A/N: As always, many, many thanks to Cairistiona, Linda Hoyland, and Levade, without whom this would have never seen the light of day.

Disclaimer still applies.

III

Crafty, Perhaps, But Not Wise

Morien was snuffling away with her nose in the manger when I climbed into her stall and joined her head in the hay-rack. She still wore a sweaty girth-mark that no amount of brushing could iron out, and the skin above her withers was feathered with white and wrinkled from long days under saddle. I felt suddenly guilty for tickling her the day before, weary as she was, and with no rest on the horizon. I slid my hand beneath her heavy forelock and scrubbed the white star between her eyes.

"You get to go with them," I said sourly, but then I regretted my tone. She was a doughty thing, Morien, but gentle as a hound, and surefooted on rocks and muddy hillsides. I was glad to know she bore my father on his errands. She lipped my ankle, those long coarse whiskers tickling, and chose to ignore me in favor of her oats.

"If I had a horse I could follow the Rangers," I muttered aloud.

I nearly jumped through the stable ceiling when I heard a familiar voice behind me. "They would send you home to your naneth, Eluned. Even if you did manage to catch up with them."

I turned narrowed eyes to see Halvard leaning against the weight of the saddle hooked over his hip, looking reedy and speckled and carrot-haired, and so pleased with himself I wanted to spit. The retort that rose to my tongue was a cruel one and I remembered a distant warning, one I had so far managed to heed, and with a twist of will I bit the words back. Halvard's father had taken an orc-arrow in the leg, before either his son or I were born, and now he pinned up his right trouser-leg and made up for the loss with the sprightly use of a crutch. He was the blacksmith, Hald, and merry, though I had seen him watch the Rangers ride away, his eyes full of something I could not quite fathom. I liked Hald. His boy was ever a trial for me.

"You have manure on your face," I said instead, and watched in satisfaction as he pawed at perfectly clean cheeks. He turned to me, annoyed, but did not bait me further, and that fact alone was enough to cause a stab of curiosity.

He must have known it, too, because he said, "I bet you can't guess where I'm going today."

"To Udûn in a picnic basket?" I suggested.

His brushy red brows sprang together. "No," he said severely, but then his face smoothed into smug indifference. "I am riding with the Rangers."

"Liar," I spat, lurching to my feet suddenly enough that Morien jerked her head up in alarm. I leapt down from the manger and advanced on Halvard where he stood in the aisle between the stalls.

He was maddeningly cool. "Ask your adar," he said. "I am going as a scout. Me and Siarl. The Chieftain commanded it." He raised a lazy eyebrow with that last statement, knowing that with it his words were incontestable.

I gripped the rail that separated us. "Camp boy, more like it," I said, trying to sound uncaring, but I could not keep the tremor from my voice. "Chopping wood and digging the latrine."

"But I will be with them," he said with a slow smile. "And you will be here embroidering underthings, or whatever it is you are good for these days."

My temper frayed clean through at that, and with a snarl I lunged for him. I had given up fighting Halvard with my fists a year or two before and my sudden assault startled him. Hampered by saddle and surprise, he toppled backward onto the floor. The impact of his head on the flagstones rattled up my arms and it took me a moment to realize that he was not fighting back. He was limp beneath me, his mouth cracked open, and with a frightening little spasm he went completely still.

I pushed away from him and shook his shoulder lightly. "Halvard?" His eyes were rolled back white in his head. "Halvard, wake up." My words began to pitch high. "Halvard, please, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to hurt you, please wake up." I was aware of voices coming as I shook him harder, and then an arm swept me aside and my father was kneeling beside Halvard, his big hand pressing the thin chest.

"Get Aragorn," he barked over his shoulder, and I heard the sound of swift departing feet. There were other murmurs and old Coru knelt on the other side, lifted Halvard's fluttering eyelid with a gnarled, gentle thumb.

"Just a little knock on the head," he murmured, his voice rustling like chaff around the old white scar across his windpipe. "Already he's coming around, see?"

"I did not mean to," I said shrilly. My eyelids were sandy with threatening tears. "I didn't mean to knock him down, I swear I didn't."

They spilled in earnest when my father rounded on me with fire in his eyes and curtly said, "Go home."

He turned back to Halvard without sparing me another look, and I found I had nothing to do but mop my face with my sleeve and obey him. I passed a hastening Aragorn on my way out but could not meet his eyes. I knew their customary kindness would undo me completely and so instead I snatched back a lurching sob and ran towards home. Iolanthe was sweeping near the door when I burst in and she called after me as I scrambled up to the loft, but I ignored her and flung myself face-down on the mattress in the corner.

I lay there long enough to begin to drift in uneasy sleep, but the sound of booted feet coming into the house roused me. My family met him, and I heard Celwen complaining, heard him tease Iolanthe and tell Lútha to keep us well in line, and then I heard him ask a question that my mother answered in a low voice. It grew still for a moment until my mother said "Girls," and they then were bustling and talking again.

I turned my face towards the wall. Footsteps crossed the loft floor towards me and I snapped my eyes shut, tried to breathe slowly. His knees cracked softly when he crouched beside the mattress and I felt a stir in the air above me, as if his hand hovered over my hair. A short sigh, and with another pop of joints he rose and descended the ladder. I heard my mother's voice, tender with the blessing she spoke over him any time he left us. Until we are met again, be well, and be watched over.

The door thundered shut and shook the floor beneath me.

It was the first time I could remember that I did not escort him to the village gate and wave him out of sight as he rode away. I swallowed down an uneasy thought, let it become coated with my anger and frustration. I hurled my fleece-stuffed pillow against the further wall.

-o0o-

My mother never had much tolerance for sulking, and even less for idleness, and so I spent the afternoon hoeing between the turnip-rows and scraping clean the cellar floor to ready it for the vegetables we would soon be harvesting. It was a cool task, and damp, and when I finished, my mother had my clean shift warming near the stove and a mug of tea steeping.

"When you are finished you will take supper to the Chieftain's cottage and the smithy," she said, stooping to pull dark loaves from the oven. She slid them from the breadboard to the table and when my head emerged from the neck of my shift she skewered me with a narrowed gaze. "And if I hear of you being anything but perfectly polite, daughter, I will volunteer your laundering services to the entire village until Mettarë."

I felt my eyes stretch wide, and she turned from me, apparently satisfied that I was properly wary of her threat. Indeed I was. Once when Iolanthe was close to my age she had spent the better part of a summer cleaning every chicken coop in the village, at our mother's volunteering, and that for less of an offense than nearly braining a neighbor to death on the stable floor. I gulped my tea and hefted the basked of bread and cheese and the kettle of stew, one over each arm, and departed, doing my very best to appear perfectly polite.

Hald the smith was at his forge, pumping the great bellows over white-hot coals, his bare arms bouldered with muscle and pocked with spark-scars. When I approached he picked up his crutch and swung nimbly to meet me. I knew not what I expected to see in his face—dislike, in the very least, or perhaps loathing or betrayal, but instead his mouth was quirking in his beard and his eyes were bright with something that did not look at all like anger. Fain with his habitual delight loped to Hald and rumbled at him, and the smith's great hand fell to fondle the wooly ears.

"I have victuals for you, sir," I said. "Naneth sent stew and loaves, and asks that you might take them."

"My thanks, child," said the smith. "But surely not all this for just the boy and me?"

"I must take some also to the Chieftain's cottage," I said, and for the first time realized that I did not know why. Aragorn had led the company away that morning. I felt Hald's eyes on me and realized I had fallen clumsily silent. "I'm sorry," I muttered, feeling my face grow hot. "And I am sorry, sir..." The words caught sideways in my throat and lodged there, and I had to give a little cough before I could continue. "I am sorry for hurting Halvard."

"Mistress Ivorwen says he will recover fully in a day or two," said Hald. "And though I don't for a moment believe the blame is not to be shared between the two of you, you may go and speak with him, if you like. You may leave the food on the table, and please thank your mother for us."

"I will," I said, and offered a little curtsy. I thought that speaking with Halvard was the last thing in Arda I wished to do, and was shoring back biting words as I walked the path between smithy and house. But when I slipped through the door it was dark within, the figure on the bed beneath heaped blankets unmoving, and I shivered slightly with relief, left my offering on the table, and departed, closing the door softly behind me.

There was a curl of woodsmoke coming from the Chieftain's chimney. I felt a breath of hesitation as I lifted my hand to knock, but before I could a voice called, "Come in, young one."

Lord Elrohir sat with his feet braced wide before the hearth, and across his knees his naked sword lay gleaming red and glistening beneath his singing whetstone. He straightened when I entered, his hands stilling at their work.

"If it pleases you, my lord," I said. "My mother has sent me with bread and stew."

He laid aside sword and stone and rose and met me, slid the kettle-wire off my arm. "It is very kind of your mother to think of me," he said, turning to set the pot on the table. He used his left arm and was careful of the other, his elbow pressing tight against his side, and I recalled the Chieftain's words—two broken at least. Discarded on the table was a length of knotted cloth. I set my basket beside the soup-kettle and eyed the wilted sling.

"My sister wore one of those when she broke her collarbone," I heard myself say. Immediately I felt my eyes grow wide—surely pestering the Chieftain's guest did not fall within my mother's consideration of being perfectly polite. But when I looked up to beg his pardon he was smiling, the starfired eyes crinkled with kindness.

"Your sister doubtless did as she ought and wore it until she healed," he said.

I shook my head. "No my lord. She fretted and was cranky and did not care to wear it at all." When he did not frown or look away uninterested I found myself with the courage to go on. "She said that it itched and was a horrible hindrance and kept her from doing what she wished."

He laughed a short warm laugh. "I feel much the same," he said. "It is indeed a hindrance, and makes me cranky as well."

Despite his kindness, I realized Lord Elrohir was troubled. I could see it in his restless hands, in the way he was not dressed for ease or comfort, but for work or riding—or for battle. I could smell the sweetness of freshly-oiled leather and knew that it would be prudent to bid him goodnight and take my leave. But he intrigued me, with his gentle manners and the bridling fire they barely concealed, the way he spoke and expected an answer as few adults did when addressing a child. Not less than these things I knew what awaited me at home—an ever-growing list of chores to keep me out of trouble. I decided that tarrying was a risk I dared.

To mask my procrastination I went to the shelf above the washstand and took down Aragorn's bowl and spoon. I guessed that it had been he who had offered Lord Elrohir the cottage and went on to assume he would not mind the sharing of his dishes. It was hardly fitting for a great Lord of the Elves to scoop up stew with his fingers like a wild man. "Will you be staying long, my lord?"

"I fear not," he said. "I shall leave on the morrow, if my horse is recovered for the ride."

I ladled steaming stew. "Do Elves heal quickly?" I asked. "When I had to have stitches it was ten days before Daernaneth took them out."

When I looked up his mouth was tugging. The thought struck me that perhaps I had been impertinent, or was outwearing my already tenuous welcome. "Forgive me, my lord, I did not mean..."

"Peace, child," he interrupted, his low laugh rolling again. "You shall not offend me, and you are correct. Elves do heal quickly, though sometimes not quite so quickly as I would like."

I considered this, and he seemed content to wait for me to assemble my thoughts. After a pause I ventured, "My lord, may I ask a question?"

"You may ask anything that comes to mind, though it would please me to dispense with the lording."

I was bewildered. "Dispense..."

"If I may use your name, you are welcome to use mine."

This required a moment of pondering, during which he shifted and hitched his sound hip on the table-edge and looked at me expectantly.

"May I ask a question... Elrohir?"

"Yes, Eluned, you may."

"Are you going after the Rangers?"

"That is my intent."

"Elrohir?"

"Yes, Eluned?"

"Did the Chieftain make you stay behind?"

This question brought forth a little sigh from my companion. His long forefinger tapped briefly on the tabletop before he deigned to answer. "He asked it of me, yes."

"Because of your wounds?"

"Yes." He lifted his gaze to meet mine and I saw his eyes had narrowed. "You are an astute little Númenórean," he said dryly. "Your Chieftain asked me to bide here while I mend, and by my ruling I am mended sufficiently to follow the others and offer my aid."

I was starting to feel my shyness evaporate. "I would have gone with them as well," I said, and sank into the other chair with a grumbling huff. "But Ada made me stay. No one ever asks me anything."

Lord Elrohir chuckled and turned and eased into the seat across from me. "Perhaps they shall when you are as old as I," he said. "Do you mind if I eat? I find the aroma of your naneth's stew is about to overcome me."

"I do not mind," I said, "My sister made the stew." He pulled the bowl near, broke off a heel of bread, and began to eat. A thought occurred to me as I remembered Aragorn's voice that morning, unusually sharp—I'll hear no more of it, brother. I pressed my knees together and smoothed my kirtle primly over them.

"Elrohir?"

He looked up but did not answer around his mouthful of bread and meat.

"Will the Chieftain be cross when he sees you?"

He swallowed, wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "I suspect that he may be, yes. And likely my twin also."

I drew a fingertip along the seam of my skirt, did not meet his eye, and said carefully, "But you will go anyway?"

He did not answer right away and when I looked at him I saw he had straightened in his chair, his arms folded loosely over his chest. He regarded me, his dark brows slightly drawn. "Why, youngling, do I suddenly feel there is no wise answer to that question?"

I felt my belly deflate and my forehead cringe with sheepishness, and knew that here was one who would not be easily maneuvered. I offered him a shy grin. "Perhaps because it is not a wise question?"

He snorted. "Indeed," he said. "Crafty, perhaps, but not wise. Why are you so eager to go chasing after trouble, little Dúnadan? You remind me of another child I knew long ago."

"The Chieftain?" I asked. I knew well of Aragorn's upbringing among the Elves.

"Much longer ago than that," he said. "This child was impatient, and too headstrong by far, and spent many hours at tedious tasks instead of play because he would not obey the wisdom of his elders."

I wrinkled my nose, feeling wryly delighted. "You did not obey?"

"Not as often as I should have. You should learn from my imprudence and do as your adar tells you."

I grinned at him to sweeten what I knew would be blazing impudence, and looked pointedly at the sling of linen on the table. "I think that child grew up and did not learn from his own mistakes."

It seemed I had judged Lord Elrohir well, for he did not darken with disapproval nor scold me for my cheek, but tipped his head back laughing. "Truly," he said. "And a fine bullheaded pair we make, Halbaradiell, though I see you have no small measure of your ada in you as well. You come by it honestly, my friend."

It seemed there was a story lurking there, but before I could press him to explain himself, the voice of my eldest sister came cracking through the open door.

"Eluned! Shame on you, pestering the Chieftain's guest!" Iolanthe paused on the threshold and beckoned me with an impatient hand. "Come away at once, Naneth is fretting after you. You must forgive her, my lord, she is sorely lacking in both manners and sense."

Elrohir rose and bowed deeply towards the door. "Good evening, lady. It is kind of you to come to accompany your sister home. She was offering me conversation while I supped. Is it you I have to thank for the most excellent stew?"

Iolanthe turned an exquisite shade of scarlet and seemed quite unable to speak. Her mouth opened and closed for a time until I took pity on her and said, "Iolanthe made the stew, Elrohir, and worried over it all afternoon before she let me bring it to you."

Iolanthe might have cheerfully wrung my neck for that, but before she could trounce me for my horrendous manners I scooped up the empty basket and darted past her. In the doorway I stopped and turned, spread my skirts in my most elegant curtsy.

"Good evening, my lord," I said, dipping low. "I wish you safety on your bullheaded quest, and luck with the wrath of your elders." I straightened, grinning, and ignoring my sister's hiss of horror I whirled and fled for home. My new friend's rich laugh rolled after me through the deepening dusk.

-o0o-

The day after the Rangers left, my mother woke us early, and by the time I had dressed and scrubbed my face and returned from the privy, our house had become a hive of Dúnedain women. They were rolling out bread dough and stoking the kiln outside by the woodpile and stacking woolen blankets. Grandmother Ivorwen and Fimriel her apprentice heated beeswax over the fire inside and steeped herbs in hot oil, and while the salve rendered they boiled earthen jars to scrape it into. Even Brenia was there, hunched over one end of the table rolling bandages. The others bustled but I saw none passed the young widow without squeezing her arm or hugging her shoulders or brushing the hair away from her cheeks. Off the front step several young women, my eldest sisters among them, unfolded a huge tent on the grass. They wielded brushes and buckets of pungent grease, and when the tent was stretched they began to oil the canvas against rain and rot.

Dírhael my father's grandfather, his hair the color of ash, sat on the front step splicing hemp to repair the tethering ropes. He tugged the hem of my skirt when I passed him.

"You look like you have been drinking vinegar," he said in Sindarin. He was always testing the youngsters' grasp of the Grey Tongue, seeing if he could trick us with some nuance of grammar or syntax, and if we solved his linguistic riddles he would laugh and reward us with morsels of candied peppermint.

I was in a dark mood that morning though, and with a muttered "Suilad, Anadar," I tried to brush past.

He caught my belt with a quick hand, towed me down beside him on the step. He handed me the end of his rope and motioned for me to keep it taut while he worked his woven splice.

"Why so sour?" he asked. "It's a beautiful day."

I agreed sullenly that it was indeed beautiful, and leaned my weight against the rope.

"What are we preparing for?" I asked after a moment of watching him work.

He looked at me sideways, his eyes bright beneath rimy brows. "If the Rangers don't return by tomorrow we will send after them with supplies," he said, though he had observed me for a breath or two before answering. "I would have thought you'd have known that."

I frowned. "We don't usually send supplies."

"This is a different sort of errand," he said. "There may be folk driven out of their homes. Refugees." He tugged hard on a strand, nearly yanking it out of my hands, and I tightened my grip and leaned back further. "Tomorrow if we have not had word we will go and make a camp for them to gather at until it is safe to return."

I pondered this. "Why do they live where they are in danger?" I asked. "Why don't they move nearer a village where the Rangers can protect them?"

"There has not been need," he said. "Not for some years. Your sister Iolanthe was a babe when orcs last dared to venture this near to our settlement." He watched my face as he spoke these words, and I struggled to look unconcerned. He was not fooled. "Do not fret, youngling. They are men full-grown. They will guard us well and not wage war unwisely. Hand me that awl."

I did, watching as he began to work the splice down tight. There was a sunken scar between his thumb and forefinger I had never noticed before. "Did an orc do that?"

He glanced down. "Yes," he answered serenely. "I was fortunate he did not cut my thumb off."

"It would be hard to splice without a thumb," I said in agreement, for it seemed the only sensible reply.

He chuckled through his nose. "Indeed it would, and a great many other things."

"Who will go to the camp?" I asked carefully, trying for detachment, but even in my own ears the attempt fell flat. I sounded curious as a magpie and found myself beneath that bright stare once again.

"Not too many, for the grain will need cutting soon. Orlaithe, I would think, and a boy or two for guards. Although I understand our supply of boys is dwindling." His eyebrow wiggled and I felt my face flush.

"Daernaneth said he would recover," I said with a hint of sullenness. I did not bother to suppress a flare of satisfaction that Halvard had not, in fact, been able to go with the men.

"I've no doubt. Boys have hard heads."

The way he said it made me suspect that, in his opinion, boys were not the only ones.

"Eluned, come mind your sisters, they are underfoot," called my mother from inside. I rose to obey but was stopped by my great-grandfather's scarred hand.

"We each have our duties, young one," he said. "And none are more or less important than any other to keep the world in order and the shadows back."

"I know that," I said.

"Good." He bent back over his lap. "Thank you for your help."

-o0o-

"I am going with them in the morning," I whispered. It was so black beneath our blankets that Sive's face was little more than a smear against the deeper dark behind her. Across the room my sisters slept on the big mattress, where we were supposed to be as well, but we had sneaked to the far corner of the loft where we could scheme unnoticed.

"You are crazy and your ada will flay you like a trout."

"He did not say I could not go with the wagon," I reasoned. "He only said I could not go with the Rangers. Besides—" I wriggled down deeper away from the cold. "They will need my help in the relief camp. Only Orlaithe can be spared from harvesting, and Sadoc for a guard, and they will be glad to have another pair of hands."

"I still don't understand why they are going. Why don't they bring the refugees here?"

"Because there are folk all up and down the Loudwater," I said, feeling superior in my knowledge. I did not bother to mention that earlier I had asked my great-grandfather close to the same question. "They need a place to bring the families that is closer than here, and somewhere to tend any wounded they find. Aragorn told Anadar to send a wagon if we had no word for three days."

The next day would be the third, and the cart with its food and supplies and great canvas tent folded up in a bundle as tall as my waist would depart at dawn.

"They will never let you," whispered Sive. "Orlaithe will discover you and she will make you go back."

"She cannot make me go back if they have already arrived by the time I am discovered," I said. "It will be too far."

Sive snorted as softly as she could. I could picture perfectly the wrinkling of her nose. "Why?" she asked.

"Because they will be nearly as far as the river, that's why."

"No, I meant why do you wish to go? You have a good ada and all you ever do is disobey him."

"That's not true," I snarled, loud enough that across the room I heard Lútha sigh in her sleep. Sive poked me under the ribs. "Not true," I said again, so soft I barely heard myself.

"Is too," said Sive, stubborn even in a whisper. "If I had an ada like your ada I would always do exactly what he said."

"Well you don't have!" I hissed. "So you can't understand why."

Almost immediately I felt a throb of remorse, for Sive had fallen silent and rolled away from me. We did not move for long minutes, the breathing of my sisters coming to us steadily in the still air, and then my hand crept and found her elbow. I squeezed it.

"I'm sorry," I breathed.

"I know," she whispered back, and I knew I was forgiven, that she had forgiven me immediately, and my regret throbbed again.

"He needs me," I said after a long silence. "He needs me there so he will remember to be safe and come home. Sometimes…" I found my throat thickening and had to swallow hard before I could continue. "Sometimes I think he must fight so hard and long against the Shadow that he forgets he must come home to us." I was glad for the dark, glad that Sive could not see the track of my tear as it slid into my hairline.

"I do not think he forgets," said Sive. "Iarladh does not forget. He always wants to come home."

If I had not hurt her moments before with biting words, I might have snapped out an answer to this, as well. Iarladh was easy to understand. My knowledge of the Rangers and all they must face told me that he must be valiant. I did not doubt his bravery—if he had been craven, or had no mastery of sword or bow, or no stomach for killing, then he would not have worn the gray cloak. Aragorn would not have had him. Iarladh would have been left with all honor to till and herd and raise children in peace. He was a Ranger, and I knew that meant he had to be made of springing steel beneath his gentle guise. Even so he was a contented man. Happy to follow his leader, but just as happy to come home again and work the fields.

But my father was different, different than Iarladh or cheerful Caradoc or old Coru who had served Arathorn the Chieftain's father. Ada loved our Dúnedain people, neighbors and kinsman. He loved Iolanthe and Lútha and Celwen and Lossiel, and me who troubled him the worst of us all, loved us with all the fierceness and gentleness of his mighty heart. He loved my mother, she his captain and sweetheart and beloved friend.

But I knew the truth. I knew that all of us he would lay aside, if ever it came to such. All his love for us would not keep him from following his liege, even into darkness, even to death.

And I might have hated Aragorn for it, for holding my father's fealty so perfectly. I might have hated him but for two reasons: because I knew the Chieftain would not in all his life squander such allegiance, and because I was my father's daughter and I was as loyal as he.

"I must go," I breathed in air grown heavy with sudden understanding. "I must, because I will not have him forever."

There was a long silence, so long I began to think that Sive had fallen asleep. I felt a creeping loneliness, a hollow in my chest slowly whittling wider, and when I thought I could bear it no longer and was reaching to shake her awake, if only for her company, her whisper huffed against my ear.

"We're going to be in so much trouble."

Daernaneth—grandmother

Anadar—great-grandfather (literally, long-father)

Suilad—greetings

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