Knowing Too Much
Denethor wanted a report on their progress and I had delayed far too long.
"Draw a picture of Númenor, then you may go."
Boromir, thirteen, snorted and tossed a stick of charcoal to his brother. I did not look up as footsteps trotted out of the room a few minutes later. Report finally finished, I stood to tidy the tables before I left. Faramir still sat at his desk, his white face a stark contrast to the blackened paper, rubbing the stub of charcoal across the page, always left to right.
"The wave comes, and it is all dark afterwards."
(100 words)