Thorondir

How long had it been since Théoden had last done much of anything?

The thought wracked Thorondir Serrett constantly now. His father, long relegated to his own small corner of Silverhill, had sprung for the first time in some years to activity. The matters of running Silverhill had fallen firmly into Thorondir's hands in the time since, and he had thought himself doing an excellent job of it. The mines remained open and active, with the new veins opened nearly every year, and the villages thrived around the great palace even as snow now dotted the land. He had begun, recently, thinking of transforming the treasury's excess to some greater project, though he was uncertain of where to direct it.

It was late in the afternoon when his father called for him. Thorondir took his time, wandering from his and his wife's chambers over to his father's study in the central keep. Arriving close to nightfall, Thorondir found Théoden seated facing a window that looked out onto the eastern hills.

"Father," Thorondir said, clearing his throat.

Théoden waived his son to him with two fingers.

"I plan on taking a short trip," Théoden said, "First south to Goldengrove," he looked over to his son, "Thráin is yet to be promised to anyone, as memory serves."

A frown flickered over Thorondir's lips. As ever, he thought. When had it been that Théoden Serrett would consult his own kin on anything? Thorondir realized that, whatever small hope had grown in him that his father might have softened somewhat in his queer self-exile were dashed.

"I will need to speak with Rosalyn," Thorondir said.

"I will not have that simpering idiot near my family's matters while I still breathe," Théoden said, his voice unwavering, "My brothers remain elusive or turncoat, my nephew out of reach."

A sneer crawled over Thorondir's lips, "And what of your other son?"

"I have sent a letter. He will return."

"He despises you."

"As do you, yet you remain."

Thorondir did not know how to respond to that, and when his silence began to stretch, Théoden resumed, "I will negotiate whatever match needs be made and you and your... wife, will agree."

Thorondir remained silent.

"After that, I will be riding northward to Casterly Rock. I must have words with Lady Joanna and young Lord Tybolt. It has been too long since House Serrett has moved its pieces."

Thorondir spoke then, "They won't take you back as Treasurer."

"I do not intend to be restored," Théoden said, flicking his hand in a dismissive swish, "I intend to ensure our place is once again firm."

Thorondir felt something stir, "And whose fault is it that we no longer hold a voice in the Rock?"

Théoden glanced at his son. It was the same glance, the same withering look that plagued Théoden all throughout his childhood. His muddy eyes felt like the weight of some great collapsing cave pressing in on Thorondir. How was it that this man could still fill Thorondir's stomach with terror?

"I need you to prepare. We have much work to do," Théodin said, and turned back to the window.

Théowine

The letter sat open on his table and Théowine Serrett was wholly unsure of what to do with it. It had come to him when they last reached port, brought by raven and then by courier, apparently. It had been so long since he last stepped foot in Silverhill, since that last conversation with his father. He would be lying to himself if he didn't admit he missed some part of it all. The hills and the rivers, the great halls lined with dancing silver. The smell of the silversmiths and the way voices echoed. Gods help me, he missed his brother and his nephew and his niece. He wondered how his uncles faired and his aunts. So long away and so many people put away into the furthest corners of his mind.

And then there was his father.

It hurt to think of him. To try and pull apart all the pieces of the man. There was so much anger, so much hurt. He missed the man he remembered and loathed the man he knew.

But.

He muttered. What could he do?

Perhaps.

Perhaps.

First, though, he would need to speak with Gael.