Minas Tirith rose like a spear of defiance into the sky. The young prince watched the older expectantly.
“You will follow in your father’s footsteps as lord of this tower, holding it against the coming of our enemy or his armies. Will you prepare for this?”
“Yes I will,” the youth responded. “I swear to be the loyal defender of this, your Tower.”
“Good!” Finrod replied and knelt with his arms extended. Artanaro, already called Gil-galad, ran into his uncle’s hug as Orodreath, his father looked on proudly.
“Brother, my son will hold this citadel as I have held it, come what may.”
Finrod hid his face in Gil-galad’s hair so that his fear, born of foresight, would not show.