Guests for Supper [March 3011] [Hurin]
Nov 6, 2018 17:45:01 GMT -5
Post by DENNY on Nov 6, 2018 17:45:01 GMT -5
Another day. Another day of grey gloom on the horizon, and the Steward of Gondor looked out over the precipice which faced Osgiliath, the fallen city. Beyond loomed the Mountains of Shadow. Black upon the horizon were the mountains though streams of light from the western sunset gleamed red over the once-capitol of Gondor. Now the white stone was turned to grey, and the light cast orange upon it.
“Wreathed in flame,” Denethor muttered to himself, as if it would have looked any other way. A foretelling of their doom at hand. The Steward sighed, melancholy and felt the groan of his stomach telling him that supper was likely set upon the table. The citadel servants with their small minds would be fumbling, trying to keep things warm while they waited upon him. Troubling themselves over the small details of life, which in the end would make no difference. Minas Tirith too would glow red; his own city would crumble and burn, and he knew this.
Denethor spun on his heels and began the long march back from the brink toward the citadel. The White Tower of Ecthelion loomed overhead; the symbol of his forbears. Now looking down upon he, the Steward. His two sons yet heirless; wasting their blood, though it too mattered not when doom was near at hand. Yet still, an inner flicker within the man that his line should continue after him.
His footsteps had echoed along the courtyard when eventually coming into the great hall, his table was laid for supper, piled with food and drink fit for a king, though he was no king. He was only the placeholder for one.
Tonight, there were extra seats set. Guests. Yes, he had expected them, and the Steward had kept them waiting while he was in thought. His eyes turned on the figures who had joined him. A brow raised as he looked upon Hurin, his departed wife’s sister-son. His nephew, as it were, from the far reaches. He had another man with him, Garulf. One of the Eorlingas, though the Steward and did not acknowledge him. “You come bearing news of Lond Galen?” he asked the young Hurin, though is voice was rigid, there was no lilt to his question. The steward picked up the cloth napkin at his place as he sat down, and tucked it into the neck of his black robes.
“Wreathed in flame,” Denethor muttered to himself, as if it would have looked any other way. A foretelling of their doom at hand. The Steward sighed, melancholy and felt the groan of his stomach telling him that supper was likely set upon the table. The citadel servants with their small minds would be fumbling, trying to keep things warm while they waited upon him. Troubling themselves over the small details of life, which in the end would make no difference. Minas Tirith too would glow red; his own city would crumble and burn, and he knew this.
Denethor spun on his heels and began the long march back from the brink toward the citadel. The White Tower of Ecthelion loomed overhead; the symbol of his forbears. Now looking down upon he, the Steward. His two sons yet heirless; wasting their blood, though it too mattered not when doom was near at hand. Yet still, an inner flicker within the man that his line should continue after him.
His footsteps had echoed along the courtyard when eventually coming into the great hall, his table was laid for supper, piled with food and drink fit for a king, though he was no king. He was only the placeholder for one.
Tonight, there were extra seats set. Guests. Yes, he had expected them, and the Steward had kept them waiting while he was in thought. His eyes turned on the figures who had joined him. A brow raised as he looked upon Hurin, his departed wife’s sister-son. His nephew, as it were, from the far reaches. He had another man with him, Garulf. One of the Eorlingas, though the Steward and did not acknowledge him. “You come bearing news of Lond Galen?” he asked the young Hurin, though is voice was rigid, there was no lilt to his question. The steward picked up the cloth napkin at his place as he sat down, and tucked it into the neck of his black robes.
