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Lyric table
Title: Aim
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Denethor, his sisters, Finduilas, Imrahil
Prompt: 12. It’s been a while since I've really spent time with you, wish I could take back the times that I had
Word Count: 689
Rating: G
Summary: Denethor learns that not all who wander are lost.
Author's Notes: After seeing some other Hurin sisters fic, I wanted to try to get a little more background on Thaliwen and Emeriel. Young Denethor's just an extra bonus.
My sisters were not the type to inspire one’s confidence in the human mind and its capacity for compassion. From an early age, it became very clear what our respective roles would be.
Thaliwen, as the eldest child of the heir apparent to the White Rod, was granted virtually anything she desired. Having been duly impressed by her father’s responsibilities, she attempted to conserve that power by remaining unaffected by all would-be flatterers. In effect, this meant that she never wanted for anything, but she never accomplished much, either. Thaliwen, to her credit, never dithered in front of us. If she did not know what she wanted, (which was rather often,) she stubbornly refused any sort of compromise until she could be sure that her decision had not been unjustifiably influenced by an outside force. She was firm about her few wants and needs, but chiefly amongst them she counted her privacy.
For my part, I had always thought my sister wanted most some sense of purpose. She may have been a model steward’s daughter, but she could be little else. Too often she sook solitude in her room or the library, whittling away the hours with some tome of poetry where other women cultivated the friendships that would serve them and their families well, later in life. Even I could not keep my peace with Thaliwen’s long social withdrawals and trenchant, unadorned statements; there was little hope for those who were not indebted to my sister to take to her. Neutrality made for a pretty theory, but in practice, it left Thaliwen quite stranded in her ivory tower. Were it not for Emeriel, it is doubtful that our eldest sister would have ever been able to come away from it.
Emeriel was much the opposite, but was equally lacking in aim. She was decisive, certainly: she would rush headlong into one fancy, then abandon it halfway through, forgotten under the heady spell of some new project. Emeriel was nearly as quick to change her mind as she was to make it up. She made friends, certainly, then discarded them, as easily as a wilting flower in her hair. I wonder, sometimes, if the majority of her companions were not like me: watching her with a horrified fascination if only so that we could see what she would do next.
Too often, though, Emeriel’s sudden whims turned her loose upon me. Any very small boy might occasionally be left to the mercies of his elder sister, but sometimes I believe that Emeriel never stopped seeing me as her living doll. She still seems to picture me as the quiet five-year-old determinedly sipping sugar-water from a battered silver teacup in order to avoid further discourse with a stuffed oliphant when I carefully step around her husband in conversations concerning local politics. Now, as then, she seems to believe that if she rephrases her companion’s words and addresses me directly, she can get virtually any statement she wishes out of me, no matter how embarassing it may be personally, or how taxing it may be for Gondor. I have learned more tactful methods of doing so over the years, but now, as then, I take some amount of pride in proving her wrong.
Right now, however, I find it very difficult not to picture Emeriel’s triumph. As she did with Thaliwen, the younger of my two sisters believes that she has some skill at predicting the longings of my heart. She has even gone so far as to convince the eldest of her ability concerning this matter. I am not one to fight my fate merely out of pride alone, but the scene before me did most worrying things to my innards.
Finduilas put an arm around Imrahil, turning him away from the storm-tossed waters. Though the young man’s expression threatened defiance, his posture told me that he would not fight his older sister; not here, so near to where they had lost another. Finduilas pulled her little brother’s head to her shoulder, stroking his dark hair, and I was reminded once more just why I loved my willful, aimless sisters.
Title: Aim
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Denethor, his sisters, Finduilas, Imrahil
Prompt: 12. It’s been a while since I've really spent time with you, wish I could take back the times that I had
Word Count: 689
Rating: G
Summary: Denethor learns that not all who wander are lost.
Author's Notes: After seeing some other Hurin sisters fic, I wanted to try to get a little more background on Thaliwen and Emeriel. Young Denethor's just an extra bonus.
My sisters were not the type to inspire one’s confidence in the human mind and its capacity for compassion. From an early age, it became very clear what our respective roles would be.
Thaliwen, as the eldest child of the heir apparent to the White Rod, was granted virtually anything she desired. Having been duly impressed by her father’s responsibilities, she attempted to conserve that power by remaining unaffected by all would-be flatterers. In effect, this meant that she never wanted for anything, but she never accomplished much, either. Thaliwen, to her credit, never dithered in front of us. If she did not know what she wanted, (which was rather often,) she stubbornly refused any sort of compromise until she could be sure that her decision had not been unjustifiably influenced by an outside force. She was firm about her few wants and needs, but chiefly amongst them she counted her privacy.
For my part, I had always thought my sister wanted most some sense of purpose. She may have been a model steward’s daughter, but she could be little else. Too often she sook solitude in her room or the library, whittling away the hours with some tome of poetry where other women cultivated the friendships that would serve them and their families well, later in life. Even I could not keep my peace with Thaliwen’s long social withdrawals and trenchant, unadorned statements; there was little hope for those who were not indebted to my sister to take to her. Neutrality made for a pretty theory, but in practice, it left Thaliwen quite stranded in her ivory tower. Were it not for Emeriel, it is doubtful that our eldest sister would have ever been able to come away from it.
Emeriel was much the opposite, but was equally lacking in aim. She was decisive, certainly: she would rush headlong into one fancy, then abandon it halfway through, forgotten under the heady spell of some new project. Emeriel was nearly as quick to change her mind as she was to make it up. She made friends, certainly, then discarded them, as easily as a wilting flower in her hair. I wonder, sometimes, if the majority of her companions were not like me: watching her with a horrified fascination if only so that we could see what she would do next.
Too often, though, Emeriel’s sudden whims turned her loose upon me. Any very small boy might occasionally be left to the mercies of his elder sister, but sometimes I believe that Emeriel never stopped seeing me as her living doll. She still seems to picture me as the quiet five-year-old determinedly sipping sugar-water from a battered silver teacup in order to avoid further discourse with a stuffed oliphant when I carefully step around her husband in conversations concerning local politics. Now, as then, she seems to believe that if she rephrases her companion’s words and addresses me directly, she can get virtually any statement she wishes out of me, no matter how embarassing it may be personally, or how taxing it may be for Gondor. I have learned more tactful methods of doing so over the years, but now, as then, I take some amount of pride in proving her wrong.
Right now, however, I find it very difficult not to picture Emeriel’s triumph. As she did with Thaliwen, the younger of my two sisters believes that she has some skill at predicting the longings of my heart. She has even gone so far as to convince the eldest of her ability concerning this matter. I am not one to fight my fate merely out of pride alone, but the scene before me did most worrying things to my innards.
Finduilas put an arm around Imrahil, turning him away from the storm-tossed waters. Though the young man’s expression threatened defiance, his posture told me that he would not fight his older sister; not here, so near to where they had lost another. Finduilas pulled her little brother’s head to her shoulder, stroking his dark hair, and I was reminded once more just why I loved my willful, aimless sisters.