Post by Admin on Jan 2, 2021 2:53:44 GMT
Summary: Odd ducks, black sheep, black swan; the Dol Amroth family’s unconventional member is the middle daughter, Finduilas. When she blurts out the first words in her mind rather than restricting herself to polite topics like weather and the state of the roads, she strikes up a curious friendship with Denethor, the family guest.
Rating: T
Author gave no warnings.
Finduilas looked longingly at the door to the salon. What hour was it? Surely she could expect her mother’s party to break up soon. She focused her attention back to Lord Peneneth; she had only been half-listening to him drone on about his history of the leather trade of Calembel. She wasn’t even sure what she said, but she murmured polite responses of vague interest, all the while feeling that her mouth was stretched to breaking in a polite smile.
“Pardon me, Lady Finduilas,” a voice broke in at her elbow.
She turned to see another of her parents’ guests: Denethor, son of Ecthelion, the Steward. He loomed over the two of them; she was eye-level to a silver-embroidered star on his black velvet tunic. Blinking to clear her fuzzy mind, she dipped her head in acknowledgement of the newcomer.
“I would like to know more about the tapestry,” he gestured to one of the wall-hangings on the other side of the room. “Would you favor me with its history?”
An escape! She had no idea that the Captain-General cared so much about fine textile art, but she would do her best. She nodded to Lord Peneneth.
“Lord Peneneth, will you excuse us?”
Lord Peneneth’s mouth flapped open and shut like a fish. “I…” he looked at the interrupter, whereupon Lord Denethor raised one dark eyebrow at him. “Certainly, Lady Finduilas,” he finished.
“Peneneth,” Lord Denethor acknowledged, and held out his elbow to Finduilas. She took it gratefully, still wondering at the interruption.
“I thought you needed an escape,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, when they were a few steps away. “Had you had quite enough of the making of saddlebags?”
“I am not sure what you mean, my Lord,” Finduilas murmured. How can I avoid giving offense to anyone? Society expected her to be a gracious conversationalist. Deals were made and political alliances cemented at her mother’s glittering evening affairs, but hospitality reigned over all. The House of the Steward was the only one that ranked higher than that of Dol Amroth in precedence, and even then— in Grandmother Lacheniel’s eyes— the children of Mithrellas were higher in prestige.
Lord Denethor patted Finduilas’s hand politely resting on his arm. “I understand.” They made their way around the clumps of guests until they were standing before the work of art in question.
“Do you truly wish to hear about the tapestry, sir?” She removed her hand and stepped to face him. She looked up into his face, but it was inscrutable.
A smile cracked one corner of his mouth. “We must not be made liars,” he replied.
Finduilas rubbed her fingers together, thinking. She turned back to the tapestry. She had grown up looking at it, memorizing every part of it, imagining herself in various parts of the scene.
“The tapestry was made by my grandmother Lacheniel, early in her marriage to Grandfather Angelimir. It represents the wealth and fruits of Dol Amroth, on both land and sea.” She gestured at a delicately embroidered Swanship under full sail, complete with Grandfather’s colours flying from the mast. “Here you can see my grandfather’s flagship, the Acharn.”
“Which is your favorite part?” Lord Denethor asked.
Without hesitation she pointed to the underwater section. “The sea.”
“The pearls?” Lord Denethor pointed to a large oyster, partially open to reveal a large pearl.
She huffed, a smile crossing her face. “No, my lord. I prefer the animals.” She indicated a sea turtle swimming through a forest of seaweed, captured mid-stroke by her grandmother’s needle.
“A turtle?” His voice curled up. “Not a swan?”
“My sister likes the swans. She is the placid one of the family. No, I like the turtle the best. Have you ever seen them on land? They are slow and ungainly, but when I watch them from the railing of the ships out to sea, they glide so graceful and free.”
He traced the foam of a wave cresting beneath the bow of her grandfather’s flagship. His profile was very stern, she thought, a contrast after the levity of the last few minutes.
The silence dragged out. How many seconds had she been standing here, feeling like a ninny? Impulsively she jumped into words again. She forced herself to look up at their unexpected guest of honor. “It is the nesting season for the turtles right now, my lord.”
He turned to look at her. A fleeting dizziness swept through her, and she dropped her eyes under the intensity of his dark gaze. She turned back to the tapestry, pointing to the beach.
“Each year at the beginning of summer, they come ashore at night to lay their eggs on the strand of Belfalas. I like to watch them.” Her voice trailed off. She was prattling. She bit her closed lips and looked back at the tapestry with the most studious expression she could muster. The sand was at eye level. Grandmother had used long-and-short-stitch here, to reflect the mottled sands below the castle.
After a moment or two of more uncomfortable silence, her companion spoke.
“Thank you very much for the explanation, Lady Finduilas. Your grandmother is quite the skilled artist.”
The Captain-General bowed absolutely correctly over her hand, and she watched as he moved to speak to another guest. She grimaced inwardly, trying not to let it show on her face. Turtle nests? Why did she have to speak of turtle nests?
The party finally broke up. Freedom! She bid goodnight to her family and the other guests. She had only taken gone a short way down the hall before she heard unfamiliar footsteps behind her. She looked over her shoulder to see Lord Denethor hurrying after her.
“It is a very fine night. May I join you?” he asked. Once again his face was expressionless.
Finduilas paused. Why did the Captain-General suddenly care about turtles on top of tapestries? “Certainly,” she replied. “But won’t they wonder where you have gone?”
“I’ve already met with Adrahil and Prince Angelimir; my time is my own now.” He smiled. “I’ve spent all day in the saddle. I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs with a walk on the beach.”
Finduilas returned his smile. “I would be happy to give you a moonlight tour of the famous Belfalas strand, in that case. Shall we meet in the garden by the stairs in 30 minutes?”
He agreed, and she rushed to her room to change. She did not want to miss spotting any new nests. In only a short time she was waiting at the foot of the garden, trailed by her maid. The full moon shone overhead, making lanterns unnecessary. Only a moment later, she heard footsteps crunching in the tabby shell walk. Two figures rounded a hedge; the Captain-General, accompanied by his gangly young squire.
She curtsied. “Lord Denethor, shall we go on?” Without waiting (or thinking), she hurried down the stairs. It was only when she stopped to shuck off her slippers at the bottom to preserve them from the sand that she realized proper etiquette would have been to take his arm. Was she forgetting everything Mother taught her in her love of the turtles? She shook her head as if to rid herself of the embarrassment. Behind her, Lord Denethor leaned against the stone pillar marking the foot of the stairs to remove his boots as well. He slung them over his shoulder.
“After you, Lady Finduilas.” He waved his hand to guide her on.
They had not gone far before she reached her favorite spot, a low rock with a flat top, above the tides, just at the brink of the line of dunes and sea grass. She clambered up, and Lord Denethor followed. Her maid and the squire arranged themselves nearby on a driftwood log.
“And now, we wait,” she said.
They sat for a while in silence. Her eyes scanned the waterline for a sign of animal life. The water swept in and out; it was high tide this evening.
“There,” she hissed, clutching his sleeve to point down the strand. Her fingers skittered over something bumpy. He was wearing mail, even at the strand. She chuckled to think of his poor squire having to buff out the rust caused by the salt air. Well, she would make sure they did not stay too long this evening. She knew he needed to continue on to Linhir in the morning. As they watched, a she-turtle dragged herself up the sand, propelling herself with her flippers in an ungainly hop-push, pause; hop-push pause.
“How did you come to care for the turtles so much?” Lord Denethor asked.
Finduilas hugged her knees to her chest. The wind tugged at her skirts. It would not do to expose more than her ankles to the Captain-General, but then he had already seen her bare feet.
“They’re cute?” she said. Would he think her shallow? She thought for a moment.
“Because,” she hesitated. “Because everyone in our family is tied to the sea and the swans. Swans are who we are. I like turtles because they are not swans, but they go to sea just the same. Awkward on land, but so graceful at sea.” Self-conscious, she tucked her chin into her knees. The turtle had turned herself around to face the sea; she began flipping sand to the back and sides with her back feet.
“Does your sister enjoy the sea?” Lord Denethor asked.
“Oh yes, but daytime pursuits, like wave-jumping and sailing. Ivriniel can be quite bossy.”
“I think sisters are like that. I have two older sisters, and a younger brother, somewhat like you,” Lord Denethor said. A wry smile twisted his mouth. “I think my oldest sister might have been at school with your mother.”
Finduilas sighed. It was strange to think he was old enough to be in between her parents’ and her own generation. So far he didn’t seem too terribly old. Did he wear a wool flannel scarf under his mail shirt on cold wet days like Grandmother Lacheniel? She smiled to imagine him striding up and down the bulwarks of Osgiliath with a bright red scarf for all the Easterlings to see.
“I mustn’t sell my sister short, though,” she replied. “Ivriniel and I are close. She took great delight and intense concentration in teaching me the star compass lists when I was small. We all have to learn navigation in our family, but I suppose she liked being a teacher.” She began counting on her fingers: ““Luinil, Morwinyon, Borgil…”
“What about the turtle island?” Lord Denethor interrupted.
“Pardon?”
“The turtle island. Don’t you know the fairy tale of the island of the great turtle-fish?”
Finduilas laughed. “No, there are many strange tales of the sea in Dol Amroth, but that is one I have not yet heard.”
The Captain-General joined her, a deep rolling laugh. “It is quite the epic tale.”
“I look forward to hearing you recite it on your next inspection tour, then. Shall I reserve our musicians to play continuo?”
“Most certainly,” he replied. “I shall need lute and mandola and perhaps your brother can play fife.”
The conversation lapsed again, and they watched as the she-turtle laid her eggs. When finished, sand flew as the she-turtle scooped the excavated sand over the nest. Finduilas waited until the turtle had returned to the sea before slipping off the rock. Shaking out her skirts, she approached her maid, who handed her a waist-high stick and a length of ribbon. She planted the staff next to the nest, and tied the ribbon around the stick.
“Now I’ll know where all the nests are,” she explained. “There are others further down the beach that I’ve already marked.” She looked back at her guest as he pushed off the rock and landed on his feet in the sand. “Now we must get you back to the castle, before it is thought that the pirates have kidnapped you.”
Lord Denethor held out his arm to her, and this time Finduilas remembered to take it politely. She knew she would not stumble on the beach, but at least she could try to make amends for her strange obsessions by behaving respectably in this instance. Leaving the waterline, they made their way back to the castle steps, trailed once again by her maid and his squire.
At the foot of the stairs, they paused to put their shoes back on. She brushed her feet against a conveniently placed prickly boot brush, but her guest did not see it right away. He tried mostly unsuccessfully to brush it off with his hands.
“Here,” she said, and handed Lord Denethor her handkerchief. He used it to swat at his sandy feet like one might swat away a pesky insect. She giggled to see the Steward’s son so undignified, and meeting her eyes, he raised one eyebrow at her, this time more mock-indignant than stern. She motioned to the boot brush behind her. While he bent over the work, she took a last look at the moon. Goodness! It was directly overhead!
“I must go, my lord, for it is late. Please excuse me.”
“Good night, Lady Finduilas,” he said, making a short bow. She curtsied and ran up the stairs and to bed, followed by her maid. The sounds of the sea breakers below the castle crept into her dreams. In the morning she awoke to the sound of the Horn of Gondor ringing out as their guest continued on her journey.
1st Cerveth, 2974
To the Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Greetings:
Because a courier is due to make the journey to Belfalas on the morrow, I take pen in hand to write this quick inquiry, that it may be included in the diplomatic pouches. My lady, since my return to Minas Tirith, I am greatly curious: How many turtle nests are there now below the Castle? Have you been able to preserve them from predators?
Signed,
Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor
11th Cerveth, 2974
To the Lord Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, Greetings:
Most gracious Sir: I was much surprised to receive your missive of the 1st inst., but I am pleased that you take interest in the care of the smallest subjects of Gondor. To answer your question, there are now ten nests along the strand belonging to the Prince of Dol Amroth. I look for them to hatch in six weeks.
I fear that while I cannot stop all the depredations from natural sources, I was recently able to defend the nests from some small boys from the town. They were out mudlarking and I was able to drive them off by pelting them with seashells and bits of driftwood. I fear I must have looked quite the termagant rushing down the beach at them.
Your Servant,
Finduilas of Dol Amroth
22nd Cerveth, 2974
To the Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Greetings:
My lady, I hope that the young vandals were suitably chastened by your harangues. It makes me smile to think of the scene as I ride on patrol. I must cease this unbecoming behavior, lest I ruin my stern reputation and sow dissent in the ranks.
When I was last in Minas Tirith, I consulted with the scribes of Archives regarding knowledge of turtles in the lands of Gondor. To my amazement, they provided me with several folios on the subject, and of Harad and Rhûn as well. Can you imagine that far in the East, there are large turtles who walk the wastes of the Orocarni and sit upon their nests like a hen, rather than swim in the sea? I set one of the scribes to make a fair copy of a drawing of one, and make bold to enclose it with this letter. In the languages of the East, the archivists tell me, it is called a šeleppû.
Sincerely,
Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor
2nd Urui, 2974
To the Lady Ivriniel of Dol Amroth, Greetings:
My Dear Sister, I hope you are enjoying your time with our Lossarnach kin. Have the orchards borne fruit yet? Nothing is better than a peach or a strawberry in summer.
I must beg your advice on a matter that troubles me a great deal. Do you remember that strange party a few weeks ago when the Steward’s son arrived out of nowhere and upset Mother’s seating chart for dinner on an hour’s notice? And we had that completely disastrous conversation about sea turtles? He appears to have struck up a correspondence with me. What should I do? Good manners say I should reply back to his inquiries, but what does one say in a correspondence with a soldier of Osgiliath? Can one be friends with someone so different in station?
Grandmother Lacheniel asked me why I was meeting the couriers so often, and I explained I had struck up a friendship with someone over mutual interest in the well-being of grandfather’s turtles. She simply looked over her teacup at me and said, “hmm.”
I have begun work on a new handkerchief. I cannot find my favorite one with the spiderworts on it anywhere. By any chance did it get mixed in with yours?
Your devoted sister,
Finduilas
12th Urui, 2974
To the Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Greetings:
My dear sister, keep corresponding with your friend. I have a good feeling about this.
I do not have your handkerchief. When did you last see it? I confess I have eaten quite too much peach trifle. Our Aunt sends her love.
Your devoted sister,
Ivriniel
14th Urui, 2974
To the Lord Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, Greetings:
Most Gracious Sir: Thank you very much for the drawing of the tortoise from the Orocarni. The pyramids on the back are so perfectly symmetrical, yet I smile to wonder whether it would bump into itself?
Your servant,
Finduilas of Dol Amroth
19th Urui, 2974
To the Lord Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, Greetings:
Most Gracious Sir: I hope you will forgive me for being so bold as to write again so soon, but I thought you would be pleased to know that the first of the nests hatched yesterday. I wish you could see it, but I know your duties to Gondor keep you away. Hatchlings are little gray things, wriggling with energy. So many of them climbed out of the sand, yesterday, practically stepping on each other in their haste to return to the sea. They rush to the water’s edge, and then let the waves take them out to sea. I expect several more nests to hatch over the next week or so.
Your subject,
Finduilas of Dol Amroth
Finduilas sat in the curved nook of the garden wall, looking over the sea. The markers for the nests fluttered in the wind. Her hand was frozen mid-air, her needle paused in its motions as she worked on a new handkerchief. The breakers of the sea had a hypnotic effect. Grandmother Lacheniel sat opposite. She was reading a book, her carved cane leaning against her knee.
Footsteps crunched on the tabby behind them. Finduilas looked up to Denethor, preceded by one of the family footmen. Her stomach dropped.
“Denethor, son of Echthelion, Captain-General of Gondor,” the footman announced.
Grandmother Lacheniel stood to greet their guest, leaning on her cane. As the footman stepped back, Finduilas saw that Denethor was carrying a bouquet of megorluin flowers. Was it for her? Still in shock, she watched as Denethor stepped forward to bow over Grandmother’s hand, and present the flowers to her.
“Only the finest wildflowers for the Princess of Dol Amroth,” he explained. “They come straight from a meadow on the slopes the Dor-en-ernil.”
“Where you likely poached them from my husband’s land,” she quipped. Her eyes twinkled, making a lie of her gruff response.
“My father is the Steward of Gondor, your Highness. Surely they are all adherent to the chair of the Steward.”
Grandmother Lacheniel took a deep breath of the flowers, their blue petals bent back from the fuzzy brown center like a dancer getting ready to leap. Then, holding them out to admire them at arm’s length, she inquired of Denethor,
“I believe you have met my grandaughter, Finduilas?”
Finduilas remembered to close her mouth and stepped forward to her grandmother’s side. Denethor bowed over her hand in turn.
“Princess Lacheniel, I happened to be traveling along the Western Road, and thought I might stop to inquire about the well-being of the Gondorian flora and fauna,” he explained.
“Harrumph,” Grandmother Lacheniel replied. After another breath of the flowers, she handed them to the footman, with instructions to place them in a vase of water. As his footsteps receded on the tabby, she turned to Finduilas.
“Finduilas, why don’t you leave off your embroidery and take Lord Denethor to see your turtles? I’ll watch from up here. I don’t want to have to send to the castle for my pattens.”
Finduilas curtsied deeply to her grandmother to hide her smile. She managed to compose herself by the time she stood straight again. This time she remembered to take Denethor’s proffered arm, as politeness dictated.
When they reached her favorite spot, rather than clamber onto the rock, Denethor broke off and made for the water’s edge. To Finduilas’s surprise, he stood gazing at his feet, as the receding waves dug the sand out from around his feet. Finduilas picked up her skirts and joined him.
“It’s nice isn’t it?” she asked.
“I haven’t done this in years,” he replied.
“Have you been wave-hopping, Lord Denethor?” she inquired, looking at him sideways. A hermit crab tickled her toe as it crawled past. “My sister is quite the fearless one. There is a bar, a little ways out, where one can stand. I have never had the courage to go quite that far.”
Denethor looked out at the breakers. A shorebird swooped low over the water. “See, gulls are sitting there! Beware! Gulls do not sink,” he said.
“Pardon?” Finduilas asked.
“It’s the Fastitocalon,” he said. “The poem I told you about, about the turtle-fish as large as an island. I learned the first two verses to recite at your next banquet in Dol Amroth.”
“Truly, my Lord?” Finduilas shook her head. She could not picture an illustrious personage as him standing in the musicians’ balcony.
Denethor placed his hand on his heart. “Do you want me to swear by the White Tree embroidered on my tunic that I was quite the sensation at the last changing of the guard banquet? And that I will get no respect from the barracks ever again and will have to become a mummer on the quay of Pelargir?” He winked at her.
Finduilas threw her head back and laughed. She sighed and looked at the waves lapping at their feet again. Something small and green-gray wriggled past.
“My Lord—look— there they go!”
Denethor twisted around, looking about himself- three more little hatchlings crawled past.
They turned and saw a small fountain of sand erupting behind them next to one of her markers. The gull which had been out on the bar, sailed in on its wings, settling in next to the parade.
“Shoo, gull!” she cried, as the gull snatched one up. She ran at it waving her arms. The gull took off, the poor little hatchling still in its mouth.
“For Gondor!” Denethor cried, as he rushed another set of gulls. Disgruntled, they flew further down the strand, away from annoying Secondborn.
When they had managed to protect the sea-march of as many hatchlings from the gulls as they could, and there were only small flecks bopping in the surf, Finduilas and Denethor sat on her rock to rest.
“Tell me more of this turtle-fish,” Finduilas gasped.
Denethor hopped down onto the sand, and swallowed hard to catch his breath. He held his arm out authoritatively, just like the greatest of bards. Beginning with a bow, he declaimed,
“Look, there is Fastitocalon!
An island good to land upon,
Although 'tis rather bare.
Come, leave the sea! And let us run,
Or dance, or lie down in the sun! See, gulls are sitting there!
Beware!
Gulls do not sink.
There they may sit, or strut and prink:
Their part is to tip the wink,
If anyone should dare
Upon that isle to settle,
Or only for a while to get
Relief from sickness or the wet,
Or maybe boil a kettle.”
Finduilas cocked an eyebrow as she stared out to sea. “That is very preposterous. Who would ever think of such a poem?”
Denethor bowed again, one windblown dark curl drooping over his forehead. He pulled himself back up beside her. Rolling a piece of sea grass between his fingers, he replied, “I was told by my tutors that tt was written by people called the Halflings.”
“Again, you surprise me,” Finduilas said. “I have memorized all the star charts to beyond Far Harad and back, and yet I have not heard of the Halflings.”
“Until this summer you had not heard of a tortoise in the Orocarni that hatches its nest like a chicken, and yet you believed me then.” He clutched his chest dramatically and carefully fell backwards so as to not injure himself on the hard surface.
Finduilas heaved a deep sigh. She plucked a stem of the sea grass herself, idly brushing it back and forth on the rock, sweeping it bare of any windblown sand.
Denethor sat up again. “I have a confession to make. I accidentally stole your handkerchief on my last visit.” He took a neatly folded square of linen from a pocket at his waist. “I came back because I wanted to see the turtles again, but also because I needed to make an honest man of myself by returning it.”
Finduilas accepted the proffered handkerchief with a bow of her head. “I forgive you,” she said, earnestly.
Denethor continued, “thank you for showing me the turtles this summer, and writing to me. It…” his voice stuttered. “It has been such a summer out of the ordinary.”
Finduilas pulled a lock of hair away from her face that had come free of her braids. “Thank you. I’ve enjoyed having someone to share my enthusiasm for the beach”
“Finduilas,” he began. His eyebrows went up, inquiring. “I… was wondering.”
She set the handkerchief in her lap and met his eyes.
“I’ve enjoyed our friendship this summer. You are cheerful and earnest and make me willing to poach flowers to win the favor of your family. With your permission, I would like to ask your parents to court you formally.”
Finduilas smiled. Hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, she reached out and took his hand.
“Yes.”
Rating: T
Author gave no warnings.
Finduilas looked longingly at the door to the salon. What hour was it? Surely she could expect her mother’s party to break up soon. She focused her attention back to Lord Peneneth; she had only been half-listening to him drone on about his history of the leather trade of Calembel. She wasn’t even sure what she said, but she murmured polite responses of vague interest, all the while feeling that her mouth was stretched to breaking in a polite smile.
“Pardon me, Lady Finduilas,” a voice broke in at her elbow.
She turned to see another of her parents’ guests: Denethor, son of Ecthelion, the Steward. He loomed over the two of them; she was eye-level to a silver-embroidered star on his black velvet tunic. Blinking to clear her fuzzy mind, she dipped her head in acknowledgement of the newcomer.
“I would like to know more about the tapestry,” he gestured to one of the wall-hangings on the other side of the room. “Would you favor me with its history?”
An escape! She had no idea that the Captain-General cared so much about fine textile art, but she would do her best. She nodded to Lord Peneneth.
“Lord Peneneth, will you excuse us?”
Lord Peneneth’s mouth flapped open and shut like a fish. “I…” he looked at the interrupter, whereupon Lord Denethor raised one dark eyebrow at him. “Certainly, Lady Finduilas,” he finished.
“Peneneth,” Lord Denethor acknowledged, and held out his elbow to Finduilas. She took it gratefully, still wondering at the interruption.
“I thought you needed an escape,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, when they were a few steps away. “Had you had quite enough of the making of saddlebags?”
“I am not sure what you mean, my Lord,” Finduilas murmured. How can I avoid giving offense to anyone? Society expected her to be a gracious conversationalist. Deals were made and political alliances cemented at her mother’s glittering evening affairs, but hospitality reigned over all. The House of the Steward was the only one that ranked higher than that of Dol Amroth in precedence, and even then— in Grandmother Lacheniel’s eyes— the children of Mithrellas were higher in prestige.
Lord Denethor patted Finduilas’s hand politely resting on his arm. “I understand.” They made their way around the clumps of guests until they were standing before the work of art in question.
“Do you truly wish to hear about the tapestry, sir?” She removed her hand and stepped to face him. She looked up into his face, but it was inscrutable.
A smile cracked one corner of his mouth. “We must not be made liars,” he replied.
Finduilas rubbed her fingers together, thinking. She turned back to the tapestry. She had grown up looking at it, memorizing every part of it, imagining herself in various parts of the scene.
“The tapestry was made by my grandmother Lacheniel, early in her marriage to Grandfather Angelimir. It represents the wealth and fruits of Dol Amroth, on both land and sea.” She gestured at a delicately embroidered Swanship under full sail, complete with Grandfather’s colours flying from the mast. “Here you can see my grandfather’s flagship, the Acharn.”
“Which is your favorite part?” Lord Denethor asked.
Without hesitation she pointed to the underwater section. “The sea.”
“The pearls?” Lord Denethor pointed to a large oyster, partially open to reveal a large pearl.
She huffed, a smile crossing her face. “No, my lord. I prefer the animals.” She indicated a sea turtle swimming through a forest of seaweed, captured mid-stroke by her grandmother’s needle.
“A turtle?” His voice curled up. “Not a swan?”
“My sister likes the swans. She is the placid one of the family. No, I like the turtle the best. Have you ever seen them on land? They are slow and ungainly, but when I watch them from the railing of the ships out to sea, they glide so graceful and free.”
He traced the foam of a wave cresting beneath the bow of her grandfather’s flagship. His profile was very stern, she thought, a contrast after the levity of the last few minutes.
The silence dragged out. How many seconds had she been standing here, feeling like a ninny? Impulsively she jumped into words again. She forced herself to look up at their unexpected guest of honor. “It is the nesting season for the turtles right now, my lord.”
He turned to look at her. A fleeting dizziness swept through her, and she dropped her eyes under the intensity of his dark gaze. She turned back to the tapestry, pointing to the beach.
“Each year at the beginning of summer, they come ashore at night to lay their eggs on the strand of Belfalas. I like to watch them.” Her voice trailed off. She was prattling. She bit her closed lips and looked back at the tapestry with the most studious expression she could muster. The sand was at eye level. Grandmother had used long-and-short-stitch here, to reflect the mottled sands below the castle.
After a moment or two of more uncomfortable silence, her companion spoke.
“Thank you very much for the explanation, Lady Finduilas. Your grandmother is quite the skilled artist.”
The Captain-General bowed absolutely correctly over her hand, and she watched as he moved to speak to another guest. She grimaced inwardly, trying not to let it show on her face. Turtle nests? Why did she have to speak of turtle nests?
The party finally broke up. Freedom! She bid goodnight to her family and the other guests. She had only taken gone a short way down the hall before she heard unfamiliar footsteps behind her. She looked over her shoulder to see Lord Denethor hurrying after her.
“It is a very fine night. May I join you?” he asked. Once again his face was expressionless.
Finduilas paused. Why did the Captain-General suddenly care about turtles on top of tapestries? “Certainly,” she replied. “But won’t they wonder where you have gone?”
“I’ve already met with Adrahil and Prince Angelimir; my time is my own now.” He smiled. “I’ve spent all day in the saddle. I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs with a walk on the beach.”
Finduilas returned his smile. “I would be happy to give you a moonlight tour of the famous Belfalas strand, in that case. Shall we meet in the garden by the stairs in 30 minutes?”
He agreed, and she rushed to her room to change. She did not want to miss spotting any new nests. In only a short time she was waiting at the foot of the garden, trailed by her maid. The full moon shone overhead, making lanterns unnecessary. Only a moment later, she heard footsteps crunching in the tabby shell walk. Two figures rounded a hedge; the Captain-General, accompanied by his gangly young squire.
She curtsied. “Lord Denethor, shall we go on?” Without waiting (or thinking), she hurried down the stairs. It was only when she stopped to shuck off her slippers at the bottom to preserve them from the sand that she realized proper etiquette would have been to take his arm. Was she forgetting everything Mother taught her in her love of the turtles? She shook her head as if to rid herself of the embarrassment. Behind her, Lord Denethor leaned against the stone pillar marking the foot of the stairs to remove his boots as well. He slung them over his shoulder.
“After you, Lady Finduilas.” He waved his hand to guide her on.
They had not gone far before she reached her favorite spot, a low rock with a flat top, above the tides, just at the brink of the line of dunes and sea grass. She clambered up, and Lord Denethor followed. Her maid and the squire arranged themselves nearby on a driftwood log.
“And now, we wait,” she said.
They sat for a while in silence. Her eyes scanned the waterline for a sign of animal life. The water swept in and out; it was high tide this evening.
“There,” she hissed, clutching his sleeve to point down the strand. Her fingers skittered over something bumpy. He was wearing mail, even at the strand. She chuckled to think of his poor squire having to buff out the rust caused by the salt air. Well, she would make sure they did not stay too long this evening. She knew he needed to continue on to Linhir in the morning. As they watched, a she-turtle dragged herself up the sand, propelling herself with her flippers in an ungainly hop-push, pause; hop-push pause.
“How did you come to care for the turtles so much?” Lord Denethor asked.
Finduilas hugged her knees to her chest. The wind tugged at her skirts. It would not do to expose more than her ankles to the Captain-General, but then he had already seen her bare feet.
“They’re cute?” she said. Would he think her shallow? She thought for a moment.
“Because,” she hesitated. “Because everyone in our family is tied to the sea and the swans. Swans are who we are. I like turtles because they are not swans, but they go to sea just the same. Awkward on land, but so graceful at sea.” Self-conscious, she tucked her chin into her knees. The turtle had turned herself around to face the sea; she began flipping sand to the back and sides with her back feet.
“Does your sister enjoy the sea?” Lord Denethor asked.
“Oh yes, but daytime pursuits, like wave-jumping and sailing. Ivriniel can be quite bossy.”
“I think sisters are like that. I have two older sisters, and a younger brother, somewhat like you,” Lord Denethor said. A wry smile twisted his mouth. “I think my oldest sister might have been at school with your mother.”
Finduilas sighed. It was strange to think he was old enough to be in between her parents’ and her own generation. So far he didn’t seem too terribly old. Did he wear a wool flannel scarf under his mail shirt on cold wet days like Grandmother Lacheniel? She smiled to imagine him striding up and down the bulwarks of Osgiliath with a bright red scarf for all the Easterlings to see.
“I mustn’t sell my sister short, though,” she replied. “Ivriniel and I are close. She took great delight and intense concentration in teaching me the star compass lists when I was small. We all have to learn navigation in our family, but I suppose she liked being a teacher.” She began counting on her fingers: ““Luinil, Morwinyon, Borgil…”
“What about the turtle island?” Lord Denethor interrupted.
“Pardon?”
“The turtle island. Don’t you know the fairy tale of the island of the great turtle-fish?”
Finduilas laughed. “No, there are many strange tales of the sea in Dol Amroth, but that is one I have not yet heard.”
The Captain-General joined her, a deep rolling laugh. “It is quite the epic tale.”
“I look forward to hearing you recite it on your next inspection tour, then. Shall I reserve our musicians to play continuo?”
“Most certainly,” he replied. “I shall need lute and mandola and perhaps your brother can play fife.”
The conversation lapsed again, and they watched as the she-turtle laid her eggs. When finished, sand flew as the she-turtle scooped the excavated sand over the nest. Finduilas waited until the turtle had returned to the sea before slipping off the rock. Shaking out her skirts, she approached her maid, who handed her a waist-high stick and a length of ribbon. She planted the staff next to the nest, and tied the ribbon around the stick.
“Now I’ll know where all the nests are,” she explained. “There are others further down the beach that I’ve already marked.” She looked back at her guest as he pushed off the rock and landed on his feet in the sand. “Now we must get you back to the castle, before it is thought that the pirates have kidnapped you.”
Lord Denethor held out his arm to her, and this time Finduilas remembered to take it politely. She knew she would not stumble on the beach, but at least she could try to make amends for her strange obsessions by behaving respectably in this instance. Leaving the waterline, they made their way back to the castle steps, trailed once again by her maid and his squire.
At the foot of the stairs, they paused to put their shoes back on. She brushed her feet against a conveniently placed prickly boot brush, but her guest did not see it right away. He tried mostly unsuccessfully to brush it off with his hands.
“Here,” she said, and handed Lord Denethor her handkerchief. He used it to swat at his sandy feet like one might swat away a pesky insect. She giggled to see the Steward’s son so undignified, and meeting her eyes, he raised one eyebrow at her, this time more mock-indignant than stern. She motioned to the boot brush behind her. While he bent over the work, she took a last look at the moon. Goodness! It was directly overhead!
“I must go, my lord, for it is late. Please excuse me.”
“Good night, Lady Finduilas,” he said, making a short bow. She curtsied and ran up the stairs and to bed, followed by her maid. The sounds of the sea breakers below the castle crept into her dreams. In the morning she awoke to the sound of the Horn of Gondor ringing out as their guest continued on her journey.
1st Cerveth, 2974
To the Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Greetings:
Because a courier is due to make the journey to Belfalas on the morrow, I take pen in hand to write this quick inquiry, that it may be included in the diplomatic pouches. My lady, since my return to Minas Tirith, I am greatly curious: How many turtle nests are there now below the Castle? Have you been able to preserve them from predators?
Signed,
Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor
11th Cerveth, 2974
To the Lord Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, Greetings:
Most gracious Sir: I was much surprised to receive your missive of the 1st inst., but I am pleased that you take interest in the care of the smallest subjects of Gondor. To answer your question, there are now ten nests along the strand belonging to the Prince of Dol Amroth. I look for them to hatch in six weeks.
I fear that while I cannot stop all the depredations from natural sources, I was recently able to defend the nests from some small boys from the town. They were out mudlarking and I was able to drive them off by pelting them with seashells and bits of driftwood. I fear I must have looked quite the termagant rushing down the beach at them.
Your Servant,
Finduilas of Dol Amroth
22nd Cerveth, 2974
To the Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Greetings:
My lady, I hope that the young vandals were suitably chastened by your harangues. It makes me smile to think of the scene as I ride on patrol. I must cease this unbecoming behavior, lest I ruin my stern reputation and sow dissent in the ranks.
When I was last in Minas Tirith, I consulted with the scribes of Archives regarding knowledge of turtles in the lands of Gondor. To my amazement, they provided me with several folios on the subject, and of Harad and Rhûn as well. Can you imagine that far in the East, there are large turtles who walk the wastes of the Orocarni and sit upon their nests like a hen, rather than swim in the sea? I set one of the scribes to make a fair copy of a drawing of one, and make bold to enclose it with this letter. In the languages of the East, the archivists tell me, it is called a šeleppû.
Sincerely,
Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor
2nd Urui, 2974
To the Lady Ivriniel of Dol Amroth, Greetings:
My Dear Sister, I hope you are enjoying your time with our Lossarnach kin. Have the orchards borne fruit yet? Nothing is better than a peach or a strawberry in summer.
I must beg your advice on a matter that troubles me a great deal. Do you remember that strange party a few weeks ago when the Steward’s son arrived out of nowhere and upset Mother’s seating chart for dinner on an hour’s notice? And we had that completely disastrous conversation about sea turtles? He appears to have struck up a correspondence with me. What should I do? Good manners say I should reply back to his inquiries, but what does one say in a correspondence with a soldier of Osgiliath? Can one be friends with someone so different in station?
Grandmother Lacheniel asked me why I was meeting the couriers so often, and I explained I had struck up a friendship with someone over mutual interest in the well-being of grandfather’s turtles. She simply looked over her teacup at me and said, “hmm.”
I have begun work on a new handkerchief. I cannot find my favorite one with the spiderworts on it anywhere. By any chance did it get mixed in with yours?
Your devoted sister,
Finduilas
12th Urui, 2974
To the Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Greetings:
My dear sister, keep corresponding with your friend. I have a good feeling about this.
I do not have your handkerchief. When did you last see it? I confess I have eaten quite too much peach trifle. Our Aunt sends her love.
Your devoted sister,
Ivriniel
14th Urui, 2974
To the Lord Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, Greetings:
Most Gracious Sir: Thank you very much for the drawing of the tortoise from the Orocarni. The pyramids on the back are so perfectly symmetrical, yet I smile to wonder whether it would bump into itself?
Your servant,
Finduilas of Dol Amroth
19th Urui, 2974
To the Lord Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, Greetings:
Most Gracious Sir: I hope you will forgive me for being so bold as to write again so soon, but I thought you would be pleased to know that the first of the nests hatched yesterday. I wish you could see it, but I know your duties to Gondor keep you away. Hatchlings are little gray things, wriggling with energy. So many of them climbed out of the sand, yesterday, practically stepping on each other in their haste to return to the sea. They rush to the water’s edge, and then let the waves take them out to sea. I expect several more nests to hatch over the next week or so.
Your subject,
Finduilas of Dol Amroth
Finduilas sat in the curved nook of the garden wall, looking over the sea. The markers for the nests fluttered in the wind. Her hand was frozen mid-air, her needle paused in its motions as she worked on a new handkerchief. The breakers of the sea had a hypnotic effect. Grandmother Lacheniel sat opposite. She was reading a book, her carved cane leaning against her knee.
Footsteps crunched on the tabby behind them. Finduilas looked up to Denethor, preceded by one of the family footmen. Her stomach dropped.
“Denethor, son of Echthelion, Captain-General of Gondor,” the footman announced.
Grandmother Lacheniel stood to greet their guest, leaning on her cane. As the footman stepped back, Finduilas saw that Denethor was carrying a bouquet of megorluin flowers. Was it for her? Still in shock, she watched as Denethor stepped forward to bow over Grandmother’s hand, and present the flowers to her.
“Only the finest wildflowers for the Princess of Dol Amroth,” he explained. “They come straight from a meadow on the slopes the Dor-en-ernil.”
“Where you likely poached them from my husband’s land,” she quipped. Her eyes twinkled, making a lie of her gruff response.
“My father is the Steward of Gondor, your Highness. Surely they are all adherent to the chair of the Steward.”
Grandmother Lacheniel took a deep breath of the flowers, their blue petals bent back from the fuzzy brown center like a dancer getting ready to leap. Then, holding them out to admire them at arm’s length, she inquired of Denethor,
“I believe you have met my grandaughter, Finduilas?”
Finduilas remembered to close her mouth and stepped forward to her grandmother’s side. Denethor bowed over her hand in turn.
“Princess Lacheniel, I happened to be traveling along the Western Road, and thought I might stop to inquire about the well-being of the Gondorian flora and fauna,” he explained.
“Harrumph,” Grandmother Lacheniel replied. After another breath of the flowers, she handed them to the footman, with instructions to place them in a vase of water. As his footsteps receded on the tabby, she turned to Finduilas.
“Finduilas, why don’t you leave off your embroidery and take Lord Denethor to see your turtles? I’ll watch from up here. I don’t want to have to send to the castle for my pattens.”
Finduilas curtsied deeply to her grandmother to hide her smile. She managed to compose herself by the time she stood straight again. This time she remembered to take Denethor’s proffered arm, as politeness dictated.
When they reached her favorite spot, rather than clamber onto the rock, Denethor broke off and made for the water’s edge. To Finduilas’s surprise, he stood gazing at his feet, as the receding waves dug the sand out from around his feet. Finduilas picked up her skirts and joined him.
“It’s nice isn’t it?” she asked.
“I haven’t done this in years,” he replied.
“Have you been wave-hopping, Lord Denethor?” she inquired, looking at him sideways. A hermit crab tickled her toe as it crawled past. “My sister is quite the fearless one. There is a bar, a little ways out, where one can stand. I have never had the courage to go quite that far.”
Denethor looked out at the breakers. A shorebird swooped low over the water. “See, gulls are sitting there! Beware! Gulls do not sink,” he said.
“Pardon?” Finduilas asked.
“It’s the Fastitocalon,” he said. “The poem I told you about, about the turtle-fish as large as an island. I learned the first two verses to recite at your next banquet in Dol Amroth.”
“Truly, my Lord?” Finduilas shook her head. She could not picture an illustrious personage as him standing in the musicians’ balcony.
Denethor placed his hand on his heart. “Do you want me to swear by the White Tree embroidered on my tunic that I was quite the sensation at the last changing of the guard banquet? And that I will get no respect from the barracks ever again and will have to become a mummer on the quay of Pelargir?” He winked at her.
Finduilas threw her head back and laughed. She sighed and looked at the waves lapping at their feet again. Something small and green-gray wriggled past.
“My Lord—look— there they go!”
Denethor twisted around, looking about himself- three more little hatchlings crawled past.
They turned and saw a small fountain of sand erupting behind them next to one of her markers. The gull which had been out on the bar, sailed in on its wings, settling in next to the parade.
“Shoo, gull!” she cried, as the gull snatched one up. She ran at it waving her arms. The gull took off, the poor little hatchling still in its mouth.
“For Gondor!” Denethor cried, as he rushed another set of gulls. Disgruntled, they flew further down the strand, away from annoying Secondborn.
When they had managed to protect the sea-march of as many hatchlings from the gulls as they could, and there were only small flecks bopping in the surf, Finduilas and Denethor sat on her rock to rest.
“Tell me more of this turtle-fish,” Finduilas gasped.
Denethor hopped down onto the sand, and swallowed hard to catch his breath. He held his arm out authoritatively, just like the greatest of bards. Beginning with a bow, he declaimed,
“Look, there is Fastitocalon!
An island good to land upon,
Although 'tis rather bare.
Come, leave the sea! And let us run,
Or dance, or lie down in the sun! See, gulls are sitting there!
Beware!
Gulls do not sink.
There they may sit, or strut and prink:
Their part is to tip the wink,
If anyone should dare
Upon that isle to settle,
Or only for a while to get
Relief from sickness or the wet,
Or maybe boil a kettle.”
Finduilas cocked an eyebrow as she stared out to sea. “That is very preposterous. Who would ever think of such a poem?”
Denethor bowed again, one windblown dark curl drooping over his forehead. He pulled himself back up beside her. Rolling a piece of sea grass between his fingers, he replied, “I was told by my tutors that tt was written by people called the Halflings.”
“Again, you surprise me,” Finduilas said. “I have memorized all the star charts to beyond Far Harad and back, and yet I have not heard of the Halflings.”
“Until this summer you had not heard of a tortoise in the Orocarni that hatches its nest like a chicken, and yet you believed me then.” He clutched his chest dramatically and carefully fell backwards so as to not injure himself on the hard surface.
Finduilas heaved a deep sigh. She plucked a stem of the sea grass herself, idly brushing it back and forth on the rock, sweeping it bare of any windblown sand.
Denethor sat up again. “I have a confession to make. I accidentally stole your handkerchief on my last visit.” He took a neatly folded square of linen from a pocket at his waist. “I came back because I wanted to see the turtles again, but also because I needed to make an honest man of myself by returning it.”
Finduilas accepted the proffered handkerchief with a bow of her head. “I forgive you,” she said, earnestly.
Denethor continued, “thank you for showing me the turtles this summer, and writing to me. It…” his voice stuttered. “It has been such a summer out of the ordinary.”
Finduilas pulled a lock of hair away from her face that had come free of her braids. “Thank you. I’ve enjoyed having someone to share my enthusiasm for the beach”
“Finduilas,” he began. His eyebrows went up, inquiring. “I… was wondering.”
She set the handkerchief in her lap and met his eyes.
“I’ve enjoyed our friendship this summer. You are cheerful and earnest and make me willing to poach flowers to win the favor of your family. With your permission, I would like to ask your parents to court you formally.”
Finduilas smiled. Hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, she reached out and took his hand.
“Yes.”