Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit.

Finduilas cast a critical eye over the gathered crowd, mentally sorting them into the categories of must talk to, should talk to, and avoid at all costs.  She had already caught the eye of Echir, she noted, and pretended not to have seen him as she made her way towards Merilien, thankfully for once not overshadowed by her battleaxe of a mother.  How the eldest daughter of Ecthelion, a six-foot-tall harridan who struck fear into the hearts of half the noblemen of Minas Tirith, had managed to spawn such an insipid creature, she had no idea.

Merilien greeted her with a sunny smile, as usual blissfully ignorant of Finduilas' derision, and started chattering away.  It was almost too easy to divert her attention towards Echir, and Echir's attention towards her.  By the time she stepped out, on the excuse that she thought her mother wanted to speak to her, they were already looking quite engrossed in each other.  How utterly nauseating.

Still looking around to see if Denethor had arrived yet, she very nearly tripped over the man before she saw him.  She looked up, and then up some more, and scowled.  "Matchmaking." he said.  "That is an interesting hobby for the daughter of Adrahil to be indulging in."

"Captain Thorongil," she ground out, "I scarcely see how my hobbies could possibly be any concern of yours."  For once, he was neatly groomed, well dressed, looking almost as if he fitted in.  Finduilas was not fooled.  "And why have you decided to grace us with your presence this evening?  Are there no matters of training or border skirmishes you could be entertaining yourself with instead?"

"You are very much your father's daughter, I see." he answered, neatly avoiding the question.  Finduilas remembered her father's tales of clashes with Thorongil in council, and frowned.  A clever barbarian, was how Adrahil had described him.  Not lacking in intelligence, for all that he lacked refinement.  Dangerous.  The few meetings she had had with him only confirmed that assessment.

"And proud to be so, Finduilas Adrahiliel of Dol Amroth, the daughter of a family who have served Gondor truly, generation after generation, fathers and sons and daughters." she answered, resisting the urge to unleash a sailor's obscenity at the man and then ignore him.  "For every Steward who has watched over Minas Tirith, there has been also a Prince in Dol Amroth, his most fervent ally.  If only there were more in Gondor who were as dedicated to the service of our people, Thorongil of no family and no place."

"A man's worth may not be decided by his ancestors alone, Princess." he said, and left it at that, bowing mockingly to her and sweeping through the crowd towards Ecthelion, ignoring her scowl.  Thorongil had never made any secret of the fact that he was here to serve the Steward, and not to entertain the nobles and their political jousting.  More was the pity, for the man could have made an excellent ally if he would but learn to show some respect and follow the rules of polite society.

She had no more than managed to extricate herself from a conversation with yet another boring nobleman's wife when she spotted Denethor, dark haired and dark garbed and with a dark scowl on his face, at the edge of the room.  Finduilas had to admit that being married to the Steward's son would be no great hardship.  All of that family had that same look – not handsome, per say, but striking, certainly.  An air of command.

Heading in Denethor's direction, she had to smirk to see where that scowl of his was directed.  If looks could kill, Thorongil would have been dead and buried a long time ago.  The room was crowded enough that she could walk past him, close enough that her rustling skirts just brushed against his legs.

"Finduilas of Dol Amroth."  He somehow managed to make her name sound like a title, more sincere than most who called her Princess.  "The White City is honoured by your presence." 

She curtseyed, replying just as formally.  "You are too kind, my Lord.   I am merely here to pay my respects to the Steward your father, whose wisdom and guidance benefits us all."  Seeing his eyes flick to Thorongil, she added "And he has such a way with the common-folk.  Gondor is truly lucky to have him."  The double-meaning in her comment did not go unnoticed, and he held out his hand to her, smiling.

"May I have this dance?"

A little startled, she hesitated before nodding, and he led her towards the centre of the floor as a waltz started up, leading the way with surprising grace.  She found herself smiling, as one song slipped into the next.

"You look surprised." he said dryly.  "That I can dance, or that I would choose to dance with you?"

"A little of both." she answered, truthfully.  "I've never seen you dance before."

"And who would I dance with?" he asked, leading her through the whirling steps of a Lossarnach folk dance without missing a beat, fast enough to make her head spin.  "I am afraid, Princess, that in some matters I am rather derelict in my duty.  Although perhaps as the Steward's son I should spend more time entertaining the ladies of the court, I find myself loath to spend too much time with the simpering girls who make up most of your peers."

"And am I so different?"

"You, Finduilas, I am quite glad are your father's daughter, and not his son.  Adrahil drives a hard enough bargain in council as it is – if you set your mind to it, I would fear for the nobles of Tirith.  We'd be bowing down to you within the year."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." she murmured, curtseying as the dance ended.  "I think there are some in the city who could benefit from a few lessons in humility."  And she was dizzy from more than just the dance.  She had a hundred times had men - boys - such as Echir tell her that her hair was like silk and her eyes like shining stars and her voice like the singing of nightingales.  Then they would turn to the next girl in the line, and say more or less the exact same thing.

She had the feeling that Denethor did not often give out compliments.  But he had complimented her, and not on anything as petty as her hair (which took a good hour and two maids wielding hair-irons to transform it from a birds-nest to the sleek curls Echir had found so wonderful), or her eyes.  He'd complimented her mind, and she wondered momentarily how he had known how much that would mean to her.

Anything Denethor might have added to the conversation was lost as Adrahil waded through the crowd to them, clapping a hand around Denethor's shoulder.  "Excuse me, Finduilas.  I must steal your dance partner." To Denethor he said "Come on, lad." and Finduilas choked on her laughter, for her father was not all that much older than Denethor.  "I have some important matters to discuss with your father." he added, and Denethor bowed to Finduilas and went willingly.

She had a moment of amusement, watching her father clearly snub Thorongil before disappearing off somewhere to talk with the Steward and his son, but grew quickly bored of the company that remained to her and the idle chatter people kept attempting to embroil her in.  Making her excuses, she made her way to her chambers.  If the maid wondered why she was back so early, or why her usually sour mistress was humming a waltz under her breath, she was wise enough not to comment on it.