A/N: For disclaimer see previous chapters.
This was the third time this day that she had been stopped on the street by someone wanting to wish her well for the upcoming wedding. By this point, she was almost used to it. They all seemed to have this idea that this was a love match, for some reason. Finduilas suspected this reason had a name starting with Ior and ending in Eth, and she didn't see the point in trying to correct this misconception. They shared affection, yes, and mutual respect, and that was certainly more of a basis for a good marriage in her mind than love, which was what Imrahil professed for the latest girl to have caught his eye, and seemed to Finduilas to be a fickle and inconstant thing.
She had more important things to organise than her wedding, though. "We need to talk." she said, entering without knocking and closing the door to Ioreth's little room behind her.
Ioreth looked up, innocence oozing from every pore. "Why, m'Lady. Why would you want to talk to a simple healer such as myself? Not that you are not most welcome here, for you are, but I would have thought that you had better things to do. Why, the wedding is only a few months away now." She sipped at a mug of something steaming and pungent, eyeing Finduilas over the rim of it.
"My mother is planning the wedding, and you may drop the pretence. I know you are no simpleton. I need information from you."
The healer set her mug down, smiling. "My grandmother always said that a strong woman will have strong sons. I would imagine that your sons, m'Lady, will shake the very earth we stand on when they pass. That is good. Gondor will need that strength. May I see your hand? No, no, the left one." Rolling her eyes a little, Finduilas let Ioreth take her hand, turning it palm up. "Thank you. This is an old Lossanarch trick my grandmother taught me. Yes… sons it is." She looked up, smiling. "Two sons, and a daughter."
"Is this old trick of yours called 'telling people what they want to hear', by any chance?" Finduilas retorted, and Ioreth grinned.
"In part, perhaps. But my grandmother did have the Sight, and she knew a lot of things that are long since forgotten." Ioreth leant back in her chair and sipped
"I do not believe in the Sight." Finduilas shrugged. "Nor in your tricks. Will you give me a straight answer if I ask you a question?"
"Ask away." replied Ioreth, apparently not at all offended.
"It is not so much a question as a request. I need you to tell me – or find out, if you do not know – everything there is to know about Captain Thorongil."
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"It does my heart good to see you like this, you know."
"If you would rest more, father, you would do your heart better." Denethor turned, smiling. "To see me like what?"
"Happy." Ecthelion rested against the balcony, looking out and down upon the tiers of Minas Tirith. "I know that it's a wonderful match politically, but – I'm rather glad that it's a little more than just that." When Denethor said nothing, just leaning beside him, looking East where the darkness that was Mordor could be seen, he added "In fact, you're in such a good mood, that I feel that I could ask of you a certain favour."
"Oh? And what would that be?"
"To be a little more civil to Thorongil."
"Ai, if he would be a little more civil to me. Father, I do not wish to talk about this now."
"Bad luck." Ecthelion used a cane nowadays, and he was very good at turning it to alternate uses. Like now, as he prodded Denethor's leg, making sure he had his son's full attention. "I will not see my two best men behaving like squabbling children. Like him or not, he is a good fighter and an excellent Captain and Gondor needs him. Your pride always was your worst quality, Denethor, and it is beginning to show."
"But as always, you will not be rounding up Thorongil to berate him as if he was a boy with a mere ten summers on his shoulders." Denethor turned back to stare out to the east.
"Of course not. He is a good man, but he is not my son." Ecthelion sighed. "And if it seems that Thorongil should be more often found at the head of Gondor's armies than Denethor, then perhaps some might think that the Steward favours one over the other. Any who think that, though, are forgetting that the Steward is, after all, an old man, with many Captains – but only one of them is his son."
"You cannot keep me here forever, Father." Denethor said, never taking his eyes off the east. "I have dreamt it, that I would not see the end of these troubles in my lifetime. Gondor needs me."
"Yes, Gondor needs you – and so do I. Alive, and well, and able to lead when I am gone." Ecthelion came to put an arm around his son. "Things change, but the White City is a constant. As long as there is a Steward to guard her, she will not fail. That is why your place is here."
Denethor shrugged, grumbling. "I am sure you are right, Father. That doesn't make Thorongil's impertinence any easier to bear." Catching the look on his father's face, he added, "Fine. I'll refrain from letting him know what I think of him in public."
"That was all I was asking." Ecthelion smiled. "Now, shall we go downstairs and make sure Adrahil and his daughter haven't taken over Minas Tirith yet?"
"Ai." said Denethor, grinning. "I think we should."
