Cemendur opened his eyes. He must have been asleep for some hours as the guest chamber was quite dark though a soft bluish-silver light, like moonlight, welled through the lower panes of the window embrasure. But looking out he saw no moon, only the trees far below sparkling with points of silver-blue light illuminating the garth and rivaling the stars just emerging in the grey twilight skies. More startling however was the homely golden light of candle and lamp shining from the windows in the cliff faces overlooking the garth. Cemendur had assumed the city of the Eagles was empty, abandoned like Fornost and the lesser towns they had passed on their journey. Once again he'd been wrong.

The door behind him opened. "How long have I been asleep, Rumil?"

"Nigh on five hours, m'Lord." his Man replied, setting a tray with gently steaming basin and ewer on the table.

"As long as that?" Cemendur walked towards him, unbuttoning his tunic.

"It was a hard ride, m'Lord. And you're not as young as you were." Rumil offered, taking the garment from his master.

There was an understatement for you. At one hundred and three Cemendur was accustomed to thinking of himself as very old. It had been a shock to discover Dunedain here in the North ordinarily passed their hundreth year in full vigor, living twice as long as lesser Men, and and fifty or more years longer than their Southern kin.

Cemendur dried his face and hands and turned to inspect the clothes Rumil had laid out on the bed. "I take it I am expected somewhere?"

"In my Lady's solar for a late supper, m'Lord."

--

The outer wall of the Lady Beruthiel's solar was a curved arcade of slender white columns opening onto a hanging terrace paved with colored marbles. The lady was sitting out under the new stars talking to two shadowy Men when Cemendur entered. He took them to be her sons. Her head turned, she rose and came into the lamplit room to welcome him.

The Lady Beruthiel was the tallest Woman Cemendur had ever seen, at least a handspan taller than himself (1). She was robed in azure and silver with a tiny adamant star upon her brow and like her brother, the Lord Belecthor, resembled the statues of the ancient Kings and Queens to an almost alarming degree. "Welcome to the Keep of Cristhoron, my Lord Cemendur. I apologize for my sons, they should have known better than to force a guest to climb all those stairs."

"But this house of yours is nothing but stairs, Beruthiel," a voice protested humorously, "your guests cannot escape them."

"Yet they shouldn't be required to climb from garth to eyrie upon arrival, especially after a day's ride over the fells." she returned as lightly, over her shoulder.

A pair of twins entered but not Beruthiel's sons, or even Mortal Men. Yet they bore sufficient likeness to their hostess in coloring and feature for Cemendur not to be altogether surprised when they were introduced as the sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir. These family resemblances were a little unnerving, a sharp reminder that the Kings of the Kings of Men were more than Man.

Was that the real reason the Council of Gondor had rejected Isildur's Heirs, Cemendur wondered suddenly, fear of their strangeness? Of the Elven light in their eyes and semi-divine Maiar strain in their blood? That same blood had run thin in the line of Anarion long before it failed. Accustomed to Kings who were no more than Men had the Councilors of the Realm been unwilling to accept one who was something more?

The door behind Cemendur opened and the other set of twins entered, still attired in the black and silver splendor their Elvish uncle had given them and garnering their cousins' full attention.

Elladan circled the two. "Landroval was right, very impressive indeed."

Elrohir, also circling widdershins, added: "I always said if they'd just comb their hair and wash their faces they'd be quite presentable."

Beruthiel's eyebrows rose. "Merely presentable?"

Elrohir tossed her a grin over his shoulder. "I have not a mother's bias."

"Of course getting a Ranger to wash is an almost impossible task." remarked Elladan.

"Nearly as impossible as distracting certain Half-Elves from their grooming rituals." Ellenion riposted easily.

"Fortunately they don't have to sleep any more than their Elven kin." Ereinion explained to Cemendur. "and so can spend half the night combing and braiding their long locks."

"And the other half smoothing scented lotions into their hands and faces." said Ellenion.(2)

"While Rangers, on the other hand, refuse to spend even a moment or two on ablutions with plain water." Elrohir retorted.

"I have gathered the unkempt look of our Northern kin is quite deliberate," Cemendur observed mildly, "a form of disguise perhaps?"

"Something like that." Ellenion conceded, adding To his cousins: "We certainly don't want to be taken for Elven Princes."

"Well you're not like to be taken for anything less dressed like that." Elladan pointed out.

"Which no doubt is your father's intention." sighed the Lady Beruthiel.

"I fear the Lord Elrond may be trying to force Lord Aragorn's hand." Cemendur admitted.

Beruthiel made wide, innocent eyes. "Oh no! Our Uncle would never dream of doing such a thing." and Elladan gave a gentle snort as the Mortal twins grinned appreciation of their mother's sally.

"You'd think Father would know better than to even try, given that the Isildurioni are the most stubborn and contrary of all Mortal Men."

Elrohir nodded emphatically. "To urge a course of action upon them is the surest way to get them to do the exact opposite!"

"Not always." said Ereinion.

"We only turn contrary when certain elder relatives try to push us into doing things we don't want to." finished his brother.

--

NOTES:

1. Cemendur is just over six feet, normal male height for Southern Dunedain, but Beruthiel is 'man-high', six foot four, just a hair shorter than her sons.

2. This is not entirely a joke. Elladan and Elrohir, and other Elves, do use lotions to protect their skin from weathering when convenient. How else can Legolas keep that porcelain complexion?