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.” 

...