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The Gondorian troupe is a rag-tag bunch of ruffians, and even as Thengel sits enraptured by their stories, their shadow-puppet-play, his servants watch them, taking stock of bowls and spoons after each meal, of sheets, spreads and splints of firewood each morning after they rise. Servant girls report to Thengel-king at nightfall, whispering tales of troupe movements to the floor, too scared to look up into his gentle eyes.
But the wandering band continues to please him, does not take advantage of the hospitality of the House of Eorl, and each evening, just as twilight begins to creep over Halifirien, candle after candle are lit in Meduseld and the shadowy figures of Elendil, Isildur and Anárion flicker and dance across the stone walls.
Théoden sits at his father's feet, rests his head against Thengel's knees. Thengel's hand is warm and heavy as he cards his fingers through his son's hair. Théoden finds the shadow-dance almost as fascinating as his father, almost as entertaining as his sister, who claps her hands in delight as she tries to learn the words to each new tale.
In the middle of the night, when the candles have been snuffed and the curtains drawn against the cooling air, Théodwyn whispers in the dark, retelling snippets of her favourite stories, giggling over the players' funny voices and strange, misshapen puppets. Théoden tries to put a name to it for her -- satire -- but she will not listen. She is too young, too eager and earnest to be able see past the comic veneer to the pain and bitterness of kingdoms lost underneath.
But while Gondorian history flutters darkly across carved wood and stone it does not burn bright like the raised voices of the Rohirrim, and gradually Théoden realizes that he misses the splashes of colour, the blazing, heroic deeds of Eorl immortalized in song.
He wonders, as his head rests on his father's knee, who will sing his praises when he has passed beyond. He wonders if he will be welcomed into that after-life, or if he will fade until he is nothing more than another shadow in a sad puppet show. Will the Rohirrim sing of him while in bawdy houses, before a hunt, to mark the loss of another young man to the Dunlendings, or will he one day be worthy of the same verse that even now begins to ring across the plains, praising his father's rule?
The dark figures of the shadow-dancers hold no answers for him.
Tomorrow he will rise early, shake off the shadows and stand in the sun, absorb the light of Edoras, listening for the first few strains of his own song.