I. Mettarë Night

He stood that evening next to his father Ecthelion at the great doors of Merethrond, the Hall of Feasts. As he had done for a score of years and more, saving only those times when duty had kept him in the field, Denethor smiled courteously and greeted each entering guest to the Steward's Feast.

Every mettarë night, the nobles of Gondor gathered here to celebrate the eve of midwinter and the last day of the year. The tradition had begun centuries before, as a way to encourage all the great landholders to come to Minas Tirith once in the year. Though the season was chill, snow rarely fell this early save in the Ered Nimrais, and while they might not make the journey every year, many of the distant lords did enjoy the excuse to travel regularly to the capital. Most arrived early in the month of Ringarë and spent the weeks before mettarë meeting with the Steward and their fellow nobles. Their families, meanwhile, explored the city, shopped, danced, and dined together; Ringarë was traditionally the month when betrothals were made between the sons and daughters of the great houses of Gondor.

Indeed, that very afternoon Ecthelion had reminded Denethor once again that it was time and past time that he marry.

"The House of Húrin must have an heir," Ecthelion had declared, fixing his son with a firm gaze. He had leaned back in his chair and rested his elbows on the carved arms, steepling his fingers in front of him.

"It has one. I am your heir," Denethor had replied stubbornly.

Ecthelion had dismissed that with a wave. "And after you? Your sisters are long wedded, but they have borne only daughters. You must marry, and soon. I wish to see a grandson before I die."

"Die? You?" Denethor had scoffed. "You are as tough as an old boot, Father, and not like to die."

"Life is chancy, my son, and the staff of the Stewards is no lighter weight than the Winged Crown must have been - as you will one day learn," Ecthelion had said.

"Long may that day be in coming," Denethor had murmured politely.

"Indeed. But you seek to change the subject. I have given you many years, my son, to find your own bride, and you have not. Now I must command your obedience in this matter. You will marry, and soon. If you do not choose for yourself, I will find a woman for you."

And there it stood. Denethor had no wish to explain to Ecthelion just why he had never sought a wife. As he continued to mouth the pleasantries appropriate to the occasion, bowing to or clasping hands with each guest, his mind drifted back to his twentieth year.

Lotheluin had been his eldest sister's closest friend, some six years his senior, and he had admired her desperately. She had the dark hair and fair skin common among those of Dúnadan blood, but remarkably blue eyes rather than the usual gray. Denethor had first noticed her at a riding-party; she chose to ride garbed like a lad, rather than wearing the divided skirts usual for young noblewomen. He had been greatly taken by the freedom with which she moved, so unlike most girls of his acquaintance. But he had not yet summoned the courage to tell her of his feelings when her betrothal to the heir of Lamedon was announced. He had seen her only a few times since, and though she seemed content enough with her husband and, later, babes, he nursed the private conviction that had he only spoken, she might have been his. Since then no other woman had appealed to him.

But to tell Ecthelion that would have made him seem weak. Therefore Denethor resigned himself to the inevitable: he would have to wed some woman, and Lotheluin was no longer free. At least Ecthelion had not yet gone to the length of choosing his bride for him; that would be humiliating indeed.

So although Denethor stood now with his father as he had done many times before, this year was different. Now he paid close attention to the sisters and daughters of each lord he greeted, evaluating them as suitable partners, rather than simply dismissing them from his thoughts as soon as they had passed.

"Good mettarë to you, Forlong," he greeted the lord of Lossarnach.

"And to you, lord Denethor. How fares the Captain of the White Tower?" came the rumbled reply.

"Well enough; glad to have the holiday to celebrate. And you and your family?" said Denethor courteously.

"We are all well, though not all present in Minas Tirith this year. You recall my wife Caradhwen, I am sure. Our son Derlong is now sailing with the fleet, and could not obtain leave. But our daughter Elerrína comes tonight to the feast for the first time," said Forlong.

Denethor took the girl's hand and bowed politely over it.

"Welcome, my lady," he said.

She giggled, and blushed, and looked back at Denethor as her parents shepherded her into the hall.

Not that one. He shuddered. She is far too young, and I have not the patience to rear a child bride.

He felt Ecthelion looking at him and turned to the next guest.

"Duinhavel of Morthond, greetings. And your son Duinhir. How pleasant to see you both again. How fares it in the Blackroot Vale?"

"All is well there. My lady wife remains at home with our younger children this season. It seemed like to be rough traveling for a woman expecting, so I brought only my eldest lad," answered Duinhavel gravely.

"I am pleased that you felt able to make the journey, then. Good mettarë," said Denethor, and the men of Morthond continued on.

Next in line was one of Denethor's fellow captains. Dark-haired Thorongil was one of the few men the Steward's Heir had ever met who matched him in height; truth be told, the other man was a shade taller. They even resembled each other in appearance, with the set of eye and jaw that usually marked only the greatest kindreds of Númenórean descent, though Thorongil claimed no such connection. He had taken service bearing a recommendation from King Thengel of Rohan, and had quickly risen to lead his own troops in Ithilien across the Anduin River. Gondor still claimed the region. None of her folk had lived there, however, since the Enemy had returned to the fastness of Mordor just to the east nearly twenty years before.

Ecthelion thought highly of Thorongil's abilities as a leader of the Rangers in Ithilien, but Denethor was not so easily disposed to trust a man concerning whose history he knew nothing. Thorongil was notoriously tight-lipped about his past, saying only that he had grown up in the northlands before joining Thengel's éored.

A bastard, I make no doubt. And for all we know, the fellow was an outlaw as well. But at least unlike some of the other captains of dubious birth, he has the manners to fit in well at these feasts, thought Denethor grudgingly as he gave the man a perfunctory greeting.

Thorongil appeared not to notice his chilly reception, bowing respectfully to both the Steward and his heir before disappearing into the increasingly crowded hall.

Denethor continued to meet and greet the guests, careful to personalize his remarks to each. Ecthelion had often reminded him that without the support of the lords great and small, the authority of the Stewards could scarce be maintained. Ensuring that all felt themselves to be well-known and appreciated by the ruler helped to determine their continued loyalty.

Half an hour later, the line was nearly at an end, much to Denethor's relief. He had had no time for the noon meal, with all the preparations to oversee, and the smells of roasted meats were beginning to make his stomach clench in anticipation. He glanced at the next family party, preparing to say one of the usual pleasantries, and suddenly found that he was unable to speak a word.

"My lord," said Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth to Ecthelion. "May I present my son and heir, Imrahil."

The Steward inclined his head as the young man bowed. Denethor shook Imrahil's hand absentmindedly. He had eyes only for the young woman who stood by Adrahil's side.

"And of course I remember your daughter Finduilas," said Ecthelion gallantly. "Could your mother not join the rest of the family this year, my dear girl?"

She shook her head, and answered, "No, my lord, I fear she is unwell this season and was unable to make the journey."

Denethor felt lightheaded when he heard her voice, true and clear as the singing of a lómelindë on a summer's eve. Finduilas turned to him and curtsied gracefully.

"Good mettarë to you, lord Denethor," she said.

He scarcely knew what he replied, stammering a few words and bowing, but his eyes followed her slender form as she moved onward. Only a nudge from Ecthelion recalled his attention.

At last all the guests had entered, and the Steward gave the command to let the banquet begin. Normally Denethor enjoyed the feast, but despite his hunger on this night he ignored a plate of his favorite roasted quail as his eyes roamed along the tables set throughout the hall, searching until he saw Finduilas again.

She sat with her young brother Imrahil halfway down the great room, positioned so that he saw her lovely profile as she laughed at some remark. She leaned forward to hand a silver saltcellar to her neighbor, and he saw that the man seated on her other side was Captain Thorongil.

Denethor felt a pang of apprehension. Let her not be too quick in her affections, before I have had a chance to speak with her again, he hoped, remembering his delay with Lotheluin. Thorongil wins the hearts of his men all too easily; may he not win the heart of this woman as well.

The rest of the meal passed in a haze. He ate and conversed with the others seated at the high table, but afterward had no idea of what he might have eaten or said. All his thoughts were focused on Finduilas, and he looked forward to the dancing that would follow the feast as he had never done before. Dancing had always seemed to him a foolish pastime, fit only for women, yet now he regretted that he had but little skill at it.

He wanted to dash down and ask the girl to give him the first dance, but decorum forbade it. He would simply have to maneuver towards her through the crowd and hope to claim her hand for a dance as soon as possible.

As ill-chance would have it, Denethor was doomed to begin with Elerrína, Forlong's giggling daughter. He replied civilly but absently to her awkwardly flirtatious remarks, apologized when he trod on her foot, and relinquished her gratefully to young Duinhir of Morthond when the opening dance came to an end. He glanced around, but Finduilas was nowhere in sight. Reluctantly he turned to choose another partner and bowed to Eilinel, the widowed Lady of Tolfalas, leading her into the newly forming line.

As they danced, Eilinel chatted of the fish runs of the past year and other such matters. The biggest excitement on the island, or so she said, had been her son's wedding at midsummer. He had been but a weakly child when her husband was drowned in a winter storm, and their folk had dreaded lest they lose their ruling family altogether.

"But he lived, and throve, and now is safe wedded and a babe expected already," she said cozily. Then she gave Denethor a wink. "And when can we hope to hear the same of you, my lord?"

Denethor cleared his throat. He had always rather liked Lady Eilinel - she was a third cousin on his mother's side, and he thought of her as an aunt - and so he did not take offense at the question.

"Oh, perhaps sooner than you might think," he said, as lightly as he could.

"Ah," she said knowingly. "Some girl here tonight has caught your eye, I suppose. I hope not the one you danced with last. She is pretty enough, but she would never make a good Steward's helpmeet."

Denethor mumbled a negative. He had no wish to insult Forlong - it was not the man's fault that he had a foolish daughter - but he certainly did not want Eilinel that he had such poor taste in women.

"Well, I'll not press you to say who. I'll merely hope to find out at your wedding within the twelvemonth," she said, and swept a beautiful if slightly mocking curtsey as the dance ended.

He took the opportunity of a pause in the music to resume his duties as a host, hoping that he might also be able to find Finduilas in the crowd as he circulated and made certain that all present were having a pleasurable evening. He reached one end of the room and turned back to move along the other wall when he saw her.

She was dancing as he would have imagined she would, as light and lithe as a puff of down caught in a fickle summer breeze, pale skirts swirling around her gracefully. Her dark hair framed her creamy cheeks, its ebon luster setting off the pearls threaded through her piled braids. Her face was radiant as she swayed and bowed to the music of pipe and viol. Denethor felt his own face break into a smile as he stepped forward, intending when the music stopped to ask her if he might have the pleasure of the next dance with her. His expression became fixed as he noted the partner in whom she apparently found such delight - Thorongil.

Of course. A rival for command, why should I not expect him as a rival here as well? But no matter. He can hardly have met her before this evening, and for all his successes on the field, he has no home or lands to offer any woman, as far as I or anyone has ever heard tell. And I am certain he would have too much pride to beg a place at his bride's table.

He shook his head slightly to regain his concentration, and bowed.

"My lady Finduilas," he said. "If you have not already promised away the next dance, might I have the honor?"

Finduilas replied, breathless from the liveliness of the dance, "Why, certainly, my lord Denethor. I would be delighted."

She turned to her previous partner. "Thank you, Captain Thorongil, for a most enjoyable dance."

"My pleasure, lady. I hope we may repeat it soon." Thorongil bowed to Finduilas, bowed again to Denethor, and departed, making his way through the press towards the tables on which flagons of spiced wine and other refreshments stood waiting to slake the dancers' thirst.

Too bad Thorongil is too conscious of his responsibilities to overindulge in the wine. Denethor dismissed the thought as unworthy. Finduilas is my partner now, and I will make the most of it.

He was resolved not to waste this chance, and after they had exchanged a few commonplaces about the weather and the city, he blurted out as if he were still a green boy, "May I see you tomorrow, lady?"

That surprised her, and a slight flush stained her pale cheek. The steps of the dance drew them apart just then, and when again they were close enough to speak, she answered, "I regret, my lord, that I have already promised to ride tomorrow afternoon with Captain Thorongil."

So he has beaten me twice already. I could wish that tomorrow were not yestarë, for he would not be able to find so many free hours were it not a holiday, thought Denethor a trifle grimly. But third time pays for all, they say.

He pressed, "The following day, perhaps?"

"Why, certainly, if you will. When may I expect to see you?"

Denethor thought quickly. Normally he was busy throughout the daylight hours, but if he worked on First Day instead of taking the holiday...

"An hour after noon, if that will suit you. I thought I might show you the city, if you would like and the weather holds fair?"

"That would be very much to my liking, sir," Finduilas said in her sweet tones. "I have visited Minas Tirith before, but I do not know the city well at all. I should enjoy having you show it to me. I thank you for the dance," she added, as their steps and the melody came to a halt.

Imrahil stood close, waiting to step out with his sister. He was younger than most of those present, and shy about asking strange girls for a dance, it would seem.

Denethor was reluctant to part, taking Finduilas's slender hand and bowing over it. He raised his head and said, "Thank you. I have rarely had such a fine partner. I will come to your father's house two afternoons from now."

He turned away, exulting in his success. How foolish I am, to be so happy over such a small thing. But where is the harm in it, after all?

For the rest of the night, Denethor wore a small and unaccustomed smile. Ecthelion noted it at once, and nodded to himself, but held his tongue until his son should speak.

The music and merriment in the Hall of Feasts lasted until the early morning hours, when slowly the celebrants trickled out into the chill night, mingling as they left the Citadel with the lesser folk of the city, who had held their own festivities that evening.

High above in the sky, Menelvagor swung to the west, his sword gleaming through thin wisps of cloud. Denethor glanced out of his window as he prepared to retire, and gave the heavenly swordsman a friendly wave.

"Good mettarë to you," he murmured, then looked down, as if through the wall of the seventh circle he might see the town house of the Prince of Dol Amroth. "And to you also. Rest you well, Finduilas."

The smile lingered on his lips as he drew the shutters closed and stepped to his bed.

II. A Yestarë Ride

Thorongil sat in the mess hall of the northern tower at noon, finishing a slice of spice cake. He braced himself for the inevitable question as Captain Gethron slid along the bench beside him.

"So, I hear you are going riding with the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth this afternoon, Thorongil. How in Arda did you manage that?" Gethron asked.

Thorongil sighed inwardly. A natural request to see the girl again, because he had enjoyed her company last night, and all of Minas Tirith was probably abuzz with the news. No way to stop the speculation now.

"I asked her," he said simply.

"But how did you dare? And why did she accept?" persisted Gethron.

"I dared because she seemed a pleasant girl and we were having an interesting conversation. I gave no thought to her rank, I assure you. As to why she chose to accept the invitation, for the answer to that you will have to apply to the lady herself," responded Thorongil. He inclined his head dismissively and applied himself to the last of his meal.

I hope I will not be asked by yet another half-dozen officers why and how I have arranged to spend an afternoon with Finduilas of Dol Amroth! I can hardly tell them that she reminds me of one that I love, so far away. That is why I wish to see her again, he assured himself.

When he arrived at her family's town house shortly after the noon hour, Thorongil found Finduilas ready for their excursion. She was plainly dressed in a dark green gown with skirts divided for riding, and had sensibly added a wide-brimmed hat to shield her eyes from the sun. The day being cool, she offered Thorongil a cup of warmed wine while her horse was being brought from the stables.

"I thank you, my lady, but I have just eaten," he refused. "But do not refrain from having a cup yourself on that account."

"Oh, I am warm enough, and am but new come from the day-meal myself," Finduilas smiled. "And you need not call me 'my lady.' 'Finduilas' is quite sufficient; I am unused to any greater formality. Have you had a good yestarë thus far, Captain Thorongil?"

"If I am to call you 'Finduilas,' you should call me simply 'Thorongil,' then. I spent this morning about my duties, so that I could be free for the rest of the festival day. One of the hazards of authority, I fear - with it comes greater responsibility, as I am sure you know."

"Yes, my father can but rarely steal a few hours for himself. Mother, too. I understand perfectly, and am glad that you were able to arrange time to spend with me today," said Finduilas. "I am looking forward to our ride. Where had you thought to go?"

"Do you prefer to ride on the roads, or across the fields?" Thorongil inquired.

Finduilas thought only a moment. "Across the country."

"Good. A mile or two outside the city walls lie the meadows that were once held by the Kings of Gondor. These days it is the army that makes use of them, for pasturing its horses and for growing hay as well. I have ridden there before; there are some copses and a small stream or two to break the monotony of the fields. Would that suit you?" said Thorongil.

"Very well," she replied.

They mounted and walked their horses along the winding road that led through the city and out the Great Gate.

"I do wish that there might be a more direct road to leave Minas Tirith," Finduilas remarked. "I cannot imagine how the people of the city cope, having to walk twice or thrice the distance that a straight path would allow."

"Minas Anor was originally built simply for defensive purposes," Thorongil reminded her. "Osgiliath was the capital of Gondor then, and was laid out much more practically for commerce and movement around the city. But when Osgiliath was destroyed, and the Kings soon moved the capital here, they rightly decided to maintain the defenses unaltered, inconvenient though those arrangements were for everyday purposes. It would have been foolish to do otherwise, with attacks by the Corsairs and Wainriders occurring unpredictably."

"I suppose I knew that," Finduilas confessed. "If one is used to the inconvenience it might not be so bad."

She deftly guided her gelding around the edge of a stall that projected further than usual into the street.

"That is a beautiful mare you have," she commented. "Where did you find her?"

"Baranë was a gift from King Thengel of Rohan when I departed to take up service in Gondor." Thorongil leaned forward to stroke the glossy brown neck fondly. "He knew I would appreciate her and treat her well."

"I did not know you came from Rohan, Thorongil. You have a look of Gondor about you; I would not have guessed you to be one of the Rohirrim," said Finduilas.

"As to that, I was born in neither land, though rumor has placed my origins in both, I hear," he said dryly. I need not tell her that rumor has even called me a bastard son of Ecthelion himself. "Nay, my people have long lived in the north, and that is where I spent my youth. But when it came time for me to make my own way in the world, I chose to travel, to see new lands and learn of other peoples and other ways."

Thorongil shrugged. "Someday perhaps I will return to the land of my birth, but for now I am content to serve Gondor."

"Have you no family to miss you? I would surely grieve if my brother Imrahil went off to Rohan for many years and did not return," Finduilas said.

"My father died when I was but a babe. My mother has returned to her family, so she finds comfort there in my absence, I hope. And I have no sister to miss me fondly as your brother does," said Thorongil.

By now they had reached the first level of the city where the street was broad enough for them to ride abreast and converse easily. Finduilas reached out an impulsive hand towards her companion.

"Well, since you have no sister of your own, then shall we pretend that I am she?" She blushed. "Not that I mean to intrude myself into your family, but I find you almost as comfortable to talk to as Imrahil, and since you have no one in Gondor whom you can claim as kin, I thought you might wish for such."

Thorongil was taken aback by Finduilas's suggestion. "If you wish, lady," he said slowly.

Finduilas shook her finger at him in mock anger. "I have already said that you should call me by name. And if I am to be your adopted sister, even in play, it is silly for you to address me so formally."

"All right, Finduilas."

How odd, and how completely unexpected. I do not think I have so much charm as all that. Why would a woman like Finduilas judge me so quickly? But I have seen that done before, too. More and more she reminds me of my past - yet she is here, now. He glanced at her with newly appreciative eyes.

They passed out of the Gate and Finduilas looked inquiringly at Thorongil.

"Do the fields of which you spoke lie to the north, east, or south? I am entirely in your hands for the direction we must take."

Thorongil gestured to the northeast. "Our path lies that way. On the main road for a mile or so to the north, and then we will turn off."

"Good. I look forward to leaving this stony road behind, and the wagons that crowd it," Finduilas said.

"You would regret it more if this road had not been paved in stone," Thorongil told her. "The wains would be far slower, and the dust - mud in spring - far worse. Minas Tirith requires tens or hundreds of wagonloads of supplies daily to sustain her people, and much of her produce comes from the Pelennor itself, rather than from further afield."

"I know, I know." Finduilas waved his words airily away. "We have the same in Dol Amroth - but on a lesser scale, and with much brought by ship as well. I merely want to ride free, that is all."

"We're nearly there," Thorongil promised. "Our turn is just beyond the next rise."

Frost had turned most of the grass to silver, though the occasional blade of green recalled the summer now long past. Likewise the chill of autumn had stripped the leaves from the trees that dotted the pasture. But the sun, though bright, did not beat fiercely enough at this season for either rider to think that shade was needed as they cantered across the fields that held the army's reserves of breeding horses. Finduilas drew in a deep breath.

"This is far better than the city," she exclaimed, "if not so bracing as the winds off the sea. Have you been to the sea, Thorongil?"

"I have seen it," he said, "but have never spent long by its shores."

"Whereas I have never been long away," Finduilas laughed. "A fine thing for a sister and brother, no? I have heard it said that the grass of a meadow can recall the sea, rippling like the waves as the wind blows, but I confess I do not see it so. Do you? Perhaps it takes a landsman to see it."

"Not now, not at this time of the year. The grasses now are sere and dry, too sparse to give that effect. But in high summer when the seed is ripe - ah, then indeed can a meadow be an image of the sea, as the wind rustles along the grain. And the white umbels of wild carrot bring to mind the foam of the waves as they sway among the rippling green," said Thorongil.

He nodded towards the north. "On the broad plains of Calenardhon, where Thengel rules, yes, I think even a shore-bird such as yourself might agree that the plains can look like broad waters, bright in the sunlight and tossing with the breeze."

"Why, Thorongil, I would not have expected you to have such a poetic turn. Do all Gondor's warriors look about them as if with the eyes of the Elves?" teased Finduilas.

Thorongil smiled. "Hardly, Finduilas. For many, for most, the fighting we must do limits our vision. We look at the land around us and think only of how it may be used, for a camp, or an ambush, or a skirmish. But I learned to see the lands about me - forest, hill, and plain - before ever I came to fight. And so I see them still."

"I hope that Imrahil may do the same," said Finduilas quietly, her mood shifting as Thorongil spoke. "He is to join one of the companies soon - I do not know which, nor where he may go. But I will miss him very greatly. I only hope that he will be able to write to me on occasion, so that I can imagine him walking and talking with me again. That will be a comfort."

Yes, the ties between siblings can be strong. That too have I seen - when my foster-brothers greeted their sister's return. Can such a bond ever be truly diminished or broken? Does it not become stronger the longer it endures? If so, that might bode me ill.

He replied to her, "Wherever Imrahil may be, he could write, certainly - the question would be how often he might be able to have his letters conveyed back to some town whence they could be sent to Dol Amroth. So I fear that how often you get news will depend entirely on where Imrahil happens to be stationed. You and he must be good friends as well as brother and sister, for you to worry so."

"We are; and with our mother unwell we rely on each other to keep our spirits up. But tell me somewhat of your duties, if you will," Finduilas requested. "I should like very much to know what sorts of things Imrahil might encounter."

So Thorongil described for her the lands of Ithilien east of the Anduin, where he had spent much of his service to Gondor. He told her of the camps the men made, often on forlorn homesteads where until only a score or two of years before people had still lived and hoped to keep their fields safe from the Enemy.

"But when the Dark Lord returned to his ancient strongholds, he sent out more and more Orcs to harry the land, and finally all had to retreat west across the river. Now only we who serve as Rangers dwell in Ithilien, and those who farmed there for centuries have been forced to seek new places to earn their livings," he said.

Finduilas frowned. "Yes, I know of many families throughout Belfalas who came there from the east. But you have said little of the fighting that your company does. Tell me - I am not afraid to hear the truth."

Thorongil demurred at first, and when Finduilas insisted, he told about the raids and skirmishes in terms as general as he felt she would be willing to accept. He refrained from describing the miseries of wounds untreated, of cold and hunger, and of the despair that could come to even the strongest-hearted at times. Instead he spoke of how the Dark Lord's servants infested the lands between Anduin and Mordor.

"Orcs do not willingly plow or plant," he explained. "Since the last inhabitants fled, the hills and fields there have served only as a place for them to hunt and despoil. Though they have some woodcraft, and are wary, their love of destruction at times waxes the greater, and then they are easy for us to find and hunt - but at a cost. League by league, slowly, the Orcs ravage the land and push us back. We can only guess at the Enemy's motives - I would have expected greater numbers of the Men who are his allies to have appeared by now, to wrest the lands to more productive purposes. It is as well for Gondor that that has not yet happened, since the number of Rangers is few."

Finduilas shuddered slightly. "I know I asked you to tell me all this," she apologized, "but I find it more distressing than I had anticipated, to know something of what Imrahil will see. So. Let us now turn to some other subject. You spoke of the fields of Rohan with the tongue of a poet; you must have been acquainted with much verse in your younger days, in the north?"

Thorongil cocked his head at her. "From war to poetry in a single leap. Well, they are not so far apart, are they? Many of the great epics and lays describe ancient battles, after all. You are right, Finduilas, in my childhood I was taught by one who knew many verses of balladry as well as lore, and from whom I learned a great respect for the art. Was it the same for you?"

"I would not say that my teachers were so fond of poetry, but my parents were, especially my mother. It was at her knee that I first heard nearly every verse I now know," said Finduilas. "If you would like I could recite something for you."

"Certainly, it would be a pleasure," said Thorongil. "But we have been riding for long, and a-horseback is not the best way to enjoy speaking or hearing verse. Shall we sit by one of these trees and let the horses graze for a little while, or would you prefer to return to your father's house to recount your favorites?"

"Here is well enough," Finduilas replied.

They dismounted and found a spot where the grass was short and the ground dry. Thorongil leaned back against a convenient tree trunk, stretching his legs out before him. Finduilas preferred to sit cross-legged, choosing a patch of sunshine for her seat.

"What verses do you like best, Finduilas? Say me one, and then I will recite one for you," Thorongil requested.

"You speak the Elvish tongue, I hope? For my favorite is in that language, and though it has been rendered into Westron, I do not think that form conveys its full beauty," Finduilas said.

"Sindarin, or the High-Elven?" asked Thorongil cautiously. I would prefer not to admit knowing Quenya - even the loremasters among Men rarely read it. But I have heard that the folk of Dol Amroth speak the Grey-Elven often, and perhaps the high tongue is preserved there as well.

"Oh, Sindarin, of course."

Good, that is safe enough. Most of Gondor's nobles speak it - and if I am not one of them, exactly, still I serve as one of her captains and it will not seem to Finduilas remarkable that I should know that language.

"I do know it, yes, though I have not had much occasion to speak it of late. What verses will you say?" Thorongil said.

"The lay of Nimrodel."

Finduilas composed herself, clasping her hands before her - she must have learned that habit as a little girl reciting in the schoolroom, thought Thorongil distractedly - and began the tale of the Elf-woman lost in the White Mountains, and of her lover Amroth who sprang from his ship to seek her and was also nevermore seen.

As Finduilas recited, Thorongil closed his eyes to concentrate on her words. Vagrant memory took him to a firelit hall, and another dark-haired maiden speaking the same lines.

Evenstar... He wrenched his mind back to the present.

"A beautiful tale, is it not? But sad," said Finduilas, concluding. "One of Nimrodel's own attendants wed my many-times-great-grandfather, and their son was the first lord to rule Dol Amroth, soon after the Downfall."

Of course. I heard once that the Prince had Elvish blood, but I had forgotten. No wonder then that Finduilas reminds me of my past.

"It is a tragic story, and your recitation beautifully done," Thorongil said. "Shall I tell you a poem now, in payment?"

Finduilas glanced at the sun, sinking in crimson splendor toward the western horizon.

"We have not time, I fear, for you to do any verses justice," she said regretfully. "But I know," she added, brightening. "In place of a tale you can promise to write to me now and again. Even if Imrahil is not assigned to your company, hearing some news of the lands where my brother also fights would comfort me. And I would then have twice as many letters to look forward to. Come now, you cannot claim to be unable to wield pen as well as sword. A man who can speak in Elvish, and who must keep track of five score men or more at times, not to mention all their supplies, must have the ability to write the occasional missive."

Thorongil held up a hand to stop the rush of persuasive words. "If you desire this so much, Finduilas, I will write you when I can. But do not expect to hear too often from either of your brothers, blood kin or newly adopted. I know I have little time to spare and I am sure Imrahil will find the same."

"I will endeavor to moderate my hopes, then. But I thank you for agreeing to write me - it will set my mind more at ease." Finduilas rose and brushed a few stray leaves from her skirts. "If you will help me back onto my horse, we had better ride back to Minas Tirith before the sun sets, or my father and brother - my other brother," she smiled, "will worry for me."

"And I have duties I must see to this evening, since I stole the afternoon to spend with you. I return across the river in a day or so," said Thorongil. "But it was time well spent."

After he had seen Finduilas to her father's door, and begged excuse from dining with Adrahil and his family, Thorongil returned Baranë to the stables and walked slowly back towards his quarters, thinking.

So, we are to be brother and sister? I do not know if that will prove good or ill, in the end. There is something very appealing about Finduilas - she has not the wisdom of long life, yet she may come to that in time. And friendship is not to be despised. Perhaps - someday - it may warm to something more. He exhaled deeply. What is the chance that I shall ever again see Undómiel? Shall I live alone to the end of my days?

He passed out from the tunnel and walked through the Garden of the White Tree, pausing to gaze upon its withered branches. If there is no hope of new life there, should I not look elsewhere for it? Where does duty lead? How long can a love endure without sign of hope?

Setting his jaw, he moved on.

I do not wish to face the inquiries I am sure to get in the mess this evening; morning will be soon enough. I will just send the lad Rodnor for some bread and cheese to eat as I sort through the remainder of today's work.

As he passed the White Tower, Denethor emerged from the doorway. The Steward's heir brushed past Thorongil as if he could not even see the other man.

Now what could I have done to offend Denethor particularly today? We have never been friends, but he is usually polite, at least. I suppose I will hear soon or late what vexes him; there is nothing I can do now, in any case. And likely I would get my head snapped off if I tried to ask!

Thorongil turned into his rooms, lighted a candle, and settled to his evening tasks. Determinedly he put from his mind both the sweet voice of Finduilas, and the yet lovelier voice that had dwelt so long in his memory.

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