A/N: This story was inspired by a piece of music, written by Brian Balmages and called Ice Sculptures. This story is named for it, of course. You can find and listen to it at www dot fjhmusic dot com slash strings slash st6173 dot htm. Yipes, that hurts my head.
I believe that Denethor wasn't always so stern, and I think Finduilas made him a lot happier. I also think that Denethor was a loving father to both of his sons at first, and then when Finduilas died he turned hard towards Faramir- perhaps because he reminded Denethor too much of Finduilas?
I am not Tolkien. Nor am I Brian Balmages. Nor am I dreamingfifi, who supplied the names for my two brief OCs on her site Merin Essi Ar Quenteli!
\\\\-////
Minas Tirith, T.A. 2988:
Denethor paced the hallway outside the Steward's Suite like a caged animal, every muscle in his body tight and stiff with anxiety. Behind him, Boromir and Faramir sat in a single stiff-backed chair, the younger on the lap of the older, both pairs of eyes wide, sad, and frightened. None of them spoke; they might have been worlds apart. The only sounds were quiet footsteps and even quieter breathing.
The door to the Suite opened silently to release the Chief Healer, a man named Orelion who was a longtime friend of both Finduilas and Denethor.
"Well?" demanded Denethor, piercing the other man with his famous glare. Orelion just shook his head; he was completely immune to it, having had constant exposure during his childhood and teenage years.
"Take the lads and say your farewells," he told Denethor heavily, sorrow in his eyes. "I've made her comfortable – she's sleeping now – but there's nothing anyone can do."
Denethor put one large hand to his eyes, willing himself to remain composed. He could have done something. If he had let Finduilas return to the sea, perhaps she would be well today…
Denethor felt a bracingly gentle hand on his shoulder, and then Orelion moved away down the hall, his quiet footsteps ringing somberly on the harsh white stone.
There is no time for regrets, Denethor told himself firmly, trying to believe the words. The deed is done. Now, see to your sons. They need you.
Denethor gave a sigh, turned to his sons, and held out his hands.
"Come," he said, trying and failing to raise a smile for them. Slowly, Faramir slid down from Boromir's lap and took his father's hand. Denethor squeezed the small fingers in his large ones as Boromir, who usually considered himself too old for such things, took the other hand. Denethor led them into the chamber that Faramir opened, then to Finduilas' side in the large bedroom that she shared with Denethor.
She lay quietly on the four-poster bed, pale and still, the rise and fall of her chest barely noticeable. In what were almost certainly the last moments of her life, Finduilas strongly reminded Denethor of the sculptures of ice presented at Midwinter: coldly lovely, and so fragile. Slowly, husband and sons came to her side, Denethor nearest her head, Faramir next, and Boromir at the other end. Denethor and Boromir knelt; Faramir, as the shortest, remained standing, his gray eyes taking in every inch of his mother for what the young boy knew would most likely be the last time.
Denethor took Finduilas' small hand in his own large one; he could feel her pulse beating slowly, almost too slowly, in her veins.
Afterward, Denethor could never remember how long the three waited there, by Finduilas' side, each wrapped in their own thoughts, before Faramir spoke, his small boy's voice breaking the silence.
"Mama is a good storyteller," he said. "Father, will you tell her a story? Maybe she can hear us."
Denethor was about to refuse when he saw the pleading look in his sons' eyes, even Boromir's. Silence was no way to send a person to Eru. Finduilas should hear the voices of her loved ones one last time, and if they could not be raised in song, or laughing over some absurd happening, then there would at least be storytelling. It was the one thing, other than her family, that Finduilas loved as much as the sea.
"Very well," Denethor acquiesced. He thought for a moment, searching his mind for the perfect last story, then found it.
"Do you remember when first we met, beloved?"
Minas Tirith, T.A. 2971:
Denethor sighed, hiding his boredom behind a mask of polite interest. Parties, feasts, and dances held no interest for him. Much more productive things could be done with the time needed to execute them, never mind plan them. Unfortunately, nobody else seemed to think so, not even the mysterious captain Thorongil. He was deep in conversation with Ecthelion, gesturing broadly with his hands as the older man laughed.
"Enough moping," he muttered to himself. Erfaron, the only one of Denethor's friends who was not dancing, turned towards Denethor. "What was that?" he asked.
"Nothing," he said smoothly, pushing himself away from the wall he leaned on. "I think I shall go dance awhile."
Erfaron nodded and turned back to watch the crowd, letting his friend step away from him.
Denethor almost hesitated as he reached a group of girls who were visiting from Dol Amroth- ladies were not his strong point- but steeled himself (visibly, if he had known it) and stepped up to the ladies, who were watching with hidden amusement at his obvious plight.
"Good evening," he said smoothly, bowing elegantly as he did so. The ladies curtsied in return, sweeping their lovely skirts out wide, and murmuring their greetings to him at the same time.
Denethor wondered what he was supposed to do now; the girls seemed to be thinking the same thing. There was a moment of awkward silence before Denethor spoke up again.
"I couldn't help but overhear one of your earlier discussions, about ships used to sail the sea in different circumstances. I have some kin in Dol Amroth, and am interested in the many types of ships I see in the harbors there, but I am afraid I do not often have a chance to visit and so remain unenlightened. Perhaps you could assist me?"
The ladies looked at each other, their glances sly. Finally, one who looked to be eldest spoke.
"Ask Finduilas," she suggested almost mischievously, pulling a younger girl who had previously been further towards the back of the group to her side at the front. "She knows all about such things."
"Ah," Denethor said, making another bow, this one directly to Finduilas. "I am pleased to make the acquaintance of such a lovely lady." He meant it, too. Finduilas was tall and slim, with dancing gray eyes and dark hair with just a hint of a wave that fell in an elegantly simple knot to the bottom of her shoulder blades. Her dress was simple, but beautiful, and was a lovely shade of blue with just a hint of silver.
She curtsied back to him, blushing a little at the compliment. "What would you like to know, my lord?"
"Well," he began, offering Finduilas his arm, which she took, and leading her onto the dance floor, "could you tell me what the advantages and disadvantages are of rowing as opposed to sailing? I have seen and heard of both methods being employed, and know that in some places, such as Umbar, the ships are primarily powered by slaves who row the ships, but we prefer to use sails to catch the wind and guide us forward. Do you believe that Umbar uses slaves to row because such an action is an easy way of both transporting their human goods and also avoiding work themselves, or do their actions serve three purposes at once and make the ships faster as well?"
The two danced and conversed far past that first dance, the topics of their discussion ranging from ships to traveling to Rohan to military tactics. Finduilas showed the depths of her considerable knowledge and even saw fit to engage in a debate with Denethor over the advantages of cavalry versus infantry versus archery. Denethor also found that she had a lively sense of humor and an innovative way of looking at things; for her part, she found Denethor to be a very interesting person with thoughtful and practical opinions, as well as a farsighted man who showed great interest in a variety of subjects. By the end of five dances and the call to the tables for a meal, the two were on a first-name basis and were getting along splendidly.
As Denethor chuckled in response to something Finduilas had said, Ecthelion, who sat farther along the table in the company of Finduilas' father Adrahil, and the great captain Thorongil, looked up sharply.
"Do my old ears deceive me," he said out loud, "or is my son laughing?"
Adrahil and Thorongil peered down the table as surreptitiously as they were able, then leaned hurriedly back in their seats as Finduilas glanced their way, mirth in her own eyes.
"They don't," said Adrahil, nodding impishly to his son Imrahil, who sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room, a desperate look on his face, surrounded on all sides by cooing and giggling ladies. "It appears that my daughter Finduilas has a part in it, though. Do you think…?"
Ecthelion raised his eyebrows, gave a small smile, then gave a nod, which Adrahil returned. Thorongil said nothing, but gave a minute grin of his own, though not so his companions could see.
After the meal was over, Denethor escorted Finduilas into the gardens for a change of pace from the lively, bright stateroom. Night had fallen by then, and the air was cool but not unpleasantly so. The moon and stars were bright, and the flowers smelled wonderfully. There they walked at a sedate place, stopping for Finduilas to sniff a flower here, finger a leaf there. Finally, though, the party was over and Finduilas had to return to the inn where she, Adrahil, Imrahil, and Finduilas' older sister Ivriniel were staying for the time being.
"Good night, Finduilas," said Denethor somewhat reluctantly as he pulled his fingers from hers. "Will I see you again soon?"
"I believe so," she laughed, standing back a pace to look up at him. "We visit here often enough." She regarded him carefully for another moment more, and Denethor found himself captivated by the reflection of the starlight in her eyes.
"Good night, Denethor," said Finduilas gravely, stepping forward to kiss him lightly on the cheek. Then she turned and picked her way through the garden towards the road to where Adrahil and Imrahil had told her to meet them after the dance. Denethor watched her go, speechless, then slowly reached up and touched two fingers to the place where she had kissed him.
Minas Tirith, T.A. 2988:
"…and that was when I knew that you were the one for me," Denethor finished, smiling almost despite himself. Those had been happier days, when his father was still alive, before Finduilas grew weak with sea-longing and began to slip away, before he had needed to assume the duties of a Steward of Gondor.
Suddenly Denethor realized something. There was no pulse in the hand and wrist he held between his fingers, and the delicate porcelain skin was growing slightly cooler to the touch.
"Finduilas?" he said gently, hoping despite the evidence that it was just a figment of his imagination. There was no reply, no response whatsoever. No breath, no pulse, nothing.
"Love?"
Denethor closed his eyes in defeat, then gently caressed Finduilas' limp hand and put it with its twin, where it rested on her stomach.
"Say good night to your mother, my sons," he said, his voice breaking on the word mother.
Slowly, Boromir reached out to rest a hand on his mother's forehead, then crumpled forward into her shoulder. Boromir cried silently onto his mother for the last time, then sat back up and moved aside for Faramir to take his place, tears still falling slowly from his eyes. They were the silent, grieved tears of an adult, not the noisy sobs of a young boy; Boromir had grown up with a suddenness that would have made Denethor's heart ache, had it not already been broken in twain by the death of Finduilas. Denethor felt as though it, too, had been transformed into an ice sculpture as the warmth that had flooded it before fled with the soul of his wife.
Faramir put one of his own small hands on Finduilas,' then said softly, "I'll miss you, Mama." He laid his head in the crook of her elbow for a moment, then stepped back and dove into Boromir's open arms, comforting and being comforted at the same time, their tears mingling together.
Denethor swallowed painfully around a lump in his throat, then kissed his wife on the cheek. "I love you, Finduilas," he whispered. In his mind he could almost hear her quicksilver laugh, and her teasing response: "Not as much as I love you!" Tears welled up in his eyes despite himself, and Denethor wiped his eyes roughly on his sleeve before standing and making his face impassive once more.
"Come," he said gently, holding his hands out to Boromir and Faramir. They took them, and, with many glances back and tears shed by all three, left the room.