She had been standing at the edge of the clearing for close to half an hour now, staring out at the scattering of mounds that were raised to the dead, trying to will herself to move closer. The wind whipped through the high plain, whistling as it passed through the sparse trees at the edge of her sight, and Nethril shivered, wrapping her cloak more tightly around her. The sun shone weakly through the thick autumn clouds, but it had nearly passed behind the horizon to the west, and she almost longed to turn back now before it disappeared and left her to stumble her way home in the dark.

The barrows of the Dúnedain stood removed from the main village of the Angle, almost a mile past the Chieftain’s house among the sharp crags that gave the land its name. The Hoarwell and the Bruinen joined with such force that one could hear the crashing water below, as if to drown out the grief of those who laid their dead to rest. Sometimes Nethril wondered if the Valar themselves looked out for it after all, for though the barrows stood unprotected at the edge of the water, somehow they had never been sighted by an enemy.

“They protect us, in their way,” her mother was fond of saying. “Even in death, they look out for us.”

Personally, Nethril felt the Dúnedain dealt enough with the dead, yet still her mother came to visit the barrows each year on the eve of the harvest, to mark her husband’s passing. There had been no body to bury when Dirlaeg died, but she left a white flower at the edge of barrows all the same, murmuring a prayer to Mandos with the hope that it reached beyond the circles of the world.

But this year it was Nethril who stood before the dead, to keep the vigil when her mother could not.

“You’re doing a good thing, you know.” Aragorn spoke beside her for the first time. “This is important to her.” She turned and gave her cousin a rueful smile. He had joined her on the walk up the long, winding path to the barrows. Patient as ever, he said hardly a word when she stopped at the end of the path.

Nethril sighed. “I’ve never understood it, not even as a child. To keep marking the day, when so much time has passed…”

“Adanel still comes here, when the honeysuckle blooms,” Aragorn said lightly. “It is not such an uncommon custom.”

But Adanel has a barrow to visit, Nethril thought, though she did not speak the words aloud. Aragorn’s grandmother had lost both a husband and son to the doom of Isildur, but only Arathorn’s body lay in the Chieftain’s barrows. Arador’s bones were scattered somewhere to the far North, in a troll’s den where Nethril’s own father had met the same fate.

“I hate that the dead are so close to the living,” she said at last. “We deal enough with loss.”

Aragorn nodded in understanding. “I remember the first time I came here, in the weeks after the midsummer festival. Adanel asked if I wanted to see where my father was buried, and…” He shook his head at the memory. “I did not know what to expect. There are no barrows in Rivendell.”

“Strange, those Elves.” Nethril gave a small smile, but it faded as she looked back over the mounds. “Perhaps they have the right of it…”

He turned to her, his grey eyes dark with concern. “Do you want me to stay?”

Nethril took a deep breath and watched the fog blow from her lips as she exhaled. It had been five years since Aragorn returned to them, and no one could deny he had come into his own as Chieftain of the Dúnedain. The years in the wild had hardened him, and he had long left behind the naiveté of his childhood in Rivendell. Yet he never lost his good-natured manner or his swift skill with words, and the combination had turned him into a leader wise beyond his years. Nethril had long accepted her own unofficial role as the Chieftain’s counselor, and in the years they’d worked together he had grown from kinsman to friend. Never was she more grateful for it than in times like these, to have him standing beside her when no one else could.

“No, you should go. Those patrol reports have been sitting on your desk for two days now, and who knows when we’ll get another quiet moment.”

Aragorn nodded, and he squeezed her arm in an affectionate gesture. “I’ll be in the map room with Adanel and Meldroch. Come join us when you’re done.”

Nethril nodded, and raised her arm in farewell as she watched him disappear down the path. She steeled herself and turned back towards the barrows, approaching the land where her ancestors were laid to rest. There was a great stone that rested a bit beyond the graves, with the names of Dúnedain carved in careful rows. Here was the memorial to those who had sacrificed their lives far from home, a fate that had befallen Rangers more often than not in recent years. She ran her hand gently over her father’s name, tracing the engraving out with her fingers before she placed the flowers beside the stone and glanced outward towards the river.

“I can hardly remember what year this is now,” she murmured. “Mama misses you, still. And I…”

The wind whipped around her and she paused, looking up to watch the leaves billowing past into a shallow whirlwind. A sudden uneasiness crept over her, different from the vague disquiet she was used to at the barrows. She turned around on instinct, and though there was nothing behind her, she could hear a soft sound that sounded horribly like stone scraping on dirt.

“…Aragorn?” she called out. She stood still, holding her breath, listening as hard as she could. The soft crunching of leaves could be heard in the direction of the Chieftains’ barrows, and she prayed that it was only a hare or some other small creature. But the footfall sounded too heavy for that…

She had not been trained as a Ranger, but all Dúnedain learned from a young age how to tread lightly when the need arose. She drew her knife from its sheath at her belt and stepped as softly as she could towards the Chieftains’ barrows. She peered slowly around the mound, but froze when she saw that one of the barrow stones had been left over a foot open. She felt the exhalation of a cold, rattling breath behind her, and an unmistakable dread washed over her before she dared to look over her shoulder.

She screamed and fell backwards, and as she scrambled up to her feet she looked up to see a rotting corpse looming over her, threads of dead skin and tattered clothes hanging from bones that tottered unsteadily, as though they could not quite remember how they worked. An nauseating stench that she dimly recognized as rotting flesh filled the air, and there were pale lights that shone from where eyes should have been. She dimly registered the star of the Dúnedain pinned to the molding cloak, before the corpse raised a rusting great-sword with both hands and brought it crashing down above her.

She dodged the clumsy strike and sprinted off behind it, but to her surprise, the corpse moved with a quickness that belied its unsteady movements. As it closed the distance between them she realized that in her panic she had headed straight towards the edge of the barrows, where the crags met the river. She turned and saw that the the corpse had raised its sword again, and she ducked behind the memorial stone just as the sword struck where her head had been. Sparks showered above her, and she gripped her knife tightly, coming up from behind the stone and stabbing the dagger between the creature’s ribs with all her strength.

It staggered back briefly, but then its jaw turned upward into something that looked horribly like a smile before it advanced upon her once more. She swore loudly and ran behind another barrow, looking for another weapon, anything, to throw at the advancing creature. There were a handful of small rocks that were scattered about, but if a dagger could do nothing, she doubted those would be much use. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she swallowed hard against the rising tide of panic, willing herself not to falter—not here, in one of the few places her people held sacred.

She was skirting dangerously close to the edge of the crags, now, and she could hear the rushing of the river behind her even as she kept her eyes fixed upon the corpse. She bit down on her lip, hard enough to taste blood, and backed up slowly, silently daring the creature to follow her towards the water. For a moment it looked as if it would not take the bait, but it suddenly lunged, closing the distance between as it struck with the sword for a third time. She ducked out of the way, crying out as the sword caught in the folds of her cloak, and kicked out as hard as she could. She heard a sickening crunch as her boot met bone, and the corpse stumbled backwards, wobbling dangerously before it stepped backwards onto air. It toppled off the cliff, and she heard the telltale splash of the water, but she still rushed toward the edge of the rocks, straining her eyes in the dying light to see the corpse be swept away by the current. She watched until it passed out of her sight, before she turned and ran as fast as she could.

***
Darkness had fallen by the time Nethril stumbled back to the Chieftain’s house, and she struggled to collect herself as she walked through the hall, grateful not to meet anyone else on her route to the map room. She reached the doorway in the back alcove of the great hall and burst through, stopping only when the three people seated around the table looked up at the noise. It had become a habit of Aragorn’s to confer with various captains and advisors in the evenings, and he was seated between the Lady Adanel and Meldroch, the Ranger captain who oversaw patrols to the east. Aragorn sprang from his chair in alarm at the sight of her, while the other two simply stared. She looked down and realized what a sight she must have looked, with her hair coming out of its braid and her hands scraped from where she had fallen.

“Morgoth’s bones!” Meldroch cursed. “What happened, Nethril?”

“I…” She leaned against the doorway and let out a weak laugh. “You would hardly believe the tale…”

“Sit.” Aragorn pulled up a chair from the corner and placed it beside him in front of the table, and she sank into it gratefully. He knelt in front of her, searching for injuries with the practiced eye of a healer. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m all right…I’m not hurt, but—I was attacked at the barrows. Someone…some thing…”

Her hands were still shaking. Aragorn did not ask her to continue, but reached for a clean handkerchief from his pocket and poured water from a glass on the table, cleaning the dirt from the scrapes on her palm. Adanel rose quietly and disappeared from the room, and when she returned she had a bowl of soup that she placed in front of Nethril. She murmured her thanks and turned to lean over the table with great effort, taking a deep breath as she inhaled the steam from the bowl. The familiar scent of meat mixed in with spices was an unexpected comfort, and warmth somehow helped to soothe her frayed nerves.

It wasn’t until she finished the bowl of soup that she finally felt ready to speak. “It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. I heard a noise behind one of the barrows, and when I went to look there was a…a corpse, or a skeleton.”

She relayed her story, including as much detail as she could recall, and Aragorn’s brows knit in confusion.

“So it…you cannot say for certain what it was?” he finally asked. Nethril shook her head.

“It wasn’t anything living, I can tell you that much. It was…something dead that had found life again.”

But Aragorn shook his head, his expression shifting to one of disbelief. “It couldn’t have been. Perhaps the shadow were playing tricks on you in the dusk…it could have been an underfed Orc—“

“I know what I saw!” Nethril snapped. “It had a Ranger’s star pinned to its cloak!”

“But how could it possibly…”

“Barrow wights,” Adanel said quietly from her chair in the corner. The entire room fell silent. “It was a barrow wight. Meldroch, do you remember…”

“Aye,” the old Ranger whispered. The color had drained from his face. “In the moon before the Fell Winter. Arador led a company of us through Tyrn Gorthad, following some bandits who had come too close to the Shire…” he shuddered. “It was exactly as you said, Nethril. Bones come back, with eyes glowing pale as the moon. They would have killed us all if that odd Bombadil fellow hadn’t come along.”

“And we are a far cry from his aid now,” Adanel said.

“What are they?” Nethril asked, the cold dread seeping back through her. “I’ve heard of such creatures, but only in tall tales told after dark, to frighten children…”

Meldroch reached for a mug of ale that had been sitting untouched beside his chair and took a long drink. “No one knows for certain. Spirits of some sort that possess the bones of the dead and attempt to drag the living down with them. The Witch-King of Angmar summoned them to the Barrow-Downs thousands of years ago, while Arthedain was still strong. They have haunted it ever since.”

“They have remained there, though,” Adanel said. “There were rumors of a few out of Fornost, but never have they come so close to our own borders. To see them on our very doorstep, when we have remained hidden for so long…”

Aragorn had gone very still. “If the servants of Angmar have breached the Angle…”

Meldroch shook his head. “The Enemy cannot have found us. If Sauron knew of the fortress that housed the Heir of Isildur, thousands of Orcs would have descended on us by now. Likely this is some lone perversion, a corruption of an ancient spirit that has made its way here. Such evils still lurk in this world.”

Aragorn ran his hands through his hair. “We cannot know that for certain. And how in the name of Eru are we supposed to fight them? How do you stop men who are already dead?”

““Sticking it with a knife certainly didn’t help,” Nethril said dryly. “Drowning, perhaps? The water stopped the one I faced.”

“I am not certain we can count on the river sweeping it away for good,” Adanel said. “The danger lies in the wight itself, not the shell that houses it.”

Aragorn sighed. “Well, is there anything more we can do to keep them at bay tonight? Anything we know of?” He looked at Adanel and Meldroch each, and was met with an uneasy silence. “All right. Meldroch, set a watch over the south path for tonight, and we can investigate the barrows more thoroughly tomorrow. Valar willing, this creature Nethril defeated will be the end of it.”

Meldroch nodded, and Aragorn glanced back at Nethril. “Are you sure you’re all right, cousin?”

Nethril gave him a rueful smile. “I’m still standing, aren’t I? As long as that thing doesn’t come to take its revenge, I should be fine.”

Aragorn let out a small chuckle, and the two men both stood and disappeared through the doorway. Nethril rose to follow them, but Adanel caught Nethril’s eye, signaling that she wished for her to remain. The former acting Chieftain stood at the doorway with her and watched Aragorn and Meldroch depart.

“How is your mother?” she asked.

Nethril sighed. “We took her to the Houses of Healing today. Ivorwen said her chances for recovery are good, but…”

“May it be so,” Adanel said softly, and Nethril looked down at the floor, unable to meet her eyes. She had managed so far to keep her anxiety for Finnael at bay, but now her thoughts turned back toward the memory of her mother leaning on Ivorwen’s shoulder as they entered the healing houses, wracked with fever and barely able to walk. She fought the sudden urge to burst into tears. In better times, she would have taken refuge with Isilmë for the night, but she still dwelt in the Swanfleet outpost with Halbarad and Mellaer, outfitting weapons for the Rangers there. Without the three of them, it was far more difficult to quell her fears for her mother.  

“If she heard us fretting, she would likely tell us we had more important things to worry about than her,” she said, struggling to keep her voice light. “Though sometimes I wish she thought of herself a little bit more.”

“It is good she has you, then. And when she recovers, you can tell her that yourself.”

Nethril nodded and reached for her cloak, which had fallen unnoticed to the floor beside the doorway. She stepped into the dim light of the hall, but paused at the sound of Adanel’s voice.

“Nethril? Did you happen to—to see whose barrow was disturbed? Whose body it was?”

Her voice shook slightly, and Nethril bit down hard on her lower lip before she turned back to face Adanel. There was no denying it had been one of the Chieftains’ barrows that had housed the spirit, but in her haste she had hardly paused to register which grave it had come from. Her uncle Arathorn’s face, half-remembered, suddenly loomed in her mind’s eye beside the wasted skull of the barrow-wight, and she let out an involuntary shudder.

“I can’t remember,” she said at last. “I’m sorry.”

Adanel’s face remained carefully composed, but she let out a small sigh. “It hardly matters, I suppose. Get some rest, child. I imagine you need it more than any of us.”

***
The next day, Aragorn led a small party of Rangers back to the southern tip of the Angle. Out of some unspoken need for closure, Nethril volunteered to go with them, and they spent much of the afternoon around the burial mounds, searching for signs of the wight that had attacked her or any of its fellows. She was reluctant to go anywhere near the Chieftain’s barrows, however, and could not admit to Aragorn it was because she couldn’t bear to know whose body she had knocked into the river below. She remained with one of the Ranger trainees along the outer barrows, searching along the edge of the crags, and when the shadows started to lengthen Aragorn called for them to investigate the rivers next. With only five of them, Aragorn sent the younger three Rangers off to investigate the west bank of the Greyflood, while he and Nethril investigated to the east.

“You realize that this is a stupid idea,” she grumbled. Old Huor had provided her with a new knife to replace the one she lost, and she held it unsheathed as she walked behind Aragorn through the dead leaves strewn over the riverbank. “The two of us against a spirit of the undead.”

Aragorn did not look back at her, but his voice was resigned. “Are you suggesting I ought to have pulled more of the Angle’s defenses for a scouting mission?”

“I am not saying I had any better ones!” Nethril protested. “But still. Stupid.”

“You could have stayed home.”

“And leave our Chieftain to defend himself alone against agents of Angmar?” she snorted. “I’d like to think you know me better than that.”

“That I do. You’re almost as bad as Halbarad,” Aragorn muttered, but Nethril could picture her cousin’s small smile amidst the resignation.

They continued along the riverbank for almost an hour before Aragorn held out his hand and Nethril skidded to a stop behind him. “Do you hear that?”

For a moment, she could hear nothing more than the trees rustling in the light wind, and Nethril look at Aragorn in confusion, but he turned his head towards the woods. She narrowed her eyes as she followed his gaze, and suddenly she could hear it too—footsteps between the fallen leaves. Fear pooled in her stomach once more, but when she forced herself back into calm she realized that the footfalls did not sound quite the same as the ones she had heard the night before. They were lighter, for one, and more assured than the unsteady corpse that had stalked her through the barrows. Aragorn gave her a questioning look, and she shook her head slowly. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword, but whoever hid between the trees did not step out to meet them.

“Show yourself!” Aragorn finally called out, the challenge clear in his voice.

“Straying a bit far from the Angle, don’t you think?” a deep voice answered, and Nethril turned to see an old man emerge from the trees, a staff held in his right hand and a sword hanging from his belt. He was cloaked in grey, with a long beard of the same color and bushy eyebrows that seemed to disappear into his wide-brimmed hat. Nethril narrowed her eyes in suspicion. She knew every elder among the Dúnedain, and their home was carefully guarded against outsiders. In her memory, only the sons of Elrond had ever been granted access through the gates.

“Who are you?” she asked. He studied her carefully before he turned to face Aragorn, and his eyebrows joined together in mild surprise.

“I might ask the same of you both,” he answered, looking back to meet Nethril’s eyes. “It has been quite some time since I have seen a lady Ranger in the field, and I have not known the Greyflood to require such careful patrol.”

“I’m not a Ranger,” Nethril said impatiently, “and we are no one of consequence. If you seek passage to the Angle, we would have you identify yourself and your business with our people.”

“Be at ease, young mistress. I am a friend of the Dúnedain.” The old man favored her with a small smile before he turned his gaze back to Aragorn. “I have waited a long time to meet this Heir of Isildur, though I had hoped it would be a more auspicious gathering than this.”

Aragorn’s face darkened, and Nethril brought up her knife in instant distrust. Her cousin’s true identity was kept deliberately hidden outside the borders of the Angle, to guard against the enemy, and she would rather lose another weapon than face that possibility that this man might make his way back to Sauron with the information.

“What manner of…” Aragorn demanded, but the old man chuckled.

“Your face betrays you to anyone who knew your father, son of Arathorn. I am Mithrandir, better known to some as Gandalf in these parts, and I would help you, if I can. I believe we hunt the same foe.”

***
The sun had begun to sink behind the trees, but Gandalf lit a white stone on the end of his staff, which shone a soft light surrounding the three as they made their way back toward the Angle. Nethril had to stop herself from staring at it instead of the path ahead of her—she had never seen anything quite like it.

“I remember you coming to Rivendell, once,” Aragorn said. “You led a full party of dwarves, and my mother would not let me anywhere near you.”

“Yes, she and Lord Elrond worked hard enough to keep you out of my sight,” Gandalf grumbled. “And that was not my only visit to Rivendell in your youth. I am impressed that they managed to keep you hidden for so long—and under my very nose, no less.”

“If you could refrain from mentioning that in front of the Lady Adanel, I would appreciate it,” Nethril said, glancing up the road towards the Chieftain’s house in trepidation. Even now, conversations surrounding Aragorn’s upbringing rarely ended well.

Gandalf let out a soft hmph. “I am at your service, Lady Nethril. As it is, I have a suspicion Adanel will have enough words for me after so long an absence.”

Nethril suppressed a snort. To listen to her grandfather tell it, Gandalf used to make regular, if infrequent, appearances at the harvest festivals, but had not been seen among the Dúnedain for nearly three decades now, not since before Arador’s death. She imagined that Adanel would not take kindly to such abandonment.

The great hall and the map room were both deserted when they reached the Chieftain’s house, but Faelhen led them back to a tiny room off of the kitchen where Adanel sat alone with a half-finished plate of food.

“Did you find anything? Halrovan reported back over an hour—” She looked up at the sound of their entrance and her mouth fell open. She stared at Gandalf in astonishment, her expression shifting from one of surprise to utter irritation. Aragorn and Nethril exchanged uneasy glances.

“Where in the bloody depths of Mandos have you been?” Adanel demanded.

Gandalf raised his eyebrows. “Nowhere near it, thankfully. I have had business to attend to over the mountains, business that took longer than I intended. The workings of a wizard are not all related to pipeweed and fireworks, you know. ”

“And yet you have found the time to traipse across Eriador with a pack of dwarves, not to mention feast from Elrond’s table more times than I’d like to count? Never in thirty years of travels did you bother to reach the Angle?”

“The hospitality of the Dúnedain stands as ever, I see. By all appearances, you have not suffered for my absence.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Adanel said, but to Nethril’s surprise she smiled, and rose from her place at the table to approach the three of them. She clasped hands with Gandalf, and her eyes were bright as she looked up at him. “You have been missed, my friend.”

For a moment Gandalf looked as if he might embrace her, but thought better of it. “I would have come here sooner, if I could. Keeping watch over Barad-dûr has been no easy task.”

Aragorn and Gandalf took their seats around Adanel, and Nethril ducked into the kitchen to prepare extra plates of food. Adanel spent most of the meal interrogating Gandalf of his news from abroad—most of it was information they already knew from the Rangers over the mountains, but he had spent much of the past year in Lorien (to her left, Nethril noticed Aragorn stiffen at the mention of Galadriel’s people), and had tidings from the Elven wood that the Dúnedain were not privy to.

“The news out of Mordor has given all of us pause,” Aragorn said. “I am surprised that the Galadrhim did not retain your services longer.”

Gandalf gave a noncommittal grunt, reaching into his robes to produce a carved pipe and a small bag of pipeweed. He offered the bag to Aragorn, who took it with only the slightest hesitation. “The lady Galadriel wished for me to stay through the winter, but rumors reached me that suggested it would be prudent to return west. And none too soon, it would seem. It has been well over a thousand years since barrow-wights have been seen outside of Cardolan.”

“What can you tell us of these creatures?” Adanel asked. “Aragorn here fears that they are agents of Sauron, sent to uncover the fortress of Elendil’s Heir and rout us all out.”

“You are wise to be so cautious. Thankfully, however, these are no spirits of Sauron. They are akin to him in their nature, but their presence in Middle-earth has little enough to do with our struggles against the Enemy.”

“That is a blessing,” Aragorn said. “Secrecy is the last weapon we have against him.”

“I would still take care. These are no ordinary enemies, as Nethril here has already discovered.” Gandalf inclined his head towards her in a small nod. “Tell me, what do you know of the Maiar and their presence in Middle-earth?”

“Most remain in Valinor, for that is where their true home lies,” Gandalf puffed on his pipe, and there was a hint of wistfulness in his voice. “A handful have been sent by the Valar to Middle-earth, to guard against the threat of Sauron and his ilk. And some made their way here well over an age ago, during the War of Wrath, when all the world was changed and there was power to be claimed. Some, like Melian, made their home here and thrived. But others fell to corruption.”

“Like Sauron?” Aragorn asked.

“After a fashion,” Gandalf replied. “None of them ever attained the power that Sauron held of old. And so none of them could guard against the damage they wrought against themselves…”

He trailed off, and looked out into the distance as the other three looked at him expectantly. Adanel cleared her throat softly, and Gandalf sent her a look of chagrin.

“I am sure you recall the legends of the houseless Elves, those whose fëa and hröa have been sundered. It is much the same with a corrupted Maia. Because they have been so twisted from their intended purpose, they cannot take the form of a living creature. So they haunt the barrows, seeking to animate the bodies of those who have already passed beyond the circles of the world.”

Bitterness had clouded Adanel’s face. “What grudge do they hold against the people of the Dúnedain? If they do not answer to Angmar, what reason do they have to target us?”

“I am afraid, my friend, I have little answer other than ‘poor luck,’” Gandalf replied. “Sauron’s return has awakened all manner of foul things, and I have tracked these creatures across more graves than I would care to count. That they arrived here now…there is little reason behind it. But it makes them all the more dangerous.”

Nethril suppressed a shiver. “How can we kill them? If they are truly spirits from Valinor, what possible chance do we stand against them? ”

Adanel looked up at Gandalf, her mouth twisting into a sardonic smile. “The way my husband told it, when his men ran afoul of the barrow-wights old Tom Bombadil simply…spoke a few words, waved his hands, and the horrors were banished.” She gestured toward Gandalf with a mocking flourish. “I presume you’re here to tell us you can accomplish something similar?”

Gandalf let out a small laugh. “Not quite. I cannot claim the same power as Bombadil, but…there is a way. And I do not propose we wait until the next time they choose to strike.”

***
There was an ancient graveyard that stood about a league north along the Bruinen, from the first days that the Chieftains had settled the Angle, over a thousand years before. It had been abandoned when the Dúnedain retreated to their current fortress, but as there was no sign of the wights in the barrows where the rivers joined, Gandalf had suggested he and Aragorn take a more active approach to hunting down the spirits that sought to possess the dead.

Nethril elected to stay behind—there were harvest inventories she had been neglecting to attend to for days, and her mother was still confined to the houses of healing. Ivorwen had shooed her away when she tried to set up her work in her mother’s room, and she returned to her office in the Chieftain’s house. In truth, she was relieved to be away from her mother’s room, where so many of her worst fears manifested themselves. As a child, the healer’s cottage had been a place that fascinated her, so much so that she’d once thought to follow in her grandmother’s footsteps. But she had seen too much death, under her truncated apprenticeship to Ivorwen, and she would almost rather face another barrow-wight than be confronted with the reality of her mother’s illness.

Still, the Chieftain’s house was not far, and it gave her comfort to be close, on hand in case there was any change in Finnael’s condition. Adanel joined her in the afternoon, sitting before the fire, and the two women worked together in silence.

“Do you ever wonder how they did it? The Faithful?” Nethril blinked at the question and glanced over at Adanel, who was staring at her book as if transfixed.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked.

“How do you think it was that the Faithful maintained such trust in the Valar? When at every turn it was clear that they had abandoned them?”

Nethril stared at her old mentor, and chose her next words carefully. “Adanel, I… We’ve suffered no casualties from this, and we won’t, Elbereth willing. We’ve faced threats and losses greater than this before, and I’ve never known you to question our hope.”

“We have never seen a threat like this. We have guarded against the safety of Eriador, defended attacks against our own homeland, but…not like this. Not against creatures who defile our own dead.” Adanel looked up at Nethril. Her hair had gone almost entirely grey in the past few years, but Nethril had somehow never noticed the haunted look her eyes had taken. “If we cannot guarantee those who fight and die for us a peaceful end, where are we left?”

Nethril thought back to her own father, the remnants of his body abandoned in a lonely cave to the north, and was suddenly grateful that she herself had never affixed much meaning to the barrows that lined the crags.

A horn blast suddenly rent the air, and Nethril nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound. She and Adanel exchanged nervous looks, but before they could speak Meldroch sprinted in, his sword unsheathed and a look of faint terror in his eyes.

“Barrow-wights, coming up out of the south path,” he panted.

“How many?” Nethril asked.

“Half a dozen at least. The sentries on the path tried to stop them, but they couldn’t—“

“Where is that blasted wizard when you need him?” Adanel snarled. “Meldroch, send your fastest rider out to catch up with the Chieftain. With luck, we’ll be able to hold the creatures off until Gandalf returns.”

Nethril stood up. “No, I’ll go. Meldroch, I need you to stay here and guard Lady Adanel, in case we can’t hold our defenses.”

“I do not need a….”

“I’m afraid you’ll be outnumbered on this one, my lady,” Meldroch locked eyes with Nethril. “Go. You’ve faced these creatures before, you know how to hold them off. I will take care of things here.”

Nethril nodded, ducked a murderous look from Adanel, and sprinted out the room and down the hallway of the Chieftain’s house until she met her friend Halrovan just outside the door. Though only a few months her senior, he had taken over command of the Angle’s defenses last year. His face was grim now as he approached her, and she wasted no time doling out commands.

“I need you to—“

“I’ve already sent out Bëor,” Halrovan interrupted. “With luck, he’ll overtake the Chieftain before they’ve gotten too far.”

“Where are the rest of the men?”

Halrovan ran a hand over his eyes. “By the sentry posting at the south path. Nethril…no one’s prepared for this. We’ve trained for an invasion, but not with enemies that can’t be killed, at our very doorstep…”

Nethril reached out and gripped his arm. The southern tip of the Angle had never been fortified in the way the north wall was, not with the barrows and the river as a barricade. There was no strategy in place to defend an attack from within their own borders.

“Well, we’d better make a plan then, hadn’t we?”

They took off at a run for the sentry posting, where about a dozen Rangers stood at attention. A dense fog had rolled up from the river, but through the mist, Nethril could see tiny pinpricks of light that moved ever closer up the path. She shook her head at the sight of the small company. They could not afford to keep leaving the Angle so sparsely defended.

“Is anyone hurt?” she asked. An older Ranger, Galdor, stepped forward and shook his head.

“We turned back to warn you as soon as we saw. We could have stood to stop them, but…we know what this means.”

The Rangers had now turned to Halrovan expectantly, awaiting orders, but he looked instead at Nethril. “Still working on that plan?”

Nethril drummed her fingers on the hilt of her knife, staring out into the fog, before she took a deep breath and turned back to Galdor, pointing towards the Chieftain’s house.

“I want your group to fall back, form a perimeter around the Angle. There’s no doubt our people can defend themselves, but I’d rather it not come to that. If the wights break through our line, it’s up to you to prevent them from attacking the village itself. Keep them from the Commons at all costs.”

Galdor looked back doubtfully at Halrovan, but he gestured back to Nethril. “You heard her.”

“Aye, Captain—my lady,” Galdor gave a short bow to them both and marched back towards the Cheiftain’s house, and five men followed behind him. The remaining Rangers formed a loose circle around Nethril, her mind running only a half-step ahead of the words that came tumbling out of her.

“I want drive them back toward the river. The water seems to be their weak point, they’ll avoid it if they can. Only drive them off the cliffs at the last resort—it will only destroy the body that houses it, not the wight itself. We wait for Gandalf to finish this once and for all. We do not—do not— let them cross the sentry posts.” She met the eyes of each Ranger in turn. “Understood?”

They all nodded. By this time, she could see vague forms take shape through the fog, and she unsheathed her knife, praying she could move quickly enough for this to work. Don’t let their unsteadiness deceive you. They move fast. When they turn to follow, you hit them with all you’ve got.”

She bent down to tear a slit down the side of her skirt, murmuring apologies to her mother, before Halrovan held out a hand to stop her. “Nethril, what are you doing?”

She shot him a reckless smile. “Me? I’m your bait.”

The prospect of being cornered by a barrow-wight again filled her with more than a mere sense of dread, but she knew she had no chance of fighting them head-on, not with just a knife and the scant training she had. Before she could wait for Halrovan to respond, she dashed headlong towards the fog, skirting to the left of the staggered line of phantoms. In the thick of the mist, she could see them more clearly, ghostly visions that almost seemed to blend into the air surrounding them. The glowing eyes paid her little mind, fixed instead on the Rangers before them.

She waited until she was well behind them before she cut across the center of their line. She gave a high-pitched whistle and flung the sheath of her knife at the wight that was farthest ahead of the pack. The sheath hit the wight directly in its skull, and it turned around with an unholy shriek that rent the air and forced Nethril to clap her hands over her ears before she was conscious of doing so. The corpse now advanced towards her, its great-sword drawn and lifted, and she tore as fast as she could back towards the barrows. She heard the rusting armor clanking as it followed her, and it wasn’t until she judged it closing the distance between them that she finally turned to face it. The rotting face was contorted in a snarl, sunken eyes glowing in malice, but before she had a chance to bring up her knife an arrow struck it in the shoulder with a dull thwack, and it staggered forward, giving Nethril a chance to regain her bearings. She glanced up to see that the six Rangers had followed her to the cliffs, charging forward to meet the wights that had chased her behind her original attacker.

“Get behind me!” Halrovan shouted, and Nethril ducked behind the burly Ranger just as he brought his sword up to crash against the blade of the barrow-wight, now doubly enraged with an arrow sticking out from its back. Another wight approached them from the left, but she rushed at it before it had a chance to draw a weapon, tackling it to the ground behind Halrovan. The stench of decaying flesh threatened to overwhelm her, but she yanked the sword from its withered hand and raised it over her head, stabbing down hard between the corpse’s ribs so that it was pinned to the ground beneath it. She stood and faced the first wight, still battling with Halrovan.

Halrovan was as fine a swordsmen as any Ranger, and could hold his own against the clumsy strikes of the barrow-wight, but it did not tire in the way that Halrovan could, and Nethril prayed he knew to save his strength. It turned toward her with a snarl and let out another battle cry, lower and more menacing than the shriek from before, and Nethril stared at it, transfixed, only breaking out from its grasp when she noticed that Halrovan too was held paralyzed by the sound of the wight’s moan. The wight’s mouth twisted in the same smile that had haunted her for days, and it slashed out at Halrovan, cutting across his chest before he had a chance to bring up his sword in defense. Blood gushed from the wound, and Halrovan stared down at it in shock, his mouth open in a wordless cry, and Nethril watched in horror as he crumpled to the ground.

Nethril screamed and ran toward him, but the wight blocked her path, its sword now pointed at her. She brought up her knife, her face set, praying it would not think to use the strange power of its voice again, for she did not know if she could block it. She brought up her knife against the barrow-wight’s strike and grunted in pain, the weight of the sword reverberating down her arm. Sensing the advantage, the phantom pushed down harder against the knife, and she fell back against the raised mound of the barrow that stood behind her. She looked desperately around her for any of the other Rangers, but she could see no one.

“Begone!” a clear voice rang through the barrows, and Nethril looked over to see a blinding white light pierce through the fog, the bearded figure of Gandalf standing at its center. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aragorn rush past Gandalf to the aid of a Ranger who was fighting against two wights, and Nethril watched as Gandalf called out an invocation a language she did not know—the harshness and raw power heard in the words were wholly unrelated even to her working knowledge of Quenya. Before her, the wight that had cornered her was now paralyzed, its face turned upward toward the sky, mouth open in a silent scream. The pale light that filled its eyes suddenly shot out of them, and as Nethril looked around she could see the same thing happening to the other barrow-wights. A rushing sound filled the air, and the bones left behind collapsed in a heap, the wight’s sword clattering on top of the armor.

Nethril stared at the crumpled pile in disbelief, clutching at her chest, waiting to see if it would somehow rise up to strike again. When it became clear it would not, she ran toward Halrovan, her shaking fingers peeling back his bloodstained jacket. The wound did not appear to be as deep as she had feared, and now bled sluggishly. She bent down to tear a strip of fabric from her skirt, but a hand reached out to stop her. She jumped, and looked back to see Halrovan give her a smile that might have been a grimace. “I’m fine, Nethril.”

“You are not,” she said with a shaky laugh. “Came barely an inch from your heart, that did.”

“Nothing the healers can’t fix.” He tried to sit up, groaning as he did so, and Nethril held an arm out to support him. He sagged against her in relief. “Better that I’m here for them to tend to it, instead of praying that some botched field medicine will do the job.”

She looked up to scan the field around her, praying there were no more fallen Rangers, and let out an instinctive prayer to Elbereth at the sight of all five remaining Rangers standing on the field of battle. Aragorn stood beside the man who had battled two at once, examining an ugly-looking gash on his arm, before he caught sight of Nethril and Halrovan. He rushed to their side and brought out clean strips of linen from a pouch at his belt, binding them across Halrovan’s chest to temporarily staunch the wound.

“Took you….long enough,” Nethril gasped. Her cousin paused in his work to grip her in a sidelong hug. “I was beginning to wonder if Beor had ever made it past the gate.”

“Well you certainly managed better than any of us could have hoped for, keeping them contained here. You hardly needed me at all.”

Halrovan snorted indignantly, and Nethril patted his arm as she glanced out at the crumpled piles of bones abandoned by the barrow-wights. She looked over at Gandalf, speaking in low tones with Adanel, who had just come over the crest of the hill. She stood beside the old wizard, her hand gripping her walking stick and her face white against the black fur of her cloak.

“What did he do?” Nethril asked in awe. “I’ve never seen a thing like it.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Aragorn shook his head. “And did you hear what it was he spoke? I wonder…” But he trailed off, finishing his work on Halrovan’s makeshift bandage before he wrapped Halrovan’s arm over his shoulder.

“Let’s get you to the healer’s cottage as quick as we can. Ivorwen will have our heads if we don’t hurry.”

Another Ranger rushed up from behind them to take Halrovan’s other side, and Nethril gripped her friend’s hand before they began to make their way down the path.

“I’ll see you soon,” she murmured, and turned back to face the remaining Dúnedain. The four Rangers had begun the grisly task of collecting the remains of the used corpses, but she shook her head.

“Leave them. We will tend to them later, when we’ve all had a chance to catch our breath. Marach, you’d better follow them down to the healer’s cottage.” She gestured toward the departing figures of Aragorn and Halrovan, and the rest of the Rangers nodded, each eyeing her with a respect she had never seen before. One by one they filed past her, until there was only one figure that remained at the barrows.

Adanel stood staring down at of the collections of bones that housed the wight that had stabbed Halrovan. She knelt beside them, running her hand carefully against the hilt of the rusted sword. Nethril approached her silently.

“Arathorn’s,” Adanel murmured. Her eyes had filled with tears. “This was Arathorn’s.”

The bottom dropped out of Nethril’s stomach, and she knelt on the ground beside Adanel. She reached up to put a hand on the older woman’s shoulder, but dropped it down awkwardly at her side.

“My lady, I…” she began, but Adanel shook her head, picking the sword up with trembling hands.

“Please tell Gandalf I would like to meet with him, when all of this is cleaned up. I want to know what he can do to keep this from happening again.”

Nethril nodded, and she rose unsteadily to her feet, looking back over the battlefield. The fog had not entirely lifted, but the sun filtered weakly through the wisps of cloud that still swirled around the barrows. Slowly, the sunlight increased as the fog burned away, and she stood at Adanel’s side until she could see the rivers beyond the crags. The Hoarwell was hued with a gold that blended into the treetops beyond, and she gave a long, shuddering sigh before she turned and left Adanel to keep vigil over her son.

***
The next morning, Aragorn set out with Meldroch and a handful of other men to reinter the remains. After a brief debate, it had been decided that there was little reason to stand on ceremony, and the task was done quickly and quietly. Nethril offered to join them, but was relieved when Aragorn asked her to visit the houses of healing instead, to check in on Halrovan. She could see her mother, too, with a better excuse than her own irrational fears.

“You have a growing number of people to visit here,” Ivorwen smiled kindly at the sight of Nethril standing awkwardly in the entrance hall and beckoned for her to follow into the back rooms of the cottage.

“Halrovan should be out of here by the end of the afternoon, provided he listens to our instructions and doesn’t overtax himself,” Ivorwen said, a hint of sternness creeping into her voice. “It might do him some good to hear that from someone other than me. He’s in the back room, if you wish to see him.”

“And Mama?” Nethril asked, attempting to keep her voice casual. “Has there been any improvement since yesterday?”

Ivorwen knocked on the door to Finnael’s room and opened it with a faint smile. “I’ll leave her to tell you herself.”

“Is that my brave, reckless daughter?” A faint voice echoed from within the room. “If you’re trying to frighten me to death, you’re certainly doing an excellent job.”

Nethril rushed inside, pulling up a chair to sit beside her mother’s bed. The curtains were still shut to keep out the sunlight, but a low fire in the hearth set a dim light throughout the room. A clean, fresh scent filled the air, and Nethril noted the dried athelas that hung beside the doorway. “That was never my intent, dear Mama. How are you feeling?”

Finnael smiled. “Better. I am better.” Her voice still sounded weak to Nethril’s ears, and her face was still pale and drawn. But she was sitting up in her bed, and the slightly exasperated look she gave to her daughter was all too familiar. Relief flooded through her at the sight. “The fever broke in the night. Ivorwen says that if it doesn’t return, I could be home within a week.”

“I am glad,” Nethril reached out and took her mother’s hand in both of hers, which were blessedly warmer than they had been the day before. “You’ve been missed at home.”

“It sounds like you’ve all gotten up to plenty in my absence.” Finnael shook her head and sighed. “How is Lady Adanel?”

“She is…” Nethril sighed. “I honestly couldn’t say. It shook her, badly. I suppose seeing the remains of your son used for such a purpose isn’t something you recover from quickly.”

Finnael’s face clouded. “No. No, I imagine not…”

The two women lapsed into silence, and Nethril glanced down at her hands, struggling to banish the image of Arathorn’s wasted face from her mind. She did not know if Adanel had identified the other bodies, but she privately felt it would be just as well if they were reburied without that knowledge. No one else needed to bear the pain of knowing their loved ones had been overtaken by corrupted spirits in death.

“Nethril?” Ivorwen poked her head into the room. “Aragorn is outside. He would like to see you, when you have a moment.”

“Tell him I’ll be out when I’m done here,“ Nethril began, but her mother shook her head.

“Go, my darling,” Finnael leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

***

She did not see Aragorn at first when she stepped outside the Houses of Healing, and it was not until she poked her head around the wall of the Commons that she found him near the patch where the athelas grew, leaning back against the stone wall of the house and twirling a small sprig of the plant in between his hands. It gave off a stronger, more pungent scent than what had been in her mother’s room, and Nethril drew in a deep breath as she leaned back against the wall beside her cousin. She felt calmer than she had in days.

“Are they…”

“It is done,” Aragorn grimaced. “With as much dignity as we could afford to them. I suppose it is up to Mandos to ensure their safe passage now.”

“Perhaps they were already afforded that,” Nethril murmured. “Remember what it was Gandalf said, about the spirit and the body? Perhaps they already lie beyond the circles of the world.”

“That would certainly give Adanel comfort,” Aragorn sighed. “In the meantime, I cannot help but wonder if the Maiar knew which bodies to choose. If they knew the ones that would affect us the most.”

Nethril let out an involuntary shudder.

“Have you spoken with Gandalf?” she asked, in an effort to change the subject.

Aragorn sighed. “I have, and it seems to have raised more questions than I first asked. I’m starting to understand why Adanel acts like she wants to kill the man half the time.”

Nethril snorted. “I think it was Ada Dírhael who said we could never expect a straight answer from a wizard.”

Aragorn let out a weak laugh, and shifted his weight back against the wall of the Commons. The wind blew stiffly around them, and the wind whipped through his hair as he turned to face Nethril, his face uncertain, as though he was unsure of how to choose his next words.

“Gandalf said that even if these are not works of Sauron, he is disturbed they chose the Angle as their target. Intentional or not, he knows this is not the last of them, and he doesn’t know where they come from. And, powerful as he may be, he is only one man.”

“Aren’t there other wizards in this world? Can’t any of them come to our aid?”

“They may yet, but that is not who Gandalf wants to aid him,” Aragorn hesitated. “He wants me to come with him to hunt these creatures.”

Nethril looked up at him sharply. “He wants you to what? When?”

“As soon as I’m able to ride. He believes the Heir of Elendil can provide assistance in a way no one else can.”

“How? Do the shards of Narsil have the power to slay the undead? We need you here, Aragorn, there is enough danger to attend to without following a wizard over the mountains…”

“Is there anything, right now, that presents a more immediate danger than this?” Aragorn looked down at the sprig of athelas cupped in his hand. “I am the first Chieftain in two centuries who has allowed enemies to breach the border of the Angle. It was a near thing this did not touch more of our people, and I…I do not know how to help Adanel heal from this. What else can I do but help track them to the source and stop them?”

“Surely it can wait until Dírhael returns. Or Halbarad, there is no one else to lead…”

“Except you,” Aragorn said softly, and Nethril stared at him. “You already handle the daily affairs anyway. And after yesterday…well, even Meldroch cannot doubt your ability to command, if the need should ever arise. There is no one I trust to do it more than you.”

Nethril met her cousin’s eyes, so much older than when he first returned to the Angle, and smiled grimly as she took his outstretched hand and enveloped him in a hug.

“Anything for our Chieftain,” she said at last. “Just promise me you won’t disappear for thirty years like Gandalf did. You’ve already been kept from us long enough.”

Aragorn laughed. “Don’t worry. I value my life enough to know better than that.”

He left soon after for the stables, but Nethril lingered, staring at the athelas that still grew in its patch, even past the harvest. She looked around the field that made up the Commons, past the path that led to the Chieftain’s house and up to the barrows beyond. The leaves had nearly all fallen from the trees, and in front of the few houses that she could see, women worked with their children to prepare for the coming winter. She thought back to the untouched harvest inventories that sat in the map room and sighed—there would be double the work, with Aragorn gone.

So much, to prepare for a season with no life, she thought, but then laughed at herself for her own melancholy. The Dúnedain had always found a way to move forward, and winter always came to its end.