Disclaimer: Tolkien’s Steward… Kortirion’s words.
He'd inherited his father’s desk, along with his father’s paper-work. Reports, inventories, duty-lists... all passed over his desk; carried by attentive secretaries dedicated to keeping the administration of Minas Tirith functioning... relatively smoothly. Yet all could be swept aside in an instant when his belovéd Lady Finduilas appeared. Matters of State could wait in favour of perusing her newly completed embroidery, or her latest purchase of fine damasked silk. The flimsy documents of office were no chain for him then.
But later, he built high walls of paper none could scale, and behind them he lived his life in isolation.