For the disclaimer, see the first chapter.

Chapter 5: The Piece of the Steward

"Will Lord Denethor be joining us?" Adrahil inquired. "I have not seen him since this morning." The table was set for a wonderful feast, and foods of all descriptions lay temptingly before them.

"I saw him leave earlier," replied Imrahil, his tone one of disinterest. "He took his horse." Adrahil rubbed his chin and grunted.

"Well, we cannot let this food go to waste," he concluded. "I am sure he is well. Let us not trouble ourselves over his business." He glanced to Finduilas. "My dear, come, eat! Lord Denethor will come to no harm."

Finduilas wrung her hands in the folds of her dress. How had he known I was thinking of him? She held her palms before her, and saw that they were shaking, and beaded with sweat. Am I that obvious? Am I a mirror to my own emotions? She picked up her fork and raised the first morsel of food to her mouth.

Imrahil sat opposite her, and he had been watching. He cupped his wine glass in his hand, and caught its rich scent wafting toward him. Oh Finduilas, he said inwardly, craving to speak the words aloud, you are gravely misguided…

He took a sip of the red liquid and savoured the taste, swilling the wine in his mouth before swallowing, the flavours still clinging to his taste buds.

"Finduilas," he said, his mouth gasping for air after his long drink, "what troubles you? I can assure you, father is right. We should enjoy this night in solitude." Finduilas looked blankly at him.

"Nothing troubles me, brother," she said quietly. She took another bite of food and chewed it contemplatively, avoiding Imrahil's glance. However, this did not deter him.

"I can see it in your eyes, Finduilas," he said, as kindly as he could muster. "Sister, the Lord Denethor is just that – our Lord, and a mere guest in our city."

"Imrahil," he heard his father say, "that is enough." Imrahil scowled. She must listen. She will listen. I shall make her see. Adrahil gave him a disapproving stare, clearing his throat, "I shall not have you speak of Lord Denethor so. He is Gondor's finest."

Finduilas looked to her father. Does he defend him for Gondor's sake, or for my own? The reality dawned upon her that he might know – that he might realise how she felt about him. She turned away, hastily gripping the stem of her glass, burying her face in its deep and shining bowl. She wished that it would hide her face forever – that the blood-coloured wine would eternally mask the red that rose in her cheeks.

"That may be," Imrahil said acidly, "that may be." He could not help but watch his sister as she hid her face behind the glass, its curvature morphing and distorting her reflected cheek into a bulbous formation both hideous and intriguing. He took another sip of wine.

They sat there for several minutes, eating in silence. Finduilas kept her head down to the table, only raising her glance when she wished for more bread or drink. Please, she begged secretly, please do not speak of him again. She was fortunate, for nobody did. Imrahil sat in deep musing, engaged in his own reflections. Adrahil gulped down glasses of wine, the liquid overflowing in his mirth. This is my family, she thought. This is home; I need no others.

"That was most sumptuous," Adrahil remarked, mopping up his last piece of meat in the rich sauce that covered his plate. "I daresay I shall need no more until morning!" He smiled a warm smile. Finduilas smiled in return; her father's joy was always infectious, and he had a wondrous aura about him that surrounded and engulfed anyone nearby.

"Shall we retire, father?" suggested Imrahil, glass in hand. Adrahil nodded in reply.

"Come, Imrahil," he said, rising from his chair. "Let us play a game of chess."

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He halted his horse with a quick tug of the reins. The beast whinnied and stamped its forefeet clumsily on the uneven ground. The sand was soft, and felt as if it might collapse and engulf them at any minute. Denethor was swift to dismount. He took a breath of the fresh sea air. So pleasing to the senses, just as she tells me. Leaving his horse to graze by the dunes, he wandered toward the sea, the light of the moon illuminating his path.

The tide was high, and he did not need to walk far. He reached down and touched the water. It was cold, and grains of sand and sediment danced around his fingers, stuck to his skin. Heading for higher ground, he found a sheltered spot where the wind seemed not to reach, and knelt down unto it.

For a while he merely watched the sea, the waves breaking gently onto the shore, their beautiful crests spilling over in a flurry of white, gem-like droplets. It is so stunning, he thought to himself. So pure. I can see now why it entices her so. He felt entirely calm, the rhythmic wave-sounds echoing through his ears.

He sighed happily, looking down at his palm, in which rested the ivory-coloured Steward piece Finduilas had given him. The moonlight glimmered from its pale surface, and as he turned it in his fingers, deep shadows cast themselves upon the Steward's stony face. One moment the figure seemed to smile, the next to frown. It was as if, Denethor mused, the piece had a life and spirit all its own. He stood it upright in the sand, facing out to sea.

It was then that a great rush of white water came forth, the signal of an ever-encroaching tide. Denethor laughed in surprise, and quickly got to his feet, brushing the sand from his tunic. He began to climb his way toward the dunes, when a thought entered his mind – the chess piece!

His eyes turned. He scanned the water. Oh please, do not let it be lost! A tiny glint caught his eye. There. The figure had been toppled over, and was hurriedly being swept away, swept into the cold, icy depths of the sea. He rushed toward it, and plunged his hand into the foam, scooping up the sand-encrusted Steward and trapping it in his fist.

"You shall never escape my sight," he said, thoughtfully fingering the carving. He brought the piece to his chest.

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Night had fallen over Dol Amroth, and the starry hosts were out in all of their shining magnificence. Finduilas had stopped, and looked out a window in the long corridor - a window overlooking the sea. She watched the waves roll peacefully upon the shore, and then slowly retreat back into the waves.

Where is he? He has been gone since the morn.

The last time Finduilas had seen Lord Denethor had been the night before, in the very room to which they were now headed. She smiled slightly as she thought back on it.

"Is this not the Horn?"

"Why yes! The Horn of Gondor. To be passed to the eldest son."

"Finduilas?" Adrahil had turned and now stared at his daughter, but received no reply. Her glance was still outward to the sea, and she fingered the golden chain that always hung from her neck. "Finduilas!"

She started as one who had been suddenly pushed from behind, her eyes wide, her pulse racing.

Adrahil looked at her in amazement and laughed gently. "Finduilas! Come now!"

"Forgive me, father," she blushed, casting her glance to the floor.

"My dear," he extended his hand to her. "It is quite alright. Come, will you join us in the drawing room? I would very much enjoy your company, as I am sure your brother would." He turned his glance to his son.

Finduilas looked to her brother and met his gaze. He forced a smile and her heart sank. He knows…he knows…and he hates me.

"Finduilas, my dear." Adrahil placed his arm around his daughter and brought her close to his side. "My daughter, what is it? You play with your chain - what troubles you?"

She hung her head, unable to answer. "Nothing, father."

"Come now," he said sweetly. "Is it Lord Denethor that you worry for?"

She did not move.

Guessing this to be what troubled her, he spoke on. "Well, my dear, I'm certain he is quite well. He came to us for solitude, and I am sure he is finding it! But now," he peeked down into her face, "I am to have the honour of defeating your brother at a game of chess. Do not tell me my favourite daughter shall not be witness," he said with a wink.

This brought a gentle smile to her face, though she could not look at her brother.

Imrahil forced a smile himself, and his glance softened. Perhaps I am wrong. I have no evidence that she cares for him…Finduilas does have a large heart. Larger than anyone's I know. Perhaps it is genuine concern for her lord…and nothing more.

He smiled, more like himself, and extended his hand. "Come, sister. Please do join us. I cannot tell you how sorely I have missed you. I would be very glad of your company tonight."

"You see?" Adrahil gestured to his son with his hand, his voice full of merriment. "Come now, Finduilas. You cannot leave us without a fair lady to grace our presence."

She finally raised her eyes, and met her brother's. He smiled to her – the gentle, kind smile she had always known – and she felt as though a great burden had been taken from her shoulders.

"Very well." She lowered her head, abashed. "I shall stay."

"Excellent!" their father joyfully exclaimed. He so enjoyed having his children with him. Nothing brought him greater contentment or peace.

As they entered the room, Finduilas' eyes fell immediately upon the chess board, lying in its usual spot atop the wardrobe. She smiled slightly to herself, thinking back upon the previous night. It has been a great while since I have enjoyed myself so.

She quickly made her way to a shelf, fingering the spines of old books, many hundreds of years old. She finally selected a volume of poetry, and sat down upon the great couch.

In the meantime, Adrahil and his son sat down, with the chess board, by the fire.

"Ah, my son, I do hope you shall not take your loss too gravely."

Imrahil peeked up at him and said wryly, "Do not be so quick, father. You forget…I have one advantage you have not."

"And what is that?"

"Youth."

The two turned when they heard a stifled laugh to their left. Finduilas sat nearby, still reading, though with her hand to her mouth, a large smile underneath.

"Why, Finduilas! Do you find your brother amusing?" Adrahil said, feigning disapproval. "I shall have my children speak respectfully to me!"

Finduilas looked up to her father and smiled a large smile, one that she could not contain. Adrahil smiled to his daughter in return, and gave her a quick wink. He turned to face his son, and to his surprise met a peculiar look.

Imrahil's brow was creased in confusion, "Father, have you played a game recently?"

Adrahil grunted, "What do you mean?"

"A piece is missing."

"What? Well, which piece is it?"

"The Steward."

Finduilas started.

Adrahil was perplexed. "That is most peculiar indeed! I have not played a game since you left…I know not how this piece could be lost!"

"Finduilas," Imrahil began, "do you know what could have happened to it? Have you seen it?"

For a moment she knew not how to reply, but then she spoke plainly, "Lord Denethor and I played a game yester eve."

"Finduilas," Adrahil said in genuine surprise, "you know not how to play!"

"He taught me," she bashfully replied.

Seeing the red in his sister's cheeks, Imrahil rose from his chair, his suspicion growing with each moment. "And what became of this missing piece?"

Adrahil looked at his son in wonder, but Finduilas sat shaking, the book still open in her lap. She lowered her head. "I…I…I gave it to him."

"What?!" Imrahil snapped. He stepped forward toward her. "Finduilas! Do you know what he must have thought? Did you lose your senses?"

"Imrahil, enough!" Adrahil interjected. "Finduilas did no wrong!"

"I thought naught of it, brother; it did not carry any meaning!"

"For you, Finduilas! What of him? What might he be thinking?"

"Imrahil, enough, I said!" Adrahil boomed, his voice increasingly angry. "Leave your sister be!"

She could bear it no longer. Finduilas threw the book from her lap and fled the room, tears rising in her eyes as she ran. How could he speak to her so? How could her brother be so harsh? Never had he spoken to her in such a way, never before in her life. Why now? And over so small a thing…she could not understand it.

It meant nothing…it meant nothing…she reassured herself. I did no wrong…her brow wrinkled in sorrow as she placed her hand to her mouth. But why did Imrahil speak to me so? Why? Why was he so harsh?

Finduilas ran hastily down the long corridor, her weeping reaching its peak. She let out a murmur of anguish, and dashed quickly up the stairs, disappearing into the shadows.

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A sigh.

What could be troubling her? It pains me to see her so. Should I go to her?

A step.

No…no…leave her be… you cannot…

"My lord?"

A servant stood staring at him, a questioning look in his eye. "Lord Denethor?" he continued, seeing the look on his face, "Is everything alright?"

Denenthor smiled faintly, emerging from his hiding place. Having heard Finduilas coming, he had taken refuge behind a stone wall. As much as he wished to go to her and comfort her, his heart told him otherwise - though why, he knew not.

"Yes…yes…" he replied, casting a hasty glance to the staircase.

"Well," the servant began tentatively, "if you should require anything"…

"Of course," Denethor smiled, though it too was full of haste. "I shall let you know. Thank you."

The servant bowed low to him, and left the noble lord alone. An ill feeling rose in his stomach as he thought of her…her weeping. It was a sight he had not wanted to see, and one he never wished to see again.