sometimes you have to spell it out for him
Rupert had used the strange machines in the basement that he still didn't entirely know what to make of (not that this was in any way a deterrent) to clean his trousers and shirt, and was buttoning the latter up when he'd wandered amiably into the rec room to play billiards and found a letter sitting in the corner pocket. He had picked it up, frowning, and then spent a moment looking bemusedly over the writing on it. It was a letter addressed to his father, that had been forwarded to an Ankh-Morpork address- William's. He leaned against the pool table at his hip, unhurriedly drawing out the two pieces of paper, feeling smug about having found William's mail before he did, and then read it. It was rather long, and he skipped down to the end to see who it was from- Lord Ronald Rust, his regiment leader. Rupert frowned and went back to the top and made himself read it. It was bloody long, but complimentary. It used words like 'hero' and 'patriot', which were of course givens as the letter was about Rupert himself, and then it used words like 'fallen' and 'tragic' and 'leading the charge', and 'a strike with a sabre to the chest' and 'proud'.
I am sure you are proud.
As am I.
Having lead. Extraordinary young man. Glorious battle.
Words like that.
Rupert was very still for a long moment, clutching the paper so tightly it creased, folds rippling out from his fingers like a jaggedly constructed spiderweb. He closed his eyes hard, opened them, blinked again, and re-read the note. It hadn't changed. He balled his other hand up into a fist and pressed his knuckles against the ridge of the pool table to steady himself.
He read the letter again.
Fuck, he thought.
[Rupert's found his item! It's the letter written by the military informing his parents of his death on the battlefield. Open to all, not a great time to meet him. Unless you have a pup who likes to get into fights. Like, physical ones.]
I am sure you are proud.
As am I.
Having lead. Extraordinary young man. Glorious battle.
Words like that.
Rupert was very still for a long moment, clutching the paper so tightly it creased, folds rippling out from his fingers like a jaggedly constructed spiderweb. He closed his eyes hard, opened them, blinked again, and re-read the note. It hadn't changed. He balled his other hand up into a fist and pressed his knuckles against the ridge of the pool table to steady himself.
He read the letter again.
Fuck, he thought.
[Rupert's found his item! It's the letter written by the military informing his parents of his death on the battlefield. Open to all, not a great time to meet him. Unless you have a pup who likes to get into fights. Like, physical ones.]