Early 2990, Imladris

This day Arwen queried him on the political situation amongst the Dunedain again.

„And why haven't you announced that Aravir renounced his rights to the Chieftainship?"

He looked at his beloved and gave a small smile.

„You don't ask the easy ones do you?" he sighed. She beamed with satisfaction.

He held up his arm inviting her to lean against his side:

„It will take a while" he explained. Once they had arranged themselves on the couch to mutual satisfaction he began.

„This is linked with our situation. And how one looks upon it. When I told him of our betrothal he looked so happy – and when I stated your Father's terms he looked like a child which was first shown a toy and then the toy was taken away. He went wild and demolished the room, he was so furious at Ada. He considers the terms cruel, inexplicable and impossible. Obliging me to destroy Gondor and overthrow the Stewards. He kept on imploring me to do something to make you and me happy."

„He mentioned me?"

„Yes, amongst the screamed out invectives I could make out „making his daughter unhappy" and „Arwen is ... being given the short straw". SNORT

„So, my uncle despairs for us. He expects me to end up like most Chieftains before me – my bones bleaching somewhere in the sun in the lone lands and you a heartbroken old maid. That is why he wants the succession issue to be cleared up well ahead, with my heir universally acknowledged and well trained for the task. And not what it is now – if I die the officers of state will rush to Staddle and find Aravir in the embrace of an orc and with a half-breed on his knee. He wishes to avoid that, while I think such a proclamation to be unnecessary. As we will marry and have children."

He pressed his cheek against her head.

„What I wish to avoid is the powers that be taking a closer look at WHY did he resign. The identity of his wife will get the Dunedain excited, to put it mildly. If the Thoroughbreds get their braies in a knot over Dunlander or Haladin wives, an orcess would send them into frenzy. I'd fear for Ashtuzual's live – they'd murder her and the children – as abominations, as a crime against the Bloodline of Westernesse". He went on to explain the political situation, including the father of his best friend Tarkil – Aithon the son killer – living with him in Staddle.

Arwen just shook her head:

„Your uncle sure got himself into a pickle" ... „WHAT exactly did he suggest we do about our situation?"

Aragorn explained.

„Promise me you will abduct me if I ask you to ... „

()()()()()()()()()()

2990, February, the Angle, the Sirbrith Estate

" ... and remember girls, when talking with appropriate young men, you can always drop some of the knowledge you picked up from Uncle Aravir and Aunt Lothiriel ... "

Almarian and Elwing winked to one another behind their mother's back. Not all that they learnt in Staddle was "appropriate" – even by a long shot ...

... the blokes were doing something manly elsewhere in the smial while the women were doing something womanly - feather plucking. Over time Guntram had become a fixture at womanly events. He gruffly explained it as „dwarrow do everything together" and his presence was backed by the lady of the house. So he cheerfully took part in the plucking. Although he participated and was welcome at competitive wood chopping or speed horsetail braiding events too.

The subject today was orc lads and lasses, Ashtuzual's race becoming the worst kept secret among the elder inhabitants of the smial. Tesni was let on the secret at some point as she was the only female out. And it felt silly to leave her out. Especially as her background made accepting this quite easily. Among the two male „originals" that Shorty had recruited Rys had bucked against the „cursed woman" story from the very beginning.

„So, at the beginning I was really unhappy that Shorty and Honey didn't allow me to put on rings on my face. Selfish bastards, I thought, not allowing me to pretty up myself. At the same time I was worrying myself into a state over when will they start taking turns having me. I was still thinking of myself as a slave, you know. Almost jumped out of my skin the first time Honey dragged me under his blanket. It was a very cold night, I had gone to pee and my teeth were chattering. But still all I could think about was that finally he'll boink me. Tucked me into his belly and wrapped his arms around me. That got me shaking even worse than before. He was so huge! That's all I could think about. But with no action around my nethers I calmed down. And he was so warm! It was like lying next to pony! So big and warm, got me purring like a cat on the hearth in no time. Yup, girls, your da's even warmer than Shorty. And nobody patted me on the head to get me to sleep like he did – two taps and I was asleep at once every time. Get yourself a warm bloke, that matters. You'll see how useful that is after coming back to bed after checking on the littles. Only later did I learn that Mannlings like their womenfolk's faces smooth. That's different for orcs. See, lads like for the lasses to have some bling on showing that they can stand pain, that they can go wild in the sack, that they have the mettle for whelping. Lasses in turn like their lads with scars. The more the better. A finger or ear lacking is best, gets a lass rubbing her knees in excitement over bedding a tough one. Means the lad is tough, is a survivor, is a winner. That he took shit but gave out more. That he won. This also tells the lass he can take a nip or two while they ... „

Ashtuzual prattled on chaotically, oblivious to the red hot ears and cheeks of Almarian and Elwing. Nobody had ever given their Aunt the Talk on what to talk with well bred teenage daughters of Man and they were relishing every moment. This was beyond their wildest dreams of what adult women may talk about. Nonetheless she had reminded them of their childhood - of how they clambered under their father's blanket to warm themselves against his bulk and his hand delicately patting their heads - this made them homesick.

Gudrun was sure that this was way beyond the pale of proper for under forty lasses, and very risqué for the under sixty five crowd. But she did not know what Mannish mores were like, so she kept shut. Tesni, attending births of piglets or kittens since she remembered, was not as mesmerised as the Dunadanith were – living in a hovel tightly packed amongst other hovels had given her a much broader exposure to the facts of life than they had. Yet it still was educational.

2990, February, the Angle, the Sirbrith Estate

Aragorn was enjoying himself. His Progress through the Angle had brought him to Sirbrith. He ran into the season's dancing parties organised by Helgon, the largest landowner in the south of the Angle. With six sons to find wives for the good lord, who loved a good feast himself, was happy to host most of the county's festivities. Although the harvest was poor, the obligatory one year reserves kept hunger well away, losses in the Lone Lands had been low, so everybody was happy and full of cheer. Aragorn himself indulged in several dances, keeping to wives of higher officials. He did not wish to feed the rumour mill nor to upset some girl's life.

Suddenly he felt like thrown back to 2959 – he saw a cascade of molten gold and silver hair – just like those he was surrounded with at Yuletide in Meduseld of that year. As far as he knew there was only one female holder of such hair in the Angle – his cousin by adoption. He smiled at the convoluted family ties his uncle's impulsive adoption had produced – he remembered the warmth he felt when he explained to laughing Arwen who was whose grandfather. By the time he tracked the blonde head to her lair he had attracted a tail – a hopeful mother of a maiden, one hopeful maiden, one hopeful father of a maiden, one hopeful brother of a widow, one man whose business he had not yet discerned and his bored body guard – Ciwon son of Miron – instructed by Halbarad to follow him to the privy if it was large enough. He found the blonde in a gaggle of matrons accompanied by a giggle of maidens, with a muster of young Rangers trying – often with success – at not becoming a shrewdness. When he approached all tongues fell silent and all eyes were on him.

"Inzilbeth daughter of Aravir, I presume?" – he asked the odd woman out in terms of looks.

In the surrounding silence he was fairly sure he heard a suppressed two-throated girly squee of "Strawberry!" and something which sounded suspiciously like a suppressed manly squee of "Ami!" and "Wini!" coming from his bodyguard.

Inzilbeth rose and curtsied:

"My Lord Chieftain, yes."

Aragorn turned as to address both the tail behind (which was losing his bodyguard) and the gaggle ahead.

"My Ladies and Gentlemen, this is my cousin Inzilbeth, the daughter of Aravir son of Arador."

Turning to the ex-refugee from the West March he said.

"Would my lady-cousin favour me with a walk by her side?" and extended his arm.

With eyes shining like Silmarills Inzilbeth took his arm and glided along. Aragorn asked the necessary questions about everybodies health, expressed delight at Tarkil's second son being delivered just two months ago, and listened with interest to the account from the visit to the "seats of our ancient kings". For more information about Aravir and aunt Lothiriel "wink" the shrewd matron manoeuvred the Chieftain back to the giggle of maidens, saying that her daughters were much better equipped to answer his questions.

Once back at the starting point and seeing the pain in Ciwon's eyes Aragorn hissed – "go and dance". He was rewarded by such gratitude in the young Ranger's eye - who then flew to a blonde, short, grey eyed and voluptuous beauty whose dark blond hair strongly hinted at connection with Inzilbeth and Tarkil to ask her to dance – that he decided to give the youth leave for the whole evening. Halbarad and his fears of daggers in the darkness of privies be damned.

He turned his attention back to his cousin, who introduced a Numenorean beauty to him. Who looked at him with merry blue eyes.

"Hadn't I not known better, I would have said that you are a daughter of Aravir yourself, young lady."

Showing mirth with all the appropriate demeanour, the maiden said, laughing.

"After I arrived at Staddle all the gossips stampeded to "hint" to Aunt Lothi that her husband's daughter showed up!"

Making use of the opportunity of a slow dance coming, Aragorn escaped the crowd with Almarian. Over this and the next slow dance Almarian gave the Ranger the newest news from Staddle and put some meat on the bones of older stories Aravir had written about. With more energetic dances coming up, he led her to where Lord Helgon stood with his eldest son, Olon Halfhand. While the older men talked Olon – who earned his moniker from losing half of his right hand on his first patrol some twelve years previously – asked Almarian to dance.

He spied Inzilbeth watching the dance floor – her face wore the expression commonly described as "she had seen Valinor".

He circulated to creep up to her side. They chatted and Aragorn learnt that Tarkil had retired early, for some reason or other. But the thin lips told him more.

"Is it his father's infamy?"

Her pained expression told him all he needed.

A panting Ciwon showed up with his partner.

"This, my Lord Chieftain ... "

"Just Aragorn, or Strider, we are family ... "

"This is my other grown daughter, Elwing."

With another slow one announced Aragorn asked her to dance.

Inzilbeth saw Valinor again.

"You two look astonishingly different?"

She smiled.

"You should see the rest of us – although only ten, Miriel looks exactly like mother. She may be used to spy in the Mark when she's older. Little Indis is seven, but already favours Father's side. Valandil is too small to tell – he's five – but has the same round head like me and tendency to be wider than taller – like me." She smiled adorably.

"After the 2986 campaign Strawberry stayed in Staddle with us all winters, up to the time he had to ride to his assignments for 2987. It was really a joy to run into him here." Elwing said with sparkling eyes.

"The Lord Halbarad thinks very highly of him. He assigned him as my bodyguard" – needlessly Aragorn whispered – "and he has comported himself admirably." Tarkil's second daughter was evidently lapping this up.

As they bowed they both heard a hiss.

" .. half breed ... "

and

"... what's he thinking?"

Leading her back to her mother he could see her lowered head.

"How many dances to go?"

"At least six."

"Good, this gives me two dances with each of you and your mother too."

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Same place, also a feast, a few days later.

Olon was buttressing up the wall of the ballroom, with his right hand behind his back. He was cursing his forgetfulness and waiting for the moment when he had been at the feast long enough to run away. He had been rude to several maidens trying to draw him out to dance and flirting with him, teasing him about his hidden hand, invariably simpering out their conclusion that he must be holding a love letter in it.

Damn women and their one track minds! Did everything and always have to be some sort of male-female relationship?! Was it so hard to grasp he was self-conscious of how nasty his hand looked with the two lower fingers and part of the palm chopped off, and that he wore a special glove hiding this disfigurement whenever he could? How could he extend that ugliness towards a girl in greeting or during a dance?

He noticed the Almarian girl approaching. He inwardly groaned. She was pretty, her exotic blue eyes making her very temptingly pretty indeed. And she had surprisingly broad horizons, knowing more of the world outside the Angle than many Rangers he could name. And having even travelled about. And dancing quite well. And riding well ... but surely she will ask if he is holding a love letter...

"Are you hiding your wounded hand? Why?"

He looked at her as if she was this year's calf with two heads or similar freak of nature.

"Why are you hiding it?" she repeated.

"Be ... because I forgot my special glove."

"How did you get your wound?" she changed the subject.

He started telling her about his first season in the field, eyeing her warily. Yet she seemed genuinely interested. At a certain point she nodded.

"Lack of experience. I have listened to enough rants of my Uncle about untrained twenty year olds being pushed out in the field, yet not ready for it and becoming warg food - my father or grandfather - more calmly – also lamenting the losses among the first and second timers."

He continued. He told her how he had been disarmed by the orc by a tap to the nerves of his elbow with a stick – the shame – losing half of his hand turning away the blade of the sabre, then desperately jumping on the orc, making him lose his balance, kicking away the sword arm and crushing his windpipe by dropping down on his knee on the enemy's neck.

"You had a worthy opponent that day. To make you lose your sword that way means he was no novice. You should be proud of yourself. You fought a champion and prevailed! The orc veteran is no more, you killed him! You are alive, not him."

"My buddies said I was a poor Ranger to get wounded that way ... "

"And what did the older Rangers say?"

"They said well done ... "

"See?" she said, exasperatingly satisfied with herself. Was she fidgeting? But he felt better.

"Shall we dance?", he offered.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Same place, a week later, festive season is winding down

He held the weeping woman in his arms and rubbed her back and felt disgust at himself. He had repaid her and her family's kindness and support and acceptance of his uncle and his wife with harsh, unkind words. Over the last fortnight he had shown the Tarkil family favour. This did not cost him a thing, was quiet pleasant in fact, as they were all good company. He had sent a clear signal to society that Tarkil – a respected ranger in his own right - and his wife were not in any way "tainted" by association. Neither by association with the strangely low profile Aravir, nor by Tarkil's father having slain his other son, his brother Thannor, the influential if controversial brain and muscle behind the Thoroughbred party. This did not cast any shadow on the House of the Four Roses. At least in the Chieftain's eyes. He rammed home the message that foreign born or not – the adopted daughter of his uncle was his kinswoman. He was happy that by doing so little he was doing so much for them. Until he noticed that Ciwon looked downcast. Until his ear caught sobs in a rarely frequented area of the Helgon Estate and he dug out a red eyed Elwing, who stammered out that she couldn't see Strawberry

"'cause for Mum he's just a peasant".

He asked for Inzilbeth to be summoned to the room assigned to be his study. Once she entered and closed the door in a rare fit of Aravir-like fury he snarled at her:

"You deny Ciwon courtship of your daughter? Are you like the people who hiss "half breed" and whisper "to the pigsty" behind your and you family's back? WHAT were you before coming to the Angle?!"

This did not go down well. She collapsed upon herself, loosing inches of height, her faced looked as is she was about to beg not to be thrown out into the snow. And her face crumpled and reddened and began to cry. He caught her and dragged to the couch. She was inconsolable, crying and sobbing out something in Rohirric. He could barely grasp her Westfoldian dialect, but going by the quantity of vulgar expressions she must have been telling him something downright awful about herself and her previous life.

"For the children ..." she sobbed, switching back to Sindarin, "everything for the children ..."

He felt rotten.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Four days later

" ... and this is where Olwina and Beleguron live, Aragorn. He met her ... "

Aragorn listened attentively, yet at same time noting Strawberry and Elwing taking a path at right angles to the rest of the party, forcing Tarkil to make a choice between Chieftain and wife, one daughter with suitor or the other daughter - whose escort – Olon, found something fascinating for the two of them behind the Tarkil's house. There were faces glued to windows of all houses around them.

He no longer felt bad.