Author's Notes: This is a solo piece by "Rose." It is a companion piece of sorts to "The Fifteenth of January," although it will stand on its own. Also, while the earlier piece was explicitly movieverse, this story could take place in either the book or movie world.

This story is dedicated to Sue, author of "Boromir's Gift" and many other fine stories. It was originally written as a birthday present for her in answer to a question she asked me about "The Fifteenth of January": She wanted to know what Boromir might have had to say about the incident with the orc which Faramir remembers in that story. Now I've finally got it into semi-final shape for public posting. Happy birthday again, Sue!

Special thanks to Sylvia for helping with archery details and to Ariel for valuable feedback!

T.A. 2999

A white city indeed, Boromir thought as he made his way toward the gate of the Third Circle of Minas Tirith. His booted feet slid a little on the carpet of new-fallen snow covering the street. Large snowflakes were still falling thickly from the darkening sky above, settling on his shoulder-length hair and the collar of his fur-lined cloak.

All around him, people were hurrying homeward in the gathering dusk. Some, who recognized the Steward's heir, nodded respectfully as they passed. Others walked with heads down, cloaks and shawls clutched tightly, complaining to each other about the unseasonable cold. Snow was not unknown in this part of Gondor, but it was rarely seen before the turning of the year. That was still more than a month away; snow this early was almost unheard of.

Such a contrast to Dol Amroth, where he had spent the past four weeks! The golden afternoons of autumn still lingered there, though the nights were becoming frosty and the wind from the sea could be sharp. But the skies had turned iron-grey while the ship on which Boromir rode sailed up the Anduin, and the first flakes of snow had greeted him when he debarked at the Harlond shortly after midday.

The trip to Dol Amroth had been prompted by a resurgence of activity from the Corsairs of Umbar. A brilliant victory at the ancient port of Pelargir had routed them when Boromir was less than two years old, and they had not troubled Gondor in the twenty years since. But in the late summer they had reappeared and raided several villages on the south coast. Denethor had then taken it into his head that he had been neglecting the naval portion of his heir's education and had pulled him from his military duties to spend a month with his grandfather, Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth. Boromir was to participate in training exercises with the navy at Belfalas, and to learn as much as he could about the finer points of naval combat and strategy.

Denethor had sent a servant with a horse to meet his heir at the dock. Riding across the Pelennor, Boromir had felt his heart swell as it always did at the sight of the White City rising in majestic tiers up the mountainside, crowned by the Tower of Ecthelion. At the Great Gate, he had stopped for a word with some friends from the garrison and sent the servant on ahead with the horses, saying he would walk up to the Citadel when he was finished. After three days on a ship, he was glad of the chance to stretch his legs.

Now the early dusk of winter was creeping in, and the streetlamps were beginning to be lit as he finally made his way up through the levels. He had spent longer at the gatehouse than he'd intended; it would soon be dinnertime and his father would be expecting him.

Suddenly a child's shout of "Come back here!" echoed from an alley to Boromir's left. A small boy burst from the passageway and scampered across his path. He turned sharply, feet sliding on the slick paving-stones, and pelted off down the street at top speed. In his wake followed a larger boy, some distance behind. He tried to copy the first boy's movements, but was not so lucky; his feet slipped and he overbalanced as he rounded the corner. He landed hard on his side, skidding until he collided gently with Boromir's legs.

Concerned, Boromir bent over to see that the boy was unharmed. "Are you all right?" he asked kindly.

"Yes, thank you," the boy sighed as he watched his quarry disappear around a corner far down the street. His tone suggested that he was more aggrieved at losing the chase than hurt by the fall. He took the gloved hand proffered to him, for the first time looking properly at the man standing over him. Boromir nearly chuckled at how the boy's eyes widened and his mouth opened in astonishment as he realized who was helping him to his feet. The boy's gaze had fastened on the great white-and-silver horn hanging at Boromir's side, and his thoughts were plain: Only one man in Gondor would carry that. He gulped and made a hasty bow. "I--I beg your pardon, my lord. I wasn't looking where I was going. My brother--" He bit his lip.

Boromir held up a hand. "I understand perfectly. Little brothers must be kept in line, or there's no telling what mischief they'd get up to." The boy looked up at him warily, as if unsure how to interpret that remark. "At least, that's what I tell my brother constantly," Boromir continued with a solemn wink. At this the boy's face broke into a grin of relief.

"What did your brother do?" Boromir asked curiously.

"He used my paints without asking. The blue is nearly gone now."

"That is a grave offense," Boromir agreed in a serious tone. "And you may tell him that I said so."

The boy nodded and strode importantly back down the alley, fortified by the knowledge that no less a person than Lord Boromir himself had condemned the borrowing of his paints. Boromir grinned to himself, picturing the conversation between the two brothers when the younger one slunk home at last.

He glanced down the street. No sign of the younger boy. But another figure was approaching through the dusk, one that Boromir recognized instantly: a lanky young man walking slowly, as if tired, his head bowed against the blowing snowflakes.

Boromir's grin widened and a spark of mischief entered his eyes. He bent down to scoop up a handful of wet snow, then waited in front of the gate. When Faramir came within ten paces of him, Boromir issued his challenge:

"Halt, ruffian! You may not pass these gates!"

Faramir's head jerked up at the sound of the familiar voice. A broad grin flashed onto his face and the tiredness left his stance as he returned, "By what authority?"

"By authority of this!" Boromir answered, and threw the snowball. It clipped Faramir smartly on the right shoulder.

Laughing, Faramir ducked quickly to make a snowball of his own. A brief but hard-fought battle followed, which took a decisive turn when Boromir scored a direct hit to Faramir's face, filling his eyes with snow and temporarily blinding him. Faramir's snowball went wide, and Boromir used the time gained to hurl himself across the few steps which separated them. He grabbed his brother by the waist and pulled him to the ground, drawing startled looks from passersby who at first took the playful wrestling for a real fight.

Faramir struggled, but with the advantage of size and experience, Boromir managed to pin him face-down in the snow, planting a knee in the small of his back and twisting his arm behind him. Then he gleefully rubbed snow into Faramir's hair with his free hand.

"Do you yield?"

"Never--aagh!" Faramir's defiant cry changed to a yelp as Boromir expertly placed just a little more pressure on his arm. "I yield, I yield!" he conceded with a laugh. "Now release me?" He twisted his neck to look hopefully back over his shoulder.

Boromir pretended not to hear. "Let me see, what should be the forfeit?" he asked himself thoughtfully, savoring the moment of victory. Faramir groaned theatrically and let his head fall back to the snowy street. "Polishing my boots for a week, perhaps? Or..." Boromir's eyes lit on a bakery sign hanging a short distance away. "I know--honey cakes!"

"Honey cakes it shall be," Faramir agreed. "Now let me up!"

Boromir relented then, and helped Faramir to his feet. "You made that far too easy, little brother," he said teasingly as Faramir swept caked snow from his sleeve and brushed at the skirts of his coat. "I expected a better fight from you. Are those Rangers teaching you nothing?"

The smile faded from Faramir's eyes, though his mouth still curved upward. But his only response was, "It was riding drills today, and sword practice."

Faramir was destined to join the Rangers of Ithilien. He had accompanied them on a training mission once already, and even participated in a skirmish with a small band of orcs. When he passed his seventeenth birthday--still a few months away--he would join them permanently. In the meantime, he also trained with the cadets of the citadel guard.

"Then you need to go out with the Rangers again as soon as possible. Your aim is terrible!"

At that, Faramir's smile vanished altogether. A small dent appeared between his eyebrows and his gaze shifted downward. Boromir sighed mentally and reminded himself that his over-serious brother was all too likely to take such comments to heart.

"I'm only joking, you know," he said reproachfully, clapping Faramir on the shoulder.

"I know." Faramir returned the gesture and made an effort at another smile. "Come, I shall pay my forfeit now, and you can tell me how things are in Dol Amroth."

Faramir ordered the cakes from an open-mouthed baker's assistant who would surely be dining out for a week on the tale of how he'd had both the Steward's sons right there in his shop. They ate as they walked, their cloaks billowing in the sharpening wind as the snow continued to fall. Between bites, Boromir launched into an amusing story about how he'd mixed up the ship's ropes on his first day of training. By the time they reached the gate of the Fourth Circle, Faramir was laughing heartily and the earlier awkwardness was forgotten.