Post by Admin on Jan 1, 2021 16:59:47 GMT
Author: Kaylee Arafinwiel
Summary: Finduilas of Dol Amroth finds rest and a place of safety after her long illness, as well as an unexpected comforter.
Rating: PG
Characters: Finduilas of Dol Amroth, OC, surprise canon character
You can review the story here: storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=7651&cid=41421
“Milady?” Meluiel’s voice was soft, an uncertain whisper above the cry of the gulls. “Is there aught I can do for you?”
Finduilas slowly pushed herself up on her elbows, face white. The bed of soft sand under her blanket was warm, as were the rays of Anor on her face, but she still felt a chill that had nothing to do with the salty sea air.
“Where are my boys?” Finduilas’ voice croaked, a raspy whisper. She could hear children’s laughter, and yet…
“Milady?” Meluiel’s voice sounded further away, fading into the distance. Finduilas felt the waves lapping at her feet, and though the water was cold, she somehow felt warmed inside.
“Meluiel…where…where are my boys? My sons…”
“You do not ask for your husband, Lady of Gondor that was?”
Was. Finduilas shivered, struggling to sit up in the sand, and pulled the blanket around her thin shoulders. A shadow fell over the sun, and she looked round. This isn’t Dol Amroth. How could it be? She had been in her bed in the Citadel when Meluiel last spoke to her, hadn’t she? But…
Blinking blearily, Finduilas squinted at the shadowy figure who had come to stand beside her on the expanse of sparkling black sands. He was tall, taller even than Denethor, and his blue-black hair was elf-braided, glittering with moonstones and opals. His amaranthine gaze stared into her very soul. He wore a light grey linen shirt and over it, his knee-length sleeveless tunic was of black watered silk, shot through with threads of silver. His leggings were of wool dyed charcoal grey. He wore ankle boots of undyed leather and over all a black velvet robe with the emblem of the Sun-in-Eclipse on the breast, cinched at the waist with a belt of silver discs that alternately displayed Telperion in glory and Ithil at his full phase. His brow was encircled by a silver band, a rainbow moonstone in the center clasped between two ravens’ claws. She stared at this stranger, uncomprehending.
“Do you not wonder where Denethor is, then?” he inquired, his melodious voice dark with a foreboding she could not name.
“Denethor…” Finduilas coughed, shaking her head. “Denethor would not come to my sick-room. But where…” She took the hand he offered, allowing him to pull her to her feet in the sand. The blanket slid off her shoulders, and she stood clad in only a thin nightdress.
He drew a thick black robe not unlike his own from Finduilas knew not where, then wrapped it about her shivering frame. “Come, Child,” he commanded. “Come and walk with me.”
They trudged through the sand, Finduilas’ bare footprints left behind in an unsteady trail while the Being, disconcertingly, left no trail behind as they walked along the shore of the harbor. Ships lay at anchor, and she looked out at them. “Where have they come from, Lord?” she asked, venturing a title for the noble stranger, “and where do they go?”
“From whence they come is not for me to say,” he replied, “and as for where they go—that is a destination none but the One who gave us all Being can say, for it is by these that the Secondborn will be ushered into His Presence. When the time comes, you will have your own ship, Child.”
“The One…who…oh,” Finduilas’ eyes widened as many things became clear. “Are these, then, the Halls of Waiting?”
“This is how they appear to you, Finduilas, daughter of Adrahil, wife of Denethor and sworn sister of Thorongil,” he replied, “and I am rightly their Lord, as you have discerned.” Lord Námo replied. “This harbor is not unlike that of Dol Amroth, though it shares much with my sister’s demesne at the Ekkaia. You may not remain here forever; eventually it is your lot to take ship. However, if there is someone you wish to wait for…” Námo gave Finduilas a piercing look.
“I would wait, if I may, for Thorongil,” Finduilas said softly. “I have much I would say to him.”
“Thou hast, then, until the passing of Thorongil, Aragorn the Second, Sixteenth Chieftain of the Dúnedain to remain,” the Lord of Mandos agreed in his most formal tone. “Set foot aboard ship before then, Child, and I will presume it is thy wish to leave sooner.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Finduilas replied humbly. Námo nodded and led Finduilas to a small, but comfortably appointed cottage overlooking the beach.
“Here you may remain, Finduilas, and your needs will be seen to,” he explained. He led her into the bedroom, sparsely but comfortably furnished, and tucked Finduilas into bed. She sank back into the soft mattress and pillows, feeling safe and comfortable for the first time in she knew not how long, and suddenly very tired.
“Thank you, my Lord,” Finduilas whispered. “For everything.”
“You are most welcome, Finduilas. Sleep well,” Námo murmured, and left her alone to rest.
Summary: Finduilas of Dol Amroth finds rest and a place of safety after her long illness, as well as an unexpected comforter.
Rating: PG
Characters: Finduilas of Dol Amroth, OC, surprise canon character
You can review the story here: storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=7651&cid=41421
“Milady?” Meluiel’s voice was soft, an uncertain whisper above the cry of the gulls. “Is there aught I can do for you?”
Finduilas slowly pushed herself up on her elbows, face white. The bed of soft sand under her blanket was warm, as were the rays of Anor on her face, but she still felt a chill that had nothing to do with the salty sea air.
“Where are my boys?” Finduilas’ voice croaked, a raspy whisper. She could hear children’s laughter, and yet…
“Milady?” Meluiel’s voice sounded further away, fading into the distance. Finduilas felt the waves lapping at her feet, and though the water was cold, she somehow felt warmed inside.
“Meluiel…where…where are my boys? My sons…”
“You do not ask for your husband, Lady of Gondor that was?”
Was. Finduilas shivered, struggling to sit up in the sand, and pulled the blanket around her thin shoulders. A shadow fell over the sun, and she looked round. This isn’t Dol Amroth. How could it be? She had been in her bed in the Citadel when Meluiel last spoke to her, hadn’t she? But…
Blinking blearily, Finduilas squinted at the shadowy figure who had come to stand beside her on the expanse of sparkling black sands. He was tall, taller even than Denethor, and his blue-black hair was elf-braided, glittering with moonstones and opals. His amaranthine gaze stared into her very soul. He wore a light grey linen shirt and over it, his knee-length sleeveless tunic was of black watered silk, shot through with threads of silver. His leggings were of wool dyed charcoal grey. He wore ankle boots of undyed leather and over all a black velvet robe with the emblem of the Sun-in-Eclipse on the breast, cinched at the waist with a belt of silver discs that alternately displayed Telperion in glory and Ithil at his full phase. His brow was encircled by a silver band, a rainbow moonstone in the center clasped between two ravens’ claws. She stared at this stranger, uncomprehending.
“Do you not wonder where Denethor is, then?” he inquired, his melodious voice dark with a foreboding she could not name.
“Denethor…” Finduilas coughed, shaking her head. “Denethor would not come to my sick-room. But where…” She took the hand he offered, allowing him to pull her to her feet in the sand. The blanket slid off her shoulders, and she stood clad in only a thin nightdress.
He drew a thick black robe not unlike his own from Finduilas knew not where, then wrapped it about her shivering frame. “Come, Child,” he commanded. “Come and walk with me.”
They trudged through the sand, Finduilas’ bare footprints left behind in an unsteady trail while the Being, disconcertingly, left no trail behind as they walked along the shore of the harbor. Ships lay at anchor, and she looked out at them. “Where have they come from, Lord?” she asked, venturing a title for the noble stranger, “and where do they go?”
“From whence they come is not for me to say,” he replied, “and as for where they go—that is a destination none but the One who gave us all Being can say, for it is by these that the Secondborn will be ushered into His Presence. When the time comes, you will have your own ship, Child.”
“The One…who…oh,” Finduilas’ eyes widened as many things became clear. “Are these, then, the Halls of Waiting?”
“This is how they appear to you, Finduilas, daughter of Adrahil, wife of Denethor and sworn sister of Thorongil,” he replied, “and I am rightly their Lord, as you have discerned.” Lord Námo replied. “This harbor is not unlike that of Dol Amroth, though it shares much with my sister’s demesne at the Ekkaia. You may not remain here forever; eventually it is your lot to take ship. However, if there is someone you wish to wait for…” Námo gave Finduilas a piercing look.
“I would wait, if I may, for Thorongil,” Finduilas said softly. “I have much I would say to him.”
“Thou hast, then, until the passing of Thorongil, Aragorn the Second, Sixteenth Chieftain of the Dúnedain to remain,” the Lord of Mandos agreed in his most formal tone. “Set foot aboard ship before then, Child, and I will presume it is thy wish to leave sooner.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Finduilas replied humbly. Námo nodded and led Finduilas to a small, but comfortably appointed cottage overlooking the beach.
“Here you may remain, Finduilas, and your needs will be seen to,” he explained. He led her into the bedroom, sparsely but comfortably furnished, and tucked Finduilas into bed. She sank back into the soft mattress and pillows, feeling safe and comfortable for the first time in she knew not how long, and suddenly very tired.
“Thank you, my Lord,” Finduilas whispered. “For everything.”
“You are most welcome, Finduilas. Sleep well,” Námo murmured, and left her alone to rest.