Minas Tirith, in the Fourth Age
He will be late again for dinner. It cannot be helped. Tomorrow morning the council meets, and he has not touched those papers yet. Across the room his daughter prowls. Recently she has been watching every scratch of his pen, every forkful of food.
“Out with it,” he says, at last.
“You never do anything for yourself! You should... you should find yourself a hobby!”
She is beautiful, on the cusp of womanhood. Fierce as her mother on his account. His life’s work: leaving her the world he never had.
“I already have a hobby, blackbird. I call it Gondor.”