A/N: 'Tis Roni of The Ginger Muffins speaking! I am ashamed to say I was wrong when I said I'd be doing little more on this site than one shots and contributions to the future Hot Wheels fic I'm doing with the other Muffins. Honestly, this thing really started out as just something to get out my fandom (which was recently reborn– whoo!), so that Jai didn't have to suffer it.

It's really little more than the expansion of an earlier version of the story I did two or so years ago. I'm also shameful to say that it has an OC extremely similar to myself involved. But hey– I like the idea! To counter this, though, I'm determined to keep all of the cliches to a bare minimum. I like the idea of being thrown headlong into the LotR-verse, and I want to focus on the trials and tribulations of that. Wether or not there'll be any romance involved... I'm reluctant to decide. After all, that would show up in its full much longer down the road if it were to be.

But I'm rambling! Let's get to the story, shall we?

Oh! And just as a disclaimer: Boromir, Faramir, and all of Middle-earth to not belong to me! They're J.R.R. Tolkien's sole possession. And kudos to Peter Jackson, Sean Bean, and David Weham for their superb portrayal of the brothers!

Chapter 1

When my father sneers, and I have seen it many times, it starts like a coy smile, then the corners of his mouth move swiftly downwards, and he bears his teeth on his right side.

Yesterday was no different when he received the news that Mithrandir was spotted in the lower rings of the city. I never did learn why he hated the old wizard so, especially when his counterpart, Curunir, has always been to widely accepted. Mithrandir hasn't been denied stay at Minas Tirith before, at least in my memories, but my father has always made it very clear that he wasn't welcome.

After Mithrandir took his leave this morning, it didn't take long for word to come to me that Father found a large toad in his bedchamber the previous evening. In winter! Of course, he accused Mithrandir of causing the strange occurrence. Only here do I say my brother and I had a good laugh together over it.

"Never trust old wise men." he joked.

And in an odd way, it's true.

T.A. 3008, January 18

- - - -

In Smalltown USA, it seems that the very day summer starts, everyone has their Yard Sale signs up. It's a strange phenomenon that spreads very quickly across the country as children are released from their schools into the free days that make up Summer Vacation.

I honestly don't mind it all. Yard sales to me are like vast treasure troves. There are so many slices of history and past beauty that you might not find anywhere else, much less for such a price! A lot of my prized trinkets and books are from these pockets of priceless pieces, including but not limited to: nearly the entire Dune series, a groovy desk lamp, an encyclopedia of herbs, a book on the history of Scotland, and a jade necklace that has a habit of sleeping and showering with me.

However, all of that was just junk compared to this one thing.

It was a particularly sunny afternoon, and a Friday. I always have yard sale cravings on Friday, especially when I get paid at my little job in the local coffee shop. So, with a fraction of my cash (What? Do you think I spend all of it on underpriced, overworn items?), I set out on a walk. Walking is the thing to do in Smalltown USA, after all.

I had passed by Mr. Ryan's house at least a thousand times before, but this time was different. He was throwing a yard sale! Mr. Ryan, about four and a half blocks south and a block west of my own abode, usually kept to himself. If I'm running to school early for whatever reason, I'd usually see him picking up the newspaper, wrapped up in a dark blue robe with a cup of tea in his hand, but that's probably the only time. He's remarkably nice, always giving compliments in his soft, proper, English voice. But, like I said, he kept to himself.

Anyway, I'm rambling. So, I was shocked, considering all I wrote above. But then, of course, I had to take a look around. I'll tell you, I was like a kid in a candy store, except it wasn't just the corner store down the street. It was a flippin' candy factory. And everything was up for grabs! A lot of them were just small things, probably brought over the pond from his native England. They were definitely on the old side, but they were beautifully old. Every blemish on the wood, every piece of discolored glass seemed just to add so much character to the antique itself. My eyes well up at the thought! I couldn't believe he was selling all of this!

"I'm getting old, child." he said when I told him, "I don't want to be put to rest in a cluttered house. Some things I can do without."

"Unlike your grandfather clock." I commented, grinning up at him.

I haven't been able to see it up close, but I have stolen glances of it through his front window in the morning and afternoon, and hear its deep chimes in the evening. It was tall, simple, but still had an air of elegance to it, much like Mr. Ryan himself.

He nodded an approval. His clear, blue eyes seemed to sparkle, as if recalling fond memories. "Yes, it's been like a companion to me. My house would be rather empty without it."

Of course, with my budget and such a feast for my collector's spirit, I had to choose carefully. I looked through many things: small tables and chairs, lamps (I decided I had enough of those), table clocks. There was a very precious-looking jewelry box that really tempted me, but I decided to keep looking. I had been running around for about an hour by then.

Then, something caught my eye amongst the piles upon piles of books the senior had for sale. It was relatively simple, just a leather-bound book tied closed. I guessed it was green, it was hard to tell with all the wear on the material. The edges of the pages were uneven, and looked yellow. Yet, it enchanted me somehow. It looked like it held such age and wisdom. And, of course, you know how I am with really old stuff. I'm an aspiring anthropologist, you know.

Anyway, it was around this time that Mr. Ryan found me again. "That's the journal of one of my ancestors, you know." he said.

I looked up at him with wide eyes. "Really?" I asked, sounding eight years younger than I actually was.

There was a twinkle in his eyes. "Of course. I researched it myself."

I was hooked. "Dude, can I have it?" I almost pleaded, my enthusiasm showing in my voice. If I was an animation at that moment, my eyes would have had stars in them.

"You have to pay for it, but yes." answered the man with a chuckle.

I flipped the book over, quickly locating the yellow dot on which the price was written. I cringed. Forty dollars. "Yikes." I looked up at Mr. Ryan, "I'm sure it's priced much cheaper than it probably is, but it's kind of out of my budget." I started to hand it back to him, but he pushed it back.

"Just for you, I'll half the price."

I gaped at him. "Really?" I asked again, in total disbelief. I shook my head. It just was too much. I couldn't do it and keep a clean conscience. "No, just hold onto it for me, and I'll come back in two weeks." I insisted.

Mr. Ryan tilted his head at me, a smile creeping across his wrinkled face. "Perhaps you'll take it for twenty-five?"

"Ehhhh..." I was tempted, but still reluctant.

"Thirty?"

I grimaced. It still seemed cheap for such a wonderful book, but I took it. "Sure."

I laughed as he put my two weeks' spending money in a small, metal box. "Reverse haggling!" I exclaimed, "That's got to be a first!"

With the sun nearing the horizon, we finally said our goodbyes. "You know..." said from the sidewalk, "If this turns out to be blank, I will be asking for my money back." It was possible, since I hadn't yet even stolen a glance at the thing from the inside.

Mr. Ryan smiled that same kind, knowing smile. "Let's hope it won't come to that."

When I finally got home, the sun was lower still, and the wispy clouds in the sky above were starting to turn vibrant shades of pink and gold. I let myself in; my mom was house-watching for a friend of our's, which meant I had the place to myself. Lucky me! I dumped my purse and the book on my bed, searching for a quick dinner. I spotted a Cup O' Noodles (teriyaki style, yum!), and threw it roughly together before tossing it in the microwave.

As it cooked, I wandered back to my room. The dying sunlight streamed in through a window, landing on the journal. It glowed tauntingly in the gold beams. I couldn't resist.

"Come here, you." I said, grabbing the book from my bed.

By then, the microwave was beeping, so I went and fetched my makeshift supper, grabbing my one of favorite pairs of lacquered chopsticks as I made it back to my bedroom. I sat cross-legged on top of the covers, setting my bowl in the space in the middle. I tried not to get sauce on the cover of the book as I attempted to untie the ribbon that was keeping the book closed. After a few moments, I set it down and gulped down some more noodles before I tried again.

After many minutes of wrangling the journal, my patience was rewarded as the two pieces of ribbon finally slid from each other's grasp. I felt my heart speed up as I pulled back the cover.

The first page was completely blank, except for a few symbols I couldn't distinguish. However, I recognized the lettering grouped bellow it, which I half-guessed was a translation. Unlike the symbols, the writing in English was a bit less neat. I squinted at the letters.

As of this day, the 2nd of January in the 3008th year in the Third Age of the Sun, I have decided to keep record of my days. So says I, Faramir son of Denethor, Captain of the Ithillien Rangers.