A/N: I do not own or get any money from any stories written. Please give constructive criticism!

Boromir leant against the stone doorway of his brother's room, simply watching as his brother, his precious, brilliant, baby brother, packed for his deployment to Ithilien, a station Boromir believed Faramir would take more joy in than being a foot soldier. But it would be long before Boromir saw his brother again, so he simply took a moment of uncharacteristic contemplation, observing quietly. His brother's leaner build leant to a more graceful way of moving, soft and swift. He watched as Faramir rolled up tunics and shirts, folded leggings and socks.

"Fara."

Faramir turned to the door, silver eyes sparkling with joy. "Boromir! What brings you here?"

"Some sage advice from a man gnarled with ages upon ages of battle and war."

Faramir rolled his eyes but patted the bed in an invitation for the two to sit down.

Once settled, Boromir stared at Faramir with a straight face, reaching into his pocket, procuring a box the length of a palm, and, without looking, pressed the box into his brother's hand. "You will need this."

Faramir looked down. "A deck of cards?"

Boromir nodded. "War is a bore, and boredom only leads to trouble if not abetted. I trust that you will bring your chess set with you as well?"

Brows wrinkled, he nodded.

"You will need them. Beware of boredom, brother. Beware of boredom."

0*o*0

Faramir found that Boromir was not exaggerating much, if at all. War truly was a bore.

0*o*0

War was such a bore that Faramir made a ditty about war being a bore. A doggerel really, but what can one say? Not much to stimulate the mind.

War is a bore

And a chore

We deplore.

Whenever we're bored

We wish for the gore,

But faced with such horror

Inherent in war

We wish for the bore

Which comes with the chores

As opposed to the gore

That is part of the war.

Humor stems from things rooted in truth.

0*o*0

The rangers excelled at filling their time with worthwhile tasks. But many things that are of much use are of much bore.

0*o*0

Jokes were made. And retold. And retold. And retold.

Some found humor in the humorless faces of the listener who had heard the joke countless times before.

It became a trial of patience, and some rangers were more abiding than others.

Then it became a game to make those long-suffering rangers tick. The naive who went about this pursuit delighted in the increased frustration of the typically endlessly patient target.

When at last, the stick successfully prodded the bear to rage, the naïve come to realize why the others contented themselves to simply watch.

The most impressive rage is that which comes from the patient minded.

0*o*0

A pack of cards indeed is a prized possession among any soldier. A source of endless chance, many games, and the opportunity to play some games so monotonous, the continuation of the game is more dull than the nothingness which the player wished to escape from. In some patience games, players attached meaning to the cards, some fantasizing the hand as an omen for the days to come. When the prized cards were passed between men, omens did not surface so much. Instead, it became an obsession in exchange of coin. At times, the officers took too much notice of the ferocity of the play and would order a 'cleansing period.' Only worthless trinkets were to be used: acorns with 'x's sliced into them as a matter of differentiation. The hard-handed higher ups permitted nothing of value, sentimental or otherwise, as modes of exchange. But eventually, the officers would lighten up, the game would regain its worth, things would get out of hand, and the ban would again be made.

The game of sticks, though not a way of gambling, brought much pleasure to observer and participant. With one less stick than the players apart of the round, the objective was to gain four cards of the same value- four aces, four kings, four sevens, so on- and snatch a stick, preferably covertly. He who failed to grab one lost, and on it went until the last two played. Even the most disciplined man among the rangers lost all sense of dignity or grace when faced with the panic of grabbing a stick before the others.

0*o*0

It gets tiring asking about homelife. It just makes the melancholy hang lower over the heads of all involved.

0*o*0

One ranger suggested a game of knowledge, which lasted in wholesome fun, until around a fortnight later, each man became aware that not only was he himself making up facts, but that everyone else was as well.

The game turned into a trick to play on new recruits. See how incredulous the new boots were when it came to the real ways of the world.

0*o*0

Stories were told, embellished, retold with great exaggeration with not much begrudgement. There are few tales worth telling (or that would do any good being shared). Though by the time one heard a tale thrice, there was an agreement to let the story be.

Until a credulous new recruit came along. Then the fun came back all the more.

It was a surprise to many new rangers to find that a cat the size of a young mûmak lurked in the forest and ate rangers if they came too close.

No use saying that catamounts truly lurked, in less exaggerated proportions, with equally deadly force. Much better to tell tall tales and wink at one another, even as the threat of death lurked but a fathom away.

0*o*0

Sleep was taken whenever it could be, but there were times on watch where the drowsiness had to be repelled.

0*o*0

Pranks in general were a common enough way to kill the time. Though not nearly as easy to multitask with compared to less physical pursuits, such as singing. In the night, for two fortnights in the least, a ranger, seemingly randomly picked (though never of such a high rank of chief or above), would awake with various braids in his hair, often in a style reminiscent of elves or of the days when young women had time and attention to their hair to fix it in a way they saw worthwhile. It truly was a harmless prank, though a prank indeed- at first.

By the later nights of the ploy, a ranger discovered a useful consequence. The ranger in question received a single braid, which proved incredibly utilitarian by keeping the hair together, out of the face, and altogether one less thing to create unnecessary heat on one's back.

Scoffing met this claim, others said the man only wished to wiggle out of any teasing par for the trick. But by and by, the prankster caught on, and began the art of single or double braids on the rangers targeted. As the number of endurers increased, so did the credibility of the usefulness of the style. At last, after much asking and sniffing about, Haldraug admitted to the stunt. Far from sighs, rolling of the eyes, and scoffs, he now found himself quite busy teaching the men how to conduct a three-strand braid on themselves.

"How did you learn to braid, Haldraug?"

He grinned and shrugged, then softened in the way that thoughts of home do to a man. "I have five younger sisters. My mother and father were rather busy conducting business and fighting- the usual." A nod of assent and understanding rippled along the present men. The struggles and horrors of immediate battle claimed only a portion of the total, wide-reaching hardship of war. "My mother enlisted me to help out with the care of my sisters, and I learned how to braid in the process."

A congenial silence fell over the ring of men.

"I don't think I'm doing this right; can you help me?"

"Let me see. So, you need to…"

0*o*0

No matter how clever one believes themselves to be, it is difficult to create a good riddle. They are either to vague, and therefore could have countless answers, or so hard that it only leads to confused looks, rather than the wished for feeling of "nearly had it!"

The mind of the truly creative often erred in this pursuit; unfavorable outcomes refused to discriminate among thought patterns. The claim to true mastery of riddle creation required at least a brace of failures.

"Lamandil, I've thought up a riddle."

Cirion Lamandil's mitch-matched eyes, left like leaves, right like soil, jumped up from his fletching. "Go on then."

"Here it goes:

I am hot and I am cold,

I am fast and I am slow.

I live above.

And I live below."

Faramir split a colored feather before glancing up again at his younger friend.

"How am I supposed to know, Faramir? I don't know… air?"

"Hum. I didn't think of that. But that fits."

Lamandil grinned. "What was it?"

"Water."

Lamandil tilted his head. He nodded. "I can see that. Better luck next time."

0*o*0

Songs were sung, whether while standing guard late at night, at the table while supping, with each other while doing mundane tasks. Jodies were sung, learned from generations of soldiers before them. Sometimes words were tweaked to become more fitting to the rangers. Lays were put up with, though a few showed genuine interest in such things. Among the ranks, ballads of brave men or battle or homeland boasted great popularity. At times, a nursery tune found itself employed, but only in jest or irony. Many utilized the melodies themselves to create new songs which made those listening roar with laughter- levity proves a good friend in such unutterably poor times.

If a young recruit hummed a lullaby to himself, most had the decency not to comment on it. All had their ways of comfort.

Songs were sung which men would never dare to think of in front of their mothers, such is the way of life in the war. Mostly the men sung folk songs: nonsensical, solemn, joyous, quick, or slow. If more than two men knew the song, soon all in the company would learn it. Like rumors, songs which alleviate boredom spread rapidly. When a new recruit came, he would worry if he would ever learn the tunes and words of all the songs throughout the camp, but within a moon, he would sing along to each with as much gusto and heart as the man next to him.

0*o*0

A good ranger required many things: to be good with a bow, quiet in the woods, as was obvious. A good ranger also possessed a constant readiness to sleep, a lightness thereof, and the ability to lack it for much longer than encouraged under typical conditions. Resourcefulness must be present in a good ranger.

Only so many stories, only so many songs. Only so many pranks to be played in a day. Only so many chess games before the mind fatigued. Only so many card games. Only so many things to do.

Resourcefulness: useful in the field, in the service, and in the important war against dwindling morale.

Many games were created in that cave system that no one in their right mind would play if they had any other option. The players were self aware. Knucklebones, once played for a long enough period of time became a game, not of coordination, but of creativity in handicaps to be placed on the various levels of skill. Some of the older men laughed to themselves, telling each other that their children would be sorely impressed with them if they could witness the great feats completed between grabbing a bone and catching the ball.

The rangers employed other games. Cards. Gambling with true coin or worthless trinkets as needs must.

Creativity- such as it was- ran rampant among all ranks. New songs. New stories. New games.

The most incredulous game included stones, a shoe, and a goblet.

Truly little to write home about.

0*o*0

A theory that enough time leads to mastery seems to be a good theory to evaluate in the dull tedium of Henneth Annûn.

The game of chess: easy to learn how to play; difficult to win. Especially for some.

A few among them seemed to be excellently born strategists. Seemingly able to conjure victory no matter the situation.

A few among them could hold their own but still lost.

Most knew the rules but didn't care to consistently lose again and again and again. Some persisted though.

Tobedir smiled sheepishly as he watched his opponent move his white rook and in his gentle, conciliatory voice, say checkmate.

Sighing, he shook his head and clasped hands with Faramir, one of three men who dominated the game of chess within the rangers. Tobedir never doubted the sly spirit and clever guile of the man, but simply persisted in the attempt to learn from his losses.

"You hold your own well, Tobedir," Faramir said as he gathered the pieces.

Tobedir shrugged. "And yet you are always the victor."

"Perhaps next time?" Faramir asked.

"Perhaps."

0*o*0

While it came as no surprise to many that most of the men had little skill in the hand regarding likenesses, it was as easily expected that some among them possessed the talent of intelligible image making. Charcoal scratched against the cave walls with tallies of food stuffs, days, names. Doodles abounded in the shapes of leaves, animals, and men.

Not all in the company knew their letters, but anyone with eyes could see the outline of a woman and a young bairn and know that Rhossalas had sketched his wife and young son.

Any man among them could grab charcoal and put it to the rock within the system, though the captain prohibited markings visible from the outside, with compelling cause.

Simple beings made of stiff lines, organized into family units, brought comfort and heartache by their presence.

Plain renderings of fish or birds or arrows or trees adorned enough pathways through the hideaway.

The grey walls could not claim to be cluttered by poorly rendered outlines. True, a sighting came typically enough, but by no means a constant barrage along the dark hallways.

0*o*0

Few had any interest in lore; sure, enough knew the stories of old, but only a portion had any interest in speaking of such things. There was only so much time in the day, and if it could be spent asleep, as the Anduin flowed, a good ranger would snap at the chance.

Faramir found only two who were willing to speak to him about such things, though they rarely did. Duties often call. In those earlier years, before his duties proved great and pressing, it brought him joy to speak with Eldacar or Hinnordon regarding the Númenóreans or the northern Dúnedain. Cirion Lamandil listened in on these conversations more often than not, but he much preferred hearing the tale of Huan or the cats of Beruthiel. As constricted as Faramir's learning of lore had been- directed by a shrewd steward who believed in the need of good soldiers whose minds never strayed from duty, courage, and sacrifice- he saw that his education far outmatched many of those less fortunate.

Faramir astounded Eldacar, whose only knowledge of tales of old came from his elders whose memories, clouded by age and retellings, strayed from the precise tellings of Faramir who had learned his histories from the archives.

0*o*0

Sitting to sup before the table where the rangers gathered after the day, certain topics inevitably joined discussion. Anecdotes, ranging from as dull as all else to ludicrous, the latter undeniably exaggerated, of the day made their rounds; those who thought up jokes sought to find an ear who had not yet heard the punchline; offers for a round of cards.

Thorongil, named after the great war hero, often quiet, seemed to save most of his words and thoughts for asking questions: dangerous, mediocre, stirring, creative- anything which had yet to be answered satisfactorily to his mind. Most often, he asked after filling his stomach and stretching his arms behind him, leaning back with a languid smile and watchful gaze.

"What will you do after all this business is over?"

A dangerous question. Those who had not yet resigned themselves to dying believed there may be no end. Believers in hope, who held fast to the idea of victory, even so, hardly thought of much beyond the next fire watch.

Those among Thorongil's circle paused, contemplating the question.

As often was such, Cirion Lamandil roused to respond first, brown and green eyes flicking over the comfortable form of the questioner. "I think I would be a healer. Simply going back home to the creatures would leave me as content as a hound in the sun, but I wouldn't mind getting out, checking on this and that creature, speaking with this and that household."

A round of nods approved. Hardly a surprising answer.

Eldacar, largely resigned to his lot as a soldier, contemplated the question with a twitch to his lips- derisive. "I don't know, Thorongil. I think a soldier's lot is for me. Maybe a guard of the citadel or something along those lines. It doesn't much matter to me."

Thorongil hmphed, not stiffening, but certainly less content in this answer than in the younger soldier's.

"Whatever puts meat on the table and children in the house."

Faramir grinned, distracted from his own thoughts. "We figured that much, Andróg."

"What would you want to do to put the meat on the table?" Thorongil oft proved persistent when a question had been posed.

The man shrugged his broad shoulders. "I just want my own bit of earth and a house to keep warm. A pretty girl at my side… that's where I'd be if this whole mess were over."

Contemplative silence followed. Thorongil examined his friends, Cirion Lamandil's heterochromatic eyes darted from one face to the next.

Eldacar stirred, seemingly more up for the game. "I could be a sword master, something along those lines. Do what I know, get to sleep at home in my own bed rack besides."

An unhurried smile lightened Thorongil's face, though Eldacar seemed rather beyond such a response, having tucked back into the remnants of his stew.

The current lighthearted agreement between Boromir and Faramir consisted of Boromir's stewardship aided by the more scholarly advice of Faramir. These dark days were hardly the time to bring up such a thing, as the knowledge that Faramir indeed claimed sonship, such as it was, to the steward seemed fairly ignored. Surely the officers knew, but many of the men simply grinned at the name, 'Just like the steward's son!' Familial ties set aside, Faramir dreamt of what he might have pursued. "An archivist could be scintillating. What do you deem is my place among the dusty tomes of long dead men?"

Smiles met this question whose answer lay within the asker himself.

Once the five exchanged grins, Eldacar turned to Thorongil, still languid and relaxed in his seat. "What about you, Thorongil? Always asking, always probing. What would you do if the war were done?"

Thorongil shifted and straightened his back, his face lost its passively content quality and took on a mildly startled look.

"Never did think you'd be asked, did you?" Eldacar laughed.

"Always asking, asking, asking. Rarely having to answer. See now his face has become awake. Pity Thorongil, the swords have switched their advantage." Faramir laughed at the foreign nature of the shock on Thorongil's customarily mellow face.

The newly instated questioners glanced at one another, back to the thoughtful Thorongil, who still seemed off guard, back at one another.

At last, the wait became too long.

"What about the official interviewer for Gondor?" Eldacar threw it out.

"Going around the land, accosting peasants and lords and all between, and asking them questions they never imagined thinking of." Andróg turned to wink at Cirion who muffled his laugh with his hand.

Thorongil scoffed. "What use would that be?"

"What's the use of any of this now?"

This seemed to be a question Thorongil prepared to accept, once more leaning back. "There's no point in forgetting ourselves or hope in the muck of all this. It has some use, no? But I deem when we do prevail-" at this, Eldacar shook his head, and even vivacious Cirion seemed a bit skeptical- "we'll be busy enough fixing all the broken things up. There won't be much time for inquiries."

All five gazed at the cave walls, or their hands, or their pushed away plates, considering the future and the war and the likelihood of victory.

A neighboring ranger interrupted the brooding. "Eru! Aren't you a miserable lot! All of Gondor should pity you, what with full stomachs and quenched thirst." Faramir glanced at the speaker, a man with a neat braid down his head of hair- Haldraug.

Eldacar lightened at this. "We were only thinking of the dreary night it will be tonight, what with the weather warming. Think of it, no more numb limbs. The horror!"

Haldraug grinned and turned back to his own companions, debating loudly about the abilities each had with the long bow.

0*o*0

It stretched the imagination little to believe none of Faramir and Éowyn's brood found a very sympathetic response when, as all children throughout all places in all ages of time, one amongst them came- often dramatically- to their dark-haired father to say, "Ada, I'm bored."

Faramir only laughed.