A/N: Roni again! With the second chapter! Yes, I know, I only started putting this up yesterday, but I'm in truth working on the fourth chapter currently.

And yes to the fact that things are going slowly. If you're looking for high action, you're probably not going to get it here, sorry! Things do start happening in the next chapter, though. Promise!

Boromir, Faramir, and all of Middle-earth belongs to the awesome J.R.R. Tolkien. I only own this silly, nameless teenager. :D Oh! And a round of applause and praise for Peter Jackson, Sean Bean, and David Wenham for their first-rate depiction of the brothers!

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I spent most of today in the libraries again. I found some new books, hidden behind the many stacks of others. A few of them date back almost to the beginning of the line of Ruling Stewards, which interests me. Beyond that time period, the script seems to change, to the point that I can't hardly understand it. This, I could still recognize, though, so it occupied me far into the evening. Boromir was already fast asleep in our bedchamber by the time I emerged. It's odd how such works can consume time so quickly...

T.A. 3008, March 14

I had to look again. '...Faramir son of Denethor...'. That couldn't be right!

If you don't know who Faramir is, you shouldn't be reading this. After all, it does shape the entire story, if you haven't guessed that already.

To be honest, I was (and still am) a big fan of J.R.R. Tolkien's works, particularly the Lord of the Rings trilogy. The stories of such magnificent civilizations, epic battles, and most of all, the rich history that he put into every word just... did something to me, I guess. I'll go so far as to even say that it sparked my interest in history, then anthropology. I wanted to be the one to dig up Minas Tirith one day, or discover the original Red Books of Westmarch.

Of course, I was older and more mature by the time I plucked the journal from Mr. Ryan's sale pile, having abandoned childish dreams like that. So, now, to be staring in the face of what could be the actual writing of one of the characters in the famous tale of the end of the Third Age (and one of my favorite characters, too, aside from his older brother, Boromir) was mind-blowing.

Denial set in. No... that couldn't be it! I thought, It's got to be a hoax. But then, several other questions set in. If it was a hoax, why go through the effort of writing so many pages? This, of course, came up as I flipped through the book. The pages were downright covered with writing.

Was Mr. Ryan lying when he said that it was the journal of one of his ancestors? He'd be related to Faramir! It couldn't be a hoax, then. He said he did all the research. But, what was there to research? All I knew of things related to Middle-earth were the books! And if I remember right, the farthest Faramir's line ever went was his son, Barahir!

I sighed heavily. Just chill out. I told myself. Just read some and see how it turns out.

By then, I'd completely abandoned my noodles, laying half-empty beside me. I gingerly turned the page.

It's odd, sitting here, writing my thoughts. I believe I was encouraged to try it out when I was younger, nigh after my mother died. One of the maids said that I had a knack for words, and that it might help any pent-up feelings I had. Of course, I never did so.

I'm skeptical about such things at the moment, but I've read the documents from previous kings and ruling stewards before in the Steward's Library, so perhaps it will work out. But for now, I will keep with just recalling events of the day.

This day was quiet, though, with Boromir gone to Osgiliath, and I have been lost in thought. That's probably how the memory came to me, and sparked me to start this journal. As of now, I am unsure as to if I should thank the Valar or not.

T.A. 3008, January 2

I frowned. It sure did sound like Faramir, and a lot of what he spoke of and how he spoke it pointed towards authenticity. My heart swelled for a moment, at the thought of being able to know Faramir on such a level. If he was a real historical figure, what an experience to read his works!

However, I was still doubting. It was only one entry that I had read. A few more would solidify my belief.

As I read the next pages, I was thrown into the life of Faramir. He accounted well all that he did, what was happening at that time, and so on. He wrote close to every day, even if it was just a few sentences for each one. After a while, I had forgotten about my study, and was just reading for the sheer pleasure. And what a pleasure it was! I was almost giddy with excitement. The events were normal, with Boromir returning from Osgiliath, two welcoming parties (one being the entire court, another just the two brothers), slow winter days, and so on. However, it just captured me. Sometimes, I glanced up at the original script, trying to draw anything from his handwriting. I almost wished I could read in Westron, so I wouldn't have to settle with the scribbled translation. I half-wondered who had translated it before I dove back into the journal.

It is interesting bring this book with me on excavations in Ithilien. However, if I am to keep writing such as I have been, it is best.

Even though I have been called down here by my men because of some strange sightings, today has been remarkably uneventful. Quite a few of the rangers claim they saw a strange creature wandering about the lands, although none have been able to spot him since I came. A few have guessed that it knows it's being watched, and has hidden. I am doubtful, but no one truly knows what it is, so it's intelligence cannot be guessed. As such, it is still possible. I plan on staying for a few more nights, and will return to Minas Tirith if nothing else comes up.

A few of my men have noticed me writing, it seems. Jokes have been passed round, and a few of the bold have tried to steal a look. Of course, it's all in good jest. Even so, I will not give them the satisfaction of getting a peep, especially now that I have nothing else to say.

T.A. 3008, January 11

Nothing today. I spent most of my time either scouting with my men or other idle things in Henneth Annun. Either way, there were no sightings of the strange creature or anything out of the ordinary. Only the looming darkness in the East unsettles us.

T.A. 3008, January 12

Still nothing. If there's nothing by morning, I will be setting back home. Storm clouds gather in the North.I should hope the first rain of the year doesn't come on my return.

T.A. 3008, January 13

No new reports came in the morning that enforced my stay, so I set off back home with a few of my men. For the marches that took us to Minas Tirith, nothing hindered us. However, as I feared, the clouds waited until my homecoming to release their load. My entire company was soaked and sneezing by the time we reached Ecethelion's Tower.

As I also predicted, the welcome I received wasn't any warmer than the weather. Of course, much of the people were forced inside, but not many more than those that endured the rain would have come to greet me if the Sun were shining brightly.

Of course, my father didn't change our ritual. He listened dully to my report and released me soon after.

Only Boromir succeeded in bringing me from my dark mood. We started the hearth in our chamber and shared a few tankards of ale. I told him of the empty summoning to Ithilien, and he listened intently.

"Well, at least it got you from your library!" he joked.

I couldn't help but laugh with him, but after it faded to chuckling, I asked him, "How long are you going to tease me like that?"

He grinned at me. "Until our s." he said, "As long as you keep laughing."

T.A. 3008, January 15

At this time, I took another breather. I found my thoughts still floating amongst Faramir's words, though. I saw his relationship between his father and brother clearer than I had before. I saw his land through his eyes, without any maps or pictures. Just his words gave me the image. The White Tower stood like it did in the stories; Ithilien's cautious beauty was the same, but they held an almost personal touch, something from someone who had walked their paths for many years. I counted to myself, and estimated it was around twenty-five years. For Boromir, it was thirty. I shook my head in amazement.

Finally, I found myself able to step a little farther away from the story, and return to my original intent. However, it proved even harder to tell, now, if it was real or fake. Denial still rang strong within me, but now, even more things piled upon the authenticity's defense. Most of them were just small details: a couple ticks in the corner of a page that suggested him counting something, water marks, smudges. The original handwriting was much different to the translation. The runes were neat, although it held the softness of casual writing. The translation was rough and slanted sharply to the right.

I took another step back into reality, and turned to look at the clock. It was nearly eight! I whistled in appreciation of my superb time-wasting skills. I honestly didn't really do much in the summer, but I rarely spent such a chunk of my time getting absorbed in a book. However, the charms of the book still called to me. One more entry. I thought, and turned the page.

My brother and I are five years apart. So, every ten years, we celebrate another decade added to Boromir's life, and half of that to myself. Then, another five later, I reach the point my brother reached before, and we celebrate again. My brother likes to pretend that he didn't get any older, that we were the same age at that point. However, we both know that he will always be five years ahead of me; I will always be five years behind him. I will always be half of Boromir's ten.

He is always quick to praise and assure me, Boromir is. But there are times when my thoughts grow dark, and I wonder if I will always be only half the man that he is as I will always be half-way to ten years older when he already is.

Such is what overcomes me now. It is how it seems sometimes... with our people, with our father. I don't hold it against my brother in the least, but it still occupies my thoughts. It continues to frustrate me, because it seems like an unchanging cycle that I have no power over. And I probably don't.

As such, I guess all that is in my power is to give what I have, and pray that it is more than I think, or that my father will change his ways.

T.A. 3008, January 16

I sighed, and closed the journal. I was almost surprised by the sudden expression in his writing. Before, it was as he had said: a simple recording of events. There was some emotion conveyed, normally when his brother or father came onto the scene, but it was restrained. This also seemed rather held back, a lot of his thoughts hidden behind poetry, but it still seemed like quite the step. It was really a beautiful piece, and I felt for him. I'm a single child, so I don't know the whole dynamics between siblings, but it seemed much like what was written in the appendices of the Lord of the Rings. "No jealousy or rivalry had arisen between them since, for their father's favor or for the praise of men." he wrote. So, I certainly had something to appreciate.

I wanted to read on, to see if the next day brought better times, but I knew I had to come back to Earth. I looked down at my noodles. The steam that had been rising from the bowl at the beginning of my writing extravaganza had floated away while it was neglected. Reluctantly, I took some of the pasta, and grimaced. It was stone-cold.

I sighed. "Better dump these out..."

I got up from the bed, and in doing so, knocked the book off. I squeaked in alarm and quickly got it, hoping it wasn't damaged. Thankfully, it wasn't, but something new caught my eye. The edge of a folded sheet of parchment was sticking through the pages. Curiosity overtook me for the third time that day, and I opened the journal to that page and took the paper. My wasted dinner laid again abandoned on the floor as I unfolded the parchment.

I felt my breath catch in my throat.

It was a map. Of friggin' Middle-earth.