Aranuir sat behind his desk, staring at the letter he was holding with his sausage-like fingers, reading it over and over again. Finally he laid the letter down on the desk and stroked back his thick, oily hair with his hand. ”Oh Radawen”, he sighed softly. ”Oh Radawen.”
Then Aranuir did something he did not often do: he pushed back his chair, lifted his massive body up and walked out of the Houses of Lore. Aranuir had never taken much care of his body or physical fitness, and the long walk from the Sage’s Tier to the Citadel was pure agony for him. Before he had even gotten to the Master’s Tier he was already breathing heavily and sweat was dripping from every pore of his skin.
The guards at the Gate of the Citadel looked at him suspiciously. Few people in Minas Tirith had the password for the highest level, and as Aranuir did not come here often, neither of the guards on duty remembered seeing him before. But Aranuir did know the password, so they had to let him pass.
He walked to the doors of the Southern Great Guesthouse, where the most respected visitors to Minas Tirith were housed. Aranuir had to explain his business to the guard and show him a piece of parchment before he was allowed to enter.
Aranuir found the steward of the guesthouse in the main hall, near the enormous fireplace, and exchanged a few words with him. The steward showed him to the library in the southeast corner of the building. The man he had come to see was sitting on a huge chair in a shadowy corner of the library. He noticed Aranuir’s arrival, but did not stand up to greet him. He was waiting for Aranuir to speak first.
”I just received a letter from Radawen”, Aranuir began.
”I thought she left the Houses of Lore for good.”
”She did. But she sent me a letter from Imloth Melui.”
”Yes?” said the man in a patient, neutral tone of voice. ”Does that have something to do with me?”
”Not directly, no. But she mentioned the other man, the one we were talking about. He has started writing a diary. And Saruman has sent a man from Isengard to keep an eye on him.”
”Extraordinary”, said the man, flipping a page on a book on his lap.
”I just wanted to let you know.”
”Right”, said the man, sounding a little bored now. ”It’s been bothering me from the beginning.”
”I am the Warden of the Houses of…”
”I know, I know. I’m not meddling with the running of your office. But this affair should have been handled a little more… delicately… from the beginning.”
”Radawen is a historian”, Aranuir said grumpily, as if that would explain everything.
”Right. Good for her!” The man let out an obscene imitation of a laughter, a dry cackle which made Aranuir suddenly feel very old and tired.
”What do you want to know?”
”That’s just it”, said the man. ”I can’t tell you that without revealing my secret, and then what secret would it be?” He cackled again.
After a moment of silence the man spoke again: ”We’ll let things develop on their own weight for a while. Let’s see how far they go before I have to intervene. Although I would prefer if I didn’t have to intervene at all.”
”Right”, Aranuir said.
”Keep me posted!”
”I will.”
Aranuir walked the long and exhaustive journey back to the Houses of Lore and slumped heavily on the chair behind his desk, wheezing and wiping sweat off his wide forehead. After his breath had steadied a little, he picked up the letter from the table and read it again.
Oh Radawen, he thought. Poor, dear Radawen. His heart ached when he thought of Radawen and himself.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, he burst into tears.
