Denethor, son of Ecthelion, waited outside of his father's study as the Steward finished some business with his councilors. Usually, as the Steward's heir, he was himself present at these meetings, but this morning he had had other pressing duties, and had excused himself. At forty-six, Denethor was no longer a young man; his dark hair had streaks of grey, and he had a stern air about him of one who has seen much and remembered all. His face was hard and features lordly; he was a kingly man, one born to rule.
The door opened then, and several men came out, and they bowed as they passed the Steward's heir, and the last told him softly that the Steward wished to see him. He nodded and entered the room, shutting the door behind him.
Ecthelion II was standing beside the window, looking out over the city to the Pelennor and beyond. When he heard the door shut, he turned to look at his son. He himself was a stern man, though there were lines on his face that spoke of kindly smiles. His hair was snow white where it fell around his shoulders, and his face was wrinkled and lined, the color of his grey eyes dimmed with age. "Ah, Denethor," he said, returning to sit at his desk, "Good. I wished to inform you that I have need of you to travel south, to Dol Amroth."
"Dol Amroth?" Denethor asked, somewhat surprised.
"Indeed," Ecthelion answered. "It has been many years since one of our family has traveled there, and it is high time. Since I cannot go, I must send you."
"Very well, my lord," Denethor answered, even though he had no desire at all to leave his city, for he felt his place was there, by his father's side, instead of a week's journey to the south, bearing messages that any messenger could bring himself.
"I admit, my son," Ecthelion said after a moment, almost as if he could tell what his son was thinking, "There is another reason I wish you to go." The Steward paused and rose from his seat to walk back towards the window. "I am no longer young," he began, not meeting Denethor's eyes, "And you grow no younger, my son. You should have been married long ago, but you have turned down all women in Gondor and Rohan that befit your station." At this he turned to face Denethor. "I would see you married, and with an heir, before it is my time to leave this world. I would die happy knowing that our line shall continue. What will come of Gondor if the line of Stewards were also to die?" He turned back to the window. "You must wed, son, and should not delay longer than you have. Adrahil has a daughter, the Lady Finduilas, as I am sure you know. Keep what I have said in mind when looking upon her. From what I have heard of the young lady, she would make a good wife, and it would be a good way to cement our alliance with her father, and later her brother."
"Yes, my lord," Denethor answered.
"Good. Now, you must prepare for your journey. The ship departs two days hence and you have much to attend to, ere that day."
"Indeed. My lord," Denethor bowed to his father before turning to leave, as a slight frown came upon his face. What would this Lady have that all the others had not? Yet it was his father's will, and Denethor would not fail him. He would look at the Lady, and if nothing, then he would not have failed to do as his father bid.
Denethor watched as the city of Dol Amroth grew closer. The sight of the swan banners of her princes flying high on the towers of the city by the sea, while not as tall or as beautiful as the White Tower, filled him with relief. He disliked voyages by water, and it was a long journey down the Anduin and along the coast to Dol Amroth.
When the ship docked at one of the quays and the gangplank was let down Denethor descended to the pier where a nervous young man stood and bowed before him. "My Lord, I am sent by my Lord, Prince Amrahil, to welcome you to our fair city. If I may be permitted to escort you…"
"I thank you for your welcome," Denethor said formally, "And I shall be glad to follow." Leaving his servants to take care all he had brought, he followed the young man to the palace of the Princes of Dol Amroth.
It had been many years since Denethor had been in the city. He had been a young man then, only nineteen, and there for the coronation of the new prince, a man nearly fifteen years his senior. He remembered disliking the trip by boat then as well, but remembered the city almost fondly, though he was a stern man and not given to such thoughts.
The city had not changed much, though years had passed since Denethor had walked the streets of Dol Amroth. All the buildings were made of light grey stone, and with the sun shining on them and the smell of the salt air of the sea, it made for an entirely different atmosphere than he could find in Minas Tirith, which was aptly named. Here, there was an atmosphere of calm peace, and one almost of longing, as the whisper of the sea could be heard from any point in the city, near or far from the beaches and wharfs though it was. Minas Tirith had a feel of strength, of watchful waiting and a constant threat of war coupled with a timelessness that came from constantly standing on the edge of a threat, as a man would watch a viper waiting to strike. Yet it was his city, and Denethor desired nothing more than to return. The peace of Dol Amroth was disquieting; it made him nervous, as if he had grown so used to being threatened by the shadowy lands to the east that being without the threat was distressing.
He shook his thoughts away from Minas Tirith as they entered the Great Hall of the palace where he knew Prince Adrahil would be waiting. The room was large, made of white stone, with windows running the length that let the sunshine stream through on the fine woodworking within. But he did not look to either side, beautiful though the room was, for Adrahil had risen and was smiling. "Greetings, my Lord! We are much honored that you have come to us. It has been many years."
"My father is glad to spare me, my Lord," Denethor answered, "I bring you his greetings and continued friendship."
"I thank you," Adrahil said, "and I hope you will excuse my lack of hospitality, for my family is not here to greet you on your coming. My wife took my daughter and son to her own family for the Midsummer celebrations this year, but they shall return very soon. I expect them today or tomorrow, at latest."
"Do not be concerned of it, Lord," Denethor answered; he was weary from the long voyage and glad he would have time to rest before he would need to meet the Prince's wife and children. The Prince smiled and then nodded in understanding.
"Undoubtedly you are weary," he continued, "The journey here from Minas Tirith is long."
"It is indeed," Denethor answered as his sharp gaze caught Adrahil look past him to the room beyond. Denethor did not turn but watched Adrahil's face. The man nodded then turned back to the Steward's son.
"Your rooms are prepared, Lord Denethor," the Prince told him, "Perhaps you would like to rest tonight, and tomorrow eve we shall have the official feast of welcoming, if that suits you."
"Indeed it does, my Lord. I am grateful for your hospitality."
"It is my joy to give it," the prince replied, and both men bowed formally before Denethor was lead from the room by a page.
The next day passed quickly, for there was much to do. By late afternoon, Denethor had dressed himself in his finest garments and was waiting patiently, sipping a glass of wine, in his chambers, waiting to be summoned to the feast. He stood by the window, looking out across the city to where the sun was sinking towards the horizon, casting sparkles of light across the endless ocean. Even he had to admit that the view was beautiful, the sound of the waves calming, though he still felt uneasy. But the son of Ecthelion was a man, having already seen forty-six winters, and he quashed the uneasiness and decided it undoubtedly had to do with leaving his own city and people behind.
A knock came on the door just then, and Denethor turned away from the window immediately, setting down the wine glass on a table. He smoothed his tunic and straightened himself, pushing several strands of his shoulder-length black hair behind his ears as he walked to the door and opened it himself, having dismissed the page who had traveled with him from Minas Tirith.
Another page was waiting on the other side, dressed formally as well, and he bowed. "My lord," he said, "Your presence is requested." Denethor nodded, and kept his stern, lordly features clear of emotion, remaining silent. He followed the boy through the palace and down to the Throne Room, where there was already much noise within. The page stepped in before him, and he was announced a moment later, and entered the room. Everyone in the room, including the royal family, stood and all except for the Prince bowed before him. Denethor himself walked until he was just before the throne at the front of the hall, and bowed before the Prince himself. Adrahil smiled, and he spoke in a firm, clear voice. "Lord Denethor, I welcome you to Dol Amroth on behalf of my family and my people," he began, "Many years has it been since one of your family has come among us, and we welcome you in joy and friendship."
"I thank you for your generous hospitality and gracious welcome, my Lord," Denethor responded, "Glad indeed am I to be among you. My father and all the people of Gondor send their friendship and bid me offer it to you, so that the amity will never die between our peoples." He answered with a slight bow. Adrahil was also smiling, and he motioned at the woman who stood beside him.
"May I present my wife Eärwen," he said, and the woman bowed and spoke in a gentle, musical voice.
"Lord Denethor," she said gently.
"Lady Eärwen," he replied, with a bow of his own.
"My son and heir, Imrahil," he said with a nod to the youth that stood beside his mother, who looked a great deal like his mother, with the same golden hair and blue eyes.
"Lord Denethor," the young man, who could be no more than twenty, answered.
"Lord Imrahil," he answered.
"And my daughter," the prince said with pride, "may I present Finduilas." Denethor turned his face to the woman who was standing by her father's side. He had not looked on her before, so set was he on her father, but he felt himself pause as his gaze fell upon her. She seemed to be at least ten years older than her brother, but she was beautiful. Her hair was as black as Denethor's own, swept away from her face, which had carefully defined, delicate features and deep set green eyes that took him in with a slight hint of shyness in her face. She was tall, though still shorter than he, and rather thin, her skin clear and unblemished.
"Lord Denethor," she said, and her voice was soft and gentle as she bowed.
"My lady," he said, and returned the bow. When he straightened again, it was an effort to not turn his face towards her again, but rather to her father, and the courtesies that must be observed. Amrahil was beaming a genuine smile as he stepped down the two stairs to grasp Denethor's hand in friendship. Denethor smiled back, and gave a small bow.
"Come," Adrahil said, and motioned a door at the side of the hall, "To the feast!" There was an outpouring of speech then from the people in the hall, and Denethor, as custom dictated, offered his arm to Finduilas as Adrahil took up Eärwen's. Adrahil's daughter gave it to him with a smile that lit up her face, and Denethor found himself smiling back with an earnestness that was not faked.
"How was your journey, my lord?" she asked him in her soft voice as they walked, breaking the silence.
"Long, m'lady," he answered, "I must admit, I do not enjoy travel by water." Her smile widened.
"I love the water," she said, "But I often go sailing, and have all my life. Some of my earliest memories are of the ocean, when I was but a little girl." Denethor smiled. They had reached the high table in the Great Hall.
"That could not have been very long ago, m'lady," Denethor said, although she had to be at least twenty-five. She turned her smiling face to him as she sank into her seat and he into his.
"Longer than you may think, Lord Denethor," she said with merriment twinkling in her eyes. Then the first course was served and Denethor was forced to turn his attention to Amrahil on his opposite side for some time. Even so, he sensed her beside him, heard her laughing and her gentle voice speaking with those around her.
But he did not have a chance to speak to her again before dinner ended, and the dancing began. Her brother instantly whisked her away from him, as he was rising to his feet, and for several long moments, he simply watched her. She was a beautiful dancer, graceful, and she smiled ever wider with each step and turn, laughing as her brother spoke softly to her. Denethor found a slight smile unwittingly moving the corners of his mouth.
The first dance ended, and Finduilas and Imrahil broke apart, brother and sister laughing breathlessly, bowing to each other as they were swept up by another partner. Adrahil, smiling, laid a hand gently on Eärwen's arm and the woman turned to meet his eyes and smiled back as they watched their son and daughter as they danced.
Several dances later, Finduilas returned to her seat, her breath quickened, her face flushed, and her eyes shining. Denethor turned to her and spoke.
"You are a talented dancer, m'lady," he said.
"Thank you, m'lord," she replied, and the redness in her cheeks deepened at his compliment, "I love it so."
"That is obvious," he answered, and smiled at her. "Perhaps you would allow me to have the next dance?" he asked, even as he cursed himself for asking. He did not especially care for dancing, and he was not very skilled at it. Yet he asked, and somewhere within him he hoped beyond hope that she would say yes.
"It would be an honor, m'lord." She blushed again and did not meet his eyes. Then the music ended and he rose to his feet, offering her his hand. She took it and gracefully rose and allowed him to lead her towards the floor.
It was a swift dance, one that Denethor had mastered, although not particularly well. Yet it did not matter, for in his arms Finduilas adjusted for each occasional misstep and smiled the entire time. He did not speak to her, for he needed to concentrate on the movements, and she did not speak either; instead she watched him with a shy smile playing about her mouth, with a gentle look in her eyes that not many gifted upon the Steward's son.
Then the dance ended, and he smiled at her, his stern, lordly features softening as he bowed and spoke. "Thank you, m'lady," he said in a voice softer than his usual.
She returned his bow, but did not speak, merely smiled and took his arm as they walked back to their seats and sat.
Afterwards, the evening passed by quickly. Denethor danced but a little, just enough to be polite, but mostly sat to watch and speak quietly to Adrahil and Finduilas when she was seated. But mostly she danced, for she was good at it, and enjoyment shone on her face. And Denethor sat and watched her, his eyes following as she whirled happily around the room. For once, the usually perceptive man did not notice the looks that Adrahil and Eärwen were giving each other discreetly.
Later that night, Denethor lay in his bed, the soft summer breeze moving the white curtains back and forth in the moonlight as the sound of the sea and the smell of salt reached him as he waited for sleep to come. It did not. After much trying, he rose up out of bed, and walked to the window, picking up a robe from the back of a chair and drawing it about himself as he went. The night air was cool, though not as cool as if he was back in the White City, and the moon shone brightly on the city and the sea. The gardens beneath his window were lit as if it was daytime, and the stars shone far above brilliantly. He took a deep breath in and out, and his thoughts turned to her, for indeed he was sure that was why he could not sleep.
Finduilas, daughter of Adrahil, with her black hair and piercing yet shy emerald eyes, the grace with which she danced, her gentle voice, her eyes shining with joy…Without consciously realizing it, his face softened, the stern lines of his features nearly disappearing into a small half smile.
One morning, several weeks into his stay, he was in his chambers when he heard a gentle knock on the door. His page answered it and after a moment, the young man appeared and with a bow announced that Lord Imrahil would like to see him. Denethor gathered the papers he was working on into a neat stack, the rose as the young man entered. "Lord Denethor," he said and both men bowed simultaneously, before straightening. Imrahil met Denethor's eyes and smiled. "My sister and I are going sailing. If you wish to accompany us, you are more than welcome."
Denethor pondered for a moment, and then, though he was not sure why, nodded. "I would be pleased to accompany you," he answered. "A moment please." Imrahil nodded and left the room, and Denethor quickly changed into a different, more worn, set of clothes. When he exited his room, Imrahil was there waiting.
"Finduilas is already down at the wharf," the younger man explained.
"I see," Denethor answered.
"She's a beautiful woman, is she not?"
"Yes, she is," Denethor answered truthfully, casting a glance at the other man, wondering why Imrahil would say anything like that at all. But Imrahil was not looking at him; he looked resolutely forward, down towards the ocean, silent. Denethor brushed away the question, and neither man spoke again until they had reached the dock and saw Finduilas standing at the end, wearing a deep blue dress with silver embroidery, staring to the south across the water. He saw her in profile: her pale skin, unblemished by the wind and the sun, green eyes reflecting the light sparkling in the water. Her hair was braided but strands of it had come loose and were blowing about in the brisk wind; her skirts blew about her like a blue and silver cloud, and when she turned to face them her face lit up in a smile that she graced not only upon her brother, but also upon Denethor.
"My lord," she said, with a slight curtsey, and he gave a slight bow. "Are you prepared?"
"Indeed," Denethor answered, and watched as Imrahil sprang into the small boat.
"I had Isëlmra pack us a lunch," Finduilas addressed both men as she took Imrahil's hand and stepped into the boat. "And asked her to tell Mother we would not return until the afternoon."
"Good!" Imrahil answered with a grin, as Denethor stepped into the boat, and for a moment felt a flash of nervousness. He had never been in such a small boat, and even in the harbor the waves rocked it furiously. "Can you untie the rope, Lord Denethor?" Imrahil then asked, and Denethor felt Finduilas' eyes upon him as he turned to undo the tie that held them to the pier. He felt ridiculous, for he was a grown man, to be so uneasy, and with a resolute glare he leaned out and reached for the rope.
At the precise moment he reached out, a rather large wave stuck the boat just hard enough for Denethor to be knocked off balance. As he had been leaning forward, momentum carried him in that direction and he was thrown into the sea. Thankful the water was only as deep as his waist, he pushed himself to his feet, sputtering, his dark hair hanging limply around his shoulders, completely drenched. Salt water stung his eyes as he reached blindly out to find the edge of the boat. It was then he heard laughter, and the Steward's heir was completely and utterly embarrassed. Then there was another voice, a sharper one. "Stop, Imrahil," he heard Finduilas say, "It is hardly funny." Denethor looked up at her as she bent over and reached out her hand to him. "Are you hurt?" she asked, and there was genuine concern in her eyes.
"Nay, m'lady," he answered, and accepted her hand and Imrahil's, who had stopped laughing, though there was merriment mingling with concern in his eyes. Together, they pulled him, dripping, back into the boat. Finduilas' eyes skimmed him over, and then she frowned.
"You're bleeding," she stated, and reached out and boldly touched his arm. Sure enough, there was a gash there, long but not deep, though how he had sustained it Denethor could not remember. He was surprised he had not noticed it, for it stung due to the salt water in the wound.
"T'is nothing," he answered, trying to pull away, but she refused to release her light yet firm hold on his arm.
"Imrahil, hand me the canteen," she ordered her brother, which the young man did without a question. She removed the stopper and then poured the cool, fresh water over the cut, washing it carefully. The sting began to subside as the salt from the water was washed from the wound, and it felt much better. After a moment, she corked the bottle and then reached out her hand, into which Imrahil placed a white cloth. She wrapped it around Denethor's arm, covering the gash, and tied it tightly. "There," she said after a moment, and when she caught him watching her she blushed.
"Thank you, my lady," Denethor said, "I am grateful."
"T'was nothing, my lord," she answered, and there was a pause. "If you would like to return to the palace, we will not be offended."
"Nay," Denethor answered, "I would like to continue."
"All right," she answered, turning to her brother. "Imrahil, you get the rope," she ordered, in a voice that left no room for her younger brother to argue, "And I hope you fall in so Lord Denethor can have his own turn to laugh." Imrahil cleared his throat.
"I apologize," he said to Denethor, and he looked ashamed. Denethor nodded in response.
"There is no harm done," the Gondorian answered, though he still keenly felt the embarrassment, and watched the young man untie the rope without incident. He himself turned to find Finduilas had seated herself at the prow of the boat, and she smiled, and motioned for him to sit beside her. "You had best sit," she said, "The waves are high today, and it will not be wise to stand." She did not add 'so you do not fall over the side again,' though he could tell that was why she wished him to sit, and he felt grateful, and as he sat on the other side of the small seat there, he cast a glance over at her.
When the boat reached open water, she had shut her eyes, and a wide smile had come across her face, for she was concentrating on the feel of the wind and the smell of the sea, and the rising and falling of the boat on the waves. The cry of the gulls was loud in his ears as they wheeled overhead, and for a moment he forgot his own nervousness as he casually watched her, wrapped up in her love of the wind and sea, and for the first time he saw her unguarded by the rigidities of her station and saw through to the cheerful, joyous soul within.
"Do you want to go to our beach?" Imrahil called up from the back of the boat, and Finduilas opened her eyes and turned.
"Yes!" she answered, and then turned to meet Denethor's gaze. "It is not far," she said, "Imrahil and I go there often. It is why we call it 'our' beach. It is a beautiful place." He nodded in answer.
The beach was beautiful, as Finduilas had said, and isolated. The only way onto the beach was from the water itself, for it was a flat place surrounded by steeply sloping cliffs on the three landward sides that were covered with trees and small shrubs. The rocks ran out into the water, smooth from where years of waves had washed over them. All around the smell of flowers came from where they grew on and among the trees. The beach itself was white sand that was soft under his feet.
Finduilas disembarked lightly from the boat onto the shore, and Denethor followed. She had removed her shoes and walked barefoot onto the beach, carrying the basket that he assumed contained their lunch. High above them gulls called as they rode the currents of air, and swept grey and large against the brilliantly blue sky.
And so they sat, and Finduilas spread out their lunch, and for a while they ate in silence. Then Imrahil spoke. "I'm going to swim, I think," he said.
"I would like to walk a little," Finduilas added, "Please join me, my lord?" She turned questioning green eyes to Denethor, and he nodded.
"Of course," he answered, glad that he would not be called upon to swim. Imrahil packed up the remains of their lunch with his sister's help, and then took it to the boat as Finduilas rose and began to walk down towards the other end of the beach, about a quarter of a mile distant. Denethor walked by her side, and he cast an occasional glance at her, keenly aware that she was doing the same, discreetly.
"What is Minas Tirith like?" she asked suddenly, to break the silence between them.
"Well," Denethor began, "It is a beautiful city." And he began to speak of his home, his people, and his duties, and Finduilas walked by his side silently, listening to all he said without saying a word herself.
By the time they had reached the end of the beach, he spoke softly, "I am sorry, I am sure you grow weary of listening to me."
"Of course not," Finduilas answered, and her voice was earnest. Denethor smothered a smile as he stepped over a fallen log in their path. He reached back over to give Finduilas his hand to help her over it. She took it with a shy smile, and a trust filled glance, and then stepped onto the log so she could step over it more easily. Yet the log was rotten through, and when she put her weight onto it, it crumbled beneath her feet and she fell.
He had barely managed to catch her so she did not hit the ground, and carefully lifted her away from the log, and searched her face intently. "Are you all right, my lady?" he asked, noticing she had suddenly gone pale; there was no color left in her cheeks.
"I've turned my ankle," she said, and there was a breath of pain in her voice, and he looked down and noticed that she was not, in fact, putting any weight upon her left foot.
"Can you put weight on it?" Still clinging to his arms for support, she tried to put gentle pressure upon her injured ankle but winced in pain.
"I'm afraid not," she answered, "Oh I am sorry!"
"Do not be sorry for something that is not your fault, my lady." He paused. "Would you permit me to carry you?"
At his question, Finduilas blushed but nodded.
"I fear you will have to," she conceded with a slight sigh. "I cannot walk." He nodded, and lifted her, cradling her in his arms.
"Put your arm around the back of my neck," he instructed, and she did so as he stepped over the now broken log and began to walk back the way they had come. This time neither spoke and Finduilas kept her gaze down, though Denethor continued to watch her discreetly. He was proud, now, of his strength for she did not seem like a heavy burden at all, and he made it easily back across the beach.
Imrahil was just getting out of the water when Denethor came into sight, and he came running over as Denethor put Finduilas down gently, still supporting her. "Are you all right?" her brother demanded, taking her free arm and searching her face with alarm.
"I shall be," Finduilas answered, "But I've twisted my ankle." Her brother knelt in front of her and she held out her small foot. He pushed her dress aside and gave a low whistle. The ankle was already splotched with purple and swollen to twice its normal size.
"We need to get you home," Imrahil concluded, "Right away." She nodded and her brother nodded his thanks to Denethor, and spoke to Finduilas again. "Let me help you," he offered and slipped under her arm, supporting her as she moved slowly back to the boat. "My Lord," he said, turning to Denethor, "Would you please get in and help her once I lift her over the side?" Denethor nodded and did as requested, steadying the young woman and helping her to her seat.
Imrahil pushed the boat off into the shallow waters before jumping in and handing Finduilas a piece of cloth that was soaked in the cool seawater. "Wrap it with that," he ordered his sister, and she did so, placing her foot up on their lunch basket that had been placed in front of her. So far she had said nothing to Denethor, and kept her gaze downward.
"Does your ankle pain you greatly, my lady?" Denethor asked to break the silence. She did not answer his question. "My lady?" She turned to look at him and he saw tears glimmering in her eyes.
"Are you all right?" he asked, more concerned upon seeing her tears. He noticed she was trembling slightly, and her usually pale skin was flushed red.
"I am all right," she said after a moment, so softly he was not sure he had heard her, "It does pain me, but it is lessening."
"Can I do anything to make you more comfortable?"
"I thank you, but no," Finduilas answered, "I will be fine." There was a slight bump of the boat, and Imrahil's voice.
"Let me tie the boat, then we will help you home." Imrahil jumped onto the dock and tied it securely as Denethor helped Finduilas to her feet. Leaning heavily on him, she managed to get to the side of the boat, and Imrahil reached down and lifted her onto the pier, carefully so as not to jar her injured ankle. "It will go faster if I carry you," Imrahil told her as he picked her up, and Finduilas did not protest. Denethor followed a pace behind, eyes never leaving the pair ahead of him.
Later that evening, Denethor made his way towards the wing that held the royal family's chambers, silent and lost in thought. He expected, and hoped, to find Finduilas in her sitting room, where it would be proper for her to receive him; the guards told him that yes, she was within and allowed him to pass into the empty corridor.
He walked quietly and quickly down the hall until he was outside the door he knew to be hers, and had raised his hand to knock when he heard Lady Eärwen's voice within, speaking softly to her daughter. He knew he should turn away, and come again, but her words seemed to make him freeze in place. "So he did nothing unseemly, then?"
"Nay, of course not," Finduilas' answering voice came, "He carried me back to Imrahil, and that was all. I could not walk myself, and I needed the help."
There was a short silence. "You seem distraught, daughter."
"I…" a pause, "I did find it a bit distressing," Finduilas admitted, "I find that…well I was so embarrassed, Mother! But at the same time…it seemed so comfortable, like I could…I can't even explain the feeling. Just that I felt so glad I was able to depend on him." He could hear a slight shyness creeping into her voice.
"Lord Denethor is a good man," Eärwen's voice came, "And I daresay a dependable one." There was a pause, and Denethor heard a sigh from within, "I will only say this, Finduilas, and that you must follow your own heart. Think not of what your father or I will, but do what you would. I trust you, dearest daughter, and think only of your happiness."
"I know," he heard Finduilas answer. "Thank you." There was a pause, and then Eärwen spoke again.
"Let me see your embroidery." A pause. "It is beautiful work, Finduilas. So beautiful it seems impossible that you had only me for a teacher." Finduilas laughed and with her laugh Denethor was jolted from his stupor and reached out to knock on the door.
A moment later, the door swung open to reveal Eärwen on the other side. "Lord Denethor," she said, and both bowed slightly, "Good evening."
"Good evening, my lady," he replied, "I came to inquire about the Lady Finduilas."
"Come in please," Eärwen said, and stepped aside, so his eyes fell on Finduilas. She was seated in a large chair, her bandaged foot upon an ottoman in front of her, and she was smiling.
"You'll have to excuse me," she said as he entered, "As I cannot rise to greet you."
"Do not trouble on my account," Denethor answered, as he met her eyes. "I merely wished to know how you are faring."
"They told me it is not broken, thank Eru. I shall be dancing again in a little more than a week."
"I am glad to hear it, my lady," he answered sincerely.
"Will you sit?" she asked.
"I do not wish to trouble you," Denethor said, "For it is late. But if you would wish it, I shall come tomorrow morning." He watched Finduilas cast a quick glance at her mother from the corner of her eye and saw the almost imperceptible nod Eärwen gave to her daughter. Finduilas' smile grew, and she nodded to Denethor.
"I should very much like that, my lord."
"I shall come," Denethor promised, "Good evening, my ladies." Eärwen rose and walked him to the door, and he bowed as he left, casting a glance toward Finduilas, who was also smiling back at him, and her eyes were shining.
Denethor did go the next morning, and each day after until she could walk for short distances. Then they spent their mornings in the garden, walking slowly up and down among the rose bushes that were a favorite of Eärwen. When her ankle began to ache, they would sit in the warm summer sunshine on one of the stone benches and talk as the sea air brushed over them and the cry of the gulls accompanied their soft voices.
Even after her ankle was completely well, they met every morning in the garden after breakfast, until one morning a month later she did not appear at the customary time. Concerned, he waited nearly an hour, until one of her ladies of waiting appeared, breathless. She bowed hastily, looking nervous, and spoke. "My Lord," she said, "The lady sends her apologies. Her brother was injured this morning, and she cannot leave his side."
"Injured?" Denethor demanded sharply.
"Yes," the girl answered, "I know not how, but he fell from a boat and nearly drowned. I know nothing more than that."
"Thank you," Denethor said, and did not notice as the girl scurried thankfully away, concern on his lordly features. He tried to decide what was best to do, and came only on the conclusion that he could do nothing. Silently he abandoned the summer sunshine in the garden and returned to his quarters to wait.
Night fell and Denethor, having seen nothing of his hosts, ate dinner quietly in his own chambers and then went to bed. Yet sleep was elusive, as his thoughts strayed to young Imrahil. Denethor liked the good-natured young man, and concern kept him awake. He was lying there, thinking, when he heard a soft noise underneath his window, and he slipped from bed and over to the balcony. He saw a figure dimly outlined in the starlight and the soft light from the crescent moon. It was a woman, and she was bent over as if in grief, her hands were pressed to her face. The sounds of weeping came to him. He could not recognize her, not in the dim light, but he turned quickly and, not entirely knowing why, dressed quickly and left his quarters.
When he entered the garden, the woman was still there, seated with her back towards him. He approached slowly, trying to make his footsteps sound on the stone path between the bountiful rosebushes, and when she did not hear him over her weeping he spoke softly. "Excuse me," he said and the woman leapt to her feet in surprise and whirled to face him, the dim moonlight casting itself over her tear streaked face. "Finduilas?" he asked in surprise. She did not speak, merely stood and looked at him, frozen and trembling in her grief. Then suddenly, she was moving, and she threw herself into his arms and buried her face on his shoulder. In an almost reflexive movement, Denethor wrapped his arms around her, and gently stroked her thick dark hair, silent as she wept.
After a time that seemed an eternity, he felt her trembling begin to still, and she carefully pulled away from his arms. "I…am sorry," she finally stammered, as she wiped the final tears from her eyes.
"Nay, my lady, do not apologize," Denethor said, "Come," he took her hand, and led her over to the bench where she had been sitting when he had arrived, drawing her down so she was seated beside him. He did not release her hand. "Tell me what grieves you. Is it your brother?"
"Aye," she answered, and her face fell. "You heard what happened?"
"Aye."
"I fear for him," she told Denethor, "I would do something to aid him, but there is nothing I can do except wait and hope. But hope seems so far away…when they brought him home he was unconscious, and he has not awoken. I can do nothing, and I am so afraid! And then…" Tears began to run down her face again, and she pressed her free hand over her eyes. Denethor shifted his position a little and pulled her to him, and she laid her head on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her.
"And then what?" Denethor prompted softly.
"I can't help but think…I said…"
"What?"
"That I hoped he would fall in…" Denethor thought back to the day they had gone sailing, and remembered her sharp words to her brother.
"My lady," he said gently but firmly, "This is not your fault, and I'm sure your brother would not blame you. He knows you did not truly wish such a thing to happen. It will be all right," the Steward's son whispered, "Do not fear." She pressed more tightly against him, and he felt a rush of pride and strength come over him, and he tightened his hold on the woman in his arms. As he held her, her tears began to slow, and her breathing evened. Yet even then, she did not pull away, but seemed content to remain as she was, though she did not speak. It calmed him, somehow, to have her in his arms, and he made no move to release her. He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly there was a sound at the other end of the garden, and a soft voice calling, "Lady Finduilas?"
Finduilas quickly pulled away from the shelter of Denethor's arms, and jumped to her feet. She met his eyes, and in a moment an expressive gaze that spoke more than the words they had said passed between them. "Thank you," she whispered, taking his hand in hers and giving it a squeeze before she fled down the path to whoever had been calling her.
Denethor did not sleep that night, and spent the next day in his chambers, for the image of her eyes at the moment she had pulled away would not leave him. In that moment he had seen clearly something that he was surprised to see, and the image of it replayed again and again in his mind's eye. He remembered what she had said to her mother, in the conversation he had overheard, that she was glad she could depend on him. In the solitude of his room, with the sound of the waves and the gulls in his ears, he realized he wanted to be depended on. He wanted to give her the strength he had and take from her that which he found comforting. He knew that there was something about her gentle manner and companionship that touched him in a way he had never before been touched. It was welcoming, like the warmth of a spring breeze after the winter's chill.
Denethor rose to his feet and walked to his window. It was sunset, and the world was bathed in soft, reddish light as the sun touched the waves of the ocean in the west. The sounds of homecomings drifted up to him from the wharfs and the houses of the city, mingling with the unceasing sound of the waves crashing on the shore. The sun set earlier these days, a sign of the coming fall, and Denethor was displeased at the thought, for it meant that soon he would be looked for in Minas Tirith. And while he missed his own home and city, the thought of leaving Finduilas was bitter. He sighed as he watched the waves crashing against the shore and the gulls soaring high in the softening light.
Denethor did not know how long he stood there, watching the sun set slowly, thinking of Finduilas and concerned for young Imrahil, before there was a soft knock on the door. "Enter," he called. One of Adrahil's servants appeared, and he bowed low.
"I bring a message from Lady Eärwen," he said, "The Lady Finduilas told her of your concern for Lord Imrahil, and she wishes me to tell you that he awoke an hour ago. He is still in pain, but out of danger, thank the Valar." Denethor smiled, pleased, thinking how happy Finduilas would be, and nodded to the young man.
"Tell her I am thankful for the news, and that if there is anything that I can do, I am at her service."
"I will my lord," the young man answered, and disappeared from his chambers. Denethor paused a moment, feeling the smile still present on his face, and dressed himself and went out into the garden.
He was not in the garden long before she appeared, exhaustion on her face but joy in her eyes. She came over to him quickly, eyes shining in the fading daylight, and a bright smile on her face. "Did you hear?" she asked, her voice merry, as she paused several steps from him.
"I did, my lady," Denethor said, "It was good news indeed."
"Indeed," she said, and her smile did not fade although the color in her face grew deeper as she blushed, suddenly shy, perhaps remembering her boldness of the night before, and turned away from him, bending over to caress and smell one of the roses blooming on the bush beside her. The breeze brushing over them was cool, and neither spoke for a moment, before Denethor spoke slowly.
"The sun sets earlier these days," he began.
"It does," Finduilas answered, a note of sorrow in her voice as she looked out over the ocean towards the sinking sun.
"In Minas Tirith," he continued, "The farmers will be harvesting their crops on the Pelannor in preparation for the winter to come."
"You must miss it," she said softly. "You will depart soon, will you not?"
"Yes," he answered, "My father will be looking for my coming. I shall most likely depart before another week has passed."
"So soon?" she asked, and she turned to him, her usually smiling face serious. In her eyes, he detected sadness.
"I must, my lady. I have enjoyed every moment I have spent here, but by necessity it will end. I have a duty to my Steward and my people."
"I understand," she answered, and in her eyes, mingled with the sorrow he saw there, was understanding. He glanced away from her, to where the stars were beginning to appear in the ever-darkening sky.
"I shall miss you, my lady, when I have gone away." He heard her shift, and felt her eyes upon him again, but he did not look to her. "I have enjoyed my time here."
"As have I," she answered, and her voice was almost a whisper. "I shall miss you as well." Her eyes looked down towards the roses, and the sadness within intensified as she turned to her thoughts. Denethor had the sudden urge to pull her close, to banish the sadness from her eyes by whispering to her that he would not go, that he would never leave her. But that was impossible. As much as he had found happiness in the city by the sea, he had tarried long, and now duty called from his own home to the north, duty that could not be denied or ignored.
He could not stay, but perhaps…for a moment his heart stood still, and then he turned to her and spoke. "I…have grown fond of you, my lady." He took a step forward and reached out to take her hand in his own. She grasped it gladly.
"And I of you," she answered, meeting his intense gaze. Once again, he could read all in her eyes, the sadness she had at the thought of his departure, the love that she bore him. He met her eyes seriously, and spoke quietly.
"I am no longer young, my lady," he said.
"Yet you are not old," Finduilas she said, and reached boldly up to touch his hair. It was a ghost of a touch; he could barely feel it as she shyly stroked the dark hair that was already streaked with strands of gray.
"I am nearly forty-seven," he answered, "That is no longer young, in the count of men in this age of the world."
"And I am nearly twenty-seven," she replied, "That is no longer young, for a woman to be unmarried in this age of the world." Denethor found himself laughing, and in an amused manner, belying the seriousness of the question, asked:
"Perhaps there is something to be done?" She paused in her own laughter, and was suddenly serious, looking up to him with a mixture of surprise and happiness in her eyes as he spoke again. "When I say I am fond of you, my lady, I do not jest," Denethor continued, suddenly desiring to admit all to her, the same way her eyes told all to him. "You have touched me in a way that no other ever has, and I wish...I would wed you, my lady, if you desire it." When she did not speak he continued, "Of course, if you are willing I must gain your father's permission, and that of my own…"
"I am willing," she interrupted. He stopped speaking, and she smiled, shyly again.
"You are?"
"Indeed," she answered. Denethor did not know what to say, and stood there for a moment, smiling in joy, before with a sudden thought his face darkened.
"It means you shall have to leave Dol Amroth behind, my lady," he said seriously then, for he knew how much Finduilas loved her city and her people. She looked at him gravely, and for a moment, Denethor's heart stopped beating, for it almost seemed she would change her mind. But she simply stepped closer to him and, wrapping her arms around him she leaned her head against his chest and shut her eyes. "I know," she said simply.
Denethor breathed again, and slowly wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. "I shall speak with your father in the morning, my lady."
She pulled away. "Yet you still must leave."
"Yes," he answered, "I must, Finduilas, for we cannot be wed ere I get my own father's approval. But I am sure he shall approve, for he has spoken to me many times upon this subject. He is displeased that I have delayed this long, and have remained unwed." Finduilas laughed.
"As is mine," she answered, "He worried that no one would take me, if I waited." She paused, before she spoke again, "But I did not wish to give my heart to any of those who have desired it, until now." She paused, and for the first time, his name slipped from her lips, bare of any titles. "It is yours, Denethor," she whispered, and her eyes met his trustfully.
"Finduilas…" he whispered back, and his hand sought her hair, and he smiled. It was not often that he could find no words to speak, but he did not understand why she had chosen him over all others, when he was a stern man twice her age. She smiled back at him, and spoke.
"Do not ask why," she advised him gently, as she pulled away, "It is a joyful thing, and should not be questioned. Instead, be grateful that we have found each other, and can remain together, for surely it will be." She cast her glance back across the ocean again, and her smile faded only slightly. "I shall always remember this night, though the years pass, as the happiest and most beautiful of my life." She smiled up at him, and he leaned down and kissed her, gently, for he knew no other way of showing his emotions to her.
He pulled away, and her eyes opened slowly to regard him with the deep, emotional way he now saw she had. "Goodnight, my lord," she whispered, and slipped from the garden.
Author's Note: And we all know what happened next. I think I am going to write the next parts (or at least bits of the next parts) of this story, but I think this bit stands by itself. Series, maybe? Who knows. Depends on what weird fancy Cicero the Penguin Muse chooses to take. Anyway, please review if you have the time and give me any sort of comments that you feel necessary to give me. Thankies for reading! --Nat