A/N: It's all Tolkien's. I can't even claim my loyalist soldier here when he won't tell me his name, now, can I? All grammar mistakes within should be intentional. The muse was overly fond of sentence fragments.
Don't need a king; we've got Denethor.
Denethor? What do you mean 'who's Denethor?' He might not be the friendliest lord we've ever had, but nothing gets by our old Steward. Sees everything. They say he even has spies the Dark Lord doesn't know about. In the black lands, even. Some say that he can even spy on old Red Eye's very thoughts. I'd like to see a king do that! What would some northerner know of Gondor that our lord wouldn't? They're all thieves, anyway.
Eh, we got taxes, and we lose a few battles, but what land isn't plauged by such ills? Never said our lord was perfect. Does his best, though. Doesn't spend our hard-earned pennies on silly parties, like some of these jumped-up princelings. 'Tis all business in Minas Tirith, and I likes it that way.
What princelings? Oh, I couldn't rightly say. All right, ask me more about Forlong the Fat when we're at a pub. Not out here.
Yes, Minas Tirith's still all business. Getting drunk is very serious business; I'll have you know. Even our beloved Captain-General wasn't known to turn down every ale offered to him.
Damn finest tactician I ever saw. Off the battlefield, he always had a good word for the boys, and a nasty right hook if they got out of line. Even his own brother, the boy he loves more than life itself. One of the captain's "love pats" and they step rightly enough, I tell you. Once said we were all his little brothers, who he was gonna bring to battle and bring back home, all safe and sound. The old war dogs just nodded and smiled, of course, but then he did. Did it again and again, miniumum casualties. 'Twas not only an honor to serve in his group, it was lucky. He was born to fight, and adapted to leading quick enough. We lost men, fine ones; don't get me wrong, but when you stood next to him, you felt invincible. Just the way he grinned into the maw. Eru, he was mad as a stoat, but somehow he made it work. Turned all that fire onto the enemies, and they ran right quick. They didn't mess with his little brothers, not if they wanted to see the sun rise.
Don't know where he got it from. His pa's colder than an ice cache in the dead of winter, and twice as hard as stone, and his mama, for all her spirit, withered away from her homeland. But the captain, he just takes troubles as they come, embraces them. Some said he fought so hard because he's running from something, - his life, or a woman. Well, I don't know about that. I never saw him with a girl, or a boy, either, for that matter. I figure if the captain was ever scared of something, I ought to be afraid of it too. He didn't scare easily, and he didn't go out looking for death, not in the time I knew him. Death came to him, and he faced it down. Morgoth's balls, he beat it down. Until the very last time, he battled death, and he won.
A born warrior, he was. But not much of a politician. You don't learn much of that fancy courtly stuff from killing orcs. He faced every meeting with the same intensity as a battle. 'Twas harder for him, I bet. Would clam up if ever one of us asked about it, but you hardly had to bribe the pageboys to hear tales of the Captain-General's latest battle. 'Tis for the best, I suppose, that his brother's taking over the Stewardship, but it's a damned shame, you know? We still got Denethor, at least. He'll get us safely through the war and this silly king business.