For the disclaimer, see the first chapter.
Chapter Three: The Lady of Dol Amroth
She felt a strange sensation as she entered the chamber - a presence she had never felt before. It was warm and inviting, but utterly unknown. Denethor noticed her curious expression, and reached for her hand. But before he could touch it, she drew it away from him, and he, too, recoiled.
"I am sorry, my lady," he said genuinely. She did not say a word; she merely smiled in response. Denethor sensed a worry about her that he found rather constraining - but still, his interest and intrigue did not dissipate. Something had changed about her, even in this short space of time.
It was a large, long room, a wonderfully adorned table gracing the centre of it. The table was made of solid oak, and was incredibly sturdy and thick, as if the winds of the ocean themselves had carved the timber. A fire roared in an open hearth, smoke billowing into the chimney. There was a scent of incense in the air, and the room was set for a splendid feast.
"Shall we sit down?" said Adrahil. He laughed heartily, and placed a log onto the fire. Finduilas looked to Denethor, her happiness quickly restored at the sight of its warmth.
"My Lord," she addressed him, pulling back one of the wooden chairs. Denethor smiled, happily acknowledging the action. He sat down, and Finduilas quickly milled to the opposite side of the table, where she did the same.
"Thank you kindly, my lady," he said in an appreciative tone. "And let me say, Lord Adrahil, how truly honoured I am to be welcome to your home." Adrahil raised his hand, as if to stop any further praise.
"The honour is mine, Lord Denethor," he said. "It has been long since we have had visitors from the White City." He raised his glass of wine. "To Gondor," he proclaimed. Denethor laughed, and raised his glass in return.
"To Gondor," he echoed. They toasted their glasses, and Denethor took a sip of the rich liquid. It was unlike any he had ever tasted - full of flavour, sweet, and with an exquisite aftertaste. "This is wonderful wine," he commented. "Was it made here in Dol Amroth?"
"Indeed it was," said Adrahil, pleased. He motioned to his handservant for more. Denethor looked to Finduilas. She sat with her hands in her lap, glancing down at the table. When he spoke to her, she almost jumped, as if the voice were unexpected.
"You are most privileged to live here," he said. "But as much as it would try, the sea can only imitate your beauty." She looked at him, her eyes full of wonder. Something about him was endearing to her.
Why does he speak to me so?
Denethor noticed her disconcertion, and worry fleeted through his own mind. "I am sorry, my lady," he said. "I hope I did not offend." She paused for a moment, and fingered a chain which hung around her neck.
"No," she said, managing an anxious smile, "no. You do not offend, my Lord."
"Come now, Finduilas," said her father, "you need not be so mysterious!" He took a sip of his wine, and savoured the lasting zest. "Ah - here is our first course!" Denethor inspected the sumptuous meal that was placed in front of him. As they began to eat, he could not help but notice the look of the lady Finduilas. Every now and again, she would glance at him, with a look of both intrigue, and more strangely, fear.
She spooned another morsel of food into her mouth, trying desperately to concentrate on the meal before her. But her eyes always diverted to him, no matter how hard she tried to tear her gaze away. As much as she tried to deny it, he fascinated her. She would watch his every move, his every intricate gesture, and each was as compelling as the next.
She knew herself how she often tired of things. She would frequently close a book mid-chapter, leave tasks unfinished, never staying in one place for long. She was a wanderer, as free as nature had deemed her. And yet, she thought, why do I not tire of him?
"That was a most excellent meal," said Denethor, taking the last sip of wine from his glass. "I humbly thank you for your services." Adrahil smiled.
"I am so glad it was to your satisfaction!" he said, his laugh full of glee. "I do not know how our food compares to the splendours in Minas Tirith."
"It surpasses them," Denethor remarked, with a friendly nod. Adrahil beamed in response, taking his comment to heart. Finduilas knew how proud her father was of his coastal heritage, and of the city he had come to call home. She knew also that this pride had been passed onto her. Not once had she ever thought of leaving these shores; she knew them too well, and they were as dear to her as her family.
"So," said Adrahil, sitting back in his chair, "how long do you plan on staying in Dol Amroth?" Denethor held the stem of his wine glass, swivelling it in his fingers. He looked to be contemplating the answer.
"I am not sure," he said eventually. He placed the glass onto the table. "Now that I have come to see its beauty, I may stay longer than I originally anticipated." He studied the glass. In it he could see his reflection, his eyes glinting back at him. He then looked to Adrahil, "with your permission, my Lord."
"You need not ask for it," said Adrahil, smiling. "The Lords of Gondor are always welcome here." It was clear that he had already taken a liking to this man, and Denethor was secretly glad. His father would not have him on bad terms with the people of Gondor, and Denethor knew this more than anything.
"Thank you," he said humbly. Adrahil stood from his chair, and motioned to the living area. Denethor could see the glow of the great fire from here, its flames basking the walls in orange light.
"Now," said Adrahil, "would you care to join me?" Denethor was not one to refuse this offer, and promptly accepted. Adrahil turned to his daughter. "And you, Finduilas?" he asked. "Will you be coming?"
Finduilas froze. Her face twisted into an expression of great anxiety, and Denethor saw her hands slowly clenching, as if withdrawing from the question. He felt his heart begin to race.
Is it I? he asked himself, worry fleeting through his mind. Is it I she fears?
Finduilas took a deep breath, and yet said nothing. She lowered her head to the floor, as if to avoid catching his glance.
"No," she said, her voice shallow and breathless. "No. I am fine, father." With a last quick look at Denethor, she turned, and fled from the room. Denethor could hear her footsteps echoing from the long, wooden staircase – each step seemed in rhythm with the beating of his own heart. He wanted to go after her. He wanted to reach out, and stop her from leaving – but he knew it was not his place to decide.
"Do not trouble yourself over her," came the voice of Adrahil. "It is not your fault she behaves this way, my Lord. It is how the world made her." Denethor forced a smile. As Adrahil led him into the next room, his thoughts were only on one thing…
What did I do wrong?
--------------------------------------
Denethor lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his hands folded upon his chest. A gentle breeze drifted in through the window to his right, the smell of the sea carried on the winter wind. The heavy curtains billowed slightly, and a fire glowed in the great open hearth at his feet, filling the room with warmth. He laid in contentment, having just completed a sumptuous morning meal with lord Adrahil and his daughter…his daughter…
He sighed.
No matter how hard he tried, Denethor could not banish her from his mind. She intrigued him, and it was undeniable that she was a great beauty…but there was something else about her that held him captive…what it was exactly, he did not know. Her eyes…he smiled to himself. He would be content to probe their intricacies for the rest of his life if he did none else. Behind them he felt a warmth and a tenderness, that were he to live a thousand lives of men, he was certain he still would not have tasted the depths of it.
But he was not blind. He had seen how she had reacted when he reached for her hand, the flurry in her eyes when he had commented on her beauty, and yet…at other times, she had smiled to him, spoken to him warmly, and he had seen her gazing at him on several occasions at the dinner table.
"My lady," he said quietly to himself, looking down at his hands, still folded upon his chest, "You give me hope…and just as you give it, you take it quickly away. You confuse me…I know not what to think." He paused a moment, straightening his long robe and continued, "How can I reach you? Shall I compliment you? Offer you a gift? Tell me what I can do to win your good fortune."
Just then, Denethor heard a merry laugh from the next room. He smiled to himself, recognising it immediately. He turned his head back, looking up toward the wall from behind whence it came, and smiled fondly.
"Imrahil!" she called down to him, leaning out her window.
Her brother? Her brother has returned?
"Finduilas!" he returned, "My dear sister! It is good to hear your voice!"
"It is good to hear yours! Will you need help?"
"Help, when?"
"Once you reach the stables! Would you permit your older sister to help you?"
He laughed, "I would, my dear sister, but you look so warm and content even from this distance. Stay, I tell you! You and I can talk later!"
"Very well," she laughed. "Don't forget!"
"I won't!" he shouted in return.
Denethor heard the neigh of a horse as it was spurred onward through the gate.
Her brother has returned…Denethor thought a moment, and his eyes lit up, a thought occurring to him. I shall go and assist him. It would provide the perfect opportunity to learn more about the Lady Finduilas. I would like that very much indeed.
Denethor rose from his bed, and walking over to his wardrobe removed a rich, purple cloak, clasping it about his shoulders. He also took his dark, leather riding gloves, slipping them on as well. Yes…this will be a good opportunity. All will be well. You shall….
He halted, listening carefully. A smile grew on his face as he realised what he was hearing. Finduilas was singing. Her voice was clear and gentle, soothing and beautiful, and it filled him with utter delight and joy.
He laughed happily to himself, smiling all the while, and despite her past actions toward him, Denethor felt a surge of optimism that he would hear that voice many more times to come. I hope it so.