Summary: Boromir and Faramir have a little sister who wants to be just like them. Her sixteenth birthday is coming soon, and it's time for her to grow up. Will she learn what it takes to be a real lady? How?

Author's Notes: This story was originally Summer in Dol Amroth. However, I have been unsatisfied with my work, and rather than going back and replacing chapters and knocking everything out of wack, I've just decided to re post it. Aerwyn has been changed, and some circumstances will be different as well. Bear with me, please. Take note that Silmarien's name is pronounced Sil MAH ree EN. Her nickname is pronounced MAH ree.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the world of Middle Earth. I just play in it.

It was late March, and winter was lifting its last finger from holding on. It wasn't too cold, considering Gondor was in the southern regions of Arda. But it was chilly to the inhabitants of Minas Tirith. Children's games were indoors, for the most part.

Boromir strode through the streets of the second circle of the city, on his way back to the citadel. Having just got off duty, he looked forward to a warm bath and an evening with his family. The twenty- five-year-old Captain heir of Gondor smiled at the thought of his family. Faramir would be home soon, and they would meet each other in the large sitting room that belonged to the Steward's family where the ranger would embrace him and then immediately bury his nose in a book. Then Denethor would make his entrance, and complain about all the diplomats he had to meet and the paperwork he had to sign. Then, the troublemaker...Silmarien, the youngest member of the family.

Ah, how Boromir smiled at the thought of his baby sister. Named after an ancient Numenorian queen, she was fifteen years old. Boromir loved her greatly and tolerated her tomboyish behavior because she looked up to him so much. Often, she would ask if she could accompany him to the walls. He always said no, but heard her vow that she would one day be a warrior just like her brother. Her nature was blunt, her personality fiery and playful.

Silmarien would burst in as if she had not seen them in years and embrace them all so very heartily. Then she would recount to them any pranks that she had played that day. Father would pretend to be angry, but his laughing eyes always gave him away. Yet Silmarien always waited until she was only with Faramir and him until she told the especially good pranks. The elder son of the Steward always treasured her trust, and many inside jokes were developed between the three of them.

Boromir finally reached his bed chambers and drank some wine while his manservant helped him out of his armor. He was then left alone to rest and bathe before the evening meal. Taking his half-finished wine to the bath with him, Boromir stepped into the soothingly warm water, rested his head on the rim of the tub and draped his arms over the side. Closing his eyes, the Captain heir sighed, realizing once again how good his life was.

A series of loud crashes, thuds, cries and scufflings caused his eyes to fly open. Only one name resounded through the stone walls of the palace. "Silmarien!!" A delighted peal of laughter followed.

Boromir laughed loudly, half hoping his voice would be heard by his little sister. "Ah, my little raven. Who is your victim today?" he said, looking at the goblet of wine. The tales in the sitting room tonight were sure to be absolutely tickling.

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Not everyone was pleased by Silmarien's victories. Her cousin Barahir certainly wasn't. Especially since he had been the butt of the prank she had just played. Imrahil threw open the door of the council room to find his oldest son on the floor underneath a statue. Denethor was close behind him, trying to hide his merriment behind a scowl. The Prince of Dol Amroth gave his niece a glare that would make an orc slink away.

Mari never showed any fear. She was too busy laughing and clutching her sides. Her hair, the color of a night without neither moon nor stars, was swept off her neck and held by combs, but some strands had escaped. Her five foot two inch frame shook with giggling, her fair skin becoming quite rosy. Her adolescent eyes were grey, and danced with laughter now.

"Silmarien, what has happened?" Imrahil asked through grit teeth, trying not to scream at his beloved niece.

She took several breaths before she answered. "Barahir ran into a statue and knocked it over!"

"Daughter, help your cousin up," Denethor commanded, to keep his smile from insulting his kinsman. The Steward always made sure he pulled long faces at his child's behavior publicly, but behind closed doors, he encouraged her by asking that she retell the tale.

Prince Imrahil lifted the statue from trapping his son, and set it back in its original position while Silmarien dusted him off. Barahir scowled mightily and shook her away. "I'm alright," he growled, turning on his heel and stomping off. Silmarien ran the opposite way in search of the hiding friends who had helped her in her prank.

"A word with you, kinsman," Imrahil turned his glare to Denethor, taking his arm to lead him back into the council room. Denethor poured a glass of wine, offering it to the other, who had come just that afternoon. The lord refused it, sitting at the table.

"We must speak of dear niece's behavior. Every year I visit you, Steward, and every year your daughter abuses my son. Her etiquette is ghastly; her mind is not fixed on propriety. You have failed to bring her up as a woman, friend." Denethor did not answer. "Finduilas would be horrified."

At this, the Ruling Steward closed his eyes, lowering his head. Imarhil knew he had stricken a weakness and immediately became remorseful. "Must you bring my wife into this?" he asked. His heart still hurt over his beloved's death, even now.

The tall man calmly backed off and switched tactics. "Would you have your daughter then grow up to be like one of the Rohirrim? So blunt, unrefined and completely distasteful? How will you have her marry? As it is, she is fit for one of the Wildmen!"

"What would you have me do, Imrahil? I have not the heart to punish my daughter's lively spirit, nor do I have the will."

"Let her come to Dol Amroth. Lothiriel will be a better influence, for she is gentler of heart. Come, give me the summer, and she will return to you better manageable."

The Steward wondered how his kinsman would desire her to behave. Calm, quiet and peaceful, no doubt, he thought, and much too grown up for her good. But he is right. I have neglected her upbringing.

Nodding, Denethor spoke. "You're right, Lord Imrahil. My daughter has not had the proper upbringing she should have. If it pleases you, I will send her to Dol Amroth. Hopefully she will return the wiser for it. She needs to grow up."

Glad that his friend had finally seen reason, Imrahil rose and extended his hand. They shook on it, agreeing that Silmarien shall arrive in the city of her mother near the end of May and spend an entire three months there.

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What do you guys think? I know it sounds the same as Summer in Dol Amroth, but give me time! I'll make it better, I promise!