That month Denethor visited the Archives twice more.  Their conversations often began with the history of Númenor, but they quickly branched out to various matters.  Adanel was well-read, possessed a clear mind, and knew when to speak and when to listen. 

Denethor never brought up state matters—he was a careful man—but he broached some of his general concerns: the staggering number of petitions the Steward received; the expenses of a standing army; the logistical challenges in running Minas Tirith, a fortress that had to function as a city. 

As often happened between two persons with common interests and perhaps some shared loneliness, their conversations occasionally turned to their private lives. 

The lady was no stranger to grief: she had lost her mother; and had once been engaged to a lord from Lamedon, who had forsaken her for another. 

She had heard of Denethor and Finduilas—who in Gondor had not? 

She never asked about Finduilas’ illness and death—a subject that stirred the curiosity of many. 

Perhaps it was for this reason that one day, Denethor found himself speaking of Finduilas to her. 

“Some sages argued that Míriel should have fought more to overcome her weariness,” Adanel said, as they discussed the tale of Finwë and Míriel.  “That her love of her lord and son should have been enough reason to live.” 

Denethor regarded her.  “And do you share that view, Lady Adanel?” 

Adanel tilted her head.  “We should not judge others before we walk in their shoes.  I admit, though, that I have wondered what weariness could have overcome a mother’s love for her son.” 

“She fought as valiantly as any could,” Denethor said tersely. 

Adanel seemed startled by the change in his tone.  Then she must have remembered Finduilas’ illness—and how the tale of Míriel’s death might remind one of Finduilas—for her expression softened. 

She nodded.  “She must have done so,” she said gently.  “And I believe her lord gave her all the strength he had.” 

I do not need such consolation, Denethor was ready to retort. 

Yet her words, whether he welcomed them or not, eased something within him. 

He averted his eyes and said nothing. 

Adanel, too, kept her silence.  She picked up a scroll on her desk and began reading, waiting quietly until Denethor was ready to resume their conversation. 

... 

 

As autumn turned to winter, Denethor’s visits to the Archives began to mark his days. 

He limited himself to no more than two visits a week, each lasting no longer than two hours.  He would not risk giving rise to rumours, nor would he risk desiring what could not be. 

Despite the strict limits he imposed on himself, a friendship had grown between them.  Adanel had never crossed his unspoken boundaries—she never acted as though entitled to his confidence or attention; nor did she speak of their meetings to others, not even her father. 

Yet she did something far more dangerous: she cared for him, and it showed.  Subtly, unostentatiously, yet unmistakably. 

She noticed Denethor’s hoarse voice one day, and at their next meeting, she brought a bottle of thyme tea which she had brewed herself. 

When Denethor mentioned working past midnight, she did not offer platitudes about the importance of rest.  Instead, she regarded him tenderly and thanked him for all he had done for Gondor. 

One day, as Denethor was leaving the Archives, he left his mantle draped over a chair in his haste. 

“You forgot your mantle, my lord,” she called after him, holding it in her hands. 

Denethor turned and walked back to her, but she did not hand it to him. 

Their eyes met.  Without a word, she closed the distance between them and helped him don the black mantle. 

Her fingers lingered briefly on his shoulders, smoothing the black fur lining. 

“Even the most steadfast, my lord,” she said in a low voice, “should not linger long in the cold.” 

A moment stretched, and Denethor, the wise, proud Lord of Gondor, did not know what to say or do. 

With his gaze still on Adanel, his hand rose to cover hers, holding it firmly on his shoulder—but he did not allow himself to kiss it. 

They stood in silence.  Outside, rain had begun to fall—not a storm, but a gentle shower that freshened the air. 

At last, Denethor gently returned Adanel’s hand to her side, quietly thanked her, and left. 

...