Lucky thirteenth fic...
lyric table
Title: Storm Season
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Denethor, Imrahil, Finduilas
Prompt: 21: here comes the rain again, falling from the stars; drenched in my pain again, becoming who we are.
Word Count: 457
Rating: G
Summary: While stuck in the palace of Dol Amroth, the heirs of Ecthelion and Adrahil discuss the weather, sailing, and leadership.
Author's Notes: Not my characters. This is another that will be fit into "As Golden Leaves Upon the Sea," if all goes according to plan.
“These storms can’t be normal,” muttered Denethor. In the five days he had spent in Belfalas, it had rained for four and a half of them.
“Well, it has been rather heavier than average this past week, but it usually rains pretty frequently until about May,” Imrahil explained, never lifting his head from the windowsill. There was little of interest beyond it to Denethor; the gardens outside had been battered to the ground. “Court gets really dull, by that point. Everyone’s stuck inside, and Finny and some of the other girls start snapping at you, after a while. There’s many a day when the fishermen won’t even approach the water’s edge,” the young man continued blithely. “They say that if you can live with a man through the storm season and you still like each other by the end of it, you’ve made a friend for life.”
Denethor gave him a look. Imrahil’s posture was innocent enough, if slightly sulky; his chin rested upon his crossed arms; his chair was plunked firmly in front of the window. “At least they must cut down on coastal raids,” Denethor observed, hands clasped firmly behind his ramrod-straight back.
“Aye, though you might be surprised at the sort of weather both countries would sail in,” the youngster replied agreeably, turning his head towards his guest.
“One does what one must, I am certain.” The steward’s son bowed in head in return. From the small amount of bad-weather sailing he had done, he was not eager to test Dol Amrothi sailors’ limits.
“Father and Finduilas will never let me live it down, but the first time I went sailing in a naval vessel in the rain, I was promptly seasick all over the hold.” Imrahil could smile about it now, though at the time, he had been rather heartily embarrassed. “The sea is a part of who we are, but I cannot say that it is my favorite part. In this weather, especially, I’d much sooner be astride a horse than out on open water.”
“You are reluctant, then, to take up the rule of this princedom when the time comes?” Denethor stepped forward. His tone was acidic, but his posture was nonthreatening. Or, at least, no more threatening than usual.
“Who said anything about that?” Imrahil caged. “I love my people. Finduilas may be more passionate, but I’m the one who took the diplomatic training to heart.”
“From what I’ve seen of your sister so far, this is very true.” Denethor moved beside him to watch the steady downpour. “To be honest with you, my friend, it makes me feel ill as well, at times.”
For a few minutes, the only sound was rain against stone. “Sea travel will do that.”
Title: The Historian's Transcript
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Denethor/Finduilas and associated issues, as seen through the eyes of Denethor's elder sisters.
Prompt: 25: remember all my past time, when the future is waiting for me; I am lying on this ground, among memories.
Word Count: 1015
Rating: PG
Summary: Early in the Fourth Age, a luckless historian attempts to interview the daughters of Ecthelion.
Author's Notes: Pure dialogue-fic, which was rather interesting to write. Slashy subtexts. I don't bash it myself, though this pair of matchmaking old crones might. The sisters are canonical, but their names are not. Not my characters. The "Historian's Notes" prologue would be best written in some particularly flowery font, like Engilsh 111 Vivace BT.
Historian’s Notes: The daughters of Lord Ecthelion were ninety-seven and nintey-nine years of age when I first met them, five years after the King’s coronation. Although their husbands had at one point been fuctionaries of the courts of Lebennin and Lamedon, both have since moved back to Minas Tirith, where they currently reside together in the home of Neril, Lady Emeriel’s younger daughter. Both were widowed before the war, and the Battle of Pelennor has deprived Lady Thaliwen of her elder sons, as well as these two women of their brother: Lord Steward Denethor. Out of historical interest, I have taken the duty upon myself to record the thoughts and impressions of these two living relics of the days of Ecthelion and Denethor. Herein follows a partial record of one of my conversations with these rather imposing ladies:
* * *
“Thaliwen? Thaliwen, wake up. The boy from the library is here to see us again.”
“Eh?”
“The boy from the library. He wants to talk to us again.”
“Well, what’s he want? Don’t these young ones know better than to disturb an old woman while she’s trying to rest?”
“He wants to know about Denethor.”
“Well, why doesn’t he just ask him himself? He is younger than us.”
“Thaliwen, Denethor’s dead.”
“Nonsense! I carried on a perfectly good conversation with him just this morning. It’s high time that Boromir of his got married and started getting us some grandnephews.”
“Boromir’s dead too, Thaliwen.”
“Oh. Oh. You’re right. Of course, you’re right. They’re dead; this never would have happened if they had followed my advice. Is that other one still alive? Finduion?”
“Faramir. He has a boy of his own now. You must forgive my sister, dearie; her mind is not entirely in the present. Another biscuit? My granddaughter is a fine cook, you know. And she’s still looking for a nice young man…”
“Hah! If my mind wanders to the past, yours is stuffed with wool. That Elcaniel of yours can barely keep mud from going bad.”
“Now don’t you go needling my girls. You are simply jealous that none of your children got married.”
“Our boys marry late. It’s a sign of good breeding.”
“It’s a sign that they can’t see the women in front of them for that big Hurin nose, it is!”
“Hmpf. You seem to have had no trouble looking about yours for a man, Emeriel. But on to our little brother. You surely already know that he was the best Steward we’ve had since Cirion, not including Father.”
“That is a matter of debate. Denethor held no balls at all! And what do you think is so funny, young man? No, I will not ignore you snickering at my brother. Honestly, the youth today!”
“You’d have seen none of this in Denethor’s court, I assure you.”
“Oh, Father wouldn’t have stood for it, either. Papa brought in all sorts of interesting people, but he knew how to hold a court, I tell you! He could hold off the Dark Lord and hold a proper party. We must have had a feast at least once a month, and dancing once a week!”
“You do so love to exaggerate, Emeriel. Besides, our Boromir is going to recapture Osgilath for us.”
“He already did. Boromir’s dead and the Dark Lord’s gone, remember?”
“Yes, of course. But he was a good boy. Should have found himself a nice wife.”
“Too like his mother, I tell you.”
“Oooh, yes.”
“I hope you don’t misunderstand us, young man. We liked Finduilas.”
“We were always very nice to her, poor dear.”
“‘Twas obvious that our Denethor had taken a fancy to her since she first came to court with her father and little brother.”
“And Denethor rarely takes a fancy to anything.”
“Took, Thaliwen.”
“Yes, yes, of course. What did I say? But we could hardly let such a fine match go to waste.”
“Young Imrahil was easy enough to recruit into our plans.”
“How is he, these days? He was such a charming young boy.”
“Four kids, grandson, and another on the way, from what I’ve heard. His girl seemed awfully scared of me. And I can tell when somebody’s scared of me. Hurin instincts.”
“Good. Girl has good sense, it sounds like. Do you think she might be interested in my Rancil?”
“She’s gotten married to some horselord, or so I've heard. Besides, Rancil’s going to be a bachelor for the rest of his days, so you may as well accept it.”
“Nonsense. He just hasn’t met the right girl, yet.”
“I heard he bunks with the other soldiers.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. Young man! I would highly advise you to quit sniggering!”
“Ain’t sniggering if it’s right.”
“We’ll see, Emeriel. They said the same thing about our Denethor and our Boromir, and you know what came of that.”
“I think Boromir actually did.”
“There was no proof of that! He just needed another five or six years to get some experience under his belt, settle down a little.”
“Mm-hmm. And how long has Rancil had?”
“A mere fifty years! That’s nothing, compared to the usual lifetime of our line.”
“Then you got folk like the Dol Amrothi girls.”
“Aye, such a waste, it was.”
“Both of then went too soon. Must have been awful for poor Prince Adrahil.”
“And young Imrahil.”
“You fancied the boy, didn’t you, Thaliwen?”
“Well, I never! A woman tries to make conversation and the honor of her entire family is impunged. I felt sorry for him, was all.”
“He was rather fanciable.”
“But we were both married by that point. And he was much too young for us, even if we hadn’t been.”
“Oh, but Thorongil wasn’t.”
“Pity he was already engaged… Did you ever hear what happened to him, after that last victory?”
“As I recall, you were engaged by that point, too.”
“Yes, but at least I wasn’t already married, like some younger sisters I could name.”
“Well, he seemed to have slipped off the face of Arda, so there’s no use in worrying about it, I suppose.”
“What? Young man, you cannot be serious. I knew Thorongil; I would recognize him if I saw him at court.”
“There’s the trouble, Thaliwen: your eyes are going and your memory is already gone.”
“Oh, as if yours are any better.”
“Young man, while I know we may not have given you as much as you would have liked, I’m afraid my sister desperately requires a nap. Come back some other time, and perhaps we can wrap up our part in your writing assignment, then. Next Thursday? Well, no, my grandaughter’s visiting me next Thursday. Unless you’d like to meet her… Well, all right, then. We’ll leave it at sometime next month for now. Just send us a note when you’ve got a day picked out. Goodbye, now!”
“Hah. I need a nap. Very funny, Emeriel.”
“Goodnight, Thaliwen.”
"Hmpf. Goodnight, indeed."
Title: Storm Season
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Denethor, Imrahil, Finduilas
Prompt: 21: here comes the rain again, falling from the stars; drenched in my pain again, becoming who we are.
Word Count: 457
Rating: G
Summary: While stuck in the palace of Dol Amroth, the heirs of Ecthelion and Adrahil discuss the weather, sailing, and leadership.
Author's Notes: Not my characters. This is another that will be fit into "As Golden Leaves Upon the Sea," if all goes according to plan.
“These storms can’t be normal,” muttered Denethor. In the five days he had spent in Belfalas, it had rained for four and a half of them.
“Well, it has been rather heavier than average this past week, but it usually rains pretty frequently until about May,” Imrahil explained, never lifting his head from the windowsill. There was little of interest beyond it to Denethor; the gardens outside had been battered to the ground. “Court gets really dull, by that point. Everyone’s stuck inside, and Finny and some of the other girls start snapping at you, after a while. There’s many a day when the fishermen won’t even approach the water’s edge,” the young man continued blithely. “They say that if you can live with a man through the storm season and you still like each other by the end of it, you’ve made a friend for life.”
Denethor gave him a look. Imrahil’s posture was innocent enough, if slightly sulky; his chin rested upon his crossed arms; his chair was plunked firmly in front of the window. “At least they must cut down on coastal raids,” Denethor observed, hands clasped firmly behind his ramrod-straight back.
“Aye, though you might be surprised at the sort of weather both countries would sail in,” the youngster replied agreeably, turning his head towards his guest.
“One does what one must, I am certain.” The steward’s son bowed in head in return. From the small amount of bad-weather sailing he had done, he was not eager to test Dol Amrothi sailors’ limits.
“Father and Finduilas will never let me live it down, but the first time I went sailing in a naval vessel in the rain, I was promptly seasick all over the hold.” Imrahil could smile about it now, though at the time, he had been rather heartily embarrassed. “The sea is a part of who we are, but I cannot say that it is my favorite part. In this weather, especially, I’d much sooner be astride a horse than out on open water.”
“You are reluctant, then, to take up the rule of this princedom when the time comes?” Denethor stepped forward. His tone was acidic, but his posture was nonthreatening. Or, at least, no more threatening than usual.
“Who said anything about that?” Imrahil caged. “I love my people. Finduilas may be more passionate, but I’m the one who took the diplomatic training to heart.”
“From what I’ve seen of your sister so far, this is very true.” Denethor moved beside him to watch the steady downpour. “To be honest with you, my friend, it makes me feel ill as well, at times.”
For a few minutes, the only sound was rain against stone. “Sea travel will do that.”
Title: The Historian's Transcript
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Denethor/Finduilas and associated issues, as seen through the eyes of Denethor's elder sisters.
Prompt: 25: remember all my past time, when the future is waiting for me; I am lying on this ground, among memories.
Word Count: 1015
Rating: PG
Summary: Early in the Fourth Age, a luckless historian attempts to interview the daughters of Ecthelion.
Author's Notes: Pure dialogue-fic, which was rather interesting to write. Slashy subtexts. I don't bash it myself, though this pair of matchmaking old crones might. The sisters are canonical, but their names are not. Not my characters. The "Historian's Notes" prologue would be best written in some particularly flowery font, like Engilsh 111 Vivace BT.
Historian’s Notes: The daughters of Lord Ecthelion were ninety-seven and nintey-nine years of age when I first met them, five years after the King’s coronation. Although their husbands had at one point been fuctionaries of the courts of Lebennin and Lamedon, both have since moved back to Minas Tirith, where they currently reside together in the home of Neril, Lady Emeriel’s younger daughter. Both were widowed before the war, and the Battle of Pelennor has deprived Lady Thaliwen of her elder sons, as well as these two women of their brother: Lord Steward Denethor. Out of historical interest, I have taken the duty upon myself to record the thoughts and impressions of these two living relics of the days of Ecthelion and Denethor. Herein follows a partial record of one of my conversations with these rather imposing ladies:
* * *
“Thaliwen? Thaliwen, wake up. The boy from the library is here to see us again.”
“Eh?”
“The boy from the library. He wants to talk to us again.”
“Well, what’s he want? Don’t these young ones know better than to disturb an old woman while she’s trying to rest?”
“He wants to know about Denethor.”
“Well, why doesn’t he just ask him himself? He is younger than us.”
“Thaliwen, Denethor’s dead.”
“Nonsense! I carried on a perfectly good conversation with him just this morning. It’s high time that Boromir of his got married and started getting us some grandnephews.”
“Boromir’s dead too, Thaliwen.”
“Oh. Oh. You’re right. Of course, you’re right. They’re dead; this never would have happened if they had followed my advice. Is that other one still alive? Finduion?”
“Faramir. He has a boy of his own now. You must forgive my sister, dearie; her mind is not entirely in the present. Another biscuit? My granddaughter is a fine cook, you know. And she’s still looking for a nice young man…”
“Hah! If my mind wanders to the past, yours is stuffed with wool. That Elcaniel of yours can barely keep mud from going bad.”
“Now don’t you go needling my girls. You are simply jealous that none of your children got married.”
“Our boys marry late. It’s a sign of good breeding.”
“It’s a sign that they can’t see the women in front of them for that big Hurin nose, it is!”
“Hmpf. You seem to have had no trouble looking about yours for a man, Emeriel. But on to our little brother. You surely already know that he was the best Steward we’ve had since Cirion, not including Father.”
“That is a matter of debate. Denethor held no balls at all! And what do you think is so funny, young man? No, I will not ignore you snickering at my brother. Honestly, the youth today!”
“You’d have seen none of this in Denethor’s court, I assure you.”
“Oh, Father wouldn’t have stood for it, either. Papa brought in all sorts of interesting people, but he knew how to hold a court, I tell you! He could hold off the Dark Lord and hold a proper party. We must have had a feast at least once a month, and dancing once a week!”
“You do so love to exaggerate, Emeriel. Besides, our Boromir is going to recapture Osgilath for us.”
“He already did. Boromir’s dead and the Dark Lord’s gone, remember?”
“Yes, of course. But he was a good boy. Should have found himself a nice wife.”
“Too like his mother, I tell you.”
“Oooh, yes.”
“I hope you don’t misunderstand us, young man. We liked Finduilas.”
“We were always very nice to her, poor dear.”
“‘Twas obvious that our Denethor had taken a fancy to her since she first came to court with her father and little brother.”
“And Denethor rarely takes a fancy to anything.”
“Took, Thaliwen.”
“Yes, yes, of course. What did I say? But we could hardly let such a fine match go to waste.”
“Young Imrahil was easy enough to recruit into our plans.”
“How is he, these days? He was such a charming young boy.”
“Four kids, grandson, and another on the way, from what I’ve heard. His girl seemed awfully scared of me. And I can tell when somebody’s scared of me. Hurin instincts.”
“Good. Girl has good sense, it sounds like. Do you think she might be interested in my Rancil?”
“She’s gotten married to some horselord, or so I've heard. Besides, Rancil’s going to be a bachelor for the rest of his days, so you may as well accept it.”
“Nonsense. He just hasn’t met the right girl, yet.”
“I heard he bunks with the other soldiers.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. Young man! I would highly advise you to quit sniggering!”
“Ain’t sniggering if it’s right.”
“We’ll see, Emeriel. They said the same thing about our Denethor and our Boromir, and you know what came of that.”
“I think Boromir actually did.”
“There was no proof of that! He just needed another five or six years to get some experience under his belt, settle down a little.”
“Mm-hmm. And how long has Rancil had?”
“A mere fifty years! That’s nothing, compared to the usual lifetime of our line.”
“Then you got folk like the Dol Amrothi girls.”
“Aye, such a waste, it was.”
“Both of then went too soon. Must have been awful for poor Prince Adrahil.”
“And young Imrahil.”
“You fancied the boy, didn’t you, Thaliwen?”
“Well, I never! A woman tries to make conversation and the honor of her entire family is impunged. I felt sorry for him, was all.”
“He was rather fanciable.”
“But we were both married by that point. And he was much too young for us, even if we hadn’t been.”
“Oh, but Thorongil wasn’t.”
“Pity he was already engaged… Did you ever hear what happened to him, after that last victory?”
“As I recall, you were engaged by that point, too.”
“Yes, but at least I wasn’t already married, like some younger sisters I could name.”
“Well, he seemed to have slipped off the face of Arda, so there’s no use in worrying about it, I suppose.”
“What? Young man, you cannot be serious. I knew Thorongil; I would recognize him if I saw him at court.”
“There’s the trouble, Thaliwen: your eyes are going and your memory is already gone.”
“Oh, as if yours are any better.”
“Young man, while I know we may not have given you as much as you would have liked, I’m afraid my sister desperately requires a nap. Come back some other time, and perhaps we can wrap up our part in your writing assignment, then. Next Thursday? Well, no, my grandaughter’s visiting me next Thursday. Unless you’d like to meet her… Well, all right, then. We’ll leave it at sometime next month for now. Just send us a note when you’ve got a day picked out. Goodbye, now!”
“Hah. I need a nap. Very funny, Emeriel.”
“Goodnight, Thaliwen.”
"Hmpf. Goodnight, indeed."