And it's good for B2MEM, too.
Lyric Table
Title: Sisterly Love
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Denethor, Finduilas, Imrahil, Thorongil, Denethor's sisters, Adrahil and Ecthelion
Prompt: 9: You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em, know when to walk away and know when to run
Word Count: 1336
Rating: PG
Summary: Imrahil hadn't intended to get involved in a matchmaking scheme, but he knows better than to avoid this one.
Author's Notes: Tolkien's characters, up to and including the Hurin girls. He just didn't name names. And the nose thing isn't just movieverse; Denethor is described with it in the books. This fic covers much of the same timeframe as "In Graying Twilight," this time from Imrahil's perspective. I didn't think that prompt would generate a quarter of the fic it did.
Imrahil had been watching for them, dallying near the garden entrance with a young lady or two entranced by his company. After all, his sister’s handsome Thorongil was not the only foreign captain visiting Minas Tirith during the Midsummer councils, and what Imrahil might lack in daring escapes and stunning victories to discuss with his admirers, the Prince’s son felt he made up for in boyish charm. Even some of the married ladies smiled upon Adrahil’s heir with something more than general good-naturedness. Imrahil was not yet spoken of as Thorongil’s equal, as a potential catch, but he had seen ship’s cats consider a freshly hauled net with less enthusiasm than some of these lasses had regarded him with. Imrahil was also more than willing to make himself available to the attracted parties in Minas Tirith, perking several unwedded women’s interests further.
The young man had been thoroughly enjoying himself, flirting his way between groups much as his sister had, but without any particular goal in mind. While this airy game of diplomacy came easily to him, Imrahil had been struggling with the drier half of political theory: making sense of proper countrywide policy. So far, Adrahil had not yet abandoned his heir to grope towards understanding of the full minutes of Ecthelion’s councils by himself, but the barrage of questions the Prince of Dol Amroth put to Imrahil after the fact could be enough to make his head spin.
The traditional Lithe-Day celebrations were a welcome respite to trying to remember which village in which providence had been flooded in which year, and who owed whom taxes for the resulting dam, and which town had just been invaded by orcs and needed just how many men and what supplies… It was not that Imrahil did not care about the people of Gondor and their various plights, but simply that he just could not remember all the details. Truthfully, there were times when he wondered if his father questioned him so because Adrahil himself needed a reminder. Surely, no one could remember all that without a library’s worth of notes. But through the memories of their sons or devices of their own, the Ruling Prince and the Steward seemed to manage it. Then there was Denethor, reciting facts and figures at his father’s side with the accuracy of a scribe, barely glancing at the papers he brought. And for every case Denethor had, Thorongil could usually elaborate further or provide a counterexample. Most of the other lords tended to confine such displays to knowledge of their own lands, but Imrahil could admit that he was impressed.
Constrained by his studies, the young man had envied his sister her idle time, and intended to make full use of his without having to worry about Finduilas’s affairs. But a pair of hawk-nosed matrons had come to plead their case, grudgingly convincing him otherwise.
“You’re young Imrahil of Dol Amroth?” the taller of the two had asked him directly, studying him with strangely familiar looking gray eyes.
“Aye, that I am. How might I be of service to you, my ladies?”
“Lady Emeriel of Lamedon,” the shorter one identified herself. “And my sister Thaliwen. Our brother has sent word that he has been having complications with your sister, and we’re here to help.”
Imrahil stared at them dumbfoundedly. “Finduilas isn’t courting anyone at the moment,” he managed at last.
The woman identified as Thaliwen rolled her eyes. “He wouldn’t have asked her, would he?”
Emeriel smiled and shook her head, adjusting her young daughter on her hip. “One practically has to push the boy up the mountains before he’ll do something like that on his own.”
“Excuse me,” Imrahil interrupted, “but do I get to meet this potential brother-in-law of mine before I help you throw him at my sister?” Both women turned to stare at him as if he had just declared intentions of dancing with a Nazgul.
“Cheeky,” Thaliwen murmured, after exchanging a glance with her sister. “I believe you already know Denethor, young Imrahil.”
It was his turn to reconsider the two women in front of him. That would explain the eyes… and the noses, for that matter. “And what exactly inspired this sudden offer of aid? Finduilas and Lord Denethor have not considered courting in over a year.”
Emeriel’s gaze wandered over the crowd, focusing at last upon the man taking shelter within the shadow of a statue. She inclined her head towards the black-clad figure, pointing him out to her companions with her large, protruding beak. Denethor’s attention was focused more or less circumspectly upon a dancer in white, from what Imrahil could tell. “He’d never consider such a thing,” Emeriel responded. “Little Brother would debate such a matter internally until the lady in question passed him by. He is not, however, generally known to obsess over women that have turned him down.”
Thaliwen disrupted Imrahil’s thoughts, clucking her tongue as she watched the object of Denethor’s focus. “She’s dancing with Thorongil, Sister.”
Emeriel smiled, though the prince’s son raised an eyebrow. “And what’s wrong with that? She likes him. Wait, why are you smiling? I thought you wanted to set your brother up.” Imrahil was not quite sure what to make of these women, but he had to admit that he liked Denethor, perhaps even more than Thorongil. The latter was a good man, and a captain that would do any city proud, but there was too great of an unknown factor in Thorongil’s past. He was the type of war-hero Imrahil would rather admire from a distance than discuss family matters with. Thorongil was just a little too perfect, too awe-inspiring for Imrahil get close to. Denethor would also usually hold the young man at arm’s length, but then, Denethor kept everyone at arm’s length. And Imrahil had seen the Steward’s son in his moments of weakness, and he could feel a bit more confident in the fact that Denethor, at least, would not break under pressure. Thorongil, for all Imrahil knew, was a handsome sea mist that would dissolve as soon as Ecthelion’s immediate need for him disappeared.
“Aye, but our good Captain Thorongil is already engaged. More’s the pity,” Emeriel sighed, hugging her child a little closer.
“Oh,” was all Imrahil could manage. He started toward his sister, intending on cutting in upon her dance before she made a fool of herself, but Thaliwen’s narrow hand landed upon his shoulder.
“Lord Imrahil, we would be in your debt if you were to go to your friend our brother and mention that you are worried about your sister.” Those proud, gray eyes were somewhere between begging and pleading.
Imrahil met her gaze coolly. “And if I decide to let Finduilas find her own happiness?”
Emeriel made shooing gestures at him with her free hand. “Certainly, they should find their own happiness. We’re merely providing the opportunity.”
The young man smirked. “Women!” he muttered, shaking his head. “I am going have to get plenty of brotherly support from Denethor if I am to survive being related to two more meddling gossips.”
Thaliwen released his shoulder, as Finduilas and her dancing partner left for the gardens. “He could probably use such as well.” She smiled, but the sisters never took their eyes from him until Denethor had left the feast-hall. Only then did Imrahil feel comfortable enough to seek out more pleasant conversation.
Out of morbid curiosity, Imrahil lingered by the doorway, awaiting the results of their little experiment. Finduilas at last returned on Denethor’s arm, both of them slightly too flushed for the cool of the night air. Finduilas also looked as if she had been crying, but her eyes were filled with bemusement rather than distress, and their outfits were as neat as the late hour could allow for. Taking this as a good sign, Imrahil slipped into the dance before Denethor could exchange more than a nod with him. To his limited surprise, his sister and her companion followed suit. To no one’s amazement, a pair of matrons resting near their father’s simple stone seat were trading very satisfied smiles.
Title: Sisterly Love
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Denethor, Finduilas, Imrahil, Thorongil, Denethor's sisters, Adrahil and Ecthelion
Prompt: 9: You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em, know when to walk away and know when to run
Word Count: 1336
Rating: PG
Summary: Imrahil hadn't intended to get involved in a matchmaking scheme, but he knows better than to avoid this one.
Author's Notes: Tolkien's characters, up to and including the Hurin girls. He just didn't name names. And the nose thing isn't just movieverse; Denethor is described with it in the books. This fic covers much of the same timeframe as "In Graying Twilight," this time from Imrahil's perspective. I didn't think that prompt would generate a quarter of the fic it did.
Imrahil had been watching for them, dallying near the garden entrance with a young lady or two entranced by his company. After all, his sister’s handsome Thorongil was not the only foreign captain visiting Minas Tirith during the Midsummer councils, and what Imrahil might lack in daring escapes and stunning victories to discuss with his admirers, the Prince’s son felt he made up for in boyish charm. Even some of the married ladies smiled upon Adrahil’s heir with something more than general good-naturedness. Imrahil was not yet spoken of as Thorongil’s equal, as a potential catch, but he had seen ship’s cats consider a freshly hauled net with less enthusiasm than some of these lasses had regarded him with. Imrahil was also more than willing to make himself available to the attracted parties in Minas Tirith, perking several unwedded women’s interests further.
The young man had been thoroughly enjoying himself, flirting his way between groups much as his sister had, but without any particular goal in mind. While this airy game of diplomacy came easily to him, Imrahil had been struggling with the drier half of political theory: making sense of proper countrywide policy. So far, Adrahil had not yet abandoned his heir to grope towards understanding of the full minutes of Ecthelion’s councils by himself, but the barrage of questions the Prince of Dol Amroth put to Imrahil after the fact could be enough to make his head spin.
The traditional Lithe-Day celebrations were a welcome respite to trying to remember which village in which providence had been flooded in which year, and who owed whom taxes for the resulting dam, and which town had just been invaded by orcs and needed just how many men and what supplies… It was not that Imrahil did not care about the people of Gondor and their various plights, but simply that he just could not remember all the details. Truthfully, there were times when he wondered if his father questioned him so because Adrahil himself needed a reminder. Surely, no one could remember all that without a library’s worth of notes. But through the memories of their sons or devices of their own, the Ruling Prince and the Steward seemed to manage it. Then there was Denethor, reciting facts and figures at his father’s side with the accuracy of a scribe, barely glancing at the papers he brought. And for every case Denethor had, Thorongil could usually elaborate further or provide a counterexample. Most of the other lords tended to confine such displays to knowledge of their own lands, but Imrahil could admit that he was impressed.
Constrained by his studies, the young man had envied his sister her idle time, and intended to make full use of his without having to worry about Finduilas’s affairs. But a pair of hawk-nosed matrons had come to plead their case, grudgingly convincing him otherwise.
“You’re young Imrahil of Dol Amroth?” the taller of the two had asked him directly, studying him with strangely familiar looking gray eyes.
“Aye, that I am. How might I be of service to you, my ladies?”
“Lady Emeriel of Lamedon,” the shorter one identified herself. “And my sister Thaliwen. Our brother has sent word that he has been having complications with your sister, and we’re here to help.”
Imrahil stared at them dumbfoundedly. “Finduilas isn’t courting anyone at the moment,” he managed at last.
The woman identified as Thaliwen rolled her eyes. “He wouldn’t have asked her, would he?”
Emeriel smiled and shook her head, adjusting her young daughter on her hip. “One practically has to push the boy up the mountains before he’ll do something like that on his own.”
“Excuse me,” Imrahil interrupted, “but do I get to meet this potential brother-in-law of mine before I help you throw him at my sister?” Both women turned to stare at him as if he had just declared intentions of dancing with a Nazgul.
“Cheeky,” Thaliwen murmured, after exchanging a glance with her sister. “I believe you already know Denethor, young Imrahil.”
It was his turn to reconsider the two women in front of him. That would explain the eyes… and the noses, for that matter. “And what exactly inspired this sudden offer of aid? Finduilas and Lord Denethor have not considered courting in over a year.”
Emeriel’s gaze wandered over the crowd, focusing at last upon the man taking shelter within the shadow of a statue. She inclined her head towards the black-clad figure, pointing him out to her companions with her large, protruding beak. Denethor’s attention was focused more or less circumspectly upon a dancer in white, from what Imrahil could tell. “He’d never consider such a thing,” Emeriel responded. “Little Brother would debate such a matter internally until the lady in question passed him by. He is not, however, generally known to obsess over women that have turned him down.”
Thaliwen disrupted Imrahil’s thoughts, clucking her tongue as she watched the object of Denethor’s focus. “She’s dancing with Thorongil, Sister.”
Emeriel smiled, though the prince’s son raised an eyebrow. “And what’s wrong with that? She likes him. Wait, why are you smiling? I thought you wanted to set your brother up.” Imrahil was not quite sure what to make of these women, but he had to admit that he liked Denethor, perhaps even more than Thorongil. The latter was a good man, and a captain that would do any city proud, but there was too great of an unknown factor in Thorongil’s past. He was the type of war-hero Imrahil would rather admire from a distance than discuss family matters with. Thorongil was just a little too perfect, too awe-inspiring for Imrahil get close to. Denethor would also usually hold the young man at arm’s length, but then, Denethor kept everyone at arm’s length. And Imrahil had seen the Steward’s son in his moments of weakness, and he could feel a bit more confident in the fact that Denethor, at least, would not break under pressure. Thorongil, for all Imrahil knew, was a handsome sea mist that would dissolve as soon as Ecthelion’s immediate need for him disappeared.
“Aye, but our good Captain Thorongil is already engaged. More’s the pity,” Emeriel sighed, hugging her child a little closer.
“Oh,” was all Imrahil could manage. He started toward his sister, intending on cutting in upon her dance before she made a fool of herself, but Thaliwen’s narrow hand landed upon his shoulder.
“Lord Imrahil, we would be in your debt if you were to go to your friend our brother and mention that you are worried about your sister.” Those proud, gray eyes were somewhere between begging and pleading.
Imrahil met her gaze coolly. “And if I decide to let Finduilas find her own happiness?”
Emeriel made shooing gestures at him with her free hand. “Certainly, they should find their own happiness. We’re merely providing the opportunity.”
The young man smirked. “Women!” he muttered, shaking his head. “I am going have to get plenty of brotherly support from Denethor if I am to survive being related to two more meddling gossips.”
Thaliwen released his shoulder, as Finduilas and her dancing partner left for the gardens. “He could probably use such as well.” She smiled, but the sisters never took their eyes from him until Denethor had left the feast-hall. Only then did Imrahil feel comfortable enough to seek out more pleasant conversation.
Out of morbid curiosity, Imrahil lingered by the doorway, awaiting the results of their little experiment. Finduilas at last returned on Denethor’s arm, both of them slightly too flushed for the cool of the night air. Finduilas also looked as if she had been crying, but her eyes were filled with bemusement rather than distress, and their outfits were as neat as the late hour could allow for. Taking this as a good sign, Imrahil slipped into the dance before Denethor could exchange more than a nod with him. To his limited surprise, his sister and her companion followed suit. To no one’s amazement, a pair of matrons resting near their father’s simple stone seat were trading very satisfied smiles.