“So the marriage is successful, then?” Imrahil eyed Finduilas over the soft dark fuzz of his newborn nephew’s head.
“What is a successful marriage? Affection, and respect. He has his work, and I have mine, now. Did you think it would not be? Have I not been raised to know my duty?”
“Affection, respect, duty. What of joy? Passion? He seems a dull humorless man, but perhaps you see a side of him I do not…”
She laughed, soft music, and the babe stirred sleepily in his uncle’s arms. “I see many sides of him that you do not, brother.”
The first of several stories summoned forth by my Denethor-muse, Astara.