LotR, Den/Fin: A Sword of Cloth and Cunning One
Lyric Table
Title: A Sword of Cloth
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Denethor/Finduilas, with little Boromir and Faramir guest starring, a few mentions of Ivriniel and Imrahil
Prompt: 41: “this is heaven to no one else but me; and I'll defend it as long as I can be”
Word Count: 554
Rating: G
Summary: Finduilas has created a monster.
Author's Notes: Pure, unadulterated fluff. Well, mostly. Huan, Luthien, and Turin all make reference to the Silmarillion. Ivriniel and Imrahil are Finduilas's canonical elder sister and little brother, respectively. I own nothing related to this story but a stiff hankerchief.
“Storytime, Mama! Storytime!” Quite reverentially, Boromir laid the scarf in his mother’s hands. Faramir watched in rapt silence.
“Now, this is a custom I’ve never understood. Telling the children stories is logical, certainly, but what is the scarf for?” Denethor paused by the door, watching as his wife twisted the fabric between dexterous fingers.
“‘Tis something Ivriniel and I invented to amuse Imrahil when he was young. With this scarf, we might have a winged crown to tell tales of lost kings.” So saying, she knotted the ends and placed the fabric “crown” onto Faramir’s head, straightening the “wings.” The young boy smiled proudly up at his mother. “Or, we might find a deadly dragon to slay.” A few folds and knots, and the crown became a little creature with four legs, wings, a knotted tail, and slightly drooping cloth ears. “Or maybe Huan shall come down to accompany us on our quest.” The wings were taken out, and the dragon gained a long tongue. Boromir wagged its tail appreciatively. “But it takes skill to know the difference between the fair Lady Luthien -“ Shaking out all but two knots in the scarf, she draped it over her head, leaving two pointed ears, “ - and the Witch of the Golden Wood.” Pulling one side forward, Finduilas hunched slightly over, a playfully evil glint in her eyes. On her lap, Faramir shrieked in pantomimed fear, then burst into giggles as she leaned over and kissed him.
“I need a sword, Mama!” Boromir pulled at her dress.
“And you shall have one, if you can do a task for the Witch of the Wood,” Finduilas responded in character.
“What is it, Mama? I’m not afraid!” Their elder son puffed up his chest, making Denethor smile in the doorway to the nursery.
“You must help me tell a story that will let your father see your favorite scarf forms, and then you must learn to make a wolf.”
“But that’s the hardest one!” Boromir exclaimed.
Finduilas removed the scarf from her head and kissed him reassuringly. ”Perhaps not tonight. But you will need to take care of Faramir when I cannot, and you may need to entertain children of your own someday.”
“I’ll try, Mama. But tell Turin tonight. Please?” Boromir begged, and Finduilas began to wrap the cloth.
“Truly, it was only to get Imrahil to play dress-up with us. I had no idea I’d created a monster,” Finduilas explained later, returning Faramir to his crib as Denethor tucked Boromir into bed, rag-sword in hand.
“It is good to see them smile. And very rewarding to see my wife smile.” Denethor wrapped an arm about her.
“If that were the only sword my Boromir ever needed, I would be truly happy,” Finduilas sighed. “But this year it’s wooden swords, soon enough practice blades, and before long, he’ll be out cleaving orc-necks with his father.” She leaned in to his embrace, depending on his arm for support. When had she gotten so frail that merely spending an evening with the children wore her out?
“Finduilas, I promise you that no matter what happens, they’ll have to break through the gates before I let them take our sons from us.” Or you from me, he added silently. Outside the window, an elm tree swayed in the northbound breeze.
Title: Cunning One
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Denethor/Finduilas, as seen by Saruman; guest starring Sauron
Prompt: 22: “How can you have lived this long, and not give in to rage? Don’t you understand; we've both outlived our age?”
Word Count: 476
Rating: G
Summary: Sauron and Saruman plot. Denethor watches, and waits for revenge.
Author's Notes: I own nothing. The prompt screamed for this interaction, though it was hard to tie in Finduilas without resorting to "Refraction's" interpretation of canon. Curunir, "The One of Cunning Devices," was the name the elves granted to Saruman when the Istari came to Middle-earth. Both he and Sauron had originally been assigned to Aule.
They were not alone. The stronger of Aule’s former Maiar spotted the intrusion first, but the White Istar could follow his ally’s thoughts to the unfocused, unguarded visitor. A mortal? This creature was little more than a boy! How did he dare think that he could match wills with two of the most powerful spirits in Arda? Curunir added his own wave of hatred to the tide of overwhelming malice that the Dark Lord projected towards the mortal. The curious sensation disappeared, replaced briefly by fear, before the mortal with the dark, watchful eyes retreated completely from their shared thoughts. And that, Curunir concluded, would be the last they would hear from that mortal, unless Sauron took some joy in continuing to haunt his dreams.
As he haunted the wizard’s dreams. It took nearly all Curunir’s reserves to keep Sauron from the deepest places in his mind, making him resent the need for any excess expenditure to keep his thoughts to himself. The dark places were nearly all given over to the Dark Lord, but in the few stray corners he had left, Curunir plotted Sauron’s overthrow. That was why he had picked up the Palantir. That was why he had worked his way into Sauron’s confidences. That was why he was willing to point Sauron in the direction of the strongholds of men, the caverns of the dwarves, and the guarded forests of the elves. Let his ally weaken himself upon the lesser creatures, use up his resources in these games of conquest, and then they would see which of Aule’s lost apprentices was the stronger. Curunir had let Sauron into his mind, but he had also gained entrance to that of Sauron’s. And Curunir did not bother to waste his energy torturing the minds of mortals. Let Sauron play his games, darken the skies, and send his orcs into well-guarded lands. Curunir was learning from his mistakes. The Istar had not become known as the Cunning One for nothing. If Sauron conquered, Curunir was high enough amongst his allies that he might well overturn the victory to the Istar. If Sauron fell, one lord was usually needed to replace a fallen one. And who better than the most powerful member of the White Council? Either way, this victory went to Curunir.
Never again did Curunir feel the open presence of another watching them through the Palantir. There were whispers of thoughts from what might have been his broken, defeated conscience, but no feeling of those dark eyes trapping him between them and the Great Eye, revealing all his secrets. That dry, defiant voice that declared itself still there, the one that spoke accusingly of a woman dead by their devices; that had always been there. Had it not?
Only the burning hands that awaited his neck in the Halls of Mandos knew for sure.
Title: A Sword of Cloth
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Denethor/Finduilas, with little Boromir and Faramir guest starring, a few mentions of Ivriniel and Imrahil
Prompt: 41: “this is heaven to no one else but me; and I'll defend it as long as I can be”
Word Count: 554
Rating: G
Summary: Finduilas has created a monster.
Author's Notes: Pure, unadulterated fluff. Well, mostly. Huan, Luthien, and Turin all make reference to the Silmarillion. Ivriniel and Imrahil are Finduilas's canonical elder sister and little brother, respectively. I own nothing related to this story but a stiff hankerchief.
“Storytime, Mama! Storytime!” Quite reverentially, Boromir laid the scarf in his mother’s hands. Faramir watched in rapt silence.
“Now, this is a custom I’ve never understood. Telling the children stories is logical, certainly, but what is the scarf for?” Denethor paused by the door, watching as his wife twisted the fabric between dexterous fingers.
“‘Tis something Ivriniel and I invented to amuse Imrahil when he was young. With this scarf, we might have a winged crown to tell tales of lost kings.” So saying, she knotted the ends and placed the fabric “crown” onto Faramir’s head, straightening the “wings.” The young boy smiled proudly up at his mother. “Or, we might find a deadly dragon to slay.” A few folds and knots, and the crown became a little creature with four legs, wings, a knotted tail, and slightly drooping cloth ears. “Or maybe Huan shall come down to accompany us on our quest.” The wings were taken out, and the dragon gained a long tongue. Boromir wagged its tail appreciatively. “But it takes skill to know the difference between the fair Lady Luthien -“ Shaking out all but two knots in the scarf, she draped it over her head, leaving two pointed ears, “ - and the Witch of the Golden Wood.” Pulling one side forward, Finduilas hunched slightly over, a playfully evil glint in her eyes. On her lap, Faramir shrieked in pantomimed fear, then burst into giggles as she leaned over and kissed him.
“I need a sword, Mama!” Boromir pulled at her dress.
“And you shall have one, if you can do a task for the Witch of the Wood,” Finduilas responded in character.
“What is it, Mama? I’m not afraid!” Their elder son puffed up his chest, making Denethor smile in the doorway to the nursery.
“You must help me tell a story that will let your father see your favorite scarf forms, and then you must learn to make a wolf.”
“But that’s the hardest one!” Boromir exclaimed.
Finduilas removed the scarf from her head and kissed him reassuringly. ”Perhaps not tonight. But you will need to take care of Faramir when I cannot, and you may need to entertain children of your own someday.”
“I’ll try, Mama. But tell Turin tonight. Please?” Boromir begged, and Finduilas began to wrap the cloth.
“Truly, it was only to get Imrahil to play dress-up with us. I had no idea I’d created a monster,” Finduilas explained later, returning Faramir to his crib as Denethor tucked Boromir into bed, rag-sword in hand.
“It is good to see them smile. And very rewarding to see my wife smile.” Denethor wrapped an arm about her.
“If that were the only sword my Boromir ever needed, I would be truly happy,” Finduilas sighed. “But this year it’s wooden swords, soon enough practice blades, and before long, he’ll be out cleaving orc-necks with his father.” She leaned in to his embrace, depending on his arm for support. When had she gotten so frail that merely spending an evening with the children wore her out?
“Finduilas, I promise you that no matter what happens, they’ll have to break through the gates before I let them take our sons from us.” Or you from me, he added silently. Outside the window, an elm tree swayed in the northbound breeze.
Title: Cunning One
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Denethor/Finduilas, as seen by Saruman; guest starring Sauron
Prompt: 22: “How can you have lived this long, and not give in to rage? Don’t you understand; we've both outlived our age?”
Word Count: 476
Rating: G
Summary: Sauron and Saruman plot. Denethor watches, and waits for revenge.
Author's Notes: I own nothing. The prompt screamed for this interaction, though it was hard to tie in Finduilas without resorting to "Refraction's" interpretation of canon. Curunir, "The One of Cunning Devices," was the name the elves granted to Saruman when the Istari came to Middle-earth. Both he and Sauron had originally been assigned to Aule.
They were not alone. The stronger of Aule’s former Maiar spotted the intrusion first, but the White Istar could follow his ally’s thoughts to the unfocused, unguarded visitor. A mortal? This creature was little more than a boy! How did he dare think that he could match wills with two of the most powerful spirits in Arda? Curunir added his own wave of hatred to the tide of overwhelming malice that the Dark Lord projected towards the mortal. The curious sensation disappeared, replaced briefly by fear, before the mortal with the dark, watchful eyes retreated completely from their shared thoughts. And that, Curunir concluded, would be the last they would hear from that mortal, unless Sauron took some joy in continuing to haunt his dreams.
As he haunted the wizard’s dreams. It took nearly all Curunir’s reserves to keep Sauron from the deepest places in his mind, making him resent the need for any excess expenditure to keep his thoughts to himself. The dark places were nearly all given over to the Dark Lord, but in the few stray corners he had left, Curunir plotted Sauron’s overthrow. That was why he had picked up the Palantir. That was why he had worked his way into Sauron’s confidences. That was why he was willing to point Sauron in the direction of the strongholds of men, the caverns of the dwarves, and the guarded forests of the elves. Let his ally weaken himself upon the lesser creatures, use up his resources in these games of conquest, and then they would see which of Aule’s lost apprentices was the stronger. Curunir had let Sauron into his mind, but he had also gained entrance to that of Sauron’s. And Curunir did not bother to waste his energy torturing the minds of mortals. Let Sauron play his games, darken the skies, and send his orcs into well-guarded lands. Curunir was learning from his mistakes. The Istar had not become known as the Cunning One for nothing. If Sauron conquered, Curunir was high enough amongst his allies that he might well overturn the victory to the Istar. If Sauron fell, one lord was usually needed to replace a fallen one. And who better than the most powerful member of the White Council? Either way, this victory went to Curunir.
Never again did Curunir feel the open presence of another watching them through the Palantir. There were whispers of thoughts from what might have been his broken, defeated conscience, but no feeling of those dark eyes trapping him between them and the Great Eye, revealing all his secrets. That dry, defiant voice that declared itself still there, the one that spoke accusingly of a woman dead by their devices; that had always been there. Had it not?
Only the burning hands that awaited his neck in the Halls of Mandos knew for sure.