For the disclaimer, see the first chapter.
A/N: We'd like to say a big thank you to Denethor's Angel for being the first reviewer of our story! We really appreciate your comments, and hope you enjoy what's to come!
Chapter Four: Seeking Warmth
"My lord!" A servant called, "Do you wish for any help?"
"No thank you," he called over his shoulder, leading his horse by the reins. "I am quite well! You must go inside and take shelter! This weather is just beastly!"
A cold, fierce wind whipped furiously through the valley, thrusting about fragments of straw and grains of sand. It was particularly cold for Dol Amroth, and those living there felt the winter's harsh bite, its icy fangs digging deep into their bones.
Arriving at the stables, Imrahil patted his horse's flank.
"Ah, Bara, my friend, we have had quite the long journey, haven't we?" The horse grunted, shaking its head, and Imrahil laughed faintly, "Yes...but we are home now." He leaned down, grasping a pail of oats, and began to feed him from his hand. He watched as the gentle beast ate, and smiled. "There now," he said after some time. "Enough!" He removed the oats and dusted off his gloves. Holding Bara's head in his hands, he scolded, "Enough for you! You are spoiled as it is!"
Gently patting him one last time, Imrahil turned away. To his surprise, he beheld someone staring at him. He was tall, with dark hair and deep eyes. He looked at him with a curious expression, for he had never seen anyone so richly dressed.
Imrahil removed his gloves, keeping his eyes set upon the strange man who now approached him. "And who might you be?" he said, an inquisitive look on his face.
He bowed his head to him, "Denethor of Minas Tirith."
"My lord, forgive me," he replied, bowing his head in return. "Had I known, I would not have -"
"Think nothing of it." He smiled, now standing in front of him. "I had heard you arrived and thought I could assist you."
"Thank you, my lord. You are most kind."
Imrahil began to remove the saddle from his steed, Denethor loosening the straps on the beast's side.
"How was your journey?"
"Quite good for this time of year, my lord, thank you. Long, and tiresome, however. It is good to be home," he smiled.
Imrahil looked a young man of about twenty. He was very tall, alike to his father, his hair and eyes the same. He shared the spirit of Adrahil and Finduilas, and it brought a smile to Denethor's face.
"And what brings you to see us, my lord?" Imrahil asked, removing the saddle from his horse.
Denethor followed him, his hands clasped behind his back, "Refreshment and nothing more. I have never visited Dol Amroth before, so I thought it the perfect excuse."
He laughed slightly, placing down the saddle, and rising to his feet, he brushed his hands together.
"Good then! We are glad to have you here." He returned to his horse, and grasping a brush, began to rub it forcefully down the horse's spine. "If I know my family," he called over his shoulder, causing Denethor to join him, "you were welcomed in grand fashion last night!"
"I was indeed," he laughed. "Your father is a gracious host, and your sister a lovely hostess."
Imrahil chuckled to himself, shaking his head, "Oh, Finduilas…"
Denethor's brow contorted, wondering what it was he found so amusing. From the moment he had seen her, she had intrigued him greatly, and he relished the chance to find out more about her. Not one to pass this opportunity by, Denethor inquired with his glance as to what was so humorous.
Imrahil noticed, and smiled.
"My sister…she is like none else."
"What do you mean?" Denethor asked, smiling faintly.
Imrahil turned to him, resting his arm across the horse's back. He cast his glance downward, his look thoughtful.
"She can be so like a child, sometimes, I can scarcely believe it. I have never seen someone who can be so carefree in all of my life. Tragedy does not strike her, it seems. She seems immune to it." He looked into the noble lord's face. "It is as if she is protected from it - untouched." He paused a moment, looking down to the ground. "She amazes me." He began to laugh, allowing his mind to reminisce. "When we were children, she would take me down to the sea-side and tell me stories of the first people to come over the sea. None of which," he said, an amused look on his face, "were based in historical fact." They both laughed, and he continued, "But it is her greatest passion."
"The sea?"
He nodded, "Never will Finduilas love anything more."
Both were silent for sometime, and looking up to Denethor, Imrahil broke the silence.
"I am sorry, my lord. I did not mean to tire you with-"
"Oh, no!" Denethor interrupted. "I am quite enjoying it." He paused for a moment. "You love your sister."
"I do," Imrahil smiled. "Very much."
After a brief period of silence, Denethor peered up at him and continued, gently rubbing the horse's head, "I trust your sister has had many suitors. She is a lovely woman."
Imrahil laughed, "Not Finduilas."
"And why not?" Denethor inquired, half-pleased and rather surprised.
"She has no need of any," he replied plainly.
Surely there have been some!" Denethor replied. "A man would be mad not to-"
Imrahil stared at him, Denethor having stopped short of finishing his sentence. Imrahil saw in him a great longing in his eyes, a deep desire that wished to be fulfilled, and his gentle glance melted away.
Denethor opened his mouth a little, and spoke barely above a whisper, "-to not…"
You knave. You are old enough to be her father.
Sensing what he was about to say, Imrahil broke in, "She has had no suitors, my lord, because she has not wanted them." His voice was cold and unwelcoming. "She has no need…she is perfectly content as she is…now."
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Denethor sat in his room, gazing out of the window. It was strangely cold, and he could feel the winter's air gnawing at his face. He cupped his hands together, and blew hot air into his palms. The heat did not last for long. Sighing, he took his cloak, and wrapped it around him. He had wanted solitude. But here, he thought wryly, solitude comes not with warmth. He rose from his seat, and headed for the drawing room, knowing a warm fire would greet him.
But that was not the only thing that greeted him that night. He knocked carefully on the wooden door, making sure nobody was inside. When he heard no response, he turned the handle. The door opened with an ancient creak, and swung freely on its hinges. The room was large, and decorated with a certain grandeur. Books lined the shelves, seemingly stacked in endless rows, and what windows there were were pinned with shutters. But Denethor did not look upon these. He saw only what his eyes were transfixed upon – the lady Finduilas.
"My lady!" he exclaimed, quite taken aback by the shock. "I am sorry to disturb you. I did not hear you-" He paused, unsure of what to say. She gave him a curious smile.
"No," she said calmly, "it is quite alright, my Lord." She held in her arms a book, her hand gently resting against one of the pages, as if she had been tracing the words. "I was merely reading."
"Then please, do not let me disturb you," said Denethor. He took a seat near the fire, and basked in its warmth. Holding out his palms, he felt them absorb the heat they had most dearly needed. He wanted desperately to look at her, but felt obliged to leave her be.
Finduilas fingered the leaf of the book. Since Denethor had entered, she had not turned a page. She was too deep, too consumed in thought to concentrate. Did he know I was here? she thought. No…he couldn't have… She gritted her teeth, bitterly angry with herself. Should I think of him so?
No matter how hard he tried, Denethor could not help but notice her glance in the corner of his eye. It was as if she was constantly watching, an omnipresent figure, never ceasing to find interest in his every move. But he did not feel uncomfortable – in fact, he felt calmed by her intrigue. He longed for her to watch him forever, to never take her eyes from his face.
And yet my feelings are wrong, he thought bitterly. But then again, he wondered, how can feelings truly be wrong? They are not bounded by the restrictions of our rules, nor the walls of our cities…they transcend beyond those, to our hearts. His eyes widened. And yet, I still feel this!
Finduilas desperately wanted to forget him, to bury him to the back of her mind, and imagine he had never entered the gates of Dol Amroth. But what was done was done, and his image was imprinted firmly in her mind. Something about him enticed her, and yet something about him was more terrifying to her than anything she had ever experienced.
They sat there for a few moments in total silence, each knowing not what to say to the other. Several times Denethor ventured to speak, but nothing came from his lips, as dearly as he would have wished. He did not know what to say to this woman, and yet he knew everything he wanted to say.
Suddenly, and almost intuitively, he noticed a chess board, resting on a wonderfully-carved wardrobe by the fire. The board was laden with intricately-formed figurines; warriors on horseback, the foot soldiers of Gondor, and most detailed of all, the King, adorned with his finely-made crown. Denethor gazed at it, wondering what sculptor could work such precision with his own hands.
Seizing this opportune moment, he turned to Finduilas, and found his eyes meeting hers. She seemed to study his expression, searching for any sign of what he might be thinking. He offered out his hand.
"My lady," he said, motioning to the board, "would you care for a game?" She gently closed her book, and laid it aside.
"With all due respects, my Lord," she answered, "I have never been taught."
"Well now!" exclaimed Denethor, in the manner he would to a comrade, "I can think of no better time." He smiled.
She shuffled slightly in her chair. Denethor sensed her nervousness. "If you do not wish to, my lady," he said, careful with his words, "then do not feel pressured." Finduilas felt a smile creep onto her face, and she knew that it was utterly genuine. Her emotions flowed through her, and she felt free to their will.
"I shall play," she said, "but only if you promise to teach me, my Lord." He laughed a hearty laugh.
"That I shall do," he said, taking the board, and placing it between them. "I have no doubt that you shall be a most excellent player." Flashing a smile, he began to explain to her the pieces. She looked on with wonder, taking in everything he said, as if it would never be heard again.
"And this," he said, reaching for an ivory piece that stood tall above the rest, "is the playing piece of the Steward." He handed it to her, and she took it in her palm, examining it closely.
"Is this not the Horn?" she asked, gesturing towards the dull-white carving. She knew she had seen it somewhere before. Against the figure of the Steward was engraved a magnificent war-horn, every exquisite detail remaining intact.
"Why yes!" Denethor laughed, noticing the Horn for the first time. He took his own piece, and ran his finger against the carving, thinking to himself how beautiful the miniature was, how alike to the genuine object. "The Horn of Gondor. To be passed to the eldest son."
"I do not doubt he will be glad of it," she said, smiling, "it is a most wondrous item." He echoed her smile, and took her praise gladly. He was enormously proud of his homeland, and such comments only inflated his pride.
Denethor made the first move.
It was not long before the board was cleared. Denethor had rounded up the pawns, taken the Queen, and the two white Steward pieces lay at his side, one upright, one toppled. But this was no competitive game, and both had enjoyed their fill.
"An excellent game, my lady," said Denethor, returning the figures to their rightful places. When he positioned the Steward, Finduilas halted him.
"My lord," she said, "please, take it." She took the figure in her own hand, and passed it back into his palm. Denethor held it incredulously.
"Are you sure, my lady?" he asked, almost unable to accept this generous gift. She gave him a warm smile, and slowly nodded, "I am."