10. Darkness Rising
"Imrahil," said Finduilas from the confines of her bed, reaching up to cradle his cheek. "I am so glad you have come."
He bent to kiss her forehead. "You are unwell," he stated, looking at her in unveiled concern. She laughed and waved a hand carelessly.
"I have merely entered confinement until the baby comes. It is only a precaution," she patted the bed. "Come sit beside me. Tell me of our home."
He sat down on the edge and took her hand. "I am sorry I could not come sooner," he said, "But there are numerous threats from enemy corsairs along the coastlines and I have been defending our shores. They are amassing in more dangerous groups and while they have not made it near Dol Amroth itself, we are fearful. It seems as if some plot, or some common goal, unites them."
Finduilas closed her eyes. She had also felt this new threat, somehow, feeling that something was amiss, something evil, something far worse than was imaginable. "No clues to what might be drawing them together?"
Imrahil looked troubled momentarily but then he smiled, "Nothing but rumors, with no credibility." Something in his voice, however, caused Finduilas to struggle to raise herself to a seated position.
"Brother… what is it that you know?" she asked warningly. "You are not letting on."
He winced and shook his head. "I know nothing, Finduilas."
"You do," she insisted. "Brother, you must tell me. If it is something my husband knows or should know about the well-being of our country, then you rightly cannot keep me in the dark."
Imrahil, for his part, knew better than to argue with this side of her but was reluctant to alarm her in her fragile state. She looked pale and wan, not glowing with the typical aura of pregnancy, and the sight of her lying on the pillow made him shudder inwardly. But she laid a hand on his arm and squeezed, and he gave in.
"There are rumors that a darkness rises in the east. A darkness by the name of one we long thought had been banished," he whispered, his voice low. "I came in part because Dol Amroth needs the Steward's counsel in this matter, although my first thought was to see you."
"The dark lord Sauron," whispered Finduilas, meeting his eyes. "Is that not him of whom you speak?"
"Yes, Finduilas," said Imrahil, a spark of foreboding in his voice. "Likely it is naught but rumor, and yet…" he sighed. "Do not repeat it. No need to spread fear and confusion."
"I know of what you speak. I know not how I know but I have felt it in my heart," Finduilas said, meeting his eyes. "Imrahil. I think my husband knows far more than you or I. He has shut himself away in the tower more frequently than ever before. I think he has access to something – some source of knowledge."
"How?" Imrahil searched his sister's face. "What knowledge can he have that Dol Amroth does not? And why does he not share it with us?"
Finduilas shook her head and sank back down on the pillow, and Imrahil saw more clearly the shadows that had formed under her eyes. He took her hand and squeezed. "Finduilas," he said softly, "Do not trouble yourself. I will press him for information that I am sure he will give me. You have only yourself and the baby to worry about."
She smiled softly at him. "I have everything to worry about, and all the time in the world to do it, brother."
"Try to rest, Finduilas," Imrahil said fondly, bending to kiss her brow. "I will take on all your worries for you."
"If only you could," she laughed softly and let him pull the covers more firmly around her.
Imrahil sighed and looked down at her, sudden fear crowding his heart. "Oh Fin," he whispered as her eyelids fluttered shut. "May the Valar protect you."
He waited until her breathing settled into the steady rhythm of sleep. Then the young prince squared his shoulders under the weight of his duties and left his sister to what he prayed was sweeter sleep than his own of late.
Finduilas entered into labor early one February morning, a morning when a bitter chill entered her chambers despite her handmaidens' best efforts to keep the room warm. Healers were summoned, and Denethor alerted, and for hours Finduilas bravely endured the painful contractions that came on hard and fast, too fast, the healers worried. Her body felt like it would split in two, but the baby wanted to be born, and with a prayer Finduilas gave herself up to the task of birthing this child that no one truly believed would live.
Denethor, for his part, spent the hours pacing his study, unwilling to wait nearby the birthing room. He could not bear to hear her cries, to see the bloody towels, to wait for what he knew would be news of death. His darling, his heart and soul, his only solace, would surely die, and this child would die as well.
But survive it did, and Finduilas as well, also against expectations. They dried off her son and pronounced him strong and healthy, a sharp contrast to his mother, who was barely conscious. She was awake long enough to hold her child and press a kiss to his forehead, sending up a prayer of thanksgiving to the Valar for carrying her baby safely into the world. But she soon slipped into a deep sleep, her body feeling incredibly heavy, and it would be many hours before she awoke.
In the late hours of the evening, Denethor went to the cradle where his newborn son had been laid. He looked down at the child and rested a hand on his tiny head, willing himself to feel the rush of love that he had felt when Boromir had been laid in his arms. But none came.
He stood there in torment for a time, then he turned to the nursemaid who sat patiently in the corner, her knitting clutched in her trembling hands when he met her gaze. "Take good care of this child," he said calmly, "His mother ails and he is alone in the world."
She stood and curtsied and he bid her goodnight and turned, but not before he saw the judgement in her eyes. He steeled himself to gain control of his shame and fled the room.