Summary: Denethor II, she knew, was a cold and proud man and would marry and have two sons. He wasn't meant to be happy, and he definitely wasn't meant to marry her. Canon compliant. Book fic. Denethor/Finduilas (Contains elements of SI fics and OCs.)

Ever a Sweeter Road

~Wow, another of my pieces finished! Life continues as ever, but the last few months have certainly upped the pace. Enough about me! You're here for a story. (:

First, this is a Finduilas fic. And "canon compliant" means that all the events will fit into canon without a hitch (although the intentions behind events may be different than expected). My favorite canon compliant fics have an extra element to them—because where's the fun without that?—and in this one, the main character originally came from the real world, and this remembers the books and movies. So some OC themes definitely exist. BUT.

Before I lose some of you, this is a book fic. And before I lose you movie-lovers, um, the movies weren't around until the events of the trilogy started happening, so it's exactly the same. If you really hate OCs, just squint at a few paragraphs and you will be absolutely fine (gift of foresight, guys). I don't have much against movie-verse fics, but I am done with "this follows the book!" and then it's movie with a few of Tolken's songs. No.

Now, I hope that you'll read my story, but it's past time to let said story do the talking. I sincerely hope that you will enjoy this piece of work. All puns intended. (;

Ever a Sweeter Road

Do you wish happiness for yourself?

Um, yes. Doesn't everyone?

"Lord Ecthelion has sent Grandfather another letter, Finduilas. I'm to escort you and Ivriniel to Minas Tirith the moment we return."

I rolled my eyes, the game of braiding my shaggy pony's reins coming to an abrupt end. "Yes, Father mentioned that." I let the reins slip free and frowned as my steed shook his head gaily. "One week of happiness in exchange for him."

Imrahil looked sideways at me, forgetting for a moment his meticulous surveillance of the forest around us. His brows knit together in masculine confusion. "How is it you bear a grudge against a man you have never met, sister? Lord Ecthelion's son is not as unkind or repugnant as you seem to believe. Nor is it strange that the Steward himself wishes to be introduced to the granddaughters of his longtime friend. No part of this request calls for misgivings. I do not know what it is you fear, but it is for nothing, my dearest sister. Better to fear this sea than the Steward's son."

The coastline we travelled was the scenery of my childhood, and my stalwart brother knew it. He knew I could not fear the hills and gentle water no matter what danger accosted us here. The land held too many of my childhood dreams and memories. "One week," I promised Imi. "One week of the freedom and wild beauty I begged for. For your sake, I will leave my other thoughts behind."

"I will not remind you of them," Imi replied kindly.

He did not, for of the many ideals my younger brother esteemed highly, his word ranked highest of all. He gave me no reminder of the lords and ladies I had devoted considerable effort toward avoiding, and I, in turn, steered our conversations toward our shared love of the beauty that clung to our family's lands.

This week of wandering Dol Amroth's coastlands would be my last freedom, for Imrahil would soon return to the perils of war and I was now too old to subtly ignore my parents' wish of marriage. Enough now to follow familiar hills and greet the many people our house was bound to. Our pace was gentle, and the joys of solitude were many. I loved the coasts that marked our family lands, but I loved the trees above all. For all the wonder and magic of the world, it was the trees' simplicity that held my heart.

"You love the woods so," Imrahil commented a few days into our journey. "Is it true that the blood of the Wood-elves flows more freely through you than the others of our line? Do you wish to follow them to their fair haven and forever wander under the stars?"

"Hush," I said, smiling at my younger brother's lightheartedness. "It's hardly a disaster that I chose to sleep under the stars rather than the beds we were offered this afternoon. Father trusts you to protect me, and—"

An upraised fist silenced me. Immediately, two pairs of keen grey eyes scanned the undergrowth for proof of Imrahil's trained instincts. We found the elusive signs of Elves together, but Imi caught my arm before I could slip off my pony. "Duilas, have you forgotten your year of begging Father for this week of respite? Let the Elves be. Fortune enough that we saw them, but Father—"

Imi had evidently forgotten his sister's elusive ways, urgently as he spoke about them. I had finally found Elves, and nothing could stop me from speaking with one of the Firstborn in one of their beautiful languages. Save, I found, becoming mute in their presence.

The Elves stared at me with curious, painfully bright eyes as I broke into their line. They were not surprised. Nor did they appear upset. I did not know what they thought at all, and in the moment I saw them, I could scarcely think beyond the deep curtsy my upbringing had ingrained into me. Imrahil must have sensed their lack of ill-will, for he stayed behind with our clever-footed ponies and left his sister to her sudden tears.

"Greetings," I murmured in Sindarin, matching their clothing to our house's skillful tapestries of Wood-elves. My words beyond that seized in my throat, for although many in my country's lands spoke the language fluently, it was quite overwhelming to have one's lifelong desire be so real and strangely unreal.

A smooth finger lifted my quivering chin with more grace than I'd imagined existed. The Wood-elf's voice was kind and strong, ringing with bells and starlit memories. "Rise, daughter of Gondor." Her smile chased my nervousness away, and the strange joy that filled me brought the rest of me back.

I introduced myself and listened to names that held more story than I could bear to hear. Their course was set for Edhellond, the ancient Elf haven in our land's borders, but they were not yet bound for the Grey Havens.

There was still hope left in Middle Earth for them. A measure of joy and laughter. A chance to find wonder and wander free of all but the finest sorrows.

The stars of twilight stretched long through my helpless delight, and dear Imrahil gave me hours before he joined our fire-lit party. "Fair sister," he said softly, bathed in wonder more steep than mine, "late the hour but welcoming the kin we must needs return to."

I think he thought he might lose me forever to the great words of the Elves, but unlike mine his words had stumbled over themselves and he fell silent, content to listen to their lovely speech. All of his willpower could not, however, keep him from drifting off to sleep as one of the few silent Elves brought out a harp and began to sing in a dialect that I, who had learned as many of their languages as my tutors could teach me, knew not.

"Daughter of Men," the oldest of them said, and he, too, had not yet spoken. His voice was deep and sharp. "As a flame you burn," he stated, piercing eyes full of indecipherable sadness that captured mine irresistibly, "and bright you shine to many that see only darkness. A last light of Men."

I succumbed to sleep like my faithful younger brother, and as the Wood-elves left me under the gentle embrace of the stars, I wept.

I wept, for I had seen what truly lay in them and what lay in me. They were part of and bound to this world, whereas I was a Man and could be no more of it than my faint Elven blood allowed. The Gift of Men seemed but a curse, just as my tutors had described it.

What was the Gift? A promise that we would one day depart to somewhere better? A curse of lonely mortality? Alone among the races, Men's spirits would not be reborn in an endless cycle while the world still stood. We alone were free to fight fate. We alone would pass on upon our death.

The beauty of the Elves was not physical. Rather, a serenity was woven into their being that whispered of Arda and a brilliant song of fate. It was a song that was mine to see and hear, but not mine to sing. From the ancient Elf's words, it seemed my place was to simply sputter out.

But I wanted to be more than a whisper of smoke. I wanted to live.

My life in Middle-earth was not like the old story and lesser, derivative tales I seized upon so violently when I realized where I had ended up. Instead of an empowered adult, I had become a child of this world, and far, far beyond that, I was the second-born daughter of a great house. I was protected and given every privilege but the freedom I longed for. I climbed the castle walls with the best of rebellious spirits, but Father's men were excellent trackers and kept me firmly stuck in the house of Dol Amroth no matter how many tips they laughingly gave me.

My one bright spot was Imrahil, who liked his fighting lessons so much that he was happy to help me gain bruises, and by that time Father was frustrated enough to let me gain them if it meant I would stay occupied.

I wanted to go out into the world and help destroy the Ring. I wanted to visit Imladris and join the Dúnedain and prepare. But try as I might, all I could do was memorize genealogies and learn languages and lore and manners upon manners.

Where was the freedom and control I'd been promised?

The most I had managed was a year-long stay in Meduseld, where the Rohirric people had refused me more than a pony after they caught me borrowing the First Marshal's fastest warhorse (Théoden hadn't minded—although he'd aimed a few good blows at my ribs before recognizing me and remembering he'd accepted my bet the night before. Queen Morwen laughed at this). I was a daughter of a house, not some happy nobody free to ride more than a mile without supervision. I held high hopes of finding and marrying one of the Dúnedain, and were that to that happen, I could at least go free. Assuming he were a nice Dúnedan.

I stewed, caught up in responsibilities and the comforting memory that one day, my brother's yet-unborn daughter would marry Rohan's very much future king. Apart from that union, I did not remember much that happened in the land of Gondor. One day, Steward Ecthelion II's son would marry and have two sons, and he was free to get a move on. The man was undeniably attractive, but I remembered he had the personality of a brick wall and would commit suicide in the end. It was laughable how relieved I was when I observed that no matter how unlikely one random man was to want to marry me, I simply could not change history. So in this, I had one happiness.

Unfortunately, I was reputed to be the prettiest noblewoman in Gondor. And even though Denethor was already a man grown, he made no moves on women. Ever. Which was why my unrepentant father sent me to Minas Tirith at the very marriageable age of three-and-twenty.

"What is wrong with marrying Lord Denethor, daughter? Surely you can see that the man is partial toward you. It would be cruel to keep him so."

I refrained from asking why Denethor's happiness weighed more highly than my own in my father's mind. "Father, as I have stayed in Minas Tirith for some time now, I must say that I have observed many men whose eyes have been partial toward me. Would not partiality be cruel to them? Besides which, I feel that outward beauty is never a good omen in marriage."

"I hardly think you would know much of that matter," my father muttered, "considering a great portion of history and nature has been fueled by that very thing. Now, then, daughter, I must reply to this poor man's letter. You may take your opinions elsewhere, since they will not be included in my reply."

"Father, please—"

"Do not assume I despise you, Finduilas. I would see you happy. Perhaps even despite yourself."

My next ploy was, suitably, more desperate. Thus far I had done nothing that would mar my family's ancient name, but my attempts to be undesirable only seemed to draw that proud man closer. When I heard that my brother had been injured, it was no easy feat to mimic the actions of the future Lady Eowyn and smuggle myself and my horse (we were a distinctive figure after our frequent rides) out of the City.

This was not the hill pony that had met the Wood-elves, but a powerful, well-trained bay from Dol Amroth's stables. Men of this world knew horses better than cars, and Asfaloth, by all accounts, would have suited better as a war steed for my brother. Too bad that I was the better horseman.

The Elven blood of our line that flowed strongly in me made me light enough that no steed of the city could match my mount's speed, and while I suppose I could have faced peril and fled to Imladris, the need to be with my brother was greater. Imrahil had always cared for my happiness above his own. Fleeing the man fated for another was cowardly, but my brother deserved no pain. He was barely old enough to be in the war himself, let alone worry his family with tragic tales of valor.

The sentries of the rearguard assumed me to be Redbrand, the boy who had borne the latest report to the White City, and it was this guise that helped me avoid meeting the commander in favor of delivering a worried mother's letter. My deception would end the instant I gave that very real—and stolen—letter to Imrahil, but a healing tent was no stranger to many of the great ladies of Gondor, and I hoped to stay there until the Steward's men came for me. It would do me no harm to learn more of the healers' arts. My journey had been swift and hard, but the thought of knowledge beckoned cheerily. I rode up to the tent's entrance free of any well-deserved weariness.

Imrahil, to the fervent admiration of the healing tent's guard, had decided that a shallow wound with poison was no different from one without and had cheerfully marched back to his duties—with great restraint I did not lecture the man on his duty of keeping patients in, not enemies out. Raids had been more prevalent over the past few days, the man informed me, and it was best that every able-bodied man be where Gondor needed him. My brother was hardly able-bodied.

He was not at his tent, either, and the worry I felt for him far outweighed the cries and clashes I began to hear as I urged my weary horse onward. Darkness that had shielded my identity was beginning to fade to the dull light of morning when I found Imi, slumped over one of his men's corpses and sleeping out a fever. He was not as terrifyingly dead as he appeared, and on discovering this fact, I doubted anything would ever terrify me again.

I made Asfaloth kneel and had nearly wedged Imi over the saddle when two dark, reeking orcs with wickedly rusted blades discovered us. My fear for Imrahil's life increased tenfold, but I refused to give the sentiment any hold. I was young and strong. The weapons strapped to Asfaloth were no strangers to my grasp, untested as I might have been. At one point in my life I had bested one of King Thengel's squires in a brawl—surely these orcs had a lesser reach. Being bitten by rusted blades was no flippant thought.

The evil creatures laughed to each other in their decrepit tongue as they charged headlong for either side of my horse. This was exactly the scenario that terrified me most, and the speed and strength that fueled me to stab one of my horse's arrows through Imi's sleeve into the saddle was nearly as surprising as the ferocity with which I jabbed the bay's rump. The horse skittered safely away.

A strange elation filled me. That I, a highborn maid of Gondor could have such a lust for battle—but the sword I had once stolen from Théoden served more purpose than appearances now, and I would stand no chance if I did not run at the closer creature and eliminate him before his ally could rush at me.

I do not remember any of that fight I began so recklessly, but I did reunite with my horse and secure Imrahil well enough that Asfaloth would no longer fear unseating his rider. We three continued on, miraculously avoiding all but a few stragglers. The only Gondorian soldiers we saw lay mangled on the ground. Several of them had been hacked into pieces. A few had been torn by more than blades.

The next instant my arm was seized by a bloodied hand, and nothing save fortune itself shielded the newcomer from my wild swing. "Stop," he hissed, "ere you lead Dol Amroth's heir to the enemy's camp."

The knowledge that I was leading my injured brother the wrong way cured me of the haze of battle. "What?" I blinked, observing that under the grime of war was a Gondorian face that truly beat out Denethor's, if one were to care. I did not care and certainly did not recognize my rescuer. "But I've been going away from the fighting. . . ."

Thorongil, the man loved by the whole of Gondor and Rohan for his inhuman prowess on the battlefield (and lauded by many women for his pleasant appearance), fought the urge to roll his eyes. "This is war, lad. Think!"

He thinks me a man, my shell-shocked mind whispered, and the string of fighting that we wove through on the return to our camp was overshadowed by this distracting thought. I tripped in a stream when the sun finally reached the sky, and the good Thorongil helped his inept ally out of the water before I could somehow kill all three of us.

I must have been the first person in all Gondor to see the man freeze. "I beg pardon, my lady. Had I—"

I wiped the orc blood out of my eyes and grimaced at the thick globs that had dripped their way into my mouth. "It's war," I coughed. "Save it." Just how much blood had been encrusted on my face? No matter. I had spent more than enough of my life having to care for my appearance. Being on a battlefield far outweighed those habits.

This chance meeting with Gondor's most-favored hero did not work out in my favor, as the man was also the captain of Gondor's forces and very stern. Reports of my escape reached him by mid-afternoon, and he did not favor my plan of saying that Imrahil had saved me from the orcs, or that I had ferried him back safely and without incident, or that I had never been near the enemy at all. Indeed, Thorongil was more insistent on recognition than I later would have expected him to be, and the reluctance behind his public admittance to saving me was matched only by the embarrassment I felt for needing to be saved.

And, I confess, my need for sleep. My concern for Imrahil had spurred me far beyond an average pace. Fighting my way through a skirmish was testament to power many men did not have . . . but I didn't care much for Thorongil's essential apology through his speech. He'd thought me incapable. I thought of him as inhuman for the kind words that kept me from my bed. Later, I would realize that his long speech had siphoned off the adrenaline of my first battle, for sleep often comes hardest of all to those who truly require it the most. I owed Gondor's captain a debt.

Denethor rode in with the next wave of reinforcements and Asfaloth and I left the perils of war for good.

The thrill of battle was no place for a daughter of Dol Amroth. Least of all the accusing stares of every man save one guard of the healing tent. I begged Thorongil to never tell my brother the full truth, but much happens on the battlefield that is quite beyond the range of considerateness. Still, I suppose I counted it a victory that unlike the women of the court, I alone had first met the great Thorongil on the battlefield. And more importantly, I had saved my brother.

No one in the land knew more of Gondor's families than I, who had torn my memories apart to remember what I knew of the future and added to that a thirst of genealogies stemmed from desperation. The knowledge had aided me through many tense conversations, and I fumbled for it now, desperate as I had ever been.

"Lady Silmariën will be here with her cousins in just a fortnight. Surely she will strike you with some interest. I have heard that she has built up their house's good fortune with the blessing of her uncle. She will bring prosperity wherever she ends up."

"My lady," my balcony partner tried, reaching for a hand that was small, stupidly lovely, and rather paler than one might think. "It is useless."

"But there are many other women that—"

"Finduilas, you must realize that I no longer see them."

Well. I swallowed. "Forgive me, my lord Denethor. I fear my arm aches from the touch of the orc blade I foolishly sought last year. I beg you release me and allow me to retire ere I am fatigued."

He paced away, muscles trembling with the slow rage of a patient man. "Do not belittle me, my lady. I have listened to your proposals, but not once have you listened to mine. Will you not see me as a man? I tremble before you!"

This tall man, whom never once had I seen without my prideful insistence on another, loomed above me and in an instant appeared as helpless as I had always fancied myself to be.

I fled.

"Imi, if your next hit doesn't leave a bruise, Ivi will tell on you."

Dear, responsible Ivriniel rolled her eyes. "Imrahil, if you don't put some effort into keeping our sister Finduilas occupied, I will put a bruise on you myself."

I gasped for air, running through the corridor to run into not my brother but the war hero known by all. The noble man caught me before I could plough him over. His grip gentled in a general recognition of my unthreatening nature. "I beg your pardon, my lady."

"Marry me," I pleaded.

Thorongil was a man of iron will, and yet his hands clenched around my arms as if he longed for the sure comfort of a sword's hilt. His eyes widened. "I beg your pardon, my lady?" He released me and quickly scrambled to make sense of the whole ordeal. "What is your name, my lady? From whose house hail you?"

This I took to mean that my rather singular visit to the front lines had not lent me the same light that ornate dresses and hairstyles (and a sensible occupation of not smearing other creatures' blood across my face) gave me now, and I supposed it was too late to bless Lord Denethor with a copy of this man's unfavorable first impression. "I am Finduilas of Dol Amroth," I said miserably, a blush wreaking as much havoc as the orc blood surely had, "and if you are taken, please introduce me to one of your Dúnedain friends."

The man that peered down at me probably would not have introduced me to an enemy, but his face knit in recognition. "I could offer no life for one so intense," he offered, as if those words held a deeper meaning than riddled refusal.

"Oh," I began harshly, "but I can accept—"

The Elves, I remembered, and pieces that had begun to fall into place a year ago now settled completely. My acquaintance's heritage ran far deeper than the Dúnedain background I'd accused him of. "I beg your pardon," I said meekly—mortified—and what remained of my pride shattered my childhood delusions completely.

Here was a tale I held no right to be in, and great men and greater were in the making of it. Mine was no grandeur or recognition. Horrifying enough that I'd just proposed to Aragorn Elessar as unwantedly as Denethor had chased after me. "Forgive me," I said again, and I fled the future king for much the same reason I avoided Denethor.

And again, the fate that bound this world whispered to me, as if I could but open my eyes and understand it. Were not the men of Númenor touched by fate because of their Elven heritage? What kept me from embracing my own? Oh, I knew that answer.

A soft melody began to drift unbidden through my mind. What if I were a part of this world? What if that small measure of the Elves truly linked me to the fate of this world? Why, then, should I resist it?

"Lady Finduilas!"

"Forget my face," I whispered wildly, and searched for the door.

The Steward's son was faster than I. "How could I forget it?" he asked, blocking my exit as firmly and politely as he could. "You are very fair to look upon."

And I would have soon torn that horrid face off, had I known this pursuit would stem from it!

Denethor saw my frustration and took mercy upon me in a way that spoke more than I would realize for some time. "Your face is not what drew me to you," he said. "You hated me. I wished to prove you wrong until I realized that passion to you is what breathing is to the rest of the world. I do not mock you, my lady. I ask a gift."

For once in my life, I listened without reminding myself of what I knew.

"Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth, would you allow me one great happiness in life?"

It occurred to me that this man was very earnest. More earnest than I. More driven than I had ever been. "You are the only woman I will ever consider," he promised as I hesitated. "Please do not refuse me."

I was not in love. He was not a visiting Elf lord, my once Dúnedain friend, or even a simple traveling merchant. I did not wish for power or against it, and the longer I stayed in the city, the more I wished for open roads.

No, I thought. Freedom is not for me, and least of all this man. "As you wish, my lord," I said.

The stars of Gondor and of the Elves were overshadowed for a long, wondrous moment. But while the warmth in his face was genuine, my own eyes only reflected what I could certainly never have. Strange, then, that the light of the moment could bloom so kindly.

I changed him. He changed me. The man governed by rules and pride let all of that fall away as he strove to convince me of his affections. As months rolled by I let him hold my hand . . . and later, my heart. Who would have known that this man, the man all of Gondor thought wise but impenetrably cold, would be so trustworthy?

I gave him hopes that even Imrahil had never heard. And Denethor smiled at the dragons I slew and the molehills I loved.

Thorongil came to our wedding with two other Dúnedain on shaggy ponies, and beyond the picturesque sight as Denethor and I paused a morning race to watch the traffic entering the White City, the rangers never entered my mind. For all I cared, half of the guests could have been Elves. Lord Elrond himself could have held out a hand in friendship that blissful day, and I would have turned him down in favor of the one I didn't yet love but someday might.

My husband was cold and proud, but I was tender. He forgave me more easily than I could even take offense. His infinite patience was the only reason I survived marriage.

I loved him for his restraint (and the lack thereof that was mine alone to see).

He loved me (unrestrainedly).

But his choice of name for a firstborn son was Ecthelion III, and while Lord Ecthelion II was the best father-in-law in Middle-earth, I knew better. Perhaps I was not the girl he should have married, but that name had third son written all over it.

He laughed when I said I'd defer to his wishes should we have a girl. "Oh, but Ecthelion would not suit a child with a face such as yours," jested he.

"Wouldn't you prefer to drive off suitors?"

"We could call her by my favorite name, instead. I would not mind saying it more, Finduilas my love."

"Perhaps a story that will not begin shadowed by tragedy. Míriel? Anairë?"

"All mortals die, my love."

"Yes, but some have no need to focus on that while they live. Our children won't."

"Even in these dark days?"

"Don't be so gloomy. You have me now. You said you wouldn't look at anything else."

"Forgive me, wife," he smiled. He drew nearer.

Boromir was born the most beautiful child in all of Middle Earth, and I had to take my place among the great warriors of the world to even hold him. His laughter captured as many hearts as his father's outward harshness could spurn, and with his arrival I threw my secret dreams of adventure to the four winds. My son was perfect. My life was, too, because the love I'd been afraid of . . . the genuineness I'd blinded myself to . . . was now mine. And that made everything perfect.

As I rocked my squalling infant to sleep one night, the realization that Denethor's firstborn son, regardless of his mother, was fated to die at Nen Hithoel hit me with terrible vengeance. I gave Boromir to the nurse my husband employed to keep me from spending every night with my son and ran.

I always ran. I ran from my childhood home, from Morwen's friendship in Meduseld, from Denethor time and time again. I suppose running from fate had never worked how I had expected in the past (after all, running from Théoden hadn't resulted in a proposal, just reluctant friendship), and tonight played out no differently.

I collided with Gondor's illustrious war hero again, and as always, I recognized him first. "You're Aragorn," I panted in confusion, for I had planned on storming through the council chambers for my husband. Thorongil, or Aragorn in the privacy of my thoughts, was a poor replacement.

The man in question came very, very close to stabbing me through. "Milady?"

My eyes flickered to his chest, drawn by a strange light that winked once and vanished teasingly. Glimpses and whispers such as this were no longer strange to me. Now that I knew my place in this world, it delighted in including me. But such insights were not for others. "Oh, dear. Have you seen my husband? I'm afraid I'm beside myself at the moment."

It was a fool's attempt at dodging, and I knew it. He deserved more than a hasty excuse. And the two of us were closer than many of his relationships with females, for the side he had shown in battle was far beyond the politeness he showed to the ladies of Gondor. I had met his quick, hard humor and kindness. He was the noblest of men, and it seemed I alone saw him clearly. I alone could see the future of the world, and that burden was great.

"It was through no oversight of yours," I said softly. "Merely a combination of what knowledge I know and what my heart has told me."

This was news to Aragorn, but when he opened his mouth to ask how far my gift of foresight travelled, I overrode him. "You know that I have a son, and that he is the pride of all Gondor. I fear much will be required of him."

Aragorn rightly observed that in the face of a young mother's fear, nothing else had priority. He held his peace.

"I give you my word to train him as a humble man whose greatest wish will be for peace and not personal glory." Short of begging him to shadow Boromir the moment they made camp, I could think of nothing. "Both of them," I stumbled, before reason returned to berate me for my weakness.

"Then I shall give you my word in return, Lady Finduilas. I shall treat your firstborn as a brother when the time arises, and I will trust him to be as capable as his valiant mother." His face darkened then, and his next words were hushed. "You and I have not crossed paths often, Lady, but I know you well enough. You cannot but give your heart to both of your sons. For their blood, I will treat them as brothers, but for their mother, they are my kin."

At this kindness, I could not keep my face from flushing, and this was naturally the moment my brooding husband walked around a far corner and flinched at what must have looked like a passionate conversation. I whispered a quick phrase of gratitude to the future king, who had never before seemed more kingly or gracious, and accepted Denethor's jealous arm.

Denethor was too busy melting the flagstones with his gaze to see my grateful wave to a hero I was never to meet again.

My dear husband confessed to me that night that he felt the man Thorongil might be the heir to the throne, and he nearly grew angry when I laughed. All was well, I told him. I had no wish for Boromir to shoulder whatever sad council had burdened my husband tonight, and there was no shame in not being the ruler. I hadn't asked Denethor to step down in favor of his wife.

Denethor's opinion on the matter was less optimistic.

Well, I certainly would think no less of my husband no matter his office. My only problem lay in convincing him of that, but we both knew I was his weakness.

I wished I'd had time to warn Aragorn of Boromir's likely behavior. This regret was one of the very few I never shared with Denethor.

I did settle for writing the future king a letter promising the use of any vessel he would need in the future, but such meddling went beyond the blessing of my conscience. When Aragorn eventually sailed to Umbar, I bade Gondor's greatest hero farewell from the shadows. His tale was not for me. He was set to shine, whereas I was destined to fall.

My tale was meant to be overshadowed by another, brighter legacy. For the Gift of Men offered both the boon of mortality and the freedom to go with or against this world's destiny. Now that the pulse of my life had joined the music of Arda (the Music of the Ainur, the City's archives explained), I knew something of my part to play. The more I lived, the brighter I would burn.

And so I cherished the joy of living all the more, for the fear of mortality withers all it touches. I chose to listen to the music that whispered the fate of many to me. My wick would burn out and be forgotten. But who can say what is forgotten and what fuels a purer flame?

The door flew open again, and I flinched away before the beautiful sight of my bloodied husband greeted me. I scarcely dared breathe. "Boromir—"

"Our son is unharmed, wife." He hovered in the door a moment longer, counting all seven of the corpses strewn across the floor. "Did not your guard stay with you? I do not see him with these creatures."

Seven, truly? The orcs had not seemed very many as Théoden's familiar blade had hummed and sung. Our men must have wounded them before they had reached this room. "He bade me stay here as he barricaded the door," I remembered. "I should have ordered him to stay beside me. He was young. They must have driven him far from the door, for I never heard his cry."

Denethor brushed aside my regret. "Were these orcs slain by your hand?"

An odd smile formed upon my face as the rush of battle filled me yet again. "I cannot deny it this time, it seems. I suppose the many bruises gained in my younger years have been well spent. My stubbornness has spared you my life, husband."

He rushed forward and quite forgot to check for injuries I knew I must have but could not yet feel. "You may teach our future daughters, Finduilas, for I would not wish such a loss upon any husband." This he whispered into my blood-spattered hair as he thoughtlessly crushed my sword and dagger between us.

I smiled, but I at least retained enough sense to keep my face far from orc blood. "Don't ruin your new tunic, dear."

He disobeyed as willfully as I had practiced my swordplay through the years. Neither of us minded. And as I later learned that our son Faramir had been inside of me during the fight, the rebellion of my younger years became a great blessing.

This time, I could not resist Denethor's will for me to remain in Minas Tirith indefinitely.

Sauron drew nearer, and knowledge of what was to come weighed on me heavily. I no longer had the will to treat the future as a puzzle I already knew all the pieces of. I began to lose the strength to fight. The Elves, Théoden, Aragorn, Imrahil—what had filled me with hope faded as quickly as it had come. Left with myself, I felt the fierce brightness of my life begin to flicker.

Wisdom far beyond my understanding filtered in even as the Shadow threatened to fill my heart. The blood of the Dúnedain and the Elves promised my kin a long life, but the world told me that my time here was ending. I alone had lived more than the time allotted to men in Middle-earth.

I alone knew that the love of my life would succumb to madness and distance himself from our second son. I alone truly had hope.

And with what little remained of my life's flame, I resolved to spread it.

"The sea, Faramir. I would . . . find it again. Believe in it. Feel the hope."

"Mother, your stories say all good things come from beyond the sea. If you have good things here, why do you long for the sea?"

I smiled and mourned the loss of the strength to rise from my bed and hug him. "What I desire is not just the sea, my child. It is not sight that fuels the constant buzzing of deeds undone in my ear. I cannot touch the memories I wish to see again. They ebb and flow far beyond my control. And yet it is that horizon that calls out to me."

My second son pursed his lips at me in confusion. Sensing that this discussion was beyond him, he changed the subject.

"Mother, why do you love Father even when he gets angry?"

Oh, Faramir. How to explain love, and life, and the balance we must accept?

"You will find that much of the world begins with happiness. It is both our wish and a choice. Sometimes that wish is granted. But when happiness comes, we must realize that it is given through the choices and sacrifices of others. Life is not about your happiness, Faramir. Instead, you must realize when others need you more than you need yourself."

His eyes narrowed. "That wasn't saying why you love Father."

"Very well," I agreed, "you must realize when another needs you more than you need yourself."

Faramir's sweet face struggled to comprehend my words, and I suspect he bound their meaning to his heart. "Then, Father needs you? And that's why you love him no matter what kind of mood he has?"

"Do I?"

"I think so, Mother."

I thought so, too. It wasn't a stunning, epic, romantic adventure of a story. Just two very flawed individuals trying to bring each other happiness.

Perhaps I shouldn't have run away on the second week when I'd first seen his searing temper at another ship lost to the corsairs of Umbar.

And perhaps if he hadn't insisted on journeying while Haradrim were active, our boys' younger sister would have met the world with a name she could have taken with her.

We were far from flawless, but we had been happy together.

Do you wish happiness for yourself?

No. Give it all to them. . . .

"Lady Finduilas, someone is at the door."

"Thank you, Gilbereth. Would you mind taking Faramir to his room? He was more spent than I this evening."

"Yes, my lady. Please, rest." Gilbereth opened the door and left with her precious young burden. She paused before she left my visitor hanging, however. No doubt to glare. "My lady will see you now."

"A moment, my lady?"

My entire face lit as a stranger came in my door—but he was no stranger. I looked at him in awe. Immense strength was hidden by faded robes and a kindly, brilliant light that was both very near and very far away. I smiled too widely to bear. "Mithrandir."

"So some call me," he replied, and when I gestured at Denethor's well-used chair, the ageless wizard sat down in it at my bedside. He leaned his staff against my elaborate headboard. My eyes were drawn to the weapon: worn but smooth and carrying the same cloaked air as its master.

"I had not guessed I would meet you," I said truthfully. "I am sorry to meet you now. Great are the tales of your council, and greater still have I regarded you, Gandalf. I am sorry you must see me in this time of weakness." The need to wax eloquent was encouraging. By now, energy for long conversations was rare. Such ability was to be savored, but more importantly used. The time to hold back had long since passed.

Gandalf's eyes twinkled. "I, for one, do not regret meeting the wise and well-spoken Lady of Gondor, for all the naysaying she may use of herself. Indeed, I have come to the White City at this hour for council, for word has reached me of her insight."

His keen eyes suddenly flashed with a terrible red light, and a much fouler creature of bones and sinew and shadow hissed at me with malice. I was stricken. But the memory of the Balrog paled as a darker shadow stirred. I drew in an unsteady breath.

I am no man!

But still, the cruel hatred of the witch-king and his master buffeted me. No longer were they a mere story. No more could I avoid the fear of Men.

"Peace," the Wizard said, laying a wrinkled hand on my trembling one. "Do not be dismayed by what is not yours to carry. Not all fears must be weathered by the gentlest of hearts."

"By that logic," I started, but the peril I had seen in his future cast my humor aside. "I think the greatest fear will indeed be carried by the gentlest heart one day, and that heart will not be mine. My time has passed, Mithrandir. It is no secret that I am dying."

"No," he said, "you are fading. Your heart is not here. You will follow it soon to a land more beautiful than this world has ever been."

The birds outside my window sang sad songs of the horror that was to come. My sons were to face it, and Boromir—so like my husband but with ten years of my influence—Boromir would not return. And since he'd taken it into his head that the only girls worth talking to wielded a sword as well as I, he would never marry. Farewell, the birds sang. May your passing be swift and merciful. May your cares fade in the morning light. May your flame lift to the skies before the shadows fall.

"They sing for you," observed Gandalf. He did not speak over their cries again, and I lay on my deathbed and wondered at the soft speech that accompanied their trills. If only the birds had spoken to me before! Perhaps their friendship would have cured me of my despair after our daughter's departure.

In the days that were to follow, I discovered that the birds flitted through emotions with maddening speed. The songbirds of my garden talked of little save the shadow in the east. Perhaps other animals did not fear it, but it was good that I had not understood the birds before.

"I have come for council," Gandalf said at length. "And a friend of yours bids you the hope that Gondor lacks in these dark days."

Dear Aragorn. "He is kind. Tell me what you seek, Mithrandir, for my strength fades."

"What is it that you see?"

I glanced at the wise old eyes and flinched away, coughing helplessly into my hand. But how could I not? Who could tell why I, who had long searched for happiness and now had spent it on my family, was here?

"Do not ask Denethor for aid, for I fear he will delve where eyes should not see and find despair. The great lands of Men will tremble, and the holdings of the Elves will fear. But in you, Gandalf." I coughed again, beset by the evil that clung to his demise. "You will meet a black doom and be cast aside. Yours is a terrible light. But bound as you are, long have you walked this earth."

I could not say more. I could not bear it. The path and lifetimes of the Wizards filled me with grief. "I do not envy a long life," I breathed.

The burdened Wizard shook his head. "Fear not. Happiness is granted in measure. Our tasks are different, but yours was not so short as you might imagine it. I thank you, Great Lady."

"Farewell, Mithrandir. I wish you happiness."

Forever, the birds sang as he smiled gently at me and took his leave. Doom and workings of vengeance. Cold the shadow that conquers all.

The light of Gandalf was gone, and I found that none now remained. The brilliance of my life had never been mine to keep.

Ónen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim.

"She was a lady of great beauty and gentle heart, but before twelve years had passed she died. Denethor loved her, in his fashion, more dearly than any other, unless it were the elder of the sons that she bore him. But it seemed to men that she withered in the guarded city, as a flower of the seaward vales set upon a barren rock. The shadow in the east filled her with horror, and she turned her eyes ever south to the sea that she missed." —The Return of the King, Appendix A

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~Phew, was this made of effort. Concepts, wrangling, drafts, combing through it with the helpful beta (and wonderful author) Wynni. At the end of writing this, I think this story would have worked well as a 100% canon fic. Plus, it's somewhat tempting to make an AU where Finduilas does run off and fulfill her traveling dreams. But that's never happening. Eugh, posting this is a load off my shoulders.

Hope you had fun! Please leave a comment. This ended up a pretty meaningful story, and its original purpose was to make people think. What would you have done? Do you think we can choose to be happy? Do you agree that there are choices we must make that we will not always like?

So much in the world is about sacrifice, and giving away part of oneself for the good of others. It's a wholesome thought to dwell on. And in this story, it wasn't just pointless sacrifice. Tolkien's world is governed by a higher being, and the Finduilas of this story obeyed him. I think her life accomplished the purpose she was offered.

Leave a thought if you wish, but think!

(You didn't like this? Good. Writecha own.)

Imrahil is a sweetie.

Look up the Gift of Men and the Music of the Ainur!

Okay, I'm done now. Thanks for your time! I write to give others something to enjoy, so I hope you did. I know I put enough work into it! (: