Playing
I came running at the screeches from the nursery.
The room was a mess -- wooden soliders and blocks underfoot, overturned chairs, a water pitcher shattered on the floor-- and the midst of this chaos, Boromir flat on his stomach, Faramir sitting on his shoulders, pummeling his brother with small fists, yelling, "Do you yield?"
"Faramir son of Denethor!" I shouted, disbelieving.
They both turned toward me, startled, but Faramir showed no inclination to move.
"What is going on here?" I demanded.
They exchanged puzzled glances.
"Nothing," Boromir said as he sat up.
"We're just playing," Faramir agreed.
Not for the first time, I wondered how much simpler my life would be if the Steward had had girls.