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. 

...