Chapter Summary: Silmarien asks her cousin forgiveness, and love-ly intentions are whispered about.

Author's Notes: WAY different from the original. There is method to the madness, I assure you.

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Barahir and Lothiriel sat in the feasting hall with their father, waiting for Denethor's children to appear. Barahir sat moodily staring at the table, saying nothing. Lothiriel on the other hand was engaged in conversation with the adults. At only fourteen years of age, the daughter of Imrahil was extremely well mannered and mature. Her five foot four frame was lithe and graceful as a willow tree. Combs in the shape of seagulls bound her dark hair, and her brow was graced with a circlet of silver. Her features were soft and sweet, and her grey eyes gentle. Though not in the full flower of her womanhood, Lothiriel's figure was slender and promising.

Lothiriel's gown was a lovely shade of blue silk. It did not quite hug her form, and left much to the imagination. She fingered the white sash that draped her hips, trailing down to the hem of the garment as she spoke to her uncle. Her belled sleeves kissed her white arms, softly caressing her skin. Yes, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth was a beauty indeed and always behaved in a manner worthy of her title of princess.

Denethor II spoke with his niece and yet mourned in his heart. He delighted in both Silmarien and Lothiriel, but they were as different as night was to day. Both were blessed with the regal bearing and lineage of Dol Amroth. But his own daughter had the blood of Gondor mingled within her veins; in the mind of the Steward, it only increased her nobility. Why could not his kinsman see it? True, the line of Dol Amroth had Firstborn blood in their veins. But that gave them no more nobility than the blood of Numenor was due! Denethor chided himself. Imrahil had done nothing that a loving relative hadn't -- only given her glances that denoted annoyance at her loudness when times called for a ladylike whisper.

Boromir and Faramir entered the hall together, greeting the men under their commands who were invited. Lothiriel smiled upon her cousins when they came to her, but she looked about for the youngest of them.

"Where is Silmarien, my lords?" she asked, becoming concerned for the welfare of their sister. The sons of Gondor gave each other side-glances, something Lothiriel's eyes did not miss. Some may call her sweet and quiet, but few knew of her attentiveness to details.

"She will be along shortly, I think," Faramir replied.

No sooner than he closed his mouth, did his sister appear at the door. The daughter of Imrahil brightened considerably at the sight of her cousin, and went to greet her. The two girls embraced, and Silmarien took the opportunity to whisper in her cousin's ear.

"I shall be coming to Dol Amroth in the summer, cousin! Father is sending me near the end of May," she giggled slightly.

Lothiriel giggled as well. "I wonder what mischief you shall make, dear Silmarien!"

The daughter of Denethor caught sight of Barahir, who had been watching her since she had entered the feasting hall. Drawing away from Lothiriel, Silmarien meekly went to her cousin and curtsied in a practiced manner. To the surprise and delight of her brothers and father, and the great astonishment of her uncle, Silmarien apologized to him.

"Forgive me for my childish behavior this afternoon, Barahir. I had not meant for your pride to have been wounded by my prank. I shall endeavor in the future to be more ladylike," she said, returning Barahir's gaze.

Immediately, Barahir's admiration for his younger cousin rose greatly, and his esteem for her began to flower. He had loved her shyly, even with the young age she had, and hoped one day to speak with his father about courting his favorite among all his cousins. He smiled and inclined his head in a lordly manner.

"I accept your apology, lady, and freely give my forgiveness that you ask for," Barahir replied.

Denethor and Imrahil saw the exchange and traded knowing glances. Denethor knew his nephew's mind. It was written upon his face for the world to see. The Steward wondered if sending his daughter to the city of the man who would endeavor to win her heart at such a young age was the best idea.

As the evening progressed, Denethor had more reason to be concerned. After the meal, the tables had been cleared away so that dancing and merriment might ensue. Barahir went to Silmarien and took her hand. Smiling shyly, he asked her to dance with him – right in front of her father.

Silmarien seemed delighted at the idea, however. "May I, Father?" she asked, knowing she needed permission, for she had not yet been introduced to society as a lady.

Had Barahir asked him for his daughter's hand in a dance, Denethor would have flatly refused. He knew his nephew's desire, and the Steward had a wish that Silmarien grew up before putting thoughts of romance into her head. But it had been Silmarien herself who asked. Looking into her sparkling eyes, brightly lit by excitement, how could he possibly refuse? It was the first time anyone had asked her to dance. Denethor sighed.

"Yes, you may, Silmarien," he smiled. He watched the son of his kinsman sweep his daughter away from him to join the festivities and became a little depressed. His daughter was turning sixteen in a mere few months. The reality of what would happen struck him very hard. Young men would come and ask for many dances. Then would come chaperoned walks in the garden...and much too soon after that, unchaperoned walks. Silmarien would grow up and be loved by too many young men for the Steward's liking. Then, he would have to send Boromir to duel them all, and perhaps some of them might be killed. It would all be just a large mess.

Denethor realized exactly what the trouble was. He didn't want Silmarien to grow up. He wanted her to be his little girl forever, whom he could spoil and indulge and embrace as much as he pleased. Watching her whirl about the dance floor with her cousin, he pursed his lips. She was very pretty, and had attracted Barahir's attention. The eighteen year old boy was absolutely besotted. Smiling at the memory of when he fell in love with Finduilas, Denethor chuckled lightly. With Finduilas as her mother, how could he not love Silmarien? It was impossible to deny such beauty.

In his heart Denethor grieved. The time was coming for him to release his daughter's hand, for she was fast becoming a woman.

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