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Boys Will Be Boys (Director's cut, slightly more than 100 words)
What made Boromir open his eyes was the scent of cinnamon.
He remembered running, on a dare, along the top of the high stone wall. Stumbling, falling, the sickening thud as he landed, forgetting altogether that marvelous drop-and-roll that the younger guardsmen had taught him.
He remembered howling, thrashing, as the healers reset his shoulder, bound his collarbone, arm, and wrist.
He didn’t want to remember any more. Mostly, he wanted to be dead: from the embarrassment, the humiliation, the pain. How could he ever be Captain-General if he could not stand pain without wailing like a baby?
For two days he slept, or pretended to, ignoring every visitor. No head injury, my Lord, this is very odd indeed, he heard, screwing his eyes shut.
On the third day, what made him open his eyes was the scent of cinnamon: a bowl of creamy porridge, a baked apple, a cup of sweet milky tea.
“Time for breakfast, my lamb!” Mag chirped.
Perhaps he would live, after all.
For the "Change of Heart" challenge at tolkien_weekly
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