The rest of the day was a blur to Faramir. His brother had gotten him into trouble with his father before, but this was bigger than anything they'd pulled so far. Something like this would get him a month, maybe two, in the closet. And possibly a whipping as well.

Why? Why, oh, why couldn't he have had a normal brother that didn't cause trouble and pin it on him? Was it so much to ask?

Apparently it was.

Faramir was outside looking over the city, breathing what he was sure would be his last breaths as he saw in the distance, a small caravan coming towards the castle at a rapid pace. He dreaded the thought of what his father would do to him before he killed him. He hoped it wouldn't be too painful, and that his death would be swift. But this was Denethor, who had a flair for the dramatics, so a pain-free death was unlikely.

"Hey, Faramir!" An all too familiar voice called to him. Faramir pretended not to hear. "Have you tried the orange sherbet? It's the bomb!"

Faramir glared at his brother, who was walking over to him, holding bowl of sherbet.

"I hope you don't mean literally, but I'm not going to get my hopes up, because this is you we're talking about."

"Ah, brother," Boromir said, leaning an elbow on Faramir's shoulder, "you know me too well. BOMBS AWAY!"

"No!" Faramir leaped to grab the bowl as Boromir was about to toss it over the wall.

Boromir laughed. "You're too easy, Faramir." He continued to eat his sherbet that wasn't really a bomb and peered over the wall. "Whatcha lookin' at?"

"My death." Boromir looked confused, so Faramir explained. "Father's caravan's coming."

"Really? Uh-oh…it was nice knowin' ya, Faramir."

Faramir glared at him with everything he had. "I'm pacifist? Know that?" He got louder. "And I'm about to pass a fist across your face!"

Boromir looked taken aback, and impressed. "Whoa, chill out 'lil bro." He frowned. "But if that's Pops, that means no circus tonight! That's not fair!"

"Wait a minute…Boromir, where are your binoculars?"

"Right here, why?"

"Give 'em here."

Boromir shrugged, but pulled the binoculars from around his neck and handed them to Faramir who held them up to his eyes and looked out at the caravan.

A look of relief spread across Faramir's face and he laughed. "It's not Father! It's not him! It's…" he squinted. "…Rohan?"

"Rohan! Let me see." Boromir grabbed the binoculars out of Faramir's hands and held them up to his eyes, cutting off Faramir's air supply in the process. "Huh. Why's Rohan coming?"

Faramir wheezed a little, and Boromir glanced over. "Oops!" He let go of the binoculars, and the strap that had been around Faramir's neck loosened. Faramir collapsed, gasping for breath.

Boromir took no notice and started pacing around, something he'd seen his father do when he was thinking hard about something. "If Rohan's coming, that means trouble. Because they never come to Gondor unless it's an emergency." He stroked his imaginary goatee, then snapped. "I got it! I be there's been a famine in Rohan, and they want Gondor's kind, generous, good-looking, and ever so humble steward to help them out!"

"Father?" Faramir asked, once he'd gotten his breath back.

"No, you dimwit!" Boromir cried. "Me!"

"Yeah, okay, so what do you plan on doing about it?"

"I'll…I'll have the servants get father's best robes, and I'll put those on, and sit on the throne and look regal, and make them bow to me and everything!"

"Boromir, I'm pretty sure Rohan wouldn't be coming all this way with one tiny caravan to get food for their entire city. A famine's probably not the problem."

"Well, I can still sit on the throne and look kingly!"

Before Boromir had time to say more, they heard a horn blow from the caravan far below them, then a yell.

"Denethor!"

Faramir and his brother peeked over the wall.

There was the caravan, parked right in front of the walls of Gondor. The guards obviously weren't letting them in. And someone was standing next to one of the carriages, looking up at Boromir and Faramir.

Boromir gulped. Théoden. King of Rohan. And he did not look happy.

"Uh…Denethor's not here! Please leave a message with the palace guards!" he shouted back nervously.

Théoden walked over to one of the guards standing in front of the doors and spoke with him briefly for a moment, then stepped back and looked up at Boromir, shielding his eyes from the sun.

"Boromir! I must speak with you!"

"Um…what about?"

"Lawn furniture."

Boromir stopped looking over the wall and crouched behind it, where his brother had retreated as soon as Théoden had started yelling. "Lawn furniture? What's he talking about?"

"I don't know. You had the treasurer pay them, right?"

"I told you to have the treasurer pay them!"

"I thought you said you would!"

Boromir groaned. He stood back up and peered over the wall down at Théoden. "It seems as though we've had a slight misunderstanding-" he kicked Faramir, "-but you'll have your money in no time, so if you could just crawl back to whatever hole you came from – uh, I mean, if you would kindly ride back to that wonderful city of yours, we'd-"

But Théoden was shaking his head. "It cannot be done. It is custom for our people to declare war when we feel like it. So I, Théoden King, declare, on you, Boromir, Steward-of-Gondor-for-the-week…WAR!"

And with that, Théoden jammed his helmet on his head, climbed into his carriage, and rode away.

Boromir stared at the trail of dust that the rapidly departing caravan was leaving behind it.

Faramir poked his head over the wall and saw that Théoden was gone. "Congratulations, Boromir. You said Father would be impressed if you won a war while he was away, but I didn't think you'd actually try. So now what do we do, oh Steward?"

"I…um…well…"

"Oh, yes, thank you, Boromir, that's sure to work." Faramir screamed internally. Why? Why on earth couldn't Boromir just be a normal, sane Gondorian? He paused and realized that 'sane Gondorian' was an oxymoron. Oh well. "Look, let's just tell Théoden that we don't want war, and–"

"What? Are you nutso, little brother?" Boromir suddenly had his voice back. "We're not backing down from a challenge!"

"Boromir, this isn't some game to play! People will die if you decide to fight Rohan!"

"But people on Rohan's side will die too! It evens out the score!"

Faramir almost punched his brother right then and there, but forced himself to very calmly, and very dignifiedly walk back to his room, sit at the desk, and slam his head against it a few times.

Why – slam! – in – slam! – the – slam! – world?!– Slam! Why couldn't Boromir just stay away from danger? Slam! Why did he have to be such a fool? Slam! Why couldn't Faramir just run away? Sla- Wait a minute. That actually wasn't such a bad idea.

Faramir sat up and rubbed the red welt on his forehead. If he could somehow sneak out of Gondor and get to Rohan before Théoden came to start a war, maybe he could stop the whole thing! But if he was going to do it, he'd have to go now.

"Sorry, Boromir," he said, slipping out of his room, "but you won't be starting a war on my watch."