Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

Denethor son of Echthelion knew whence the letter came. He looked upon the folds of yellow parchment, the deep green sealing wax, and understood that another mysterious letter from Rohan had arrived for his son. Though Faramir never said who wrote these letters, Denethor suspected that Theodred, whose first encounter with Faramir resulted in many tears, wrote the untidy words sometimes visible through the thick sheets.

The Steward turned the letter over in his hands, considering it. He might not tell Faramir...

"Father!"

Before Denethor could completely finish his devious thought an over- enthusiastic young man burst into his study. Sweat stained Faramir's tunic and plastered the garment to his thin body. His face gleamed, pink from exertion. The braids he wore, ever feminine yet useful, hung loosely down his back. On his face he wore an exuberant grin.

"Forgive me, I did not knock," he said. "You summoned me. Here I am."

"This arrived today, bearing your name." Denethor offered the letter to Faramir, eyes cast down. Once he understood his son, but Faramir had become a new person. Practically a man, the boy seemed of two minds: one to sit every moment in study, the other in play and sport. Faramir never played the games of most children his age and hardly touched a sword unless he had some obligation to do so, but he shot his bow, rode any horse in the vicinity, and ran upon the wind. Denethor criticized his son for his dislike of swords, not from a lack of love but because Denethor knew that on the battlefield, enemies too close would not be slain with a bow. Faramir would need a sword.

"Thank you, Father." Faramir took the letter, bowed and turned to leave.

A call from Denethor stayed him. "Faramir." Denethor looked at his youngest son, searching into Faramir's soul as a captain of Ecthelion's once searched Denethor's soul. Yet the older man found nothing, and so he said, "You will take supper with your brother and me tonight?"

Faramir bit his lip. "I had hoped to search the library for an herbal guide- -"

"You are permitted to remain awake and wandering the corridors to your heart's content until an hour to midnight," Denethor stated flatly. "You will join Boromir and me for the meal; this topic is no longer open for discussion."

Sighing inwardly, Faramir conceded. At Denethor's dismissal, Faramir turned from the room. He ran with long strides in the manner of a gazelle and leapt to his own chamber, that private sanctuary where he might collapse onto his bed and read the long-awaited message.

Faramir's hands shook with uncontrollable hope as he slipped his finger between two layers of paper. With held breath he broke loose the green-wax seal, hating to break in half the beautiful horse-head imprinted formed when the wax had been warm and like liquid. No matter how many letters such as this one Faramir received (two hundred fifty-one from this sender in the past five years; he kept them in a wooden box beneath his bed) he walked on air for hours after hearing from his friend Theodred of Rohan.

Today's letter brought even greater prospects of joy, for Faramir had written with an important request only two weeks earlier. Swiftly unfolding the parchment, his eyes dashed from left to right, scanning for the words he wanted. At the bottom of the second page Faramir found what he sought:

"Uncle says you are welcome in Rohan. Come as soon as you can! What fun, o what unstoppable fun we shall have together!"

Faramir threw his arms up for joy! He clutched the letter to his breast and spun on his toes in a circle of sheer euphoria. "I am going to Rohan," he whispered. "Rohan," he said, a little louder. "Rohan!" he practically shouted this time, so happy was he. "Rohan, Rohan, Rohan!" No other words came to mind. "Rohan!"

Dropping the letter onto his pillow, Faramir stretched his legs as he ran through the corridor yet again. Running, Faramir had discovered long ago, brought him much joy. Because he at one time feared horses, somehow the idea grew in his mind that if he could run fast enough no riding would ever be necessary. Faramir knew now, of course, that no man ran with the speed of a horse, but he enjoyed running. He ran through the streets, ducking and dodging every passerby, or over the Pelennor Fields, when permitted--not the entire length of the Pelennor, but what a thing to dream of, such expanses!

Faramir stopped running and leaned upon his knees, panting. 'Where am I?' he wondered. Slowly he raised his eyes, waiting for his breathing to slow from its raised pace. He met the dark, staring orbs of many animals and realized that, without thinking or knowing, he had run to the stable. Ha! Faramir laughed at himself, thinking of the fear this place brought him five years ago.

"Brother! Faramir, I told you, did I not? Did I not say to you, 'Spend a day out of doors and put some color on your skin'? Look at you now, no longer the porcelain doll at study!" Boromir grabbed his brother from behind and spun him through the air. "A colorful porcelain doll," he amended.

"Who ever taught you of porcelain dolls?" Faramir asked, free from his brother's hold. "What warrior taught Boromir of Gondor to play with girls' toys?"

"Be hush, child," Boromir answered haughtily. "A Brigadier of the military forces of Gondor needs not answer to his pipsqueak brother!" Teasing, he shoved Faramir lightly.

"Mayhap not his pipsqueak brother, but the finest archer in Gondor--"

Faramir danced back, being pummeled playfully by his brother. "You are lucky! Ever so lucky I cannot hit you back!"

Boromir grinned. "Because you fear for your life?" he asked.

"No, because now you've earned decent rank Father has hope for you--he says I am to let nothing harm you!"

"Oh, he says so, does he?" Boromir pursued his brother, whacking him ever playfully, until at the back of the stable Faramir tripped and sprawled into a pile of hay. With the malice free victory possible only between brothers, Boromir looked upon Faramir and laughed--until, of course, Faramir lunged forward and pulled his brother into the hay beside him. Both laughed then and briefly they wrestled.

"Tell me why you smile, Brother," insisted Boromir. "I order you to tell me."

Faramir closed his eyes and smiled all the more. "Theodred has written. Boromir, he offered me shelter and permission for visitation to Rohan!"

Now Boromir understood, and he felt his brother's happiness. "Fara, this is wonderful! It's what you have always wanted, to visit Edoras, imagine!"

Guilt drove Faramir to admit the entire truth to his brother. "Boromir, I...I wish to stay a goodly while in Rohan," he admitted.

"Of course, you will have new things to study and a friend to spend every spare moment with. How long do you expect to remain?"

"Boromir...do you recall the tale of King Thengel?"

"You know I do not," Boromir answered, laughing, but no longer sure he felt happiness.

"Thengel fought terribly with his father, King Fengel, and for nearly thirty years Thengel lived here, in Gondor."

"When Grandfather ruled as Steward?" Boromir asked, pleased to at last know something of his brother's tale.

Faramir answered the question absently, "No, great-grandfather Turgon. Boromir, please understand. Father and I...I cannot bear to live in his house any longer. I must be free! You feel this, also, for why else join the military and be so oft away? I do not long for battle. In Rohan I may live and grow in peace."

"Father will not allow it," Boromir replied. "I do not understand why you wish to leave our home, but Father will not have it."

"He needs not know. I will say I go to Rohan for a visit and simply beg extended leave once there. What can he possibly say?"

..

Faramir tried not to look at the food on his plate, tried not to think of the dead animal he chewed. Instead he sought specific spices and knew them, thought of not only their taste but their healing powers. He listened to the discussion Boromir and Denethor held.

Denethor spoke to Boromir of a young female noble whom the heir courted, and seemed fond enough of. "Have you considered marriage?" Denethor asked, a steel edge to his inquisitive tone.

Ginger cures influenza and soothes the stomach. It is also said to heal certain poisons and to be potent in love spells.

"Perhaps, in a few years' time." Boromir drank deeply to calm his nerves, a habit his brother repeatedly informed him helped nothing.

Barley seeds, burnt and mixed with eggs, remedy burnt flesh. A bag of hot barley seeds eases external pains. Barley grows best in cooler climates.

"You are old enough," Denethor reminded him. "Rumors do fly of aging men without wives."

Tansy purges the body of insects and is said to relieve the pains of childbirth. 'And it makes a lovely tea,' Faramir thought, though he felt the fool with tea as the others took alcohol. 'Spinach clears the throat for air to pass, but as my throat is fine perhaps no harm will come of my not eating this...'

Boromir laughed. "If it is rumors worrying you, Father, fear not! I am seen often enough with her in public."

Pepper rids the mind of depression and fear, and cures physical pain.

"Yet you have made no move toward marriage--"

Juniper cures sprains; smoking this plant rids the body of parasites.

"She is young, only one year older than Faramir--"

Cabbage cures eye disease and failures of the organs--

"Which for all practical purposes--"

Caraway...Faramir could not recall the uses of caraway. "May I be excused?" he asked suddenly.

Boromir and Denethor looked to the younger boy. "You have hardly eaten anything," Boromir observed.

Faramir blushed. "I am not hungry," he said. "Please may I be excused?" he repeated.

"Yes," answered Denethor, "you may." He said this not because he wished Faramir to go but because he knew that, somehow, he must show Boromir that he yet held power. "If you wish to discuss the contents of your letter, find me in my study later."

With as much decorum as possibly Faramir removed himself from his family's presence, thinking over what he words best expressed his wanderlust. 'Father,' he thought, 'in the interest of extending my knowledge and worldly experience, I humbly beg your leave...'

..

"No."

Faramir's face fell. "Why not?" he asked. "An excursion to Rohan...just think what I might learn there."

Denethor looked at his son's expression, not the hard, emotionless exterior he betrayed but the raw pain and anger buried beneath. He never meant to cause Faramir pain: equally, he disliked the idea of his mild son blossoming into an outrageous rogue under the tutelage of Theodred of Rohan. "I said no and I meant it. Who are you to question my reasons?"

"But surely, surely if you are so set against my going you must have some explanation!" Faramir pressed.

'Let him hate me,' Denethor thought, 'but he will never accept the truth.' "Relations with Rohan are poor enough without you disgracing me in the halls of Edoras."

Faramir could hardly believe his ears. His empty hands fluttered at his sides, but he swallowed the anger rising in his chest. "Relations with Rohan are not poor!" he exclaimed. "You lie!"

"See, boy, you cannot control yourself here--"

"Were you only goading me to give yourself a reason? You needed to invent something, didn't you, Father, something to keep me home? Why bother to mask your cruelty?"

"I mask nothing!" Denethor answered, hurt. He roared at his son, eager to finish the conversation, "You will not take that tone with me! Do you forget your place? Need I remind you?"

Taken aback, Faramir fell quiet. "Terribly sorry, sir, I was out of line. Forgive me. I know my place, sir, and you needn't remind me. Thank you, sir." He hated submitting, but could not stop his traitor tongue. At Denethor's signal, Faramir bowed and backed out of the room. In the corridor he shook, and swore, then turned and ran, sweating out anger, fear and pain, his muscles screaming for determination as they yelped in pain.

Denethor hung his head, knowing that his ill treatment of Faramir was uncalled for. How could he possibly understand? How could any child understand his parent's decisions? "I want you here," Denethor whispered, the soft truths he was too proud to tell in public. "I want to be your father, Faramir. I want to see you become a man. Perhaps you think I do not love you: child, I could never love you more."

..

Boromir caught his brother by the shoulders; the impact spun them both round. "Watch yourself, Little Brother!" Boromir chided, his voice lighter than air in his happiness. Seeing his brother's disappointment, Boromir frowned. "Here now, let us not have this for you, Bear." He might have dried Faramir's tears, had Faramir cried any. "I warned you he might say no, Fara, you know how Father is--"

"He hates me!" Faramir interrupted, not minding that Boromir knew the truth. "Father hates me!"

"Now!" exclaimed the elder, rubbing his brother's shoulder to calm him, "that's never the case, Faramir."

"He said it himself, though. Or, as good as," Faramir admitted. "He refused to send me to Rohan--he says I will disgrace him. He all but called me unworthy of his blood!"

Recognizing hysterics closing in on his brother, Boromir said, "Take some rest, Little Brother. You are weary; surely this confuses you. Everything will look better after a good sleep."

Faramir protested, but when Boromir threatened to physically force the younger boy into bed, and out of consciousness if absolutely necessary, Faramir conceded. Boromir took some minutes alone to practice his swordplay, then returned to check on his little brother. The Man of Gondor, hardened and master of his emotions after years of military experience, smiled at his brother without thinking.

"You must be dreaming something wonderful," he said.

The words woke Faramir, though he refrained from showing his state, and through a hazy veil he fought to return to his dreams, wherein he rode side- by-side with Theodred over the plains of Rohan and studied the many volumes in Theoden's library. Coldness swept Faramir, and a cool breeze blew in his dream. Only when he heard a sad, quiet gasp and felt warm fingers touch his ribs did Faramir realize the truth.

Boromir left the room grimly and quietly. Faramir's tears fell in much the same manner.

The room fell into silence. The rustling of sheets like a whisper upon the water sounded as Faramir rose and crouched beside his bed. Scraping noises, and Faramir withdrew a box. He knelt and opened this container. Moving back hundreds of sheets of parchment, letters for the most part, he withdrew a small piece of reflective glass to serve him as a mirror.

Faramir hated to do this, but forced himself. If Boromir must see it, so must I!, he thought, and pulled his tunic over his head. There reflected in the glass Faramir saw first his abdominal muscles; he ran gentle, proud fingers over these, six standing bold against his skin. Then tilting the mirror ever so slightly he saw his ribs, protruding, or perhaps the skin sagging down, and imagined climbing like a ladder. Here too his fingers explored, feeling not fat nor muscle but only bone beneath his fingertips, and he wept, for now Boromir knew. Now that he knew the truth, Boromir would with Denethor conspire to keep Faramir ever in Gondor.

The next morning, with no explanation offered, Faramir found in the library a paper-wrapped parcel with his name printed upon it. Curiously he examined it, but could find no distinguishing marks. He opened the parcel with more caution than interest, and to his surprise found a knife within, sheathed in pliable brown leather.

"What in Arda...?" Faramir drew the knife. The hilt was worn comfortably. The blade, six inches by Faramir's approximation, glittered and sliced cleanly through the air. The blade's tip had a section removed from it in the shape of a sickle. Faramir appreciated the craft, if not its purpose. "What is this?" he wondered aloud.

A response came unlooked-for, "I hoped that in Rohan you might hunt game as well as flowers."

Faramir looked wide-eyed to his father. "Truly?" he asked. "You...you have had a change of thought?"

Denethor smiled, a look which ill-suited him, and opened his arms to his son. Faramir slid the weapon into its sheath, then ran to embrace his father. "Thank you, Father. Thank you so very much! You will not regret this decision--I promise you will not!"

Denethor said nothing in answer, but he did think: 'Valar bless your sentiment, child, but I already do.'

Faramir rode out with a knight and his squire to Rohan. This pair intended to make the journey; Denethor assigned them to protect his son. The squire looked to be near to Faramir in age, and to this man Faramir smiled. He smiled back. "What is you name?" Faramir asked.

"Beregond, my lord!" Beregond drew his mount close to Faramir's and, seeing the other boy glance back at the imposing figure of Minas Tirith, asked, "Do you miss it already, my lord?"

Faramir considered this question, and he prodded deep inside of himself for truth. "No," he answered at last, "I do not think I miss it at all." As he rode from the city, and even from Gondor itself, Faramir kept his heart within his chest. He did not leave this behind.
To be continued

French Pony: I'm not saying that I portray Denethor as a loving and kindly father, because I don't believe he would have been. However, the second chapter was written entirely from the perspective of a fifteen-year-old child. Naturally he is angry towards his father, and leaves out large chunks of the story. Once Faramir tells the whole story, Denethor becomes more rational.