Chapter 1.  The Scribe from Lebennin 

Minas Tirith, 3003 T.A., the seventh month 

Denethor was climbing the road towards the Citadel when he felt the first raindrops.  Looking up, he saw the dark clouds that he had failed to notice earlier.  He resumed his walk without quickening his pace. 

His guard, previously following at a discreet distance, hastily came to his side.  The guard offered a cloak, which he declined. 

A short while later, another figure approached, holding a frame of slender wood and oiled cloth, and extended it above his head. Such a device had recently become popular as a rain-shade.

He turned to find a lady, a polite smile on her pleasant face.

After a curtsey, she said: 

“I am also bound for the Citadel, my lord.  And my rain-shade is large enough for two.” 

She was not a familiar face within the Citadel, but Denethor knew her.  Very few things occurred in Minas Tirith without the Lord of the City’s knowledge.  She was Adanel, daughter of Balan, of an old noble house from Lebennin.  They were in the City for a rare visit to their kin. 

Denethor glanced at the lady, a polite, curt refusal ready on his lips. 

But he hesitated. Seldom did any approach the stern Lord of Gondor without pressing purpose, as Lady Adanel had just done. 

They were not far from the Citadel, and the lady did not seem to require pleasantries. 

“Then allow me,” he said, as he took the rain-shade from her hand, holding it steadily to cover them both. 

They spoke little as they walked.  The steady patter of rain on the oiled cloth was the only sound, yet the silence between them was not uncomfortable.  Denethor glanced at the lady once, and found her gazing into the distance, as if lost in thought. 

As they approached the Citadel gate, Denethor noticed that the lady carried a token—one granted only to those who had cause to enter the Citadel daily.  

At his raised brow, she said: “I have permission from the Warden to come every day while I remain in the City, my lord.” 

“For what purpose, Lady Adanel?” 

“To come to the Archives, my lord.” 

Denethor tilted his head, drawing on his memory.  Presently, it came to him: a few weeks earlier, the Archivist had sought his leave to allow a scribe from Lebennin to work in the Archive for a few months. 

He also recalled the whispers in the court, that Lord Balan’s youngest daughter had remained unwed, having little interest in the present world, her heart set instead on the valiant princes of old. 

“Ah,” said Denethor.  “You are the scribe from Lebennin.” 

The lady nodded respectfully.  “I thank you for allowing me access to the Archives, my lord.” 

Then she added, “Shall we part here, my lord?  Unless you are also heading towards the Archives?” 

Denethor nodded, but did not yet return her rain-shade.   

“Would you remind me, lady, what work you are undertaking that requires frequent visits to the Archives?” 

“I am working on a translation of Akallabêth, and wish to consult the older versions, as well as other ancient writings on Númenor.” 

“Our Archives had all the extant versions,” Denethor remarked, “even those whose authenticity some have questioned.  I believe you will produce a praiseworthy work, Lady Adanel.” 

Then, speaking more than was his wont, he added: “I trust you will not dwell too much on the last queen—I care little for the latest version by Cemendil.” 

Adanel regarded him, and something like a challenge kindled in her eyes.   

“I cannot stand Cemendil’s verses either,” she replied.  “But I do think Tar-Miriel deserves more than a passing mention.  But rest assured, my lord, I am working on a translation, not an adaptation.” 

A faint smile tugged at Denethor’s lips.  He thanked her and returned her rain-shade. 

She curtseyed and departed. 

Denethor made his way to the White Tower.  When he reached his study, prompted by no clear reason, he opened his copy of the Annals of Númenor—the Adunaic version, widely believed to be the oldest, authentic version—and spent some time reading the tales he knew by heart. 

Outside, the rain stopped, and the sun appeared in the clear sky. 

...

The scribe from Lebennin did not cross Denethor’s thoughts again until much later.  Her family, though noble, was not among those who enjoyed frequent contacts with the Steward. 

But one afternoon, after a long debate with his Council on how best to fund Gondor’s defence without overburdening the treasury—a perennial problem if there ever was one—Denethor returned to his study wearied. 

During the Council session, he had thought to revisit the records of different methods employed at different times: granting land to soldiers in lieu of coins; paying them through the lords of the fiefs; and paying them directly from the Treasury coffer.   

He had thought to ask his guard to fetch the records from the Archives, but after long hours with the lords of Gondor, a stroll seemed more inviting than sitting at his desk.   

He made his way to the Archives. 

The Archives of Minas Tirith was a two-storey building with a tower at each corner.  The first storey was the scriptorium, where scholars, scribes, and illuminators sat absorbed in their work: copying, translating, illuminating, musing.   

The second storey housed Gondor’s wealth of knowledge, lore, and tradition—on which the realm took great pride.  It held not only texts from Númenor, but also those from Rhovanion and other Northern realms; various parts of Harad; Khand and far East—ranging from ancient mythological texts to more recent writings.   

As he climbed the stairs to the upper storey, Denethor spotted Adanel at a desk by the window.  She was reading, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings.   

How fortunate, Denethor thought, to spend one’s days in quiet contemplation, lost in the events of ages past. 

He sighed.  Someone must tend to the mundane task of ruling the realm and holding the Shadow at bay. 

As he reached the upper storey, he greeted the Archivist, who hastily rose to attend him.  It was not often the Lord Steward paid a personal visit. 

A short while later, Denethor descended the stairs, with a leather-bound book and several scrolls in hand.  He glanced towards the corner and found Adanel still at her desk.  At one point, an amused smile appeared on her lips—perhaps at a cleverly written passage, or a single, profound word. 

Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating her features.  She was not beautiful by Gondor’s measure, yet there was something arresting in one who found such satisfaction in her work, caring little for the attention of others. 

A strange mood came to Denethor.  An unspoken longing for someone to speak with, a fleeting envy of how the lady spent her days, and a mild fascination with her preference for the Archives over the company of other ladies or fawning suitors. 

As he approached Adanel’s desk, he saw a parchment on which she wrote in an elegant, neat hand.  Faramir would approve, Denethor mused, his thoughts turning briefly to his scholarly son, away defending their land. 

Adanel only noticed his presence when he was already beside her. 

She rose and curtseyed. 

“A rare occasion, my lord,” she said with a smile.  “This is the first time I have seen you in my two months here.” 

Denethor gave a slight nod. 

“Where are you now, Lady Adanel?  Or should I say, when?  Have our forefathers reached the Land of Gift?” 

Adanel smiled.  “I am in the golden age.  Tar-Minastir has just built a high tower upon the hill in Oromet.” 

“Ah, the glorious days,” said Denethor.  “Unfortunately, the Annals cannot resist describing this part in a sombre mood—laden with an impending sense of doom.” 

“Aye, my lord,” said Adanel.  “And our people seemed to carry in our blood this inability to celebrate.  Even when we rejoice, we caution ourselves the good days will not last.” 

Denethor’s gaze drifted.  Good days had lasted but twelve years for him. 

“I shall not interrupt your work much longer,” he said.  “Have a pleasant afternoon.” 

“You have not interrupted, my lord,” she replied. 

Perhaps she was only being polite; after all, everyone would have said the same to the Steward.  But something in her expression made Denethor think that she indeed welcomed his conversation. 

He cast a glance on the scrolls in his hands, and thought of the annual budget and the deployment of soldiers. 

He drew out the chair beside Adanel and sat. 

“Since you say my presence is no interruption, shall we speak of the discrepancies between the Adûnaic and the Sindarin accounts?” 

Adanel raised an eyebrow, but the surprise soon gave way to a bright, eager smile, as though glad to finally find a kindred spirit.   

“Nothing would please me more,” she said.  “My father always said you would have made a fine lore-master had you not been the Lord Steward.” 

Then, after a brief hesitation, she added: “And every man deserves some leisure, my lord, even the Lord of Gondor.” 

Denethor studied her.  Few dared speak so freely to him.  Even his sons did not always do so. 

“I firmly believe,” Denethor began, “that for the first few hundred years, at least until the days of Tar-Minastir, we should rely more on the Adûnaic version.  The Sindarin version was written by the Faithful, and the downfall coloured their view of the early days.  While the King’s Men were ultimately misled by evil, their early writings were valuable.  For instance, they spoke eloquently of the wisdom of Men, which should not be dismissed as inferior to that of the Eldar...” 

They spent the afternoon in a lively conversation, with welcomed moments of quiet at intervals.   

When he heard the bell signalling the eleventh hour, Denethor realized that he had not even noticed the bell at the tenth.   

On his way back to the Citadel, Denethor reminded himself of the peril of self-indulgence.  For he must admit that he had enjoyed himself that afternoon.  Few could engage him in conversation the way Lady Adanel did. 

...

Chapter 4.  Resolutions (Part 1) 

After their discovery of the mysterious lady in the Archives, Boromir and Faramir had continued to observe Denethor closely—as closely as possible without incurring his ire—while awaiting him to broach the subject with them. 

A few days passed without word or sign.  They had guests at supper, which barred private conversations from the table.  As for the morning meal, Denethor had his very early those days, and went to his study thereafter. 

But one evening, at last, Boromir and Faramir found themselves alone with Denethor at supper. 

A supper in the Steward’s household was a curious affair.  Most observers would deem it a formal occasion lacking in familial warmth.  Yet the three of them, accustomed to each other’s ways, looked forward to their quiet supper together. 

Faramir, naturally inclined to tradition, had never thought it strange that he and his brother should stand upright and bow to their father before each meal.  Indeed, he had been surprised to discover that some families dispensed with such formalities.  He had also never found it odd that their suppers often turned into lengthy questioning (on their father’s part) or heated debates.  It was only when he joined the army that he learnt how relaxed supper was in most homes. 

Boromir—accustomed to being the centre of attention and affection in their family—was likewise the subject of Denethor’s questioning, though rarely reprimanded in the same way as Faramir was.  In recent years, however, as Faramir grew to manhood, Boromir had spent many a supper watching the delicate balance between his father and brother, defusing the tension when necessary.  At times, he wished his father and brother were a little less obstinate, yet he loved them with all his being and would not have them otherwise. 

Denethor, the source of much of the formality in their household, was well aware that he had driven his sons hard, sometimes more as a captain than a father.  He had long accepted this as his lot as a ruler.  He thanked the stars that his sons seemed to welcome his presence, despite everything. 

... 

That evening, they had their supper in Denethor’s study, instead of the grand dining hall.  The cook had prepared a simple meal, which they preferred when no guests joined them. 

As they savoured the soup, they began discussing Gondor’s border defence. 

“How is the garrison at Osgiliath, Boromir?” 

“Morale is high among the soldiers,” Boromir answered, “considering everyone knows we are in the first line of defence.  We could use reinforcements, but I know we cannot afford them.” 

Boromir spoke of many matters concerning Osgiliath, from the intelligence they had gathered on the Enemy’s movements, to the more mundane matters of soldiers requesting transfers to the City.  His words were punctuated with Denethor’s occasional remarks, further questions, and approving nods. 

Faramir listened intently—he had been posted to Osgiliath before, and the ruins of the ancient city had remained in his heart. 

As Boromir concluded his account, Denethor turned to Faramir. 

“How do you find Pelargir?  You have always liked the sea; your stay must have been at least tolerable.” 

“I adapted well enough,” Faramir replied.  “I experienced a skirmish with the Corsairs, of which I wrote a report to you.” 

He had performed more than well enough, Denethor knew.  Every month he had received glowing reports from Faramir’s captain, praising his deeds and grasp of strategy.  This, from a captain who knew how much Denethor spurned flattery. 

As usual, Denethor gave a measured nod. 

“And what do you think of our defences there?” 

“We have too few ships, that we are practically defending our coast and not our sea,” Faramir replied.  “It saddens me that we, descendants of sea kings, have been reduced to this.” 

He hastily added, “But there is no use dwelling on it.  The men guarding the coast are vigilant and valiant, they do their duty well.” 

Denethor nodded.  “The Enemy continues gathering his strength.  When he finally strikes, it will be from various directions.  Osgiliath, for certain.  And he may well strike the Southern fiefs from Pelargir.” 

“The Corsairs are in alliance with Harad,” Boromir said, “but they both are proud peoples and not under the Enemy’s sway.” 

“Not yet,” Denethor and Faramir said, almost in unison. 

They paused as a servant arrived with the meat. 

She set down a large plate of partridge pie and a plate of greens before them, then left the chamber.  When his sons were home, Denethor preferred they serve themselves, keeping the meal private. 

As they continued their meal, they spoke of the Corsairs of Umbar, Harad, and the growing threat of Mordor. The topic then shifted to the advantage of mounted troops and the alliance with Rohan. 

The mention of alliance soon steered their discussion towards alliances and treacheries of old, and the hopeless battles of the First Age. 

“Most of the tragedies of the First Age could have been averted had the Noldoran been more constant,” Denethor remarked.  “In a way, that is also what we see in Harad now.  Their first chieftain had many wives, most of the warring chiefs are descended from him through different wives.” 

Faramir cast a glance at Boromir, who said nothing.  Then he turned his attention back to Denethor, as if studying his mood. 

After a brief hesitation, Faramir said softly: “The Noldoran had only one living wife at a time, Father.” 

Denethor’s gaze remained fixed on his plate as he cut the meat with precision. 

“Yet it was still the lower road,” he replied, “or so The Statute records.” 

He looked at Faramir, giving a silent permission for further words on the matter. 

“The Statute—at least the versions handed down to us—concludes that Finwë chose the lower road by his second marriage,” Faramir responded.  “Yet I do not see it as a weakness that he found another love, a cherished companion with whom to share his days.  In a way, is it not partaking in the Hope, too, to believe that he can find healing through his second marriage?”

Denethor placed his knife on the plate, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

“Was it not inconstancy to Míriel, and placing his own happiness above that of his son?” he asked calmly. 

“Much has been written on the double bond of love between Finwë and Fëanor, father and son,” Faramir answered with equal calm.  “If a son loved his father, he would rejoice in his father’s joy.” 

Faramir lowered his eyes.  “But that is only my thought; perchance a mighty mind like Fëanor’s works differently.  And I have not been asked to prove my word.” 

He raised his gaze again, meeting Denethor’s.  Then, still softly but with earnest conviction, he said: “Yet if I should be asked to prove it, Father, I daresay I would not perform ill.” 

Denethor stared at his younger son, who held his gaze evenly.   

So they had learnt of Adanel.   

Denethor was not surprised.  His sons were perceptive and resourceful; and he had not sought to conceal from them his growing friendship with the lady. 

Not only had they discovered it; but Faramir had also given him his blessing—unasked and without condition.  

Had Faramir even considered what it would mean to have a second mother?  Not to mention half-siblings, who would demand their share of authority and wealth. 

Denethor glanced at Boromir.  His heir had shown surprise when Faramir declared his blessing.  Now he was pensive, keeping his thoughts to himself. 

A silence settled among them, broken only by the occasional clink of utensils. 

Denethor reached for the wine bottle on the table and uncorked it. 

“Your grandsire sent this last month,” he said, as he poured the Dol Amroth red wine to Boromir’s and Faramir’s goblets.  “A different composition from the usual produce, he mentioned in his letter.” 

Boromir tasted the wine.  “Interesting flavour,” he said, “though I still prefer Caraneth.” 

Denethor took a sip, raised an eyebrow at the unusual taste, then spoke again. 

“Finwë took another wife not only because he desired love and companionship, but also because he wished to have more sons.  Do you still say his son should rejoice in this?” 

“He had only one son, so that was ... understandable,” Boromir said cautiously.   

Denethor smiled wryly.  

He could finish Boromir’s sentence: While you already have two, Father. 

Boromir would not find it easy to welcome his father’s wife, let alone a half-brother—so accustomed was he to being the one his father loved best. 

“What say you, Faramir?” Denethor asked. 

“What is wrong with desiring more sons?” Faramir answered, slightly more insistent than his usual measured tone.   

“In a time of peace, they bring joy to the father.  And in a time of war, to a father who is also a ruler, that would mean having more captains.” 

Faramir spoke with simple certainty, devoid of any bitterness, and that made Denethor pause. 

Was that how his sons saw their lives? That they were born and raised so that their father might have stout captains?   

Had he ever given them reasons to think otherwise? 

He turned his eyes towards his heir.  Boromir, eagerly awaiting the day he would become a captain, would not imagine any life but that of Gondor’s champion in war.  He had the fortune of loving the life allotted to him. 

But Faramir—Faramir would have chosen a different life, had he been given a choice. 

What a fine lore master he would have made, Denethor mused, expounding wisdom through speech and written word. 

But there had not been such a choice.  Not for Faramir, not for any of them. 

And Faramir had accepted it with nary a complaint—the foolish boy.  He had accepted his duty to defend Gondor, and to fulfil that duty in this time of war, training at arms must take precedence over his preference. 

In this matter at least he was Denethor’s son, though Denethor began to see that in many other respects they differed. 

For Denethor had also been guided by his duty to Gondor all his life.  His duty had enabled him to continue serving Gondor, even when placed second to that dubious sellsword in his father’s esteem and in the men’s hearts.  His duty had kept him in Minas Tirith during Finduilas’ last years, though his heart yearned to take her hand and start a new life at Dol Amroth, far from the Shadow. 

His finger touched his Steward ring, as he often did when he remembered Finduilas. 

Then another memory came to him.  Not of Finduilas, but more recent ones. 

The pleasant afternoons in the Archives.  Adanel’s sparkling eyes as she defended her arguments, lighting up her face and making it beautiful.  The gentle sorrow in her eyes at the mention of Denethor’s grief.  And finally, her sweet smile as her hands straightened his mantle. 

Denethor took a deep breath and turned his gaze upon his eldest son once more. 

After Finduilas’ death, it was not only duty that made Denethor carry on living.  There were his boys, deprived of their mother at such a young age, holding his hands as men adrift at sea cling to an anchor. 

Boromir, his joy, his pride, his heir—should he be asked to share his father’s love and pride with others? 

It would not be fair to deny a lady the chance to bear children.  But what if those children vie with his heir? 

Faramir loved Boromir and accepted graciously that Boromir was Denethor’s favoured one.  Not all sons would behave so. 

And Gondor—his charge, his duty—already under threat from a formidable enemy.  Should a potential kinstrife be added to its list of troubles? 

You have chosen the high road all these years, why give in now?  he chided himself. 

Denethor exhaled and pushed aside the thought of Adanel and of his solitude. 

Gondor comes first, as always. 

“Finwë had an excuse for taking the lower road: he did not know how it would turn out,” Denethor said.  “We, who came after, and with the history to learn from, do not have that excuse.” 

Boromir and Faramir studied him intently, waiting for his pronouncement. 

“Whatever else Gondor has to contend with, it will not have to contend with kinstrife among the Steward’s descendants,” Denethor declared.  “Not while I am Steward.” 

Looking straight into Boromir’s eyes, he said with finality: “And my heir shall not have to vie with others for his rightful place.”  

He saw relief and gratitude in Boromir’s expression, tinged with sadness. 

... 

Chapter 5. Resolutions (Part 2) 

A heavy silence hung in the air after Denethor’s last words. 

A servant came bringing pudding and cut fruit, breaking the silence. 

After they had finished dessert, Denethor rose.  He had the habit of taking an evening stroll after supper. 

Faramir and Boromir had their own habit: they would take the bottle of wine with them, sitting by the fireplace, either in the library or in Boromir’s chamber, talking late into the night. 

Denethor rose, but then settled back into his seat, with a weary expression. 

Faramir’s eyes followed Denethor, but neither spoke.

Faramir turned the goblet in his hand slowly, watching the wine swirling within.  He was sad for his father, whom he loved.  His father deserved joy, not only duty. 

Denethor’s voice interrupted Faramir’s reflection.   

“Your mother took longer to recover her strength after your birth,” Denethor said, without preamble.  “The healer advised that she should not burden her body with another childbearing.” 

Faramir placed his goblet quietly on the table, his fingers tightening around the stem.  He wondered why his father brought up the subject.  But he straightened and met his father’s gaze squarely—as any decent man should when facing a just reproach. 

“I am sorry, Father,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Denethor seemed momentarily taken aback—his face betraying confusion before it hardened again, irritation flickering across his features. 

“You are the Steward’s son, Faramir,” Denethor chided.  “Do not apologize so readily.  And do not be foolish; your mother did not lose her strength because of you.  Men’s childbearing is not as that of Elves.” 

Denethor spoke sternly, but Faramir found comfort in his words.  That his father did not believe him responsible for his mother’s decline meant more to him than any praise. 

Faramir lowered his head and said nothing more. 

“I told your mother not to trouble herself with bearing more children,” Denethor continued in a lower voice.  “For what I have been given is sufficient.” 

For what I have been given is sufficient. 

The words settled over Faramir like a warm cloak against the chill of night.  No sweeter words had he ever heard. 

Faramir slowly raised his head, fixing his gaze on Denethor, lost for words.

Faramir had believed his name was chosen for its meaning in the old Elven Tongue: a hunter of jewels. 

But there were times—when Denethor seemed to find delight only on Boromir—that Faramir wondered if his name had been chosen for its Sindarin meaning: that he, the second son, was merely sufficient, less treasured than the eldest, the faithful jewel. 

With great effort, Faramir had accepted it, and willed himself to love and serve his father in whatever role he was given. 

But that evening Faramir understood that he had been mistaken. 

He was not the favoured son, not the heir—but treasured, nonetheless. 

A quiet resolution settled upon Faramir. 

I shall indeed be sufficient for you, Father.  You have foregone having more sons—you shall not need them.  Neither in war, nor in peace. 

Their eyes met once more, and Denethor slowly nodded, as though acknowledging Faramir’s unspoken pledge.  For it was true that Denethor read men’s hearts shrewdly. 

... 

From his seat, Boromir observed the exchange between Denethor and Faramir.  Unlike them, he was not burdened with the clear and far sight.  Yet he could always perceive his father and brother clearly—such was the sufficiency of love. 

That evening’s conversation had been bewildering.  Boromir was unsure what he thought, or felt, about the possibility of a stepmother.  And the thought of his father cherishing another son made him chafe—unless that son was Faramir.  Yet he loved his father, and wished he could find joy. 

That his father had so firmly decided to forego a second chance at joy touched Boromir. 

That Faramir so readily gave his blessing to their father’s potential marriage astonished him. 

And they settled such a grave matter by discussing an ancient text! 

Over the years Boromir had given up wondering about the way Denethor and Faramir spoke to each other.  The carefulness, the dancing around the issue, the harsh words that occasionally flew when they attempted straightforward talk, and yet the unmistakable bond between them. 

Boromir shook his head.  His father and brother, so often at odds, yet so similar: steadfast in duty, capable of selfless deeds, and immovable as a mountain. 

He sighed and took a long swig of the red wine.  Next time he wrote to his grandfather, he would suggest sending a stronger wine—one that matched the force of Denethor’s and Faramir’s conversation. 

He cleared his throat.  

“Very well,” Boromir said, in his deep, firm voice.  “May I be the one to present the conclusion?  Faramir has given his heartfelt blessing to Father’s union with another lady, and to any children that may come from it.  As for Father, his resolution is clear: such a thing will not happen, for the good of Gondor and his sons.  Pardon me if I do not present the conclusion under the veil of history or philosophical discourse.” 

Boromir sensed Denethor’s and Faramir’s mild disappointment in their shared frowns.  No doubt they thought Boromir had disrupted their elegant, subtle discourse. 

Then Faramir chuckled softly.   “Ah, brother, what would we do without you!” 

Denethor’s grave mien softened just enough to show a wry smile.  

“Indeed,” he said. 

Boromir did not form a new resolution that evening.  He merely reaffirmed a resolve he had made long ago. 

I will shield Gondor, and both of you, with my life. 

... 

Chapter 5.  The Mettarë Feast 

Denethor gazed around the great hall discreetly.  To himself he admitted that he was searching for someone, and his heart stirred as he saw her.  She was not a great beauty, but she carried herself with a certain dignity, which perhaps came from not caring whether she was beautiful. 

That night she wore an emerald-green dress which suited her quite well.  Her hair was braided and arranged in an elegant bun atop her head. 

The feast went on as it did every year: elegantly, smoothly, and pleasantly for most.  The lords and ladies of Gondor enjoyed themselves, allowing themselves a respite from the daily worries of the looming Shadow. 

As the meal concluded, the dancing began.  Boromir danced with many, charming all, giving particular attention to none.  Faramir also danced, though he seemed pensive. 

Adanel danced with her father, then with a lord from Anorien, then she returned to her seat. 

Once their eyes met, and she smiled.  Not a polite smile that many gave to the Steward of Gondor; nor a dazzling smile that wished to please or capture his attention.  Her eyes were kindled with knowledge and longing—and pity, which for once, Denethor did not scorn. 

He averted his eyes.  She had told him she would leave Minas Tirith next week.  He felt sadness at the thought of not seeing her again, but he had long learned to master such trivial emotion.   

Denethor turned as he felt another gaze at him.  He found Faramir observing him from across the hall.  His second son schooled his expression well—Denethor had made it clear he could not stand Faramir’s pity.  But Denethor knew him—Faramir perceived what was unfolding, and was sad for Denethor. 

From where he was, Faramir bowed low. 

Denethor nodded, acknowledging his son’s bow. 

Presently Boromir came to the dais with a bottle of Lossarnach wine. 

He poured the red wine to Denethor’s goblet and his. 

“To your health, Father,” he said. 

Denethor drank the bittersweet wine. 

“I am leaving now,” he said.  The Steward did not stay long in feasts. 

“I will attend to matters here,” Boromir replied.  “Enjoy your stroll, Father.” 

... 

But that night a surprise awaited Denethor.  

A knock came at his study as he was reading Lamedon’s request for an increased budget. 

Boromir entered, his expression solemn, as one carrying out an important mission. 

“Would you take a stroll with me, Father?” 

“At this hour?” 

“It will not take long,” replied Boromir. 

Curious, Denethor rose and followed him. 

They descended the White Tower, passed the fountain and the White Tree, and made their way through the lamplit Citadel. 

Soon Denethor realized they were heading towards the Archives. 

At his raised brow, Boromir said, somewhat awkwardly: “Ah, perhaps you need some private time with the lady, Father.” 

Denethor was incredulous.  His son was bold, but this was unexpected. 

“You brought Adanel here at this hour?”   

“Nay, that was Faramir’s part.  I do not know what he said to Lord Balan, but people tend to trust him.” 

They approached the Archives.  The guards were nowhere in view.  Denethor chose not to ask what pretext his sons had used to dismiss them. 

Just as they reached the entrance, Faramir emerged from within. 

“No word will spread of this, Father,” Faramir said quietly.  “Boromir and I will see to it that your honour and the lady’s remain untouched.” 

“I should be grateful that you two are on my side,” Denethor remarked dryly.  “How long do I have?” 

Boromir and Faramir exchanged glances. 

“We planned for an hour,” Boromir answered.  “But worry not, Father, we will handle it if you need longer.” 

Denethor entered the Archives, knowing his two sons’ gaze followed his back. 

The master archivist, who lived within the building, was also nowhere to be seen.  Denethor was not surprised.  The old man was fond of Faramir and would readily oblige his requests. 

He climbed the stairs. 

The Archive was usually left dark at night, but Denethor found the upper level warmly lit by oil lamps tastefully arranged.  His sons were thorough. 

Adanel was seated at a desk in the centre of the chamber.  She rose as he entered. 

Still in her feast raiment, she looked radiant.  For the first time in many years, Denethor felt the simple joy of admiring beauty. 

“What fine sons you have raised, my lord,” she said. 

“I would not claim credit for them,” Denethor replied.  “At times I think they grow in spite of me, not because of me.” 

A faint sound of harp drifted up from the first level.  Faramir, no doubt.  

“My fine sons have even seen fit to provide music,” Denethor said.  “Shall we dance, Adanel?” 

She took his proffered hand. In that ancient chamber, attended by moonlight and heartfelt melody, they danced. 

At first Denethor gripped her hands tightly and their movement was a little stiff.  But they soon eased into quiet harmony. 

Her hand was warm in his.  He noticed smudges of ink across her fingers.  Catching his amused glance, she laughed. 

“I wrote late into the afternoon, and had little time to prepare for the feast,” she said.  “I am not very good at being a proper lady.” 

“Proper enough for the Lord of Gondor,” Denethor said. 

She did not blush.  Instead, she smiled sweetly, with a touch of sadness in her eyes. 

“Aye,” she said.  “The Lord of Gondor found solace in my company—what a marvel.” 

Allowing himself a rare indulgence, Denethor leaned forward and kissed her brow.  She wrapped her arms around him. 

For a long moment they remained thus, content in each other’s embrace. 

“I wish for your company, yet I will not ask for it,” Denethor said.  “I have decided not to sire more children, and you deserve a happy home, which the Lord of Gondor cannot offer.” 

Adanel met his gaze steadily. 

“I do not mind,” she replied.  “It is enough to be with you, and to ease your burden, if only a little.” 

“I know you would not mind,” he said.  “All the more reason I must not ask.” 

There was a pause.  Then, Adanel smiled and nodded.  Placing a gentle hand upon his cheek, she spoke: 

“You are kind and gentle, my lord.  Let no one make you believe otherwise.” 

Denethor let out a low, rueful laugh.  Finduilas had said something similar many years ago, shortly before she died.  Died, after spending her strength to be with him and share his burden.  

What sort of man would let another woman follow the same path? 

They continued their dance without further speech. 

When the music faded, Adanel said: “I will leave Minas Tirith in five days.  We will visit our cousins at Lossarnach, and return to Lebennin afterwards.” 

Denethor inclined his head.  “I wish you joy, Adanel.” 

“I wish you strength, my lord,” she said, “and joy as you can find in your path.” 

...