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mithenTitle: Of Finduilas and Denethor
Chapter Summary: Of the wooing, wedding, lives and deaths of Denethor, son of the last Steward of Gondor, and Finduilas, Princess of Dol Amroth.
Relationship/Characters: Denethor/Finduilas
Fandom: Hobbit/Lord of the Rings.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3200
Summary: Excerpts from the Red Book of Westmarch, in which can be found the tales of various characters from Clarity of Purpose: their histories, their lives, and their passing.
In the days before The War of the Ring, and the great events of that time, Ecthelion son of Turgon was the Ruling Steward of Gondor, and Denethor was his only son. Denethor was serious of mein from his earliest days, weighted down with the desire to be a worthy son as a tree weighted down with a heavy snow. He grew to be a great warrior and a great scholar, but always his heart was cold and aloof, and he held himself apart from those who might have been his friends, seeing in them only allies or rivals. His sole desire was to please his father, and for many years he felt that he was succeeding, although his judgment of himself was forever harsher than any others' of him.
He took to himself no wife, for he had been betrothed to the Princess Ivriniel of Dol Amroth since her childhood, but they had met only once and there had been respect but no affection between them, so they had not hurried to wed. When Ivriniel died of a fever, it was assumed that he would wed her younger sister, Finduilas, but Denethor dedicated himself to war and to learning and said he had no desire to woo a child he had never met. And he had much to dedicate himself to, as in this time Sauron declared himself openly once more in Mordor, and bands of orcs and lawless men began to harry the borders of Gondor in force. Denethor was tireless in his defense of Gondor and his battles against the orcs, and the people of Minas Tirith would indeed have loved him, if he were the type of man to be easily loved.
When Denethor was thirty-three, there came a man from the West who asked to serve as a guard in Minas Tirith. He called himself Thorongil, and he claimed he had served King Thengel of Rohan before coming to Gondor and offering his services. Thorongil was keen of eye and wise in strategy, a leader of men, and soon he was captain of the guard and beloved by nearly all in Minas Tirith, and most especially beloved by the Lord Ecthelion. But if Denethor had been before like a tree weighted with snow, now he was as a tree with its branches bent nearly to breaking; for he saw his father's love of Thorongil as a lessening of love toward himself, and he grew yet more bitter and proud. In his secret heart he suspected that this Thorongil was none other than the lost Heir of Isildur, and this knowledge was a canker in his soul that turned him against the stranger, though in truth, Thorongil was never aught but respectful to Steward Ecthelion and his son.
Osgiliath, the former capital of Gondor, had fallen into ruins over which the forces of Gondor and Mordor clashed and struggled. In the year 2066, a great force from Mordor surged to retake Osgiliath, and the remains of that once-great city rang with the uncouth voices of orcs. Denethor devised a battle plan to rout their forces, and a brave band of Gondorian soldiers put it into action, and the orcs were driven out. It was the first major victory against Mordor, and the people of Minas Tirith were greatly heartened by this, and confidence grew high that Mordor could be defeated. But there was little joy in the victory for Denethor, for Thorongil had led the charge and gained for himself much renown, which Denethor took in his heart as a slight against himself. The sight of his father embracing the very warrior who meant to supplant him filled Denethor with desperate fear, all the worse because he knew in his heart it was a selfish and small one.
When his father summoned him shortly after and told him that he must fulfill his duties, seek out and betroth Princess Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Denethor could no longer say him nay. With a heavy heart, he garbed himself in his most glorious finery and traveled south to Dol Amroth, that castle on the sea-cliffs above which the white gulls always circle.
As his companions and retinue stabled their horses and prepared to enter the castle and meet the royal family, Denethor found himself suddenly sick at heart and unable to bear the walls around him. He slipped away and wandered along the cliffs of Dol Amroth, his thoughts in turmoil, and the sea-birds circled around him and looked at him curiously.
It was then he saw a figure clinging to the cliffs: a slight woman in green and brown, her dark hair bound loosely behind her, scrambling for a foothold. Without thinking, he swung down the dizzying cliffs to drag her back to safety.
Yet to his surprise, the maiden showed him no gratitude. "Villain!" she cried, stamping one booted foot, "You have startled the petrels, and caused me to lose my sketchbook as well!"
"A thousand apologies," he said, bowing low, "But you seemed to me in peril."
"All my work is lost," she stormed at him, unmollified, and he noticed her eyes were the dark gray of a tempest-torn sea.
"Forgive me," he said. "I am..." But he found the usual recitation of titles and rank held no allure for him in front of this slim brown maid, and he finished simply, "My name is Denethor."
It seemed to him she startled at his words, but then she smiled. "You may call me Faelivrin," she said.
A fluttering scrap of white, halfway down the cliff, caught his eye before he could respond. "Is that your sketchbook?" he asked, pointing.
At her nod, he scrambled down the cliff without preamble, ignoring her breathless protest as he scrabbled down along loose pebbles and jagged rocks, appearing once more at the top of the cliff breathless and muddy and clutching a book in his hand.
"I endeavoured to not disturb your petrels," he said as he handed it to her.
"Those are terns, not petrels," she retorted. But she took the sketchbook from him gently and added, "My thanks" as she opened it.
He had expected watercolor sketches of pretty birds, and was surprised to see instead highly detailed pencil drawings, cool and analytical, with careful labels placed next to them: pinion, crest, nape.
"What is the difference between a tern and a petrel?" he heard himself ask.
"Oh! It is the simplest thing in the world!" she cried, pulling a pencil from her pocket, and soon Denethor found himself being educated at length on the differences between different sea birds, accompanied by sketches: "Terns lay eggs with a blotched pattern like this, while petrels have smooth white shells. And that bird is a skua--you can tell because the middle two tailfeathers are elongated, like this." Denethor sat and watched her blunt, capable fingers coax birds into life in lines on paper, and the sun slid down the sky until she sighed and said it was too dark to draw anymore.
He helped her to her feet, her hands warm in his for a fleeting moment. "My thanks," he said.
"For getting your cloak torn and your boots covered with mud?" she asked, laughing at him.
"No, for--" But he did not know what exactly he thanked her for, unless it were that for a brief time he had merely enjoyed the spring sunlight, and the cool wind.
"Come back tomorrow," she said, "and I shall show you the puffins that nest on the cape."
"I...cannot," he said. "I have business in Dol Amroth."
"Tell them you are tired from your journey and need a day to recover," she said. "And come with me."
Faelivrin's eyes sparkled like light on waves, and he found himself promising to return.
Denethor made his excuses early in the morning, then slipped from his quarters dressed in his plainest clothing--still more gorgeous than he felt comfortable with--and made his way back to the cliffs, half-fearful that Faelivrin would not be there and he would be left alone and foolish.
But she was there, in trousers of homespun cloth, her dark hair carefully braided and twined in a crown around her head, carrying a small pack. When she saw him she ran to his side and caught his hand in hers. "This way," she said, and they walked hand in hand along the cliffs, the sharp tang of the sea and the raucous calling of the gulls all around them.
The puffins were ridiculous birds, roly-poly jesters, and Faelivrin laughed at their antics until her eyes filled with tears. She took notes on their diet and behavior, asking Denethor to help her count the chicks and drawing careful diagrams of wings and claws and distinctive beaks. As she sketched, they talked--about unimportant things, about food and music and whether one preferred to wake early or sleep late--and somehow the time passed until the sun was high in the sky and Denethor's stomach interrupted with an impressive growl.
Faelivrin laughed at his embarrassment. "I brought food," she said, opening her pack to reveal a crusty loaf of bread and a round of soft golden cheese. He spread his cloak out on the grassy sward at the top of the cliff and they sat on it and ate their fill. Faelivrin pointed out shapes in the clouds: birds and cats and flagons; Denethor saw a charging horse and a drawn sword and a falling tower. As he described the last one Faelivrin put her hand on his arm and rested it there, warm and comfortable, and he realized he was trembling. He fell silent, confused, and for a long time they sat with no sound but the sea-mews calling and the gentle surge of the sea.
Finally, she rose and dusted off her trousers briskly. He stood as well, and she bent to gather up his cloak and cast it around his shoulders once more.
"Thank you," he murmured. "For the food, and the company."
She paused and put her hands on his shoulders. "I have enjoyed it, Denethor," she said, and his name in her voice seemed suddenly beautiful.
"Faelivrin--" he said, and knew not what else to say.
Then she stood on her toes and kissed him, and his heart felt like a snow-weighted bough on which a bird alights and sends springing up toward the sun, unburdened.
For a time he simply let himself feel it, this strange new joy, and kissed her mouth and her hair and her eyes. And then he came to himself and said in a voice that seemed not his own, heavy and dull, "This cannot be, for my heart and my life are not my own to give, and I have deceived you. I am the son of the Steward of Gondor--" for the first time in his life, the words brought him no pride, no satisfaction, "--and I have come here to plight my troth to the Princess Finduilas." He looked at her and said, "I have duties and responsibilities, and I cannot abandon them, but I wish--" His voice broke then, "--I wish it were otherwise."
There were tears in her bright gray eyes, but she smiled at him. "I would change naught about you, Denethor of Gondor," she said. "We all have our duties and our responsibilities to fulfill, and sometimes that brings us sorrow that we can only bear with a brave heart." She kissed him again, lightly, and said, "Tell them now that you are ready to be betrothed, and go to meet your future bride with a joyous heart, and know that I will love you always."
He left her then and walked back alone to Dol Amroth, but there was no longer any joy in the calling of the gulls, and his heart felt shattered in his chest. He dressed himself in his finest robes and sent word that he had recovered and would delay meeting his betrothed no longer, and when he received word that the Princess Finduilas was ready to receive him, he went slowly to the throne room.
The hall was long, with four thrones at the far end: two large ones for the King and Queen, and two smaller ones for the Princess and her young brother the Prince and Heir. All were clad in robes of shining silk, silver and blue, but Denethor could not seem to raise his eyes to gaze upon the face of Finduilas, for all he could see before him were the sweet gray eyes of Faelivrin, lost forever, and hear her voice: We all have our duties and our responsibilities to fulfill, and sometimes that brings us sorrow that we can only bear with a brave heart.
He knelt before the throne and said in a clear voice that carried through the hall: "Greetings from Minas Tirith to Dol Amroth. I, Denethor, son of Ecthelion the Ruling Steward of Gondor, beg permission to take Princess Finduilas to be my wife and one day rule Gondor by my side."
"Do you agree to this, my daughter?" said the King of Dol Amroth.
"We all have our duties and responsibilities to fulfill," said Princess Finduilas, and Denethor gazed up in shock into gray eyes shining with laughter, "And sometimes that brings us joy unlooked-for and unforeseen."
And so Denethor and Finduilas were betrothed, though he always and ever called her Faelivrin, through all their days together. He returned to Minas Tirith to continue the fight against Mordor, but this new happiness brought him no ease of soul, but only made him more haughty and bitter against Thorongil, to veil the fears in his heart. Yet try as he might, he could no longer deny the right and the rightness of King Elessar to rule, and on the battlefield before the Black Gate of Mordor he pledged his fealty to the returned King and rallied the men of the West to his side, to fight against the forces of darkness.
When the battle was over and Aragorn openly hailed as King, with Arwen at his side, the son of the last Steward of Gondor returned to Dol Amroth and stood before its Princess. "My lady," he said formally, with an aching heart, "The man you pledged to marry was the future ruler of Gondor, but I will never rule that land, and its lord is to wed another. I therefore release you from your promise--"
But he never finished his sentence, for the Princess of Dol Amroth rose from her throne and ran to him, and threw her arms around him, and kissed him, saying, "You I will wed, and no other, and I would wed you were you a beggar wandering these lands forever."
And so they were wed that very month in Minas Tirith, for Finduilas insisted on returning with him to meet the new king and would wait no longer to become his bride. And all his friends were there, people who have passed into legend: Legolas and Gimli, the Rebuilders of Nurn; Dís Mithril-lock, slayer of the Witch-King; Théoden Horse-Lord of Rohan; Mithrandir the White with his companions Bachai and Pallando; and Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. King Elessar joined their hands together and blessed their union, and Queen Arwen stood by the bride's side, and all were happy and joyous.
King Aragorn would have given to Denethor and Findulas the rule of Osgiliath, of olden times the capital of Gondor, but Denethor asked instead for Pelargir, the old port of the Númenoreans at the mouth of the Anduin, recently retaken from the Corsairs. "For I find I wish to stay near the sea," Denethor said, looking at his bride, "Where we can hear the sea-birds always calling."
Pelargir flourished under their care, and they rebuilt its marble walls, though it took long years of labor. Often did Aragorn and Arwen sail down the Anduin to see them, and more often did Théoden come to spend time near the sea with them--at first with his bride, and then later in sadder times with his son and niece and nephew. And Denethor and Finduilas raised two sons there at the mouth of the Anduin where the gulls flew, and they played together among the ruins as children and grew to be great leaders of men. The elder, Boromir, was like his father, bold and proud, and his wooing and wedding of Princess Alaqai, second daughter of Queen Samur of the Easterlings, became a story of legend. But the younger, Faramir, was more quiet and given to reflection, and he wed Eowyn, beloved niece of Théoden of Rohan, whom he had known since childhood.
Denethor and Finduilas ruled long and wisely in Pelargir, and when, fifty years after the coronation of the King, the Corsairs mounted a new attack upon Pelargir, Denethor rode out once more to battle. Near ninety years of age he was then, but hale and strong, and he led his men into battle to save his home, and the day was won. But he died that day defending with his life Théodred son of Théoden from the blades of the Corsairs, and with his last words he sent his Faelivrin his love.
From that day Finduilas faded in grief, and the year was not gone before she too died. Their sons raised for them a simple monument of gray marble on the sea-cliffs, and carved on it two sea-birds in flight together. Above Finduilas they had written: "Here lies the fairest and finest of the flowers of Gondor." But above Denethor they had written as he asked, and this was: "Here lies Denethor, son of the last Steward of Gondor; friend of King Elessar and King Théoden; father of Boromir and Faramir; and husband of Finduilas." But the people of Gondor and Rohan mourned him deeply, and remembered him always as one of the greatest men of his age.
Chapter Summary: Of the wooing, wedding, lives and deaths of Denethor, son of the last Steward of Gondor, and Finduilas, Princess of Dol Amroth.
Relationship/Characters: Denethor/Finduilas
Fandom: Hobbit/Lord of the Rings.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3200
Summary: Excerpts from the Red Book of Westmarch, in which can be found the tales of various characters from Clarity of Purpose: their histories, their lives, and their passing.
In the days before The War of the Ring, and the great events of that time, Ecthelion son of Turgon was the Ruling Steward of Gondor, and Denethor was his only son. Denethor was serious of mein from his earliest days, weighted down with the desire to be a worthy son as a tree weighted down with a heavy snow. He grew to be a great warrior and a great scholar, but always his heart was cold and aloof, and he held himself apart from those who might have been his friends, seeing in them only allies or rivals. His sole desire was to please his father, and for many years he felt that he was succeeding, although his judgment of himself was forever harsher than any others' of him.
He took to himself no wife, for he had been betrothed to the Princess Ivriniel of Dol Amroth since her childhood, but they had met only once and there had been respect but no affection between them, so they had not hurried to wed. When Ivriniel died of a fever, it was assumed that he would wed her younger sister, Finduilas, but Denethor dedicated himself to war and to learning and said he had no desire to woo a child he had never met. And he had much to dedicate himself to, as in this time Sauron declared himself openly once more in Mordor, and bands of orcs and lawless men began to harry the borders of Gondor in force. Denethor was tireless in his defense of Gondor and his battles against the orcs, and the people of Minas Tirith would indeed have loved him, if he were the type of man to be easily loved.
When Denethor was thirty-three, there came a man from the West who asked to serve as a guard in Minas Tirith. He called himself Thorongil, and he claimed he had served King Thengel of Rohan before coming to Gondor and offering his services. Thorongil was keen of eye and wise in strategy, a leader of men, and soon he was captain of the guard and beloved by nearly all in Minas Tirith, and most especially beloved by the Lord Ecthelion. But if Denethor had been before like a tree weighted with snow, now he was as a tree with its branches bent nearly to breaking; for he saw his father's love of Thorongil as a lessening of love toward himself, and he grew yet more bitter and proud. In his secret heart he suspected that this Thorongil was none other than the lost Heir of Isildur, and this knowledge was a canker in his soul that turned him against the stranger, though in truth, Thorongil was never aught but respectful to Steward Ecthelion and his son.
Osgiliath, the former capital of Gondor, had fallen into ruins over which the forces of Gondor and Mordor clashed and struggled. In the year 2066, a great force from Mordor surged to retake Osgiliath, and the remains of that once-great city rang with the uncouth voices of orcs. Denethor devised a battle plan to rout their forces, and a brave band of Gondorian soldiers put it into action, and the orcs were driven out. It was the first major victory against Mordor, and the people of Minas Tirith were greatly heartened by this, and confidence grew high that Mordor could be defeated. But there was little joy in the victory for Denethor, for Thorongil had led the charge and gained for himself much renown, which Denethor took in his heart as a slight against himself. The sight of his father embracing the very warrior who meant to supplant him filled Denethor with desperate fear, all the worse because he knew in his heart it was a selfish and small one.
When his father summoned him shortly after and told him that he must fulfill his duties, seek out and betroth Princess Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Denethor could no longer say him nay. With a heavy heart, he garbed himself in his most glorious finery and traveled south to Dol Amroth, that castle on the sea-cliffs above which the white gulls always circle.
As his companions and retinue stabled their horses and prepared to enter the castle and meet the royal family, Denethor found himself suddenly sick at heart and unable to bear the walls around him. He slipped away and wandered along the cliffs of Dol Amroth, his thoughts in turmoil, and the sea-birds circled around him and looked at him curiously.
It was then he saw a figure clinging to the cliffs: a slight woman in green and brown, her dark hair bound loosely behind her, scrambling for a foothold. Without thinking, he swung down the dizzying cliffs to drag her back to safety.
Yet to his surprise, the maiden showed him no gratitude. "Villain!" she cried, stamping one booted foot, "You have startled the petrels, and caused me to lose my sketchbook as well!"
"A thousand apologies," he said, bowing low, "But you seemed to me in peril."
"All my work is lost," she stormed at him, unmollified, and he noticed her eyes were the dark gray of a tempest-torn sea.
"Forgive me," he said. "I am..." But he found the usual recitation of titles and rank held no allure for him in front of this slim brown maid, and he finished simply, "My name is Denethor."
It seemed to him she startled at his words, but then she smiled. "You may call me Faelivrin," she said.
A fluttering scrap of white, halfway down the cliff, caught his eye before he could respond. "Is that your sketchbook?" he asked, pointing.
At her nod, he scrambled down the cliff without preamble, ignoring her breathless protest as he scrabbled down along loose pebbles and jagged rocks, appearing once more at the top of the cliff breathless and muddy and clutching a book in his hand.
"I endeavoured to not disturb your petrels," he said as he handed it to her.
"Those are terns, not petrels," she retorted. But she took the sketchbook from him gently and added, "My thanks" as she opened it.
He had expected watercolor sketches of pretty birds, and was surprised to see instead highly detailed pencil drawings, cool and analytical, with careful labels placed next to them: pinion, crest, nape.
"What is the difference between a tern and a petrel?" he heard himself ask.
"Oh! It is the simplest thing in the world!" she cried, pulling a pencil from her pocket, and soon Denethor found himself being educated at length on the differences between different sea birds, accompanied by sketches: "Terns lay eggs with a blotched pattern like this, while petrels have smooth white shells. And that bird is a skua--you can tell because the middle two tailfeathers are elongated, like this." Denethor sat and watched her blunt, capable fingers coax birds into life in lines on paper, and the sun slid down the sky until she sighed and said it was too dark to draw anymore.
He helped her to her feet, her hands warm in his for a fleeting moment. "My thanks," he said.
"For getting your cloak torn and your boots covered with mud?" she asked, laughing at him.
"No, for--" But he did not know what exactly he thanked her for, unless it were that for a brief time he had merely enjoyed the spring sunlight, and the cool wind.
"Come back tomorrow," she said, "and I shall show you the puffins that nest on the cape."
"I...cannot," he said. "I have business in Dol Amroth."
"Tell them you are tired from your journey and need a day to recover," she said. "And come with me."
Faelivrin's eyes sparkled like light on waves, and he found himself promising to return.
Denethor made his excuses early in the morning, then slipped from his quarters dressed in his plainest clothing--still more gorgeous than he felt comfortable with--and made his way back to the cliffs, half-fearful that Faelivrin would not be there and he would be left alone and foolish.
But she was there, in trousers of homespun cloth, her dark hair carefully braided and twined in a crown around her head, carrying a small pack. When she saw him she ran to his side and caught his hand in hers. "This way," she said, and they walked hand in hand along the cliffs, the sharp tang of the sea and the raucous calling of the gulls all around them.
The puffins were ridiculous birds, roly-poly jesters, and Faelivrin laughed at their antics until her eyes filled with tears. She took notes on their diet and behavior, asking Denethor to help her count the chicks and drawing careful diagrams of wings and claws and distinctive beaks. As she sketched, they talked--about unimportant things, about food and music and whether one preferred to wake early or sleep late--and somehow the time passed until the sun was high in the sky and Denethor's stomach interrupted with an impressive growl.
Faelivrin laughed at his embarrassment. "I brought food," she said, opening her pack to reveal a crusty loaf of bread and a round of soft golden cheese. He spread his cloak out on the grassy sward at the top of the cliff and they sat on it and ate their fill. Faelivrin pointed out shapes in the clouds: birds and cats and flagons; Denethor saw a charging horse and a drawn sword and a falling tower. As he described the last one Faelivrin put her hand on his arm and rested it there, warm and comfortable, and he realized he was trembling. He fell silent, confused, and for a long time they sat with no sound but the sea-mews calling and the gentle surge of the sea.
Finally, she rose and dusted off her trousers briskly. He stood as well, and she bent to gather up his cloak and cast it around his shoulders once more.
"Thank you," he murmured. "For the food, and the company."
She paused and put her hands on his shoulders. "I have enjoyed it, Denethor," she said, and his name in her voice seemed suddenly beautiful.
"Faelivrin--" he said, and knew not what else to say.
Then she stood on her toes and kissed him, and his heart felt like a snow-weighted bough on which a bird alights and sends springing up toward the sun, unburdened.
For a time he simply let himself feel it, this strange new joy, and kissed her mouth and her hair and her eyes. And then he came to himself and said in a voice that seemed not his own, heavy and dull, "This cannot be, for my heart and my life are not my own to give, and I have deceived you. I am the son of the Steward of Gondor--" for the first time in his life, the words brought him no pride, no satisfaction, "--and I have come here to plight my troth to the Princess Finduilas." He looked at her and said, "I have duties and responsibilities, and I cannot abandon them, but I wish--" His voice broke then, "--I wish it were otherwise."
There were tears in her bright gray eyes, but she smiled at him. "I would change naught about you, Denethor of Gondor," she said. "We all have our duties and our responsibilities to fulfill, and sometimes that brings us sorrow that we can only bear with a brave heart." She kissed him again, lightly, and said, "Tell them now that you are ready to be betrothed, and go to meet your future bride with a joyous heart, and know that I will love you always."
He left her then and walked back alone to Dol Amroth, but there was no longer any joy in the calling of the gulls, and his heart felt shattered in his chest. He dressed himself in his finest robes and sent word that he had recovered and would delay meeting his betrothed no longer, and when he received word that the Princess Finduilas was ready to receive him, he went slowly to the throne room.
The hall was long, with four thrones at the far end: two large ones for the King and Queen, and two smaller ones for the Princess and her young brother the Prince and Heir. All were clad in robes of shining silk, silver and blue, but Denethor could not seem to raise his eyes to gaze upon the face of Finduilas, for all he could see before him were the sweet gray eyes of Faelivrin, lost forever, and hear her voice: We all have our duties and our responsibilities to fulfill, and sometimes that brings us sorrow that we can only bear with a brave heart.
He knelt before the throne and said in a clear voice that carried through the hall: "Greetings from Minas Tirith to Dol Amroth. I, Denethor, son of Ecthelion the Ruling Steward of Gondor, beg permission to take Princess Finduilas to be my wife and one day rule Gondor by my side."
"Do you agree to this, my daughter?" said the King of Dol Amroth.
"We all have our duties and responsibilities to fulfill," said Princess Finduilas, and Denethor gazed up in shock into gray eyes shining with laughter, "And sometimes that brings us joy unlooked-for and unforeseen."
And so Denethor and Finduilas were betrothed, though he always and ever called her Faelivrin, through all their days together. He returned to Minas Tirith to continue the fight against Mordor, but this new happiness brought him no ease of soul, but only made him more haughty and bitter against Thorongil, to veil the fears in his heart. Yet try as he might, he could no longer deny the right and the rightness of King Elessar to rule, and on the battlefield before the Black Gate of Mordor he pledged his fealty to the returned King and rallied the men of the West to his side, to fight against the forces of darkness.
When the battle was over and Aragorn openly hailed as King, with Arwen at his side, the son of the last Steward of Gondor returned to Dol Amroth and stood before its Princess. "My lady," he said formally, with an aching heart, "The man you pledged to marry was the future ruler of Gondor, but I will never rule that land, and its lord is to wed another. I therefore release you from your promise--"
But he never finished his sentence, for the Princess of Dol Amroth rose from her throne and ran to him, and threw her arms around him, and kissed him, saying, "You I will wed, and no other, and I would wed you were you a beggar wandering these lands forever."
And so they were wed that very month in Minas Tirith, for Finduilas insisted on returning with him to meet the new king and would wait no longer to become his bride. And all his friends were there, people who have passed into legend: Legolas and Gimli, the Rebuilders of Nurn; Dís Mithril-lock, slayer of the Witch-King; Théoden Horse-Lord of Rohan; Mithrandir the White with his companions Bachai and Pallando; and Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. King Elessar joined their hands together and blessed their union, and Queen Arwen stood by the bride's side, and all were happy and joyous.
King Aragorn would have given to Denethor and Findulas the rule of Osgiliath, of olden times the capital of Gondor, but Denethor asked instead for Pelargir, the old port of the Númenoreans at the mouth of the Anduin, recently retaken from the Corsairs. "For I find I wish to stay near the sea," Denethor said, looking at his bride, "Where we can hear the sea-birds always calling."
Pelargir flourished under their care, and they rebuilt its marble walls, though it took long years of labor. Often did Aragorn and Arwen sail down the Anduin to see them, and more often did Théoden come to spend time near the sea with them--at first with his bride, and then later in sadder times with his son and niece and nephew. And Denethor and Finduilas raised two sons there at the mouth of the Anduin where the gulls flew, and they played together among the ruins as children and grew to be great leaders of men. The elder, Boromir, was like his father, bold and proud, and his wooing and wedding of Princess Alaqai, second daughter of Queen Samur of the Easterlings, became a story of legend. But the younger, Faramir, was more quiet and given to reflection, and he wed Eowyn, beloved niece of Théoden of Rohan, whom he had known since childhood.
Denethor and Finduilas ruled long and wisely in Pelargir, and when, fifty years after the coronation of the King, the Corsairs mounted a new attack upon Pelargir, Denethor rode out once more to battle. Near ninety years of age he was then, but hale and strong, and he led his men into battle to save his home, and the day was won. But he died that day defending with his life Théodred son of Théoden from the blades of the Corsairs, and with his last words he sent his Faelivrin his love.
From that day Finduilas faded in grief, and the year was not gone before she too died. Their sons raised for them a simple monument of gray marble on the sea-cliffs, and carved on it two sea-birds in flight together. Above Finduilas they had written: "Here lies the fairest and finest of the flowers of Gondor." But above Denethor they had written as he asked, and this was: "Here lies Denethor, son of the last Steward of Gondor; friend of King Elessar and King Théoden; father of Boromir and Faramir; and husband of Finduilas." But the people of Gondor and Rohan mourned him deeply, and remembered him always as one of the greatest men of his age.