A/N: Just when Tolkien was beginning to think he could rest easy, I joined a ficathon featuring Denethor and Finduilas. And Pratchett began to relax, I returned Denethor to L-Space. Their characters belong to them, and this chapter goes to the author Edorass Lass and the artist Chmiel for their inspiration for Faramir's acting abilities.
"Denethor!" Finduilas appeared at the door to his study, white with rage. A crumpled parchment was fisted angrily in her hand. "Look what that… that beast left in the library." The paper was thrust towards him as if it were a gift from Sauron himself. "What if our children had found it first?"
Denethor calmly smoothed the crumpled sheet, righted it, and read the title. He was fighting a smirk three words in. "Havelock, you bastard," he intoned expressionlessly. "Now you understand why we wanted to add a scorpion pit in the dungeon?" he asked his wife.
"Don't start on that. There must be some way to cut off these creatures without endangering the servants or my boys." The Lady of Gondor crossed her arms firmly, but her husband could tell that the rage was beginning to drain from her; and with it her burst of strength.
"Come, Finduilas, you know I'll find something." He opened his arms to her, and she joined him in the chair. "Havelock didn't mean to frighten you or the boys; he simply thought he had found an amusing distraction for me." A better distraction than he may have intended, Denethor added to himself, kissing her hair. "Besides, I doubt the boys could read it. I can't make out half of what this so-called 'author' intended."
"My babies would never grow up that way," Finduilas growled softly.
"And I would never do that to them, or their beloveds. Though I wouldn't accept a Haradric girl at my Boromir's side without some very careful background checks," the Steward reassured her.
In the still-open doorway, a small face peeked around the corner. "S'ory, Papa?" their younger son asked hopefully, seeing his mother curled up in his father's lap.
"Not right now, Faramir." Denethor stashed Havelock's "present" under a pile of reports. Perhaps he could read it later.
"'Es, Papa," the three-year-old responded dutifully.
"Come cuddle with us, Faramir," Finduilas called to him before he could toddle away from the office. The boy's face lit up, and he happily clambered up between his parents. "Where is your brother, though? I thought Boromir said he was going to help watch you today."
"I was a kitty t'day. Nanny says we can't have kitties in th' room." Faramir looked rather proud of his acting abilities.
His parents exchanged glances over his head. "I'll get him and see if he can explain," Denethor sighed. Havelock hardly had to send him stories for the Steward to find sufficient distractions on the nanny's day off. Still, as he came back to the office, a rather guilty-looking Boromir in tow, Denethor reflected that he wouldn't have it any other way. Now all he needed was to find a sufficently ample distraction for the Patrician. It was much easier, when folk considered you evil.