Author's note: Based on the appendices to Lord of the Rings. Given the obsession with bloodlines in later Numenorian and Gondorian culture and the necessity of maintaining the male line over thousands of years, I don't think the custom here is all -that- off-base, culturally speaking. However, I doubt it would show up in Tolkien's Gondor. I've seen similar "customs" imagined so often in eye-sporkingly wrong ways that I'd like to try and get it right. I'm not sure if I was successful, but at least I had fun in the process. Comments and criticism welcome.
And no, I don't know why Finduilas turned out like she did here either.
Thorongil walked under the stone gaze of his forefathers, to the seat of the Stewards at the foot of the Throne of Gondor he had yet to earn. Sinking to his knees, he bowed his head, waiting for the Steward to acknowledge him. It was strange, this summons, on the very night of the wedding of the Steward's Heir, tall Denethor, to Finduilas of Dol Amroth. Of course, Thorongil thought, the Steward would not bother his Captain-General this night.
"Captain Thorongil."
If I am ever to lead, I must learn to serve…"Lord Ecthelion. Thy bidding?"
The old steward looked at him shrewdly. "You are sober. Good." Thorongil blinked. Certainly, he could have been celebrating, but there was work to be done this night, as every night, for a Captain of Gondor. The shadow of Mordor was not daunted by a mere wedding, and the protectors of the West must be always on their guard.
"My lord?"
Ecthelion sighed. "The young Warden of the Keys is at a funeral of a kinswoman in Pelargir. He was to return before this night. He has not. There are responsibilities of his that must be fulfilled, and Gondor can wait no longer."
"I am at thy command".
"I have not doubted it. Rise."
Thorongil got to his feet, meeting Ecthelion's eyes. They were a pale blue, not the grey of the Dunedain, the grey of his son. Ecthelion was one of the few people Thorongil could not read…and his sense of humor was stranger than a wizard's. Sometimes Thorongil wondered how much the man read in his own face. He is planning something, Aragorn, called Thorongil thought, but what it is I know not.
"I have a task for you. You will be Steward's Witness for me this night."
"Milord?" Thorongil was puzzled, and he thought it showed in his voice. Ecthelion leaned back in his black chair.
"A tradition of Gondor. More than tradition, a law of the Kings. The bloodline cannot be broken, and the succession must be maintained – in the Stewards of the House of Hurin now that the Kings are gone."
"Yes, lord?" Thorongil did not like where this was going at all.
Ecthelion gave him a sharp look for interrupting. "In any case, your duties consist of ensuring that the marriage is consummated, that the maid was virgin before…" His face quirked into a small smile. "And that she is actually a woman, after that unfortunate incident with the Steward Herion…"
If the Lady Finduilias is a man, I'll eat my scabbard. Thorongil thought. Some of that must have been again betrayed on his face, as Ecthelion smiled a little at him. He bit his lip as he tried to find a way to decline gracefully.
"Surely there is another you could find for such a task? I was not born in Gondor, and such customs are strange to me."
Ecthelion gave the man a long, strange look. Belatedly, Thorongil recognized that he had used the familiar 'you' when addressing the Steward, a custom of the Men and Halflings of the North that had been difficult to shake. The Steward was 'thou' to all outside his family, save other rulers. And the King…He quashed that thought. At least the slip might serve him here…
"You are sworn to me, and thus a man of Gondor." Ecthelion said, eventually. "Your objections are noted, and overruled. You are the highest ranking officer of the realm in the city at this time. Excepting myself and Dol Amroth, and we are kin to the newly-wedded. It is indeed a strange custom, and not to my liking when I wed myself many years ago. But it is a law of the Kings, and not for a mere Steward to amend."
Thorongil nodded. Damn the man, he thought to himself, then dismissed the thought as unworthy of him. He would have to make the best of it. "I obey," he said neutrally.
Ecthelion nodded. "The bride awaits in her father's chambers. You are to escort her to those of my son." He flicked a few fingers in dismissal. "Go. They have waited long enough."
Not trusting himself with more words, Thorongil nodded. He knew where the Prince was quartered in the Citadel, though he also had a great house in the Fifth Circle. He would be in the Citadel tonight, though.
Certainly enough, when Thorongil knocked upon the door, Adrahil's esquire let him in, and the graying prince of Dol Amroth himself sat at a table, his hands entwined with his those of his daughter. He did not release her as he glanced at Thorongil. There was a quick, almost imperceptible double-take that Thorongil was used to among men that did not know him well – his resemblance to Lord Denethor was notable and he had been mistaken for the Steward's son once or twice.
"Captain Thorongil." Adrahil finally said, rising to his feet. "You are Steward's witness for this night, I take it?"
"The Steward has commanded it of me, yes." His daughter had also risen, fair Finduilas, her face hidden behind a thin veil. She still held her father's hands, and was looking at Thorongil, though he could not discern her expression.
Adrahil nodded slowly. Drawing his daughter close, he kissed her forehead through the veil, then looked at Thorongil once more. "I have heard you are an honorable man, captain."
What does one say to that? "I try," he finally decided to say, realizing only after it was said how foolish it sounded. Adrahil nodded gravely nonetheless, and stepped back. Is this some sort of test? Does the Citadel expect me to cuckold the Steward's son given half a chance? Quashing his doubts, Thorongil silently offered an arm to Finduilas. She took it a little hesitantly.
The lady was fair, of course, with the look of the high blood. She reminded him a little of his mother, from what he had seen of her, and even if she hadn't, Thorongil kept Master Elrond's words well in mind. ..Nor bind yourself to any woman in troth… He had barely taken a second glance at another maid since. Even the merest chance that Lady Arwen thought him more than another brat of Isildur's was enough to keep him faithful to that memory of her in the wood…Tinuviel, Tinuviel! Your shadow still lies on my heart...
It was a long walk through the halls of the Citadel – empty halls, by chance or contrivance. They were silent throughout. What –do- you say to a woman under these circumstances? It was simply safer to remain silent, though he felt Finduilas' hand tremble on his arm.
And then they were at the threshold of Denethor's quarters, then the door of his bedroom the man himself rising to meet them with anxious eyes that lit up at the approach of his bride.
"Thy husband, milady" Thorongil murmured respectfully, but the pair at first paid him no heed. Denethor brushed aside his lady's veil and drew her lips gently to his. Thorongil felt like an intruder on their gentle reunion and took a step back. But soon enough Denethor broke the kiss, and looked at her escort. His eyes held wariness, but whatever else was hidden there Thorongil could not discern.
"Captain." Denethor said, quietly. "Do come in."
The look of absolute dismay on Thorongil's face must have been quite obvious, for Denethor permitted himself a thin smile at the other man's discomfiture and stepped into the room with his bride, followed by Thorongil in utmost reluctance.
"It is…required then, that I be in the room?"
"No. But I would speak to you."
"…I do not think any matter is so urgent, milord…"
"Sit –down-, Thorongil." Denethor pulled a chair out from behind his writing-desk in the large room when the captain made no move to comply, and then glanced over at the other man and sighed. "You have no idea what all this is about, do you?"
Thorongil shook his head mutely. What –is- this about? Is the Captain-General impotent? Does he expect me to sire his heirs for him?
"You think in straight lines, captain." Denethor looked at him keenly "…and in short, have no head for politics. I suppose I should have expected this."
"Sir?" Did he bring me here simply to insult me? Thorongil swallowed. Behind Denethor's chair, Finduilas was undressing in the candlelight. He averted his eyes from her and the Captain-General, flushing. Looking behind him, Denethor smiled a little. "Failivrin, do be a little more discreet. Though truly, one would think the Captain had never seen a naked woman before."
Thorongil flushed more, and Denethor raised an eyebrow in some amusement, provoking a glower from his subordinate. Denethor was still smiling a little as he leaned back in his chair, but his face soon became stern once more.
"Tell me, Captain, what report did the Steward command you to make of myself and my bride?"
Thorongil, having recovered his composure, replied stiffly, "The steward gave me no command on that, milord." This –must- be some sort of test. But whose? Ecthelion's? Denethor's? Both?
"Truly?" Denethor said, locking gazes with the captain, and Thorongil felt some satisfaction when the other man was unable to hold eye contact for long. He glanced back again at his wife, who was not putting so much of a show now. Though still an unworthy display from one who will be the steward's wife…but Denethor seems not to care that his wife is playing the wanton.
Denethor finally seemed to come to a decision, and flicked a hand at Thorongil – using exactly the gesture his father used when dismissing his courtiers. "Leave us now, then. I have kept my wife waiting long enough. Wait in the sitting room. I will summon you later."
Finduilas's spoke now, her silvery tone amused. "Feel free to have a drink, for we may be some time."
Denethor grunted in an annoyed fashion as he struggled with his boots. "Oh, very well. But not the Dorwinion, Captain!"
Thorongil thanked all the Valar for their mercy as he closed the door on the happy couple. He wondered if he could slip away now, and reluctantly concluded it would be deserting his post. Walking over to the liquor cabinet, he examined the contents, and found them sorely lacking compared to Elrond's cellar's in Imladris. Of course, that was only to be expected. He was tempted a moment by the Dorwinion, but reluctantly concluded that the Steward's son was best faced sober. He sat down in an elegant but uncomfortable wooden chair by the fire, but only briefly – he soon found himself pacing, trying to muffle with his footsteps the sounds coming through the door of Denethor's bedchamber. Do they have to be –quite- so enthusiastic? It's not…proper.
He could hardly imagine Arwen making such noises…though, as he sternly reminded himself, it was not his place to think of her like that, not when he hardly knew her. Finduilas was…not the woman he would have chosen, even if there was not Arwen to think of. He shook his head. He had never been quite comfortable around Denethor, though his time in Osgiliath under the man's command had passed without incident. They had avoided each other as much as possible, to tell true.
Looking at Denethor was almost like looking at himself in a broken mirror. Almost everything was 'right' – the man's military sense could not be denied, and their counsel to the Steward almost never differed on that account, except in mere minutia. On some other matters, such as that of a certain wizard that occasionally came to call, Denethor was dangerously wrongheaded. The Steward's son, above all, was a proud man, and he hated being condescended to, or overlooked. And now that his subordinate had become his rival in his father's esteem…
Thorongil sighed. Sometimes he thought that the two of them were simply Ecthelion's fighting-cocks, set at one another for his amusement. It seemed, somehow, that they should be less wary of each other. But Denethor, despite his usually courteous front, had little love for Thorongil, and Thorongil mistrusted the other man in return. The man's eyes were uncomfortable to look at…too like, again, and yet not like enough for comfort. But Denethor always looked away first. Well. Almost always. Two men born to rule in these dark times…what will come of it?
They –seemed- to be done for now…he heard someone splashing in the washbasin. In a few moments, the door opened.
"Captain. I see you have not taken advantage of my liquor cabinet."
"Not while on duty, sir."
Denethor's eyes took on a sharply annoyed look that was peculiar to him. "Come," he said, turning on his heel, his hastily thrown on robe rustling. Thorongil sighed once more – quietly, as he did not wish to set off Denethor's temper, and followed. Thankfully, Lady Finduilas was modestly shrouded in a coverlet, and looked to be trying to get some sleep. She paid both of them no heed. Thorongil was more distracted by the blood spot on the empty side of the bedclothes – for a moment he thought some evil had come across the pair before his mind told him how patently ridiculous that was, and he remembered the bloodstained sheets hung outside the door the day after a particularly raucous wedding he had seen in a village of Dunlendings. Oh. He blushed again.
Denethor still had that annoyed look – he took his seat by the writing-desk again. "Are you satisfied, Thorongil? ...What are you doing?" With a thunderous look the man stood again.
But something had caught the captain's eye. He strode over to Denethor's bedtable, ignoring the other. His hand closed around the hilt of the dagger, hidden nearly well enough by a pile of papers. There was blood on one side of the blade. Fresh blood. He was vaguely aware that some had strange and orcish tastes when it came to bedplay, but he had not thought to count the Steward's son among them. Though he would not put it past Finduilas, from what he had seen. "This was spilled within the hour. Hers or thine, Captain-General?" He stared at the other coldly. Denethor once again avoided his gaze.
"Mine," the man finally spat. Pulling aside his robe, he displayed sullenly the small cut on one of his calves. It had been washed clean, but some blood still welled up. Thorongil nodded, uninterested. Denethor would get someone to see to that, no doubt, or more likely do it himself. He wasn't about to volunteer his services. It might well prove fatal.
"Why?"
Denethor stared at him now, seemingly on the verge of snarling something vulgar. "Because my father's precious, oh-so-honorable –Thorongil- is just the sort to make a fuss about the virginity or lack thereof of the steward's bride. On my father's behest, no doubt." The man sounded disgusted. "Very well, captain. I am at your mercy."
Denethor, Thorongil reflected, has never been a gracious loser. In anything.
"Surely we can come to some sort of an arrangement, Thorongil," murmured a voice near his ear. Finduilas, now. Thorongil did not turn to look, as he was well aware that the Steward's wife was naked – he saw her reflection in Denethor's eyes, which were now sparking with jealousy. Turning, the man busied himself with opening a bottle of wine and pouring himself a glass.
"No, milady," he said, trying to be gentle. "If you are to be the Steward's wife, you must remember your duty is to be the mother of his heirs, and not to bed whatever man suits your whim." And I would die a traitor's death for touching her if Denethor willed. I hardly trust his forbearance.
"Oh, pish", the wife in question said. "It hardly matters with you. Everybody knows you're his brother."
Denethor set his glass down firmly. "That should not have been said, Failivrin." He was angry now, or building up to it at the least.
Thorongil just stared at him in some shock. Does he believe that too? He scowled. "You dishonor both the Lord Steward and my lady mother with your slander, Lady." He felt her fingers brush across his neck before she retreated.
Denethor shook his head, "Have you not a single human weakness, Thorongil? It is truly quite unsettling." He smiled, but it was a tired and strained one, and his brow was furrowed in thought.
I shan't be answering that, I believe…"Thy purposes, Lord Denethor, would be far better served by explaining to me how this woman will bring honor – or at least no –dishonor- to thy house "
Denethor began to speak, stopped, began again, then finally cursed under his breath. "I love her. Can that not be enough?"
"Sometimes it's not." Thorongil said quietly.
Denethor nodded. "I know. But I would not wed with some Beruthiel out of Umbar or a wild shieldmaiden of the North. Prince Adrahil's line is a noble one that my house has not wed with in many generations. It is not so poor a choice. And to end it now will estrange my line from the chief noble of the realm, as well as bring dishonor upon the lady. She could never hope for more than to wed a minor lordling and be forgotton if you made a fuss – and I could not stand that. Nor would I leave her. This is the only marriage I will ever honor, Thorongil, after the custom of lost Numenor."
"…I would say she has already brought dishonor upon herself."
"I assure you, she will do nothing to scandalize you further."
I would not believe that promise from her – from him it is less than useless. Love is indeed blind sometimes. "I am afraid that I am easily scandalized, milord. Even by things that seem inconsequential to thy eyes."
Denethor's brow furrowed."I have noticed, captain." He is trying gamely to hide his dislike of me. But he will resent me more when this is through. He does not like being seen in a position of weakness.
"Will the Lord Steward ask me for my oath on the fitness of thy bride? Because I do not think I can give it."
A muscle twitched in Denethor's cheek. "She is a good woman, Captain."
"Maybe."
"Good enough, then. And it is better for Gondor, at least, if there is no scandal this night. I would hope that you will remember your alleigance to her, if nothing else.
My alleigance is more than you know, Denethor. "I remember. I will leave thee to thy bride now, Lord Denethor."
Denethor sat up further, in obvious alarm. "What answer will you give my father?"
"Goodnight, milord."
"Thorongil, what answer!" The fearful demand was practically bellowed as Captain Thorongil closed the door on the pair and went to speak his conscience to the Steward.
-fin-