Ever the fan of the Steward's family, Celandine asked for anything concerning its members.
He'd always had a head for patterns. As a lad, he read his politics with The Geometry at hand. A sword's arc, a house's angles, a wheel's turnthese drew his eye, while the minstrel's song had him noting: third, whole, sixth, ninth. He saw golden angles in flowers, saw vectors in every colonnade, and Noldolantė was so many differential lines, traced in the mind's eye.
Boyhood's long gone when over breakfast one day, he listens to Faramir discuss Mithrandir's lecture on history. "What do you think?" his son asks.
Denethor considers, then shrugs. "It's all a matter of timing."