Disclaimer: Very much not mine. I'm just playing in Tolkien's world.
Eirien laid down her embroidery when her husband came in, shaking his head over a piece of parchment that kept threatening to roll back up. "A letter from Imrahil?" Although his grandfather was still technically in charge, they'd both known that it was their son they were leaving in charge of Dol Amroth in their absence.
"Mmn." Adrahil wandered past her and sunk down into the chair by his desk. "Certain people seem to think they can take advantage of my absence." The grin he flashed her was shark-sharp, and she was once again remembered why people remarked that Finduilas was her father's daughter. Not that Eirien didn't have her share of intellect, but she knew she could never match the level of sheer malicious cunning her husband and daughter were capable of, when the mood took them. "Imrahil corrected them. Nothing to worry about. Finduilas not about?"
"She's out riding. With Denethor." Oh, and it was very difficult to keep the smug tone out of her voice at that statement.
Adrahil frowned. "I'm rather surprised that she's taken to him. You don't think he's too old for her?"
Her husband's one soft spot; he would never force a marriage upon his children, not matter how politically advantageous. "I don't think Finduilas cares about petty things like that." She took up her embroidery again, making neat, even stitches, calming herself while she thought of the best way to put her next statement. "He treats her as she wants to be treated; as a lady, but also as an equal."
"You think he is a good man." Not a question, but a roundabout way of asking for approval.
"I do. I think he will treat her well."
Adrahil nodded slowly, setting the letter from Imrahil down on the desk and pinning it there with a paperweight carved like a swan. "Then I had better go answer Ecthelion's summons. It would not do to keep the Steward waiting."
Eirien smiled.
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There was little to see directly outside the walls of Minas Tirith, but she had enjoyed the ride anyway, the chance to feel the wind in her hair; it was almost like sailing. She would miss the sea, she thought, but pushed the sorrow away. It is but a small price, for what you will gain. He did not wreath her a crown of flowers nor write poetry about her beauty; when they discussed poetry, it was an argument over the works of Taldir of Minas Tirith, currently favoured among the nobles, versus those of Alphon of Dol Amroth, who Denethor claimed he actually preferred. "He is a distant relative of mine, I think." noted Finduilas.
"Isn't everyone of note in Dol Amroth some sort of distant relative of yours, though?" was his reply, grinning, and she could not quite decide if it was a compliment or not.
It was but late afternoon when they returned, the horses picking their way through the streets and Finduilas watching, smiling, as the crowds parted way for them, little bows or curtseys littering their path. They were quite fond of him, this dark son of the Steward, she realised, suddenly. Denethor took a moment to speak to a stall-keeper, and retrieved her a delicate pastry, tasting of cinnamon and sugar. "You seem to know your way around the lower levels." she noted quietly, nibbling at it, and he chuckled, answering a greeting shouted down from a window above before giving her an answer to her question.
"Those are my foot-soldiers, or they may be, when the time comes, when the horn calls." As usual, he wore the Horn of Gondor at his hip; she'd never seen him parted from the precious heirloom. "I have to make sure they are loyal, Finduilas. On a battlefield, the world flattens. There are no lords and peasants anymore; everyone bleeds the same." She reached across to squeeze his hand where it clenched the reins; he looked away. "But I should not bother you with my dark thoughts, dear one. Come, we will take our horses to the stables, and then there is one more thing I would like to show you before we return."
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"I have been to the Houses before." She stared at the plain buildings, squat and rather unimposing. A couple of women sat on the steps, breaking bread between them. The great oak doors were flung open, and people wandered in and out as they pleased.
"Ah, but have you seen all of them?" He laughed, offering her his arm; she took it, smiling. "I promise you, it is worth it." The women scrambled to their feet as they swept up the stairs; Denethor ignored them, eyes searching the interior for someone or something.
Someone soon materialised out of the darkness, grinning. "M'Lord." Her eyes turned to Finduilas; one eyebrow lifted. "And m'Lady. What can I do for you today?" She looked like any other of the healers; dark hair on the verge of greying, clothes obviously patched and mended many a time, and stained with the Valar-only-knew what. But her impertinent… amusement, that's what it was. The woman found them both quite amusing, and it rankled.
"Is there anyone in the gardens, Ioreth?" asked Denethor calmly, obviously not bothered by her attitude.
"Not for much longer there wont be, not if they know what's good for them." Ioreth bowed jerkily (what sort of a woman bowed?), and then grinned again. "A couple of moments, if you don't mind." It took a little longer than that, but she eventually reappeared, nodding at them. "M'Lord and m'Lady may go through any time they like."
"Her proper title is Princess, Ioreth." Denethor commented, even as he took Finduilas' arm to lead her onwards.
"Begging your pardon, but the title appropriate to the wife of the Steward is m'Lady." Waggling her eyebrows, the healer disappeared back to her work, leaving Finduilas astounded at the sheer cheek, and Denethor chuckling.
"Impertinent wretch." he muttered, and at Finduilas' look, added, "The healers are an interesting lot. By birth, many of them are as low as low gets – Ioreth is a good example. But they wield more power than you might think. What you were just talking to was the centre of gossip in Minas Tirith. If it's worth knowing, she knows it; and even if you have to put up with her rather interesting manners… she's worth knowing, too." They moved quickly through the halls; Denethor obviously knew where he was going. "Learn to cultivate people like her, Finduilas. Let them think they can get away with more than the average person. It pays off in the end – ah, here we are."
The scent hit her first; roses and jasmine, among many other things she couldn't recognise. Much of the gardens, she saw, were given over to the cultivation of herbs, but in the centre someone had coaxed climbing roses and jasmine and many other flowers besides over curving trellis frames. A bench sat under them, looking out across to the east, but now it showed the dark menace of Mordor, and Denethor suddenly grabbed the bench and shoved it violently, turning it around to view only the Houses. The edges of the gardens were more gracefully built than the rest of the Houses, and Finduilas wondered if this piece was older than the main entrance; carved vines wound up the columns of the arches that surrounded the garden.
"It's beautiful." she said, settling down on the now-rearranged bench. "I never would have guessed…"
"A well kept secret." he said, smiling and clasping her hands in his. "Finduilas, I did not just bring you here to look at pretty flowers. There is something I wish to ask you. No doubt our fathers are already planning things between themselves, but I would like to do things properly." Not letting go of her hands, he slipped off the bench and knelt before her. "Will you marry me? For I have never before found a woman who I could imagine calling my wife, and now that I have found her I will not let her slip away."
"I am not going anywhere." she whispered to him. "I would be honoured to call you husband, and the White City my home." He leapt up suddenly, and kissed her, and before she could decide whether she was more startled that he had done so, or that she was enjoying it, he pulled back.
"I am sorry. That was… inappropriate. Should I make amends, my Lady?" He was so earnest, that she couldn't help but giggle.
"What would you do?" she asked, smiling. "Climb to the top of the White Tower and catch me stars to weave in my hair?"
"Ai, and more. I shall train every horse in the stables to bow when you pass – it would be easier, at least, then attempting to convince Ioreth to curtsey." He was smiling as well now, and she leant against him, laughing
"While you're at it, you might have the tailors make me a dress from rose petals…"
"Of course! And build us both wings so that we may fly to the ends of the world and back – before breakfast…"
"And… and… and hang Thorongil from the chandelier by his ankles and make him hold a candle in both hands so he'll at least be good for something." At this last, she lost control, and started giggling helplessly.
"If I was going to…" said Denethor, gasping for breath "…hang that man… it wouldn't be… by his… ankles…"
Ioreth was as good as her word, so there were no healers or curious apprentices peeking into the gardens to notice – or wonder why – the son of the Steward and the daughter of Dol Amroth were leaning against each other and laughing so hard they cried.
