Author's Note: I am so, so sorry for the wait! I had one heck of a case of writer's block, plus classwork and no time to force myself through the incredible creative rut I found myself in. But here it is. Thank you SO much to Fayth for giving me the idea that got me through the block and allowed me to finish this! Please read and review if you have the time! --Nat
Disclaimer: Still don't own them, still have nothing but bills and homework, both of which you're welcome to if you really want them.
An Autumn of Joy
By
Stargazer Nataku
Denethor quashed a yawn as he walked the halls of Minas Tirith. It was already late, for he had been in councils all day. Lords from many parts of Gondor had assembled, and it was time-consuming to work through all they had to discuss. He hoped that Finduilas was not angry, for this was already the seventh day he had left before dawn only to return late into the night, when most of the city already slept.
He opened the door to their chambers slowly, for he expected his wife to already have retired. Yet he was surprised to find the fire roaring and the candles still lit. Finduilas herself was asleep, curled up in her armchair before the fire with a book of old tales that he had given her on their first anniversary lying open in her lap.
Denethor walked soundlessly over and knelt before her, regarding her face, relaxed in sleep. It was at these moments he found her the most beautiful, for she was completely unguarded and her face was clear of any emotion save peace. His weariness faded as happiness welled up in his heart as it always did when he looked upon her. Slowly, he moved forward and up, closing his eyes as he gently kissed her sleep-smoothed brow. When he pulled back and opened his eyes, Finduilas' green eyes were open and smiling sleepily back at him. She laughed softly, as she took his hand in her own, and spoke. "I was going to wait up for you," she said, smiling.
"You did not have to."
"I know," she answered as she closed the book on her lap and leaned forward. "I missed you," she whispered the instant before her lips met his. Denethor lost himself in her arms and, as it always was when she kissed him; in every part of his being he felt how much he loved her and how joyful he was to have her to return to every night, when the work of the day was over and only a memory until the next morning.
"I missed you too," he told her as they pulled apart. She smiled and reached out to take his other hand.
"You are weary," she said, "Come. I had Isëlmra bring some dinner for you. You can eat, and then take some rest. Its late, and we both ought to sleep."
"You spoil me," Denethor said, rising to her feet and drawing her with him. Together, hand and hand, they walked over to the table where a simple meal of bread and cheese was waiting. They sat and he glanced at the table, "There is only one plate. Will you not join me?"
"No, thank you," she answered, "I am not hungry." Denethor buttered a piece of bread and regarded her in the firelight, noticing that she seemed paler and thinner than usual.
"Are you well, Finduilas?" he asked her in concern. She returned his concerned look with a reassuring smile.
"I am fine," she answered, "I have just been tired lately, that is all." Denethor regarded her critically.
"You seem thinner."
"Please do not worry over me," Finduilas insisted, "You have enough cares already, beloved. I am all right." He watched her rise and walk around the small table. He opened his arms and she settled into his lap, leaning her head against his shoulder. Denethor wrapped his arms around her and for a long moment, they sat silently, simply enjoying each other's company. "I love you Denethor," Finduilas whispered after some time, and she pulled away slightly. "Does the council meet again tomorrow?" She made no mention of the many days they had already taken in council with each other.
"Yes," he answered, "It will be several days yet before we are able to finish. There is much to discuss."
"So it seems," Finduilas answered, and she smiled and carefully brushed her hand through his shoulder length hair, tucking it gently back behind one of his ears. "Would it not be best for you to get some sleep then?"
"Yes," he answered, "And you ought to as well. You look as tired as I." She smiled, and kissed him, and they both rose to prepare for bed.
Three nights later, he arrived in their chambers just after sunset and shut the door quietly behind him, hoping to surprise his wife with his early arrival. Instead, he found an empty room, and the door to the balcony standing open. He heard voices from outside, even though it was mid-winter and the night was cold.
"I have already told you, my lady." he heard Isëlmra's voice say, "And the healer confirmed it, as best he can." At the mention of a healer, Denethor's heart froze in his chest. However, the next words, in his wife's voice, filled him with a fear that was beyond anything he had ever felt before.
"I am frightened," he heard his wife's voice answer.
"I know, my dear. But you should not fear. Now, can I get you something to eat?"
"No, thank you," Finduilas answered, "The smell of food alone is enough to make me ill."
"You must eat, Finduilas," her former nurse said, in a tone that would be used to speak to a wayward child, "I'll get you some tea, and maybe a few crackers." She then added in a softer voice, and Denethor could imagine her patting his wife on the shoulder, "Don't worry dear, all will be well."
Denethor remained standing in the doorway, even as Isëlmra bustled through the doorway and caught sight of him. "Oh! Lord Denethor! The Lady is on the balcony." She bowed quickly and, with a worried glance towards him, quickly disappeared. It was only a moment later that Finduilas appeared, wrapped in the deep blue cloak her mother had made. She caught his gaze with a smile, and he found himself unable to react. He could not speak, for fear still clutched his heart, and she came over to him with a smile and kissed him, but he felt as though he were frozen and could not respond.
"Denethor?" she asked, pulling away and looking up into his face with concern in her green eyes, "What is the matter, beloved?" He forced himself to speak.
"I could ask you the same," he said. The smile on her face faded. "Why did you not tell me you have been ill?"
"I did not wish to worry you," she said softly, looking away from him.
"What is wrong, Finduilas?" He reached out to her, suddenly feeling the need to hold her, and she melted into his arms.
"Nothing is wrong," she answered, and he pulled away.
"But she spoke of healers, and you said that you are frightened!"
"I am frightened," she told him softly, and then looked up to meet his eyes. "I am with child."
That had not been the answer Denethor was expecting, and for a long moment, he just stared down at his wife, in such a state of surprise that he could say nothing, do nothing except grip her arms where he still held her.
"With child…" he finally repeated.
"Yes," she answered, and he could see she was searching his face for a reaction, any reaction to what she had said. There was a flash of fear in her eyes, and that was what he needed, for it made the entire situation coalesce into a single emotion: joy. He pulled her to him, holding her tightly as he sought to find the words to give voice to his happiness. It was hard, though many considered him eloquent, and he finally gave up. Instead, he leaned in and kissed her, trying to convey all the feelings that were swarming about within him within that one kiss. When he pulled away, she began to laugh, and her eyes sparkled again, though she still looked tired and pale. Denethor smiled, feeling as though his face would split apart.
Finduilas embraced him again, and she was the one to break the silence. "I was wrong to fear, when you are with me," she said softly, "I am so happy, Denethor."
"Happy cannot even begin to describe this…" he said, stroking her hair tenderly as he smiled down at her, "Did they guess at how long…"
"Late summer," she told him, "In August, or maybe early September." He smiled.
"That is near the day I was born," Denethor said proudly.
"Indeed," his wife answered merrily, "We shall see how near." Denethor hugged her again.
"He will be perfect."
Denethor returned to his quarters, seeking his wife, and found her sitting in her chair, her swollen feet resting on an ottoman, her hands resting on her growing stomach. When he had walked in, her eyes had been closed, but they opened as he entered. "Denethor," she said with a smile, as he walked over to kneel beside the chair. "How fare you?" he asked her.
"All right," she answered, "Slightly weary. The baby is getting its exercise." Denethor reached out and laid his hand on his wife's abdomen, feeling the baby kicking.
"He certainly is," Denethor commented, sharing a look of joy with his wife.
"It could be a girl you know," Finduilas stated.
"I do not think so," Denethor told his wife, conviction in his voice, "It will be a boy." He leaned forward and kissed her gently. "Would you like to go for a walk in the garden?" Finduilas' eyes lit up, and Denethor felt both pleased and ashamed that a simple suggestion could create such joy in her face. He was pleased that he could cause her to be so excited with such a simple suggestion of a walk with him, and ashamed he could not bring such joy to her face more often. Yet he pushed these thoughts away and offered her his hands, helping her to her feet and holding to her until she had awkwardly gained her balance.
"Who's the oliphaunt now?" she asked jokingly.
"You're beautiful," Denethor assured her, offering her his arm as they began to walk. She was huge, and she was indeed awkward, but he had told the truth, for the thought that their child was getting closer to being born made all the difference.
The garden, as Denethor had promised on their wedding night, was filled with rosebushes and the stone paths were kept swept clean. They walked slowly around the garden twice, pausing often to smell the roses, and on the third circuit they sat down on the stone bench, for Finduilas tired easily. They sat in silence and Denethor was content to do so, for he loved their silences as well as their conversations, and the day was beautiful. It was warm, and the sun was shining brightly, making the white stone of the city gleam brightly. From the city he loved, his gaze fell on his wife, and he noticed the firm set in her mouth and the distant look in her eyes that signaled she was deep in thought. "What are you thinking?" he asked softly.
"I was thinking of Dol Amroth," she admitted, "The days we spent in our garden there and of my family…my mother mostly. I guess…I was wishing she could be here, with me, when our child is born."
"Send for her," Denethor suggested.
"I would not think of it," Finduilas answered instantly, "She has never been so far from home, and to have her come so far now? No, it is absurd. I can be strong, if you are near. I must." Denethor frowned but did not say anything further, for he knew from his wife's tone that she would not be swayed by any arguments. Yet at the same time, Denethor suspected that in Dol Amroth, Eärwen was waiting for word of her only daughter, and possibly even desired to make the journey. But Finduilas would not ask. Denethor cast a glance at his wife and made up his mind.
Denethor handed the messenger the letter Finduilas had written her family, and then, from his own pocket, withdrew a letter from himself. "I also need you to deliver this, along with the lady's letter and those from my father," he told the young man, as he glanced around to be sure his wife was not near, "It is a request that the Lady Eärwen return to the city with you, to be with my wife when the child is born. If she accepts, be sure that she is comfortable on her journey, and send word ahead of you upon your return so I can prepare to meet her."
"Of course, my lord," the man answered.
"And remember, my wife is to know nothing of this," Denethor ordered. "Return as quickly as you may."
"Yes, my lord," the man said and with a bow, disappeared.
Denethor was working in his small study, reading some old manuscripts, when there was a knock on the door. When bid, one of his pages entered and bowed. "My lord, we have just received word that the ship has returned from the south. My Lady's mother and brother have indeed come, and they will arrive in the city within an hour."
"Good," Denethor answered, "Have the guest chambers prepared, and notify the kitchens. And make sure my wife knows nothing of this."
"Of course, my lord," the man said with another bow as he shut the door behind him. Denethor rolled up the scroll he had been reading and straightened his study. When this was finished, he went out and down to the stables, where he had his horse saddled. His thoughts went to Finduilas, who knew nothing of this, and hoped she would not be angry. She was a stubborn woman in some ways. Well, Denethor decided, she could be as angry as she wanted, for it was too late, now they were here.
He mounted, and with a few guards of the Citadel rode down through the city to meet them. He did not have long to wait, for soon Eärwen and Imrahil came into view, riding among a group of guards. Eärwen was very pale, and she rode close beside her son, looking straight ahead. She radiated nervousness from her straight posture to the way her thin hands gripped the reins.
Beside her, Imrahil rode easily, calmly, and Denethor decided that the young man had left childhood behind. He rode with a confident, noble air, yet when he saw Denethor he smiled, and the youth Denethor had first known was once again before him.
Then they were before him and Denethor smiled. "Greetings, brother!" Imrahil said cheerfully, and he reached out and clasped Denethor's hand in a gesture of friendship.
"Welcome," Denethor answered, and turned to Eärwen. He felt sorry for his wife's mother; it was clear that the trip had been trying for her. "It is good to see you once again, my lady. I thank you for journeying all this way."
"The pleasure is mine," she answered, and managed a smile, "How fares my daughter?"
"She is well," Denethor told her as he turned his horse and started up the city street, "She is very tired now, but the sickness is gone."
"And in spirit?"
"She is happy," Denethor answered, "But afraid also, though she does not say it aloud."
"It is
always so with the first child," Eärwen said, "Does she know we are here?"
"Nay. I wished to surprise her," Denethor answered,
"She is too considerate and would never have asked you to come herself."
"I had hoped she would ask," the older woman admitted, "When we received no word that she wished me, I thought I should have to wait for the news to come she had delivered. But I am glad I did not have to. I worry for her."
"As do I," Denethor agreed, "But all will be well. She will be glad to see you, even though she will be angry at me for meddling."
"Do they say how soon the baby will be born?"
"You have come just in time," Denethor told her, "They say it shall be born at any time." Eärwen smiled broadly, as if she were already seeing herself holding her first grandchild. They were silent then, until they rode into the courtyard of the Citadel. Denethor dismounted and, as Imrahil held the bridle of his mother's horse, Denethor offered his hand to her. She took it and gracefully dismounted, as several pages came over and took the reins of their horses. One came to Denethor, and bowed before he spoke. "Isëlmra told me the lady is in your chambers, my lord, if you wish to find her."
"Thank you," he answered, and turned to his in-laws. "Shall we go straight there?"
"Yes," Eärwen agreed instantly. Denethor smothered a smile and nodded.
"This way."
They made their way through the Citadel until they reached the quarters he and Finduilas shared. He motioned for Lady Eärwen and Imrahil to step back a moment, and he opened the door and stepped in, not closing it behind him. Finduilas was seated in her chair, sewing, concentrating hard on the small shirt she was making. She heard the door open and, startled, looked up to see him. "Denethor!" she said with a smile, "What a surprise! It is the middle of the day!"
"Well," he said, "The ship has just come from Dol Amroth, and I though you would wish to know that your father sent a few presents for you and the baby."
"He did? That is just like Father…I'll come directly," she said, and made a motion to push herself up.
"Do not trouble yourself," Denethor said quickly, a twinkle in his eye as he anticipated her surprise, "I brought them here to you."
"You did?" She looked at him for a moment, and then spoke, suspicion in her voice. "Denethor, what are you hiding?" He laughed, took two steps back to the door, and flung it wide open.
"This," he answered as Eärwen and Imrahil suddenly came into view.
Denethor watched as Finduilas' mouth dropped open in surprise, as she looked from her mother to her brother and back again. He laughed at her speechlessness, and the laugh was what she needed. He expected that if she had been able, she would have jumped to her feet and raced to her mother; however, as pregnant as she was, she could not stand easily and he had to help her to her feet so she could embrace her mother. When she was finally able to speak, her voice came out breathless, tears in her eyes, "Oh, mother," she said, clinging to the older woman, "I am glad to see you!" She pulled away and looked at her mother's face in amazement, as if reminding herself of every line and feature on her mother's face.
"But not me?" Imrahil asked, pretending to be hurt. Finduilas pulled away from her mother and threw her arms around her brother.
"Of course you!" she said, "Don't be ridiculous, Imrahil!"
"You've changed," Imrahil said sternly, "I knew that living in Minas Tirith would make you fat, dear sister, but I can barely get my arms around you!"
"Oh very funny," Finduilas answered, and finally turned to Denethor, who had stepped back a few paces from the reunion. "And you, husband!" she said, and Denethor said a quick prayer that she was not angry. "You did this!"
"Yes," Denethor answered slowly.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded. Denethor caught a quick glance from Imrahil, and knew the young man was enjoying the spectacle before him, probably knowing from personal experience what it was like to be in the position Denethor was in.
"I wished to surprise you," Denethor answered as calmly as he could. Please do not let her be angry… he thought, sending it vehemently to whoever may be listening.
"Well you have!" she answered, and suddenly her frown turned to a smile, and the light shone in her tear-filled eyes. "Doing what you think is best, as usual." She shook her head, and the smile on her face and in her eyes was enough to thank him.
"I brought a letter from your father, dear," Eärwen said to her daughter after the moment had ended, and drew it from her pocket. Finduilas took it, opened it, and read it. It had only been a minute when she laughed and turned to her husband, and handed him the note.
My dearest daughter,
Though I could not come to you, I think of you always, and miss you as much as the day you left us. I am glad you have found your happiness there, as is obvious from the letters you have sent to us.
You are about to enter the happiest time in your life, my Finduilas, if my life can be used as any indication, yet it is a big change. I wish you and your child health and happiness, and I send you your mother for your comfort, and Imrahil for Denethor's. Make use of both, for I am sure you shall need them. Valar bless you, dearest daughter!
-Father
"You had best do your duty!" he heard Finduilas saying to her brother, and he handed back the letter with a smile.
"I am honor bound to it," Imrahil answered seriously, though his eyes were sparkling. Finduilas laughed. Denethor smiled, and shook his head at both, though his eyes strayed most often to Finduilas' face, and the way her eyes were shining.
Denethor awoke and opened his eyes. It was pitch black in their room, for there was no moon and, the night being uncharacteristically warm, they had allowed the fire to die. Since he never awoke at night, Denethor was instantly curious as to why he had now. Beside him, his wife's breathing was slow and even, and there was nothing that should have signaled him to wakefulness.
He turned over, closing his eyes again, and had almost slipped back into sleep when he heard Finduilas' breath hitch in a small gasp. He sat straight up in bed, reaching out for his wife's shoulder in the dark.
"Finduilas?" he asked in a whisper, mentally cursing the darkness as he attempted to find her. He heard her shift, and when she spoke, he used her voice to locate her.
"I am awake," she answered.
"Are you well?" he asked, his voice betraying his concern. When she answered, her voice was calm but he detected a note of hidden fear.
"I think you had best send for my mother," she told him, as her voice hitched again, "I think it is time." Denethor squeezed her shoulder where he held it and jumped from the bed, attempting to make his way over to the wardrobe to find his robe.
With a muffled curse of irritation, he tripped over a chair and proceeded to fall forward, catching himself only just in time on the table. "Are you all right?" came his wife's worried voice from the darkness.
"Fine, fine," he answered, straightening himself and ignoring the throbbing in his shins. He corrected his course, and a moment later, found the wardrobe. After only a moment of fumbling, he found the knob and reached in to where he knew his robe was hanging. Annoyed he could not move more quickly, he threw the robe on and made his way slowly in the pitch blackness to the door.
How he managed to find the handle, Denethor would never be sure, but he managed to get into the torch lit hallway and from there was able to hurry to get everything readied, even as his heart pounded nervously in his chest.
Above all else, Denethor detested waiting. He had tried working to make the time pass more quickly, but his worry and excitement had made that impossible. So instead, he had retreated to the corridor near where Finduilas lay, sometimes seated on the stone bench there, sometimes pacing when he could no longer stand being motionless. The day was wearing away, and the sun was nearly to the horizon.
Imrahil had been sitting on the bench for the better part of the afternoon, watching as Denethor paced or sat, never motionless. He was watching him now, pacing back and forth in the hallway. "She will be all right," he said. Denethor stopped and looked over at the young man. Imrahil met his gaze calmly.
"And you know," Imrahil added, "Pacing will not make time pass more quickly."
"I know," Denethor answered, and forced himself to sit by Imrahil on the bench. They sat motionless for a long moment before Denethor sighed, got up, and resumed pacing. When he caught the younger man's questioning look, he spoke. "It may not make the time pass more quickly, but it relieves me," he said, in a voice that dared the other man to protest. Imrahil raised his hands in a gesture that Denethor interpreted as acquiescence, and Denethor felt pleased, continuing to pace.
He could feel Imrahil watching him closely, though it was several minutes before the younger man spoke again. "You know, the winter when my sister was seventeen," he began, "She fell very ill, so ill that no one thought she would recover. Yet throughout the whole time she was in bed, she claimed there was absolutely nothing the matter with her, and kept insisting that there was absolutely no reason to fuss." Imrahil laughed. "If you had seen her in those days…Mother and Isëlmra were holding her in bed and insisting that there was a reason that she remain there, while she was trying her hardest to leave it." Denethor paused and looked at his brother in law, who continued speaking after a short pause, "I remember those days very well, though I was only eight, for Mother and Father scarcely spoke, save in whispers, and looked grave as they never do.
"I remember they would not let me see her, after she grew too ill to protest, but I went anyway one night, after all were asleep, and the nurse had left her for a moment. I was frightened, for she was very pale, and she did not move but lay as though she were dead. But I never doubted that she would get well. Call it childish faith if you wish, but I knew that she was strong, and I knew that, as she had insisted before she grew too ill to speak, she would get better, that there was no reason to worry.
"She was right. When I went to her after I was once again allowed to see her, I told her how worried I had been and she laughed and said 'Brother, you need not fear. I am fine. Something this trivial would not take me." Imrahil paused. "She is indeed a stubborn woman, and was not about to let anything such as that illness to defeat her. It will be the same way this time." He paused and then he smiled broadly. "But I never will forget how insistent she was…she certainly fought Mother and Isëlmra with everything she had, until she was too exhausted to fight any more. Then she would say, with as much dignity as she could muster in her fevered voice, 'I am weary. I think I shall rest now,' as if she had not spent the better part of an hour fighting to get out of bed!" Imrahil chuckled, and Denethor found himself laughing as well, for it seemed so much like his wife that he could not help it. He went to sit down beside Imrahil.
"I find it amusing that she was insisting she get out of bed," Denethor said, with a chuckle, "Considering the time it takes for her to awake in the morning!" Imrahil laughed.
"She has always been like that! Why, when I was a child, I used to sneak into her room in the morning and do all sorts of things to try to wake her up, and none ever worked. One morning, when I was finally fed up with waiting for her to awake, I took a small pitcher of cold water and poured it over her as she slept. She still would not awake quickly!" Both men laughed long over this.
"I see that Imrahil is doing his duty faithfully," a voice interrupted, and suddenly Denethor was all seriousness, jumping to his feet to greet his mother in law, who was smiling broadly.
"Is it…" he asked, his voice trailing off.
"It is ended," Eärwen told him, her smile spreading, "You have a son, and both Finduilas and the child are well."
"A son," Denethor stated, a smile spreading across his own face, "May I go in now?"
"Indeed you may," Eärwen said with a smile, "If you would like I shall send word to your father."
"Thank you," he said with a nod, as he rose to his feet, and turned to Imrahil with a smile, meeting the younger man's eyes. His brother in law smiled back and clasped his hand, "Congratulations."
"Would you like to join me?" Denethor asked, and for a moment the younger man looked as though he would accept, but then he smiled and shook his head.
"I will wait a moment," Imrahil decided.
"All right," Denethor acquiesced, and he turned and went down the hall. When he reached the door, he paused, his hand on the handle for a brief moment as he allowed his excitement and, though he would never admit it to anyone else, his apprehension to rise within him. He pondered that nervousness momentarily, for it was uncharacteristic of him to feel that way and, as he always did, he felt the need to think it through. It all came down to the newness of the situation; he had certainly never held a child of any sort, much less his own son. My son… Denethor thought, and the nervousness was replaced with a swell of pride as he abandoned his thoughts and opened the door.
Finduilas was in bed, the afternoon sun streaming into the room and across the bed where she lay, a small bundle in her arms. She turned to meet his eyes and she smiled at him, and beckoned for him to come closer. Denethor crossed the room and perched himself on the edge of the bed. Her smile did not fade as he leaned over and she carefully pulled the blanket back, and he looked upon his son for the first time.
Denethor was amazed at how small he was, how delicate he looked as he slept. He reached out and gently touched the baby's forehead, brushing back the soft wisps of hair there, and nearly forgot everything else. "Do you want to hold him?" his wife asked softly, and Denethor met her eyes and forced himself to refrain from drawing her to him. Instead he nodded, and reached out as his wife carefully laid the baby in his arms.
"He's beautiful," Denethor whispered, moving closer to his wife on the bed. She leaned up next to him, resting her head on his shoulder as she looked down at their son.
"Yes, he is," she agreed, "Our son." Denethor liked the way that sounded. He liked the look she wore on her face as she looked at the baby. And he knew, for the second time in his life, a burning love for another, this time in the form of the baby that was now asleep in his arms.
"He still needs a name, Denethor," Finduilas whispered, smiling up at her husband, "What shall it be, for whatever you choose shall please me." Denethor stared at her, speechless, surprised by the great gift she gave to him. "Please, beloved," she said, "I wish you to." Denethor stared down at the little baby, sound asleep in his arms. His son. Almost without thought, a name suddenly entered his mind, and he spoke it softly.
"Boromir." Finduilas smiled, and then she too repeated it.
"I think it is perfect, beloved," she told him, "Boromir he shall be." She reached out and smoothed the blanket even as their son stirred and there was a soft knock on the door. Isëlmra, who had been straightening the chamber, scurried over to the door at a nod from her mistress and opened it a crack, peering out into the hall before opening it with a smile.
Imrahil and Ecthelion entered the room together and made their way quietly over to the bed to the couple. The Steward leaned over and regarded his grandson with eyes that appeared to be seeing another birth, half a century earlier. He met his son's eyes with a question in them, and Denethor nodded, carefully transferring the baby to his father.
Denethor watched as his father's stern face melted into a smile as the elderly Steward looked down into the sleeping infant's face as tears formed in his faded grey eyes. Denethor reached out and sought his wife's hand where it lay, and their fingers entwined as they watched Ecthelion hold their son. For a moment no one spoke, until Ecthelion raised his eyes from the baby in his arms and met first his son's and then his daughter in law's eyes. As he spoke his voice caught in his throat. "He is beautiful. Have you chosen a name?"
"Denethor has," Finduilas answered, "It is Boromir." Ecthelion smiled and turned back to the baby in his arms.
"Boromir," he repeated, and beamed down at the child for a long moment more before he moved to give the baby back to Denethor; however, as Denethor reached out to grab the baby, Imrahil cleared his throat and Finduilas laughed.
"Husband, dear," she said, "I do believe my brother wishes a turn." Ecthelion stopped mid-movement and turned to give the baby to the young man, who took him carefully just as the baby stirred and opened his eyes, one balled fist swinging wildly to strike Imrahil's arm. Imrahil laughed quietly, merriment sparkling in his eyes, and told the smiling parents and grandfather: "I think you have a little warrior here," he said as he took one hand and grasped the small hand that had hit him, "Though I fear it will be some time before he'll have any strength to back that spirit up. When that time comes," he whispered to his nephew, "I'll be happy to accept your challenge."
"And I'm sure he will be able to defeat you soundly, Imrahil," the proud mother promised, as she was interrupted by a yawn. Denethor glanced down at her, and then rose from the bed, taking the baby from Imrahil's arms, and both his father and brother in law took it as the sign that it was, leaving the room with one last whispered congratulations. Isëlmra came over as well, taking Boromir from his father and laying him in his cradle. After a few words to her lady, she quietly slipped through a different door into a small room to the side where she was to sleep until Finduilas was stronger.
Denethor helped Finduilas lie down and then pulled her into his arms as she lay beside him. "Thank you," he whispered to her as he kissed her forehead where it lay on his shoulder, "I never imagined it was possible to be so happy. I cannot imagine how life could be any more perfect than it is."
"It is indeed perfect," Finduilas whispered. "I love you, Denethor."
"I love you also, dearest Finduilas," he answered, pressing another kiss to her forehead before pulling away to look down at her. Her eyes had already fallen shut, and he recognized that she was asleep. With a chuckle, Denethor himself lay back down and closed his eyes, allowing a contented sleep to wash over him as well.