As Golden Leaves Upon the Sea
Summary: Imrahil is bored. Finduilas is upset. Denethor is being (canon!)Denethor. Time and tide wait for no man, nor woman. How do two of Gondor's brightest learn to float on when it comes to matters of the heart?
A/N: Inspiration comes from a variety of sources, but ultimately the Hurins and the House of Dol Amroth belong to Tolkien. Thanks goes out to Jen Littlebottom and http/ w w w. tuckborough. net/imrahil. html for their information on the family trees and the etymology, (which ultimately led to my theory for the less common 'Las's hair color debate).
"I don't understand it. Father's never pushed for this before, and I've plenty of time to think about such things. Why is he suddenly encouraging a match with a man twice my age?" Finduilas paced the sunroom irritably, bringing a lock of the autumn-blond hair she had been named for up to her mouth. Her younger brother watched her sardonically, letting his feet swing as he sat in the window overlooking the bay. With his sister working herself into a good full-tilt rant, the view inside was currently more interesting than the waves swelling up in the harbor.
"Well, you know it's not just any fellow coming in from Gondor. The Lord Steward's hinted that he'd approve of the match, if you and Denethor hit it off." Imrahil ignored her death glare.
"No, we will not 'hit it off,' Imrahil. The man is twice my age, and possesses no sense of humor whatsoever. We shall have absolutely nothing to talk about. He's from inland! Inland!" Her hazel eyes flashed as if this made him second best when compared to an orc. To the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth, perhaps it did. Even on dry land, the woman kept a roll in her walk as if she were pacing a deck in a storm. Her brother had trouble picturing her away from the sea.
Still, since her ranting was providing his afternoon amusement during the rainstorm, Imrahil could not help but play the devil's advocate. "They at least say he's a very intelligent man," he offered, watching her go by again, chewing upon the tip of a reddish-blond curl.
"Ah, good. I see that my education shan't go to waste, at least." She stood for a moment, facing her brother with a farcical grin. "Oh, Lord Denethor, yes, I'm your willing brood mare. Mount me so that we might have smart children!"
Imrahil was torn between laughter and horror. The latter won over as the door creaked open. "Finny – "
"Don't 'Finny' me, Imrahil. You taught me worse ones; you shouldn't sit there like a gasping fish if I happen to use a term." She stood with hands on curvy hips, her hair dropped from her mouth.
"Finny, behind you," Imrahil croaked.
"Lord Denethor, I presume? Disenchanted, I'm sure." Finduilas had the grace to curtsy, although the black-haired man in the doorway momentarily looked as stunned as the half-grown youth lounging by the window.
The man in the doorway was the first to recover, quickly smoothing his features into a calm, mild mask. "Amazing that a lady such as yourself should remain unmarried so long." He gave a slight bow of his head in return.
"There's no need to tease, my lord." Finduilas blushed shyly. It was one thing to rant about a potential fiance to her brother, but quite another to possibly affront the Steward's son by speaking in such a manner to his face.
"My lady, they tell me I have no sense of humor. I was being quite serious." There was a certain gleam in the Steward's heir's dark eyes that assured her that he was perfectly aware of what they had been speaking about. "A lady of your candor must be highly valued at your father's side." He bowed with precise courtesy over her hand, neither showing her disrespect nor overmuch flattery.
"Well, with little brothers, one might say more than what one may at court," Finduilas said as partial apology.
Denethor gave Imrahil a sympathetic glance. "Aye, my sisters were quite fond of gossiping over their suitors with me as well." The younger man nodded. He might yet take a liking to this Steward's heir, for all Denethor's grimness in court.
Finduilas would not stand for much more of this condescension. "May I help you, my lord?" she asked bluntly.
"His highness has asked for your presence in our next meeting, and I thought to simplify the matter by alerting you upon my way," Denethor said.
"You did not know that we would be in here," Finduilas accused.
"I have ears, my lady. Lord Imrahil, your father had requested your attendance as well." With another perfectly mechanical bow, the Steward's son turned to walk out of the room.
"Come, Imrahil," his sister said through gritted teeth, wrapping her arm about his. "We'll have to go put on the proper presentation, at least."
"Shrew," he chided her affectionately.
"I may not be the best behaved lady in the court, but I'm not – not a gossip, am I, Immy?" Some of the wounded pride left her stiffened backbone, and Finduilas deflated accordingly. She trusted her brother to give her an honest appraisal, although the use of the childhood nickname suggested that she was trawling for support.
"Well, as Lord Denethor has so dully noted, you do not hesitate to give your opinion, Finny." Imrahil could not help but smile. His sister would be on her best behavior during the meeting, simply to spite the man, but the Dol Amrothi was willing to bet that the Steward's heir would get an earful sooner or later if he stayed around long enough. And with the storm outside, Denethor was not likely going to be able to leave anytime soon. Of, course, neither was Imrahil, and his sister may well have something to say to him, as well.
Imrahil looked wishfully out towards the rain-tossed waves as they passed an unshuttered window, careful to avoid the resultant puddle from wind-blown water. He ought to shut that, but if his father wanted him now, there was little time to secure the windows.
Internally doing what he could to batten down for the storm ahead, Imrahil took in a deep breath outside the door to the council chamber, and felt his sister copy him at his side. Their father was not a particularly harsh or unkind man, but Adrahil's council meetings were spirited, at best. Imrahil remembered Denethor's expression on the way out of his first council meeting. The Steward's heir had been quick to hide it, but there had been a moment when his face had registered pure contempt for the undisciplined, rowdy, and very public meetings of the lords of Belfalas. This should prove interesting, if naught else, Imrahil predicted. With his sister on his arm, he stepped inside.
