A/N: Semi-sequel to "Boots," and based on LJ's 50lyricfanfic's prompt 42: "the Sword of Damocles is hanging over my head; I've got the feeling someone's gonna be cutting the thread." And before your brain breaks at the thought of a Rocky Horror/LotR crossover featuring Denethor in drag, no, I didn't do that. (Yet. Back, yon crackbunnies!) It's based more on the fable of Damocles, who, like Ainaelin, came from a much less political background than his princely teacher. Ainaelin should simply be happy that all Finduilas is using is a needle. Tolkien's characters, though Ainaelin and Nemir's names are not in the books.

Word count: 769

It felt like the three of them had barely gotten settled into Dol Amroth before Finduilas was pulled away by Ainaelin. The girl had lost none of her straightforward brazenness in her brief marriage to Imrahil, it seemed. "I - I can't do this!" her new sister-in-law wailed. "Finduilas, you know I love your brother, but how am I supposed to be of any help to him if I never get the chance to see him?"

"Imrahil mentioned something about having you at a councilling session," Finduilas replied, trying to keep her smile gentle. Apparently, that meeting had gone no better than Finduilas's own earliest emotion-ruled sessions.

"Ah, but I've made such a fool of my poor husband. I'd hoped word of it would not have reached the capitol yet, at least," the shorter woman admitted sheepishly. "I couldn't bear to discuss it with one of the locals."

"My brother keeps me informed of the news," Finduilas said, moving away from Ainaelin. Her brother's young wife looked to be further upset by this statement, wringing her hands nervously as Finduilas moved to check on her son and retrieve an item from the basket stowed beneath the baby's cradle. "Do you sew?" she asked, apparently at random.

Swallowing her excuses unvoiced, Ainaelin nodded slowly, watching as Finduilas withdrew the needle from her embroidery hoop. "I can't do much fancy work, but I can mend a tear or put together a hem well enough."

"That should be enough, then." Finduilas's smile was absolutely catlike, though she would not meet her bemused sister-in-law's eyes. "Next week, when Imrahil holds council, bring your materials and follow me."

Although Finduilas expected that her husband found some escape in the seaside, as she did, she also knew that Denethor felt obligated to get at least some work in during this visit. It was much too soon, in her opinion, that the Steward's son closeted himself away with his father- and brother-in-law, going over the shipping routes in grim detail.

Finduilas dourly gathered up her son, sister-in-law, and sewing basket, intent to fulfill duties of her own. Ainaelin looked rather surprised at the location she headed towards. Well-known for her love of the sea air and usually unwilling to miss out on the bright summer sunshine, Finduilas would not typically have chosen a room on the interior of the second floor if she could help it.

"Shh, Boromir," she murmured to her baby, bouncing him slightly until he calmed. She made no move to pick up her sewing right away.

"Shall I hold him for a while?" Ainaelin asked softly, unwilling to rile up her nephew, now that Finduilas had just gotten him settled.

"If you wish," the older woman handed her Boromir, making sure that Ainaelin had a good hold on the baby. "If we can keep him quiet, I believe I shall shortly be able to show you why this sewing room has been favored by ladies of the court for generations."

Through the floor, a familiar, dry voice drifted up to the two women. Adrahil's opening statements were followed by the louder sounds of protesting guildsmen and arguing soldiers. "Is that Admiral Nemir?" Ainaelin asked disbelievingly, recognizing a particular bellow.

Her sister-in-law nodded. "Listen well, and we might even let you downstairs again." Finduilas reached for her embroidery, tying off the stitch and clipping off the excess thread. From the serious, thoughtful expression on Ainaelin's face, the younger woman's "exile" from court would not be as long as Finduilas's had been, unless she chose to continue to listen upstairs at her own leisure.

"Mother! Surely I haven't done anything wrong!" Lothiriel's face was flushed as pink as her riding dress.

"Nevertheless, you could use some practice with your sewing." Ainaelin shooed her youngest child up the stairs, unruffled by the girl's sulky temper. "This sampler ought to be at about the right skill level." The pattern she passed to her daughter was the same as the one Finduilas had introduced her to many years ago.

"But I was to go riding with Banion today!" Lothiriel insisted.

"He'll wait for you; trust me." Ainaelin patted her head, looking pointedly towards her daughter's heretofore-untouched needle.

The girl smoothed her long, dark curls irritably before bending over the pattern. "I don't understand why you have to be such a troll, sometimes, Mother," she grumbled.

Beneath them, Ainaelin heard the muffled sounds of her husband's council. "Someday, you will, Lothi." She considered the old sampler hung upon the wall, with its irises and mums mixed in with Findulias's favorite flower, lavender. "Someday, you'll learn."