Rank

“Hrawlllachkh!”


In the cool washroom the Lord Steward squatted in his night clothes. On the floor before him, hugging a chamber pot, lay his firstborn. Through watery eyes Boromir met his father’s gaze, and promptly sent another eruption splattering into the pot.

Denethor wrinkled his nose.

“Lieutenant?”

One soldier stepped forward, uncertainly.

“You were … celebrating?”

“Lord, we –”

“Youngest, Father,” Boromir rasped, grinning through the snot and spit; “youngest to make Captain in an Age. Even younger than you –” then a fresh spasm twisted his gut.

Standing, Denethor looked down at his son – reeking, puke-stained, and proud – and nodded.

“Carry on.”







(Thanks to Rhapsody for her ideas on Gondorian order of rank - she didn't know what she was associating herself with!)