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Carefully as I examined the seals they appeared untouched. The superlatives therein – skilled, wise, clever, friend - could have been from Thengel. But he is not enough for Gondor, this unknown not-Rohirrim who seeks a place at my father’s court. For courtesy, he will dine with us tonight, put last and least below the salt at my birthday feast. Tomorrow, father and I decided, he will go to Lebennin where they are not so choosy whom they hire. I stand beside father as he welcomes him and see myself in a distorted mirror, taller than most, dark hair, grey eyes. Father points to the star he wears pinned to his left breast. “Not a dragon for the north?” he chides the stranger. “No, my Lord Steward. Though I saw King Bard, who slew Smaug, once in my youth. This,” he touches the star, “was my father’s.” “Well, Denethor,” father turns to me with a smile on his face. “We will have new stories from our new captain. I’m sure you have a place for him in your guard.” “Thank you, sir.” He bows formally. “It has been my dream to serve Gondor.” My hands clench as they walk away together.
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