rear.
Many of the villagers were outside, enjoying the rather beautiful evening. However, Miriel couldn’t help but notice that the townspeople seemed to shrink back from the road, as she and her friends approached. She couldn’t imagine why they’d do that, since her companions were the most valiant men in all of Bree-land, if not the whole of Middle-earth!
Gúron, having noticed Miriel’s perplexed expression, leaned in, whispering, “It’s the Elves, I’ll have you know. Bree-landers are not accustomed to seeing the Elder Children, and remain very suspicious of them.”
The twins scoffed at that notion.
“They find all outsiders suspicious,” corrected Elrohir. “Present company included.”
“Ah, my good Elf, they may not favor the Dúnedain, save Halbarad here, but these folk think the Elves possess magics that they find frightening.”
Elladan snickered. “Yet their shopkeepers would gladly take our money for their goods and services.”
“Keep your voices down,” hissed Halbarad. “These people are my neighbors. Just ignore them.”
They took the Watcher’s advice, for the most part. Miriel thought it was silly for the villagers to be fearful of the Elves or the Rangers. In fact, she was proud to be in such company and wasn’t ashamed to show it. She linked each arm with that of Elladan’s and Elrohir’s, pulling them closer to her side - Bree-landers be damned!
Not even fifteen minutes later, they were strolling along the Great East Road. Apparently, the people in Bree were used to travelers of all kinds. Many people were milling about, enjoying the evening, but they reacted quite differently than the villagers of Archet. They gave a quick look at the Rangers as they passed by, showing no obvious fear or distrust from what Miriel could see.
When they finally reached their destination, Miriel paused for a moment, as the others passed through the stone archway into the courtyard. She looked up at the three-story inn, her smile widening. After spending months on end in Hal’s little cottage, The Prancing Pony now more closely resembled some magnificent mansion built by a strange race of Man from long ago. The construction was fine enough, having withstood the test of time.
“Are you coming, Glossien?” asked Aragorn from the topmost step.
Her smile lessened at the use of that name. Why not address her by her proper name? Surely, there was no danger in that.
Regardless, she nodded before climbing the wide steps of the inn.
Once inside, Aragorn continued to lead the way. They passed through a door to their left and entered a large, smoke-filled room already brimming with people. The smile returned to Miriel’s face when she spotted a group of Halflings sitting around a table, drinking little tankards of ale. The chairs that they sat upon were man-size, and they swung their dangling, hairy feet as they talked animatedly with one another.
“This way,” said Aragorn over the din, leading the group to a table against the far wall. As they followed him, Miriel spotted a group of dwarves eating near the fireplace. Her eyes shifted from each dwarf’s face, hoping that by some strange chance she’d see Gimli again. But, alas, none appeared to be the friendly dwarf she had befriended whilst traveling on her own.
Hal pulled up additional chairs so that they could all sit at the same table. After taking her seat, Miriel continued to scan the room. Other than the dwarves and Hobbits, men filled the rest of the room. It appeared that Miriel was the only woman in the entire establishment. She found that a bit strange.
Seated between the sons of Elrond, Miriel leaned over Elrohir so that she could speak with Halbarad. “Why are there no women here? Is that… normal?” she asked, her face wrinkled in bewilderment.
“It is,” he replied. “The men of Bree tend to want to get away from their wives, for a while.” A smile crept upon his face. “This is their reward after a hard day’s work.”
“I don’t understand,” she continued. “Surely, the women work just as hard and are entitled to the same reward for their labors.”
“Oh, their reward is that their husbands have left the house for the inn,” Gúron said with a chuckle. “Gives the women a bit of peace and quiet.”
Miriel chortled. She felt that there was some truth in Gúron’s statement.
“And let us not forget that the road is perilous nowadays,” added Elrohir. “Women travel only in great need.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” remarked Miriel.
“You’re an anomaly,” said Aragorn, pulling a pouch from his breast pocket. He withdrew his pipe, and began stuffing the bowl with weed. The other two Dúnedain followed his lead. Only Miriel and the sons of Elrond refrained from smoking.
Shortly afterward, a squat, plump bald man came bumbling up to the table, looking flustered. “Good evening,” he said in greeting, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He quickly surveyed those seated at the table. When his eyes settled on Aragorn, his body seemed to stiffen. “Oh, it’s you.”
Miriel narrowed her eyes. She didn’t much care for the tone of the innkeeper’s voice.
“Yes, it’s me,” answered Aragorn sternly, his grey eyes boring into the man.
The innkeeper became nervous and uncomfortable by the Ranger Chieftain’s penetrating gaze. He shifted his eyes. “I assume you and your guests will be wanting some supper.”
Elladan then slipped a few coins into the proprietor’s hand. “Yes, and we’d appreciate friendlier service.”
The innkeeper looked at his palm. His eyes widened, pleased at having received his payment upfront. “Yes, sir,” he replied in a chipper tone. “I’ll have your meals right away.” He turned. Two men at the adjoining table were waving their empty tankards at the innkeeper. He took the tankards and then vanished out of the room.
“I don’t like that man,” remarked Aragorn as his drew on his pipe, staring at the empty doorway through which the innkeeper had walked.
Miriel suddenly became apprehensive at the idea of eating in an unfamiliar place. “You don’t think he’ll do something to our food, do you?”
“Of course not,” replied Halbarad. “Butterbur may be a disagreeable character, but he’s not a complete idiot.”
Gúron nodded his approval. “He has enough wisdom to know not to meddle with a Ranger.”
“That’s all fine and well,” sighed Miriel. “But, I’m not a Ranger.”
“No,” said Aragorn, blowing out a plume of smoke. “You’re much more than that.” A rare smile came to his face.
At that moment, the dwarves seated by the fireplace burst into song. Whatever apprehension Miriel had felt, instantly disappeared. She turned her chair so that she could get a better look at the Naugrim. They stood before the fireplace singing in their deep, gruff voices. They had the entire room’s attention.
The dwarves finished their song to rousing applause, which inspired them to sing another. Just then, Butterbur, accompanied by a young Hobbit, came bounding into the room, carrying trays laden with the Rangers’ supper. Ham appeared to be on the menu tonight. Ham and roasted vegetables. A block of yellow cheese, a loaf of bread, butter and some type of jam rounded out their meal. The Hobbit gave each person a tankard full of foamy ale.
“Can I get you anything else, gents, and lady?” asked Butterbur, slipping the empty tray under his arm.
“No, thank you,” replied Elladan.
The man gave a quick nod of his head. He then turned his attention to the Halfling, who still had two tankards of ale of his tray. “Oi! This table!” he said, pointing to the table beside the Rangers. The Hobbit then gave the two men their drinks before he and Butterbur cleared away the dwarves’ dirty dishes.
“Cheese, Glossien?” asked Gúron, offering he a slab.
“Yes, please,” she answered, holding up her plate. The golden-haired Dúnadan dropped the wedge onto her dish.
The ravenous men immediately dug into their food. Miriel watched them for a moment.
“Eat,” said Elladan, nudging her arm. “It’s good.”
The Slayer took a bite of ham. It tasted a bit salty, but was good, nonetheless. She was quite appreciative of the fact that she didn’t have to cook the meal nor clean the dishes afterward.
Miriel and her companions made small talk while they ate. They were very fortunate that the dwarves had carried instruments with them and were now making music for everyone’s enjoyment.
As soon as they had finished eating, the mortal men pulled out their pipes and began to puff away.
The Slayer turned her chair around again so that she could watch the dwarves. After a while, Elladan asked, “Would you like to dance?” Before she could reply, the eldest son of Elrond was already out of his seat, taking her by the hand. He led her to a cleared area near the fireplace beside the dwarves.
At first, she took turns dancing with Elladan and Elrohir, as the rest of the patrons looked on. Once the Rangers had finished their pipes, she danced with each one of them too. As the night wore on, the people became livelier, singing boisterously, clapping along with the music, more than likely as a direct result from the ale. Miriel had only taken sips of hers when her mouth had become overly dry. By eight-thirty, she had only begun her second tankard.
She was of the opinion that the ale had relaxed people’s inhibitions, as one of the Hobbits came up to her and kindly asked for a dance. She found herself unable to refuse, despite the height discrepancy. She danced with the Halfling as she would have with any child, though her dancing partner was far older than a mere child.
Perhaps Miriel’s dancing with someone outside her party had prompted others to ask for a dance. First, it was a Hobbit, then a dwarf. Then another dwarf, then a Hobbit, and so on and so forth until she had danced with all of them. The only ones that refrained from asking her were the mortal men in the room. Miriel wasn’t sure if that was because they were married or that they felt intimidated by her companions, who were much bigger and stronger than all the men in that room. That didn’t mean that they didn’t watch nor join in the revelry.
The last dwarf with which she had danced had a tendency to step on her toes from time to time. For one so short, he sure was heavy. Her toes throbbed horribly. It made her think of the ancient rumor that dwarves were made from stone, because that dwarf’s feet felt like blocks of marble!
Relieved when their dance was over, Miriel limped back to her table. She collapsed onto her chair, fanning herself with her hand. “It’s terribly hot in here, don’t you think?” she remarked breathlessly.
“It’s only you,” answered Elrohir.
“I imagine if I danced so much, I’d be hot as well,” laughed Elladan. “I take it you’re all danced out.”
“Yes, and my toes are killing me!” she said, slipping one foot out of her shoe and rubbing her aching toes.
“Maybe we should call it a night,” suggested Halbarad, looking at his pocket watch. “It’s getting late.”
“No it’s not,” countered Miriel. Her feet may have hurt, but she wasn’t ready to go home. Not yet. This was her first outing in months and she wasn’t ready for the night to end. She gulped some ale to quench her thirst.
“O’ come on, Hal,” began Elladan. “Let… Glossien enjoy her evening out. This a rare treat for her.”
Miriel nodded in agreement, as she continued to frantically fan herself.
“Besides,” chimed in his twin, “we’ll be on the road soon enough. When will she get another opportunity like this, hmm?”
“That’s right,” added Miriel. “And I have been working hard and have been less insolent. You’ve said so yourself.”
The Watcher threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine. Fine,” he conceded. “Have your bit of fun.” He then dug his pipe out of his pocket, having the sudden need for a smoke.
Miriel smile gratefully at Halbarad and the sons of Elrond. Then, rising from her seat, she announced, “I’m going to get a bit of fresh air.”
Elladan had misgivings about Miriel’s going outside alone at that hour. “I’ll join you,” he suggested. “I can use a bit of fresh air myself.”
Miriel frowned. “Why do I get the impression that you feel the need to protect me, as if I’m some defenseless maiden.” She folded her arms across her chest in defiance. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself, my dear Elladan.” Her words came out colder than she intended.
“Feels a bit chilly in here to me,” snorted Gúron into his tankard of ale.
Elladan remained calm. He understood that it was Miriel’s youth speaking. “I am well aware of your capabilities. If you want me to remain here, then I will. I only counsel you not to take too long.”
“I shan’t be gone but a few minutes. I just need to cool off a bit.” Her expression softened, having regretted snapping at her friend. She gave him a quick smile, hoping that things were alright between them. She then turned on her heel and made a beeline for the exit, skirting around those barring her way.
As soon as Miriel stepped outside, she felt the cool night air against her damp skin. It was amazing how much quieter it was outside. She climbed down the steps, longing to feel the gentle breeze against her skin. She stood in the courtyard, twisting her long hair onto the top of her head so that she could feel the crisp air on her neck.
When she saw Halbarad’s face peek out from behind the heavy curtain of the common room, she grew annoyed. Did he not trust her? Did he think she would flee in the night? For Eru’s sake, could she not get a few minutes peace?
Her annoyance was quickly turning into anger. She stomped across the courtyard, through the stone archway, and into the street. The moon bathed her surroundings in a silver light. She stood near the main intersection in Bree. Almost directly across from where she was standing was the road that lead to the West Gate. To her right, the road continued northwest until it met the one that wound its way through Bree-hill and back to Archet. To her left, the road went on for a few miles until it reached the South Gate.
It was from the south that she heard a dog barking incessantly in the distance. The dog proved to be as annoying as her Watcher! It must have been the mood she was in. She turned, facing northwest, since that was the direction from which the breeze was coming. She inhaled deeply. The air smelled clean and refreshing.
She twisted her hair onto the top of her head again and walked closer to the intersection. No one appeared to be outside, though it wasn’t that late. Maybe nine-thirty, nine-forty-five. She then heard a man’s voice shouting from the direction from which she had heard the dog, drowning out the barking.
Finally, she thought. The dog must have been taken inside because everything became quiet again.
Miriel let her hair fall down again, allowing it to billow in the gentle breeze. She decided to follow the northwest road for a bit. She passed the intersection, glancing up at the houses dotting the hillside. She could see dim lights illuminating from a few of the windows, but for the most part, they were dark. Most of the people lived south of the intersection, not to its north.
Miriel shuddered. She wasn’t sure whether the temperature had suddenly dropped a few degrees or if her body had finally cooled enough that the night air now seemed to chill her. She decided it was most likely the latter and that she should return to the inn. As she turned, she heard a noise coming from the north. She stopped, cocked her head and listened intently. Yes, she definitely heard something, but it was indistinct. She couldn’t make out what it was.
She took a few more steps along the road before stopping again. The hair on the nape of her neck was standing on end and goose bumps covered her flesh. She could see nothing in the road, so she began to scan the roadside. A tall hedge ran along the north side, obscuring her view. There were no lamps along that part of the street and though the moon was full, she could only make out shadows from the tall bushes.
Once again, she heard a noise, but this time it sounded like a muffled moan. Whatever it was, she felt the need to investigate. She resumed walking again, her eyes fixed on the north side of the road, as that’s where the noise had come from.
When Miriel neared the hedge, she clearly heard a muted cry. Her heart began to pound frantically in her chest. By the sound of it, someone was in distress. She continued to walk along the bushes, which were as tall as she was, looking for an opening to pass through to the other side.
She came across a small gap and pushed her way through, blocking her face from the bristly limbs that raked her body as she climbed through. The moment she stepped into the grassy clearing, she quickly spotted the source of the noise and froze to the spot.
Not twenty feet from where she stood was a man with his breeches pulled to his knees. He was on top of a woman, her legs thrown over his shoulder, as his bare rear thrust back and forth. One hand was clamped over her mouth; the other held a knife up to her throat. Miriel could see the metal of the blade glinting in the moonlight.
Aragorn’s words, “Assess, then react,” echoed in her mind. Though she felt a surge of anger upon witnessing this brutal act, she wasn’t going to do anything that would cause the girl further injuries. Her eyes swept the immediate area, making sure that there were no others lurking about that could blindside her.
The man was too preoccupied to notice that she was there, and Miriel was glad for that. That gave her the upper hand, for now she was the predator and he, her prey. No more than a couple of seconds had passed since Miriel had stumbled upon the scene, yet, already she had formulated her plan of attack. Sticking to the shadows, she crept closer, determined to strike from behind.
As Miriel drew nearer, she could see things more clearly. The woman turned out to be a young girl, no older than Miriel. Already, her right eye was swollen shut. Her cheeks glistened with tears, which continued to stream from the corner of her eyes.
The Slayer fixed her eyes on the weapon. The blade was lying flat against the girl’s skin, though the man still maintained a firm hold on the hilt. Her goal was to disarm the savage without the blade accidentally piercing the girl’s flesh.
She slunk a little to her right, since that was the hand in which the villain clasped his weapon. It was at that moment, the girl spotted Miriel. Her left eye widened. Fearing that the thug would notice the girl looking at her, the Slayer pounced. She moved fluidly. One hand shooting out, snatching his wrist and pulling it back until it cracked, as her other arm swept around his neck, clamping down on his throat. She then yanked his body backward with such force that she lost her footing and stumbled, falling onto her back with the fiend on top of her.
The man cursed and thrashed. “I’ll kill you,” he threatened in a gravelly voice.
But Miriel merely tightened her chokehold, wrapping her legs around his, preventing him from kicking himself free.
Now sobbing, the girl scooted away from the fray, pulling the torn bodice of her dress together. She was in shock, finding this whole ordeal surreal. From the rape to her rescue - it all seemed unreal.
Miriel was worried at having lost sight of the girl, not to mention that this was not an ideal position for her to fight from. As the man twisted to one side, she let the momentum carry her over until she found herself splayed across his back, her limbs remaining locked around his.
The man still had one good arm and decided to rake the flesh off Miriel’s forearm with his fingernails. She snarled in response. She then shouted to the girl, “Run!” through gritted teeth, feeling the burning in her arm as the flesh was shaved off.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the girl scrambling toward the gap in the hedge. She crawled through it, escaping to the other side. The girl, now crying hysterically, took off down the street.
With the girl safely out of harm’s way, Miriel was ready to deal with this beast as she would any other. She shifted into a squatting position, loosening her hold so that she could flip the man over onto his back.
The fiend gasped and coughed, trying to suck in some air, desperate to free himself. He bucked, attempting to dislodge Miriel from his back. Knowing that her adversary only had one usable hand, she let go, doing a one-handed backward cartwheel. She landed in a crouching position, eyeing her opponent.
“You lost me my sweet young thing,” he huffed, staggering to his feet. His breeches had now slid down to his ankles. “You’ll pay dearly for that.”
Before he could even steady himself, Miriel charged. She clotheslined him, sending the brute sprawling onto his back, and leaving him winded.
Standing a few feet behind him, she could see the metal of the knife gleaming in the grass. She ran for the weapon, grabbed it, and before the man was able to regain his senses, she was on top of him. Her legs not only kept his arms pinned to his side, but she re-wrapped them around his legs so that he was trapped.
Surprisingly, the bastard didn’t realize how dire his predicament actually was. “Gonna take her place, eh? Slide a little lower, if you please,” he taunted.
His comments caused Miriel to snap. Her reply came in the form of her balled fist crashing into the bridge of his nose. The bone broke from the blow. Crimson flowed from each of his nostrils. She then delivered another punch, and another, wanting him to experience what it was like to suffer at the hands of another.
Miriel was so consumed with this sudden rage that she was detached from her environment and was unaware that the girl’s shrill cries had aroused many of the townspeople. A quarter mile down the road, the Constable sounded the alarm bells, an event that had not happened in many years in Bree-land. In the still of the night, the clanging could be heard as far away as the South Gate to the south and Archet to the north.
Of course when the Rangers heard the alarm, they instantly thought of Miriel and rushed from the inn and into the street. They were greatly dismayed when they didn’t see the Slayer. Eager for news, they immediately ran to the Constable’s house, where a mob was quickly assembling. Lights sprang on inside many of the homes in Bree, the occupants fearful of what misfortune had befallen in their close-knit community.
Miriel remained oblivious to all else except the anguished groans of the enemy. She was focused solely on him and the punishment she intended to dole out that befit his crime.
“You want to stick it in something, eh?” she snarled, her legs wrapped tightly around the man, pinning him down.
She waved the blade menacingly before the man’s nearly swollen shut eyes. “I’ll see to it that you never do that again,” she hissed. She jabbed an elbow into his throat. The man coughed and gasped, his hands instinctively reaching for his throat. Miriel slid backward until she could see the man’s half-flaccid penis. She grabbed it while her dagger swished through the air, hewing the man’s sex organ from his body.
The villain let out an ear-piercing shriek, as blood spewed from his nether regions.
When the Rangers heard that blood-curdling scream, they took off in that direction, knowing that was where they’d find Miriel. Being long-legged, they were able to outrun the Bree-landers, who followed, but were unable to keep up with the Rangers’ pace.
Miriel climbed back onto the man’s torso, holding his severed penis in her left hand. “You want to stick it in a hole,” she hissed. “I’ll take care of that for you.” She then quieted his screams by shoving his penis into his mouth, trying to shove it down his throat. “Choke on this, fucker.”
His body writhed and twisted beneath her, as he gagged on his own appendage. But it wasn’t enough. The punishment she had devised was not enough. She lay her blade longways across his throat. She let go of his penis, which she had managed to wedge in his throat. She placed her left hand on the spine of her blade, then, using the weight of her body, she thrust down, the blade severing the man’s head from his body.
Not a second later, Miriel heard the bushes rustling behind her. Her companions were the first to reach her. They stopped short when they discovered the gruesome scene.
“Miriel?” cried out Elrohir.
The blood soaked Slayer leapt off the villain, turned and faced her friends. Her chest was heaving from the adrenaline rush. Blood still streamed from the blade clutched in her hand.
“O’ Miriel, what have you done?” gasped Aragorn, his face a mask of horror.
“I assessed, then reacted,” she answered calmly.
Chapter 29 - Banishment
The Rangers’ eyes repeatedly darted between Miriel and the mutilated corpse. A numb silence fell over the men, as each attempted to process all that he was seeing. The brutal manner in which the man had been killed was quite revealing. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fit together, forming a disturbing picture of Miriel’s past. It now seemed evident to all the Rangers that she had suffered some horrific sexual abuse at some point in her young life. That would explain her enmity at their first meeting on Amon Sûl.
“He won’t hurt anyone ever again,” said Miriel, her tone just as calm as calm could be.
The men remained speechless as the mob rapidly neared the scene. The glow from their torches and lanterns could be seen as the mob marched down the street. A cacophony of voices cried out for vengeance on the one that had had the audacity to attack one of their own, especially a young, defenseless girl. None were yet aware that the current Slayer had exacted her own form of revenge on the villain.
Before the Rangers could do much of anything, one by one, the villagers popped through the hedge, gasping or shrieking when they set eyes on the ravaged body. Their reaction was not unlike that of Miriel’s friends – stunned disbelief. At that moment, the attack on the Bree girl dissipated from the townsmen’s minds, instantly replaced by the horrific nature of the sight before them.
“She did it!” shouted one of the villagers, pointing his long, accusatory finger at Miriel.
“You think?” she shot back. For Eru’s sake that must have required a great deal of deduction on that villager’s part! she thought. Not only was she soaked in blood, but she also continued to clutch the “murder” weapon in her hand!
Nearly twenty villagers had passed through the gap in the hedge, swarming the area. Never before had any of the Bree-landers witnessed such a ghastly “crime.” Quite a few ran back through the bushes, retching.
“You have some nerve to speak like that,” chided a short, stout man with messy brown hair. “Do you know who he is?”
Miriel would have loved to have answered that question, but at that moment, the Constable finally sprang through the tall hedge. “Let me by! Let me by!” he demanded, pressing his way through the crowd.
“It’s the Constable!” someone else yelled out. “Let him through!”
The blood instantly drained from the Constable’s face the moment he set eyes on the body. He pursed his lips so tightly that even they, turned white. He tried to put up a brave front but looked visibly shaken.
“Reed Thornberry,” he said with a sigh. “I might’ve known.”
“Restrain her before she kills again!” one of the men shouted, actually stepping behind another villager in case the Slayer decided to spring forward and attack more with her knife. The man he hid behind wasn’t very happy about being used as a shield. He quickly left the area, slipping back through the tall bushes.
“I’m not going to hurt anybody,” said Miriel. “I’ve stopped a crime.”
“You hacked a man to pieces,” shouted the same man who had insisted that she’d kill another. He seemed bolder the further away he was from her. “She’s a threat to the town, Constable. An outsider. Lock her up! Lock her up! Lock her up!”
Somehow, that one man had gotten several of the townspeople to chant along with him.
“Miss,” began the Constable, “You’ll need to come with me. We have to sort things out. Surely, you understand I cannot just let you walk away from here.” The middle-aged man blotted the sweat from his brow with a folded handkerchief.
“Get the weapon, Constable!” shouted that same irritating man. “Get the weapon before she kills again!”
Miriel glared at the man before looking down at the knife clutched in her crimson-covered hand. She then bent down, (a motion that sent most of the villagers reeling back in fright), used the grass to wipe the blood off the blade and turned the weapon over to the Constable, ready to face the consequences of her actions.
The dull sound of clanking metal came from within the crowd. A tall fellow with short, dirty blond hair then stepped forth from the mob; in his hands, he clutched a set of iron manacles.
Once again, the Constable spoke kindly. “It’s just a precaution, Miss. I have to think about my people here. I can’t risk anyone else getting… hurt.”
Miriel complied by holding out her arms, allowing the tall man to put the restraints on her. From within the crowd, she heard Elrohir’s faint elvish voice, saying, “No.”
The Slayer was hauled through the hedge. When she reached the other side, the Constable took hold of her left arm while the tall man who had placed the manacles on her wrists, clutched her right arm. The street was teeming with people - men, women and children. Indistinct murmurings came from the throng as Miriel was escorted down the road. The townspeople backed away when she neared them, fearing that she was some sort of monster. Many had not yet heard the true account of what had transpired other than that an unknown girl had hacked off Reed Thornberry’s head and genitals, an appalling crime by anyone’s standards. There were some in the crowd that cried out for Miriel’s immediate execution.
With her adrenaline rush waning, the Slayer found herself becoming tired, sleepy even. A dull throbbing began to manifest itself at the back of her head.
When they passed The Prancing Pony, Miriel could see the guests, along with the proprietor and his small staff, gathered in the courtyard. Their facial expressions mirrored that of nearly all the townspeople - mouths agape, eyes wide, with a combination of horror and disbelief. They too, had yet to hear the entire story and didn’t know what to think of the blood-covered girl with whom most had danced that night.
The Slayer was led further down the road until she was steered into a building off to her left. Only the Constable, his subordinate and Miriel entered the structure. The sudden bright light within the room hurt the Slayer’s eyes. She squinted in response. Her eyes were not given a chance to adapt to the brilliant glow within the chamber, as the Constable directed her quickly across the room. He grabbed a lantern from a nearby table, as they went down a short corridor, then through a door, where they immediately descended a set of spiral stone steps.
Except for the lamp, the place was dark and windowless, the air cold and musty.
“Watch your step,” warned the Constable. “The stairs can sometimes be a bit slippery.”
At the bottom of the steps was a small antechamber, no larger than 10x10, the ceiling low. Being taller than her jailors, she had to stoop down so as not to strike her head on the stone ceiling. To her immediate right was a single cell, the face constructed from iron bars that stretched from ceiling to floor. In its center was a door, also fashioned from metal, with a large lock. The other three walls appeared to be wrought from the same stone that surrounded them. Beyond the bars, Miriel could see a crudely built bed set against the far wall. The bedding looked to be stuffed burlap.
The Constable took the key and fit it into the lock. “You may go, Heathertoes,” he said to his underling.
“But, sir, I don’t think it’s wise to leave you alone with… her,” said Heathertoes, his tone riddled with doubt. He looked Miriel over with a wary eye.
“Go. Find out how the girl is,” replied the Constable firmly. The cell door creaked open, as the Constable shifted his gaze to Miriel. “I do not think she will be any trouble.”
Without being told, Miriel stepped into the cell. She would not argue, nor protest. Whatever punishment the Constable deemed appropriate, she’d willingly accept.
The moment the door swung shut with a clang, Heathertoes took off, hurrying up the stairway.
“Sit! Sit!” said the Constable, pulling up a stool and sitting on the freedom side of the barred barrier.
Miriel sat on the “mattress”. There was no doubt that the burlap was filled with straw, moldy straw by the smell of it. She leaned against the stone wall, shuddering at the sudden coldness that penetrated her body.
“So tell me now, Miss…, er, um,” he stammered. “What is your name? And where is it that you’re from?”
The Slayer moved her rear closer to the edge of the bed, finding the wall too cold. She hoped that by doing so, the chill would pass. “My name is Glossien,” she lied. “I hail from the south, but the wars forced me up to these parts. I now dwell with my uncle, Halbarad of Archet.” She remained poised, speaking as if she were telling the truth.
By the looks of it, the Constable couldn’t tell that her statements were false. Instead, he continued with, “Now then, Glossien. Tell me, what happened.”
Though she had lied about her identity and the reason she was in Bree-land, Miriel told the truth about all that had happened from the moment she had stepped out of The Prancing Pony in need of fresh air, to the odd noises that had caused her to investigate their source. She expressed no emotion as she spoke, her voice never wavering until she got to the part where she had discovered what was taking place behind the hedge.
“He was raping her, Constable,” she revealed, her voice finally cracking with emotion. “How could I do nothing? I had to stop him. I had to stop him by any means that I could.”
The Constable’s jaw dropped. Immediately, he looked away, shaking his head. He had no idea that Juniper had been raped. She had said that she had been “attacked.”
“I did not know,” he uttered softly. “She used the word “attacked”, not… not…” The Constable found himself unable to say that word.
Miriel quickly regained her composure, locking her steely eyes on the man. “And what would you expect her to say, Constable, in the presence of so many men? To speak of something so private, so intimate, so deplorable.” The Slayer shook her head. “No. There is no way she could reveal such a horrific thing. Not at that time.”
The Constable bowed his head and began to rub his forehead with his short, thick fingers, saying, “Oh, dear,” repeatedly.
The Slayer watched him, wondering if this revelation would change things. Would she still be seen as some villain, as some of those in the street had viewed her? Would they demand her death, or would they grant her immunity from such a drastic form of punishment? That remained to be seen.
Silence fell between them. Within the bowels of the jail, she could hear the Constable’s breathing echoing against the stone walls. She watched him intently, waiting for him to make some type of pronouncement of her doom.
At that time, she gave no thought to her friends, who waited outside along with many villagers. Already many more people were assembling, having heard the alarm bells, from far and wide. Armed men hastened to Bree from the surrounding townships that comprised Bree-land: Archet, Chetwood, Combe and Straddle. Their numbers swelled those already in the street, desperate to hear news of what had happened.
The five Rangers stood some distance away from the growing mob, talking amongst themselves. “What will happen to her?” asked Elladan gravely, looking at the sizable crowd with dismay.
“I do not know,” answered a worried Halbarad. “We never questioned Miriel about what had happened?”
“She killed a man. That much we know,” remarked Gúron.
“She did more than that,” added Elrohir. “She… she dismembered him.”
“And I’m sure Miriel felt that she had good reason to do so,” said Aragorn, eyeing the crowd.
“I’m not denying that, Estel,” replied Elrohir defensively. “My concern is how the townspeople will view her actions. Deaths in that manner do not happen in these parts. My fear is what they intend to do with Miriel.”
Aragorn’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. Feeling the weapon in his grasp brought him comfort. He looked at his fellow Rangers. “If the people do not do the honorable thing… then we will. We will not leave Miriel imprisoned.”
They had all agreed that if the Constable refused to release Miriel, they would do whatever was necessary to get her out.
The Constable mumbled incoherently under his breath. Miriel couldn’t make out what he was saying, but by the look on his face, something troubled him deeply.
“What happens now?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” she repeated. “You’re the Constable. I’ve told you the truth. If you don’t believe me – talk to the girl.” As soon as she had suggested that, she had her doubts. If that girl was anything like Miriel, the last thing she’d want to do is talk to anyone about what had happened.
“I believe your account of events,” he said, meeting Miriel’s gaze for the first time since having heard her version of all that had transpired. “But, it’s complicated.” His face was lined with worry. Already, dark circles had formed beneath his eyes.
“Complicated?” she said aloud. “How can things be complicated? I killed a predator, a man who took pleasure in preying on the young and helpless.”
“You do not understand,” protested the Constable brashly. “You do not understand the people involved. The influence that – ”
The Constable stopped speaking mid-sentence. The door at the top of the stairs had flung open, bathing the steps in light. Someone was rapidly descending the steps. The Constable rose to his feet. “Mister Mayor, sir.”
The Mayor stopped at the foot of the stairs, locking his eyes on Miriel. He did not immediately speak, but stared.
“I was just questioning the girl, sir,” explained the Constable, “Trying to get to the bottom of the story. Things are far worse than – ”
“She’s covered in blood,” observed the Mayor. “Go fetch some water and a cloth. And do something about that crowd outside. They’re getting too rowdy for my liking. Tell them to go home or they’ll face the consequences.”
The Constable nodded curtly. As he went by the Mayor, the Mayor grabbed his arm, halting him. He had a brief conversation with the Constable. Even though the men were only steps away, their voices were so faint that Miriel couldn’t hear a single word said. Their hushed verbal exchange ended with the Constable handing over the key to the cell before carefully climbing the stairway.
The Mayor came over to the cell, fitting the key in the lock. “I’m sorry about this,” he said apologetically. “It was merely a precaution.” He swung the door open. “Now that I’ve heard the whole story, I beg your pardon.”
Miriel was baffled by the Mayor’s comments. “Pardon?” she found herself saying.
The Mayor retrieved the stool and lantern, setting both before Miriel’s bed. He took a seat, his eyes more closely examining the girl in front of him.
The Slayer watched the man closely. His round face showed the first few wrinkles that come with age. His short, brown, wavy hair was flecked with grey. However, his eyes were what she focused on. They clearly revealed the Mayor’s pain and sorrow, not to mention that they were red and puffy, as if he had been crying.
“Are you alright?” she asked, puzzled by her concern for the Mayor.
The Mayor went to speak, but paused. His bottom lip quivered and his eyes began to well with tears. Taking a deep breath, he then said, “The girl you saved – Juniper. She’s my daughter.”
Miriel’s jaw dropped. That wasn’t something she had expected to hear. The man broke down in front of her, burying his face in his hands, sobbing. She reached out, wanting to comfort him, but when she noticed that her hand was still caked with blood, she quickly withdrew it.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, finding herself becoming teary-eyed.
The Mayor raised his head, wiping his eyes dry. “Sorry,” he said. “You saved my daughter’s life. If not for you… ” His words trailed off. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath, trying to compose himself. His eyes slowly opened. “If not for you, my Juniper would probably be dead.”
“How is she?”
“She’s been traumatized, of course. I’m afraid that she may never recover from this.”
“Just give her some time,” replied the Slayer softly. “She just needs time.”
The Mayor pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. After folding the cloth and stuffing it back into his pocket, he continued, “I know what you did to Reed Thornberry. Whilst I don’t disagree with your mutilating his body – I feel it was just! – not all the townspeople feel the same way.” The Mayor paused, collecting his thoughts. “The Thornberrys are a very influential family in Bree. Very wealthy, powerful. There are many here under the senior Thornberry’s employ. They are the ones screaming loudest, the ones seeking your… ” His words trailed off again.
“Who is it that decides my fate?”
He looked her directly in the eye and answered, “I do.”
At that moment, Heathertoes returned, carrying a clay pot of water and a cloth. Without saying a word, he gave the bowl to the Mayor and then headed back up the stairway.
“Please! Wash up,” instructed the Mayor, handing the vessel to the Slayer.
She placed the container on the floor. Soaking the cloth, she squeezed out the excess water and then began scrubbing the blood from her face.
When the Mayor was sure that Heathertoes had gone, he continued. “Reed Thornberry had never been a very nice person. His parents had a tendency to overindulge him. Any time he got into trouble, they bought his way out.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “Barkley, er, the Constable, unfortunately dismissed the charges too many times. But, I reckon that none of us thought that Reed was capable of taking things this far.”
He shifted his eyes back to Miriel, watching as she rubbed the blood from her fingers. The Mayor leaned a bit closer, as if not wanting any to overhear his next question.
“How is it that you were able to overpower a man of Reed Thornberry’s size?” Since he had first set eyes on Miriel, he had longed to ask her that question. “You’re just a girl.” Bewildered, he shook his head. “You don’t look much older than my Juniper, and she’s only fourteen.”
“Fourteen,” said an alarmed Miriel, her stomach feeling as if it was twisting into knots. “How tragic for one so young to… ” It was now her words that trailed off.
The Mayor wasn’t about to let his question go unanswered. “How was it that you were able to subdue him? You may be tall, but you do not look strong, not strong enough to defeat a man as big as Reed Thornberry.”
“When one witnesses such atrocities taking place, one is capable of doing great feats,” she replied.
The Mayor shook his head in disbelief. “That may be true, but I cannot see how one – a girl, no less – can muster such strength as to not only restrain a man larger than she, but to also cut off his head. I hate to admit it, but it sounds like witchcraft to me.”
Miriel snorted. “I can assure you, Mayor, I am no witch nor am I in league with any. I cannot explain where my sudden strength came from, but I’m most pleased that it came to me when it did. I offer no apologies for what I have done, and I can say with certainty, that if I were to come upon such a scene again, I would do exactly the same thing.”
The Mayor believed her. He felt an instant sense of relief. “I cannot express my gratitude enough for – ”
“Mister Mayor! Mister Mayor!” screeched Heathertoes’s frantic voice as he flew down the stairway, nearly slipping down them at the halfway point. He hugged the wall, regaining his balance, then continued his rapid descent down the smooth stone steps.
The Mayor leapt from his seat. “What is it, Heathertoes?” he asked, his tone as urgent as his underling’s.
“It’s the townspeople, sir,” he declared breathlessly. “They refused to leave until they had heard news of what had happened. Once the Constable told them, they marched over to Master Thornberry’s halls, demanding that he leave Bree at once.”
“Is that so?” the Mayor responded, somewhat coolly.
“They’re saying that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and that Master Thornberry is as much a monster as his son. What do we do?” The man was in all out panic.
The Mayor crossed his arms, his face wrinkled in thought. After a few seconds, he answered, “Let them be.” He then turned and settled back down on the stool.
“What?!” asked a flabbergasted Heathertoes.
“You heard me. Let the Thornberrys be run out of town. We don’t want their kind here.” The Mayor spoke with such authority that Heathertoes turned on his heal and darted up the steps.
Miriel was somewhat surprised by the Mayor’s decision.
“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, indeed,” he muttered. He then looked Miriel in the eye. “We’ll be better off with the lot of them gone. They’ve wielded too much control over the goings-on in this town for far too long. Good riddance, I say!”
The Slayer didn’t know how to respond to that. Still uncertain of her own fate, she turned her attention back to her hands and worked on trying to get the blood out from beneath her fingernails.
“It seems the tide has turned,” remarked the Mayor, watching Miriel intently. “It sounds like the townspeople have a better understanding of what has transpired and more than likely view your actions somewhat favorably.”
Miriel met the Mayor’s gaze.
“I will let you go free.”
Miriel heaved a heavy sigh of relief.
“However, I fear for your safety,” the Mayor was quick to add. “As I had said, there are many in Bree who are under, er, were under Master Thornberry’s employ. I have no doubt that there will be some that will seek retribution for their loss. When things settle down, I will release you into the custody of your kinsman, but I’m afraid that it would be in your best interest not to return to Bree-land ever again. I do not have the ability to protect you,” He took a deep, shuddering breath, “when I cannot even protect my own.”
Being in a jail cell for even a short time had convinced Miriel that this was no place for her. She was ever grateful for the Mayor’s decision.
“You are a just lord,” she replied. “And I thank you.”
“It grieves me to banish you from our lands,” he said sadly. “My heart tells me that my people would be much safer if you stayed.”
At that moment, a woman shouted from the top of the stairs. “Rowlie? Rowlie? Are you down there?”
The Mayor glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, dear.” He looked back at Miriel. “My wife. Excuse me, will you?”
“Of course,” she answered with a nod of her head.
The Mayor took off up the stone steps. Just beyond the threshold, he and his wife conversed. Their voices were so faint that Miriel could only make out a word here and there. After several minutes, all fell quiet.
Then, someone began to slowly descend the stairway, the footfalls much softer than the Mayor’s or his underling’s. Miriel watched the shadow on the wall until a cloaked figure came into view. The hood was pulled low, concealing the person’s face.
Once the unknown visitor had entered the antechamber, the hood was pulled back.
Miriel rose from the bed. “Juniper.” She immediately recognized the battered girl.
“I had to see you,” the Mayor’s daughter said, rushing into the cell. She took Miriel’s hands, holding them within her own. Juniper’s right eye was swollen shut, the tissue around it now deep purple in color. “I had to see my savior face to face, to thank you, for saving me.”
“There’s no need,” replied Miriel. Seeing Juniper up close like this, the Slayer couldn’t believe how young she looked. She barely looked her age. “You should be resting.”
“I couldn’t, not until I spoke to you,” insisted the young girl. Juniper’s one good eye examined Miriel. She couldn’t help but notice the Slayer’s gown soaked with blood. “It’s true then, what they say?”
“Who’s they?” queried Miriel, confused by the girl’s question.
“The townspeople. They say that you… that you cut my attacker’s head off,” she said with hesitation.
“I did.”
Then, speaking in a whisper, she said, “And they say that you cut off his… er… um… ” Juniper’s words faltered. Amidst the bruises on her face came a pinkish hue. In her mounting discomfort, she shifted her gaze to their hands. Apparently saying the word “penis” was too embarrassing for the young girl. Regardless, the Slayer knew what she was trying to say.
“Yes, I did that too.”
Juniper continued. “And is it true that you had placed… it... in his mouth?”
“Placed is not the word I would use. Lodged is the more appropriate word.”
The girl looked up at Miriel, her left eye widening in surprise.
“It took some effort, but I managed to lodge it down his throat,” said the Slayer point blank.
Miriel watched as the corners of the girl’s mouth slowly turned up into a smile. “I’m glad that you did that. Is it wrong that I feel that way?”
“No,” answered the Slayer, shaking her head. “In my eyes, it was just.”
“Yes, yes it was,” she answered, her smile beginning to waver. The anguish of the girl’s torments returned to her face.
“What happened, Juniper? How did something like that happen in a town like Bree?” The girl did not immediately respond and Miriel thought that she might’ve overstepped her bounds by asking such a question. “On second thought, you don’t need to answer that. Forget that I mentioned it.”
“No, it’s alright,” Juniper answered. Breaking eye contact once again, the girl looked at the stone wall beyond Miriel’s shoulder. “He… he seized me from behind,” she began, speaking hesitantly. She then shifted her gaze back to the Slayer. “I was coming back from my grandmother’s house. She’s been ill. I hadn’t realized how late it was, and… and knew that I had to get back home. It’s something I’ve done hundreds of times before. But, this time, this time I was seized from behind. Before I could scream… he clamped a hand over my mouth and dragged me through the bushes. I tried to fight… but he was too strong. He threw me on the ground.” She paused, becoming tearful. “I was so frightened. I kept trying to fight… that’s when he put his dagger to my throat. I was petrified. I-I thought I was going to die. He started pulling at my dress… tearing it… doing horrible things to me.”
Tears trickled down the girl’s face. She let go of Miriel’s hands, and unbuttoned the first few buttons of her top. “He bit me,” she said, revealing the teeth marks on her breast.
Miriel grimaced. By the looks of the wound, the teeth marks would become permanent scars.
The girl then quickly buttoned up her top. “That’s not all,” she went on, sitting on the edge of the bed. “When I still refused to uncross my legs, he sliced them.” She hiked up her gown, revealing a bandaged thigh. “He cut me from here to here,” she said, motioning from two points on her leg, which measured about ten inches long. “That’s when I stopped fighting… that’s when I… submitted.”
Juniper desperately wanted to be strong in front of Miriel. She hastily wiped away her tears on the arm of her sleeve. “Mother says that they’ll more than likely leave scars. But she doesn’t understand about the scars… ”
“I do,” answered the Slayer, sitting beside the girl. “I understand how deep they go, how the deepest ones can’t be seen with the naked eye.” Then, speaking in a mere whisper, she said, “Only we can see them.”
A perplexed Juniper locked eyes with Miriel. “We?” she queried.
Miriel slowly nodded her head. She then carefully pulled down the neck of her dress, which had hidden the hideous scar that had been engraved on her own chest.
The girl gasped. “You?” she said, shocked.
The Slayer quickly covered the Eye again. “Yes, me,” she faintly replied, feeling a sudden lump in her throat. Miriel felt that she should say more, but the words just wouldn’t come out.
Juniper tenderly took Miriel’s hands in her own again, finding that her connection with her savior instantly deepened. In some strange way, hearing that she wasn’t the only one to suffer so made her feel better. However, she couldn’t imagine any man taking advantage of this young, strong woman seated beside her. Juniper had witnessed her strength first hand, and had never seen a woman so strong. She couldn’t help but wonder how her savior could have fallen victim to such an attack. She found that quite alarming.
Furrowing her brows, Juniper stammered, “H-How could such a thing happen, to you? I saw you overpower Reed Thornberry with such ease. You were able to subdue him, single-handedly.”
The lump in Miriel’s throat felt like it had grown double in size. Even after all this time, her own ordeal was not the topic of a conversation she wanted to have, with anyone. Juniper’s hands remained clasped around hers. Miriel lifted her arms, turning them slightly. Her eyes shifted to her wrists. The girl’s eyes followed her gaze.
“I was drugged and bound,” she revealed, her voice cracking as she spoke.
Juniper focused in on Miriel’s wrists and could clearly make out the scars burned into her savior’s delicate, porcelain white skin. A look of utter horror came to Juniper’s face.
“They came in friendship, when I was in need,” continued the Slayer softly. She looked back at Juniper, her eyes welling with tears. “But they turned out to be monsters guised in manly form.”
“They?” Juniper gasped, aghast at the thought of having more than one attacker.
Miriel inhaled deeply, forcing herself to swallow that lump in her throat. “You are stronger than you realize, Juniper,” she then said, regaining her composure. “For you can speak of your ordeal, when I cannot.”
Juniper knew by the tone of her savior’s voice that she would say no more about her own past torments.
“Sleep easier tonight, for the monster is dead,” added Miriel. “And any others that happen to cross my path will perish in like manner.”
Speechless, the girl threw her arms around the Slayer, hugging her tightly. Not only did she believe her savior’s words, but she also felt a sense of relief in knowing that there was someone out there with the strength and skill to hunt down sexual predators, punishing them justly.
“Thank you, for saving me,” said the muffled voice of Juniper, unconcerned that her face was buried in Miriel’s blood-splattered garments.
“I only wish I could’ve gotten there sooner,” answered Miriel, stroking the girl’s long hair.
The girl pulled out of the embrace, and looked up at the Slayer, her one good eye wide with admiration. “But you came. And that’s all that matters. You stopped him and for that I will ever be grateful.”
At the top of the stairs, just beyond the threshold stood Juniper’s parents, holding one another. They had overheard the conversation below. Silent tears streamed down their weary faces, for neither one had heard the tale of their daughter’s rape in its entirety. They couldn’t help but think that some higher force had appointed Miriel to be outside The Pony at that precise moment in order to rescue their daughter. Divine intervention, some call it. Undoubtedly, this stranger, from parts unknown, had helped Juniper in ways that no one else could’ve. And for that, they were thankful.
A few minutes later, the Constable returned, having thrown his hands up with the whole villagers versus Thornberry fiasco.
“There were a few scuffles, Mister Mayor, but it seems that Master Thornberry and his folk see that they can’t resist the will of the townspeople – too many of them, I suppose. Mistress Thornberry is quite distraught,” he continued, plopping down on the nearest chair with a heavy sigh. “Lost her son and now being evicted from her home.” He shook his head consolingly. “Poor thing. Now there’s a mob surrounding her home demanding – ”
“ – You sound far too sympathetic towards the criminal’s family,” interjected the Mayor’s wife, Ivy, her narrowed eyes boring into her husband’s underling. “I hold to the belief that you’re to blame for things.”
“Me?!” exclaimed the Constable, his eyes widening.
“Yes, you,” she replied in disdain. “You’ve seemed more concerned with fattening your purse than dealing with crime! How much money have you made from Master Thornberry to look the other way when his son broke the laws of this land?”
The Constable bound from his chair, angered by the woman’s accusations, no matter how truthful they may have been. “How dare you,” he huffed, spittle flying from his lips.
“Oh, I dare,” answered Ivy, a sudden burst of rage and courage coming from deep within her. She attempted to charge the Constable but her husband immediately restrained her, grabbing hold of her by the shoulders. The sudden jolt caused much of her brown hair to escape from her bun, falling like a curtain over her round, ruddy face.
“If you would’ve done your job properly, none of this would’ve happened,” she barked, struggling to brush the loose strands of hair behind her ears. “My daughter was raped! My Juniper was brutalized! And the man responsible has broken the law repeatedly, but you’ve always looked the other way. You’re unfit for your position! You should be stripped of your office and thrown out of Bree with your master.”
“Calm down, honey,” the Mayor said, trying to soothe his wife’s frazzled nerves.
The Constable felt threatened by the Mayor’s wife. He knew that she wielded considerable influence over her husband. Normally, she was a rational woman, but under the circumstances, she was now far from rational. Anxiety had now replaced his wroth. Barkley knew he had to appeal to his and the Mayor’s long friendship if he was going to be able to put this incident behind them.
“Rowlie,” he began, addressing the Mayor by his first name, “surely you’re not going to allow Ivy to continue to speak to me in that manner? Does our friendship mean nothing?” The Constable was nearly pleading with the Mayor.
The Mayor bit his bottom lip. His friendship with Barkley went back to childhood and though he too was traumatized by what had happened to his daughter, was Barkley really to blame? It wasn’t like he, himself had committed the crime.
Ivy twisted out of her husband’s grasp. His silence spoke volumes. She glared at the Constable. “Family always comes before friendship,” she hissed. “And I will speak to you any damn way I please.” She then turned, facing her husband. “And don’t tell me to calm down. Our daughter was raped!” She spun around, facing the Constable again. Waving her finger in Barkley’s face, she added, “You’re a coddler of criminals! A disgrace to the office you hold!”
That was enough for Barkley. Instead of being empathetic toward the woman’s pain and sorrow, he snapped. “You have some nerve speaking to me in that way,” he growled, his nostrils flaring in his ire. “You speak of fattening my purse, of my taking money from Master Thornberry.” He snickered. “Pray tell me: where do you think your husband got the extra money to buy you such extravagant gifts?” he queried in disgust, pointing to the beautiful dwarvish bejeweled necklace strung around her neck. “He is the ultimate authority in Bree. If I profited, so did he. Isn’t that so, Rowlie?” He turned a defiant eye to the Mayor.
The Mayor pulled out his handkerchief, blotting the sweat that suddenly covered his face. “T-that was different,” he stammered. “Reed’s crimes were never this… this extreme.”
Ivy glowered at her husband for a moment or two before turning her wrath back to the Constable. In her mind, Barkley was to blame, not her beloved husband. “You’re the highest law enforcement officer in Bree, not Rowlie.”
The Mayor was relieved that his wife was directing her rage at the Constable instead of him. He hastily nodded in agreement with all that she had said. “That’s right, Barkley. You’re in charge of law enforcement, not me.”
“Oh, I see how it is,” replied Barkley snidely. “You want me to take the fall for this. Funny how you showed so little concern when it came to the other… mmm - what was it you called them? – peasant girls, I believe it was.”
SMACK! In her fury, Ivy slapped the Constable hard across the face. “How dare you utter such lies about my husband,” she said, seething.
“Oh, I dare,” he replied, mockingly repeating her earlier words verbatim. “I gather that your husband hasn’t been so… forthcoming, about the goings-on in Bree.” The Constable’s demeanor totally changed. He no longer bothered to conceal that fact that he had been bought and paid for by Master Thornberry.
“There have never been any rapes in Bree, until now,” declared the Mayor.
“That may be so, but there have been other… incidents,” revealed the Constable.
Livid, the Mayor growled, “You lie,” as he stormed over to Barkley. The Constable’s eyes widened in fright. The Mayor more closely resembled a raging bull than a docile politician. Rowlie snatched the badge of Barkley’s office from his breast pocket, taking with it a part of the Constable’s shirt. “You’re fired!” he bellowed.
At that precise moment, the door flung open, and Heathertoes entered. He stopped in his tracks when he laid eyes on the two men standing before him. He blinked several times, thinking that the sudden bright light had created some type of illusion.
The Constable stamped toward the door. “Outta my way,” he grumbled, deliberately bumping into Heathertoes with his shoulder as he passed him by.
Heathertoes looked confused. “What’s going on?” he asked in his bewilderment, rubbing the sudden soreness in his shoulder.
“You’ve been promoted, Heathertoes,” replied the Mayor, slapping the badge into the man’s hand. “You’re now Constable of Bree.”
Heathertoes didn’t question the Mayor. He happily took the badge, removed the piece of fabric from the pin and stuck it on his own shirt.
“Your first duty as Constable is to bring in the girl’s family,” informed the Mayor.
“The girl, Mister Mayor?” queried Heathertoes, having no idea about whom the Mayor was talking.
“The girl downstairs, in the jail,” replied Rowlie, sounding put out. Who else could he possibly mean? “They’re lingering outside, are they not?” He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance.
“Oh, that girl,” answered Heathertoes, recognition coming to him at last. “Yes, sir. They’re there. Though a couple of them are Elves and can’t be kin - ”
“ - That’s beside the point,” the Mayor snarled through gritted teeth. “Bring them in.” He pushed the Constable out the door then slammed it shut. He immediately turned to his wife. His tone changed. His expression softened. “Barkley lied, Ivy. I swear to you. I did not see this coming. Reed Thornberry had never demonstrated this type of behavior before now. Barkley’s a desperate man.” He gave his wife a reassuring smile. “Perhaps you should take Juniper home,” he suggested. “I think it’s best that Glossien and her folk be on their way while the villagers are south of here. We’ve had enough carnage to last a lifetime.”
Ivy studied her husband for a moment. He looked haggard, so very tired. With a nod of her head, she turned and disappeared down the corridor.
The door to the building opened once again. In came Heathertoes, followed by Miriel’s companions. Though the newly-appointed Constable was a tall fellow (by Bree standards), these men towered over his lanky form. Their presence alone intimidated the Mayor greatly. When all had entered, the door closed, shutting out the night.
“Who here is Glossien’s uncle?” he queried, his eyes going from man to man.
Halbarad stepped forward. “I am.”
The Mayor gulped, wiping away more sweat that glistened on his face. He felt incredibly small and insignificant. “Your niece is to be set free,” he announced. “However, the crime she committed is… rather disturbing in nature, and has created such an uproar in Bree that’s not been seen before.”
Halbarad went to speak, but the Mayor continued. “I’m not saying that Reed Thornberry didn’t deserve what he got.” He lowered his voice. “He did. In my eyes, the punishment was just! But frankly, it’s in the best interest of all that Glossien leave Bree at once. The Thornberrys are very wealthy and influential and I fear some sort of retaliation against your niece.”
The Rangers were relieved to hear that, but maintained their composure, showing no emotion either way.
“Many of the villagers are near the South Gate, banishing the entire Thornberry clan from Bree. I suggest that you all take the West Gate out of Bree. There’ll be fewer people there.”
“If we’re to depart these lands in haste,” replied a grim-faced Halbarad, “then I must return to my home in Archet to gather what things we’ll need for the road. We are ill equipped to travel.”
“Not a problem,” said the Mayor. “You and any others of your group may return and collect what things you need, but Glossien must leave the borders of Bree as swiftly as may be. I cannot deal with any more bloodshed tonight.”
“There will be no more bloodshed tonight,” answered Halbarad. “At least, not on our part.” A muffled noise toward the back of the room drew his attention. He could make out shadowy forms on the wall. “Where is my niece?”
The Mayor followed Halbarad’s gaze. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his wife with her arm draped around his cloaked daughter’s shoulders, exiting the building through a different door. “That’s the victim,” the Mayor said, shifting his eyes back to the burly group of men. “She wanted to meet your niece, to thank her.” The Mayor looked at Heathertoes and gave a slight nod of his head.
Heathertoes understood the Mayor’s unspoken command. He too wanted these Rangers out of the place as quickly as possible. He went downstairs to get Miriel.
The men remained quiet; their eyes locked on the back wall, waiting to see the shadows of the Constable and Slayer. Only minutes later, they saw a bright light bobbing down the short corridor. Both Heathertoes and Miriel popped out around the corner.
Miriel didn’t know how her friends would react now that they had had time to digest all that had happened. Her eyes swiftly scanned the Rangers. Even from across the room, she could see relief in their eyes, relief and sorrow.
Elladan dashed to her side, undoing the clasp of his cloak as he took his long strides. “Put this on,” he uttered, wrapping the garment around her. The Half-elf felt that it was imperative to hide her bloodied gown from those still loitering outside. As he helped garb her, Halbarad and Aragorn spoke softly to one another in Sindarin, formulating their course of action.
After perhaps a minute or so, Halbarad, Gúron and Elrohir left the building. They were going to race to Archet, gather everyone’s belongings, and would rendezvous with the others at a place that they had agreed upon.
“It’s time for us to go,” said Elladan, drawing the hood of the cloak so that it covered the Slayer’s face. He wrapped a protective arm around her, ushering her towards the door.
As they passed the Mayor, Miriel stopped, reached out, and took hold of the Mayor’s arm. “Thank you,” she whispered. “My prayers are with you and your family.”
The Mayor nodded, watching as the girl and her companions departed. He took a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling slowly. He then took off, following the strangers, wanting to make sure that no trouble happened to them on their way out of town.
They walked on in silence beneath the moonlit sky. They encountered only a few of the villagers straggling around in this part of town. Many, having heard what had happened, had fled to their homes, barring their doors, preferring to be confined within the safety of their stone walls. Yet, a still greater number of people were congregated outside Master Thornberrys halls, refusing to leave until the entire Thornberry clan were expelled from their close-knit town.
Aragorn and Elladan remained vigilant, intently listening for every sound and watching for any movement from the corners of their eyes. They could hear faint shouts coming from the south, but mostly heard the Mayor’s labored breathing as he struggled to keep up with the Rangers’ pace.
Miriel kept her head bowed, her gaze fixed on the road. With each step, her leg peeked out from beneath the cloak. She could see the splotches of dried blood that covered the once beautiful blue material, although in the moonlight, it looked more black than red. She did her best to ignore it, trying to focus on anything else.
A couple of times she stumbled, but Elladan was quick to keep her on her feet. His arm remained wrapped around her shoulders, his hand firmly gripping her upper arm. Her adrenaline rush was long gone, now replaced with fatigue. Nearly all of her muscles remained tense, tense to the point where they hurt. The only part of her not suffering from exhaustion was her brain. Thoughts and images flooded her mind to the point that she felt like she was drowning in them.
The rape of Juniper flashed in her mind, then, slowly she saw the girl’s face morph into her own. Then, she watched as the face of Reed Thornberry turned to that of Dúilin’s, one of her rapists. Even worse was when she saw Dúilin’s face transform into that of Denethor’s. Unbeknownst to Miriel, she let out a soft whimper as these horrific images rushed through her mind.
“You alright?” asked Elladan, his tone riddled with concern.
Miriel attempted to answer “yes” but the word was stuck in her throat. She forced herself to push that awful imagery out of her mind. Her thoughts shifted back to earlier that night when things were pleasant and happy. Who would have imagined that things would have taken such a dire turn?
Halbarad, that’s who. Where that thought had come from, Miriel didn’t know, but as she thought about her Watcher and how he had always been against her leaving the cottage, she couldn’t help but wonder if Hal had the gift of foresight. Could it be that he had foreseen what would happen if she came to Bree? To her, that seemed quite plausible.
It then occurred to Miriel that if she was banished from Bree, did that mean the others were too? Had her actions resulted in Hal’s being evicted from his home like the Thornberrys? Her stomach felt woozy at the thought.
“I’m sorry how things turned out. You take care now,” said the Mayor to Miriel before turning and heading back to his home.
Having been so preoccupied with her thoughts, the Slayer hadn’t realized that they had already passed through the West Gate. She felt like she was in a daze. It took her several seconds to process the Mayor’s parting words. When she turned to say good-bye, the wooden gate was already closed and locked. Her banishment from Bree had officially begun.
While Miriel was trudging along with Aragorn and Elladan, the Thornberrys were being forced from Bree via the South Gate. Others that had relied on Master Thornberry for their wages also went into exile with him and his family, including Barkley, the former Constable. In coming days, he would act as Master Thornberry’s envoy, selling off the family’s holdings in Bree to fund their new endeavors. They were a bitter bunch, vowing revenge on those responsible for, not only allowing their son’s murderer to go free, but also the besmirching of the family’s good name and reputation.
Master Thornberry would not live to see that day, but his heirs would. During the time of the War of the Ring, these vindictive people would be the ones responsible for sending the ruffians into Bree, who would take great pleasure in wreaking havoc on the community, even to the point of killing some of their inhabitants…
Chapter 30 - Debates
As Miriel plodded along with Aragorn and Elladan, she found herself conflicted by the Mayor’s judgment. A part of her felt sad to leave Bree-land. Sure, she had been quite eager to leave Archet for some time now, to join her fellow Rangers in fighting the good fight, but perhaps it was the manner of her departure that brought about her mixed emotions. She had always envisioned herself walking through one of the gates of Bree, willingly, as she had done upon her arrival. To be told that you’re banished from a place, never to return again, was more than a bit disheartening.
Her thoughts then turned to Halbarad and his little cottage in Archet. Knowing that she’d never be able to set foot in the place that she had learned to call home (even if only for a little while) brought tears to her eyes. Was that odd? she wondered. Is it odd to feel this way? It seemed that in the blink of an eye, everything had been ripped from her, yet again. What semblance of a normal life she had had was gone. And it was her fault. In a few minutes time, because she was blinded by rage, her entire future had changed. There would be no going back to Archet. No trips to the village well. No scolding her Watcher when he didn’t clean the dirt from the bottom of his shoes properly when he entered the house after she had cleaned the floors. There would be no more sitting in front of the fireplace, sipping tea, listening to Hal’s stories of the Rangers’ past adventures.
Miriel forced herself to swallow her tears. Dread replaced her sorrow. She couldn’t help but think that Hal would be wroth with her over what she had done. True, he hadn’t seemed that way when she saw him after being released from her prison cell, but then again, Halbarad hadn’t said a word to her. One thing she had learned about her Watcher was that he had mastered the art of hiding his true feelings.
Her heart grew heavy. Miriel feared that her friendship with Hal had been utterly destroyed, that all the time and effort devoted to building their relationship was for naught. How would she have felt if someone else’s actions had gotten her banished from her home? She wouldn’t have been too happy about it, that’s for sure.
Strangely, those thoughts brought her back to the present, to the trek down the Great West Road. Blinking her tears away, she glanced at her companions on either side of her. She noticed that the others – Halbarad, Elrohir and Gúron were not with them. How could she possibly have overlooked the fact that half of their group was missing?
“Where are the others?” she croaked. Her throat felt sore, her mouth dry.
“They went to the cottage, to get our things,” replied a solemn Aragorn. “We’ll be meeting them soon.”
“Oh,” she answered dismally, licking her parched lips.
“How are you feeling, Miriel?” asked Elladan, studying her with his keen, elvish eyes. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” she uttered. “Thirsty, but fine.”
“I’m afraid we have no water to quench your thirst,” replied the Half-elf.
“I’m sure the others will bring some with them,” said the Ranger Chieftain.
“Where are we meeting them?” Miriel asked.
“At the western border of Archet,” answered Aragorn.
“By the forest?”
“Yes,” he replied.
That puzzled Miriel. If they were going to meet the others at the western edge of Archet, then why were they walking west when they should be heading north?
“Then why are we going in the wrong direction?” she couldn’t help but ask.
She could hear Aragorn sigh heavily. He looked over his shoulder. The town of Bree was gradually dwindling from sight. He then fixed his gaze on Miriel. “It is my hope that none follow us. Once we’re out of sight of Bree, we’ll turn north.”
“You think someone will follow us?” she asked in surprise.
“One never knows,” he replied, shifting his gaze back to the road.
“The Thornberrys are a very influential family,” chimed in Elladan.
“So I’ve heard,” mumbled Miriel.
“There’s a possibility that they may seek… retribution against the one they hold responsible for their… loss,” added Elladan, speaking hesitantly as he chose his words carefully.
“You mean they’ll come after me,” remarked the Slayer gloomily.
“We won’t let that happen,” assured Aragorn, his hand instinctively grasping the hilt of his sword. “Not if I can help it.”
“I’m sorry,” Miriel apologized, her eyes beginning to well with tears again. She had no remorse when it came to what she had done to Reed Thornberry, her “crime”, that is. She regretted that she had caused so much trouble for the others. That was never her intention.
“Let us speak no more about it,” the Ranger Chieftain declared. “The light of a new day will be a better time to discuss such matters.” Aragorn himself was unsure what to do next. Was Miriel mentally fit to travel with them, or, would they be better served if they took her back to Rivendell and left her under the care and watchful eyes of the Elves? He felt it was best to get Hal’s input before making a final decision. At least, the journey to Archet would allow the watcher time to mull things over.
Miriel’s thoughts turned to the Thornberrys. While the rapist Thornberry had gotten what he had deserved, was his family’s eviction from Bree warranted? She thought of her own situation. If Ecthelion, her grandfather, had been alive, should he have been banished from Gondor over the misdeeds of his son? That didn’t seem right to Miriel. She thought the townspeople had acted rashly, in the heat of the moment. They should have waited, thought things through, before making such a hasty judgment.
She heard a snickering voice in the back of her mind, snidely saying, Is that not the pot calling the kettle black? It was the “bad” voice as she called it. Could not everything you’ve just thought be applied to yourself and your actions?
“Stop!” cried out Miriel, clamping her hands over her ears. The last thing she wanted to hear was that voice, mocking her.
Immediately, her companions halted. Though quite concerned for the Slayer, their eyes automatically searched the shadows surrounding them for some unseen enemy.
“What is it? What is it, Miriel?” both men cried out in unison.
Miriel had actually walked a couple of paces further before she stopped. She hadn’t realized that she had spoken her thought aloud and that she had her hands over her ears. She quickly dropped her arms to her side and turned, facing her friends. “I’m sorry.” Noticing the men’s eyes darting to every tree and bush in the vicinity, she quickly added, “There’s no one lurking in the shadows.” She took a deep breath, hoping the others wouldn’t think she was insane by what she would say next. “It’s my mind, actually. It will not shut down. I’m tired and I don’t want to think any more.” The Slayer left it at that, saying no more. She continued walking; now leading the way.
Aragorn and Elladan exchanged a look before following Miriel. They had much to discuss, but would wait until the others returned.
They marched about fifty yards or so beyond The Greenway before veering due north. Aragorn thought it best to stay off the actual road, though they did walk within sight of it. Miriel thought that that seemed rather pointless. The road was much smoother, and easier to walk on than the uneven terrain that ran along either side of the roadway. But, who was she to argue with the Ranger Chieftain?
Thankfully, her mind went hazy again, blurring her thoughts. With her head hung low, she stared at the ground but maintained the same pace as her companions. When they had passed the intersection of The Greenway and the road that led to the North Gate of Bree, they crossed the roadway, and continued walking on a northeasterly course. Glancing up, the Slayer could see the shadowy form of Bree-hill to her right. Looming up ahead stood the eaves of Chetwood, looking blacker than pitch, even under the light of the moon.
Shortly afterward, the Slayer finally broke the silence by announcing, “I’ve got to pee.” Aragorn and Elladan stopped as Miriel strolled behind a thicket several yards away. It wasn’t until she was squatted, doing her business, that she noticed the huge tear running up the side of her beautiful gown. She couldn’t believe that she hadn’t noticed it before. The dress must have torn during her clash with Reed Thornberry. Her heart felt as if it had dropped to the pit of her stomach. The gown had been a gift – a lovely gift from Halbarad, and was something that she had come to cherish. Once she rose, she smoothed out the pale blue fabric of her gown with loving hands. She could feel the blood of her enemy caked onto the soft material, undoubtedly, permanently staining the beautiful garment. It suddenly occurred to Miriel that the dress was ruined beyond repair.
“Let’s get a move on, Miriel,” Aragorn called, eager to resume their trek.
Feeling horribly, she pulled Elladan’s cloak about her more tightly, doing her best to conceal her soiled clothing. With a heavy heart, she rejoined her companions, and together they set off to their appointed meeting place. Since Aragorn had decided to take the long way, it was nearly three miles to their destination.
As they drew closer to the forest, Elladan whistled, imitating some type of birdcall. His unexpected signal caused Miriel to jump with a start. She turned to the Half-elf, who had halted. With his head cocked, he listened intently for an answering call. There was none.
“They must not be there yet,” he surmised, shifting his gaze to Aragorn.
“We’ve made good time,” replied the Ranger Chieftain, seemingly unconcerned. His eyes scanned the forest’s edge. “The visibility in the woods is poor even with a full moon. We’ll wait.”
Elladan gave a quick nod of his head before returning his gaze to the woods, searching the border for three man- shaped silhouettes.
Aragorn looked at Miriel, who was probably his greatest concern at the moment. “You can rest here, if you’d like,” he suggested.
Miriel plopped down onto the earth, more than happy to heed the Ranger Chieftain’s advice. She, like her companions, surveyed the wood line for few moments before she again turned her attention to the tear in her gown. As she more closely examined the rip, she could she that the edges were not frayed; giving her hope that she might be able to sew the fabric back together.
And what about the blood? she thought. How am I supposed to get that out?
Even if she scrubbed the gown with all the soap in Middle-earth, there would be no way she could get all the blood out. Why o’ why was she allowing this to torment her? It was only a dress, right?
Stretching out her legs, the Slayer leaned back on her arms and looked up at the moon shining above. She closed her eyes and deeply inhaled the cool, fresh, night air.
It wasn’t just a dress, she thought.
She sighed heavily, wanting to push thoughts of the gown out of her mind. She sat upright, shifting her gaze to Aragorn and Elladan, who stood motionless, several feet away, their eyes fixed on the eaves of the woods.
“You don’t think they’re lost, do you?” she said to the others.
“No,” answered Aragon, glancing over his shoulder at her. “They’re Rangers. They know their way.”
Miriel leaned back on her arms again. She closed her eyes, savoring the cool air against her skin. Her weariness had returned full force. The normal nightly sounds became muted to the point where she heard only her breathing. Her breaths were slow and steady, and with each one she took, she found herself relaxing a bit more, sleep gradually overcoming her.
Maybe ten or fifteen minutes had passed when a high-pitched whistle came from the forest.
“It’s them,” said Elladan, immediately taking off to the edge of the woods.
Miriel’s eyes popped open. Her heart now thumped madly in her chest at the unexpectedness of the call. She watched Aragorn follow Elladan as she clambered to her feet, rubbing the twig free that had become stuck to her palm. Reluctant to follow her companions, she stayed put, waiting expectantly for the three shadowy forms of her friends to emerge from the forest.
She heard the others’ voices before she actually saw them. Then, one by one, the men popped out of the wood, each warrior encumbered with everyone’s baggage and weaponry. Once they had exited Chetwood, they handed off some of the gear to Aragorn and Elladan, happy to be relieved of their burdens. They quickly formed a group, making their way toward Miriel.
Halbarad approached the Slayer first. “I’ve brought your things, Miriel,” he said, dropping the bags to the ground. “I’m afraid that I had to leave some things behind. I do, however, have both of your swords.” He offered her the weapons.
“Thanks,” she answered, taking the swords from her Watcher.
“How are you holding up?” he asked, his eyes searching hers, concerned for her well-being.
“I’m tired.”
Hal looked at the others. “Perhaps we should camp here tonight so Miriel can rest.”
The others agreed.
Elladan came over, carrying a water skin in one hand. “Here, Miriel,” he said, offering her the container. “You can quench that thirst of yours now.”
The Slayer accepted the proffered flask and took a long drink. She could’ve drunk the entire contents, but stopped herself from doing so. She had no idea when they’d come upon another potable water source and thought it best to be prudent with their limited supply.
“I don’t think we need a fire,” said Elrohir, as he dropped his bags to the ground.
After handing the water skin back to Elladan, Miriel began to dig through her own bags. She returned the Half-elf’s cloak now that she had her own, and dug out a couple of blankets, which would act as her bed. She lay down, closed her eyes, and fell asleep nearly instantly…
The sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky. Miriel could taste the hint of salt carried on the westerly breeze. The warm, foamy waves crashed against her bare legs, her feet sinking a bit deeper into the wet sand. Even though the legs of her tan breeches had been folded above her knees, the frothy water still managed to soak the bottommost portion.
“It’s been a while since we’ve last been here,” she heard Buffy say from behind. “Gotta admit, I’m kinda surprised. They way you’ve been thinking, I figured you’d go to Hal’s place. I mean, you have been thinking that that place is home, haven’t you?”
There was an underlying tone to Buffy’s voice that Miriel found irritating. She turned, facing her mentor. Her hair was wildly swirling in the breeze, the long, dark strands beating against her face, feeling like miniature whips. Through the wisps of hair, she scrutinized Buffy. Despite being dressed from head-to-toe in leather, the elder slayer stood in ankle deep water with her arms folded across her chest, wearing a look of disapproval on her face.
Miriel knew that look all too well. And right now, she was in no mood for one of Buffy’s self-righteous lectures.
“Your point being?” she responded sharply.
Buffy gave her a faux smile. “Just making an observation. That’s all.”
“I can only wish,” mumbled Miriel. Wanting peace, she decided to take a stroll along the shoreline, hoping that her mentor would take the hint and either remain where she was or follow quietly. She had only taken a step when she felt Buffy’s hand gripping her arm, forcibly stopping her. “What?” Miriel barked, refusing to turn around.
“We need to talk.”
“I have nothing to say.”
Buffy spun her protégé around, keeping a firm grip on her arm. “Nothing to say?” she repeated incredulously. “How can you stand there and act like nothing happened? You brutally killed a man. A mortal man. In cold blood.”
“That’s where we have a difference of opinion,” Miriel retorted, pulling her arm free from Buffy’s hold. “He was not a man, but a monster.”
Buffy’s mouth was agape as she shook her head in disbelief. She was afraid for Miriel, afraid that she was about to tread down the same path as Faith, unable to distinguish right from wrong, or, not caring to. “Being a Slayer doesn’t give you the right to kill people. We’re designed to slay monsters, to slay creatures that regular people don’t have the strength to. No one appointed us judge, jury and executioner. That Reed guy should’ve been judged by his peers. Not by you. You don’t have that right.”
Miriel stepped closer to Buffy, towering over her much smaller mentor. “That’s where you’re wrong! I do have that authority. It was my duty to stop him, to do what I – ”
“ – Stop him, yes,” interjected Buffy, not intimidated at all by Miriel’s height advantage, “Cut him to pieces, no. For God’s sake, Miriel, you cut his dick off and shoved it down his throat… then beheaded him. That’s not normal. That’s just not… right.”
“So you say. Not everyone agrees with you or your sense of moral superiority,” hissed Miriel, narrowing her eyes in anger. “What I did, was just. What you fail to notice, Buffy, is that not all monsters have scaly hides and razor-sharp fangs. Some resemble men, and to assume that men are incapable of being monsters is truly ignorant on your part.”
“I’m not saying what that man did was not wrong. It was,” Buffy argued. “All I’m saying is that you acted… recklessly, that all you needed to do was stop the crime, not dole out what you consider a suitable punishment.”
Miriel let out a derisive snort. “I would happily do it again if faced with similar circumstances. Maybe if you experienced firsthand what it’s like to be raped, to be violated so, you’d think differently. Until then, your… opinion… matters… not.” Miriel enunciated her last sentence slowly, wanting her words to sting her mentor.
She turned, wading toward the shore in hopes of leaving Buffy behind. At this rate, their conversation would likely end up leading to blows. As far as Miriel was concerned, she was in the right and nobody would be able to convince her otherwise.
When Miriel stepped onto the dry sand, her garments immediately changed. Instead of wearing her green tunic and tan breeches, she was dressed in her blue, blood-stained gown.
“Why the change of clothing then?” Buffy shouted from the water. “Could it be that that dress of yours makes you feel guilty, makes you feel remorseful?”
Miriel looked down at her gown. The stains looked much worse in sunlight and were more extensive than she had realized. Her dress looked less blue than it did deep red. And there was now an odor that lingered around her that she hadn’t noticed before. A putrid odor. An odor she had smelled before, back in the House of Horrors, as she always referred to it.
The stench brought horrific images to her mind. Her hands, which hung at her side, automatically balled into fists at the reminder of her past torments. “You have no idea what this means to me,” she said, tugging on her gown. “If I had been wearing my slaying clothes, I would be proud of the blood-stains. It would symbolize another successful kill.”
Miriel paused, feeling her heart ache over the damage to her clothing. As she fixed her eyes on Buffy, her tone changed, becoming sorrowful. “What you don’t seem to understand is that this dress was a gift from Hal. And I do not believe I need to remind you that he’s not the generous type. This meant something to him,” she continued, pulling on the garment again. “This belonged to someone that he loved deeply. And to know that he felt that I was worthy enough to receive it… ” Miriel felt herself becoming overwhelmed with emotion to the point where her voice was beginning to crack. She bit her lip, looking away from Buffy. She stared at the sea that stretched endlessly behind her mentor.
“It’s just a dress,” Buffy said weakly, not wholly believing her own comment.
Miriel’s demeanor instantly changed. She fixed her wrath-filled eyes on the elder Slayer. “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re wrong about the dress and you’re wrong about Reed Thornberry.”
Buffy had taken a breath, as if to speak, but her protégé continued with her rant before she could utter a single word.
“This isn’t your world. Things work differently here. You feel that I should’ve just stopped a crime – and then what? Reed Thornberry would buy his way out of it as he had a number of other times. Then another innocent girl would suffer at his hands, perhaps more.
“I remember you telling me that people in your world lock up criminals in those houses.” Miriel paused, trying to recall the specific name of those structures, which, unfortunately happened to escape her at the moment.
“Prisons,” Buffy informed her.
“That’s it – prisons. Why people in your world would go through the expense of feeding and clothing criminals in beyond me. Have you noticed any prisons in Middle-earth, Buffy?” Miriel asked with a sarcastic glint in her eye. “We don’t lock up rabid animals, we kill them, especially when caught in the act.”
“We give people a second chance,” said Buffy, defending her position. “People can change.”
Miriel laughed at the absurdity of her comment. “You think locking someone up behind bars will change them?” she queried, her eyes widening in disbelief. “That’s delusional. You can’t lock up a wild animal and expect it to change. In the end, you release a feral beast into the world to prey upon the innocent. How fair is that?”
“So you would kill someone for stealing a loaf of bread?” asked Buffy, feeling her blood pressure rising. “Is that just in this world?”
“We’re not talking about thievery. We’re talking about rape, an act of violence for which there is no cure. Once a rapist, always a rapist.”
Buffy was beginning to think there was no getting through to Miriel. At least, there was no argument she could make that would change her protégé’s view on the matter.
Miriel’s demeanor reverted back to a solemn calmness. “I think you fail to see that those with wealth and influence can do whatever they want,” she went on, her tone and face riddled with sadness. “Do you remember asking me about my Uncle, Imrahil, asking if he could help stop my father from… ” Even now, she loathed saying the words, especially where Denethor was concerned. “If he could help me,” she finally settled upon saying.
The elder Slayer slowly nodded her head.
“My father is the highest authority in Gondor, the most powerful man in Middle-earth. There was no one that could help me, that could stop him, except me. I had a choice, to leave or kill him.”
“Then why didn’t you?” asked Buffy, slowly walking closer to Miriel. “Why didn’t you kill him?”
The younger Slayer watched her mentor approach. Feeling the tears forming in her eyes, she softly replied, “Because I love him.” She swallowed the knot forming in her throat and struggled to keep her tears at bay. “And I hate him.”
Buffy couldn’t help but feel pity for her protégé. “Sometimes, I forget how much shit you’ve been though, and how that’s gotta mess with your head.”
The two Slayers reached a stalemate. There would be no victor in this argument. They started to walk along the beach. Buffy found herself saying, almost amusedly, “You really didn’t need to cut his dick off and shove it down his throat.”
Miriel smiled. With a shrug, she replied, “It’s seemed befitting at the time.”
Buffy shook her head, linking arms with her protégé. “My poor, insane Miriel. I’m amazed that you don’t hate all men after what you’ve been through.”
“It’s a matter of trust, Buffy,” she answered. “I don’t trust men as easily as I used to, or women for that matter. Not after what that old hag did to me.” She found herself glancing down at her chest, glad that the scar remained covered. “After talking with Juniper, I can’t get that woman out of my head.” A scowl came to her face. “I know, deep down, that we’ll meet again some day. And woe unto her when we do.”
“Well,” began Buffy, trying to keep the mood light, “she should be grateful that she doesn’t have a penis.”
Miriel chuckled, relieved that she and her mentor had settled their differences, for now, any way. Changing the subject somewhat, the young Slayer glanced down at her dress, asking, “Do you think I can get all this blood out?”
Buffy eyed the gown skeptically. “If you guys had dry cleaners here, you probably could. Since you don’t, I’m afraid it’s ruined.”
“Damn. I didn’t want to hear that.” Despite Buffy’s conclusion, Miriel tried to remain hopeful. “Maybe if I scrub it really good with soap and soak it in hot water… ” The younger Slayer rambled on about her dress. Buffy offered possible suggestions, but didn’t believe any of them would work in Middle-earth…
While Miriel and Buffy strolled along the coast of Dol Amroth, the Rangers sat grouped together, out of earshot of the sleeping Slayer, discussing her current frame of mind.
“You have spent a great deal of time with Miriel,” began Aragorn, fixing his gaze on Halbarad, “Have you not talked about… her past?”
“No,” replied the Watcher with a shake of his head. “We’ve mainly talked about the present, and the future. Miriel does not bring up her past much, if at all.”
“Father said that we were not to press the issue of Dagnir’s past,” said Elladan, referring to the council shortly after the Slayer’s arrival in Imladris.
“Truly,” said Elrohir, nodding in agreement. “I deem that Father has seen what misfortune befell the Slayer before we encountered her on Amon Sûl.”
“Do you think it was…” Gúron paused, giving a quick glance at a sleeping form of Miriel. Then, shifting his gaze back to the others, he asked in a mere whisper, “Do you think she was abused, sexually?”
No one immediately answered that question. It was too horrid a thought. However, after having witnessed the aftermath of Miriel’s attack and the mutilation of her victim, one could not easily dismiss that notion. In fact, it seemed highly likely that she had reacted so violently because something similar had happened to her.
The topic of conversation discomforted all the Rangers, though, perhaps Gúron least of all. Following his question, his companions bowed their heads, looking as if in deep thought. The golden-haired Dúnadan felt that it was imperative to know Miriel’s state of mind, especially if she was going to continue the trek with them. The Ranger feared that if he were to say the wrong thing to the Slayer, she might retaliate by severing his manhood. And that was an appendage that he was not about to live without!
But as he watched his fellow Rangers in the dim light, he noticed how troubled each man looked. Unlike Gúron (at the moment, anyway), the others were replaying the scenes in their minds when they had first met Miriel on Weathertop, thanks in part to Elrohir’s remarks. She was violent, feral-like; however, she was under attack at the time. The hill was teeming with Orcs.
Soon, Gúron’s own thoughts drifted back to that moment in time. The Rangers had a tendency to pick up on each other’s thoughts and that was now happening with the golden-haired Dúnadan. He could remember seeing the goblins swarming around the Slayer, unsure now, whether they were trying to kill her or capture her. He supposed they’d never know as the timely arrival of the Rangers saved Miriel from whatever fate the enemy had had in store for her.
It had been Elladan that first noticed the scars on Miriel’s wrists, an obvious sign she had been bound. Back then, they concluded that she had escaped the Orcs and that they had sought to recapture her. As Gúron attempted to link the night’s events to the attack on Miriel the previous year, a terrible notion entered his mind.
“Was Miriel raped by Orcs?” he said, uttering his thoughts aloud.
“How could you say such a thing!” growled Elrohir, his elvish eyes inflamed with a sudden rage. His response was so sudden and so sharp that Gúron shrank away from the Elf. “Never speak such words again!”
Elladan placed his hand on Elrohir’s arm. “Calm down, Brother.”
Aragorn and Halbarad quickly looked at Miriel, afraid that Elrohir’s outburst had awakened her. The last thing they wanted was for her to overhear such a remark. Thankfully, she appeared to be sleeping soundly.
“I-I was just… um,” stammered Gúron uncomfortably, “Sorry.”
Near silence returned, except for the sound of Elrohir’s heavy breathing.
“Please, keep your voices down,” cautioned Aragorn, motioning the others to lower their voices. He then turned his eyes to the golden-headed Dúnadan. “What would make you suggest such a thing, Gúron?”
The Ranger cast an anxious glance at Elrohir. After having seen the son of Elrond’s reaction to his question, one that he now regretted speaking aloud, he was hesitant to say more.
“Say your piece,” prodded the Ranger Chieftain, who then quickly turned to Elrohir and added, “Without interruptions.”
The younger son of Elrond pursed his lips together, making no other comment or gesture.
Gúron remained hesitant. He had no idea why Elrohir had lashed out at him and feared that if he voiced his opinion, he might get a fist to the mouth.
“Speak freely,” said Aragorn, his tone more insistent.
The golden-haired Ranger took a deep breath and quickly exhaled. “I was thinking about the first time we met Miriel on Weathertop, and the number of Orcs that were after her. Do you not find it strange that such a great number had been sent after her?”
“She’s the Slayer,” chimed in Halbarad. “I do not doubt that the enemy realized that.”
“That’s probably true,” answered Gúron. “And if you remember, it was Elladan that noticed the scars on her wrists first,” he continued, shifting his eyes to the eldest son of Elrond. “A tell tale sign that she had been held captive if ever I saw one.”
Elladan nodded.
“Well, it was Miriel’s attack on Aragorn, in particular, that makes me think that some type of sexual abuse had taken place. How often has anyone here seen a maiden kick a man in the nether regions?”
No one answered.
“Surely, that is indicative of some type of sexual abuse, no?”
“Why would you think that it was Orcs?” asked Aragorn calmly.
“Did you see any men, mortal men in the area? Other than Orcs, there were only wargs in the region,” explained Gúron. “By reason of deduction, one must assume it was Orcs, I deem.”
“I do not believe that,” said an adamant Halbarad. “Miriel’s attack on Aragorn was out of desperation. She knew it was… a vulnerable spot, and thus, reacted accordingly.”
Gúron shook his head. “You’re wrong. How can you be so blind, Hal? Have you already forgotten what Miriel did tonight? Don’t tell me that was her reacting accordingly. She unleashed an unbridled rage on that Thornberry fellow, that is indicative of a woman that has been sexually assaulted.”
“I see it differently,” spoke up Elladan. “If anything, your own comments imply that Miriel was assaulted by a man, a mortal man, not Orcs.”
“But there were no men in the area, other than us Rangers,” said a defensive Gúron. He was sure that his theory was right.
“It is a long road from Minas Tirith. Who can truly say what had happened to Miriel along the way?” asked Aragorn. “Has she not spoken of the travails that plagued her along the way?” The Ranger chieftain’s eyes darted from Halbarad to the twins, who, out of everyone there, knew the Slayer best.
They all shook their heads. “Aside from battling Uruks and Orcs, she hasn’t revealed much to us,” replied Elrohir.
“And trolls,” interjected Elladan. “She did tell us about battling a couple of trolls.”
“Yes, and trolls,” said Elrohir, nodding in agreement. “Yet, I still hold to the belief that Miriel was assaulted by a man, not a vile and foul Orc.” He glared at Gúron at the mere suggestion.
The golden-hair Ranger was displeased that his theory was so easily dismissed. “Who’s to say that it wasn’t an Elf?” Gúron challenged. “Not all of your kindred have the same disposition as you.”
Elrohir snickered. “Miriel had never met an Elf until she met us. She told us that herself.”
“Let us not make this into some race war,” said Aragorn with an air of finality to his tone. “We’re all in agreement that some type of sexual assault happened to Miriel. And chances are that it was a mortal, one of our kindred, that was responsible.” He made a point to look directly at Gúron as he spoke his last words. “What is open for debate is whether Miriel is capable of continuing on the journey with us, if the events of tonight have opened a wound for which she can find no healing.”
There was a pause in the conversation for a few moments. Then, Hal said, “I see no reason for Miriel to abandon the hunt. She has lived with me for many months and has proven to be trustworthy and dependable. I have no reason to believe that any here are in danger, of her, that is.”
“I agree,” chimed in Elladan.
“As do I,” voiced Elrohir.
Aragorn nodded in agreement.
All eyes then turned to Gúron, the only member of the party that had not yet responded.
“Well?” questioned Halbarad, slightly annoyed by his fellow Ranger’s unwillingness to immediately answer. “What say you, Gúron?”
Doubt still plagued the golden-haired Dúnadan’s mind. Maybe if he hadn’t seen the mutilated corpse of the man in Bree, he’d be quick to agree with his fellow Rangers. But, he had seen it. And it wasn’t easy for him to dismiss the fact that there was something terribly wrong with Miriel, and the possibility that she might snap in an instant was very plausible. That thought alone sent shivers down his spine.
“How can you have so little faith in Miriel?” asked Hal, his tone riddled with disgust. A mischievous grin came to the Watcher’s face. “As long as you keep your penis in your breeches, you need not fear it being chopped off.”
The others attempted to hide their amusement by snickering into their hands.
“My penis is not the issue here,” Gúron replied snidely. “I have spent less time around her than all of you and she has not yet earned my trust.”
“I trust Miriel with my life,” replied the Watcher firmly. “And if you find that difficult to do, then so be it. Only time will change your mind.”
Chapter 31 - Resolve
“Time to get up, Miriel,” whispered Hal, gently shaking her awake.
Her eyes slowly fluttered opened. The Slayer could feel the warmth of Hal’s hand still on her shoulder. She yawned, rolling from her side to her back. A grey morning sky greeted her. She stretched her stiff limbs, her joints popping to life as she did so. Miriel then pulled herself upright, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“How are you feeling?” asked Halbarad, looking her over carefully.
“Alright, I guess,” she answered with yet another yawn. “You?”
“I’m fine. Just fine,” he replied with a reassuring smile. He then offered her his hand, and heaved the girl to her feet.
Miriel could see that the others were already awake. She exchanged pleasantries with her companions before tending to her morning ritual. After a quick bite, the group set off, heading north on The Greenway.
Once again, Aragorn was leading the company. After a while, Miriel, curious to know their destination, hurriedly caught up with the Ranger Chieftain, asking, “Where are we going?”
“Fornost.”
“Fornost?” she repeated, furrowing her brows. While the Slayer was by no means a scholar of northern realms of Middle-earth, she was almost positive that she had remembered that that realm had been desolated in the wars long ago. “But isn’t that place in ruins?”
“It is,” he answered.
“Then why are we going there?”
“There is a small settlement there.” Aragorn glanced at Miriel. “Some of our people have returned, calling that place home again.”
“Oh,” she replied. “And why exactly are we going there?”
“It’s been a while since I last visited with my kin and we go there seeking news.”
“News of what exactly?” queried Miriel.
“There is much knowledge we can glean from our fellow Rangers, such as the movement of the enemy.”
“I don’t understand,” came her reply. “Doesn’t the enemy dwell south of here? I mean, from what I’ve seen, the Orcs come from the south and from the east, out of the mountains.”
“Eriador is vast, Miriel, and the enemy dwells in many places. If there are roaming bands of Orcs or trolls, I would like to know of it.”
The Slayer supposed that made sense. However, after having been holed up in Archet for what seemed like ages, Miriel was ready to fight in a real battle. Maybe the previous night’s events had awakened her bloodlust. Unsure of what to think, she shortened her stride, no longer keeping up with the Ranger Chieftain. She needed to think.
As she glanced down at the road, she couldn’t help but notice the enormous blood stain on the front of her gown. Though she was wide-awake, images of the previous night’s attack flashed before her eyes. She saw Juniper’s bruised and anguished face, then that of her attacker, Reed Thornberry. The sound of the girl’s muffled cries echoed in her mind, followed by the man’s grunts of pleasure. The horrid act played over and over until the images began to change.
She was brought back to that place, to the House of Horrors, where her own rape had occurred. Her face now replaced that of Juniper’s, and Reed Thornberry’s appearance morphed into that of Miriel’s rapist, Dúilin. The smells, sounds and pain of her ordeal came rushing over her, as if she was reliving that nightmare in the present. She could feel the burning sensation on her wrists and ankles along with a sudden searing in her privates. This strange event felt so real.
Miriel was unaware that her eyes had glazed over at the onset of this episode. It was her muscle memory that kept her feet moving, though she was beginning to lag further behind the others. They were not yet aware of what was happening to her.
But, in her mind’s eye, she had just bitten off Dúilin’s nose and could taste the saltiness of his blood in her mouth and feel the warmth of his blood as it sprayed from the hollow of his face. Her stomach instantly became queasy, threatening to expel her meager breakfast.
Then, she felt a sudden tightening around her neck, as if invisible hands were choking the life out of her. Gasping for air, she tried to reach for her throat, but her hands were immobile. She fell backwards, hitting the ground hard. The unexpected thud alerted her friends, who swiftly ran to her side.
Reality had forsaken Miriel, only to be replaced by the gripping fear of a bitter memory come to life. She was lost to all else. A rain of blood washed over her when Dúilin’s throat was slit, and, seconds later, the hag revealed herself, cackling softly. It was so real that Miriel could make out every wrinkle on the woman’s face as it hovered over hers. The smell of the rancid combination of wine and garlic on her warm breath engulfed the Slayer.
“The honor of killing you falls upon me,” she heard the woman say. She could feel a prick to her skin above her left breast. “But firstly, I shall carve a symbol into your flesh to signify that yet another Slayer falls by the might of Sauron.”
Scrunching her eyes closed, Miriel let out a blood-curdling shriek as she felt the tip of the blade beginning to carve the hideous Eye into her flesh.
She then felt herself being violently shaken, her head lolling from side to side.
“What’s happening?” cried out Halbarad, desperately trying to shake Miriel back to reality. Her eyes rolled back so that only the white portion showed, terrifying her Watcher.
The sons of Elrond dropped to their knees on either side of her, as the rains poured down from above.
“Miriel? Miriel?” shouted Elrohir.
But the Slayer remained oblivious to all things present.
“‘Tis music to my ears, Dagnir,” the old woman sniggered. “A melody of mayhem. Louder if you please.”
The pain above the Slayer’s left bosom grew in intensity, as she felt the blade sink deeper into her flesh, causing her to screech even louder, as if obediently following the hag’s orders.
Elladan and Elrohir began to utter an elvish prayer, beseeching those in the West to aid them.
Still unaware of her surroundings, as the hag finished her artwork, Miriel shrilly cried out, “I’m marked!”
“What is happening?” With an utter look of terror on his face, Halbarad looked to the sons of Elrond for some type of explanation.
“My Eru! Look at her neck!” exclaimed a worried Elrohir, pointing to the reddish blue marks on the Slayer’s throat. “What deviltry is this?” They could clearly make out the shapes of fingers on her skin.
They then noticed fresh blood beginning to bleed through the fabric of her dress just above her left breast, the shape not quite clearly formed. Terrified, Elladan pulled Miriel into his arms, holding her tightly. The rain continued to pour down from the heavens as he raised his voice in prayer.
A booming clap of thunder rang out, literally shaking the ground beneath the small company.
As suddenly as Miriel had fallen into this altered state, she came out of it. Traumatized by this unexplainable event, her silent tears blended with the rain, trickling down her face. With her chest burning like hell fire, she squeezed her hand between her body and Elladan’s, pressing down on the bleeding scar above her breast. She dropped her head onto the Elf’s shoulder, clutching his back with her free hand.
“I told you she was out of her mind!” shouted Gúron, making a point to stay several feet away from the Slayer.
At that moment, the others were far too concerned with Miriel to pay any mind to Gúron. They were baffled by what they had just witnessed. Never before had any seen physical manifestations on a body without apparent cause.
Gradually, the pain began to lessen, leaving Miriel confused, scared, and mentally numb. She had never had an episode like this before, not one that felt so real. She then felt someone gently lift her arm from Elladan’s back. She looked up and saw Aragorn examining her wrist.
“It is red, as if recently burned,” he remarked, studying the skin keenly. Miriel’s past torments had left her scarred, but after these many months, the scars were thin and white, not red.
“What happened, Miriel?” asked a deeply troubled Elrohir.
She did not answer. She pulled back slightly from Elladan; his arms remaining protectively draped around her. Miriel now noticed that she had slipped her hand beneath the neck of her dress. As she pulled her hand out, blood covered her palm.
“Let me see,” said Elladan softly, eager to inspect this mysterious wound.
Miriel stumbled backwards, out of his grip, not wanting anyone to see the hideous Eye engraved in her flesh. As the rain washed the blood from her hand, she pulled her cloak tightly about her. Wrapping her arms around her body, she remained seated on the wet road, rocking back and forth, shocked by what she could only assume was some diabolical device conjured by the Enemy.
The others had reached the same conclusion as Miriel though they had not shared that with each other just yet. They watched her for a few minutes before rising to their feet and assembling into a circle.
“Something is terribly amiss,” said Aragorn, trying his best to conceal his terror.
“I have never witnessed anything remotely like this in all my years, Estel,” revealed Elladan.
“This has got to be the craft of Sauron,” said Elrohir. “Who else is capable of such sorcery?”
“Why would he waste any time or effort on Miriel, Slayer or not?” queried a skeptical Gúron. “She is nowhere near Mordor. She’s no threat to him.”
“Do not underestimate the abilities that a Slayer possesses,” rebuked Halbarad. “The Slayer has skills you know not. It is apparent that Sauron feels threatened by Miriel and is using some type of… ” He paused, unsure of what to call what had taken place. “ - Dark magicks on her,” he finally blurted out.
“Surely now, you all must see that Miriel is unfit to continue on our journey,” said Gúron. “I told you that she was not of sound mind.”
“Can you not see that this was being done to her?” hissed Elladan. “Do you think she had the power to use her mind to choke herself, to make herself bleed? This is not her doing. I agree with my brother, this is the work of Sauron.”
“Or maybe even the Witch-king,” suggested Halbarad. “He too is skilled in the dark arts, if rumor holds true.”
“That’s a fair point, Hal,” said Aragorn with a nod. “We cannot rule out the Witch-king.” He glanced up at the grey sky, closing his eyes as the rain beat against his face. Ultimately, the decision fell on him as to what they should do next.
“It looks to me that we have no other choice here,” concluded Elrohir. “We need to go back, back to Imladris. Father is the only one I deem with the skill to fend off whatever magicks are being used against Miriel.”
Aragorn took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, turning his gaze back to the others. “I agree, Elrohir. We should take her to your father.” He then shifted his eyes to Miriel, who continued to sit in the growing pool of water, rocking back and forth. Clenching his fists, Aragorn hissed, “I curse the Enemy for what he’s doing to her.”
Elladan and Halbarad went to Miriel’s side, informing her that it was time to go. She was unresponsive. Their faces grew graver as they each took her by the arm and lifted her from the puddle of water in which she had been sitting.
Aragorn then turned his attention to Gúron, who was watching his fellow Rangers gentle handling of the Slayer. “If you are ill at ease with traveling with us then you need not go,” said Aragorn. “You may continue to Fornost as we planned and join the others in their tasks. I would not want our journey with Miriel to burden you with additional stress.”
Gúron’s eyes remained locked on the Slayer. His earlier assumptions about her were beginning to waver. How could he not show pity for the girl? After having witnessed the mystical attack (something he would not have believed if he had not seen it with his very own eyes), how could he walk away? He was beginning to think that maybe Reed Thornberry had been a minion of the Dark Lord and that Sauron sought retribution for his murder. That seemed plausible, considering that not even twelve hours had passed since Reed Thornberry’s demise. Perhaps Hal was right in saying that Miriel was a threat to the Lord of Mordor. It now seemed to him that Miriel needed the protection of the Rangers more than ever.
“I would like to continue with you, if that’s alright,” answered the golden-haired Ranger. “I’m beginning to see that you all have a better grasp on what this Slayer business is all about than I do. And, I am man enough to admit that I was wrong about her. If anything, Miriel needs our protection more than ever.”
“Very well,” replied Aragorn with a curt nod. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, he would’ve shown his appreciation to Gúron for finally seeing the light. But there was no time for that. Right now, Aragorn was most concerned with getting Miriel back to Imladris by the quickest road possible. Even the speediest way would take them at least ten days to travel, and that was if none lay in wait, ready to ambush them along the way.
“Let us get a move on,” he announced, heaving the strap of his bag over his shoulder.
Elladan and Halbarad each linked an arm with Miriel, steering her down the road from which they had just come. The Rangers would spend many hours walking in silence, each man consumed with his own thoughts.
It had been a long time since Miriel had had her last bout of melancholy, but now, it returned full force. Elladan and Halbarad were practically dragging her along the roadway. Miriel still remained dazed by her supernatural assault for a few hours afterward. When she finally found herself becoming cognizant to the present, she pulled her arms free from her escorts, insisting on walking on her own. Unfortunately, the attack had left her feeling weak and her mind still felt so hazy that she nearly stumbled over her own two feet. As a result, Aragorn called a halt to the march.
Elrohir offered her some lembas. “It’ll help renew your strength,” he said, coaxing her to take a bite of the elvish way bread.
Miriel ate the proffered food without protest. The rains had passed by then, though the sky remained grey. The men kept a keen eye on the Slayer. While they were most eager to question her about the attack, they decided to hold off until she had showed obvious signs of recovery.
Miriel’s throat was tender to the touch and it hurt when she swallowed, a condition which would last for a few days. Nonetheless, the food helped clear her mind and rekindle her strength.
After eating a couple of bites, she made up her mind that she needed to change out of her soiled dress and into clothing more suitable for traveling. As she changed behind a cluster of trees, she noticed that the Eye on her chest was newly scabbed over. For so long it had been a thin white scar, but now it was red and inflamed as if the incision had been freshly made. She carefully slid her tunic over her head, hoping that the dry garment wouldn’t rub the scab to the point where it bled again.
Still hoping the she’d be able to clean and mend her gown when she had the time, Miriel carefully folded the dress and slid it into one of the pockets of her bags. She then rejoined the others, and together they continued on their trek to Rivendell.
For some reason, the others spoke quietly to one another, mostly in Sindarin. Miriel didn’t know why they bothered for she could speak Sindarin fluently. They were discussing the latest incident, somewhat surprised that it had been able to eclipse the previous night’s events. All of her friends seemed to be in agreement - that Sauron was definitely behind her mystical attack. She didn’t voice an opinion either way, preferring not to talk to anyone at all.
Perhaps the lembas had worked its magic, because not only did it reinvigorate the Slayer’s strength, but also her mind. Her thoughts became clearer and she spent a great part of that day mulling over the events that had transpired in the past twenty-four hours. While the others were convinced that Sauron was behind the latest episode, Miriel believed differently.
There was no doubt in her mind that the witch was responsible for her earlier assault. Why else would she relive her ordeal at the House of Horrors? The Slayer had always known that she and the old hag would face off again and it seemed that that appointed day was arriving at last. The fact that they were now traveling upon the same road that led to the old homestead merely confirmed that in her mind.
Once she had accepted that realization, her melancholy vanished, never to return again. Instead, she focused all her energies (mostly mental) on planning and plotting for her ultimate confrontation with the witch. She still had several days to prepare. Her first thoughts were trying to figure out how to prevent the old hag from doing what she had just done - attacking her mystically from afar. She believed that the witch had done that out of fear. She feared what Miriel had become. She was no longer that young, naïve girl that saw the goodness in people. Far from. She had become cynical, untrusting and seasoned in battle.
Perhaps Elladan and Elrohir know of some ancient elven way to protect oneself from such attacks, she thought. When she got a chance, she’d ask them about that.
However, there were still many obstacles in Miriel’s way. For one, she had to figure out a way to leave the others. There was no way she would put her friends in harm’s way. Besides, this fight was meant for her alone. She knew that. She felt it in every fiber of her being. It would be a battle to the death, though, hopefully, not her own.
She knew the Rangers well enough to know that they’d never abandon her, even if she asked. They were fiercely loyal. That proved to be her greatest dilemma. How could she slip away unnoticed? She considered leaving when she was assigned to sentry duty, but quickly dismissed that notion. With so many enemies lurking about, that would leave her friends vulnerable to attack, and Miriel wasn’t about to do anything like that. In the end, she decided to wait and see. Surely, if her battle with the witch was fated to be, (as she believed), then a situation would present itself where she could slip away from the others.
At the onset of their journey, Aragorn had had the group marching due west in order to remain out of sight of the Bree-landers. Since Miriel was banished from Bree, they couldn’t take The Great East Road, which ran directly through the town and was the quickest path to their destination. Not to mention the fact that Aragorn feared retaliation from the Thornberry clan and did not want any of the townspeople to see them. These considerations would add many miles to their trip. Instead of following the Great East Road, they crossed it, heading south into the hilly region.
That afternoon, when they had reached the ridge that overlooked the Barrow-downs, Aragorn announced, “We’ll turn east from here, for I do not desire to see The Great Barrows, even in daylight.”
“What is that?” Miriel asked.
“It is a place of great evil, though it wasn’t always so,” he answered. “Many of my forebears are buried there.”
“Evil spirits haunt that place now,” added Elrohir, “Having fled there after the downfall of Angmar.”
For whatever reason, Miriel felt compelled to look upon that place.
Aragorn went to grab her arm, to prevent her from going to the edge of the hilltop, but Gúron stopped him. “Let her have a look, my lord. For her ancestors dwell there as well.”
“But it is an unwholesome place,” countered Aragorn. “And after what happened this morning, I would not want Miriel to look upon that place of evil. For all we know, those specters will be drawn to her like a moth to flame.”
Aragorn’s protests were to no avail. Miriel, accompanied by the twins, walked over to the edge and looked down upon the green valley below. Even in late afternoon, a gloomy haze blanketed the barrows.
The Slayer stared intently below, her eyes trying to pierce the mists of the valley. For some strange reason, thoughts of Bregolas sprang to her mind. Without thinking, she then asked, “The spirits that dwell there, do they have conscious thought?”
“Yes,” answered Elladan. “They may not have bodies in the same sense as we do, but they live on, in spirit form, and are aware of all that enter their domain.”
“Do they ever leave their domain?” she queried.
“Maybe,” replied Elrohir, “Though it does seem that they are bound to these parts. Seldom do we feel their presence outside the valley.”
As Miriel continued to stare almost transfixed at that barrows, memories of Bregolas raced through her mind. She recalled having heard him talk to someone other than her on their travels on several occasions. At the time, she assumed he was just talking to himself, but now, she was beginning to have doubts. It was around that time that his personality had begun to change and he had become moody and sullen. Things had escalated to the point where he demanded that she marry him, threatening to abandon her in the wilderness if she did not. That was not the Bregolas she knew and love. Was it possible that these spirits had found their way to her and Bregolas and used their powers to corrupt the mighty Gondorian warrior? That possibility had never occurred to her until that very moment. The mere thought sent a shiver down her spine, which did not go unnoticed by her companions.
“We have seen enough,” said Elladan, steering Miriel away. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”
The sons of Elrond watched the Slayer very closely after resuming their trek. It almost seemed as if she was becoming entranced by the barrows. Many questions arose in the twins’ minds, but they’d wait until the Barrow-downs were far behind before quizzing Miriel.
The sun had not even sunk beyond the horizon when Miriel stopped, announcing, “I’m too tired to go any further.” She was ready to drop.
“Can we not at least make it east of The Greenway?” asked Aragorn. He turned west, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I would feel more at ease if more miles separated us from the Barrow-downs.”
“I don’t think I could take another step,” admitted Miriel. They had been marching since dawn with very few breaks. Perhaps the trauma of the earlier attack was finally taking its toll on her, as the others showed no outward signs of exhaustion.
A grim-faced Aragorn scanned the vicinity. “Alright, Miriel,” he finally said. “But if we are to stop, I would want us to use the terrain to conceal us the best that we can.” He pointed to a rock outcropping a few yards away. “Let us take shelter there. If you’re too tired to make it there, one of us can carry you.”
“I do not need to be carried,” she scoffed, insulted by his comment.
One of those rare smiles came to Aragorn’s face as he watched Miriel stamp ahead of him and the others toward the outcropping. He was pleased to see that she was so resilient, especially after everything that had just happened. The girl had the makings of a great warrior, and as far as Aragorn was concerned, was well on her way.
When Miriel reached the other side of the rocky protuberance, she plopped down on the ground. It had been quite a while since she had last walked a great distance, and her feet ached as a result. As the others joined her, relieving themselves of their burdens, Miriel pulled off her blood-splattered boots and stockings and began to rub her sore, sweaty feet.
“Your feet hurt, eh?” asked Elrohir, plunking down beside her.
“Uh-huh. I’ve been homebound for so long, I’m not used to walking long distances.”
“Would you like for me to rub them?” asked the Half-elf.
“Who am I to turn down such an offer?” chortled Miriel, scooting back so that she could stretch her legs out on Elrohir’s lap.
As the Elf began to massage her feet, Halbarad sat down, saying, “Who’s ready for an early supper?”
“It’s not lembas, is it?” queried the Slayer.
“No,” answered the Watcher, grabbing one of his bags and digging through its contents. “We brought some food from Archet.”
“In that case, I’m famished.”
“What’s wrong with lembas?” asked Elladan. “It’s tasty and reinvigorates the body.”
Miriel smiled at the eldest son of Elrond. “But it’s not meat.”
While they discussed the virtues of lembas versus meat, Elrohir fixed his gaze on the Slayer’s ankles. He couldn’t help but notice the red, raw skin that mirrored the markings on her wrists, clearly a sign that she had been bound. At first, he didn’t make any comment, as it pleased him to hear Miriel engaged in an amusing debate with his brother. It seemed, on the surface anyway, that there were no lingering adverse effects from the events earlier that morning.
Then, as he joined in the conversation, his hand inadvertently touched the raw skin above her ankle. Miriel winced and went to pull her leg away, but Elrohir kept a firm hold on it.
“Sorry,” he said. “My hand slipped.”
The pain was instant and searing, which was a bit surprising to Miriel since it had abated throughout the day. But now, she struggled to free her leg from Elrohir’s grasp as the others looked on.
“My feet feel better, thank you,” she insisted, roughly wrestling her leg out of the Elf’s grip. She immediately began to slip a stocking over each foot, avoiding everyone’s gaze.
“You’ve been bound, Miriel,” began Elrohir, his tone riddled with concern. “Anyone can see that. Sometimes it helps to talk about these things. It helps with the healing process.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said, hoping to dodge the topic altogether.
The Rangers eyed one another, knowing that the opportunity had presented itself to speak of Miriel’s past. Yet they had to tread very carefully, otherwise this conversation could have detrimental effects on the bonds they had formed with her. No one wanted that to happen. If anything, they wanted to aid the Slayer, to help her heal.
“It’s time we talk about this,” urged Elladan. His eyes darted to Halbarad, as if seeking the Watcher’s approval to dig deeper.
Halbarad curtly nodded.
“Miriel, you were attacked this morning. I do not understand how or why that happened, but we must discuss this. If we do not have some sort of understanding of the situation, of whom we’re dealing with, then we cannot help prevent it from happening again.”
The Slayer didn’t answer. She kept herself preoccupied by putting on her boots.
“Those marks on your wrists and ankles suggest that you have struggled within bindings of some sort. Who held you captive, Miriel? Was it Orcs?” continued Elladan.
Still, Miriel didn’t answer.
“We cannot help you unless we know what we’re facing,” interjected Elrohir.
“I’ve never asked for anybody’s help,” snapped the Slayer. “If my being here makes anyone uneasy, I’ll gladly leave. I’m not afraid to walk alone.”
Miriel went to rise, but Elrohir, placing his hand on her arm, stopped her. “None of us want you to leave. We want to help, help protect you. Do not turn against us.”
The Slayer settled back down. If anyone felt uneasy, it was she. “How can you help me when you’ve said that you’ve never seen anything like this before, that you’ve never witnessed an attack on someone like the one that happened to me this morning? There’s nothing you can do. This is my fight. My battle.”
“With whom?” asked Aragorn, his eyes locked on the Slayer. “Is it Sauron? For whoever is behind this attack considers you a great threat, a threat that needs to be eliminated.”
“I’m the Slayer,” answered Miriel straightforwardly. “Of course the enemy should perceive me as a threat. Isn’t that what a Slayer is supposed to do, strike fear into the enemy?”
“Before things get out of hand, let us all just calm down a bit,” suggested Halbarad, placing the packets of food to the side. He then fixed his gaze on Miriel. “We care deeply about you, Miriel, and do not want to see any harm come to you. We’re all friends here. Let’s keep the hostilities to a minimum.”
“I’m not being hostile,” she countered somewhat defensively.
“May I interject something here,” chimed in Gúron.
All eyes turned to the golden-haired Ranger.
“I’m probably the most objective here since I’ve been around the Slayer least of all,” Gúron continued. “There’s no doubting that someone of great power is after you, Miriel. We all witnessed that this morning. But, for the life of me, I’m baffled as to who it can be. At first, I thought it was Sauron, but I don’t believe he has the strength to do something like that since the loss of his Ring. And we have not felt the presence of the Wraiths since being in your company - so who does that leave? Who can answer this riddle? Is it possible that it’s one of the Istari? Two of which have not been accounted for in some time?”
“Hmm, I’ve never considered a Wizard being behind this,” remarked Elladan.
“They are capable of wielding such power, I deem,” said his brother, nodding in agreement. “And as Gúron has mentioned, the Ithryn Luin have not been seen in centuries.”
“You’ve think they’ve been corrupted?” asked Aragorn, his brows shooting upward.
“I think it’s possible,” Elrohir replied.
“Perhaps this is something Gandalf could answer,” remarked Halbarad.
Miriel listened as the Rangers debated this new theory. She grabbed one of the bundles beside her Watcher, delighted that she had picked the one containing ham. She slipped the dagger out of the sheath strapped to her leg and sliced off a bit of cured meat for herself. When she looked up, Halbarad was staring at her with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Well played, Miriel,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ve diverted the topic of con- ”
“ - I most certainly did not,” she interjected with a wry smile. “That would be Gúron.” She then tore off a piece of meat with her teeth, refusing to say anymore with her mouth full of food.
Aragorn quietly scrutinized the Slayer with his intense grey eyes. “Why is it that I have a sneaking suspicion that you know more than you’re willing to tell?”
Miriel wasn’t about to let anything or anyone sour her mood. Perhaps it was her recent resolve to go after the witch that had prompted this change in attitude. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Aragorn,” she finally said. “But, I suppose we can put this to rest once and for all.” She looked at Elrohir. “Was I held captive? I’ve been held in captivity all my life. One of the rewards for being the only daughter of the Steward of Gondor.”
“Surely, Denethor did not physically restrain you,” said an aghast Halbarad.
“No. Well, at least not with literal bindings.” Miriel recalled her father’s refusal to let her go to Dol Amroth with her kin just before her hasty departure from Minas Tirith. Feeling her good mood beginning to slip away, she then added, “There are some things I will take with me to the grave. I will not discuss any of my past torments, with anyone.” She glanced at each one of her companions. “If you have no suggestions as to how to prevent a mystical attack, then you cannot help me. I’m a big girl. I can handle whatever comes my way.”
Though Miriel spoke with conviction, her friends didn’t buy it. She was putting up a brave front. When one looked into her eyes, one could see her pain, fear and confusion. But it was clear that she didn’t want to discuss it any more, and, for now, the Rangers would drop the subject in order to maintain peace within the group.
“Father can help,” said Elladan, placing his hand comfortingly on Miriel’s. “When we get to Imladris, he will help you.”
“He is gifted in the art of healing,” added Elrohir. “And perhaps, between him and Glorfindel, they know of a way to prevent these mystical attacks.”
The Slayer took another bite of ham and shrugged her shoulders in response.
“Enough of this talk,” said Halbarad with an air of finality to his tone. “Let’s eat.”
All talk about Miriel’s torments, past and present, ended. The twins wished that they could’ve questioned her about the Barrows, for to them, it seemed that that place stirred some memory within her. But alas, they knew the Slayer well enough to know that if they tried to push the topic, she’d pull away, distancing herself from them. The discussion turned mostly to mundane things, such as the weather and the road that lay ahead of them.
Miriel went to sleep earlier than normal. True, she was exhausted, but she was also most eager to talk with Buffy about her decision to take the fight to the witch.
“I don’t like it,” said a stern Buffy after hearing Miriel’s plans. The two Slayers sat across from one another on the grassy embankment beside the Anduin.
“Why?” asked Miriel, sounding crushed.
“‘Cause it’s a good way to get yourself killed.”
“But, I’m destined to do this,” argued Miriel. “I know it. I feel it.”
“It’s suicide.”
A scowl came to the younger Slayer’s face. She couldn’t believe that Buffy disagreed with her on this. “I cannot believe you would say that,” she argued. “What about you and the Master? You went after him alone - ”
“ - And I died!” exclaimed Buffy, cutting Miriel off mid-sentence. Her confrontation with the Master flashed in her mind. Feeling uncomfortable, the elder Slayer rose to her feet and walked to the water’s edge. “If not for my friends, I would’ve stayed dead.” She turned, looking at her protégé, her face a mask of pain. “If you go alone, there won’t be any to save you. You could die!”
“Maybe,” answered Miriel weakly. Swallowing the growing lump in her throat, she added, “But, if I take her with me, will the world not be a safer place?” She clambered to her feet, strolling to her mentor. “It was your destiny to take out that vampire lord. Why is it so unfathomable to think that I’m destined to take out the witch?”
“That Bear-man, he died fighting her,” answered Buffy. “And bears are pretty damn strong. If he couldn’t defeat her, what makes you think that you can?”
“Because I’m the Slayer. That’s got to account for something.” It disheartened Miriel that Buffy didn’t believe that she was capable of taking out a formidable foe such as the witch. She felt her bottom lip begin to tremble as tears formed in her eyes. “It’s my birthright to fight creatures greater than Orcs and trolls and wargs. That’s why we were chosen. We were made to take out those creatures that ordinary men do not have the strength or skill to fight. You know that, Buffy. You’ve been there. You’ve done it. And you’re still here. You’re still alive.”
A tear escaped from the corner of Buffy’s eye. “I don’t want you to die, Miriel. Not on my watch.”
“Who’s to say that I will?” countered the younger Slayer, stepping closer to her mentor. “I have to do this. I know it, and of all people, you should know that as well.”
Buffy looked up into Miriel’s teary grey eyes. She pulled her protégé into a tight embrace. “You’re right. You’re right, Miriel. What can I do to help?”
Miriel pulled out of the hug. “We must train. Every sleeping second must be dedicated to practice.”
The elder Slayer chuckled, folding her arms across her chest. “I think we can manage that. But tell me, what makes you so sure that the witch is at that homestead?”
“I don’t know. I just know it. Does that make any sense?” she asked, raising a brow in question.
“Unfortunately, it does.” Buffy sighed. “Our main problem is that she’s a witch and I don’t have any magical abilities that I can teach you.”
“That’s why I think the element of surprise must be on my side. I don’t think she knows I’m coming for her.”
“But her earlier attack makes me think that she’s trying to lure you into a trap,” said Buffy, furrowing her brows. “That’s what I fear most.”
“Then that’s all the more reason for me to prepare. As long as I keep my guard up, things should be alright.” Miriel’s inner resolve shone through. “I’m not afraid to die, Buffy. If that’s what the Valar have in store for me, then so be it.”
“You don’t wanna die, do you?” asked Buffy.
“Of course not,” replied the younger Slayer. “But, I’m meant to do this. This is my great challenge. And I do not want to run from it. I want to confront it head-on and hope I come out alive.”
Buffy forced herself to smile for a brief moment. “You’re a brave young woman. I only wish you’d let the guys go with you. They could help.”
“And would you put your loved ones at risk?” countered Miriel. “I don’t think you would. As you were meant to face the Master alone, I too must do this alone.”
“I can’t convince you otherwise, can I?”
“No, you can’t.”
“Then let’s get work.”
And thus began Buffy and Miriel’s extensive training that took place every night whilst the younger Slayer slept. Their practice sessions varied, ranging from stealth to hand-to-hand combat and everything else in between. The only thing Buffy couldn’t help Miriel with were magical attacks. They could only hope and pray that that wouldn’t be a factor in the upcoming battle…
With Miriel’s mind made up, she remained steadfast during the daily marches with the Rangers. She never complained or claimed to be tired, even when she was. As a result, she and her companions were able to cover many more miles than originally anticipated. Sticking to The Great East Road, they soon passed familiar landmarks - the Midgewater Marshes, Weathertop and the Lone-Lands.
A week later, the group was finally nearing the Great Bridge, a pivotal point on the journey. The hilly region was a welcome sight to the Slayer.
“Oh, please tell me we can stop at the hidden lake,” she begged. “I’d love to be able to bathe and wash this dried blood out of my hair.” She touched her hair, cringing as she felt the nasty clumps of caked blood that still coated the strands.
The men laughed at her plea.
“You have been less demanding than usual,” answered a grinning Halbarad, “and thus should be rewarded.”
“I think we could all use a good scrubbing,” said Aragorn, grabbing hold of the front of his shirt and sniffing the fabric. The foul stench of many days sweat filled his nostrils. A bath and a fresh change of clothes sounded pleasant to the Ranger Chieftain.
“I’m first,” Miriel demanded, quickening her pace so that she would be the first to find the pass in the hills that led to the hidden lake.
“The lake is big enough for us all,” said Gúron.
Miriel spun around, but continued to walk backwards. An indignant expression etched on her face. “And what kind of girl would bathe nude in the company of men? I, for one, am not that type of girl.”
Gúron rolled his eyes. “We’re not boys, Miriel, but grown men. We’ve seen naked women before.”
“Not this naked woman,” she replied.
“Come now,” spoke up Elrohir with amusement. “Let us not condemn Miriel’s modesty. There’s no harm in letting her bathe first.”
“Thank you, Elrohir,” she answered, smiling. “Now maybe Gúron here can see why the Elves are considered wisest amongst the people of Middle-earth. Not to mention, of good, upstanding moral character.”
Gúron frowned. “What’s wrong with my moral character?” he grumbled.
Ignoring his question, Miriel added, “And just so you know, I intend on enjoying my bath and will linger in the water longer than what you’d consider normal.”
“Ah, yes, what a true woman you are. You may bathe in the warmth of the sunlight and we shall bathe when the sun goes down and the water grows cold,” said Gúron snidely.
“You’re a Dúnadan. Suck it up!” Miriel said teasingly before turning back around, her eyes eagerly searching for the gap in the hills.
Miriel’s heart raced in her chest. This was not only the moment she had been waiting for, but it also confirmed that she was destined to fight the old hag. It was of the utmost importance for her to keep her cool and not show any signs that she intended to flee her companions.
She stopped when she reached the pathway. Her eyes went to the faded engraving on the rock wall. She smiled at the memory of Gimli and his kinfolk, wondering how they were doing and if she’d ever see them again. Their meeting seemed so long ago.
When the others caught up to her, she started down the pathway through the hills. She stopped again once she entered the clearing. If possible, the place looked much more beautiful than she had remembered. The shadows of the surrounding rocky hills reflected on the water’s surface. The air felt cooler and smelled cleaner within the enclosure than it did along the roadway. It almost seemed as if this place was enchanted, that after all these many years it remained untainted by the enemy.
Miriel immediately headed toward the willow tree. She smiled again, picturing Gimli hanging from one of the branches. Her first successful trap. That was not something she would ever forget. She dropped her bags near the water’s edge. As she went to undo her belt, she heard the others dropping their things on the ground behind her.
Whirling around, she asked, “What are you doing?” Her voice echoed within the rock enclosure, alerting her to a possible problem that she had not foreseen. How could she possibly leave unnoticed when the slightest noise seemed to bounce from wall to wall.
“What are we doing wrong?” queried her puzzled Watcher.
“No, no, no, no,” she answered, shaking her head. “You men go over there,” she instructed, pointing to the cluster of trees on the south side of the lake. “And keep your backs to the water.”
“This is ridiculous,” complained the golden-haired Ranger.
“Ridiculous is thinking that you’d stay right here where I intend to bathe,” she snapped back.
“Wouldn’t it be more prudent for us to stay here by the path and you go over yonder?” queried Elladan, waving his hand across the lake. “If any were come down the path, you would be the first they’d see.”
Of course, Elladan’s comment made perfect sense. Miriel had to quickly find a counter to his sensible statement and fast.
“And what are the chances that one would come upon this place?” Without allowing time for any to answer, she quickly added, “Slim to none. I can handle any situation that arises. Do not forget, my good men, that I survived on my own for a good while before meeting you all. Now go.” She tried to shoo the Rangers away.
“I don’t know, Miriel,” said a doubtful Aragorn. “I tend to agree with Elladan. I think it is safer for us to remain here and you go over there.” He waved toward the cluster of trees across the lake.
The Slayer’s hands went to her hips. “Are you implying that I’m incapable of taking care of myself?” she asked defiantly. “I prefer to stay here, beneath the boughs of this willow. I feel safer here.”
“There’s no point in arguing with her, Aragorn,” said Halbarad, not in the mood to bicker over such a trivial thing. “Let us just leave her be.” He glanced at the twins. “We have the sons of Elrond. They’ll be able to hear if anyone approaches.”
“That’s true, Estel,” replied Elrohir, nodding.
“And we can be on this side of the lake in no time flat,” chimed in Halbarad.
Miriel offered a grateful smile to her Watcher. As the others gathered their baggage, the Slayer plopped down on the ground, unlacing her boots. Thankfully, no one could hear her thoughts. If any could, they would hear her screaming every curse word she knew at the top of her lungs. Not only did she have to contend with the possibility of her movements creating an echoing effect, but now she also had to face the keen ears of the sons of Elrond, a simple fact she had somehow overlooked. How, in the name of the Valar, could she possibly overcome those two obstacles?
If my leaving is fated to be, then I will find a way, she thought. This was the first instance of her having misgivings since having decided to leave and confront the witch.
She watched the men as they walked around the lake, paying particular attention to the sounds she was making. She took off her belt, carefully laying it, along with her two blades, on the grass. She shifted her gaze to the shore.
Pebbles, she groaned to herself. Pebbles crunch under one’s feet. Shit!
Miriel’s nerve was beginning to waver. Panic was replacing her sheer determination. Her chances of leaving unnoticed seemed impossible. O’ how she wish she could speak to Buffy right now.
Stay calm. Stay focused, she thought, attempting to reassure herself that not all was lost as of yet.
She looked back at the Rangers, who had now reached the other side. She laid out clean garments and her blanket, waiting for the others to seat themselves before she disrobed. She found it comforting that the only thing she could hear (for the most part) was the conversation coming from across the lake.
A few minutes had passed when she finally stripped out of her clothes, carefully rolling up the bundle and slipping it back into her bag. With soap and cloth in hand, she walked down to the water’s edge. Her eyes darted from the lake to her male companions, hoping that they’d keep their word and not look in her direction.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
“Damn it!” she uttered as the pebbles crunched under her feet.
She stepped into the water, surprised by how cold it actually felt. Spring had just sprung and the water had not yet turned warm. To Miriel, it felt icy cold. Slowly, she walked deeper, stopping every now and then to allow herself time to get used to the temperature. When she was about waist deep, she took several deep breaths before plunging her entire body under the water. She jumped up, yelping from the frigidness of the water.
Of course, her sudden cry alarmed her companions who turned and looked at her.
She immediately squatted so that only her head remained above the water. “What did I say about looking?” she squealed, trembling from the freezing water. “The water’s cold is all.”
The men immediately turned back around, apologizing for looking at her.
Miriel wasted no time. She immediately began to lather up the soap so that she could wash all the blood out of her hair. Even though she felt numb all over, Miriel scrubbed until her skin was nearly raw.
Once clean, she cast another long look at the men, who still sat with their backs toward her. She had informed her companions that she would need to let the sun dry her before dressing. Miriel wrapped herself in her blanket, keeping her eyes fixed on the Rangers as she dried off. She then quietly slipped into her clean clothing, her eyes never leaving her friends.
Now that the time was drawing near, Miriel’s heart began to ache at her parting from the people she had come to love and care about. Maybe a part of her knew that she’d never see them again and that added to her mounting misery.
“How’s it going over there, Miriel?” shouted Halbarad after a short while.
“I’m still wet. I should be good in about thirty minutes.”
She then heard Gúron complaining, something that brought a smile to her face. As he went on with his rant about how selfish Miriel was being, she gathered her belongings and slipped away. When she reached the road, she ran like the wind, flying over the bridge before disappearing into the forest on the north side of the road…
Chapter 32 - Destiny Calling
Miriel made the conscious choice to enter the woods where she had because she knew it would make it much more difficult for her friends to follow. Sure, Aragorn was a master tracker, but if she were to stay on the road, it would have made it much easier for the others to spot her. Not to mention the fact that the road curved to the southeast due to the rocky hills to the north, which would have added many more miles to her trip.
The route she had chosen would eliminate a good twenty to twenty-five miles from her trek. However, the road before her was still a long one. She was somewhat familiar with this area, the key word being ‘somewhat’, and she still had to find that lone, mammoth flat hill that was located somewhere deep in the forest. She knew that she needed to venture due east for the most part. If Miriel had had to guess, she’d have said that she had nearly fifty to sixty miles to go, in troll country, no less.
As she ran, zigzagging around trees, heading deeper and deeper into the woods, she wondered how long it would be before her friends noticed that she had gone. There was no doubt in her mind that they’d search for her once they discovered her absence. That’s who they were – good people. That’s why it was crucial for Miriel to get as far ahead of them as possible. She hoped that as the afternoon waned, the looming darkness could be used to her advantage. There was no way that Aragorn and the others would attempt to follow her trail at night. They’d be forced to wait until daybreak. Therefore, there would be no sleep tonight for the young Slayer.
Continuing to race through the woods, Miriel thought of how much better prepared she was this time around compared to last. She was older, maybe a bit wiser, and more skilled. She wasn’t starving. Thanks to Elrohir, who had placed a packet of lembas into everyone’s pack in case they became separated, she had enough food to last several days. True, it wasn’t hardy fare, but it would do, under the circumstances. Her water supply (she carried two water skins) would most certainly last until she reached the House of Horrors. If she survived, she could replenish them at the well on the farm…
Nearly twenty minutes had passed when Halbarad shouted, “Are you dry yet, Miriel? Have you dressed?”
When there was no response, the Watcher glanced over his shoulder. “Damn it!” he cried, leaping to his feet. “She’s gone!”
His fellow Rangers jumped to their feet, their eyes searching the walled enclosure for any sign of the Slayer.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, Elladan yelled, “Miriel! Miriel!”
There was no answer.
“Do you think she was taken?” queried Gúron, his eyes lingering on the area by the willow tree across the small lake where the Slayer had been earlier.
“I don’t know,” answered Halbarad gravely. “We need to get over there and see if there’s any sign of a struggle.” He dropped to his knees, quickly shoving his things back into his pack.
The others followed suit, cramming the clean garments they had set out back in their bags.
Within thirty seconds, the Rangers had gathered their belongings and were sprinting to the other side of the lake. When they neared the vicinity of the willow tree, Aragorn motioned for the others to stop. He tossed his bag to the ground. “Stay here whilst I search the ground for sign.”
The Ranger Chieftain inspected the area from the willow to the path between the hills. “Miriel has not been abducted but has left on her own accord,” he concluded, after rejoining the others. “Why would she leave like this?” he asked Halbarad. “She seemed to be looking forward to going back to Rivendell.”
“I don’t know,” replied the Watcher, the sinking feeling in his stomach growing.
“We’re wasting time,” said Elladan, grabbing Aragorn’s bag from the ground and handing it back to the Ranger Chieftain. “She has no more than a fifteen to twenty minute lead. If we hurry, we can catch up with her.”
The eldest son of Elrond quickly set off down the pathway. Aragorn swiftly ran to his side. “Let me watch the trail, Elladan.”
Aragorn led the way, with the others following closely behind. When they reached the road, they could see their tracks from earlier, coming from the west. To the east, there was only one set of tracks - Miriel’s.
The Ranger Chieftain inspected the tracks closely. “You can see that only the balls of her feet disturbed the dirt and her strides are longer than normal,” he observed, pointing to her footprints. “She ran swiftly as the wind.”
“Then so must we,” declared Elladan, immediately following the trail toward the bridge.
When they passed over the bridge, they could see her tracks turn north, leaving the road and disappearing into the woods.
“Elladan!” shouted Aragorn, grabbing the Elf by the arm. “We cannot go heedlessly into the forest.”
“Why would she go in there?” queried Gúron. “That place is filled with trolls, and haunted by the Orcs from Goblin-town.”
“I’m going, Estel,” said Elladan sternly.
“Let us assess the situation before we react,” insisted the Ranger Chieftain.
“There is nothing to assess,” barked the eldest son of Elrond. “We cannot allow Miriel to roam these woods alone.”
“Listen, Brother,” chimed in Elrohir, “We need to determine why Miriel has run into these woods. We need to have a better understanding so that we know what lies ahead of us.”
“There is no time,” protested Elladan. “Does your memory fail you, Elrohir? Do you not remember the first time we came this way with Miriel? Do you not remember her fearful glances at these woods, the change in her behavior?” The Elf shifted his gaze from his twin to the forest.
“You think she’s been summoned by someone?” queried a disheartened Halbarad.
Elladan faced the Watcher. “Or has been challenged.”
“Then wouldn’t she go south, to Mordor?” interjected Gúron.
“That is if Sauron is behind this. Of that, we are still uncertain,” said Aragorn.
“We’re wasting time,” proclaimed an irritated Elladan once again. “Whatever has befallen Miriel, I will not have her face it alone. I want to be at her side. She needs me… us.” He then cupped his mouth again, shouting, “Miriel! Miriel!”
Elrohir pulled one of his brother’s hands from his mouth. “Have you lost all sense of reason?” he demanded. “For centuries, a great evil has lain hidden in this forest, do not summon it to come forth with dusk soon approaching.”
“What a comforting thought,” mumbled Gúron under his breath.
“And is it your will, Elrohir, to leave Miriel alone in such a place, unaided by any?” Elladan’s face and tone revealed both his pain and concern.
“No, that is not my will,” answered Elrohir softly, shaking his head.
“Then we cannot delay any longer,” Elladan said firmly.
“Please, let me lead the way,” said Aragorn.
The eldest son of Elrond nodded, as the Ranger Chieftain led the way into the woods. Elrohir paused for a moment or two, studying his brother with bewildered eyes. With a shake of his head, he took off after the others…
Nearly thirty minutes after having entered the forest, Miriel heard the faint sound of her name being called. They know, she thought. They know that I’ve gone and are following. I must run faster.
Miriel increased her speed. She cursed the hills she was forced to climb, and hoped beyond hope that they would prove to be an obstacle for the others.
But they’re Rangers, she thought. They’re used to this type of terrain. Not to mention that Elladan and Elrohir have exceptional hearing and seeing abilities.
That seemed to light a fire in Miriel, causing her to run even faster. Though the back of her calves burned as she climbed each hill, the feeling eased up when she was able to run down the slope on the other side. Never the less, racing through the woods seemed to be a challenge. She knew what the Rangers looked for when tracking someone and she found it extremely difficult to avoid stepping on twigs, or breaking branches that stuck out in her way. Speed was more important right now and Miriel wasn’t afforded the time to cover her tracks.
Sweat poured from every pore on her body, drenching her shirt, in particular. Her only consolation was that, at least it was clean sweat. A drink would have been nice, but with the others so close behind, she’d have to wait until the forest grew dark before risking a sip or two.
Maybe an hour or so later, the cramping in her sides forced Miriel to slow down to a jog. As the pain increased intensity, she cursed the spring season. If only it were winter, the sun would be sinking about now. Instead, she had to deal with a couple more hours of daylight, in the woods anyway.
It seemed like it took forever for the light in the forest to diminish. Miriel knew that her friends would soon halt for the night, unable to track her in the darkness. The time was fast approaching when she’d be able to put many miles between her and them.
When darkness had covered the area, the Slayer felt it was safe to take a break. She sat on top of a hill. Leaning against a stone protuberance, she looked up at the night sky. A blanket of stars shone above. The air felt cool and crisp, especially against the dampness of her skin. She shuddered from the sudden chill. She took a deep drink from her water skin, finally able to quench her thirst after having deprived herself for hours.
Miriel then dug her cloak out of her bag. The vile stench that emitted from the garment caused her to cram it back into her pack. Instead, she found a sweater, surprised that Hal had packed a winter item in springtime. Nevertheless, she was grateful to have it. She pulled off her wet shirt and quickly slipped the sweater over her head. It smelled so good, so clean. And it was warm. Miriel then searched her bag for her packet of lembas. She could use a bite before setting off again. When she found the leaf-wrapped package, she broke off a piece of the elvish way-bread and popped it into her mouth. She chewed slowly, savoring the flavor and waiting for its magical properties to kick in. A few minutes later, the Slayer gathered her things and began the decent down the hillside. She would continue her march for several hours yet…
“We have to stop,” Aragorn said when the woods had gotten too dark for the Rangers to continue.
“But we haven’t found Miriel yet,” argued Elladan. “She cannot be much further ahead.”
“We cannot track her in the darkness, Elladan,” explained Aragorn. “We’ll start again at first light.”
While the others sat on the ground, resting, the eldest son of Elrond remained standing, staring to the east.
“Come now, Elladan,” said his twin. “Sit and rest a while.”
“I fear for her safety, Brother,” said Elladan softly.
“Well, I for one, fear for our safety,” spoke up Gúron. “I hope the trolls are wandering far from here.”
“Do not speak of trolls, Gúron,” chastised Halbarad.
“That is no easy thing you ask of me,” replied the golden-haired Ranger. He fixed his eyes on the Watcher. “Have you no clue as to why Dagnir came this way? Do you remember anything from past conversations that would help us?”
“I wish I did,” answered a grim Halbarad. “I do not know where she is going or why?” The Watcher shifted his gaze from Elrohir to Elladan. “Do you not know? Miriel has always been close to you two. Has she ever confided in you about these woods?”
“No,” replied Elrohir. “We have noticed, as Elladan mentioned earlier, that she seemed wary of this forest when we were traveling to Imladris. Other than that, we know nothing.”
“Something drove her into these woods,” said Elladan, still staring into the darkness. “What or who it is, I cannot rightly say.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “My heart tells me she’s in danger.” The eldest son of Elrond then turned, facing the group. “I feel that it’s vital that we continue our trek. Miriel will not stop. I know that. I feel it. She will expand the lead she already has on us.”
“Elladan, it is foolhardy to attempt to follow in the dark,” said an empathetic Aragorn. “We all want to find Miriel and we’ll begin again once we can see her trail clearly. Whatever drove her into these parts, let us hope that it’s the will of the Valar, and that they are protecting her. Come, sit and rest while we can. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
Elladan knew that Aragorn was right. They had no other choice but to wait until morning. He hoped that if they got an early start, they’d be able to catch up with Miriel by tomorrow afternoon. Surely, she would have to rest at some point. Even Slayers need to sleep…
Miriel had no idea how long she had walked. The lembas had kept her going thus far, but now, she was tired and in need of rest. While she hadn’t heard any trolls or other evil critters all night, she didn’t want to risk sleeping on the ground. As she trudged along, she kept her eyes peeled for a suitable tree to sleep in; just like she had the last time she had been alone in these woods.
When Miriel came across a suitable looking oak with forked limbs jutting out from its trunk about twelve feet above the ground, she decided that that would do. Unlike last time, she had no rope to tie herself to the boughs. She’d have to wedge herself between the branches, and hope she wouldn’t fall whilst she slept.
Despite the discomfort of her tree bed, Miriel was tired enough that she fell asleep rather quickly. She was happy to see Buffy waiting for her once she entered the dreamscape…
“So, you’ve actually done it,” said her mentor, standing at the base of the tree. “I’ve gotta admit, I’m surprised that you’ve manage to evade the others so far. Isn’t Aragorn a master tracker?”
“Yes,” Miriel answered with a nod. “And I fear that he and the others will gain on me tomorrow. Night has proved to be my friend and day shall prove to be my enemy.”
“Well, maybe if we scope things out, we can find a path that’ll make it harder for them to follow your tracks,” suggested Buffy. As she spoke, the night turned to day, illuminating the landscape. “We need a better view,” she continued, surveying the area carefully. “Come on, follow me.”
Miriel leapt out of the tree and followed Buffy, who was heading toward a nearby treeless hill.
“But Buffy,” said the younger Slayer, “even from atop the hill we won’t be able to see anything. It’s not high enough.”
When they had reached the hilltop, Buffy looked around. With so many trees, she could not make out any pathways or shortcuts that would prove helpful to her protégé. “You’re right,” said a frustrated Buffy. “We can’t see a damn thing. We’re not high enough.”
“I told you.” Miriel felt that her leaving her friends was now pointless. Sometime tomorrow, they’d catch up to her and she’d never be able to exact her revenge on the old hag that had tormented her so. “This whole thing was such a waste of time and energy,” she griped.
Buffy remained perfectly still, pondering this latest predicament. She stared out at the trees, when, suddenly, she exclaimed, “Fuck me!”
Miriel spun around toward her mentor, shocked by her unexpected outburst.
Laughing, Buffy continued, “Why didn’t I think of this earlier?” She walked up to Miriel and linked arms with the younger Slayer. “Sometimes, I can be so blonde!”
“What are you talking - ” Miriel finished her question with a yelp, clinging to Buffy as they both lifted off the ground.
“We’re in a dream, Miriel,” said an amused Buffy. “Forget walking. We can fly! Or at least coast over the land and get a bird’s-eye view of things.”
The younger Slayer’s heart pounded with excitement. It took her a few moments to relax, but once she had, how could she not enjoy seeing things from this perspective?
“Which way should we go?” asked Buffy, as they hovered some distance above the treetops.
“I think we need to head toward the mountains.”
The two Slayers then glided east. “Look!” said Buffy, pointing below. “If you go that way, you’ll cross a lot of rocks, making it harder for the others to track you.”
Sure enough, a stone floor about two miles square lay just beyond the next hill. The forest encircled the rocky surface due to a lack of soil for the trees’ root systems. Weeds and wild grasses grew from some of the cracks on the floor, but for the most part, the area was plant free.
They continued to float on an easterly course until Miriel spotted the huge, flat-topped hill that she had scaled the year before. “There it is!” she exclaimed, pointing to the enormous mound. They had reached the southernmost point of the hill, which was about thirty miles from where Miriel currently lay sleeping. “We’ll need to go north,” added Miriel, her heart once again pounding wildly in her chest.
Since Buffy was the one that controlled their flight pattern, she followed Miriel’s suggestion and they began to glide north, parallel to the massive flat mound.
“Can we go a bit lower?”
“Of course,” answered Buffy.
They then slowly descended from the sky as a flock of birds approached, coming from the north. The birds looked at Buffy and Miriel with interest.
“I hope those aren’t spies,” remarked Buffy, eyeing the birds suspiciously. “Didn’t Bregolas mention something about birds being spies of the enemy?”
“Yes, but those are songbirds. Swallows, I think,” replied Miriel. “I don’t think they would obey the commands of the enemy.”
“Let’s hope not.”
The birds passed them by, flying southeast. Buffy and Miriel didn’t give them another thought. Instead, they focused their attention on the area below.
After they had passed the enormous hill, the woods again began to dominate the landscape. Somewhere below was the path that Miriel had taken, accompanied by the villains, Valandil and Dúilin. O’ how she regretted trusting them as she had. That had proved a cruel lesson learned the hard way, but she was not now as trusting as she once had been.
Traveling in this region once again filled Miriel with mixed emotions. She felt anxious, excited, and fearful all at the same time. Not to mention that she still felt a bit of uncertainty about whether or not she had made the right choice by taking the battle to the witch. Would she actually defeat her or would she meet her untimely demise as all Slayers eventually do? She was only seventeen after all.
“Do you think I’m making a mistake?” she asked, speaking softly to her mentor.
Buffy shifted her eyes to her protégé. She could see that Miriel’s expression was riddled with doubt. “No,” answered the elder Slayer without hesitation. “We’re Slayers, and it’s our destiny to slay creatures that regular people can’t. Like this witch. Don’t second guess yourself.” She took Miriel’s hand in hers, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Her protégé’s palm was already slick with sweat. “You’re gonna kick that bitch’s ass!”
Miriel feigned a smile. She wished she could feel as confident as Buffy apparently did.
“Remember what happened to you there. Use that. Muster all that anger and pain, and use it against her.”
The younger Slayer nodded. Once again, like countless times before, the memories of her past torments flashed in her mind. Her eyes glazed over; her mouth became dry. Unbeknownst to her, she had balled her fists, including the one that still clutched Buffy’s hand.
“Ow!” squealed the elder Slayer, wringing her hand free. She glared at Miriel, but could see that she was obviously somewhere else. “Hey! Miriel! Come back to me!” she ordered, snapping her fingers in front of the girl’s face.
Miriel then blinked her eyes several time. “Huh? What?”
“You okay?” asked Buffy, worried that the witch was somehow weaving a new spell from afar.
“I’m mustering my anger,” replied Miriel.
“Yeah,” said her mentor, rubbing her hand. “I felt it.”
“Sorry,” apologized the younger Slayer.
“It’s alright. Just direct it at the enemy, not me.”
The two Slayers fell quiet, surveying the landscape below.
Not long afterwards, they came to the lush fields of pastureland. The stone farmhouse stood on the knoll at the end of the fenced lane. Swirls of grayish smoke rose from three chimneys within the home. However, there had been some obvious changes. Up near the front fence line there stood a small structure that had been erected into a hillside. Buffy called it a “guard house”. On the old foundation of the barn that Miriel had burned down was a crudely built wood and stone structure. Plumes of grey smoke swirled from a couple of metal flues that stuck out from the roof.
There was no doubt in Miriel’s mind that the old hag had taken up residency at this homestead. However, she was surprised that there appeared to be no fortifications protecting the place from the likes of her. Perhaps the witch did not feel threatened by the Slayer, or anyone else for that matter.
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Buffy, pointing toward the barn-like building. About two dozen Orcs were exiting the domicile, scrambling toward the farmhouse, as if summoned.
Seeing that terrified Miriel. “We’ve got to get out of here. We need to find cover,” she cried out.
“Why?” asked a puzzled Buffy.
“Because I think that witch knows we’re here. Hurry, Buffy! Get us out of here!” The younger Slayer kept her horror-filled eyes locked on the Orcs, who, trying to avoid the sunlight, entered the confines of the farmhouse only moments later.
The two Slayers quickly spun around in mid-air, and began a rapid descent toward the eaves of the forest. “We can hide in the trees,” suggested Buffy, suddenly finding herself overwhelmed with a deep sense of dread.
Miriel glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see the witch barreling out of the front door at any moment. Paying more attention to the farmhouse than Buffy’s piloting, the younger Slayer was jolted back to her senses when she felt tree branches scraping against her face. Grimacing and wincing from the pain, she grabbed hold of the tree to which Buffy had steered them.
“Oh, God! I’m sorry,” said Buffy, cringing as she looked at the cuts on Miriel’s cheek. She cursed her inability to have safely guided them onto the tree limb of a birch that sat at the forest’s edge. Buffy’s nurturing instincts kicked in. She reached out to inspect her protégé’s cheek.
“I’m fine,” insisted Miriel, pushing Buffy’s hand away. She seated herself on the branch, watching the farmhouse intently.
The elder Slayer followed suit. “Do you think she really saw us?” she asked, her face a mask of worry. “I mean, we are in a dream.”
Miriel slowly turned her head so that she faced her mentor. “Have you already forgotten what happened to me mere days ago? That bitch was able to torment me from afar. And I hope you haven’t forgotten that the Dark Lord paid us a visit when we were in Sunnydale. That took place in our dream.” Miriel licked her dry lips. “She knows. I know she knows.” She then turned her gaze back to the house.
Buffy kept her eyes fixed on Miriel. When she saw her protégé’s body tense, her eyes widen and her jaw drop, she followed her gaze.
A company of Orcs had stormed out of the farmhouse and were running up the lane toward the two Slayers.
“Oh, shit!” Buffy cried into her hand, muffling the sound. “Wake up, Miriel! Wake up!”
Miriel awoke from her slumber in a near panic, and, doing so, she tumbled out of the tree in which she had been sleeping, hitting the ground hard. She moaned, having had the wind knocked out of her. She blinked away the stars that filled her vision until she saw the dark, starless sky looming above.
“She knows,” she uttered when she caught her breath. “The old bitch knows.” She couldn’t help but think that she had lost the element of surprise on which she had counted. Finding herself wide-awake, she clambered to her feet, brushing away the leaves that still clung to her hair and backside. Having no idea what the time was, she decided to follow through on her mission despite the darkness and the fact that she now believed that the old hag was expecting her. Once the pain had abated some, she climbed back into the tree, grabbed her bags that remained wedged between the tree limbs, and resumed her journey.
Even though her visibility was nil, Miriel knew the general direction in which she needed to go. Her dream had revealed that she was only thirty miles or so away, much closer than she had originally thought. Based on that, and by leaving under the cover of darkness, she felt that she would arrive at the old homestead sometime that night.
At this hour, all was silent, except for her booted feet crunching on the dry leaves that littered the forest floor. She hoped that she’d be able to cross the stone floor before daylight, making it that much harder for the Rangers to follow her trail.
As Miriel tramped through the woods, she was a bit surprised that her thoughts turned to her family in Minas Tirith. Well, mostly just Faramir and Boromir. O’ how she missed them and wished she could see them again. In a way, she longed for those days, of frivolity where she didn’t have a care in the world and her most important decisions were concerned with what clothing she would wear on any given day. How life had changed!
Thinking of her brothers, and also of Imrahil and her kinfolk at Dol Amroth, brought tears to her eyes. Miriel was beginning to wonder if she would die in her upcoming battle with the witch. Why else would she be thinking of her loved ones like she was? A teardrop escaped from the corner of her eye. She felt the warmth of it running down her face, dripping off her chin.
“Am I a fool?” she whispered.
No! exclaimed the “good” voice in her mind. You are fulfilling your destiny. You will have no peace until you slay this demon.
Miriel stopped before climbing the second hill. She plopped down on the ground and dug through her bag for her package of lembas. She took a bite of the elvish way-bread, hoping it would give her some much needed strength. She washed it down with a swig of water and then resumed her trek.
The lembas proved helpful, renewing, not only Miriel’s strength, but also her resolution to see this thing through to the bitter end. When she happened to cross the rock floor of the forest before dawn, she was convinced that her battle with the old hag was fated to be.
On and on she marched until the grey light of morning greeted her a few hours later. She stopped to rest for a while in a little clearing in the woods. Plopping down on the ground, Miriel heard the cries of some birds flying above. Turning her gaze upward, she saw a flock of what she presumed to be swallows, (just as she had in her dream), flying on a southwesterly course.
Her gaze then shifted to the Misty Mountains looming in the background over the treetops. Immediately, thoughts of Bregolas entered her mind. Maybe that was due to the fact that the only time she had ever crossed that mountain pass was with her dear friend, or, perhaps it was because Buffy had mentioned the warrior in last night’s dream. Whatever the reason, she found herself reflecting on times past.
She couldn’t help but wonder what Bregolas would think of her now. He had been her teacher when it came to the art of warfare. Surely, he’d be pleased to see the progress she had made over the past year. Though she had felt somewhat solemn all morning, a smile came to her face when she recalled those days when they used to practice together in his small cottage in the White City. She even chuckled remembering that day when Boromir had come barging in on them and, jumping to the wrong conclusion, assumed that Bregolas had stolen her virtue.
Unfortunately, thinking about her stolen virtue made her think of Denethor, the one truly responsible for the stealing of her virginity. Miriel had become pretty good at blocking out those traumatic nocturnal visits from her father, but, from time to time, they crept back into her mind no matter how hard she tried to forget them.
She still clearly remembered the first time Denethor had come to her bedchamber, intent on committing that unfathomable act against her. No, he wasn’t like Dúilin and his gang of thugs who had drugged her and tied her down so that they could have their way with her. Denethor was worse. He was blood kin, her father. And he used words, twisted and diabolical in nature, to manipulate her into submission.
“You killed my wife,” he had said. “And in doing so, it is your sacred duty to take her place, to see to it that my needs are met.”
A cold chill swept over Miriel causing her to shudder uncontrollably. For an instant, she smelled her father’s sour breath and felt his inappropriate touch. Her stomach became queasy. Tears filled her eyes, as she buried her face in her hands. Rocking back and forth, she cried, “Block it out!” over and over until the images blurred with tears. She curled up on the ground, weeping like a wounded animal.
She was confused as to why that particular memory had come rushing to the surface. When Miriel was able to regain her composure, she attributed the episode to the witch. That fiend was taunting her from afar, bringing up past memories in an attempt to weaken her opponent.
She then heard Buffy say in a faraway voice, “Muster all that anger and pain, and use it against her.”
Hearing Buffy’s words had an immediate effect on the young Slayer. She took a deep breath, dried her eyes, and pulled herself back to her feet. At that moment, the first rays of sunlight shone down from over the peaks of the Misty Mountains. Miriel closed her eyes and took several more deep, cleansing breaths in hopes of pulling herself together. It was of the utmost importance that she remain strong and show no weakness.
Feeling much better, she gathered her things and continued on. She was getting tired of the old hag and her mind games, and for the love Eru, she was determined to put an end to them tonight…
At Elladan’s insistence, the Rangers started out under the grey light of morning. With Aragorn at the forefront, he was able to easily follow the path Miriel had taken. Though old, dry leaves littered the forest floor, new plant life had sprung up in many places. The Ranger Chieftain could clearly see the damage done to the young shoots, which had been bent and bruised by the Slayer’s footfalls. It appeared that Miriel had avoided the densest parts of the forest, sticking to game trails for they were far easier to travel upon, especially when one had need for haste.
By midday, they reached the area where the forest gave way to the flat, rocky floor that Miriel had crossed before daybreak. The Rangers lost much time scouring the flat stone for any indications as to where the Slayer had headed next.
“It seems that Miriel has used this place to her advantage,” said Aragorn solemnly. “For the life of me, I cannot think of a reason why she would want to evade us.”
“I told you, she has been summoned by some great evil,” declared Elladan with conviction.
“That is only a guess, Brother,” chimed in Elrohir.
“If you’re correct, we could prove useful to the Slayer. She need not fight alone,” added the Ranger Chieftain.
Halbarad snickered. “Miriel is as stubborn as they come! I don’t doubt what Elladan says. Whatever is going on, Miriel feels that she must do this alone.”
“That’s what I fear the most,” uttered Elladan. “Is she truly ready to face some powerful enemy alone? After all that has happened… ” The Elf Lord paused, before adding, “I cannot help but think she is walking into a trap.” A sense of urgency returned to his voice, “We must find which way she went, before it’s too late.”
Aragorn scanned their surroundings. “Since time is of the essence, we should not stay in one group. I suggest that each one of us begins searching different areas that border this outcropping. Miriel had to have crossed here at some point. Search the surrounding vegetation with a keen eye. Give a shout if you find any signs of the grasses having been trod upon.” Aragorn then sent each Ranger to a different point along the stone floor, having them search the ground in a clock-wise pattern, in hopes of covering more area in less time.
Halbarad and Gúron were assigned to areas closest to the outcrop, while the others had to walk across the large expanse of stone to reach their designated sites. The sons of Elrond and Aragorn hadn’t even crossed the rock floor when they heard the unexpected calls of birds flying high overhead. Shifting their gaze upward, they were forced to use their hands to shield their eyes from the midday sun as they watched the birds circling above. Gradually, the flock began to descend from the sky, continuing to fly in that same looping formation.
Due to their acute eyesight, Elladan and Elrohir were the first to recognize the birds as swallows. They, along with the rest of their companions, remained frozen, staring at the birds as they began to land in the surrounding trees. Upon landing, each swallow lifted its voice in song, until the entire area was a chorus of their merry melody.
“This means something,” muttered Elrohir to himself. He was perplexed by the birds’ unusual behavior.
“Oi!” shouted Gúron. “What’s with the birds?”
Aragorn gestured to the others to remain quiet. Uneasiness began to gnaw at him, resulting in his hand instinctively grasping the hilt of his sword. He then motioned for his fellow Rangers to regroup. As the swallows continued to sing loudly, the men gathered near the center of the rock outcrop.
Huddled together, Aragorn softly said, “These birds are watching us. I suspect that they’re calling to their master.”
“But swallows are not typically used by the enemy,” mentioned Elrohir.
“Yet it is said that he has the power to use all beasts for nefarious purposes,” countered the Ranger Chieftain.
“Do you think that the enemy is attempting to waylay us?” asked Halbarad gravely.
Before any could answer, Elladan interjected, “Then we have all the more reason for haste!”
“Why do you have this compelling need to protect the Slayer?” queried Gúron, somewhat resentfully.
Elladan narrowed his eyes at the golden-haired Ranger. “She’s still a young girl, out there, all alone.”
Gúron let out a derisive snort. Shaking his head in disbelief, he argued, “That young girl is quite capable of taking care of herself. Whoever crosses her path will rue the day! Surely, you have not forgotten the castration of that Thornberry fellow. Makes my loins hurt just to think about it.”
Elladan’s grey eyes flashed with anger. He took a threatening step forward, entering the golden-haired Dúnadan’s personal space. Gúron was not intimidated by the Elf. Aragorn and Elrohir sprang between the two, each holding one of the men back.
“What do you have against her?” the Elf Lord asked heatedly. “You seem to take great pleasure in making snide remarks about Miriel!”
“This is neither the time nor the place for this,” admonished Aragorn in an attempt to diffuse the impending argument before it could escalate into a physical altercation.
“Let it go, Brother,” counseled Elrohir, pulling his brother out of the ring of men.
Despite Aragorn’s plea, Elladan and Gúron continued to quarrel, each shouting over the other, drowning out each other’s comments. Due to that unfortunate incident, no one noticed the rustling green leaves on the southeastern eaves of the forest. Only a moment later, an old man, cloaked in grey, with a tall, blue, pointed hat on his head, stepped into the clearing and stopped. Leaning on his staff, which he clutched with both hands, he watched the men in silence for several long seconds.
“I’m surprised that a group of Rangers would make such a racket! Are you trying to alert all of Goblin-town with your antics?” shouted the old man, as he began to cross the stone floor at an amazingly fast pace.
All the men were startled that someone had come upon them, catching them off guard. However, there was a sense of relief when they saw that it was not the enemy.
“Gandalf,” uttered Aragorn. He felt somewhat ashamed that he had not detected the wizard’s presence prior to his speaking.
Before they knew it, Gandalf had reached the Rangers. Beneath his bushy eyebrows, his piercing blue eyes scrutinized each man.
“I take it you’ve sent the swallows then,” commented Elrohir.
“Actually, they were sent by my friend Radagast to aid me in my search.” He briefly turned his back to the men, raised his arm in the air, and uttered an elvish phrase. A second later, the flapping of wings filled the clearing, and the swallows took off, heading north. Gandalf then fixed his gaze on Halbarad. “Where is your Slayer?” he asked.
“Um, er,” began a hesitant Halbarad. “She took off.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“She’s in trouble, isn’t she, Gandalf?” asked Elladan, his face etched with worry.
“She’s the Slayer. And I daresay from what I hear, she has a way of finding trouble,” grumbled the Wizard.
“Sounds like you’ve been to Bree,” remarked Aragorn, rather dismally.
“Yes! There’s no doubt in my mind that Miriel has revealed herself to the enemy.” He directed his attention back to Halbarad, the one truly responsible for the Slayer. “How could you have let her do something like that? Such tomfoolery has exposed – ”
“ – Tomfoolery?! How can you say such a thing? Miriel saved that girl from a brutal rapist! She did the world a favor, if you ask me!” Surprisingly, it was Gúron that had interrupted the wizard, coming to Miriel’s defense.
Glaring at the golden-haired Ranger, Gandalf brusquely snapped back with “No one asked you!”
Elladan, on the other hand, showed his appreciation to Gúron by nodding approvingly and offering his friend a quick smile. “We cannot undo what has already been done,” stated the eldest son of Elrond. “We know she’s in danger, that some evil has summoned her. Is that why you’re here, Mithrandir?”
“It is,” answered the Wizard, his calm and sensible demeanor returning. “A shadow has come upon me, where Miriel is concerned. I’ll have you know – I knew she was destined to become a Slayer years before it happened,” he said, going slightly off topic. Gandalf shifted his gaze to the mountain peaks to their east. “A dark force has haunted the Misty Mountains for some time. And I do not have the time and resources to contest the might of Sauron and his numerous allies.”
“Mostly Orcs and trolls inhabit this region of Eriador,” said Hal, thinking that those creatures were no serious threat to the Slayer.
Gandalf turned his attention back to the Rangers, particularly the Watcher. “There is greater evil in this world than Orcs and Trolls, Halbarad,” he replied solemnly.
“What evil is it that you speak of?” asked Aragorn.
“I cannot say with certainty,” the Wizard answered with a heavy sigh. “But I fear that its power is greater than that of the Slayer, and that Miriel will fall at the hands of this foe.”
“Then we must find her!” insisted Elladan. “We have wasted too much precious time here. We need to find her trail.”
Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow at the Elf Lord, but Elladan took off to resume searching his appointed area around the stone floor. As he left, he advised the others to do the same.
The Rangers, now with the aid of the Wizard, renewed their search for Miriel’s tracks..
Nearly twenty minutes had passed when Elrohir shouted, “I’ve found it! Over here!” He waved for the others to join him at the northeastern side of the outcropping.
Once they had all reached him, Aragorn crouched down beside the grass that Miriel had stomped upon. “Well done, Elrohir,” he said, running his hand over the patch of ground that had been disturbed. He then carefully pulled several blades from the earth, held them to his nose, and smelled the area of the grass that had been damaged. “It has been a long while since Miriel passed this way. The blades have lost nearly all their scent,” he concluded, rising to his feet.
“Lead the way, Estel,” said Elladan, eager to find the Slayer before it was too late…
Miriel hid herself amidst the leafy branches of an elm tree that overlooked the House of Horrors farm. She had made good time, arriving just before nightfall, and felt that the cover of darkness would once again prove advantageous. As she waited, she scoped out the fields that she’d have no other choice but to cross. From what she could gather, the lush grass (seemingly early for this time of year) looked to be about knee-high based on the location of the crisscross patterns of the wooden fence. Miriel thought that she’d need to belly-crawl across the pastures to avoid being seen by the enemy.
The little “guard house” looked empty. At least, from what Miriel could see. There were no signs of life, other than some cattle grazing in the fields. There also had to be chickens somewhere on the property. On occasion she could hear a rooster crowing, but it sounded way off, perhaps behind the stone farmhouse. Miriel was a bit taken aback that there were any farm animals at all, when one considers who resides there now. But, she supposed that even evil creatures needed food to survive, and, despite calling the old hag a witch, she did appear to be human.
Before total darkness engulfed the region, Miriel carefully climbed down from the tree. She squatted, peering from behind the bole of the elm, watching and waiting. Lights came on in the main house, the glow muted by the curtains that covered the windows.
A noise then drew her attention away from the main house to the barn-like structure. The door had been flung open, and Orcs marched from the building, armed with spears, swords and bows. She heard the gruff, commanding voice of one, the leader perhaps, but whatever orders he was giving were unintelligible to the Slayer from this distance.
Eager to see how many Orcs she would have to contend with, Miriel slowly rose to her feet, her joints popping as she stretched her legs. The sound seemed frightfully loud to her mortal ears and she hoped that the enemy had not heard the cracking sounds even though they were a quarter mile or so away. She held her breath for a few moments, listening intently. Fortunately, nary an Orc seemed to detect her presence, and Miriel sighed with relief.
A shroud of darkness fell over the area before she could determine the Orcs’ total numbers. Given the size of the “barn”, their numbers couldn’t be too great. Even if there were some that resided in the farmhouse, she figured she could take them on, one by one. However, if the goblins managed to unite into one unit, she’d be in trouble, particularly with those wielding bows. With no shield at her disposal, the possibility of being hit by a flying projectile was all too real.
It was in the hands of fate. Stealth would play a big part, and that was where she had the advantage. Orcs were not of the stealthy kind. Even now, as they stomped to their appointed posts, the ground seemed to groan beneath their heavy booted feet.
It’s now or never, Miriel thought. She got on all fours and began to crawl toward the fence. She hoped to climb through the “X” part of the fence before any goblins had a chance to reach this area of the farm. However, climbing through the crisscross pattern proved to be awkward and challenging. Somehow, the sword on her right hip became lodged in the junction of two posts, causing her to become hung up in the lower part of the “X”. As she struggled to free herself, the hilt of her weapon jabbed painfully into her ribs. Grimacing, Miriel bit her bottom lip in an attempt to prevent herself from uttering a sound. She then thrust herself forward, breaking the poles that formed the “X” in the process. The loud cracking sound rang out amid the darkness.
“Fuck,” the Slayer murmured, knowing that that sound was loud enough to be heard. As she dove into the tall grass, she pulled her dragger from the sheath clasped to her leg. She had crawled a few feet beyond the fence line when she heard the heavy footfalls of an approaching Orc. With her heart racing, Miriel was going to venture a quick peek to see exactly where the goblin was, but when she smelled the rank odor emitting from the creature, she knew he was too close and lay down on her belly.
She could hear the Orc sniffing. Miriel’s heart felt as if it had plummeted to the bottom of her stomach. She couldn’t help but think that the goblin could smell the scented soap from her recent bath. Regardless, she’d have to take him out. In those long seconds that passed, she wondered how on earth she could kill the lone beast without his alerting his brethren.
From the corner of her eye, she watched the Orc pass her by, heading straight to the fence. She got on her knees, turning so that she faced the back of her foe. As she leapt to her feet, she raked her blade across the tendons at the back of his left knee. The goblin dropped to his knees, as Miriel cut off the shrill yelp that escaped his lips for the briefest of seconds. Having used such force to clamp her hand over his mouth, they both fell backward, hitting the turf with a dull thud.
As her adversary twisted and turned in her grip, she used her legs like a vise, pinning his flailing limbs in place. She sank her blade deeply into the fleshy part of his neck and sliced his throat open. The warmth of her enemy’s blood flowed from the incision, saturating her below. Miriel did not move until the Orc remained motionless. She then flung him aside, revolted by the fact that a vile stench now emanated from her.
There was no doubt in Miriel’s mind that the goblin’s sharp cry had alerted others. And sure enough, a couple of Orcs were walking up the lane calling out to their comrade.
“Oi! Urkhûr! What’re you doing, you witless layabout?” shouted one.
Having no idea what possessed her to do so, the Slayer responded by mimicking an orkish grunt.
The Orc that had called out then looked to his companion, saying, “Go see what that dung-head’s up to? If he’s sleeping on the job again, give him a swift kick to the head. If that don’t wake him - kill ‘em. He ain’t no use to us anyway.” That goblin then continued up the lane, cursing under his breath as he headed to the “guard house”.
The other Orc, following the instructions of the one that seemed to have a higher rank than he, approached the fence that ran alongside the lane. “Damn you, Urkhûr,” the goblin snarled, as he struggled to climb through the fence while holding his spear the wrong way.
If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Miriel would’ve been amused by the stupidity of the Orc. But, she didn’t have time to dawdle. She needed to think of something fast that wouldn’t attract the attention of numerous goblins at once. O’ how she wished she had a bow. Right now, she would have a clear shot at either Orc.
She could throw her dagger, she supposed, but she was loath to do that. With her eyes locked on the goblin by the fence, she reached over, frisking the corpse of Urkhûr in hopes that he had carried a knife of some sort. As luck would have it, she felt some type of handheld weapon strapped to his belt. The problem was that it was stuck beneath the Orc’s body and Miriel couldn’t reach it from where she lay. She needed to get to the other side of the corpse.
The Orc by the fence was halfway through the “X” of poles, deciding to come through backwards instead of forwards. She could hear the door of the “guard house” click closed and knew that now was her chance. She quickly rolled on and over the body of the goblin, tugging the handle of the weapon until it came free. She rejoiced in the fact that she now held a throwing axe.
She shifted her gaze back to the Orc with the spear, seeing that he was nearly all the way through. Sitting on the back of her legs, she rolled the handle of the throwing axe in her hand, getting the feel for it while aiming for the back of the goblin’s neck. She then flung the small axe, watching as it sailed through the air, embedding in the base of her target’s skull. The Orc slumped dead on the fence, having never made a sound.
With the night young and so many villains about, Miriel decided that she needed to make a perimeter sweep prior to entering the main house. She had to take out as many of the Orcs as she could. Chances are it would take her hours to do so. But she was in no hurry. She had waited a long time for this moment and didn’t want to blow it. By eliminating as many Orcs as she could, it would lessen the chances of them forming a unit, attacking her all at once. She wanted to battle the hag one on one, not twenty on one.
Hunching back down amidst the grass, Miriel looked for the next place she needed to go. About thirty feet away to the east was a decent sized shade tree. She thought that if she could reach said tree, and climb it, maybe she could see where the next Orc was. Clutching her dagger tightly in her hand, she counted to three before running with her back bent to lessen the chance of being spotted.
Once she had successfully reached the tree, she pressed her body against the bole, waiting, listening, and steadying her breathing. As she stood there, she eyed the limbs above, looking for the one that offered the best concealment from her foes. She peeked around the trunk, making sure that no goblins had seen her. The last thing she wanted was to be caught unawares.
The Slayer then jumped up and grabbed hold of the straightest branch she could reach. She swung her legs back and forth before flipping her body up onto the top of the limb. The leaves on the branch rustled noisily. Since the air was still, that was not a good thing. Needless to say, the sound attracted the attention of a goblin that had been patrolling a short distance away.
Miriel had to think of something fast. There was no way she could fight from her current position unless she were to drop on top of her foe, and that would require precise timing. Needing to act quickly, she decided on something she wasn’t sure would work. She locked her knees tightly around the branch, so that she could hang upside down. Keeping her body balled tightly, her swords jutted out on either side of her body like petrified wings. For this stunt to work, she’d need to use the proper weapon. She placed her dagger between her teeth, as she slowly pulled out Bregolas’ sword from its sheath. She then fixed her eyes on the approaching Orc, hoping that this would work as she envisioned.
As the goblin came closer, and with his sword at the ready, he picked up the scent of one of his kindred. He assumed that one of his brethren had decided to hide in the tree to ambush the Slayer. He thought that was an excellent strategic move on his cohort’s part and wished he had thought of it first.
He was about two yards away when he asked with a low hiss, “Any sign of the girl?”
There came no response.
“Oi! I’m talking to you,” he said, stepping even closer to the tree.
When he was three feet away, Miriel unrolled her body, and swung her sword with all her might, hewing the Orc’s head from his body. His head flew several feet away while his body collapsed to the ground. Miriel was ecstatic that it had worked.
She then pulled herself up, sitting upright on the branch. She pulled the dagger from her clenched teeth and held it in her left hand, as she wiped the Orc’s blood from the blade of her sword on the leg of her breeches. She re-sheathed Bregolas’ weapon, resuming her watch.
Having a few minutes to survey the area, Miriel was able to make out the Orcs’ patrolling pattern. Stationed every two hundred feet along the internal perimeter of the fence line were two goblins. As one walked a hundred feet in one direction, the other did the same in the opposite direction. Once they had covered their designated hundred foot strip, they would turn and walk back to their starting point, passing each other by in the center so that the other Orc now covered the area from which his partner had just come.
As soon as Miriel realized this pattern, she was able to better prepare a plan of attack. She realized it would only be a matter of time before the cohort of the goblin she had killed, discovered that he was missing, so the Slayer slipped off the branch, landing on the ground. Once again, the leaves noisily rustled as she did so. She then crouched beside the corpse, searching his body for anything that could be of use. Unfortunately, he had nothing on him other than his sword - no throwing axe, knife, bow, nothing.
Miriel grumbled in discontent. A bow. What she would give for a bow! Though not a favorite weapon of hers, right now it would be the most effective weapon she could possess. How many Orcs would she have to kill before she found one?
She could see that dead goblin’s partner had reached the point where he had turned around and was coming back. Miriel grabbed the dead Orc by the shoulders and dragged him to the trunk of the tree. She propped his headless body against the bole, wishing now that she had the head. After having heard how that one Orc, Urkhûr had slept on job, she thought she’d make it look like this one had too. But she needed the head to make it look realistic.
Fighting against time, Miriel lay flat, crawling towards the area in which the head had landed. She had gone a few feet when her outstretched hand touched a pile of dry cow manure. Her hand quickly darted away from the offensive pile, that is, until it occurred to her that a pile of poop could easily double as an Orc head. She placed her dagger between her teeth, as she needed both hands to scoop up the cow excrement. Unfortunately, the feces was wet on the bottom. Cringing, and forcing herself not to gag, she hastily crawled back to the corpse, and placed the dung where the Orc’s head should have been. She then hid on the other side of the tree, waiting for the other goblin she knew would come.
Sickened by the feces clinging to her hands, she hurriedly tried to wipe them on the legs of her breeches. The odor was ghastly, but at least it masked the scent of her floral bath soap. This time, she decided to use her own sword instead of Bregolas’. Before withdrawing the weapon from it scabbard, she slid her dagger back into the sheath strapped to her leg. With her weapon in hand, she waited. She would have to rely on her hearing instead of her eyesight so as to not give away her position.
Shortly thereafter, she heard the Orc approach. “What’re doing there, Skraluk?” he said in a low, gravelly voice. “This ain’t the time to rest.” The Slayer found it somewhat surprising that the goblin spoke with an air of urgency in his voice. She wasn’t used to hearing any of them speak that way.
When she sensed that the enemy was within striking distance, she leapt out from behind the tree. Catching the goblin off guard, she saw both his eyes and mouth widening. Before he could alert his fellow Orcs, Miriel’s sword swished through the air, cleaving off his head. She had used such force that her blade became embedded in the bole of the tree.
“Shit,” she breathed, struggling to dislodge her weapon without damaging it. As soon as she had wiggled the blade free, she inspected the sword and noticed three notches along the blade. She cursed again. She placed the weapon back in its sheath, needing both hands to quickly search the Orc.
“What’s this?” she whispered excitedly. Beside his slouched body lay a long bow. Though she would’ve preferred a short bow, Miriel thought that she would make use of this weapon until she came across something more desirable. With a bow, she could at least strike the enemy from afar. And she knew, undoubtedly, that the success of her stealthy slaying campaign couldn’t last much longer. The odds were likely against her.
She slid the quiver of arrows from the dead goblin’s shoulder, and pulled out two of the flying projectiles to keep on hand. As she slid the quiver over her own shoulder, she hoped that she’d be able to kill the Orcs in pairs, if at all possible.
Wanting to move east along the perimeter, Miriel eyed a hill several yards away. Grabbing the bow, she hunkered down and ran toward it as fast as she could. When she reached the base, she lay flat on her belly, waiting and listening to see if any had witnessed her mad dash. When it seemed clear that she hadn’t been spotted by the enemy, she slowly crawled around the southern side of the hill.
On the eastern side lay a small herd of cattle. That was an obstacle she hadn’t counted on. She didn’t feel confident that she’d be able to get by them without riling them up. She leaned against the hillside, debating her course of action.
She could hear Aragorn’s words of advice echoing in her mind, “Assess, then react.” That was easier said than done. If only she could communicate with cows. Smelling too much like an Orc, she figured that the creatures would view her as a threat, especially the sole bull. His horns looked painfully large, and she didn’t like the idea of becoming impaled by them. She snickered, strangely amused by the notion of meeting her demise from a bull attempting to protect his many “love interests”. She could picture Halbarad writing that in his Watcher’s Diary for later generations to read. What an embarrassing legacy that would be!
Her only other option was to go back to the west, striking the “guard house” next. But that would require her to climb through the fence again, and that was something she was reluctant to do. She turned her attention back to the cattle, wondering if she could somehow skirt around them without spooking the herd. Ideally, she wanted to slay those Orcs patrolling the fence line, gradually working her way towards the hag’s inner sanctum where the bulk of the guards had been stationed.
The Slayer decided to go for it. If the cows got spooked, well then, she’d just have to go with the flow. With the bow clutched in one hand, and the two arrows in the other, she started to crawl to the next tree, which looked to be about sixty feet away.
She hadn’t gotten far when several of the cows raised their heads, their ears sticking upright, having heard her crawling through the grass. Only a few seconds later, one of them mooed loudly, and the whole group began to scramble to their feet, eager to escape what they perceived to be an approaching predator.
It then occurred to Miriel that the cows would offer her excellent cover, and if she ran amongst them, she could reach the cluster of trees about three hundred feet away. Before the cows began their stampede, she got to her feet. Keeping her back hunched, she ran into the herd, which began to run in various directions. She stuck close to a cow that was running in her desired direction.
Of course, this stampede drew the attention of many nearby Orcs. She could hear shouting, and several rushed into the field to investigate the cause of the commotion.
“Back to your posts! Back to your posts!” a lone goblin commanded loudly over the din. “This could be a diversion! Back to your posts!”
Miriel continued to run beside that same cow, her heart pounding madly in her chest.
So close. O’ so close, she thought, as she neared the cluster of shade trees.
Miriel didn’t see the feathered shaft until the last moment. The bolt struck the cow she had been running with on the side of her neck, bringing the beast down. The Slayer skidded to the ground. Rolling onto her belly, she turned in the direction from which the arrow had come. As the Orc reached for another arrow, Miriel armed her bow, keeping it parallel to the ground. Pulling back on the string, she released her dart, which sailed through the air, striking the goblin in the throat.
Fortunately, the cows had created such a ruckus on the field that no one noticed the Orc the Slayer had shot down.
Now was the prefect time to make a beeline to the trees. As she scrambled to her feet, she heard a loud, blood-curdling shriek coming from the north. She turned, dropping to her knees, with her weapon armed and ready. She was amazed to see the bull running madly around the pasture, shaking his head wildly. Dangling from one of his horns was an Orc, whose agonizing howls pierced the night. The enemy had attempted to shoot the bull down, and many arrows stuck out from its hide, but consumed with madness, the beast continued its stampede.
Taking advantage of this most unexpected but excellent diversion, Miriel rose to her feet and bolted to the patch of woods. Once she was safely concealed amid the trees, she was able to take advantage of the pandemonium on the field. She was able to shoot down six Orcs that had been posted along the eastern fence line, which she now followed, slinking north toward the heart of the farm.
As she came across those goblins she had killed with the bow, she searched their corpses for anything that could be of use. She had acquired two more throwing axes, and, as luck would have it, a short bow. Before tossing aside the long bow, she cut the strings with her dagger, rendering the weapon useless. She then gleefully took its shorter counterpart, finding it more manageable under these current conditions. She crammed what arrows the dead Orc had on him into the quiver strung over her shoulder.
The hours slowly passed by as she methodically worked her way around the homestead. She had successfully taken out the Orcs on the entire eastern and northern fronts. Sticking to the immediate areas behind the buildings, she ignored searching the large expanse of cropland that stretched out behind the main house, thinking that it would take too much time.
She attributed some of her success to the small rocks she had collected, using them as a means of drawing out the enemy. Not one to normally abuse animals, she considered her campaign of such great importance that she had chucked a couple of stones at some chickens roosting in a tree. This, of course, sent them into a frenzy, thus forcing the enemy to investigate. The Orcs never saw her. Hiding in some bushes, she was able to shoot them down, lessening the enemies’ numbers dramatically.
Maybe Miriel should’ve stormed the main house after having killed those that guarded it, but she didn’t. Instead, she worked her way along the western side of the fence, back to her original starting point. Once she had taken out the goblin in the “guard house”, she focused her attention on the main home.
By the time she began to move furtively along the fence row back toward the house, she could hear two roosters’ dueling crows. She then knew that the night was waning and that it was nearing dawn. Any Orcs that had not been slain would become weakened with the arrival of day. As far as she knew, no Uruks dwelled in this vicinity. This was Orc and troll country, for the most part.
When Miriel reached the yard, she paused, thinking of her next move. Should she storm the house through the front door, or should she walk around the home, trying to peek in the windows to see how many villains awaited her inside?
She decided on the latter. Seeing that the coast was clear, she hastened to the front of the house. She pressed her face against the nearest window, but with the curtains drawn, it was damn near impossible to see anything inside. Miriel concluded that it was pointless to try to peer in the windows. She had no other choice but to enter the abode of the witch. Thinking that the enemy would expect her to enter through the front door, she elected to enter through the kitchen, located at the back of the house.
She crept along the front of the house, rounded the corner and proceeded along the western wall. Miriel was amazed that she remembered which room lay beyond each curtained window. When she reached the dining room, she could see that the tall window that Beorn had smashed through the year before had been replaced. Of course, thinking of her shape-shifting savior brought many unpleasant memories to mind. For some unknown reason, she placed a trembling hand against the cool glass pane. Images of her past torments that had taken place within those walls flashed in her mind, giving her the strength and courage to see this fight through.
She withdrew her hand from the glass. Reaching down, she grasped the handle of her dagger and pulled it from its protective covering. The bow would no longer be of any use.. From here on out, it would be hand-to-hand combat with whomever she encountered. She cut the string of the bow before leaning it against the stone wall. She then slid the quiver off her shoulder and set it on the ground. Shifting the dagger to her dominant hand, she continued to slink along the wall until she reached the northwest corner of the structure.
She peeked around the corner, just to make sure that she wasn’t going to be blindsided by some armed Orc, lying in wait. Seeing nothing, she inched forward, listening intently. The only sound she heard was the incessant crowing of the two roosters. Miriel stopped when she reached the door that led to the kitchen.
This is it, she thought. Her heart began to beat frantically in her chest; her mouth went dry. After having spent the entire night slaying Orc after Orc, she was beginning to lose her nerve. She didn’t want to die, especially alone. She was suddenly consumed by an overwhelming (and unexplainable) sense of fear. In her mind’s eye, she could see these dark and morbid images of herself, being slowly and savagely tortured at the hands of the witch. The scar above her breast began to throb dully. Before she even realized it, she had backed several feet away from the house.
Then, as suddenly as they had come, those feelings and images vanished. Miriel blinked her eyes several times. The tears that had formed trickled down her cheeks. Her left hand awkwardly clutched her chest. It took her a minute or two to conclude that the witch had cast some type of spell on her. That would explain her swift mood changes. That enraged her. There was no doubt that the old hag would continue to torment her until one of them was dead. She had had enough.
She stormed back toward the house, determined once again to see this through. She grabbed hold of the knob, turning it, as she swung the door open. With her dagger clutched tightly in her hand, she rushed inside.
To her amazement, two women were in the kitchen, and by the looks of it, preparing breakfast. All three females were startled. Not one moved for the briefest of moments. The last thing Miriel expected to see were mortal women in the witch’s service. This was the first time that she had been uncertain of how to react. Questions rushed through her mind. Were these women evil? Or, were they under some sort of spell? The last thing Miriel wanted to do was to slay an innocent. She was unsure of what to think of these women. The middle-aged looking one, by the stove wore a metal collar around her neck while the other, who appeared much younger, had none. Miriel had little time to solve this riddle.
The woman by the stove scrutinized the intruder. Never before had she seen a woman girded with not one sword, but two. In the candlelight, she could clearly see the black Orc blood caked on this woman’s neck and hands. The mistress of the house had referred to her nemesis as “Dagnir”, so she had only assumed that it was a man. To now see that the one responsible for all the mayhem throughout the night was not just a woman, but a young girl, filled the servant with wonder and amazement.
The other woman cracking the eggs had remained frozen for mere seconds before letting the egg fall from her hand; it splattered onto the floor. Spinning around, she was desperate to warn her mistress that Dagnir had arrived, but she was only able to take one step before the older woman darted to the doorway, swinging her frying pan. A loud clang rang out, as the cooking utensil collided with the back of the younger woman’s head. She dropped to the floor, out cold.
Miriel was not expecting that, at all.
The older woman turned, facing the Slayer. “This one’s a traitor,” she revealed softly, glaring at the unconscious woman with utter contempt. She then shifted her gaze back to the Slayer, her expression softening. “She’s waiting for you,” she whispered urgently. “Upstairs. Go left. First door on the right.”
The woman then stepped back against the wall, as Miriel crossed the kitchen. When she reached the older woman, her accomplice grasped her arm, stopping her. “You’ve been sent by the Blessed Ones. I know you have. For the love of all that’s good - kill that she-devil.”
Miriel nodded. She sidestepped the unconscious woman sprawled in the corridor, making her way down the hall. From behind, she could hear the other woman dragging the knocked out woman back into the kitchen. Miriel approached each doorway cautiously, peeking into the room before walking pass it. As she went by the dining room, which looked neat and orderly, she saw a brief image of herself, seated at the table with “mother” and her “sons.” That’s where it had all begun, with the drugged food that Miriel had all too eagerly eaten.
Of course, being in the House of Horrors again brought all those horrific memories rushing to her mind. Even now, as she approached the front parlor, the stench of death filled her nostrils. The interior of the house was alit with many lamps and candles, illuminating nearly every nook and cranny.
She peered into the front parlor. All the furnishings were neatly arranged; the room immaculate. Nothing, thus far, would indicate that an evil witch dwelled within these walls. Everything looked “normal” and clean. Nothing out of the ordinary jumped out at you. Not a painting, tapestry - nothing. Even vases full of freshly cut flowers sat on several tables throughout the lower level of the house.
At the bottom of the stairs, opposite the parlor, Miriel did a quick visual inspection of what was once the lady of the house’s quilting room. It was there where Beorn had died. She could picture his cold, wet body stretched out before the fireplace, a dagger protruding from his chest. He had saved her. No, he died saving her. There’s a big difference between the two.
Once she had determined the room was clear, she slowly made her way upstairs. The hand that clutched her dagger had become slick with sweat. With her eyes fixed on her path, she hurriedly wiped her palm dry on the leg of her breeches before firmly clenching her weapon.
The house was quiet. Even the woman in the kitchen made no noise.
As she climbed the steps, she found the numerous flashbacks of her imprisonment quite unsettling. However, every time she found her nerve wavering, she heard Buffy’s voice, saying, “Muster all that anger and pain, and use it against her.” She was right. After what that old hag had done to her, the fear and pain she had inflicted, Miriel wanted nothing more than to return the favor.
When she reached the top of the stairs, the floor board creaked beneath her feet. She paused for a moment, holding her breath, listening for any sounds. She then took a deep breath, knowing that she’d be confronting the witch in only a matter of seconds. She proceeded down the hallway. The door to the room in which the old hag was, was slightly ajar. A soft glow spilled out from the opening. Miriel pressed her hand against the door, pushing it open.
The sole light came from the blazing logs in the fireplace. The room was very warm. Standing by the curtained window with her arms folded across her chest was the witch. Her yellow cat-like eyes glowed eerily within the dimness of the room.
“You’re braver than we thought,” she said, a crooked, sinister grin coming to her wrinkly face.
“I’ve killed your Orcs,” declared Miriel, wanting to let the old hag know that she had grown stronger since their last encounter.
“That is no big loss,” the woman answered, her smile wavering for a second. “There are more where they came from.”
Not wanting to allow this witch time to cast a spell on her unknowingly, Miriel said, “Now, it’s your turn.” As she lunged across the room, a thick plume of smoke billowed out of the fireplace forming into a mass. Before she could reach the witch, the smoky form seized her, literally lifting her off the floor. The thick haze choked her with its toxic fumes, squeezing what air remained in her lungs.
“Do you honestly think a mere child can defeat me?” she snarled. “I am older than this world. I have powers you know not.”
Miriel desperately tried to wrestle free from the grasp of the smoky phantom. The fumes that had engulfed her, kept her arms pinned to her side. The only parts of her body she could move were her legs and head. But, since this thing was non-corporeal, head-butting and kicking at it had no effect on it whatsoever. How was she supposed to fight this mystical smoke monster?
She could feel herself losing consciousness. Her eyes went from the witch to the bed, the very same bed to which she had been tethered the year before. Perhaps it was the poisonous fumes, or some spell conjured by the hag, but Miriel saw her naked self tied to the bed, being raped by brother after brother. Was this what had transpired while she was unconscious? Hopelessness began to consume her. She felt defeated.
Then, she heard Buffy’s voice, demanding, “Use it! Use your anger against her!”
Perhaps Buffy Summers was more magical than she knew, for when Miriel heard her voice, a seething rage swept over the young Slayer. She didn’t know what or how it happened, but at that moment, she was able to fling her arms out to her sides. The smoky form released its hold on her. Seemingly recoiling in fear, it backed away from Miriel. The Slayer then felt her feet hit the floor. Her knees buckled as she coughed, trying to suck in some air. She found herself in a crouching position with one knee resting on the floor. She then looked up at the old hag. Miriel’s narrowed eyes burned with an intensity that frightened the witch, who was stunned that the Slayer had managed to overcome her smoke monster.
Time was of the essence and Miriel had to act now if she were to survive. It seemed that she and the witch had reached that same conclusion at the same time. While the Slayer pounced, the old hag came darting out of the corner. Miriel had sprung at her with such force, that, as she plunged her dagger into the witch’s chest, the momentum propelled her forward, sending herself and the witch crashing through the curtained window into the grey light of morning.
As they plummeted to the ground, the Slayer kept one hand on the handle of her weapon while the other gripped the back of the neck of her opponent. There was no way she was going to allow this bitch to escape her again. The cool, fresh air invigorated Miriel. In those brief moments, she sucked in all she could. The old woman’s body then collided with the ground, knocking the wind out of her. Though her right hand continued to grip the hilt of the dagger, Miriel’s body crashed on top of the witch’s, the handle ramming painfully into her ribs.
The old hag moaned and groaned beneath her, as Miriel locked her legs around the bony ones of the witch. “Die, bitch!” she growled. She twisted the blade, sinking it deeper into her enemy’s chest, eager to extinguish the life from her adversary.
However, to the Slayer’s amazement, she watched as the witch’s incisors grew into fangs.
She’s a vampire, she thought. That’s why a dagger to the chest hadn’t been deadly. She thought back to the time when she and Buffy had fought vampires at The Bronze in the dreamscape long ago. Fire, beheading, and stake through the heart were the only means of slaying those evil creatures. There was no fire available so she could eliminate that option.
Beheading seemed her only viable option. I’ll cut the bitch’s head off, she thought, using her weight to keep her squirming enemy subdued. As she went to pull the blade from the witch’s chest, it snapped from the handle.
“Shit!” she exclaimed, holding the useless handle in her hand. She tossed it aside. She thought of using her sword, but trying to hold the vampire down while pulling out a nearly five foot blade from its sheath would be problematic.
She then heard several voices loudly calling out, “Miriel!” She cast a quick glance toward the sound, only to see her friends, now accompanied by Gandalf, running down the lane toward the western side of the house where she and the witch were. She had a sinking feeling in her heart that the Wizard was there to see to the witch’s demise. There was no way Miriel was going to allow anyone else to finish this fight.
Miriel’s eyes scanned the immediate area, looking for something that she could use to stake the vampire hag. Jagged pieces of splintered wood from the window frame littered the ground, but, unfortunately, they were out of reach. Her friends were getting closer and the Slayer knew she had to act fast.
The witch, having recognized Gandalf’s voice, grew fearful. The blade in her chest was painful and had weakened her considerably, but she knew that if she did not find a way to escape, it would be the end of her. The Slayer seemed preoccupied, and the hag felt that now was the time to make her move. She twisted her body, flinging her left hip upward, knocking Miriel off. She needed to make a run for it. The woods. If she could reach the woods, she could eventually make her way to Goblin-town where she could recuperate in safety. She was able to roll onto all fours and crawl a few feet before she felt the weight of that despicable girl on her back.
“I don’t think so, bitch,” Miriel hissed in her ear. Thanks to the witch’s attempt to escape, Miriel was now able to grab one of the jagged pieces of the window frame. While the Slayer had dreamed of the day when she was in this position to exact her revenge on the old hag by torturing her slowly and painfully, time was running out. She’d have to be satisfied with her death alone. “Only one of us is going to walk away from here, and it’s definitely not going to be you.”
Miriel then lifted her wooden weapon. As she plunged it down, determined to stake the heart through the vampire’s back, she heard Gandalf shouting, “Miriel! No!”
Too late. The wood broke through the skin and pierced her enemy’s organs including her heart. The witch’s body did not turn to dust like the vampires in Sunnydale had. Instead, her muscles and skin shriveled up before Miriel’s very eyes. She leapt off the body. As she watched the hag die, she felt as if this invisible weight had lifted from her shoulders, a burden she had been carrying for some time now. She cried tears of relief, tears of joy.
By the time her friends arrived at her side, what was left of the witch resembled a mummy. Elladan pulled Miriel into his arms, holding her tightly while she reassured him that she was not injured.
Gandalf crouched beside the corpse before turning it over. He placed his hand on the shrunken forehead, studying the hideous skeletal face for several long seconds. His eyes then widened, not only with recognition of who this formidable foe was, but also in amazement that the Slayer had been able to kill her single-handedly. “Do you know who this is?” he asked, shifting his blue eyes to the Slayer.
“A witch who deserved to die,” Miriel answered between sniffles.
“My dear girl, this is no witch,” said Gandalf in astonishment. “This is Thuringwethil, the mother of all vampires.”
Chapter 33 - Butting Heads
“What do you know about vampires?” queried Miriel, furrowing her brows upon hearing the Wizard’s use of the word.
“Not much,” he replied. “What little I do know came from the Eldar that departed these shores after the destruction of Angband at the end of the First Age.”
“It had been said that Thuringwethil perished in that great battle,” added Elrohir.
“So we presumed,” replied Gandalf.
“Then all the more extraordinary this feat truly is,” said Elladan, looking at Miriel, beaming with pride. “Not only did Miriel destroy the Maia responsible for much sorrow in this world but also the mother of all vampires.” His smile widened. “Well done, Miriel. Well done.”
“That’s my Slayer,” chimed in Halbarad.
Though this was a triumphant moment for the young Slayer, she still had many questions for Gandalf. She wiped the dampness from her face with the sleeve of her shirt. Rising to her feet, she asked, “Why did you want me to stop?”
“Stop?” repeated the baffled Wizard.
“When you were running up, you said, and I quote, ‘Miriel! No!’ Why? Why would you say such a thing whilst I faced off against an adversary of such great power?” Miriel placed her hands on her hips, looking down at the Wizard who remained squatted beside the corpse of Thuringwethil.
Gandalf fixed his gaze on the daughter of Denethor. If he was not mistaken (and he deemed he wasn’t!), he got the impression that the Slayer was not too pleased with him at the moment. Gandalf used his staff to help pull himself back to his feet. “Well,” he began hesitantly, wanting to choose his words carefully. “You had Thuringwethil subdued. Perhaps if you had spared her life, we could’ve gained some information on the enemy.”
“Spare her life?” said Miriel incredulously.
“It is well-known that she was once Sauron’s most trusted messenger, but not many know that she was also his paramour,” said Gandalf.
The Rangers glanced at the shrunken form of Thuringwethil and cringed at the thought.
“I don’t care who she was. She deserved worse than death. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to torture the bitch before killing her. As far as I’m concerned, I did the world a favor,” replied a sneering Miriel.
Gandalf’s bristly brows darted upward. “Has it become that easy for you to take a life?”
“I’m the Slayer,” Miriel shot back. “Not the Coddler. You should know that, Mithrandir, for it was you that set me on my path. What did you expect me to do, give her a spanking and send her on her way?”
“Sometimes, one needs to show mercy,” he said calmly.
Miriel’s jaw dropped upon hearing that. Perhaps the combination of lack of sleep and having battled Orcs throughout that night had finally begun to take its toll on her. She seemed to say what was on her mind, without thinking. How else could one explain her accusatory tone toward a Wizard of Gandalf’s caliber?
“Mercy?” she repeated with such disdain that the Rangers, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire, found themselves taking a step away from her and Mithrandir. The Slayer’s narrowed eyes were ablaze with anger. “Is that what you have shown Sauron?” she hissed between gritted teeth. “It’s been over three thousand years since you were sent to Middle-earth to hinder the Dark Lord. And what have you achieved in all that time? His power only grows - ‘cause what? You showed mercy?” Miriel snickered. “Maybe that’s why the Valar chose to imbue a woman with slaying skills because Wizards and Elves spend too much time over-thinking things instead of getting the job done.”
This was not the reunion Gandalf had expected to have with young Miriel. He found her comments to be hurtful and unfounded. He had not been idle all these many years. Who was it that had infiltrated Dol Guldur and discovered that the Necromancer was Sauron - he had! Who had helped drive Sauron from that realm? He had! Who was the one to discover that the Ring of Power had been found again? He was. And it had been he that had ordered the Rangers to keep a protective eye on the Shire so that Sauron could not find out that his Ring had been found. But Gandalf did not say his thoughts aloud. He knew that the young Slayer was unaware of these things. Instead, he said, “I see much of your father in you, Miriel.”
That enraged Miriel even more. “Speak not that name in front of me again, or you shall find yourself in the same position as she.” She nudged her head toward the corpse of Thuringwethil. The Slayer then turned and stomped away, leaving her stunned friends behind.
The men immediately grouped together, talking in hushed voices. Needless to say, they were shocked by Miriel’s behavior. As she rounded the corner of the house, she made out the words, “possessed” and “bewitched” from her companions.
Exhaustion had finally set in, and with each step Miriel took, it felt to her as if her feet had turned into lead blocks. She glanced at the dead Orcs she passed on her way to the eastern side of the farmhouse. By her count, she had killed thirty-seven. Not too bad, all things considered, she thought.
When she reached the large oak where she had buried Beorn, she dropped to her knees. The small flowers that had grown over his grave had been beaten down by the Orcs’ booted feet. She caressed the grass, softly saying, “It’s over, my friend. The last one is dead.”
Unbeknownst to her, Halbarad had followed. Miriel was either too tired to notice, or just didn’t care.
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” he asked, his worrisome eyes watching her intently.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“It was Thuringwethil that imprisoned you, was it not?”
“Yes.”
“She… she hurt you,” he said, choking back his tears.
“She among others,” Miriel whispered. Her eyes remained locked on Beorn’s grave, her hand still tenderly stroking the blades of grass. “He died saving me,” she uttered. Then, turning toward her Watcher, she said, “I didn’t mean to be so cross to Mithrandir. Will you let him know?”
Halbarad nodded, unable to speak without shedding tears. He now realized that this place had done irreparable harm to poor Miriel.
“I’m so tired, Hal,” she said, lying down on the grass beside Beorn’s grave. “I need to rest. There are a couple of women in the house. I do not think they’re evil. You and the others tend to them. It’s been a long night and I must sleep.” Miriel closed her eyes and, before she heard Halbarad’s footfalls fade completely away, she had fallen fast asleep…
Of course, an elated Buffy was waiting for Miriel once she entered the dreamscape. “I’m so proud of you,” said the elder Slayer, pulling her protégé into a tight, congratulatory embrace. “You’ve kicked some major ass, and slain a demigod to boot.”
Miriel lacked the enthusiasm of her mentor. She pulled out of the embrace, offering Buffy a weak smile in reply.
“Oh, come on, Miriel,” continued a bubbly Buffy. “Don’t be all depression-girl.”
“I’m… I’m not. I’m just tired,” she answered, looking down at Beorn’s grave.
“You’re coming down off your adrenaline rush is all. That’s to be expected. You’ll be as good as new after a good night’s sleep.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Of course I am.” Buffy studied her protégé for a long moment. “We need to celebrate,” she announced.
“I’m not in a celebratory mood.”
The elder Slayer grabbed Miriel by the arm and forced her to face her. “What’s wrong?” Buffy looked deeply into her protégé’s eyes. “Oh, God. Don’t tell me you’re regretting what you said to that Dumbledore wannabe.”
“What?” queried a baffled Miriel.
“The Wizard guy. Gandoff or whatever his name is. You were in the right, you know. Look how easy it was for you to take out that crazy old bat!”
“You helped,” said Miriel. “If it hadn’t been for you… ”
“No,” interjected Buffy with a shake of her head. “You deserve all the credit. Not me.” The elder Slayer then said, “Shake it off! We’re in a dream, Miriel. You don’t have to be so tired if you don’t want to.” She then scanned the scenery. “Let’s get out of here. I think I know somewhere we can go that’ll lift your spirits.”
With that, Buffy linked her arm with her protégé and they vanished from the farm only to reappear on the coast of Dol Amroth a second later.
They stood on the sandy shore, drinking in the beauty of that region in springtime. The sound of the surf was like music to their ears. Miriel drank in the salty air, finding it as invigorating as the lembas way bread of the Elves. She shifted her gaze to the magnificent castle of her Uncle Imrahil perched majestically atop the cliff, its white walls gleaming in the morning sunlight. Gulls cried overhead as they soared across the waters in search of their morning meal.
“I can tell that I made the right choice,” said Buffy, savoring the seaside as much as her protégé.
“You most certainly did,” agreed the young Slayer, grinning broadly. “I needed this.”
“I know.”
Miriel felt her exhaustion melt away. She knew her surroundings played a big part in that. She loved being here, even if only in a dream. Her escapades with Buffy always seemed so very real despite the fact that they only took place in her mind.
Buffy, feeling rather playful, wanted to do a mock interview with her protégé. She briefly explained that heroes in the twenty-first century are sometimes interviewed on television for the whole world to see. Pretending that her fist was a microphone, she shoved it beneath Miriel’s mouth, saying, “All our viewers in the dream world wanna know: how does it feel, Miriel, daughter of Gondor, to have slain the mother of all vampires?”
The younger Slayer went along with her mentor, replying, “It feels fantastic.”
“For those of you nestled in your beds,” Buffy said, turning to the make-believe camera in front of the ocean, “you can now sleep more peacefully knowing that a great menace has been taken out of action, thanks to this impressive young Slayer here.” She then turned her attention back to Miriel. “Having now made history, what’s next on your plate?”
“A well deserved holiday,” laughed the younger Slayer.
“Ah, it sounds to me as if you intend to return to Rivendell.”
“I hope so,” she responded.
“And how do you think Glorfindel, one of your teachers in the craft of weaponry, and possible love interest, will feel when he hears about your victory over the Maia?”
“Um, happy, I think.”
“Happy?” Buffy chuckled. “Surely, his reaction will be more than that. It is a fact that the mighty Elf-lord died while fighting a Balrog long ago. Isn’t it true that a Balrog is also one of the Maia race?”
“Well, yes,” answered Miriel, unsure where Buffy was going with her line of questioning.
“And isn’t it also a fact that Lúthien, whom both Elves and mortals hold in high esteem, was unable to totally defeat this Thuringwethil character?”
“Yeah, I suppose that’s true.” Miriel could now see that Buffy was using historical figures in ages past to show how significant her victory over Thuringwethil actually was. The younger Slayer draped an arm around Buffy’s shoulders and turned toward the invisible camera. “I would also like to add that this woman beside me, Buffy Summers, played a pivotal role in all this. Not only did she act as my mentor, but more importantly, my friend, and taught me all there is to know about vampires. This triumphant moment would not have happened without her.” Miriel looked directly at Buffy as she spoke that last sentence. “I mean it,” she added, her eyes welling with tears.
“A modest Slayer we have here, folks. This is definitely a girl that’s gonna make it into the history books.” Buffy then turned her gaze back toward the make believe camera. “Until the next Big Bad is defeated, this is Buffy Summers, reporting for Snooze TV, signing off.”
Miriel laughed, shaking her head. “You are the strangest person I’ve ever met.”
“I take that as a compliment,” Buffy chortled. “Shall we?” She motioned toward a pavilion that had materialized on the beach. Beneath the structure were two cushioned loungers and a feast befitting of any returning warrior after such a great battle.
The two Slayers strolled over to the pavilion and stretched out on the comfy chairs. They then ate and drank to their hearts’ content, taking about the exploits of the night before…
Miriel had only slept an hour and a half when Elladan came to awaken her. “Time to get up, Miriel,” he cooed, gently shaking her from her slumber.
Blinking her eyes open to the orangey glow of morning, she yawned, stretching her weary limbs.
“Did you have a nice rest?” he asked, crouched beside her.
Miriel rubbed the sleep from her eyes, as she sat up. “Yes, though I wish I could’ve slept longer.”
“We’ve freed all the prisoners. You’ve saved many lives here today,” he informed her with a smile.
“Many lives?” she repeated, wrinkling her face in confusion.
“Indeed,” began Elladan. His tone became more serious, the smile having faded from his face. “Thuringwethil had imprisoned over a dozen people in the cellar. The horrors they had been subjected to were… ” he stopped mid-sentence, shuddering at the atrocities about which he and the others had learned from the survivors. “Let us not talk of that just now.”
“Is… is Mithrandir wroth with me?” she asked hesitantly. “I didn’t mean to snap at him the way I did. The words just… just blurted out of me. I didn’t mean it.”
“We call that battle fatigue,” he said, offering a reassuring smile. “You’ve done well here, Miriel. We’ve counted twenty-two dead Orcs!”
“Thirty-seven,” she corrected.
The Elf’s eyes widened. Nodding, he added, “Quite impressive, for anyone.” He stood, offering Miriel his hand. She took it and he heaved her to her feet. She then turned, looking down upon Beorn’s grave. Elladan followed her gaze. “Hal said he died saving you,” he said softly. “Who was he? Did you know his name?”
Images of Beorn rescuing her flashed in her mind. “His name was Beorn. He was a shape-shifter.”
“Beorn,” repeated the Elf Lord.
Miriel glanced at Elladan and could see by his expression that he recognized the name. “Did you know him?” she asked.
“Not really. I’ve seen him on occasion, though usually in bear form.”
Miriel’s eyes shifted back to the grave. “He was a decent and honorable man. His son, as well. I’ve wanted to go see Grimbeorn for the longest time, to tell him what happened to his father.” She glanced at Elladan. “But fate never lead me back over the mountains,” she added, shrugging her shoulders.
“Perhaps fate will one day change that. One never knows,” he replied with a wink.
“Oh, is that something you see?” she asked lightheartedly. “I know how you Elves are, with the foresight and all.”
“Hmm, I may have to dwell on that a bit. You know how we Elves like to ‘over-think’ everything,” retorted Elladan with an impish glint in his eyes.
Miriel smiled. “Yeah, about that… ” She bit her lip. She wasn’t sure how to address the snide remark she had made earlier. After a brief pause, she blurted out, “Battle fatigue. I attribute everything I said to that.”
“You’re forgiven then,” he laughed, linking his arm with hers. “If you’re up for it, there are some people that would very much like to speak with you.”
“As long as I’m not in trouble.”
“Well, we still haven’t dealt with your running off at the lake,” he said, steering her toward the back of the house. “You gave us a terrible fright!”
“Oh, yeah,” she slowly drawled. “Sorry about that.”
“I’m going to assume that Thuringwethil had summoned you in some way,” he said, watching Miriel out of the corner of his eye. “In the end, things turned out alright, but I hope if anything remotely like that happens in the future, you’ll tell us so that we can help. We’re Rangers, Miriel. We look out for one another. Things could’ve gone badly for you if we hadn’t followed.”
“I handled things alright on my own.”
Elladan halted and faced the Slayer. “Were you aware that a band of Orcs were on their way here?”
Miriel stared blankly at the Elf. No, she hadn’t been aware of that.
“We came upon them during the night, and killed every last one. What do you think would’ve happened if we hadn’t been there at that precise moment? Their numbers were too great for you to take out by yourself, even with your skill in combat.”
Miriel averted her gaze, looking over Elladan’s shoulder at the fields that stretched out behind the farmhouse. Her skin began to prickle all over, a result of the sudden surge of guilt that washed over her. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, her body temperature rising. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. She wanted to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come out. Or, perhaps, if she tried to speak, she’d break down. It had been a long night and her nap hadn’t invigorated her as well as she would’ve liked.
Elladan cupped her cheeks, gently turning her head so that she had to meet his gaze. His deep grey eyes were riddled with sorrow and doubt. “Do you not trust me?”
“Of course I do,” she replied, her voice cracking as she spoke.
“Then do not keep these things from me again. If anything had happened to you…” His words faltered. He took a deep breath, adding, “I don’t know what I would’ve done.”
“I apologize for leaving the way I did, but this was my fight,” she countered. “You have no idea what she had done to me.” She could feel her eyes beginning to water again.
“Then tell me,” he insisted. “I’m your friend. You can confide in me about anything.”
Miriel shook her head. “Some things are too painful to discuss.”
“Sometimes when you talk of these things, you can find healing. The pain becomes less.”
“Maybe, but I’m not ready to,” she said weakly, rubbing her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt before any tears could escape.
“Whenever you are, I am here for you. Anytime.”
“I know,” she answered.
Elladan then pulled her into an embrace, holding her tightly. He buried his face in her hair, deeply inhaling her scent. Wrinkling his nose at the repulsive odor, he pulled away, asking, “Why do you smell of dung?”
Miriel couldn’t help but laugh, which, she needed at that moment. “You don’t want to know.”
His timing had been perfect, for the intensity of their conversation had been defused, and the mood had been lightened immensely. As they ambled back toward the house, Elladan attempted to guess how Miriel had come to smell like feces, each guess more preposterous than the previous one, but none of them correct.
When they had reached the back of the house, there were five men seated on the ground, basking in the warm rays of the sun. They were so thin, obviously, half-starved. Their torn and shabby garments looked two sizes too big. They were in a terrible state.
As soon as they noticed Elladan and Miriel, they started to clamber to their feet.
“No, no,” said Elladan. “There is no need. Sit, my good men.”
“We’ve sat overly long, lord,” answered one, speaking on behalf of the group. His eyes then swiftly darted to Miriel. “Is this her? Is this the mighty warrior you’ve spoken of?” There was an air of incredulity to his voice, as his eyes steadily looked her over.
“Yes,” he replied. After a brief internal debate about whether or not to reveal the Slayer’s true name, he added, “This is Miriel.”
“But, but she’s just a girl,” he replied in astonishment.
“Never underestimate the abilities of a woman,” answered Elladan with a smile. “Miriel here is stronger than she looks, and possesses skills greater than most men.”
Keeping his eyes locked on Miriel, the spokesman limped forward. As he neared, the Slayer caught a whiff of the stench emanating from him. It was rather putrid, making her own odor seem like wildflowers in comparison. However, what caught her eye when he was but a few paces away were the multiple bite marks on his neck. She stepped forward, wanting to inspect the wounds more closely.
As she reached out to touch his neck, the man recoiled.
“I’m sorry,” she said, quickly pulling her hand away.
“No, miss. I am,” he apologized, his cheeks turning pink beneath the layer of filth on his skin. “I’m afraid that I’ve come to fear women.”
“You need not fear Miriel,” chimed in Elladan.
Miriel decided that it was best to keep her hands to herself, but that didn’t stop her from scrutinizing the bite marks. “She fed on you,” she said, cocking her head to the side. “She kept you alive so that she could drink your blood.”
The man’s sunken eyes widened. “Yes, yes she did.” He glanced at Elladan before fixing his gaze back on the Slayer. “They say that she was a vampire, and that you killed her, and all her goblin servants.”
“Yes,” she answered with a nod.
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Glory be,” he said, dropping to his knees. He then wrapped his arms around Miriel’s legs, clinging to her. She looked at Elladan, her discomfort obvious. “I do not know how to thank you,” he cried. “You have saved us all from a fate worse than death!”
“I am duty-bound to protect those subjugated by the likes of Thuringwethil,” revealed the Slayer.
“Duty-bound?” the man sniveled between sobs, looking up at Miriel in wonder.
“I am called Dagnir for a reason,” she answered with a small smile.
“You are indeed a truly great warrior, greater than any I’ve ever seen or heard tales of.”
Miriel couldn’t help but chuckle. “Then you are not learned in the lore of this world, for there are many, many people greater than I.”
“And now you shall be accounted amongst them,” declared Elladan proudly. “You have rightly earned your place amongst the most esteemed that have ever walked this earth, whether Man or Elf. Very few have received such an honor.”
The Slayer did not think she was in the same league as those that she had come to admire. Although, it was a pleasant thought to think that she could be accounted amongst the greatest of the greatest in Middle-earth. She couldn’t help but wonder if tales of her adventures would live on in lore. She relished that thought briefly until it occurred to her that a Slayer’s accomplishments (however great or small) are generally not known to the public. Her greatest victory to date would only live on in the Watchers’ Diaries. She even suspected that the Rangers would keep her triumphs secret, for they themselves were a secretive bunch.
“Now if you don’t mind,” Elladan went on, prying the man off Miriel’s legs, “I believe Miriel is in need of some food and drink after a long night of battle.”
“Of course, of course,” the man replied, scuttling backwards on his knees.
Elladan grasped Miriel’s arm and led her to the kitchen door. The other men seated on the ground offered words of thanks as she passed them by. Once inside the kitchen, Miriel noticed the young woman that had been clobbered on the head with a frying pan sitting in the corner with her arms wrapped tightly about herself, rocking back and forth. Her eyes were hazy and she mumbled incoherently under her breath.
The older woman that had wielded said frying pan entered the room when she heard the door snap close. Her eyes went from Miriel to the woman in the corner. Scowling, she shook her head. “She’s been in that state since she came to,” she remarked. “We can’t get a word out of her - traitorous wench!” she barked.
Miriel couldn’t help but feel pity for the young woman. She looked at the angry woman, who grumbled a few choice words about the traitor under her breath.
“Do not hold her to blame for her betrayal,” the Slayer began. “Thuringwethil was extremely powerful and fear can drive us to do things we normally wouldn’t.”
“But, miss - ” the exasperated old woman started to say in protest.
Miriel cut off her sentence. “Let it go. It’s over. Find it in your heart to forgive her. She was not herself.” A part of the Slayer had no idea why she would say such a thing. She was no fan of traitors. Perhaps it was seeing the younger woman in that state, a state that Miriel had been in herself on several occasions, that aroused feelings of empathy toward her, traitor or not.
The older woman wasn’t about to argue with the girl that had wreaked such devastation upon Thuringwethil and her minions. The last thing she wanted was to get on Miriel’s bad side. She immediately scurried over to the kitchen sink. She then turned, offering the Slayer a warm, soapy cloth to wash up with. “Why don’t you join the others in the next room and I’ll prepare you some breakfast,” suggested the woman in a motherly sort of way.
Miriel’s eyes shifted to the basket of eggs on the table, their numbers less than when she had first entered the kitchen two hours ago. “Um, er,” she stammered, apprehensive to eat anything in this house. She recalled all too clearly how her last meal eaten in the House of Horrors had been drugged. “I do not trust that this food is safe to eat,” she finally said. “It’s poison.”
“The food is fine,” said Elladan assuredly. “We ate some whilst you slept.”
Despite her friend’s declaration, Miriel remained skeptical.
“If you have doubts, then I will eat some first to show you that the food is fit for consumption.”
The older woman snatched an egg from the basket, holding it at eye level. “It’s intact. How can it be tainted, or poisoned when it’s still in the shell?”
The Slayer’s brows darted upward. “Are you telling me that you believe Thuringwethil was incapable of putting spells on things, including food?” She glanced at the young woman rocking in the corner, then back at the older lady. “You’re foolish if you think she lacked such abilities.”
“Miriel,” began Elladan, “I assure you that the food is fine. Why would you doubt me?”
She couldn’t help but notice that Elladan appeared hurt by her uncertainty. “I don’t doubt you,” she replied. “If you say it’s alright, then it is.” She eyed the egg once again. “Although I have reason to doubt… ” She stopped, shifting her gaze from the egg to Elladan. “This is a house of great evil. There is nothing wholesome about it.”
Even though Thuringwethil was dead, Miriel still hated this place. Trying to keep a brave front, she marched out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Her friends, seated around the table, welcomed her when she entered the room.
“There she is - our hero,” said Halbarad in a jolly voice.
“Have you been drinking?” she asked, her eyes darting to the near empty wine bottle on the table.
“Just a little bit,” he replied, holding his thumb and forefinger nearly pressed together.
She shook her head as she sat in the chair across from her apparently tipsy Watcher.
Gandalf sat at the head of the table, sipping tea. He watched Miriel under his thick bristly brows as she feverishly scrubbed the dried blood from her hands. “Did you get any sleep?” he asked.
“Not as much as I would’ve liked,” she answered, refusing to meet the Wizard’s gaze. She still felt awkward, guilty over her earlier outburst.
Something strange then happened that Miriel found incredibly distressing. Her friends were questioning her about the events that had taken place during the night, but as they spoke, their voices changed. Miriel looked up from her hands and saw the enemy seated at the table. She saw Valandil and Faron, Dúilin and Tauron, and the other “brothers” whose names escaped her. The table was laden with the same fare as when she had first stepped into this house the year before. She blinked several times, hoping that the hallucination or whatever it was would disappear. To her dismay, it did not. She could smell the aroma of the juicy lamb; see the steam rising from the bowl of roasted potatoes. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest. Her breathing changed; she was gasping for air. How could this be happening - Thuringwethil was dead!
She closed her eyes for a moment, praying that things would return to normal. But when she felt someone touch her neck, she instinctively smacked the one that had intruded on her personal space. Her eyes popped open, and just like that – everything reverted back to normal. Elladan stared at her in dismay, his jaw agape. He had been wiping the blood from her neck when she struck him.
Everyone around the table fell quiet, staring at Miriel in stunned disbelief. Disturbed by what had just happened, Miriel bolted from the table and fled outside. She ran passed the men still seated on the grass and into the vast cropland that stretched out behind the house.
Her friends had taken off after her, but only Elladan followed her into the field. Though he called out her name, she continued to run at full speed. But he was an Elf in excellent health and managed to gain on her. When he was near enough, he dove onto her back, sending them both crashing to the ground.
Elladan quickly flipped her over. Her face was wet with tears. “I can’t go back there. I can’t,” she cried.
The Elf slid off her, pulling her into his arms, protectively cradling her. “Everything is alright, Miriel. I’m here. No harm will come to you.” He gently stroked her hair, doing his best to reassure her that the nightmare was over.
“I’m sorry,” she wept, burying her face in his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to hit you. That place is evil.”
“It’s alright,” said Elladan soothingly, though greatly concerned over this latest episode.
A minute or so later, a winded Elrohir reached them. Holding the stitch in his side, he asked, “Is she alright?”
“She’s fine,” replied the elder brother. “Why don’t you go on back, and we’ll rejoin you and the others shortly.”
Miriel jerked her head back when she heard Elladan’s comments. “I’m not going back,” she vowed. “I will not set foot in that house ever again nor will I eat anything that comes from this place. It’s evil. Everything about this place is evil.”
“We don’t have to go back,” said Elladan in agreement.
“In fact,” continued a determined Miriel, scrambling to her feet. “I don’t want to be here any longer. I’ve seen enough of this place.”
“We can go,” agreed Elladan, as he too rose to his feet.
As they made their back toward the house, Miriel was quick to add, “I am not insane. Thuringwethil may be dead but her wickedness lingers on.”
“I do not doubt you,” Elladan said, wishing that the Slayer would tell him what had happened to her during her imprisonment here. While he and the others had drawn their own conclusions, he thought that it would help Miriel if she talked about it. However, he had already attempted that earlier, and he wasn’t about to jeopardize their friendship by pressing her further.
When they reached the yard, where their friends and former prisoners were gathered, Miriel stepped up to Gandalf and said, “Burn it down, Mithrandir. Burn it to the ground.”
“This is too fine of a place to burn down.”
It was not the Wizard that answered, but one of the former prisoners.
Miriel’s eyes darted to the man that had spoken. “This is a place of evil. It has seeped into the walls, into the grounds. Only pain and sorrow can be found here.”
The haggard-looking man approached Miriel, anger seething from his very essence. Pointing a long, trembling finger at the corpse of Thuringwethil, he said, with great disdain, “That woman killed my wife, my children. I was forced to watch them die, helplessly. I will take this farm as my own to compensate for my losses.”
Miriel understood the man’s pain behind his rage, but still felt that it was foolish for anyone to dwell in this place. “It’s folly to stay here,” she replied in a gentler tone. “Orcs know of this place and chances are, so does the Dark Lord himself!” She couldn’t help but add, “How can you defend yourself from the likes of them when you were so easily taken captive before?”
“Miriel!” barked Gandalf. “Enough!” The Slayer might have been talking in a gentler tone, but the Wizard felt the sting of her words, nonetheless. He was of the opinion that the poor man had suffered enough.
Once again, her temper flared. “What?!” she exclaimed. “Do you think I’m lying, that I do not speak the truth?” Shaking her head in disbelief, she shifted her gaze from Mithrandir to the former prisoner. “Do as you wish, but I forewarn you, only torment and death will come to those that dwell here. It’s a place of evil. I would think you would’ve realized that by now.” She then stormed off, toward the remains of Thuringwethil.
When she reached the shriveled body of the old hag, she couldn’t help but notice that even the flies avoided that accursed corpse. Miriel had decided that, not only would she behead Thuringwethil, but also burn her body, in hopes of eliminating any chance that Sauron could bring back to life the mother of all vampires.
She pulled her sword from its sheath. As she lifted the blade, someone came up from behind, grabbing her forearm, stopping her. Somewhat surprised by the strength of the fingers, she turned, only to see Gandalf standing there, looking reproachfully at her.
“Now you would defile the remains of a Maia,” chided the old Wizard.
“Why do you care?”
“She’s dead, Miriel. There’s no way that she can come back.”
She snickered at the absurdity of his comments. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not taking that chance.” She then swung her blade. It sliced through Thuringwethil’s neck like a knife through butter.
Gandalf sighed heavily.
Miriel began to wipe her blade clean on the grass, wondering why Mithrandir’s presence seemed to annoy her so. Many notions came to mind. Even though she had felt guilty over her earlier remarks to the Wizard about his inability to thwart Sauron, she couldn’t shake those thoughts from her mind. Perhaps it was the ease in which she had slain Thuringwethil that was partly to blame. After having been on the receiving end of the mother of all vampire’s torment, it had taken Miriel less than a year to settle the score with the old hag. Here she was, lying dead at the Slayer’s feet. A Maia! Miriel had single-handedly killed a Maia, something that no mortal had ever accomplished before - at least, none that she could recall from her studies on the lore of Middle-earth. Even Glorfindel, the most valiant Elf to ever walk in this world, (in her opinion), had fallen to his death whilst battling a Balrog, a creature of Maia race.
She couldn’t help but think that the Valar had erred when they chose Gandalf to aid the peoples of Middle-earth against the might of Sauron. He had had millennia to accomplish his goal, but, still, little had been done. Was it wrong for her to have such thoughts? It seemed to her that the Wizard feared any type of confrontation with his kindred, especially those consumed with darkness. For the love of Eru, he hadn’t wanted her to slay Thuringwethil! And his reasoning behind it was utterly absurd. There was no doubt in Miriel’s mind that the witch would never have revealed Sauron’s plots against the inhabitants of Middle-earth. And let’s face it, knowing Gandalf as she had, he would never have inflicted the necessary pain on Thuringwethil in order to get her to talk. It was a farce! All of it. She was beginning to see his true colors, that he was nothing more than a coward. She was ready to put her theory to the test.
She slid her blade back into its sheath. She then faced the Wizard and said, “I don’t know what feelings you had for this wretched creature – and I don’t want to know. But if you’re truly fighting against evil in this world, if you intend on carrying out your orders from those in the West, then you need to be the one to burn her, to burn her until her body turns to ash.”
Gandalf pursed his lips together, locking eyes with the young Slayer. He tried to pierce her mind with his intense blue eyes, but she had already shielded her mind against him. O’ how she was so much like her father! He shifted his gaze to the decapitated corpse of Thuringwethil, unsure why he seemed so determined - dare he say it? - to protect her. Perhaps it was because she was of his kindred, of the Maia race, or, maybe the teachings of Nienna had been engrained in him to the point where he was overly merciful. That’s what the Wizard tried to convince himself of. If truth be told, he feared Sauron. What would Morgoth’s greatest disciple do if he found out that Gandalf had burned the body of his beloved to ash? He shuddered at the mere thought.
Miriel’s eyes remained fixed on the Wizard, studying him intently. A small smile crept upon her face. “You’re afraid,” she snickered. “Why so afraid, Mithrandir? She’s dead. You said so yourself. Or, is it that you would bring her back if you could?”
Gandalf’s head snapped up, his blue eyes bearing into her. “You have become quite haughty, daughter of Denethor!” he shot back. “And you should be afraid. I attribute your ignorance in these matters to your youth. You do not know of which you speak.”
“I’m the Slayer. I know of these things.”
“You didn’t even know that she was a vampire.”
“No?” Miriel replied with a cackle. She shifted her gaze to the corpse. “If that’s so, why in the world would I have chosen to pierce her heart with a piece of wood?” Her eyes swept back to the Wizard. “I’m not ignorant in these matters. I figured it out, on my own. I did what needed to be done. Can you say the same?”
Mithrandir struggled to keep his temper in check. He couldn’t understand what possessed Miriel to lash out at him, to provoke him as she was doing. Once again, he attributed her behavior to her youth and her first major victory in battle. “You know nothing of what has transpired outside the walls of Minas Tirith,” he responded coolly, “nor do you know what deeds I’ve accomplished in the many years that I’ve been here. It would do you well, Miriel, to curtail your arrogance. It’s quite unbecoming.”
The Slayer recognized Gandalf’s verbal jab as a form of retaliation for her comments. However, she wasn’t angered by them, merely amused. “Enlighten me, O’ great Wizard,” she said, waving her hand animatedly. “What great deeds of valor have you done? How have you saved the peoples of Middle-earth from great peril?”
Gandalf placed his staff before him, leaning on it. He answered, “It was I that infiltrated Dol Guldur and discovered that Sauron was indeed the Necromancer. Aided by the Elves, we drove him from Mirkwood.”
Miriel waited patiently for the Wizard to say more. When he didn’t, she laughed. “That’s it?! Your greatest achievement was to drive Sauron from his fortress in the north to his in the south?!” she queried incredulously. “Well, I must thank you for that, my lord. In your infinite wisdom, you sent the enemy to our doorstep, where my people are dying contesting his might.” She clapped her hands. “Bravo! Well done, Mithrandir.” Her mocked enthusiasm abated. Frowning, she added, “To know that you think so little of us, that we mere mortals are disposable, says a lot about your character. I’m now beginning see that my father’s enmity for you is well placed. He is wiser than I thought.”
At this point, Halbarad rushed to Miriel’s side, chiding her for speaking to Gandalf in such a manner. “He’s a wizard,” he whispered anxiously in her ear, “capable of doing things you know not. Do not speak ill of him.”
The Slayer was undaunted. She didn’t care what Mithrandir was. “I’m not afraid of him,” she said with a sneer. She then steered the topic of conversation back to the deceased Maia, lying at their feet. “If you fear burning her,” she declared, pointing a finger at Thuringwethil’s body, “then I’ll do it myself.”
As Miriel turned, Gandalf’s long fingers gripped her arm like a vice, painfully digging into her flesh, and keeping her in place. He was not wroth, but saddened by the Slayer’s transformation from a merry young woman to a hardhearted warrior. “Tell me, Miriel. What happened to that jovial girl I used to know?”
Without missing a beat, she replied, “She’s dead.” She then pulled her arm free and started walking to the back of the farmhouse.
Gandalf called out after her. “Heed my counsel, Miriel, daughter of Denethor. If you do not change that attitude of yours, it will lead you to an early demise.”
“I’m the Slayer,” she shouted back. “I’m destined for an early demise.”
Halbarad stood there with his jaw agape, stunned by everything that had just happened. He then desperately tried to apologize on behalf of his Charge. “She’s overly tired, Gandalf. Hasn’t had much sleep. She knows not what she’s saying.”
“Stop making excuses for her, Halbarad,” barked the Wizard. “She’s too much like her father, I deem.” He watched as the Slayer rounded the corner of the house before turning his attention to Halbarad. “It looks like Miriel’s defeat of Thuringwethil has brought on a case of inflated ego,” he said woefully. “That’s to be expected for one so young,” he added under his breath. He glanced at the Maia’s remains before shifting his gaze back to the Watcher. “My heart tells me that Sauron will soon learn that Miriel was responsible for Thuringwethil’s death. Be careful. Remain vigilant. There will be repercussions.”
Halbarad solemnly bowed his head. He had been so elated at Miriel’s feat that he had not considered the consequences. Gandalf’s declaration had a sobering effect on him. The Wizard placed a comforting hand on the Watcher’s shoulder. Halbarad looked up at Mithrandir, his heart aching for his Slayer.
“There will be much celebrating in the days to come,” Gandalf went on. “And rightly so. Miriel has done a great thing. What troubles me, Halbarad, is that her thoughts will turn to the Dark Lord himself, that she will think of challenging him. Thuringwethil did not possess powers as great as her lover. Miriel may have killed her along with a dozen or two Orcs in wilder-land, but going after the likes of Sauron in the depths of Mordor is a wholly different matter. I do not foresee that going well for Miriel. Her stubbornness will lead to foolhardiness. Keep a wary eye on her.” He gave Halbarad’s shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “We’ll be setting off shortly. I need not remind you - ”
“ - I know,” interjected the Watcher with a curt nod of his head. “What of her?” he asked, motioning toward the remains of Thuringwethil.
Gandalf cast a last glance at the corpse of the Maia. “You heard Miriel. She’ll deal with it.” He then left the Watcher alone beside the headless body. He summoned Aragorn and the two spoke quietly about different matters.
In the meantime, Miriel had requested some oil from her lady co-conspirator. Refusing to step inside the house, she waited by the back steps.
Gúron and the twins rapidly approached her. They, along with the men seated outside, couldn’t help but having overheard Miriel’s antagonizing conversation with Gandalf. “What were you thinking?” asked the confounded, golden-haired Dúnadan. “You know Mithrandir can turn you into a toad if he so chooses.” He shook his head. “I’m unsure whether you’re very brave or very foolish to speak to him that way.”
“It was foolish,” voiced Elrohir.
“Was there a need for such a verbal attack?” queried Elladan, his tone full of disappointment. “Mithrandir only wants to help.”
“I only speak the truth as I see it,” she remarked.
“That’s not true,” said Elrohir in disagreement. “You have no idea what Mithrandir has faced over these many years, what he’s accomplished.”
“I don’t care what he’s done,” replied Miriel heatedly. “I look at what he’s failed to do.” She looked from man to man. “What’s wrong with you all? Have you already forgotten his first words to me when you came running down the lane? Gandalf said, ‘No.’ He didn’t want me to kill Thuringwethil. He didn’t want her to die. He’s blinded to the truth.”
Elladan was about to interject his opinion but the Slayer quickly continued.
“No one is looking at the facts here. Let me give you something to think about. Thuringwethil is a vampire. The mother of all vampires in fact. There’s only three ways to kill a vampire.” She counted them off on her fingers. “Stake through the heart, beheading and fire. I deem that Thuringwethil survived the War of Wrath because no one knew how to kill her. You can stab her in the heart with a metal blade and she’ll survive. It wouldn’t kill her. I know. I tried it.
“If you overheard my conversation with Mithrandir, then you all heard him say that he discovered that Sauron was the Necromancer. Need I remind you what necromancy is? Do you really know what a vampire is? Can you not put the two together? If Thuringwethil isn’t burned to ash, he can bring her back! Sauron will bring her back.”
“But… but she has no head,” said a perplexed Gúron. “Surely, Sauron cannot revive her without a head.”
“He’s the master of sorcery. I believe he’s capable of doing it. Look at the Nazgûls. They were mortal men once. We cannot underestimate the Dark Lord’s powers. My gut tells me that the mother of all vampires must die by all three means or else she can come back. Maybe I’m the only one that can see that, that I have some innate knowledge of that because I’m the Slayer.”
At that precise moment, the woman came out of the house, carrying a container of oil and a tinderbox. Miriel took the items from the lady and announced to her friends, “Thuringwethil will burn. I’ll see to that.” She then marched off, leaving the others behind.
“My, she’s a determined young lady,” remarked the older woman.
Elladan smiled. “Not only is she courageous and fair, but she’s clever as well,” murmured the Elf, watching as Miriel rounded the corner. He then took off after her.
Gúron nudged Elrohir’s arm. “Does Elladan have feelings for Miriel?” he asked in surprise.
“Finally catching on, eh?” replied Elrohir with a snort. Slapping the Ranger on the back, he added, “Shall we go watch the bonfire?” The younger son of Elrond then followed the same path as his brother.
Gúron stood there for a moment, processing it all.
“An Elf in love with a mortal,” said the woman standing behind him. “We do live in strange times.” She then turned and went back into the house.
“Strange indeed,” mumbled the golden-haired Dúnadan as he too went to watch the burning of Thuringwethil.
The mother of all vampires’ body was already ablaze when Gúron arrived. Miriel, Halbarad and the sons of Elrond sat on the grass watching the roaring fire. Gandalf and Aragorn were still huddled together, talking, several yards away.
Gúron joined the Rangers, watching as the flames consumed the remains of the Maia. “Do you think he knows?” he asked, staring at the fire. “Do you think Sauron knows about Thuringwethil’s death?” He then shifted his gaze to Miriel, awaiting her answer.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“If he truly loved her, he knows,” answered Elladan softly. “One always knows when their mate is in trouble.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Miriel.
The Slayer’s comment made it painfully clear that she was oblivious to Elladan’s affection for her.
No one said much after that. Each, pondering his or her own thoughts, watched as the Maia’s remains burned. When the heat caused Miriel to become drowsy, she leaned her head against Elladan’s shoulder, flittering between the two states of consciousness. Buffy was still in a celebratory mood, which contrasted greatly with the vibe of the Rangers.
Elladan took it upon himself to fulfill the Slayer’s wishes, dousing Thuringwethil’s body with more oil when needed. It would end up taking several hours before the process was complete.
About thirty minutes after the fire had been started, Gandalf and Aragorn approached the others. “I think it’s time for us to head off,” announced the Wizard.
Miriel lifted her head when she heard that. “But, she’s not ash yet. We cannot leave until then.”
“I never said you were coming with us,” retorted Gandalf. “Aragorn and I are leaving together.”
“What?” cried out the Slayer in dismay, scrambling to her feet. She ran up to Aragorn. “Don’t go,” she said pleadingly, her heart heavy at the prospect of his leaving.
“I must,” he answered in his typical grim-faced fashion. “I have an urgent errand that cannot wait any longer.”
“You mean to say that Mithrandir has asked you to do this errand,” she said, correcting his statement. “No doubt it must be perilous if he asked you.” She shot a dirty look at the Wizard. “I see that he once again is willing to risk a mortal life instead of his own.”
Gandalf didn’t reply.
“It’s not like that,” said Aragorn in Mithrandir’s defense. “He requires the skills of a tracker, and who better than me?” He offered her a small smile.
“Maybe we can be of some help,” she said, looking hopefully at the Ranger Chieftain.
Aragorn shook his head. “It’s a long road before me and too many people will hinder the hunt. I leave you in good hands,” he added, glancing at his fellow Rangers.
“We’ll take care of her,” said Halbarad, now on his feet.
“I think Miriel is very capable of taking care of herself,” said Aragorn proudly. He softly cupped her cheeks with his callused palms. “You’ve come a long way since our first meeting on Amon Sûl. You’ve proven yourself in battle many times over. It was an honor to fight by your side, Dagnir.”
Miriel could feel the tears forming in her eyes. “Why are you talking to me as if we’ll never see each other again?” The Slayer felt as if her heart was breaking into many pieces. Aragorn had become like family, and they only recently had been reunited after several months’ separation. She loathed his parting.
“I did not mean for it to sound that way,” he said, trying to reassuring the Slayer. “My path lies beyond the Misty Mountains and who knows when we’ll see each other again?”
Miriel glanced at the mountains east of where they stood. Thoughts of Grimbeorn entered her mind. If Aragorn was to take that road, he would surely run into the Men of the Vales. This seemed like a perfect opportunity for her to send word to their lord about the death of his father since Miriel believed she’d never find her way there again. That thought was fleeting, as it would require Miriel to tell of her ordeal, and she wasn’t ready to do that.
She took a deep breath, stifling her tears. She knew there was nothing she could say or do to convince Aragorn to stay. Perhaps this errand would help lead him one step closer to the throne of Gondor. “We’ll see each other again. I know it,” she said with a smile. “You take care of yourself and if you happen upon the Men in Vales, tell them… tell them that Fíriel sends her greetings.”
Aragorn laughed upon hearing that. “You’ve gone by many aliases, I take it.”
“A few.”
Gandalf was restless and eager to depart. Once everyone had said their good-byes, the Rangers sat back down and watched Aragorn and Mithrandir make their way up the lane until they disappeared from sight.
They resumed their watch on the fire, as the hours slowly ticked by. Every now and again (when the Slayer found herself wide-awake), she would use her notched sword to beat the bones of Thuringwethil into smaller fragments. By midday, there wasn’t much left of the Maia. Miriel asked the former prisoners to bury the charred remains in different parts of the property after they were cool enough to handle. She felt confident that Thuringwethil would no longer be a threat to the peoples of Middle-earth.
As she and the others began their own trek, marching up the drive, Miriel was forced to accept a certain truth. She had always felt that once she had killed the witch, her nightmare would end. Though she had made Thuringwethil pay with her life, the torments she had endured whilst imprisoned in the House of Horrors would continue to haunt her to the end of her days…
Chapter 34 - The Return to Rivendell
Not once did Miriel look over her shoulder as they walked up the long drive. As far as she was concerned, she never wanted to set eyes on that abominable place again. The moment she stepped off the property, the environment seemed to change. It felt more wholesome than the old homestead. The air smelled cleaner, the sky brighter. The leaves rustled in the surrounding trees, as if they were rejoicing at the witch’s demise. Even the birds perched on nearby branches sang merry tunes in their sweet, sweet voices. Yes, it was a time for celebration, for the shadow that had devoured that region had been obliterated.
“I need to get my bags,” informed the Slayer, straying from the path to the oak where she had hidden her belongings.
Her friends followed, their eyes scanning the surroundings. They too noticed the change around them.
As soon as Miriel found the tree, she climbed it and began to toss her bags to the ground. With the Slayer out of earshot for a few moments, the men folk had a quick and quiet exchange, regarding a request made by Gandalf. The old Wizard had asked them to take Miriel by the place where they had ambushed the Orcs, to show her exactly how dangerously close she was to being attacked by the enemy, whose numbers would have turned the tide against her.
After a speedy debate, they all agreed that it was in everyone’s best interest to resume their journey as soon as possible. None of the Rangers overlooked the fact that they were still deep in troll country and, as long as they remained in these parts, there was a lingering threat of being assailed by the hulking beasts. Also, none were quick to forget that Thuringwethil had perished. They couldn’t rule out that more Orcs could be hiding somewhere nearby, waiting to hear news from their brethren that had died in the early morning attack. The men felt that their need for haste outweighed the need for proving a point. They had to take the quickest road possible to Rivendell. There was no time to backtrack in the opposite direction.
Once Miriel had slid out of the tree and grabbed her belongings, they hurried on their way. Since they had gotten a late start, they were unable to reach the road by nightfall. As a precaution, the Rangers hid themselves amidst the brush and lit no fires as they waited for morning.
At first light, they set out again, reaching the road in less than an hour.
“If all goes well, we should reach Imladris by late tomorrow afternoon,” informed Elrohir, delighted by how far north they had come.
Onward they went, and just as Elrohir had predicted, they reached the main path to the valley late the following afternoon. As they passed those Elves on sentry duty, they blew a loud blast on their horns, alerting those in the House of Elrond of the Rangers’ arrival, for they had been expected.
Just like the last time Miriel had been there, she could hear the rushing falls long before seeing them. The plants and flowers were in bloom, filling the valley with a fragrant scent of both flowers and freshly cut grass. One good whiff of the clean country air had a way of instantly invigorating one’s weary heart, mind, body and soul. Such was the way in an enchanted elvish realm.
Miriel was home, or at least, felt as if she were. A part of her had thought that she’d never return to Rivendell, and now, as she and her friends crossed the stone bridge, she was glad to be back.
The Slayer gasped when they first set eyes on the House of Elrond. No, it wasn’t seeing that beautiful building that took her breath away. It was all the people assembled outside the Last Homely House. It looked like every resident of Rivendell was there to greet them. They were on the lawn, the porches, even the second story balconies were packed with Elves.
“Why is everyone outside?” she whispered to Elladan, who was walking beside her.
“They want to see you,” he said matter-of-factly. “Undoubtedly, news of Thuringwethil’s demise has reached them.”
“But that was only three days ago!” she exclaimed. “How could they possibly know?”
“News, especially good news, has a way of reaching the Elves,” he answered with a wink.
The mightiest lords of Imladris stood at the forefront on the lawn. In the waning afternoon sun, Miriel could see a gleaming golden head running toward her. It was none other than Glorfindel.
“Miriel!” he shouted, widening his arms as he drew closer.
The Slayer found herself running to him, her heart pounding in excitement at seeing the Noldo once again. She leapt into his outstretched arms. The Elf Lord wrapped his strong arms firmly around her waist, spinning her around and laughing joyfully. “It gladdens my heart to see you again,” he said before setting her back on the ground. His bright, grey eyes swept over her, inspecting her for any obvious injuries. “We have heard that you’ve slain the Maia, Thuringwethil. What an extraordinary feat that is!”
“I learned from the best,” she said, her grin widening. “I couldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for you.”
Glorfindel laughed. “The credit is all yours,” he said proudly. “You have accomplished something that so few in Middle-earth ever have.”
“You have,” replied Miriel.
The Noldo gently cupped the Slayer’s cheek. “That is sweet of you to say. But, today is about you. Today we celebrate your great achievement.” He then took her by the hand and led her toward Elrond.
In those few brief minutes that she had been back, Miriel couldn’t help but notice that whatever romantic feelings she had harbored for Glorfindel were long gone. She now saw him in a new light, as a father figure, and a much needed one at that. He was nothing like Denethor. In fact, he was the complete opposite. And, at this time in Miriel’s life, she needed someone in that role, to guide her, to teach her, and to love her unconditionally. She couldn’t help but chuckle to herself. It looked like Elrohir had been right all along and that Miriel was merely infatuated with this mighty Elf Lord, not in love with him, as she had thought.
Maybe it was just Miriel, but it almost seemed as if the Noldo had heard her thoughts. He glanced at her, smiling. He then gently squeezed her hand that he clutched within his own. Her cheeks turned pink in response.
When they reached the Lord of Imladris, Miriel let go of Glorfindel’s hand and dropped to one knee in reverence to Elrond. As far as she was concerned, he was her lord, and her allegiance was to him and his kingdom.
“Rise, Dagnir,” he said, offering her a smile.
Miriel obediently obeyed his command. When she stood again, she looked deeply into Elrond’s eyes. There was a twinkling light in them that she had never seen before. Of course, she had done her best to avoid making eye contact with the Lord of Rivendell since their first meeting many months ago. How could she forget the horror of having her mind read by his penetrating gaze? That had been quite unnerving. Now, there was nothing to fear. Elrond knew everything about her, and, as far as she could tell, he had been true to his word, and had kept the knowledge of her past secret.
“Welcome home, Miriel,” he continued.
“Thank you, lord,” she answered, following protocol with a bow of her head.
“My good people,” he then announced loudly. “Today we’re honored to have in our midst the slayer of Thuringwethil, the despicable Maia and consort of the Dark Lord that had escaped us for ages untold. All hail Miriel the Vampire Slayer!”
With that, the crowd roared with delight and thunderous applause. Miriel was ecstatic. She couldn’t wait to see Buffy in the dreamscape, to tell her that Miriel was the first girl to ever be called Vampire Slayer.
When the applause died down, Elrond continued. “Tonight we will hold a feast in Dagnir’s honor. Afterward, I hope that she will regale us with the account of Thuringwethil’s demise.”
Overwhelmed by the Elves’ response, Miriel could only nod in reply. To be viewed by this noble race of people as a returning hero was nothing short of amazing. She was truly beginning to see that her act of valor was great, even amongst the Eldar.
“Perhaps we should let Miriel freshen up before the festivities begin,” suggested Glorfindel.
Elrond then turned to his daughter. “Arwen, would you be so kind.” He needn’t have said any more than that.
“Of course,” answered his only daughter, stepping out of the line. “Come, Miriel. We have much catching up to do.” The elleth linked arms with the Slayer and together they followed the pathway that led to the front steps of the magnificent halls of Elrond.
Arwen was quite eager to hear about Miriel’s adventures since having left Rivendell. The Slayer’s life was vastly different from her own and a part of her longed to trade places with the mortal girl. Since the days of her youth, she had been told that she closely resembled her foremother Lúthien Tinúviel, but the comparison stopped at beauty alone. A part of Arwen longed for adventure, to do great deeds as her forebear had, to be remembered for her outstanding courage and strength. Instead, she lived confined within the walls of her father’s house, protected from the world outside.
Miriel was not oblivious to Arwen’s longing for freedom and adventure. They had spoken many times about it in the past. The last thing the Slayer wanted to do was to put any ideas in Arwen’s head. She knew how envious the elleth was over Miriel’s exploits, particularly those involving the Rangers.
As Miriel bathed, she told Arwen about their first skirmish on the road, involving the trolls. When the Slayer noticed the elleth’s eyes widening in excitement, she made a point to let her know how disastrous things went due to Miriel’s own lust for blood.
“Instead of following orders, I jumped into the fray,” revealed Miriel dismally. “As a result, my arm was broken and a fellow Ranger perished.” She turned her sorrow-filled eyes to the daughter of Elrond. “I have to live with that for the rest of my life,” she added solemnly. “It’s not a pretty world out there, Arwen. There’s so much evil. Consider yourself blessed to live in this haven, far from peril.”
Arwen sighed heavily as she poured a ewer of steamy water over Miriel’s soapy head. “Ah, yes. My haven. I would trade safety for adventure any day. I am bound to spend endless days in tedium. How fortunate for me.”
Miriel wiped the water from her eyes, and spun around in the tub, facing the elleth. “Is this what you long for?” she queried, pointing to the Eye of Sauron carved above her bosom. “Or this?” she asked, pointing to yet another scar on her arm. “Or this. Or this. Or this,” she repeated, pointing out the many scars that covered her delicate pale flesh. “And those are just the scars you can see. Some… some are too deep to be seen with the naked eye.”
The Slayer took a deep, trembling breath. It was time to nip this whole Slayer envy thing in the bud. “You have no idea what it’s like out there. You say that your life here is tedious, try going out on the road where you are forced to sleep on the hard, cold ground, night after night. You have to ration your provisions, not knowing when you’ll get your next hot meal. Water is scarce. Bathing is nearly unheard of. You’re on the move constantly, walking endless miles in the rain, in the cold, in the heat. We’re hunters, but we’re also hunted and have to remain alert at all times. And when it comes to battle, one can die in a split second.” Miriel snapped her fingers for added emphasis. “That’s all it takes. It’s a hard life. Not a fun one. If I had my way, I’d live as you do - safe, in comfort, surrounded by those that love me. That’s not a life to throw away. That’s a life to be thankful for. You have it good though you may think otherwise.”
Arwen stared at Miriel for several long seconds. She then responded with, “If you envy my life so, then have it. Turn away from slaying and stay here, in Rivendell.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“You don’t want to. There’s a difference,” countered the elleth. “Whether you want to admit it or not, you enjoy slaying. It’s a part of who you are. People revere mighty warriors, you included. I saw your face light up when you were welcomed back as the returning hero.”
“I’m no hero,” protested Miriel. “I didn’t choose this. It chose me. I’m a tool of the Valar and it’s my job, my destiny to combat evil.”
“You killed Thuringwethil!” exclaimed Arwen in awe. “You took out a powerful Maia that we had believed to be dead.”
“And the lover of Sauron,” Miriel added. “Do you think there’ll be no repercussions for that? When I killed Thuringwethil, I signed my death warrant. When Sauron learns of what I have done, he’s going to be gunning for me. There is no glory in that.”
“Perhaps it’s your destiny to take out the Dark Lord. Thuringwethil was just the beginning.”
Miriel laughed. “That’s insanity!”
“I do not see how that is so,” said Arwen. “You have killed a Maia and lived to tell the tale. Even Glorfindel perished when he battled the Balrog while escaping the fall of Gondolin.”
“Glorfindel had battled Morgoth’s armies since sunrise,” rebuked the Slayer in defense of the Noldo. “He fought all day, and, if not by his strength, your forefather and the rest of his people would’ve died. Do not bring him into this. He’s the most valiant man to ever set foot in Middle-earth.”
Arwen was taken aback by Miriel’s heated defense of Glorfindel. “I am not diminishing Glorfindel’s deeds by any means. But the truth is: he did perish battling a Maia whereas you did not. That says something, Miriel. That says something about you.”
“Call it luck then,” replied the Slayer dismissively. She did not like being compared to Glorfindel at all. Their battles were completely different. Miriel had not had to contend with the numbers that the mighty Noldo had. She dunked her head under the water, needing a minute or two to regain her composure.
When she popped out of the water again, Arwen said, “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just… I think you’re truly gifted and blessed by those in the West. Do not tell me that you’ve not given any thought to challenging Sauron. Do not tell me that has never entered your mind.”
Miriel leaned back against the tub, stretching out her legs. She stared straight ahead, watching the steam rising from the water. “It has,” she replied. “But it’s a foolish notion.” She turned toward Arwen. “I grew up on the doorstep of Mordor. I don’t think you truly comprehend how great Sauron’s armies are. There is no way in and there is most definitely no way out.”
The elleth bowed her head, looking sadly at the ewer clutched in her hands.
“I know what this is about,” continued the Slayer, watching Arwen closely. “Sauron’s defeat would put Aragorn closer to the crown.”
Arwen shifted her teary eyes to Miriel. “Yes,” she answered softly.
The Slayer reached out and grasped the elleth’s hand. “And then you two could begin your life together,” she surmised.
“Yes.”
Miriel could sympathize with Arwen, but by the elleth pinning her hopes on Miriel as the one to defeat the Dark Lord, well, that was more than a bit far-fetched. But that didn’t mean Miriel’s heart didn’t go out to Arwen. “I cannot make any promises, Arwen, but should I ever come face to face with the Dark Lord, I would surely do my best to rid the world of that menace.”
Miriel’s comment seemed to satisfy Arwen. Her disposition reverted to normal and she became happy once again. From that point on, they spoke no more about Sauron, battles, or the like.
Once the Slayer had finished bathing, she slipped into one of Arwen’s beautiful emerald green gowns. As she sat at the dressing table, brushing her hair, she heard a knock on the door.
“Come in,” she called out.
In came one of the maidens of the house. “Good evening, Dagnir. I was asked to collect your clothing that needs to be laundered.”
“Oh, excellent,” answered Miriel, setting the brush on the table. She rushed over to her bags, which had been placed on the floor at the foot of her bed. “I’m hoping you wonderful elvish seamstresses can be of some help,” she continued, digging through her first bag. She pulled out the balled up blue dress that Hal had given her. She shook the garment open, showing the elleth the damage it had sustained. “Do you think it’s reparable? It means a great deal to me.”
The Elf maiden took the dress from Miriel and surveyed the damage with a skeptical eye. “Are these blood stains?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“It looks like they have already set,” replied the woman, now examining the tear. She then smiled half-heartedly. “I’ll see what we can do, but I forewarn you: we Elves are not capable of performing miracles.”
“Anything you can do, I’d be most appreciative,” said Miriel, her glistening eyes full of hope.
The maiden then gathered the rest of Miriel’s clothing before leaving the room. Only a few moments later, Elrohir and Elladan came parading in.
“It’s nearly time for the feast,” announced Elrohir, who, like his twin, was also freshly bathed.
“And who better to escort you, than us,” added Elladan in a cheery voice.
Miriel plopped down on the bed, sighing heavily. “I wish we could eat in here, like we used to,” she confessed.
“But you’re the guest of honor,” proclaimed Elladan.
The Slayer rolled her eyes. “Whoopee!” she replied, feigning enthusiasm. “I don’t much like big crowds any more. I’d rather it just be the three of us, in here.”
“Not tonight,” said an unwavering Elrohir, as he grabbed Miriel by the arm, pulling her to her feet. “Tomorrow, perhaps. But tonight, you will join us at the head table to celebrate your great triumph.”
“Pfft,” sounded Miriel. “I guess the sooner we get this over with, the better.”
“We better be careful, Elrohir. Looks like Miriel’s enthusiasm might be contagious.”
“You know what will help?” remarked the younger son of Elrond. Not allowing anyone the chance to reply, he quickly added, “Wine. Wine will lift your spirits right up.”
“We’ll see,” the Slayer answered with a snort, letting the twins usher her from the bedchamber.
As they descended the staircase, the supper bells rang out, alerting the entire household that the feast was about to begin. Elves flooded the corridors, their sweet, lilting voices instantly making Miriel feel welcome and at home. Filing into the massive dining hall, the twins led her up the steps of the dais to the table where the most notable members of Elrond’s household ate their meals. Miriel was grateful to be seated between Elladan and Elrohir, a few seats away from the end of the table where the Lord of Imladris sat flanked by Glorfindel and Erestor. After everyone had settled into their seats, Elrond spoke briefly about the Slayer’s victory over Thuringwethil before he and the rest of his people raised their cups in honor of her “remarkable achievement.” He then asked if she would share her “glorious tale” with them after the feast. Put on the spot like that, there was no way Miriel could refuse.
Excitement filled the air. Elrond’s people were quite eager to hear the story of Thuringwethil’s demise. Even Elladan and Elrohir emitted the same vibes. They, along with their traveling companions, had tried to coax the details of her battle out of her on their journey to Rivendell, but Miriel hadn’t been ready to share the tale with anyone at that point. She didn’t feel ready now. How could she share her tale without revealing what had happened during her first encounter with the wicked Maia? Elves, by nature, were a curious people and had a tendency to ask many questions when one spoke of an event, experience or story. There was no doubt in Miriel’s mind that she’d be questioned as to how she had come to meet Thuringwethil. And that’s what she was dreading the most.
Being somewhat preoccupied with those thoughts made the feast more tolerable. She ignored the stares and murmurings about her, conversing almost wholly with Elladan and Elrohir. Of course, the food and drink was most excellent. Miriel made an effort not to drink too much wine. By the end of the meal, she had consumed two glasses, just enough to take the edge off.
Once the feast had ended, most of the attendees proceeded to the Hall of Fire. The elven minstrels began to play as soon as their lord entered the chamber. A fire burned brightly in the fireplace and the room felt warm, but not overly so. Miriel sat on the floor between the sons of Elrond, grateful that she wasn’t expected to share her tale straightaway.
As the Elves sang about bygone days, their lyrics conjured images of beautiful ancient lands and the people that inhabited them. The more they played and sang, the more Miriel felt her body relaxing. Her eyes began to grow heavy; she struggled to keep them open. She hadn’t fallen asleep, but found herself in a blissful state of contentment. Even with her eyes closed, she could see the images in her mind’s eye, mirroring the elvish songs. She had become so relaxed that Miriel feared falling over. To combat that, she leaned against Elladan’s shoulder. He then wrapped his arm lovingly around her, cradling the Slayer in the crook of his arm. For the first time in a while, Miriel felt completely safe and utterly content.
She was unsure of how much time had actually passed when she heard Elrond call her name. Startled back to her senses, her eyes popped open, only to see many fair elvish faces looking expectantly at her. She then realized that she had been so relaxed that she had drooled on Elladan’s shirt. Why o’ why did so many people have to be looking at her at that particular moment? Her cheeks turned pink as she quickly wiped the dribble from the corner of her mouth. A few of the Elves seated nearby chuckled softly upon seeing the wet spot on Elladan’s shirt.
Miriel clambered to her feet with a little help from the twins. All eyes were on her. That alone made her palms sweaty and her heart pound so frantically that she could feel the blood rushing through her veins. The Elves scooted to the side, making a pathway leading to the front of the room where an empty chair awaited her. Several chairs were arranged around hers, occupied by Elrond, Arwen, Glorfindel and a few other mighty lords of that House.
Miriel had never regarded herself as the nervous type, but it was amazing how swiftly her anxiety returned. This time, in front of all these people, was vastly different from the last. This was no reciting of Buffy’s story of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, but a retelling of her own personal saga against the Mother of All Vampires, Thuringwethil. Where was she to start? How much should she reveal? So many questions raced through her mind. She took her seat, pondering these questions and many more, as the room fell dead quiet.
Her eyes scanned the numerous faces packed in the chamber. Apparently, many others had come in whilst her eyes were shut. The room was so full that dozens upon dozens of Elves had no other choice but to stand in any empty space they could find. When her eyes fell upon the twins, they both smiled, nodding encouragingly.
“Um, I’m… I’m not sure where to start,” she revealed, feeling the sudden heat emitting from her cheeks.
“Why not start from the beginning,” suggested the Lord of Imladris.
The Slayer remained silent, hesitant to tell her tale from the true beginning. Those few moments felt like an eternity.
Thankfully, Halbarad came to her rescue. “Why not start from when you left us at the lake?” he proposed.
“Alright,” she said, offering her Watcher a grateful smile. And so Miriel began her tale. Determined not to mention how she had first met Thuringwethil, and knowing that the Elves would ask how she knew of the Maia and her whereabouts, the Slayer started her story by mentioning that she had become aware of Thuringwethil’s existence in her dreams.
The Elves appeared riveted by her tale. They “oohed” and “ahed” in all the right places, and even laughed aloud when she told them how she had used cow dung for an Orc head to prevent her from being discovered by the headless enemy’s cohort.
She ended her tale with, “The only ways you can kill a vampire are stake through the heart, beheading, fire and possibly sunlight.” Miriel was iffy on the sunlight bit. She found it impossible to believe that Thuringwethil had survived throughout all the ages without having ever walked in the sunlight. Buffy had always been adamant about the whole sunlight thing, but Miriel had never seen it for herself to confirm whether that was true or not.
While their lore had mentioned that Thuringwethil was a vampire, no one really had any knowledge as to what that actually meant. So, or course, the Slayer was asked that very question.
“They feed off the living, drinking their blood,” she answered. “They need it to survive.”
“How does one recognize a vampire?” asked another Elf.
“It’s hard to say,” she began. “A vampire looks like any other mortal folk until it reveals itself. They sprout fangs when threatened or when ready to feed.” Miriel tried to think of things that Buffy had told her, things that didn’t necessarily apply to Thuringwethil herself. In fact, Buffy had mentioned a few things that didn’t apply to vampires in Middle-earth, such as the cross and holy water. Those two specific vampire repellants didn’t exist at this point in time, but do during Buffy’s time. Perhaps those artifacts would soon come into being. Since they were non-existent, Miriel didn’t bring them up. Nor did she say anything about garlic. Just the thought that a mere bulbous plant could repel a vampire seemed rather preposterous.
“They are creatures of the night and are cold to the touch,” she added after much thought. “They’re strong, fast and are able to heal rapidly. I cannot say any more than that, as Thuringwethil is the only vampire I have encountered.” Once again, Miriel hadn’t quite told the whole truth. She had encountered vampires before, but in the dreamscape with Buffy. And any discussion of Buffy was off limits. She didn’t want people to think her insane. Maybe one day she’d keep her own diary and write down her adventures, including those with Buffy.
There were murmurings amidst her audience when another Elf stood and asked, “How exactly did you know the means by which a vampire can die?” Said Elf didn’t bother to conceal his incredulity. “Come now, a wooden stake through the heart,” he added with a derisive snigger. “That sounds like an old wives’ tale to me.” A few of his friends snickered along with him.
“Then you best hope never to come face to face with one,” Miriel was quick to reply. “A sword through the heart will not get the job done, and you just may find yourself supper for a hungry vampire.” The Slayer shot him an angry look before scanning the rest of the crowd. “I thought I would share my knowledge with you. As an immortal folk, chances are you’ll come across one of these creatures, if you haven’t already.” She then rose from her seat. Narrowing her eyes, she looked at the Elf that had attempted to ridicule her in front of all these people. “I’m the Slayer. I’m the instrument of the Valar. They imbued me with knowledge and skills that not even the Elder Children of Ilúvatar have. Should the day ever come when you’re confronted by a vampire, remember my words if you want to save your sorry ass.” Miriel then glanced at Elrond. “Good evening,” she said with a curt nod before stomping out of the chamber.
She was so angry, so tempted to kick that one Elf’s ass, that if she hadn’t left when she did, she would’ve done something foolish. She wanted to go outside to cool off some, but her feet decided otherwise, leading her up the stairs to her room.
Once inside, she kicked off her shoes and lay on her bed. As her head hit the pillow, there were a couple of raps on the door before it flew open. In came the twins, smiling and laughing. The door snapped closed as Elladan and Elrohir crawled up on the bed with Miriel.
“What a dramatic exit,” chuckled Elrohir.
“‘Remember my words if you want to save your sorry ass,’” said Elladan, mimicking Miriel’s voice. “You really put Bandir in his place,” he added with a laugh. “Father chastised him in front of the entire household for his cheeky attitude.”
“Bandir,” began Miriel, not having known the Elf’s name prior to Elladan’s mention of it, “is a prick!”
“I dare say that not only will that story of yours be talked about in Imladris for quite a while, but also the added commentary,” remarked Elladan.
The twins hoped that Miriel’s mood wouldn’t sour and kept mocking her earlier comments as well as Bandir’s reaction to Elrond’s scolding. Elladan and Elrohir were so amusing that the Slayer couldn’t help but laugh along with them.
Greatly concerned over Miriel’s well-being, Glorfindel had also left the Chamber of Fire to check in on her. When he reached the outside of her door, he could hear her and the twins’ laughter coming from within the room. The Noldo let out a sigh of relief, knowing that the Slayer was in good hands. Not wanting to disturb them, he left.
Miriel, Elladan and Elrohir talked for hours. The sons of Elrond did glean a bit more information from her regarding her battle with Thuringwethil. The Slayer was careful not to say too much, but did give additional details that she hadn’t shared with anyone else.
At half past ten, Elrohir left, deciding that he was ready for bed. However, Miriel and Elladan continued to talk for some time afterward until they both fell asleep, nestled in the Slayer’s bed.
Miriel’s internal alarm clock went off early the following morning. Still dark outside, she found herself wide-awake. She could only assume that being back in Rivendell had somehow triggered her awake at the precise hour when the cooks assembled in the kitchen to begin the meal preparations for the day.
She stretched her stiff limbs, her hand brushing against a sleeping Elladan. She had forgotten that he had fallen asleep in her bed. Not wanting to disturb him, she crept out of bed and tiptoed in the darkness to the bathing chamber so she could begin her morning ritual.
Refreshed and revived, she slipped out of the room as quietly as she could and headed downstairs to the kitchen.
“Good morning, all,” she said in greeting, bouncing into the large room where the cooks were already busy at work.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” declared Glorfindel from across the chamber.
“How could I not?” she replied, as she was welcomed back by her fellow cooks who had been too busy to greet her the day before.
Amdir came rushing up, cupping her cheeks with his flour coated hands. “Let’s have a look at you,’ he said, his clear grey eyes inspecting her. “You look different,” he observed. “Your hair’s gotten longer. And there’s a sparkle in your eyes that I haven’t seen before.”
“I don’t know about this sparkle thing, but my hair has gotten longer.”
His smile broadened. “It’s good to have you back, Miriel.” Then, getting back to business, he added, “Pick up a knife and get to work. Those potatoes won’t peel themselves.”
Miriel frowned. “Potato duty,” she grumbled. “Lucky me.”
Glorfindel laughed heartily. “It’s good to see your enthusiasm is still intact.” He was busy kneading dough. “Grab a basket of potatoes and come work by me.”
Miriel’s eyes shifted to the many baskets of potatoes that awaited her. Grabbing the nearest one, she heaved it from the floor and carried it to Glorfindel’s work table.
“Here you go, my dear,” said Amdir, setting a container of water on the counter along with a paring knife. He gave her a pat on the back. “It’s so good to have you back, Miriel. And I appreciate the extra set of hands,” Amdir added with a wink before marching back to his own work station.
The Slayer half-heartedly picked up her first of many potatoes and began the tedious task of peeling each one.
“So, tell me of your travels,” said Glorfindel with interest. “I want to hear about everything since you left.”
“Everything?” queried a somewhat reluctant Miriel, as various events from the past months popped into her mind.
“Is there something you’re hiding?” asked the Noldo, raising his brow in question.
“No,” she answered brusquely, shifting her gaze from the Elf Lord to her potato. A tinge of pink came to her cheeks, as she pictured the battle with the trolls, in which Arvellas had perished, due to her lack of restraint. That was something that Glorfindel had warned her about during their training sessions many times over - that she was too impatient.
Of course, the ever-perceptive Noldo noticed the immediate change in the Slayer’s demeanor. “Hmm,” he began. “It appears that more has happened on your journey than the defeat of Thuringwethil.”
His tone wasn’t critical or accusatory, but it seemed that Glorfindel somehow knew that more had happened on Miriel’s excursion than she let on. She wasn’t sure if he had already spoken with her traveling companions and knew everything that had transpired, or, if like Elrond, he was able to “read” her with just a mere glance of those keen elvish eyes of his.
Finding herself unable to deceive the golden-haired Noldo, Miriel then blurted out everything that had happened since her departure. She told him of the battle with the trolls that had cost Arvellas his life (because of her), how her arm had been broken, and how awful it had been (at first) living with Halbarad in Archet while she mended. She spoke of how she had nearly revealed her slaying abilities to a neighbor boy of Hal’s, which seemed mild when compared to how she had murdered and mutilated a rapist in Bree (no apologies there!), and about her banishment from all of Bree-land, leaving out no details up to that point.
However, when she told him about Thuringwethil’s mystical attack, she wasn’t so forthcoming. She didn’t admit anything about her previous encounter with the witch or how the old hag had cast some type of spell from afar that had made the scars on Miriel’s body burn and the Eye engraved on her chest bleed as if newly carved.
“I think you know the rest,” she finally said, surprised to find herself feeling worn out after telling of her adventures, or misadventures as it were. “Shortly thereafter, I decided it was time to put an end to Thuringwethil and her torments.”
Miriel’s last comment made it perfectly clear to Glorfindel that the Slayer and the Mother of All Vampires had met before. He really wanted to get Miriel to open up about that experience, but knew if he didn’t tread very carefully, she’d withdraw, mentally, emotionally and more than likely physically too. That’s the last thing that he wanted to happen.
“An end to her torments,” he repeated. “What exactly does that mean?”
The Slayer cringed, her insides felt as if they were twisting into knots. What the hell had she been thinking by saying that? How could she possibly answer Glorfindel’s question without mentioning her confrontation with Thuringwethil and her evil cohorts months ago? Miriel’s heart began to race, so much so that beads of sweat sprang from nearly every pore on her face and neck. She needed to say something fast. The tension was mounting along with her anxiety.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she finally said, tossing a peeled potato into the water. “I guess you’re right, there are some things I’m hiding.”
Glorfindel knew not to push that specific topic any more. “If you ever want to talk about… anything, know that I’m here for you. Any time,” he said kindly.
Miriel glanced up at the Noldo. “I know.” She smiled weakly.
“I understand that you’re not ready to discuss your past with Thuringwethil, but that does not mean that there aren’t still some issues that concern me a great deal.”
“Oh,” said the Slayer, unsure where, exactly, Glorfindel was going with his line of questioning.
“Do you think it wise to have left the Rangers at the lake to search for the vampire Maia on your own?”
“It was my battle. My fight,” replied Miriel firmly.
“I do not deny that, but the Rangers could’ve been of some help. They are seasoned warriors that have seen combat many times over.”
“I didn’t want to put their lives at risk,” she answered.
“They’re Rangers. Their lives are constantly at risk.”
Miriel’s brows darted upward. “So you would’ve had them come, to face off against the Mother of All Vampires, a creature that none of them knew how to kill?” She shook her head. “I would never do that. Like I said, it was my battle.”
“There is strength in numbers,” replied Glorfindel, “especially when you have Rangers fighting at your side. So, yes, Miriel, I would have had them accompany me. Their experience in warfare predates your birth. You were lucky in this instance. Luck may not be with you next time.”
The Slayer couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe that was her way of taking the edge off. “You call it luck, I call it destiny.”
Glorfindel’s expression became grave, despite Miriel’s mirth. “I fear for your safety, Miriel. Your actions were reckless. If not by the grace of the Valar, things could’ve gone ill for you.”
Miriel knew that the Noldo was speaking from his heart and wasn’t offended by his comments. However, all things considered, she still felt that she had made the right decision, to fight on her own. “I know you mean well,” she began, “but I’m the Slayer - not Aragorn, or Hal, or Gúron, or the twins. Me.” The Slayer felt a sudden lump in her throat. “I love them, Glorfindel,” she said softly. “Even though they aren’t blood kin, they’ve become like family to me. I wouldn’t want to cause them any harm. I don’t want to put them in unnecessary danger.”
“They’re Rangers, my dear. They’re lives are fraught with danger.”
“I don’t want to be the one responsible for putting them in more danger.”
“Those that fight the Enemy are in constant danger. The Rangers are no exception.”
“Nor am I,” added Miriel.
“Nor are you,” the Elf Lord confirmed. The tone of his voice revealed his sadness, the light of his eyes momentarily dimming. “How I worry about you, Miriel. When Sauron learns of Thuringwethil’s downfall, he will surely seek retribution against the one that killed her. He will come after you, I fear.”
Putting up a brave front, the Slayer answered with, “Let him come! I’ve slain one Maia; perhaps I’m destined to slay another.”
Miriel’s proclamation grieved Glorfindel, for he knew that as long as the One Ring existed, Sauron would not fall. “I pray that day never comes! Sauron is far more powerful than his servant. In ways, I deem he surpasses his own master.”
That comment caught Miriel by surprise. She locked her widening eyes on the Noldo. “Really?”
“In some ways, yes,” he answered. “This may come as a surprise to you, Miriel, but you and Morgoth share some… commonalities.”
“No way!” she exclaimed, sounding very much like Buffy.
“Indeed,” replied Glorfindel with a nod. “Namely, you both lack patience. Morgoth’s impatience brought about his downfall. He became reckless. That is why I stress the importance of patience to you. Lack of it… well, let us say that it will lead you to ruin.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” came her snarky reply.
“Do not let overconfidence blind you to reality,” warned the Elf Lord. “Sauron has endured for so long because he is extremely patient. He is able to bide his time, planning and plotting, seeing that he will profit in the long run if he does not allow himself to be ruled by his emotions. He used that ploy against your forebears, bringing about the destruction of Númenor over the course of decades. Never underestimate his abilities!”
“Well, I doubt the Dark Lord would ever leave his Dark Tower, even if challenged. Not after what happened to him the last time he dared to step outside Barad-dûr.” Miriel was referring to the Siege of Barad-dûr during the War of the Last Alliance at the end of the Second Age when a desperate Sauron had challenged both Elendil and Gil-Galad to hand-to-hand combat. Though the Lord of Men and the Lord of Elves perished on the slopes of Mount Doom, Isildur had been able to cut the One Ring from the Dark Lord’s hand, which not only weakened Sauron considerably, but also forced him into hiding, thus, bringing peace to the people of Middle-earth for many centuries.
“The Dark Lord has legions of followers willing to do his bidding,” said Glorfindel. “He would most likely send others to carry out his orders.”
“Well then, let them come,” she said yet again, starting on another potato. “I’ve fought Orcs, goblins, Uruk-hai, wargs, trolls and a Maia. And I’ve defeated them all. I’m not afraid.”
“I do not question your courage. That is an esteemed quality. But you must be careful to govern your pride accordingly. I’ve seen a number of noble and valiant Elves and Men fall because they were overconfident. I do not want you to be accounted amongst them.”
“What would you have me do? Flee and hide? Expect some strong and able bodied man to protect me? Pfft!” Miriel sounded, rolling her eyes. “I’m the Slayer. My duty is to slay. And I will do that to the best of my ability.” She sighed heavily, plunking another peeled potato into the container of water. “When my time’s up, it’s up. There’s nothing I can do about that. I’m not naïve, Glorfindel. I know how short-lived a Slayer’s life is. I can’t change that. It is what it is.”
“Is it wrong of me to worry about you?” he queried.
“No,” she answered, offering the Noldo a smile. “I’m glad someone does.”
“There are many that worry about you, Miriel. I’m not alone in my love for you.”
The Slayer could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. Although she knew that Glorfindel’s words were not romantic in nature (she no longer harbored such feelings for him either), it was nice to hear that she was loved.
“I want you to promise me something,” the Noldo said, his tone serious.
Miriel shifted her gaze to the Elf Lord. “That depends on what it is.”
“Promise me you will not run off again, that you will not leave the others as you did at the lake, even if you are challenged by the Enemy.”
Despite the heat of the kitchen, a sudden coldness swept over the Slayer, accompanied by a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. As a result, she shuddered, pondering Glorfindel’s words.
“Promise me,” he repeated.
Miriel looked up at the Noldo. Something happened when she locked eyes with him. It was like a door opened and she could see to the core of his being. There was concern for her, sadness too. But more importantly, she saw fear. That scared her tremendously, for Glorfindel had never shown fear, especially for her. The potato and knife fell from her grasp. She had to grip the table to steady herself.
“What did you foresee?” she asked in a barely audible voice. Her mouth had gone dry.
“Promise me, Miriel,” he pleaded. “Just promise me, you will never run off again.”
Feeling numb, Miriel nodded. “I promise.”
As soon as she uttered those words, Glorfindel seemed relieved and returned to normal. As for Miriel, that sinking feeling stayed with her for a long while afterwards. Perhaps that was due to the fact that she had unwittingly made a promise that she would not keep. Only time would tell…
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