Denethor son of Ecthelion, Heir of the Steward of Gondor, wedded Finduilas daughter of Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth in the year 2976 of the Third Age.  It was a splendid match, everyone said, the Steward’s Heir and the prince’s daughter.  Both had high lineage: he was said to possess the grace of Númenor in fuller measure than his father, grandfather and all other lords of Gondor in many generations; and everyone who saw her could see the Elven grace in her.  They have regal appearance: he with his commanding height, fine features and decisive countenance; she with her great beauty and graceful bearing. 

He was much older than her, some people said with concern, but those who knew about the grace of Númenor pointed out that he was blessed with a long youth, and they should have many happy years together. 

They loved and admired each other; that was plain to see.  Each found delight in the presence of the other.  He, who many considered cold and stern, was less tense and laughed more when he was with her.  She looked at him with tenderness and her face glowed in his presence.  There were many things they both enjoyed: lore, music, tales of the Elder days, riding. 

As a newlywed couple, they lived at Mardil House, a beautiful house at the Sixth Circle which belonged to the House of Húrin.  They both loved the house and the grove of pine trees surrounding it.  “Is it not like living in Dorthonion?” he laughed as he said to her.  She called the house her Little Ladros, after the region of Dorthonion of old. 

Every morning, they walked together around the pine grove.  Afterwards, they would have their morning meal, and then he would go to the Citadel to do his duties.  Sometimes she went with him; Denethor’s mother had passed a few years prior and Finduilas assumed the duties of the lady of the Steward’s household.  When she had some spare time, she would sit at the garden near the White Tower and do her paintings. 

Most evenings they would have supper with Steward Ecthelion at the Steward’s residence, then would come the best part of the day: walking hand in hand back to Little Ladros. 

There were times that he was away from the City; for he was the Captain General of Gondor.  But thankfully, those times were few and far between. 

In the third year of their marriage, a son came to join their happiness.  Boromir, they named him.  The Lord of Ladros, Finduilas said, her eyes twinkling.  Denethor had never thought life could be so sweet.  Not even Ecthelion favouring Captain Thorongil more than himself could mar Denethor’s happiness. 

When Boromir was four, Denethor saw the first sign of troubles.  They were on their way to the Tower one morning, and holding her hands, he walked towards the jutting pier of rock at the eastern end of the Citadel.  That was one of their usual spots to spend a quiet moment together, she liked it for its resemblance to a ship-keel.  But that day she shook her head. “Not there, husband,” she said.  “Let us sit in the garden instead.”  

In the following days, Denethor observed that when they stood by the City walls, Finduilas carefully avoided looking eastward. 

“The shadow is getting closer and darker,” she said when he asked her. 

He had known for a long time (how, he could not really explain) that the Enemy would strike during his lifetime.  He had accepted it as his lot in life and had given his all to preserve Gondor’s forces.  He had not thought that this would weigh his wife’s heart and mind that much. 

But that day, as they walked to the garden instead of the ship-keel, she gave him her bright smile and bid him not to worry, and Denethor followed her bidding. 

A few months passed, and one day she told him great news: she was again with child.  Everyone was glad when she gave birth to their second son, Faramir. 

She took longer to regain her strength after giving birth to Faramir, compared to her first time giving birth.  And Denethor noticed that she sometimes looked at their sons wistfully, as if she had seen something in them that she regretted.  But what could it be?  Boromir was strong, taller than other children his age, smart and cheerful.  Faramir was a fair, healthy babe and caused them no worries. 

The next year, 2984 of the Third Age, the Steward Ecthelion passed away and Denethor succeeded him as the twenty-sixth Ruling Steward of Gondor.  Ecthelion’s passing did not come as a surprise to his son or his Council: he was advanced in years and was ready to go to his rest.   

Finduilas was greatly saddened by his departure.  Afterwards, Denethor realized it was not Ecthelion’s departure that saddened her so much (though she loved her father-in-law), but Denethor’s becoming the Steward.  She wept as they left Mardil House to take their residence at the Steward’s house inside the White Tower. 

But as they entered the Tower she gave him a bright smile. “My Lord Steward,” she said with obvious love and pride, and she kissed him. 

She assumed her role as the Lady of Gondor excellently.  The feasts she threw were legendary, the Citadel sparkled under her care, and she oversaw the opening of some smaller Healing houses at the lower circles. 

What Denethor remembered most from those years were the nights they spent in his study.  He would sit at his desk, reading reports, writing missives and letters, planning and pondering, reckoning and reviewing.  She would sit on a chair near the fireplace, reading, writing or knitting, and humming as she did.  Denethor would grumble to her about the obstinacy of his council, about the high expense of maintaining Gondor’s forces, about how little time he had with her and their sons.  Sometimes her comments made him laugh; or her counsel made him see some matters more clearly; some other times, she was more indignant than he and offered to give certain obstinate lords a piece of her mind. 

From time to time she would come to Denethor, sit on his lap, and he would lay aside his worries for a moment, resting his head in her bosom.

...

A few years passed.  Their sons became young boys, their pride and joy.  Meanwhile, the shadow of Mordor grew darker.  

When Finduilas was with Denethor and the children, she smiled and laughed.  But it did not escape Denethor’s notice that when she thought he was not looking, her face grew grave.   

Her smile and laughter were not feigned, he knew her that much. After some time, he understood that the smile and laughter she gave him were the result of her conscious effort to keep his mind from worry.   

To his consternation, it took her rather long now to recover from a cold or other simple illnesses.  Finduilas had always been strong, what had happened?  The healers could not find any cause. 

The people closest to them began to notice her diminished joy.  Some whispered that she longed for the sea, for her land of birth, that she withered in the stone city.  She scoffed vehemently when she heard such whispers, and in the next Yestarë celebration, she displayed her paintings at Merethrond, all depicted different scenes of Minas Tirith.   

Yet Denethor wondered if there was some truth in these whispers.  For when they stood by the wall, her gaze often turned South, towards the sea.  And she looked happier when they were at Dol Amroth (they went there once a year).  When they were there, Denethor felt they were back in the years when they lived at Mardil House. 

Once, when they were at Dol Amroth, he asked her what caused her to lose joy, and what he could do to lessen her burden.   

She looked at him tenderly and wistfully (he would remember that look to his final days), and with her hands clasping his, she admitted that she did miss the sea, for where the sea was, there was no shadow.   

The shadow of Mordor weighed her heart, she admitted.  And the worst of all was that when she looked at their sons, she saw in her mind two young men, brave and noble, spending their life fighting a hopeless war, and this almost broke her heart. 

But then she lifted her chin and gave him a bright smile.  She was a daughter of princes, she said, strong enough to live amidst the looming shadow.  She would stand by his side till they grow old, he needs not worry and should focus his mind on his duties as the Steward. 

He gathered her in his arms and told her not to be so hard on herself.  If the shadow weighs her so, why not spend some time at Dol Amroth with the children?  But she would not hear of it.  The Lady of Gondor stays at the City, she said. 

...