Faramir Fiction Archive

Nature vs. Nurture (PG-13)

Written by Susana

03 April 2011 | 9076 words | Work in Progress

Title: An Impulse Not to be Denied
Author: Susana
Series: Desperate Hours
Feedback: Please use the form below
Rating: R, for scenes of extreme violence in a nightmare
Warning: AU; quick reflection on erotic spanking
Disclaimer: All recognizable elements are Tolkien’s
Summary: Finduilas rarely tries to fight her impulses, when they seem right.
A/N: Takes place when Aragorn (as Thorongil) is in Gondor, a little over a year after Denethor marries Finduilas, and before she is pregnant with Boromir.

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An Impulse Not to be Denied

Images, fleeting like clouds over the surface of water… like visions in the mirror of the Lady of the Golden Wood. Men, enslaved and dying. Children, roasting on a fire tended by yrch. White marble buildings cracked and burnt… save one arch over a river. Everywhere, an all-seeing, terrifying presence… victorious at first… and then saddened, mourning. Total control over Middle Earth had not brought it the perfect order it had always desired, since before even the Powers of Arda entered the world, since before Iluvatar’s children awoke and joined the song.

Finduilas awoke with a start. Such dreams had long ago lost the power to wring screams from her, though her heart beat fast and her eyes were filled with fear and sorrow. She took a deep breath and closed her gray-green eyes, counting to ten. Then she got out of her soft bed, took off the warm gray velvet dressing gown that still held her husband’s scent, and reached for a shift and dress.

If Denethor had been here, he would have awoken with her, his observant eyes filled with sympathy and sorrow for the “gift” she’d never asked for, the visions that came to her night and day. He could have distracted her, his strong, calloused hands incredibly tender and gentle, his gray eyes glowing with joy as he kindled a delicious ache in her, one that only he could satisfy. If she had insisted on leaving, insisted on researching right now why it was that Sauron’s minions might have avoided burning a building over water, Denethor might well have turned her over his knee. Not for a sincere spanking, but one meant to interest her in other things, take her mind off of the horrors she’d seen. If Denethor had been here, he would have distracted her, and she would have been able to go back to sleep. If she were lucky, she would have been able to write down her idea… yrch dislike water… in the bound journal by her bedside, before her husband distracted her entirely.

But Denethor was gone, on patrol with his men. Gone these past many weeks, and unlikely to return for another few days, at least. Some husbands of only a few years would cut short their duties to Gondor, to return to their waiting bride. But not her husband, and she wouldn’t want that of him. It would be… untrue to the nature of her stern, dedicated lord, and she loved Denethor as he was. Oh, she feared for him, too. Feared where his dedication and inability to bend might someday lead him. But she wouldn’t want him to leave his duties half-done just because she was lonely.

Dressed in a comfortable but fine green gown over a shift of pearlescent gray, Finduilas chose soft boots instead of fine slippers, and a warm black cloak against the chill of the early spring night. She paused passing through the main room of their chambers, hesitating in thought. After a moment, she went and slipped quietly into the bedroom belonging to her younger lady-in-waiting. Finduilas did not even have to wake Sion, the blond great-niece of the old Lord of Anfalas was already blinking awake at the soft sounds of her lady’s passage. Sion’s pale blue eyes blinked, and she looked at Finduilas and smiled, shaking her head. Quickly dressed with her lady’s assistance, Sion accompanied Finduilas down through the hidden tunnels which led from the Citadel down to the archives.

“You’re almost as bad as my Adar was, my Lady, with your waking in the night to chase down some idea amongst books which were old when our ancestors were young.” Sion jested lightly, cheerfully helping Finduilas to gather the necessary volumes.

“I’m sure you were a boon to him, my clever Sion.” Finduilas praised, “I would never have thought of this memoir, but the second Lord of the Pelennor did indeed fight in the War of the Last Alliance, helping Princes Aratan and Ciryon to hold Minas Ithil. They fought in and around the Anduin, at times. There may be something…”

“That Lord of the Pelennor was probably their cousin-by-law.” Sion reminded her lady and friend, “the husband of their uncle Anarion’s daughter, Princess Inkeri.”

The two ladies worked on as dawn lit the windows of the small side gallery in the archives, adjacent to the garden and to the hidden entrance to the Citadel from which they had come. Finduilas did not feel the lack of an archivist’s aid this night, for Sion had been her father’s only child, and he had been the old Chief Archivist. After his death, Sion had been raised by her aunt his sister, and had spent many happy hours with the men and women on the staff of the new Chief Archivist, her father’s protegee, in the course of which she had learned much from them. Sion might have even chosen to become an archivist, save that her great-uncle had been a traditionalist who did not approve of the nobility taking up trade, and one of his dying wishes had been to see Sion placed into service with the new Steward’s lady. Fortunately, Sion and Finduilas got along well.

But Sion was still more aware of mundane, temporal concerns than her dear Lady Finduilas. “Ai, ‘tis dawn already.” The slender blond noted, “And your father-by-law the Steward will be looking for you, or Lady Lindorie. She wants you to help her look over the arrangements for the ball during the next council session.”

“Hmm.” Noted Finduilas absently. “Lindorie is much better at that type of thing than I am, but I should make an effort, you are right. Just a bit longer… could you find me the records from when Prince Anarion was holding Osgiliath against the Dark One whilst King Elendil and the elves were gathering their armies?”

Sion sighed and went to fetch the requested volumes. The sounds of carts on the streets, and the bright sounds of morning heralded that a new day had begun, but they did not disturb Finduilas’ concentration.

A deep, half-amused, half-exasperated voice from the outer door, however, did.

“Fin!” Captain Thorongil reproved lightly, “You promised you wouldn’t do this while Denethor is away!”

As her lady turned to answer with a distracted, amused rueful grin, Sion exchanged a relieved smile with Captain Thorongil’s handsome new man Lennart, knowing that her lady was now in good hands. Thorongil had an excellent record of convincing Finduilas to leave her research behind. Not quite as good as Denethor’s, but far better than most. He was a dear friend to Denethor and Finduilas both, and very much like an elder brother to Sion’s lady.

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