The warm light from the partially shielded lantern gave a deceptively rosy glow to Finduilas’s sleeping countenance. Denethor gnawed his lip as he examined his wife’s thin face and the shadows under her eyes. Her sheer gown with its froth of lace gleamed hardly whiter than the skin it framed. Finduilas had retired with the subtle signals that always presaged a night of joy and comfort. Though he had taken no longer than usual to join her, she already slept.

Her radiance outshone the sun, and his passions nearly overwhelmed him, but his wife was dearer by far to him than any child. Denethor reached out and with a gentle finger touched a strand of night-dark hair that strayed across the pillow. Evil is so close here, and I am safest in your arms. He had given in to her pleas before, and nearly lost her.

Never again. He had strength enough for them both. Denethor took a step back and Finduilas’s face slid into shadow. She was not yet well. He would not disturb her rest tonight, nor for many nights to come. She would understand that his care was necessary. He loved her too much to risk her.