Sea-Flower

by Soledad

Author’s notes: Denethor married Finduilas in 2876 T.A, about eight years after the discussion in this chapter.

Ullubôz is the supposed Valarin form of the name Ulmo. I used it here because it is closer to the hypothetical Adûnaic version than the Quenya form – at least visually. Ošošai is, of course, Valarin for Ossë, ad is used for the same reason.

Chapter 03 – A Princess Scorned

Having left the King’s House, the minstrel Belzagar headed to the nearby Merchant District, where he enjoyed the hospitality of Master Falassion, a rich silk merchant with Umbari roots, for the time of his stay in Pelargir.

That Master Falassion happened to be a maternal uncle of Lady Avradî, Second Consul Manwendil’s wife, was a fact largely unknown in Pelargir. That he also happened to be the focus and centre of the Umbari network of spies operating in Pelargir was, at the very least, suspected by Lord Lorindol’s own spymaster, but there could never be found any proof. His occupation as a merchant of luxury items – he also dealt in rare spices and oils – covered a great deal of activities; and it enabled him to travel across Gondor, from fair to fair, as long as he did not openly break any Gondorian laws.

His townhouse, built in southern fashion around a central garden, showed clearly his wealth and importance. But while it seemed not to differ that much from the other rich merchant houses on the outside, within it was a small fortress, with an impressive number of armed guards, fortifications along the outer walls and secret escape tunnels in the basement that led directly to the harbour, to the great Roofed Market of the town and to his warehouses along the riverside, respectively.

The Master of this fine house was waiting for the return of the minstrel with the patience of a spider sitting in the centre of its web. Not alone, though. He was accompanied by Captain Atanalcar. The admiral of the Umbari fleet was wearing the typical floor-length, widely cut, colourful woollen kafthan of a Haradri merchant that could hide a great many things beneath its heavy folds. In this case, a mail shirt and numerous weapons. The wide hood of the kafthan was tossed back, as there was no need to hide his face in the house of a trusted ally. Underneath, he wore his long, ink-black hair down, instead of the usual barbaric pomp, topped with a masterfully wrapped white turban.

Master Falassion himself was clad in the usual fashion of Pelargir: in a sleeveless blue surcoat over a teal tunic that had reached to mid-calf and was embroidered with a wavy pattern in silver and green. He was a tall man of old Dúnadan stock, more than thrice the Umbari admiral’s age and grown a bit heavy under the weight of his years, but his eyes were still sharp and his wits still keen. Married from his own circles, yet childless like too many Umbari nobles, he saw it as his last important task to help First Consul Herucalmo’s wedding plans for his son and heir to success.

When the minstrel was led in, both men turned to him expectantly. He had been sent to sing on the feast with express orders to gather information, after all.

“Well?” asked Master Falassion. “Have you seen the princesses?”

The minstrel nodded. “Yes, my lord, they both attended. Princess Finduilas, the younger one, even remained with her father, the Steward and the Ciryatur when her mother and sister retired, or so the servants say. ‘Tis said that she has a keen interest in the affairs of the Realm.”

“That sounds promising,” said Master Falassion. “Tis thought that the Steward and the Prince of Dol Amroth intend to re-forge their alliance by marrying their children to each other; that is why their current meeting was called for. In which case we can assume that the Steward’s Heir will wed Adrahil’s firstborn.”

“That might be the plan,” agreed the minstrel, “but Lord Denethor seemed to be more taken with Princess Finduilas, if the signs at the feast have not deceived me; and he does not strike me as a man who would rethink his choice in such matters.”

“I doubt that you would be mistaken,” said the merchant. “You were sent to the feast because of your excellent judgement of people’s heart; if you say Denethor has taken an interest in the younger princess, then it would be so.”

“Why would we care anyway?” asked Captain Atanalcar with a shrug. “Either princess would do for young Lord Caliondo.”

“True,” allowed Master Falassion. “But if we make the mistake of taking the chosen bride of the Steward’s Heir, we shall have more than just the enraged father to deal with. Nay; we shall wait until Denethor makes his choice and make our move accordingly.”

“That could take a long time,” protested Captain Atanalcar. “I cannot be away from the Fleet indeterminedly.”

“You shall not have,” replied the merchant. “The Steward cannot do so, either. Nay; we shall have our answer before the end of the week, of that I am certain. Until then, we must work out the details of our plan.”

Atanalcar thought about that for a moment; then he nodded tersely.

“Very well. I can wait another two days. After that, we must make our move, whether it is convenient or not.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Less than a day later, the mightiest men and women of Gondor were having a similar discussion in the King’s House.

“This is a plan towards which Prince Angelimir and I have worked for years,” said the Steward with emphasis. “The blood of Westernesse has been diluted in the South; and as we know very little about our northern brethren, connections to what was once Arnor being sparse as they are, the best we can do is to unite our two bloodlines in marriage. We cannot look any higher for a suitable bride for my heir than the House of Dol Amroth. Not even Eorl’s House would suffice. Thengel’s daughters may have the blood of Morwen of Lossarnach in their veins, but they are not of royal stock from their mother’s side”

“And even if they were, people would still see them as the daughters of a barbaric Northman,” added the Lady Eledhwen grimly. “Nay; Denethor needs a bride whose ancestry rivals that of his own. ‘Til the return of the King, ‘tis the House of Húrin that must hold up the standard in everything.”

Prince Adrahil nodded in agreement. “My father discussed this with us in great length, and we concur. I must admit that the age difference worried me at first; but ‘tis said that the blood of Númenor runs true and deep in Lord Denethor. Therefore he and Ivriniel can hope for many long and fertile years together.”

Everyone looked expectantly at the Steward’s heir. There was little doubt that he would give his consent. Denethor son of Ecthelion was a man in his prime, known for his wisdom and devoted to the good of Gondor. Nor did this suggestion come unexpected for him, having served as his father’s chief counsellor for a decade or more already.

Thus they were all shocked when they saw him shake his head determinedly.

“I regret to crush your hopes, Father, my Lord Prince,” he said in his deep, beautiful voice, “but I shall not wed Princess Ivriniel. Not now, not later – not ever.”

The mightiest lords and ladies of the South-kingdom stared at him thunderstruck, shaken to the bone. Ere they could start protesting, though, he raised a long, elegant hand, signalling that he had something else to say yet.

“However, as I am aware of the importance of such a bond between our two lines, I will gladly take Princess Finduilas as my wife,” he continued. “For she is the one who touched my heart on the very day when she was first presented to the court; and I have loved and admired her from afar ever since.”

“Impossible!” cried Lady Olwen of Dol Amroth in great distress. “Finduilas is barely more than a child; she is not ready for married life yet!”

“Then I shall wait until she is ready,” answered Denethor simply. “I have the time and the patience. But it shall be her or no-one else.”

“’Tis madness!” murmured Lady Olwen, but Prince Adrahil disagreed.

“Why would it be? Remember, beloved, we were not much older when we bound than Finduilas is now; and between her and Ivriniel there are only three years. They would both be child brides, if that is what concerns you; and the age difference would be considerable in any case.”

“True; but Ivriniel has the strength to support the future Steward in ruling the Realm,” said Lady Olwen.

“And you believe Finduilas has not?” asked the Lady Faelivrin in surprise. “Forgive me, but I think you are mistaken. She has shown keen enough interest for the affairs of the Realm just last night; and her gentleness would complement my brother’s stern nature most pleasantly. She might not have Ivriniel’s iron will and whipcord strength; but I believe she can wear out anyone, with the same deceiving mildness as the water washes out the stone.”

Lady Olwen turned to her husband in helpless despair. “Adrahil, you cannot be truly considering this! She is our baby girl, our little mermaid; she would waste away in that city of stone!”

Prince Adrahil sighed. “Beloved, you know as well as I do that we need this alliance. Both our Houses need it; Gondor needs it! And if Lord Denethor as lost his heart to one of our daughters, would that not be better for both of them than spending fifty or more years in a loveless marriage, just for the good of Gondor?”

Lady Olwen shook her head. “But she is young, much too young! She has just reached the age when a maiden of her status begins to learn her place in the world. She is not like Ivriniel who always had it so urgent to grow up.”

“Which is why we shall not have this wedding for years to come yet,” said Prince Adrahil. “Lord Denethor agreed to wait ‘til our little one is ready to shoulder the burden of becoming the Steward’s wife.”

“How can you be certain that she ever will?” demanded Lady Olwen. “Why would she want to do so? ‘Twas always understood that Ivriniel would be the one to enter a dynastic marriage if needs must be. She has been prepared to do so all her life. Finduilas has not.”

“Are you certain about that, my lady?” asked the Steward. “The young princess appeared to me last night as someone who is willing and able to fill such an important role in the White City. Why do we not ask her if that is what she truly wants?”

“You want to blind her with the false glory of power and courtly life!” answered Lady Olwen bitterly. “She is young; she can easily be misled by such things.”

“Nay, I do not think so,” said Lady Eledhwen. “Methinks you do not know your daughter half as well as you believe, Olwen. She is not the guileless child or the fragile glower you seem to want her to be; she has strength and she has wisdom rarely seen in someone this young. I agree that she would need time to prepare herself for such a heavy burden; but I firmly believe that her shoulders will prove strong enough to bear it.”

“My father is right,” said Lady Faelivrin. “We should ask the princess herself. ‘Til she says either aye or nay, this argument is pointless.”

Ecthelion nodded. “With Prince Adrahil’s consent, I believe we should do it right away.”

“That would be the best,” Adrahil agreed, and a page was called in and sent on his way to fetch the younger princess.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A short time later the page returned, accompanied by both princesses, who were wearing identical raiment: pale blue bliauts over soft grey undergowns. Finduilas had her hair braided and coiled and held together by a silver net, while Ivriniel’s was flowing down her back freely, bound only by a thing gold circlet that bound her high brow.

There was very little actual likeness between the two of them, save for their regal bearing, but one could feel how fiercely protective Ivriniel was towards her younger sister. Protective enough to accompany her before the Steward’s presence, even though she had not been invited herself.

They both curtseyed before the Steward as nobly born ladies were taught from a tender age on, and then Finduilas said simply:

“You called for my, my Lord Steward.”

Ecthelion nodded. “Yea, I have, daughter. I assume you both know of the reason for our meeting here; in Pelargir, I mean.”

“Indeed we do, my Lord Steward,” said the younger princess, a little surprised. “For three years, negotiations between you and our grandfather have been going on, to have my sister and your heir wedded, for the good of Gondor and Dol Amroth. ‘Tis no secret. But what do I have to do with that?”

“More than you might believe,” replied her father in the Steward’s stead. “It seems that there will have to be a change in our plans. Lord Denethor has just announced that he does not want to wed Ivriniel, after all. He wants you as his future bride.”

To say that the princesses were shocked beyond belief by that would have been the understatement of the Age. Both became stark white, and for a moment it seemed as if they would both faint. However, while Finduilas was clearly frightened by the news, all Ivriniel’s beautiful face mirrored was cold fury.

When the moment of shock passed, she whirled around and glared at Denethor with a look that could have frozen Mount Doom over.

“You miserable spawn of a fatherless Orc,” she hissed, and everyone was startled by the venom in her voice; not to mention by the choice of her words that no-one would have expected from a gently bred lady, even less so from a princess. “How do you dare to take from me the only purpose I had left?”

“Ivriniel!” her mother cried out, scandalised. “Watch your words!”

Ivriniel ignored her, turning the full onslaught of her wrath against the Steward’s heir who, frankly, looked a little pale himself.

“Eighteen years,” she said in a cold, measure voice that was more frightening than if she had been screaming. “Eighteen years have I spent preparing to become the Ruling Princess of Dol Amroth. We still live under Númenóren law, I was told over and over again, which supposedly meant that the firstborn child would follow my father, whether a son or a daughter. I accepted my role and I was ready. Oh, I was more than ready. Then it seemed that my brother would live after all, and Father and Grandfather could not back off quickly enough. We have to adapt to the laws of Gondor, I was told all of a sudden, and ere I knew what was happening, a ten-year-old boy was named as Grandfather’s heir. Your studies shall not be wasted, they told me. They would be a great advantage if – when! – you married the Steward’s heir. You shall be a great help and support for him. And now I am being cast away like some useless tool just because he fell for the pretty eyes of my sister? How is that fair towards me?”

Said pretty eyes, dark like their mother’s, were rapidly filling with tears of distress.

“Sister, I never wished to take your place,” protested Finduilas. Ivriniel kissed her on the brow.

“I know, little one. ‘Tis not your fault, and I blame you not. You are just a piece in this board game like I am. But I do blame you, Father,” she turned to Prince Adrahil, her voice becoming icy again, “for using me and discarding me without a thought when my usefulness for your plans have ended. What am I supposed to do with my life, now that I no longer have any use for Dol Amroth? Do you expect me to shut myself away into the topmost chamber of some remote tower in the Castle and do embroidery until I grow blind from it? Am I a princess of Imrazôr’s House or am I a serving wench?”

She turned to Lady Olwen, without giving her father the chance to give an answer… not that he seemed to have one.

“And you, Mother, you are just sitting there, watching as I am stripped from the purpose of my life again? I have expected better from you.”

“I have tried, Ivriniel,” answered Lady Olwen dejectedly. “Believe me, I have tried. But they were all against me, and I got outvoted.”

“Of course,” said Ivriniel bitterly. “After all, I am but a woman. My purpose is to serve the needs of the men; and once I am no longer needed, I must quietly vanish in the shadows, so that I would not become a nuisance.”

She balled her fists, fighting back her fury with all her might. ‘Twas a truly frightening sight.

“If I were a man, I would break your nose,” she then said to Denethor. “Be grateful that I am but a woman who has no other choice than to accept your despicable acts. But if I were you, I would avoid me like the plague for the rest of our lives. I do not take betrayal kindly.”

“Ivriniel,” Prince Adrahil intervened sternly. “You forget whom you are talking to.”

“Nay, Father, I do not,” returned Ivriniel coldly. “I remember all too well who it was who betrayed me, not only once but twice. That would be you, would it not? You and Grandfather have robbed me of my birthright in favour of Imrahil; and now you are more than willing to discard me on my sister’s behalf. I might have forgiven you for the first betrayal in time, though truly, how does it make you any different from King Ar-Pharazôn who broke the hereditary laws of Númenor, so that he could become King. But I shall never, ever forgive you for your second betrayal. For it has made my entire life meaningless.”

“Ivriniel,” her mother tried to soothe her. “’Twas not your father’s decision. Lord Denethor would not have any-one but Finduilas. And this alliance is needed, on both sides.”

“So why is he entitled to get what – or whom – he desires, why I get thrown onto the dung heap?” demanded Ivriniel. “Because he is a man? Because Gondor has lowered itself to the customs of the lesser people that give men the right to have everything they want and expect women to serve their whims? Where is the difference, then, between the oh-so enlightened ways of Westernesse and the darkness in which the Old Folk has lived since the dawn of Time?”

“That is quite enough now, Ivriniel,” her father intervened again. “You have said your piece; that should suffice. I understand that you are disappointed, but…”

“Nay, you do not understand a thing,” she interrupted. “You have no idea how I feel. You believe I am insulted, just because a man chose my sister over me? You could not be more wrong. I never had any interest in his person. I accepted the necessity of wedding him, so that I can do what I was born and raised for; because as a woman, I had no other way to that purpose. You, Father, ensured that when you made Imrahil your heir. You took me everything I have lived for, and now you are allowing my only other chance to be taken away. What kind of father are you? I am no longer your daughter; and I shall never speak with you again.”

She whirled around and stormed out of the Lesser Hall, without as much as a backward glance at the gathered nobility. Steward Ecthelion looked after her in concern; then at his heir with mild accusation.

“I hope you know what you are doing, ion nîn. For this is not good, and it could lead to great trouble yet.”

“If that is so, I regret it,” answered Denethor simply. “But I shall not take any other woman to my wife than Princess Finduilas. Even if the Lady of the Golden Wood came and offered me the hand of her daughter, I would refuse,” he glanced at Finduilas briefly. “Understand this, Princess: if you refuse me on your sister’s behalf, which I hope you will not, I would still not wed her.”

“Oh, I do understand that; I am no fool,” replied Finduilas coldly. “I am just not certain that I would want to bind myself to a man who treated my sister so cruelly.”

“For the good of Gondor, I beg you to reconsider, daughter,” said the Steward quietly.

Finduilas looked at him archly, one fine eyebrow rising askance.

“So, both my sister and I are supposed to give up whatever we wanted from our life for the good of the Realm, but the same sacrifice is not expected from Lord Denethor? That hardly sounds fair, my Lord Steward. ‘Tis something I shall have to think about long and hard; for I for myself never intended to leave the shores of the Sea.”

“Then think about it,” said the Steward, “but we shall need an answer, soon. The people of Gondor need the reassurance that the House of Húrin shall continue. We are all they have – until the King may return.”

“I regret that I shall have to make the good people of Gondor wait a little longer,” replied Finduilas icily, “yet that cannot be helped. ‘Tis not something I can decide at a whim; unlike my sister, I have not prepared myself for such a burden all my life. Therefore, you shall have to be patient, my Lord Steward… or find another bride for your heir if you are in such a hurry to finally see him wedded and bedded.”

Her sharp words shocked the great lords and ladies of the Realm, even more so than the bitter accusations of her sister. At least from Ivriniel, the Prince of Dol Amroth and his lady were used to such merciless remarks; the older princess was taught to deal with recalcitrant nobles if needs must be. This coming from their sweet, mild-mannered younger daughter surprised them, though, and shook them to the bone. No-one would have expected Finduilas to side with her strong-willed sister in such a debate.

She did not wait for her parents – or anyone else present – to recover from their shock, either. Instead, she curtseyed before the Steward with icy politeness and left, without as much as a glance backward.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Interesting,” commented Master Falassion a few hours later, when the report of his spies planted in the King’s House reached him in his own home. “Most interesting indeed. I have not expected any hindrances in the way of this marriage. It seemed that everything had been arranged years ago.”

“Clearly, no-one had expected the Steward’s heir to fall for the wrong princess,” replied his wife. She, too, came from an ancient Adûnai family that hailed from Umbar but had moved to Pelargir several generations earlier, and she, too, had a keen interest in the matters of the Realm.

“True, but how does this help us?” asked Captain Atanalcar doubtfully.

Master Falassion shrugged.

“At least we know which princess to take. Young Lord Caliondo loves a good challenge; and persuading Princess Ivriniel to become his wife will be a challenge. Perchance the greatest challenge of his life.”

“Mayhap so,” his wife allowed. “But mayhap it will be easier than any of us would believe. Surely, she will be enraged about being taken to Umbar against her will. But by becoming the lady of the First Consul’s heir, she will get the chance to rule, for which she was bred and has been prepared all her life. I wish we had more time; in her current mood, she might even come out of her own free will.”

“Alas, time is something we sorely lack at the moment,” said Captain Atanalcar. “We must make our move within two days, so that I can take the princess to Umbar on my ship. ‘Tis the fastest of all; the fleet of Pelargir has nothing that could catch up with her.”

“What about the ship of Dol Amroth?” asked Master Falassion in concern. “’Tis said that their swanships are Elven-made…”

“That might be so, but the one Prince Adrahil came with is a small one, not built for fighting,’ said Atanalcar. “Nay; once the princess is aboard, we are in the better position. The only question is, where and when can we grab her unnoticed. For if the Ciryatur gives the order to close the harbour, we’d have a hard time to break through the blockade. The ships of the Royal Fleet are manned by doughty warriors.”

“There may be a way,” said the mistress of the house. “’Tis an old custom of the House of Dol Amroth to pay the Well of Ullubôz a visit, whenever they come to Pelargir.”

“That would help us… how exactly?” asked Captain Atanalcar. “That is the most sacred place in Pelargir; they say the Power present there is seconded only by another place high above the White City. My forefathers might have been what the Gondorians call the Black Númenóreans, but not even I am foolish enough to raise the wrath of the Lord of Waters. His mighty vassals could destroy our entire fleet effortlessly.”

Master Falassion smiled thinly. “I never imagined that those of mixed blood would fear the Powers this much.”

Atanalcar shrugged. “Every sailor knows that he lives on the sufferance of Ullubôz and his vassals. We may not speak about it, not in these times when Zigûr’s ears and eyes are everywhere, but yea, we all have a healthy fear of the wild Ošošai and his long-tressed spouse, the Lady of the Sea. Which is why I would never be foolish enough to attack someone in Ullubôz’ own sanctum; least of all a daughter of the family that has always stood under the protection of his chief vassals. She is a sea flower, and we must treat her with respect, if we want the First Consul’s plans to work out.”

“In that case,” said the mistress of the house slowly, “perchance we should employ the help of the minstrel again.”

~TBC~