Work Text:
Fengel has draped himself in luxury again, strutting into Meduseld in beautiful new silks, velvety furs, buttery leather. No prince of the Mark has ever been clothed in fabrics so grand, nor so expensive, and Folcwine can feel the disapproving glares as his son sweeps by in raiment whose price could feed all of Edoras for a week.
Will you say nothing against this? an incredulous advisor whispers.
He would if he could.
The waste is obscene, the political damage incalculable, and that is to say nothing of the rot that has begun to infect Fengel’s soul, turning him from a loving youth into a greedy, dissolute man. But who is Folcwine to criticize indulgence after his own act of profligacy? Fengel may drain the treasury for fine clothes, precious gems and imported wine to ease his aching heart, but Folcwine has spent two whole sons for only the glory of Gondor. No other king has ever been so wasteful. And so he closes his ears to the clucking tongues, he swallows his disgust, and he offers his only remaining son a gift that costs nothing but what is left of his own good name.
You look splendid, my boy.