Denethor paced the Merethrond impatiently. Stars! Why was it taking the fellow so long to respond to his message? No doubt, Thorongil would have an excuse as usual about being about urgent business for the Steward.

Denethor was baffled why his father was so taken with the sellsword captain. No doubt, Thorongil had grown up sleeping on straw in some northern hovel and was eager to make his fortune, but why did he have to come here and make such an exhibition of himself? Always, Thorongil was trying to ingratiate himself with the Steward, with the men, or even with the common folk. The fools were taken in by him too. He could hardly fault the common folk for falling for the northerner’s charm and smooth tongue, but his father was renowned as a man of wisdom! Where was the key to the enigma of Thorongil? How could Ecthelion prefer the counsel of a sellsword to the word of his son and heir?

Denethor glanced upwards at the magnificent chandelier lit in honour of the Mettarë feast. Thorongil would be quite overawed. Surely, he had never seen the like before. He would not even know what it was!

“You summoned me, my lord?”

Denethor started. Why must Thorongil always move like a cat?

“I wanted to show you our feasting hall at its finest,” Denethor said pleasantly.

Thorongil looked around him until his gaze came to rest on the chandelier.

Denethor waited expectantly.

“A fine chandelier!” Thorongil remarked. “It reminds of the house where I was brought up. My kinsman had two that were lit every evening in the winter. I used to amuse myself trying to count the candles. Is there anything else, my lord?”

Thorongil went on his way whistling cheerfully. Denethor could only watch him stride away.