A/N: It all belongs to Tolkien. Ainaelin may not have been the name he used, but there's someone in Imrahil's life, so I'm not claiming her.

Yet another for 50lyricsfanfic. I'm not going to post them all here, (I can't, honestly; one's a list and another's in script format,) but don't expect a lot of fics that aren't about my Lord of the Rings OTP for another month or so. All of the challengefics I've written so far are linked on my LJ, on the homepage. The challenge is open to the masses, too, and doesn't have a time limit, so if you feel there's an underappreciated character or two out there who needs some ficlets, why not join?


The first thing he remembered about her was the click of boots against the stone floor.

They were not something one would normally expect to see in court, even in this muddy weather, when the streets of Minas Tirith were covered in the slurry of horse-dung, damp earth, and melting snow. These boots were low heeled, and tall enough that their tops did not show, even when she lifted her skirts to ascend the steps in her father's wake. The Guild-master of Minas Tirith's leather-workers had been chosen for his skill rather than high breeding, and his daughter seemed to take after him, at least as far as the latter was concerned. The woman in question was as solid and plain as her heavy, muddied footwear.

He was rather surprised when she cornered him and a small group of other lords to discuss politics halfway through the dance. Her ideas were a bit wild, but she was passionate enough about them that he saw a few heads nodding in approval for her scheme to reenforce the calvary with more lightly-armored horses. Probably trying to get more patronage for her father's guild, he summarized cynically. He murmured as much to Finduilas once they had escaped from the woman in question.

"Such a romantic, aren't you, dear?" The Steward's new daughter-in-law kissed his cheek, and he offered her a dance in apology. This was supposed to be a happy occasion, after all.

All in all, he reflected, he was happy, especially with Finduilas in his arms. That warm glow in his heart inspired by her presence had not quite yet utterly ruined his current misgivings about humanity, but it was almost there. He would have to wait and see.

"My baby brother seems to have just realized that I will not be coming home with him," Finduilas said conversationally. "He doesn't appear too happy about it."

"He'll get over it, sooner or later," he reassured her. He took advantage of their closeness to place a hand on her shoulder. "You're not upset, are you?"

She sighed, looking away. "I will miss the sea. It was my first home, and part of my heart shall remain there. But another part of my heart calls me here, so it is here that I will stay." Finduilas granted him a half-smile, and he kissed her forehead at the expression in her eyes. "Mostly."

"Then we shall have to make many trips to Dol Amroth," Denethor promised her, leading his bride away from the dance floor as the music ended.

"I would like that greatly. Now, if you will excuse me a moment, Denethor, I really should see to Immy." Curiously, she was not headed in her brother's direction.

"He was headed towards the gardens, the last I saw of him," the Steward's son told her.

Finduilas laughed. "There's something I must do first. You wouldn't understand, so you need not follow right away." To her husband's utter horror, the lady was headed straight for Ainaelin, daughter of Guild-master Curucam. "I hear you are interested in horses…"