[JennyHallu]

The castle of Dol Amroth was especially lovely at sunset. The tall towers, rising impossibly high above city's rooftops, were built of pale limestone and white marble, quarried in the foothills of the White Mountains, and they caught and reflected the vibrant colors of the evenin sky and the deep harbor to the west. Also shining and sparkling were the granite cliffsides between the city and its harbour, younger sisters to the marble edifice that rose above them. A tall stair and a long ramp with many switchbacks had been etched into the cliff long before the castle had even been built, long ago in the first years the tall Numenoreans had made this peaceful harbour their home. A woman stood on a high balcony, sea breezes wrapping her long dark hair around her as she gazed into the West. So far above the noise and bustle of the traders and fisherman ascending the cliff-paths for home, or getting the day's shipping stored in the warehouses built on the harbour shore in the shadow of the cliffs, the waning of the day was peaceful, serene.

The woman was a daughter of the line of Dol Amroth, and the haunting beauty of her face spoke to the truth of the long-treasured legend of Mithrellas and faerie blood in her veins. She was young, but a certain shadow in her eyes spoke to a wealth of dark experience, and gave her a quiet timeless look that was hard to ignore. The denizens of a certain Hall in Rohan would be hard pressed to recognize their dear friend Linduial, the carefree girl unaware of toil or trouble. Womanhood had hit her hard, and in the month since her kidnapping, she had matured into a quiet, too-wise creature, jaded and unhappy, wandering through the halls of her home like a wraith, searching for a reason to be. Her father and brothers worried about her, but did not know how to help her. She seemed to have forgotten how to laugh. Only rarely did her eyes light up and her face take on the joyful lines familiar to them: when Rohan or Edoras or a certain handsome young man were mentioned, only then did she seem hopeful.

And so Farlen, now sitting uncomfortably on the delicate divan in this feminine room, had packed her up and sent her to his elder brother.

Even in earliest youth it had been obvious that, even had their ages been reversed, Imrahil would carry the Princedom. Farlen had never been interested, much less jealous of his brother. Imrahil had an unconscious aura of wisdom, of command, that came naturally to him. Privately, Farlen thought his brother and his King were much of a kind: they carried with them a sort of majesty that couldn't be ignored. And, to Farlen's mind, Linduial was more like her uncle and that far cousin in Minas Tirith than any other scion of her line, especially now. They were more...elvish. There was no other way he could think to describe it. He loved his daughter dearly, but she seemed some ethereal inhuman thing: he did not understand her, but she gave him the uncomfortable feeling that she understood him, more clearly even then his wife had.

But there was a difference between preternatural maturity and the dark depression he had sorrowfully watched the young woman sink into over the past month. Even Imrahil, towering and awe-inspiring (more to his younger brother than the most loyal of the Prince's men, if truth be told), spent hours every day romping with the youngest children of his house, crawling cheerfully around on the floor with two or three on his back playing Eorl, recreating bloodless and giggly versions of the battles of the War, all dignity forgotten. Imrahil was like her, Imrahil understood her, Imrahil could fix it.

"You should come look outside, Father." The quiet voice was serene and detached. "The sun is setting and the whole world is gleaming fuschia. The sea is beautiful: those of our line have always felt connected to it. They say it calls to the Elves. How can they resist her?"

"Come inside, Lin," her father pleaded. This talk of the Sea's call made him nervous, especially with the fell mood she'd been in lately. "It's about time to go down for dinner, and the wind'll get your hair all tangled."

Lin turned toward him, a smile on her face but not reflected in her eyes. "I'm not very hungry, Father, surely no one will mind if I stay here."

A flash of inspiration hit the older man. "Imrahil specifically asked that you be there, love. He's got a great wish to see you safe, and he'll be wanting to ask you about things in Rohan."

"Uncle asked after me?" A flash of interest--that was enough to keep Farlen on this ploy. He'd spoken to Imrahil about her, of course, and Imrahil'd been happy to hear her safe, and dismayed to hear her current state. He'd even agreed with his brother's hope that he might be able to help the youngling where others couldn't: the two had always had a close bond. But he'd made no special request. The Rohan bit...now that was pure fabrication, based only on hearsay: supposedly Imrahil'd been showing some quiet interest lately in Rohirric affairs, and Lin had at least spoken to his daughter. There was no reason to think he wouldn't ask her about Rohan.

"Of course he did."

"Well, then, if the Prince requests it, I shall go." She walked to the vanity and gave her hair a few cursory strokes with a brush, taming it enough to grab the mass of it and twist it into a low chignon. Wordlessly she waited to meet her father at the door, and slipped her arm into his as they left for dinner.

To be continued...