"By the Valar, Findi, didn't it occur to you that the guest chambers might all be filled?" Imrahil asked, from his desk where he worked.
"Of course," Finduilas said. "But I had thought that particular bedroom was unoccupied. It never occurred to me that Denethor might be residing in it. I thought he was put in the Seashell Room."
"Apparently it smelled," Imrahil said, pausing in his writing. He turned in his seat to gaze at Finduilas. "He didn't…take advantage of you, did he?"
"Not exactly," she said, crossing her arms. "But he was still… forceful. I was frightfully afraid."
Imrahil narrowed his blue-grey eyes, so much like their father's. Unlike her elder sister and younger brother, Finduilas had inherited the black eyes of their mother. She sighed. "He did not take advantage of me—but I was still frightened. I was wearing nothing but my shift! I was sure he would…" she shivered slightly, hugging herself tighter. "More than anything, I am embarrassed. Humiliated. Not to mention I overheard him speaking to his men this afternoon and…"
"And what?" Imrahil asked.
"You wouldn't want to know," Finduilas replied.
"Nothing… unseemly?"
"Of a sort," Finduilas replied. At the outraged look on Imrahil's face, she said. "He said Ivriniel was too boring to marry."
"Well, that certainly isn't surprising," Imahrail said. "Though clearly below the belt. Wait…" he frowned. "Marry? Is that why he came here, to find a wife?"
"Oh—I don't know," Finduilas said. "But regardless, I doubt Ivriniel is on the top of his pecking list."
"And what about you?" Imrahil asked carefully.
"He said I was too 'indecorous' to marry, and that I was 'unsuitable to be any man's wife.'"
"He said what?" Imrahil asked, eyes widening. "How dare—"
Finduilas shook her head. "You can't challenge him, Immy. He's the son of the steward—to be completely honest, I can understand why his father wants him to marry 'Vri or I, but…" she shook her head. "I won't do it. I won't marry him."
"Looks like you won't have to make the choice," Imrahil said. "But still… I always thought Denethor to be a decent sort of chap. This is… well, my opinion of him has certainly plummeted."
"Indeed," Finduilas said, sitting down heavily. "I'm not sure what I will do."
"Surely he did not say it to anyone with a propensity for gossip?" Imrahil asked.
"No, just to his men," Finduilas said. "But the point is that I cannot abide my reputation being slandered even in secret."
"Nor can I," Imrahil said firmly. "What should we do?"
Finduilas narrowed her eyes. "I want to make him eat his words," she said. "Regret them beyond all reckoning."
Imrahil raised an eyebrow, and she blushed. "I know," she said, laughter in her voice. "Too dramatic as always. But the things he said about me—if anyone found out, I'd be ruined! At least this way I could have some fun without—before things hit the mud."
Imrahil nodded slowly. "You could always… make him literally regret his words."
"What?" she turned to look at her brother, before letting out a surprised laugh. "You mean—make him want to marry me?"
Imrahil nodded and shrugged. "It would be, in essence, the perfect revenge. Then you can turn him down and he'd be the one scorned."
Finduilas sat down heavily on Imrahil's bed. "That is a thought," she said. "And it would… it would… be quite satisfying. And there's no chance of me falling in love with him in the process—because… well, he's him. I could never be fond of someone who thought tax and legislations were the height of interesting conversation."
Imrahil smirked, and said, carefully, "So… when do you think you'll have Lord Denethor begging for your hand?"
"If I do at all, you mean?" Finduilas asked, turning to look at him with disdain. "I say by the time he leaves to return to Minas Tirith, I will have successfully made him fall in love with me—or at least, decide that I am worthy of being his wife."
"'Vri will be heartbroken," Imrahil pointed out.
"She can have him, after I've turned him down," Finduilas pointed out. "Besides, she's rather fond of that other bloke—Lord Teira. She would happily marry him as well—it's just Denethor is a shinier object of affection."
Imrahil shrugged. "Well, be careful, Findi."
She grinned at him, and stood up, walking to her brother's door. "I'll see you at supper," she said.
She quickly descended the steps, turning a corner letting out a shriek when she nearly collided with none other than…
…Denethor himself.
She stumbled away from him, slipping in her bare feet and nearly landing on her rear, if Denethor had not grabbed her by the arm arm and held her steady. "Are you alright?" he asked, looking concerned.
Without thinking she yanked her arm out of his grasp, and straightened, feeling her face heat up in humiliation. "I am fine," she said, straightening her skirts. "I…" she realized with a shock that he was looking with disapproval at her feet. Her bare feet. She quickly tucked them under her skirts, out of sight. "I am sorry, Milord. Excuse me…"
She made to go around him, and just when she thought she was in the clear, she heard him call out her name. "A moment, Lady Finduilas."
She stopped, turning to face him. "Yes?" she asked, keeping her face passive.
"I did not get a chance to formally… apologize," he said, looking at her sternly but with a faint sense of apology. "For… imposing myself upon you this morning. I did not realize you were Adrahil's daughter."
She set her mouth into a thin line. "I see," she said. "So you would have felt no remorse on attacking me if I were anyone but a lord's daughter?"
His face dropped its passive look, and a shocked expression replaced it. "Attack—?"
"Of course," she continued. "I can hardly expect a young lord who is accustomed to getting and getting away with whatever he wants to understand the fear every woman has—of…masculine violence."
His eyes widened, and a rosy color tinted his cheeks. "I assure you," he said, "I had no intention of—"
"Of course, you had no intention," Finduilas continued airily, brushing him off. "Most men have no intention, or at least claim to have had none."
Denethor stared at her, and Finduilas suddenly remembered her mission. Cursing at herself inwardly for mucking it up already, she opened her mouth to apologize for her abrasive words, but Denethor spoke first.
"I apologize, my lady," he said, looking surprisingly remorseful. "I did not even realize that you were a woman last night—I had merely thought you were a thief or an assassin. Though that does not excuse my actions towards you. I assure you, I had no intention of harming you, but I… know that you must have been afraid. You were at my mercy and I did not handle the situation, then or after, with much grace."
Surprised at his thoughtful words, and the fact that he seemed to have meant them, Finduilas found herself with no words. Blinking rapidly, she said, "It is all forgotten, my lord. I know that you meant me no harm—in fact, I'm sure you thought it was your own life that was in danger. I should have checked to make sure that no one was in that room before entering."
Denethor expelled a soft breath. "What were you doing in my room?" he asked, finally.
"I was—" Finduilas looked around, feeling herself a little embarrassed. "I was going for a swim," she said, her face flushing.
Denethor blinked in surprise. "A swim?" he asked. A look of realization dawned on his face. "I see," he said, amused. "That explains the state you were in early this morning."
Finduilas blushed, wishing she still had her fan to breeze her face. "Yes," she said. "I don't usually go about in such disarray."
It was a lie, of course. Out of Adrahil's three children, Finduilas was the one most often found in such disarray. She glanced down to where Denethor was looking, and saw that her bare feet were once again visible. She blushed harder. "Well," she said, backing up a few steps. "I will not keep you any longer, my lord."
She turned and dashed out of the room, nearly covering her face with her hands for her cheeks burned with embarrassment. Somehow that soon-to-be-steward brought out the most humiliating aspects of herself. She couldn't seem to stop making an absolute buffoon out of herself in front of him. She couldn't stand it.
She rounded a corner, and pressed the back of her hand to her cheek, and found it burning. She leaned against the wall, eyes wide and realizing that this little plan she had of making Denethor fall in love with her might not work after all. After all, how could any man like him fall in love with a woman like her? A woman who hated shoes, preferred to swim over anything else, can cuss better than a sailor, and… she shook her head rapidly.
No… she would just have to forget this little scheme of her's. Denethor could marry anyone he wishes, there's no point trying to make him want her, when there's no chance he ever will.
"My dear, why did you not wear your new tiara?"
Finduilas grimaced, before turning to face her mother, who was gazing at her shrewdly. "I forgot," Finduilas said, shrugging as nonchalantly as she could. She had, in fact, not forgotten. Her tiara, only to be used for very special occasions, was purposefully left in her apartments. There was no need for it, she had reminded herself. She was no longer trying to gain the attention of the future steward. Leave that to Ivriniel.
Her mother was fanning herself, somehow still unused to the heat of the South even after all these years. "My dear…" she said, and Finduilas fought back another grimace, knowing that a scolding was soon to come. "How are you to find yourself a husband if you don't put a little effort into presentation?"
Finduilas opened her mouth to respond, before a few bells were rung, and both she and her mother turned and saw the party from Minas Tirith enter the ballroom. Thankful for the chance to get away while her mother was distracted, Finduilas quickly slipped past her mother and blended into the crowd, hoping to escape both the scrutiny of her mother and Denethor.
It was not that she was unseemly looking. She looked decent enough—though admitted not quite of her station. But she had valid reasons for such. Tonight would be an excellent night for swimming—and if she timed it right, she should be able to slip away without anyone noticing. Her mother should be thanking her, truly. What would have happened if she had lost the damn tiara on the beach in the middle of the night?
Finduilas sighed, walking near to where a few of Denethor's men were now standing and drinking wine, chatting enthusiastically to each other, and giving Finduilas the distinct impression of her mother's pet monkey. As she drew nearer, they quieted, and Finduilas got the nasty suspicion that they were talking about her. "Good 'Eve," she said, curtsying. The two men bowed. Finduilas glanced to the side, before walking past the two men, her neck prickling as she felt them watching her as she left.
Well, that was no surprise, she thought to herself dismally. Their master told them plain and simple that she was unsuitable to be a wife. She was just to the end of the ballroom, where the doors that led to the kitchens would give her respite and hopefully a chance for a good swim, when she found her arm clenched in an iron grip. "Where are you going, dear?" her mother whispered with an air of forced calmness. "Not leaving already?"
"I was just getting a bit of air—" Finduilas found herself being dragged back into the fray of dancers, courtiers and bystanders, and her mother did not let go until they were nearly upon the Stewards company. Finduilas rubbed her arm dejectedly, staring down at her dancing slippers, as she listened to Denethor and her father and brother discuss something that was of no interest to her and could not hold her attention.
Feeling something—or someone—watching her, she glanced up to see Denethor looking at her out of the corner of his eyes. When their eyes met, however, he returned his gaze to her father. Finduilas decided that he must have been looking at Ivriniel, who was standing next to her, or the Lady Nadei, who stood on her left. Or if he was looking at her, he must be doing so in disdain. Perhaps she had a stain on her dress… or… some food on her mouth…
"Oh!" her mother said, excitedly, as the music began to play, "What a wonderful song—and what a lovely dance to go with it. Do you dance, My Lord? Oh, you must dance the next dance!" she said, beaming at Denethor, "Why, Ivriniel is quite accomplished at dancing—she would make a wonderful partner, if I do say so."
Denethor looked at Ivriniel, who stood there, clearly trying not to look too eager. Even Lady Nadei was preening, trying to look desirable. Finduilas let out an exasperated sigh under her breath, and was just turning away, to make her leave, when Denethor spoke. "Actually, Lady Evinwen, I would like my partner for this next dance to be Lady Finduilas."
Finduilas froze mid-step, before turning to look at him, horrified. Her mother frowned, looking slightly worried, while both Lady Nadei and Ivriniel looked shocked and put out. "Me?" Finduilas asked, also shocked.
"I'm afraid Finduilas is not quite as… accomplished of a dancer as her sister," their mother said, beginning to fan herself, a clear sign of growing anxiety. "She's not… as graceful."
Finduilas' cheeks burned. It was all true, of course. When it came to traditional dances and especially partnered dancing, Finduilas found she always had two left feet. That was not to say she could not dance at all, but these formal, stuffy, old dances always made her so nervous she almost never failed to step on her partner's foot. But that did not mean her mother had to publicly tell this man in front of her.
Denethor looked not a wit surprised or put off by this information. "I'm sure I can make up for her lack of… grace," he said, bowing to Finduilas and offering his arm.
Finduilas narrowed her eyes at his choice of words, not making a move. Her mother jerked her head in Denethor's direction, giving her a deathly glare. Finduilas, realizing that there was nothing else for it, stepped forward and took Denethor's arm, letting him lead her to the center of the ballroom.
To be continued…?
Thanks for reading! So sorry for the long hiatus, let me know if you're interested in reading more of this story! :)