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Lyric table
Title: In Graying Twilight (Being the True Confessions of a Tweenage Thorongil Fangirl)
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Finduilas, Thorongil, Denethor, Imrahil, and Adrahil
Prompt: 49: Where can I run to, where can I hide; who will I turn to now I'm in a virgin state of mind
Word Count: 1292
Rating: PG
Summary: Fortunately for Denethor, Finduilas's plans are falling apart.
Author's Notes: Not my characters. Will almost definitely be worked into "As Golden Leaves Upon the Sea," if I ever move back into regular update mode. What can I say; I'm a one-shot girl at heart. This plot twist can be blamed primarily upon Eggo Waffles and the folks at TolkSarc*. I swear that most of my more canonical sources left out the drama.
*Also responsible for Bombadil the Witch-King, the Great Balrog Slippers Debate, and the Rabid Giant-Cow-Milking Stork Maneuver. It's best not to ask.
She had worn white, that day, for Belfalas and Minas Tirith both. The color did not particularly suit her, generally speaking, but she added plenty of powder and pinched her cheeks for luck. By the time she approached him, she figured that she would have plenty of natural coloring, anyway.
It was fortunate that she had met him here, in the capitol, and not at home, where rumors would spread if she so much as glanced at him. There were problems enough without certain past indiscretions coming to light. In Dol Amroth, there was no telling what he might have heard from her childhood friends or distant relatives, but here, they were both strangers in a strange land. Here, she might have a fair go at playing the part of the exotic princess that could seduce any man she wanted. Even Thorongil.
Ah, Thorongil! The Great Eagle among captains; the guiding star amongst men; he was too mysterious by half, and Finduilas was determined to root those mysteries out. She had studied him, won his undivided interest a time or two during mealtime discussions, and he had danced with her five times throughout the course of the week’s nightly entertainments. Now, it was time for the next step.
She breathed in deeply, gathering her courage. There were still potential sources of rumor, in the form of her father, her little brother, Lord Denethor, his sisters, and other jealous young ladies of the court. But Finduilas trusted her family members not to have told too many embarrassing stories; her father approved of her seeking a potential husband and Imrahil’s silence could be bought or threatened into continuation. Telling stories on siblings was always a double-edged sword, especially when said sibling was older and remembered more tales. The rumors spread by the women of Minas Tirith were spun of whole cloth, and hardly daunted Finduilas in the least. Sea-gleams were as easy to dispel as they were to create.
It was only Denethor that had means and a possible motive to ruin her chances with Thorongil. It had not taken long to observe the truth of the tales; the Steward’s son quite obviously despised his father’s favorite captain. After their encounter in Belfalas, Finduilas believed Denethor too cold to want her for himself, but she would not put it past him to ruin her chances with the handsome captain purely out of an opportunity for dual revenge. She had seen the Steward’s son withdrawing frequently for private conversations with her little brother, and Ulmo knew she had hardly been the kindest woman in Denethor’s life. Over the past few days, Finduilas might have even sworn that she had caught Denethor staring at her. His expression had not been the pure discorn he saved for Thorongil, but those calculating gray eyes had hardly done wonders for her confidence.
But it was of no matter. Denethor would have likely remained as circumspect as always, but if he had not, surely the magnanimous Captain Thorongil would not have believed the tales brought to him from his worst enemy in Minas Tirith. Thorongil even held himself above Lord Denethor’s petty grudge. Surely, the man named for his eagle eyes would be able to see the lady behind such rumors. Even if such rumors happened to be true.
There was no use scaring herself, though. She had but to insure she got a dance with him tonight, and then suggest a walk through the gardens. She had explored the territory thoroughly while her father and brother attended council sessions, and had found the Citadel gardens more than adequate for her purposes. They were more claustrophobia-inducing than those of her Palace were, but that was all to her advantage upon this night.
Finduilas glided through the crowds as softly and surely as a downy feather, making her way to where Thorongil stood in conversation with a few other soldiers and a covey of admiring ladies. It seemed the easiest thing in the world to suggest a dance, once the musicians started on a new song. The white-clad lady changed partners again and again, at last retiring once she had gained Thorongil’s strong arm to rest upon. She moved out towards the gardens, claiming a need for the cool, fresh night air, and the captain went with her. It was here that her plans fell to pieces.
Thorongil was not the problem. He was perfect, charming; a gentleman even as he ever-so-delicately removed her heart and shattered it. “I am sorry, my lady,” he had said, bowing over her hand. Those stormy gray eyes had looked into hers, and she could tell he meant it. He meant every word, but he was still in love with someone else. “Shall I send for your brother, or would you rather be alone?”
“No,” Finduilas had managed, looking away. “I have troubled you enough. I will make my way back inside shortly; simply please tell my father not to worry about me.”
“I shall.” Another bow, and he was gone. Finduilas was only too happy to be in the secluded garden niche. It would not serve the purpose she had hoped it would, but the solitude served her well, nonetheless.
It was several minutes before she realized her private sanctuary had been intruded upon. “I will not say ‘I told you so,’ if you do not pretend ignorance.” An arm, sleeved in sober black even during this festival night, was offered to her, a handkerchief in the hand. “Are you ready to rejoin the living, my lady? Your brother sent me out looking for you.”
Finduilas resolutely pulled out a handkerchief of her own and dabbed at her eyes. “What do you mean, ‘rejoin the living?’ You’re the one who looks as if he just returned from business on Silent Street.”
“While attending your funeral.” The Steward’s son quirked an eyebrow, and then let his face relax into something that on any other man, Finduilas would have considered sympathetic. “You’re paler than a seagull’s ghost.”
“Now you sound like my father.” Finduilas had shown no intention of standing, but made room for him on the bench. He showed no indication of sitting next to her.
Denethor had managed to contrive a way of even making his shrugs seem eloquent. “There are worse men one could find oneself compared to. Now, will you come with me, Lady Finduilas?” he offered her a hand once more.
Pocketing her handkerchief, an absurd thought occurred to her. “You are afraid of being found in the gardens with a young lady, sir?” Denethor favored her once more with a raised eyebrow and a steady, disbelieving stare. Finduilas merely returned it, feeling her lips twitch in mirthless humor. Slowly, she extended her hand to his.
She was rather surprised by the power those cold fingers exerted, pulling her up from her seat. “Milady, if we two should ever find ourselves in a hidden nook of the gardens, it will be on our own terms, of our own free will. I will not content myself with Thorongil’s leavings.” Those steely eyes, which had always seemed cold and emotionless upon previous encounters, burned with something besides rage. Finduilas was surprised at how tentative the kiss upon her brow was; none of its shy, awkward hesitation was present in his eyes. “Just remember that I saw you first.”
Finduilas blinked, reaching up to touch his proud face. “Denethor, I don’t know that I’ve seen you yet.”
That laconic, arrogant smile returned, and Denethor moved to her side, her hand perched gallantly atop his arm. “You really must learn to open your eyes, Finduilas.” They moved back towards the light and the chaos, black and white, side by side in the evening’s dusky glow.
Title: In Graying Twilight (Being the True Confessions of a Tweenage Thorongil Fangirl)
Fandom: LotR
Characters: Finduilas, Thorongil, Denethor, Imrahil, and Adrahil
Prompt: 49: Where can I run to, where can I hide; who will I turn to now I'm in a virgin state of mind
Word Count: 1292
Rating: PG
Summary: Fortunately for Denethor, Finduilas's plans are falling apart.
Author's Notes: Not my characters. Will almost definitely be worked into "As Golden Leaves Upon the Sea," if I ever move back into regular update mode. What can I say; I'm a one-shot girl at heart. This plot twist can be blamed primarily upon Eggo Waffles and the folks at TolkSarc*. I swear that most of my more canonical sources left out the drama.
*Also responsible for Bombadil the Witch-King, the Great Balrog Slippers Debate, and the Rabid Giant-Cow-Milking Stork Maneuver. It's best not to ask.
She had worn white, that day, for Belfalas and Minas Tirith both. The color did not particularly suit her, generally speaking, but she added plenty of powder and pinched her cheeks for luck. By the time she approached him, she figured that she would have plenty of natural coloring, anyway.
It was fortunate that she had met him here, in the capitol, and not at home, where rumors would spread if she so much as glanced at him. There were problems enough without certain past indiscretions coming to light. In Dol Amroth, there was no telling what he might have heard from her childhood friends or distant relatives, but here, they were both strangers in a strange land. Here, she might have a fair go at playing the part of the exotic princess that could seduce any man she wanted. Even Thorongil.
Ah, Thorongil! The Great Eagle among captains; the guiding star amongst men; he was too mysterious by half, and Finduilas was determined to root those mysteries out. She had studied him, won his undivided interest a time or two during mealtime discussions, and he had danced with her five times throughout the course of the week’s nightly entertainments. Now, it was time for the next step.
She breathed in deeply, gathering her courage. There were still potential sources of rumor, in the form of her father, her little brother, Lord Denethor, his sisters, and other jealous young ladies of the court. But Finduilas trusted her family members not to have told too many embarrassing stories; her father approved of her seeking a potential husband and Imrahil’s silence could be bought or threatened into continuation. Telling stories on siblings was always a double-edged sword, especially when said sibling was older and remembered more tales. The rumors spread by the women of Minas Tirith were spun of whole cloth, and hardly daunted Finduilas in the least. Sea-gleams were as easy to dispel as they were to create.
It was only Denethor that had means and a possible motive to ruin her chances with Thorongil. It had not taken long to observe the truth of the tales; the Steward’s son quite obviously despised his father’s favorite captain. After their encounter in Belfalas, Finduilas believed Denethor too cold to want her for himself, but she would not put it past him to ruin her chances with the handsome captain purely out of an opportunity for dual revenge. She had seen the Steward’s son withdrawing frequently for private conversations with her little brother, and Ulmo knew she had hardly been the kindest woman in Denethor’s life. Over the past few days, Finduilas might have even sworn that she had caught Denethor staring at her. His expression had not been the pure discorn he saved for Thorongil, but those calculating gray eyes had hardly done wonders for her confidence.
But it was of no matter. Denethor would have likely remained as circumspect as always, but if he had not, surely the magnanimous Captain Thorongil would not have believed the tales brought to him from his worst enemy in Minas Tirith. Thorongil even held himself above Lord Denethor’s petty grudge. Surely, the man named for his eagle eyes would be able to see the lady behind such rumors. Even if such rumors happened to be true.
There was no use scaring herself, though. She had but to insure she got a dance with him tonight, and then suggest a walk through the gardens. She had explored the territory thoroughly while her father and brother attended council sessions, and had found the Citadel gardens more than adequate for her purposes. They were more claustrophobia-inducing than those of her Palace were, but that was all to her advantage upon this night.
Finduilas glided through the crowds as softly and surely as a downy feather, making her way to where Thorongil stood in conversation with a few other soldiers and a covey of admiring ladies. It seemed the easiest thing in the world to suggest a dance, once the musicians started on a new song. The white-clad lady changed partners again and again, at last retiring once she had gained Thorongil’s strong arm to rest upon. She moved out towards the gardens, claiming a need for the cool, fresh night air, and the captain went with her. It was here that her plans fell to pieces.
Thorongil was not the problem. He was perfect, charming; a gentleman even as he ever-so-delicately removed her heart and shattered it. “I am sorry, my lady,” he had said, bowing over her hand. Those stormy gray eyes had looked into hers, and she could tell he meant it. He meant every word, but he was still in love with someone else. “Shall I send for your brother, or would you rather be alone?”
“No,” Finduilas had managed, looking away. “I have troubled you enough. I will make my way back inside shortly; simply please tell my father not to worry about me.”
“I shall.” Another bow, and he was gone. Finduilas was only too happy to be in the secluded garden niche. It would not serve the purpose she had hoped it would, but the solitude served her well, nonetheless.
It was several minutes before she realized her private sanctuary had been intruded upon. “I will not say ‘I told you so,’ if you do not pretend ignorance.” An arm, sleeved in sober black even during this festival night, was offered to her, a handkerchief in the hand. “Are you ready to rejoin the living, my lady? Your brother sent me out looking for you.”
Finduilas resolutely pulled out a handkerchief of her own and dabbed at her eyes. “What do you mean, ‘rejoin the living?’ You’re the one who looks as if he just returned from business on Silent Street.”
“While attending your funeral.” The Steward’s son quirked an eyebrow, and then let his face relax into something that on any other man, Finduilas would have considered sympathetic. “You’re paler than a seagull’s ghost.”
“Now you sound like my father.” Finduilas had shown no intention of standing, but made room for him on the bench. He showed no indication of sitting next to her.
Denethor had managed to contrive a way of even making his shrugs seem eloquent. “There are worse men one could find oneself compared to. Now, will you come with me, Lady Finduilas?” he offered her a hand once more.
Pocketing her handkerchief, an absurd thought occurred to her. “You are afraid of being found in the gardens with a young lady, sir?” Denethor favored her once more with a raised eyebrow and a steady, disbelieving stare. Finduilas merely returned it, feeling her lips twitch in mirthless humor. Slowly, she extended her hand to his.
She was rather surprised by the power those cold fingers exerted, pulling her up from her seat. “Milady, if we two should ever find ourselves in a hidden nook of the gardens, it will be on our own terms, of our own free will. I will not content myself with Thorongil’s leavings.” Those steely eyes, which had always seemed cold and emotionless upon previous encounters, burned with something besides rage. Finduilas was surprised at how tentative the kiss upon her brow was; none of its shy, awkward hesitation was present in his eyes. “Just remember that I saw you first.”
Finduilas blinked, reaching up to touch his proud face. “Denethor, I don’t know that I’ve seen you yet.”
That laconic, arrogant smile returned, and Denethor moved to her side, her hand perched gallantly atop his arm. “You really must learn to open your eyes, Finduilas.” They moved back towards the light and the chaos, black and white, side by side in the evening’s dusky glow.