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Fighting Aldarion is not going to make Asta fancy you, Branor had said. Coldan wasn't too drunk nor too enraged not to recognize truth when it bit him, even when it hurt as much as this. He even recognized Aldarion's right to complain about being slandered in his absence, and his zeal to correct the errors in the play. But that was beside the point; the play was the last thing on Coldan's mind now.
"I don't give an Orc's fart for your ambitions", he replied. "You didn't invent Mary, I'll give you zat; but it vouldn't be half as difficult to get rid of her now if you hadn't blown up her part so much at Éowyn's expense, only to include a love story between her and your own character. All for purely dramatic reasons, I suppose." He snorted contemptuously. "Tell zat to your granny. And yes, you suggested ve perform Children of Húrin instead of ze Var of ze Ring. Guess who as Nienor and Túrin. Do you really zink I am too daft to see vat's going on here?" The last sentence had come out as a yell, but the wrath in his voice died down again as quickly as it had flared up. "Not zat it matters anymore. If she really wants you, let her have you. But tell me one zing, Aldarion!" He leaned forward to place one hand on the back of Aldarion's chair, the other on the table, and brought his face close to the playwright's, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. "Do you at least love her truly, or are you just toying viz her as if she vere some strumpet from ze city? Answer me, Aldarion, or ze play can go to ze fires of Mount Doom for all I care."
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