Matrimonial Complications

‘You are first cousins.’  The Master of Protocol was insistent.

‘So many times removed that the description is pointless.’

‘But Gondor’s matrimonial conventions clearly state that children of the same grandparents should never …’

‘The King and I do not share grandparents,’ Arwen interrupted firmly.  ‘That would have been Vardamir – and he is long gone.’  She took pity on the pedantic man sweating in front of her.  ‘Could you not … simply come to the conclusion that normal rules do not apply to us?  It would save you a great deal of work – and, in the end, you will have to come up with some way of understanding that point, for my lord and I are husband and wife and will remain so, whatever your dusty scrolls might say.’

The man looked down briefly, but refused to accept her dismissal of him. He gathered his robes round him, tucking his hands into his sleeves, and raised his chin to stare at her, tenacious to a fault.  ‘And, while it is not unknown for the king to take a wife who is … older than he is …’ He looked as if he was sucking pickles, ‘… he will require heirs of his body, and …’

‘Your healers are not examining me,’ Arwen said pleasantly, although the man standing before her flinched slightly from the dangerous undertones.  ‘They have no more understanding of my physiology than they would of a Balrog.  I may be older than I look, but I assure you that having been born when Eärendil was Gondor’s king makes no matter when it comes to fertility.’  She stood, causing the man to take a step backwards. 

‘And that is another matter,’ he bleated, the name having reminded him of another complaint.  ‘Elwing’s son was first cousin to your grandfather.’

‘Twice removed.  Making me third cousins three times removed with myself.  And my own third cousin twice removed on my grandmother’s side of the family.’ She smiled thinly at the fool.  ‘Do you want me to waste my time and yours detailing how closely Gondor’s kings have married within their bloodline in order to keep strong their ties to the Sea Kings?   The whole of Gondor’s aristocracy is so inter-bred that they have had to provide themselves with people like you to tell them who it is safe for them to marry.’  She swished her skirts as she circled him.  ‘Too many generations,’ she said softly, ‘with too little incentive to look beyond their own narrow circle.  Elves,’ she informed him, ‘are not so foolish.’ 

‘But …’ The man’s eyes were suspiciously glassy.  It would seem that he was becoming desperate.  ‘A King from the Northlands!’  A hint of contempt coloured his tone, hidden enough that a listener without elven hearing – and elven experience – might have missed it.  ‘His position would be so much stronger if he were to wed within Gondor’s greatest families.  Dol Amroth has a suitable daughter – Lebennin, too.  And …’

‘Gondor might possess a hundred daughters – but my husband is not free to marry any of them.’  Arwen’s eyes narrowed.  Something about this seemed – wrong. The man was – insanely persistent.  Surely, nobody was stupid enough to think that the arrival of a scholar, equipped with books detailing the pedigrees of the lords of Gondor, would be enough to make her throw up her hands and agree to return to Imladris. 

‘I have appealed to your reason – you must see that I have appealed to your reason.  But I suppose that females – of whatever kind – are simply not equipped to comprehend matters of state! You cannot be allowed …’

Flowers scattered as the base of a white marble vase met the blade that the Master of Protocol snatched from his sleeve, sending it spiralling across to room to slice the unsuspecting hand of the stoic door guard, who stared at his own blood briefly before crumpling to the floor, his grunt of surprise cut short.

‘Poison?  Unworthy of an honourable gentleman of Gondor,’ Arwen snarled, refusing to allow her attention to be diverted from the attacker.  She might be quicker and stronger – and far better trained – than the bony man before her, but, with his blade coated in who-knew-what, it would take only a second’s luck to nick her.  She wielded the vase like a shield.  In a Citadel full of trained warriors, it should not come to a fight, but, if it did, it would be one she won. 

‘We gave you the chance to retire gracefully.’  The man sounded as calm as if he were discussing the arrangements for a forthcoming ball, but his second knife glinted in his hand.  ‘We wished to show some respect for your ancestry … but Gondor is a kingdom of men – we cannot have a half-breed heir.  It would make a nonsense of all our long history.’

‘My son will be a great nephew of Lord Elros, the first of the Sea Kings and Lord of Númenor – he will provide a living bond between modern Gondor and its history.’

The man was no fighter – he failed even to turn to challenge the approaching guards, too desperate to get to her to concern himself with his own life.  He jabbed at her, forcing her backwards, willing to die if he could only take her with him.

‘Ancient history is not supposed to be made real,’ the man choked out as the fallen guard’s partner intercepted the move to grab him, pressing a ceremonial blade to his throat and shaking his wrist until the second dagger fell to the ground.  ‘You and that Ranger of the North – you have come out of nowhere to drag my Gondor back into a past we have left behind.’

‘Ironic,’ she told him, ‘that a man obsessed with precedence, with the minutiae of who is permitted to wear which fur, who is allowed to stand how many paces from the throne, who should be announced in which order, should be the one sent to end a line that extends back to the Second Age.’

The man’s eyes darkened with hatred.  ‘You have no respect for our traditions,’ he said.  ‘Neither of you deserve …’

‘But it is not a matter of deserts, is it?’ she said.  ‘Your rules give us the right.  And by your own rules, you are condemned.  A traitor to the Gondor you profess to serve.’ She waved a hand at the guard.  ‘Take him away – and keep him safe until he comes before the King.  I will not have it said that we did not observe every due process.’

She opened the windows to the sting of mountain air, and remained there, expressionless, ignoring the glances shot at her by the flurry of servants sent to clear away every evidence of the incident.  She could feel their excitement, their doubt, their fear.  Human emotion clogged the air, like smoke rising from an open hearth. Rampant emotion cut through with the faint tang of blood.  Its smell caught in her throat – sickened her. The blood running through her veins, blood inherited, blood shared, blood spilled.  A guard sacrificed to a foolish ideal – and more blood to be shed.

For all her love of her husband, she wondered sometimes if she had the strength of will needed to live among men.  Half-elven, they called her and her brothers, but she had long since worked out that they shared less than a fifth of their heritage with the Secondborn – and nearly all of her age-long experience was among elves.  If the deranged Master of Protocol had chosen to play that card – but he would not have done, would he?  He had no concern for her, no wish to understand the difficulty she might have in committing herself to a people and a realm that were not hers.  His only obsession was the breeding customs of group of men determined to hold on to distinctions that bound them to a past that was just that – past.  

‘Are you all right?’  Her beloved’s voice was tight with concern, and it occurred to her that, had he been present, it was highly unlikely that the former Master of Protocol would be coming before the King’s court for the administration of codified justice.  ‘Perhaps you should not have met him alone, but he seemed … innocuous.  No more than a petty official.’

She smiled at her husband.  ‘Strange obsessions infect even tiny minds,’ she said.  ‘I doubt we are truly safe anywhere just yet.’

‘We have true friends,’ he objected.  ‘There are many I would trust with my life – and with yours.’

‘But few of them were raised in Gondor,’ she sighed. ‘And most do not dwell here.’

The King stepped up behind her, but it was Aragorn who wrapped warm arms around her waist.  ‘It will take time,’ he admitted, ‘to make this our home.’

‘He objected to a half-breed heir,’ she said mournfully.  ‘But I would be happy to welcome a child of any description.’

His clasp tightened.  ‘The midwife said that there was no reason that we have not yet conceived – a child will come when it is ready.  She did not seem worried.’

Arwen turned in his arms.  ‘Lúthien and Beren, Idril and Tuor – each pair had only one child.  What if the link between elf and man is weaker now?  What if we wait a score of years and there is no child?  What if we have a daughter?  Gondor will never accept a girl as heir.’

‘Númenor accepted reigning queens,’ Aragorn declared.  ‘Let Gondor do the same.’ He brought up a hand to caress her cheek.  ‘And, in truth, I care not. Let us deal with that if it comes.’

With a brief closing of her eyes, Arwen dismissed the topic.  ‘Do we need to replace the Master of Protocol?’ she enquired airily.  ‘My days would be far less tedious if the office were abolished.’

‘Perhaps we should push the record-keeping part of the role off on the Librarian,’ her husband suggested, ‘and leave the day-to-day work to the household staff – so that we can use the hours saved in working on …’ He smiled and dropped a kiss on her temple,  ‘a more interesting matter.’

Arwen leaned into his touch briefly, before taking his hand and leading him from the cold room toward her private chambers.  ‘Perhaps you have a point,’ she agreed. ‘That would be a much better way to spend our time.’