AN: They're all Tolkien's. I don't even own my plotbunnies, here, people. Thank you for sticking with the story!
As soon as she awoke the next morning, Finduilas peered out her window. To her twisted satisfaction, the weather had not improved visibly overnight. It would not put an end to the awkwardness around the Steward's son, but it would also prevent him from spoiling anything associated with what she had always secretly considered her dock.
Ivriniel had given it to her. Never officially, naturally, but her sister had showed Finduilas all the ins and outs of the docks; and introduced the younger girl to the beaches, boats, and creatures that made up the boatyards of the bay. In a way that Imrahil had been too young to grasp, Finduilas had found a home in the roar of the sea and the press of people coming and leaving from the shore, every one of them with a story to tell. Whether it was the cry of the gull or rumbles of thunder above the waves, even the sea air seemed to bring news of those beyond this shore. On those winds, you could even hear from the places that no one could sail away from. Ivriniel sung with the breeze and the seabirds, and it was up to Finduilas to listen for her.
Today, she would be content to listen from the window. Irregular gusts would drive the rain nearly horizontal: now towards the palace, now towards the sea. Patterns were created and washed away by the fat drops upon the thin pane of old glass. Finduilas rubbed at the fogged window, assuring herself that it was not simply drippings left over from the day before. Of course it wasn't; the wind and rain had moored most of the ships for one day more. No sane man would sail in this weather, if he could help it.
It was then that she heard the pounding on the door. "Finny! Are you decent? Surely you must be out of bed by now!" The sky was still darkened by the storm, but the fire in her room had burnt down to a few half-hearted coals, suggesting that she had slept later than she usually did. Dealing with that overly smug Steward's son had taxed her reserves, Finduilas assured herself.
"A minute, Imrahil! Surely it's nothing that can't wait long enough for me to put on a dress." The young woman scrambled from the window, changing as quickly as she could. There were times when she hated her brother's recently accquired millitary discipline.
"Just because some of us don't get up to tend to the horses doesn't mean they can laze around all day. Now come on, Lord Denethor wants to go down to the harbor this morning." This stopped Finduilas in her tracks; the lacing on her dress falling from her fingers untied.
"Is the man mad?" she gasped. "The horses must be fed and cared for every day, but what is there at the dockyard but rain and waves? You could hardly expect an Umbarian raid on a day like today."
"Which suits my purposes perfectly, my lady," a familiar voice sounded beyond her door. "With this storm, we might get a close survey of the fleet without the risk of pulling the ships away from their needful patrols and leaving the coastline open to attack. Besides, what better way to assure the integrety of the hulls than to check them for leaks in the storm?" Denethor obviously knew little about the maintenance of ships. With that much water dripping from you and the ceilings, there would be little chance of finding the source of a small leak.
Finduilas laughed darkly, and finished lacing up her dress, taking her time to smoothe out the wrinkles that had been created by her haste and to double-check her fastenings. The last thing she needed was another opportunity to embarrass herself in his presence. Allowing herself a small grimace of irritation, she stepped out of the room, flipping her sleep-mussed braid over her shoulder.
"You may be the Steward's heir, Lord Denethor, but know that I am not at your every beck and call. Imrahil, you should know better than to lead him to my personal chambers. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I shall prepare myself properly for our little outing." Finduilas withdrew and shut the door quite firmly before either had a chance to protest.
Her brother, if asked, would have said she had overenthusiastically slammed it in their faces. "He just followed me; I didn't mean anything by it," Imrahil explained to the door. It appeared unmoved by his words. Beyond it, he could hear his sister humming loudly to herself, as if to drown out whatever her unwelcome visitors might have to say. "What else were we supposed to do, Finny?"
There was no clear answer, but Finduilas had developed the rather impressive ability to hum "sod off." Imrahil looked helplessly at his guest.
"Why don't we wait in the gardens? From what little I saw of them, they appear to offer a most impressive view," Denethor suggested appeasingly.
"They're quite nice in good weather, but that cloak of yours would get soaked through out there in no time at all in this storm." the younger man agreed. Imrahil handed Denethor a thicker oil-slicked sealskin cloak, heading towards the exit. "Join us when you're ready, Finny." Her brother gave the door one last futile pounding.
It was all to be expected, really, he supposed. Finduilas was nothing if not stubborn, and she would likely go out of her way to spite the unlucky suitor that did not immediately appeal to her sense of romantic idealism. The fact that Denethor was an inlander was nothing but an excuse for her petty snobbery. Finny had never been in possession of a particularly mild temperament, and she wouldn't listen to reason when her heart was set on some wild passion.
Imrahil shook his head, stepping out under the eaves behind Denethor. There was a winding path through the gardens that led down to the quay, but he was in no hurry to get soaked. A short trip through miserable weather would serve Finduilas right, after that display.
Imrahil just hoped the punishment would be short, for his own sake. He had been out long enough while attending to his morning duties. Had it really been necessary for their father to send him out to the docks with this pair of warring hellcats? They pretended to be civil, but it didn't take half of the diplomatic training Imrahil had been put through to realize just how outrageously Denethor and Finduilas were bickering.
Immersed in his dreary thoughts and the matching weather, the younger man would not have noticed the main target of his grumblings' appearance, had his elder sister not bumped purposefully into him. "What are you waiting for, Imrahil? We've a guest to show around the dockyard." She traded Denethor a sardonic look and wrapped her arm firmly about Imrahil's, setting a decent pace for a forced march, considering she was technically a noncombatant. Finduilas ignored the rain, much as she ignored the man following behind them. She left it up to Imrahil to supply attempts at conversation, which Denethor gently brushed off, for the most part.
Imrahil did not believe that Denethor's real interest lay in the rainswept ships. The man from Minas Tirith seemed perfectly content to listen to the reports of those that knew the crafts better than he did. But if the man had another purpose, other than driving Finduilas mad and towing Imrahil along in her wake, the youth had missed it entirely.
The lord of Dol Amroth lagged slightly once they reached the dockyard, holding his sister up until the other man had passed them. Denethor walked with his head held high, examining the ships from behind his hood. Imrahil wondered if he was the only one affected by the rain anymore. Pride was a better cover than otter-skin.
Well, Imrahil could show a bit of pride, too. He looked around, hoping to find a captian he recognized. Even in this weather, a few people would have to watch their ships to make sure that nothing came unmoored. Unfortunately, most knew to do this under some form of shelter, so there was no one for Imrahil to find.
Stuck in the rain with a pair of silent, moody nobles, Imrahil sighed, letting Finduilas steer him along behind Denethor. She examined everything the Steward's son touched as if his very gaze could bore holes in her beloved ships.
"You could talk to him, Finny," her brother grumbled, looking wishfully at the flapping sheets of canvas that covered the saner weather-watchers.
"And what would be the point in that? He knows my feelings on this matter already, I am sure." She continued to ignore the rain, chewing unconsciously at a tendril of hair. She knew her feelings, but was yet unsure of Denethor's reasonings for bringing them out here.
Her brother just rolled his eyes. It looked like it was going to be a long day, after all.