G. POV
Usual Disclaimer, not mine etc, although to be honest Finduilas isn't his name, and the rest is creative, so Ha! It is mine! All mine! Except of course for all the images I stole from the bard, and that line of Byron's. Well, if they want it back I'll challenge them to a game of Candyland, winner takes all.
Just a little inner monologue for Denethor, I love him so much. If you have read What I Would Have, my long tribute to him, just stick it in after their wedding night. It's not really the same style or voice, but it does fit. Ok I need a little romanticism, and I feel really bad about writing so much sad stuff. Next story is going to be happy, happy, happy. Think happy thoughts. Tip of the pen to Byron, you know - just a little help here and there. Now who knew the old man had so much poetry in him?
There is a feast in the great hall tonight, and for many nights hereafter. It is summer, and the windows are thrown open. The afternoon light falls freely, and sweet mountain breezes sway the gay banners, and make the candles upon the table dance. On the table are fruits from all lands and many fine dishes, each arrayed with flowers. The glasses are crystal, filled with wine brought out only for such occasions, wine from the time of kings, the grapes from Numenor, and from lands beyond. I haven't had a drop to drink yet. I almost fear to do so. There are beautifully embroidered cloths upon each table, trimmed in gold. The whole room sparkles almost too much to behold, like the sea on a bright morning. The guests are at ease and merriment, fair and noble from every realm and land under the protection of Gondor. Tonight they are content, at ease. There are no politics tonight; no man had strife with another. There are several minstrels to talk away the evening, right now they sing joyous songs. Like the caroling of birds, and the birds indeed join in. Such music is pleasing to listen to; it makes you wish to rise and dance, or just listen in the stillness with pleasure. Music that is beautiful for its own sake. But I have heard sweeter music, once you have heard my wife sigh your name all other sounds can be but noise. All this grandeur, the golden and wonderful afternoon, the sort of feast that comes but once or twice in a lifetime, this is for me. It is my wedding feast, one of several, and it is for her as well, my new wife.
My wife sits across from me. My wife. For almost a full day now she has been mine. I have seen other brides mourn for their homes in the days after the nuptials. I have seen other maids that fear their husbands, or sit awkwardly in their presence. I have watched other couples fall to the dull strains of married life, filling in emptiness with complaints and demands. None of those fears are with me now; indeed, none of those things are possible. She holds a cup in her hand, and I swear it is the hand makes the glass sparkle. There are many lights in the room, but she outshines them all. I marvel that the other ladies would sit in the hall for shame. They only have the ordinary beauty of women. They may have comely features, silks, and jewels, but she surpasses all finery; my wife is dressed simply tonight. She needs no such ornament; it would only be a distraction. She is made of starlight and sunshine together. I would compare her to flowers but they are too near the earth. What earthly rapture it is to run my lips over that skin, to feel that flesh touch close to mine. I know it could not possibly be flesh, for no mortal touch could do what she does to me. Silk made of Mithril, white as snow, warm as sunshine, and so soft, so radiant. My whole life and being becomes just a kiss to give her, each kiss another eternity, another life. Tonight and for a lifetime of nights to come, she is mine.
Then my wife looks at me across the table. Named for an elven princess, Finduilas. It is she who brings beauty to that name. The name is still strange upon my tongue, for I alone may call her that without reserve. I do reserve it; I say it as quietly as a prayer. In public I like to call her my wife. I have said it a score of times already at this dinner alone. I love the way those words sound, an honor, a triumph, a benediction. She looks at me across the table and to see her laugh is to view every dawn since the beginning of the world. All their blushing pinks are in her cheeks, their fire in her blue eyes. She is laughing at me, for I have fallen silent again. I do not care who knows I am in love with her. She makes me forget all the burdens and cares of my life. She makes me not care.
About me there is a roar of laughter, and she gestures that I must acknowledge it, draw my attention to something other than her. It is very hard to do; I could not bear it except that by turning my eyes from her I may have the joy of beholding her anew. These are foolish thoughts of course, I have been acting the fool tonight I am sure. I will tell her these thoughts later, and it will make her laugh again.
She, in turn, seems lost in thought now. She does not heed the others, the finery, and the grandeur. She sees only me. And she smiles upon what she sees. Her eyes are alight to behold me. Her face smiles at my happiness. Her mind is fixed upon my words. Her lips, supple ruby petals, move to form my name. The minstrels begin to sing and I cannot hear them. To be loved by such a lady is a wonder beyond all tales and stories. I know it is love, and I feel it is glory.