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Sador seemed as surprised as Gloredhel by Aldarion's blunt, unadorned approach, and not a little dissatisfied, too.
"Hang on, friends, let's pause here, I feel that wasn't quite right. Do it again, Aldarion. Bring out the expression that made your Ar-Pharazon infamous, sir! You are the most notorious turncoat of the Elder Days now, and one of the slyest speakers. You are delivering an apparently innocuous greeting, but some of its words carry deeper meanings. Stress them:
"Cousin. Your knowledge of an incestuous draw burns at your heart day and night. Mortal. You know your rival is doomed to wither and die. Dearly. More dearly that the upstart can afford. These words drive you mad, and reveal your soul to each spectator...if not to Idril herself. Like this...if you'll allow me?"
And Sador, who seemed to be acting under a quite extra-rational impulse, took Aldarion's first leaf and read out the snatch of blank verse again. Like the player, he scorned to attempt any Quenyan lilt. This was no stylised imitation of an Elf from legend, but the heartfelt cry a man in pain. He was playing himself, intensified, simplified, purified. Most striking of all, he had slipped into addressing not the whole room, but one other, facing Gloredhel in the most naturalistic manner.
And he absolutely had not intended to. As he reached the third line he reddened in abashment. "Of course, I lack your experience, Master Aldarion, and you must forgive the liberty I have taken. Your Maeglin must be your own, not mine, and...I shall be interested to see it." He passed back the sheet of vellum with a slight but palpable shudder...
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