Written for the "Wrath" challenge at Tolkien_weekly.

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"Is the lord Denethor here?"

The guards fell back without a word. He is your liegelord, Imrahil thought, yet the blood sang in his ears like the tide. With careful steps, he crossed the hall. He bore a heavy burden, but he dared not stumble or falter.

"Your son has returned, lord, after great deeds."

Denethor rose from his seat.

Your kinsman and friend, Imrahil repeated, as he dropped to one knee. Gently, he lowered his nephew to the floor. Yet how he burned to raise a mailed fist! To strike that proud face and shatter that cold ivory mask.