5. On the Breakwater

Denethor leaned back on his chair, his face tight, his mind reeling. On the unfolded parchment, bits of the letter jumped at him, looking like clusters of insects in the half-light, laying their curious eggs. —been ill for some time—given all that, I would wish to rest in the ease of knowing he can at least marry, if not breed—wise in many things but foolish in others, which he mistakenly deems of less importance—a trusted advisor suggested your daughter, the Lady Finduilas—she has the qualities for this peculiar task—reach an even more agreeable arrangement—satisfy all parties.

'Satisfy all parties indeed,' he muttered with a bitter chuckle. 'Oh, the cheek of the man.'

He fell silent, looking at Finduilas. She was staring serenely at him, her hands folded on the table.

'I am sorry,' he said. 'I should keep familial quarrels to myself.'

She grinned without mirth. 'And to what purpose, if my parents have already taken care to add themselves and me to it? I am afraid this is one quarrel you will have to share.'

He looked down at the letter, unwilling to touch it, as though it might burn him. 'Did you parents give you this?'

'My father showed it to my mother, and she to me. I then availed myself of it. It is something I do with things that concern me greatly.' She was still smiling a little, but her tone had just a hint of a dark undercurrent.

'Did your mother or your father tell you more about it?'

She pulled her hands down onto her lap. 'Yes. Did yours?'

'This is not a game, my lady,' he said flatly. His mouth was dry and he wanted to get up and walk as he did sometimes in Minas Tirith, wandering, brisk and aimless, until his body ached.

'I told you it is high time we address each other by our proper names. And if this is not a game, then why does it feel as though somebody else is holding all the cards?'

He looked pointedly at the letter on the table. 'You are holding a few more cards than I am, it seems, Finduilas.'

She gazed at him, her translucent eyes focused on his. 'Say that again.'

'I said, "You are holding—"'

She cut into his words. 'Not that. Say my name again.'

Why do you do everything she asks of you? 'Finduilas,' he said. 'Satisfied?'

'You had never said my name before without having it be part of some unthinking politeness. Now you've said it as you say the name of your city.' He blushed a little, unable to stop himself, but she went on regardless. 'And to address your other point, I was as troubled as you when I learned of the contents of this letter.'

'At least you learned of it through its intended recipients. The sender did not extend me the courtesy.' His tone was growing bitter, but he did not check it. 'He was likely hoping to present me with an accomplished fact. I should have learned to expect it by now, come to think of it.' Glancing down, he saw he had balled one hand into a tight fist and unclenched it.

Finduilas leaned back on her chair, crossing her arms. 'Do you know what my mother told me when she showed me this letter? She told me that the Corsairs are like leeches on a cow's legs; a nuisance, but not deadly. Having your blood sucked from East, West and South, however, may prove to be the latter. And then I asked her what did all that have to do with a letter suggesting I should marry the Steward's son. So she asked me if I was a fool who did not realise all things had a price. I think her exact words were "Everything and everyone has a price, Finduilas. The only real question in life is determining how much." And after that, we had Words.'

'I see,' he said. He had heard the capital letter in her voice, plain as a shout. This he understood full well; he knew what having Words meant. He knew how they could never be undone nor unsaid—even if he had wanted to—how instead they became part of a complicated history, a hidden labyrinth of reefs and currents.

'I was predisposed to dislike you, you know,' she said, lowering her eyes. 'Before you arrived here. I did not relish the prospect of meeting my likely future husband when such an alliance had been arranged beforehand for the sake of ships and politics.' She lifted her face again, her eyes a heavy storm cloud grey. 'Because if I have known one thing in my life, it was that, no matter what, I was going to carve my own fate.'

He found himself looking deeply at her, at the silver web of will glowering around her. He would like to have this moment forever, with the whole of her free and unbreakable and beautiful, like a wave crashing on a pier.

'My own fate,' he said at last, 'was carved out for me before I was born. Even so, I have welcomed it. I have more than welcomed it, I… could not ask for anything I wanted more, in truth.'

'Then we were both brought to the same place by differing paths; I was displeased because someone sought to impose a fate on me, you are displeased because someone does not judge your acceptance of your fate to be strong enough.'

He placed one hand on the table. 'Now that we both know the truth, I must ask this again: why did you ask me to marry you?'

She gazed at him and he was very aware of her skin and the hollow at the base of her throat and of the letter and the lamp and the garden doors, standing as silent witnesses to their exchange.

'I told you,' she said. 'Because I wanted to. Because you, I never expected. Because you are serious and because you love your city so much that no words could do it justice. Because you are yourself and will not feign anything for anyone's sake. Because you had not even been told. Because you are the only man I have ever met who can be alone even with the whole of the Prince's court in attendance. Because you can take on the world entire if needed be and because you have made me do something I have never done in all the days of my life.'

Somehow he managed to get the words out, his expression unchanged, his voice perfectly even. 'What would that be?'

Her smile was soft, welcoming. He understood he was entering a zone of trust. 'You have made me fall in love.'

There. Those were Words, lying between them as surely as the ones in the letter. He looked at her, his heart beating somewhere near his throat, undisciplined. He could feel her desire again, like he had felt in the barge, but this time it was no longer some great, all-consuming abyss but a still, moonlit ocean, hiding whatever deep trenches under the quiet silver waters.

'There is no need to answer me just yet. But I want you to know that I have enjoyed our days together like few things before. Why not make them last?'

He still did not answer. In his mind's eye he was a youth again, and in a crisp autumn night a great dark flame was rising in the East, blotting out the stars. 'What does last?' he said, aloud, a fatalist gleam to his voice.

'What does it matter?' she said, her gaze unmoved. 'Do you love me, or do you not?'

'I… I am not certain I understand it, in truth.' He correctly himself inwardly. He could understand the fierce possessiveness of parental love, and found himself unsuited for fatherhood there too, for if he imagined having a child, he always saw himself in a forth of worry, alert to all the jagged edges of the world, the fangs awaiting the unwary. 'I have read things of love in books, and heard things of love in song that I can never see myself doing, or feeling, or being. So perhaps I can never love anyone. Not in that fashion.' He said it with no room for self-pity, a bridge burned with a mere statement of fact.

To his surprise, she kept smiling. 'Who said aught of poets and rhymers and storytellers? They all believe the heart is an organ of fire. But fire unchecked leaves only cold ashes behind.' That coiled intensity again, behind her eyes. 'So it must be with anything that endures: a flame in a hearth, a shared trust.'

'A shared trust,' he echoed. 'That, I like.' It sounded cautious, and silent, and sound.

Her face grew serious. 'Then answer me plainly, for good or for ill. Either you love me in this manner, or you do not.'

He was silent for a while, listening to the nocturnal insects flapping their wings against the net curtains hanging from the garden doors. 'I do,' he said at last, hearing himself speak, hearing his own voice rise. 'You said love is a shared trust, and in these weeks we've spent together I've grown to trust you as I trust myself. If that makes me a fool, then so be it, but I would have you by my side always and I would make you my wife even if all the hosts of Mordor stood in the way. But for two things that neither of us can fight.' He fell silent, his face hot, his hands clenched, his skin tight. Finduilas had a bright red spot on each cheek, her eyes sparkling. 'I am sorry,' he said, subdued and spent. 'How much, no one will ever know.'

'No,' she said. 'I might.' She then rallied, her tone lively again. 'But what are these things you speak of? What are these obstacles? Are they so great as you say?'

'Aye, they are,' he said. His voice was quiet after his earlier outburst, a dull ache in his chest. Now he knew he wanted her, and he knowledge involved no sudden metamorphosis of the heart but simply an understanding of his kinship with her, that he had become so entwined with the warm, unhurried hours spent in her company that if he never saw her again in his life he would feel the lack like a severed limb. It was not fair, this, to have been given the thirst and denied the fountain.

Nevertheless, he was a desperately practical man. 'Firstly, there is also a knowledge I have kept secret,' he said, 'as you yourself have kept this secret. Have you ever heard of a man calling himself Thorongil?'

Her eyebrows rose a little. He could tell this wasn't what she had expected.

'It matters, I assure you,' he said, not quite knowing if he was saying it to reassure himself of the strength of his knowledge, if to make her realise he was welcoming her quietly into the locked circle around him.

'I have heard of him,' she said. 'A captain of Gondor who has won some renown, is he not?'

'He is those things, but he is also not what he pretends to be.'

Her interest was visibly piqued. 'Is he a spy?'

'Of a sort.'

'Not… not of the Enemy, surely?'

'He would have found himself a lonely grave by now if that were the case,' Denethor said darkly. 'He is a spy of a rather more insidious sort.'

She stared at him. 'Which is to say?'

He hesitated for a moment, then decided to put it as plainly as possible. 'He is a descendant of the Northern line.'

She blinked. 'Do you mean—?'

'Yes.'

She leaned back on her chair, amber light shifting on the folds of her dress. 'I see how this matters for Gondor. I do not yet see how it matters for our alliance.'

'It matters because the two are inextricably connected. It matters because it will be another of his triumphs.'

'He is the "trusted advisor",' she said flatly.

'I would wage the City itself on that,' he said. 'He is more than trusted, he is held in esteem above all others.'

'Even you?'

'I am only my father's son,' he said, words laced with hemlock. 'How could I possibly compare?'

'Surely your father cannot love a stranger more than his own flesh and blood?'

'What would you like to wager on that? Pick something you will not miss,' he said coldly, then thawed into sorrowful bitterness. 'It is not even as though it is the old man's fault. After all, everyone who meets Captain Thorongil comes to love him. Why should the Steward of Gondor be any different?'

'I would not,' she said, resolute.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I would not come to love him. In fact, I have not even met the man and already I dislike him.'

'How can that be?'

'Because he has made you unhappy, my love.'

He felt an unexpected shiver of pleasure at her words. Her tone had ice underneath, as though she were willing to wreak vengeance against anyone who had displeased him. The idea was dark and enjoyable, like a strong drink.

'Be that as it may,' he managed to say, 'he will have a victory regardless of your or mine opinions on the matter. Another win. Do you know this whole idea of bringing the fight to the Corsairs' own territory was his to start with?'

She frowned. 'Surely, he cannot have been the only one to think of fighting against those pirates?'

'Of course not, but he was the one who suggested to my father that we should build ships of our own and cripple the Corsairs in Umbar itself.'

'There too I must doubt he was the first to have that thought.'

'He may not have been the first, but he was the first to have voiced it to the Steward. Ideas are all very well and good, but they need might on their side.'

She looked at her lap for a moment, then back up again, serene and composed. 'And thus here we are, because shipbuilders will not work for the good of Gondor if there is no food in their bellies and because Dol Amroth needs to be made to stand with the City, for good or for ill.'

He ran a nervous hand through his hair, unawares. 'But do you not see? Both fleet and marriage were his proposals. Two more triumphs for the Steward's good servant. How many more until the servant becomes the master, and I turned away from my land, my service and usefulness ended?'

She leaned forward, her hands on the table, her face frosty. 'And you think so little of me that you would cast me aside for the sake of denying the man another victory?'

'No, I think too much of you to have him point to you as another of his accomplishments. He knows I love Gondor too much to stand in his way in all other things, but this I will not grant him. I cannot deny Gondor but I can deny myself.' He fell silent, feeling as queasy as he had on the ship.

'And you would deny me?' she said, soft and dangerous. 'My will is my own and I am no one's triumph. What do you want more—to have me by your side or to drive that man away? Choose wisely, because this might be the last chance we have to rise to meet our fate before it comes to claim us, willing or no.'

He did not need to think before he answered. 'It does not matter. It is you I would choose, but in truth it is all the same. I spoke of two reasons; this is the second and greatest. I cannot marry you because I cannot marry anyone.'

His tone had been haughty, controlled; this was the voice he used when he wanted to make himself obeyed, the power of his blood arrayed behind it. Despite all that, her expression was gentle. 'What is it?'

He steeled himself for her disbelief, her probing, perhaps even her disgust. He could endure this, he told himself; he could endure everything, should he have to. The only soul he ought to have was one of steel. 'I cannot marry because I cannot be anyone's husband in the fullest sense. I cannot bed anyone and, before you ask, no, it is not due to any ailment. If an ailment there is, it must be of the mind and not the body, because in all my years I have not felt any desire for anyone's flesh. No one made me thus. I was born lacking it.'

'Oh,' she said, her face blank. 'None at all?'

'No more than I have ever had a burning desire to eat a dead mouse. I am sorry, but this is the only kind of love I have to offer: that of a companion for his dearest friend, not that of a husband for his wife.'

They were both silent for a little while. He could see she was deep in thought and readied himself for the barrage of questions he knew would follow. He wondered again about why he had come to love her, showing her the chinks in the armour, putting whatever rare softness he had at her mercy.

'Forgive me,' she said at last, her eyes distant, then focusing on him again. 'In the barge. It must have been a dreadful imposition. I did not know.'

'We have both been keeping secrets,' he said with equanimity.

'That we have.'

He rose from his chair. 'Finduilas—I am not sorry to have met you. And I do love you, in truth. I too had never fallen in love. I never expected, or wanted to. And perhaps I am a fool for this, but despite all, I am glad I came to love you.'

'Wait,' she said, getting up, a note of urgency to her voice. 'Where are you going?'

He stood up, steady and ramrod straight. 'Back to my chamber, if I can find a guide,' he said, a little sharp. He did not want her to see him bleed.

She drew closer to him. 'Without answering my question? I find that discourteous.'

He could see the tracery of veins under the skin of her wrists. 'Do not mock me,' he said.

'You truly are insufferably arrogant,' she said. 'And as stubborn as a whole regiment of mules. But so am I, which is why we suit. Do you think I would prize a bedmate more than I prize you?'

He looked at her. 'So you would have a husband who can give you neither pleasure nor children? Who can do no more than lie beside you like a brother?'

She drew closer again, her body nearly pressed against his. 'I do not deny that I want you in the flesh. I do not deny that this will be difficult, to reconcile my wants to your lack of wants. But all things have their measure of difficulty and so, yes, I would.'

He let her take his hand on hers, their fingers entwining, her face nearly touching his, her eyes liquid and still. This could not last, he knew, this place in which all was well and untroubled. There would be all manner of shoals ahead, all the storms of an uncertain fate. But now he, who was always cautious and careful of the future, could only see this moment, lasting forever, rolling ever forward into the dark fields of their country. Now there was only this bond between them, soft and steely. 'Then I shall marry you, Finduilas of Dol Amroth,' he said, placing his hand on her shoulder, her skin warm under his fingers. He gave her a rare smile, and kissed her gently on the corner of her mouth, feeling but not fearing the keen edge of her desire. 'But not yet.'

She laughed. 'I was hardly expecting you to marry me this instant,' she said, then shifted a little, serious again, placing her hand on his side. 'Stay,' she said. 'Stay here with me tonight.'

'And where shall I sleep?' He felt light-headed, as though he were drunk on fine wine.

She looked at him pointedly.

'I—' he started, then softened a little. 'I suppose I shall have to grow accustomed to sharing a bed.'

She let go off his hand and made to hold him in her harms, then stopped herself. 'May I do this? Touch you, I mean.' Her words were self-conscious and he both disliked the subtle wedge they were driving between the two of them and welcomed her regard for his peculiar wishes.

'You may,' he said, and they slipped slowly, carefully into each other's arms, as though doing it too fast would disturb some sleeping thing. She was nearly as tall as he and he leaned his face against her hair, taking in its smell. Feeling her heart beating against his chest, he knew this was not something he was enduring merely for her—for his wife's—sake, but that he, ever indifferent to the thought of anyone's touch, withdrawing from anything that wasn't done in greeting or politeness, was enjoying this himself. It was not because of the warmth of her body and the feel of her silky hair against the side of his face, but because it was her doing this. There was only her tranquil pleasure in their joint touch, her happy sigh as she lay her chin on his shoulder. It did not matter if he could take no great delight in the uncomplicated feel of flesh and skin alone; tasting the closeness of her delight and knowing he was the cause of it was enough.

'Are you growing tired?' he asked as she leaned her head against his neck. He could feel her eyelashes brushing against his skin as she shifted her face.

'Very,' she said. 'It has grown late, and I think we both need sleep.' She drew back, breaking the embrace then linking her arm with his. 'This way.'

There was a strangeness in his flesh as they stepped into her bedchamber, as though none of this was real, and what had transpired between hem was only a fever-dream that would dissipate in the morning. Or perhaps it was the other way around, and it was this place, the room with its canopy bed and the tell-tale signs of her presence strewn about—a lone shoe peering from under a chair, a book left open on a table, a bowl of petals, a half-set game board, a beetle in a jar—that was the real world, and they the only people in it, the world of politics and war and countries only a place of fog and echoes.

Ever fastidious, he asked her if there was somewhere where he could wash, and busied himself at her washstand while she padded to and fro around the room, locking the door, drawing the net curtains shut, taking off her shoes. When she walked back to him her hair was loose, falling down her back, dark and rich.

She took his hand in hers again, running her thumb over his knuckles, the tips of her fingers caressing his water-slick palm. He reached out to touch her face, lightly, like someone running his fingers over the edge of a crystal vase.

'Will you brush my hair when we are in bed?' she asked in a husky whisper. 'I always thought I would like to have someone do that until I fell asleep.'

'If you so desire it, then I will.'

Smiling, she edged him away to bed before she finished her nightly routine. He sat down on the embroidered quilt, silver thread gleaming white in the moonlight. The bed smelled the most like her, a mix of lilies and soap and rosewater and the sea. He took his boots off and stowed them neatly by the side of the bed, thinking all the while that in this too there was a touch of the unreal, in the comfortable sense of finality that surrounded him like a warm blanket, when by all rights he should be all at sea without a single chart to guide him.

She walked up to the bed in silence and settled at his side. He did not move as she took off his surcoat, neither helping nor hindering. In deference to his sensibilities, she placed the garment on the chair instead of letting it pool on the bed.

Her mind was more readable now, her barriers relaxed. She was holding up her end of their shared trust, bestowing on him the confidence of a revealed desire. Understanding what she wanted, he pulled her closer to him, drawing her in for a kiss. She held his face in her hands as she did it, her mouth tasting of spices and cider and mint. The idea of kissing had never made him recoil like the idea of intercourse did, though he had never found it particularly attractive. Now, for her sake, he welcomed her tongue into his mouth; when she was done he kissed back, thinking for some reason of the look of the winter sun on the streets of his city when they were touched by frost, hoping that Finduilas's soft moan meant that, whatever he was doing, he was doing halfway right.

She ended the kiss after a while, their lips sticking moistly to each other's for a second, then drawing apart. She moved to kiss his chin, his jaw, making her way down her throat, her mouth moving slow and hot over his skin. Unsure of what to do, he ran his hands over her bare shoulders, losing his fingers in her hair, caressing the nape of her neck. He almost drew back when she moved to untie the laces in his shirt, then stilled himself. She was undressing him, that was all. He could trust her, this woman who had inexplicably come to love him, who somehow wanted to spend the rest of her days with him. He helped her pull the shirt away, making himself unmoving for her gaze, for the touch of her hand down his arm, on the sensitive skin on the inside of his elbow; her fingers were tracing the map of his veins, moving in time with his heart. In the shadows, her shape was the pale shimmer of her dress and the sheen of her hair and the sparkle of her eyes.

'Can you undress me?' she asked, her hand descending to her wrist. His shirt was a white rumple on the bedspread, looking like a fallen moon.

'If you would guide me,' he said, and she took his hand and drew it up to her breasts and the satin knots between them. This, he knew how to work; he untied the ribbons with both hands, the dress coming loose from its moorings, slipping down to her waist. Despite the warm night, her nipples were hard, visible under her slip.

'I think it may be best if we do the rest ourselves,' he said, his mouth sandpapery, his hands back on his knees. Without a word, she shed her undergarments like a skin, letting her clothes fall at her feet in a heap. He took in the taut shape of her breasts, the curve of her hips. Yes, she was fair.

Put at a disadvantage, he undid the fastenings of his trousers as quickly as he could and slipped his clothes off in one go, trousers, undershorts, socks and all. Sitting up again, he resisted the urge to cover himself, to cringe in embarrassment. Let her look. Let his wife look. He went close to her mind again and it was the colour of summer dusk in Minas Tirith, the smell of southern breezes in the White City. She placed a hand on his leg, parting his knees a little.

'Where do you keep your brush?' he asked. She pulled her hand away, moving over to the other side of the bed, slipping in between the sheets. 'On the bedside table next to you,' she said, kicking away the quilt, pushing the sheet down to her waist.

He shifted on the bed, uncomfortably aware of his nakedness, the coverlet prickling his buttocks and thighs. The bedside table was a jumble of half-burnt candles, playing cards, small glass flasks. He rummaged a while before he found the brush and dove under the sheets with his prize. She moved closer to him, inviting him into her arms. In the heat of the Dol Amorth night, their skin was sticky with sweat.

Amidst the cool linen he welcomed her embrace, letting her press herself, tender and tired, against his body. There was nothing more to this, he understood, then the close companionship of sleeping bodies, her hand on the small of her back, their legs entwined, her mound against his lower belly. This he could enjoy, this unbroken quietness, the safety of their shared warmth. With his free hand, he started running the brush through her hair in slow, sure strokes. Her eyes were closed and she shifted a little, content like a purring cat, her hand moving up and down his back in a caress.

'We can stand against all things together, you know,' she said. 'Against all adversaries.'

'I know,' he said, and after a while he spoke again. 'I shall speak to your parents tomorrow about our troth.' He fell silent, stifling a yawn, relishing in the feel of her hair against his wrist.

'You and I. They will welcome it,' she said in a thread of voice. 'Tomorrow…'

She was asleep soon, or so close as to make no difference, holding him fiercely in her arms. Tomorrow, he thought to himself, and put the brush down, his face lying next to hers on the same pillow. Without realising, he closed his eyes and slipped into the secret of sleep.

000+

Disclaimer/Notes:
The section about "having Words" was directly inspired by a similar passage in Terry Pratchett's The Truth
you, I never expected — from Patricia McKillip's The Riddle-Master's Game
entering a zone of trust — paraphrased from the graphic novel Rapaces, by Jean Dufaux (words) and Enrico Marini (art)
the heart is an organ of fire — from Michael Ondaatje's The English Patient
even if all the hosts of Mordor stood in the way — I don't think I need to tell you where that comes from, do I?
I might — from Terry Pratchett's Mort (in fact the whole exchange owes a quite a bit to that whole passage in Mort: 'No one will ever know how sad this makes me.'/'I might.')
rolling ever forward into the dark fields of their country — paraphrased from The Great Gatsby
not yet—that's pretty much Adora Belle Dearheart's answer to a similar question in Terry Pratchett's Going Postal
Needless to say, none of the material I quoted belongs to me; it is being used for non-profit purposes only and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. If you find anything I forgot to reference, please contact me and I will add the footnote immediately.