"The soldiers are coming from the Pelennor," Faramir announced from the window. "I can see them. They will be here very soon. We should go down to the hall and wait for them now."

Denethor looked up from the agricultural reports he was studying and smiled indulgently at the twelve-year-old. "We still have some time," he said. "They will not come straight here in any event. They will have to stop off at the barracks and rub their horses down. Then, it is conceivable that they will wish to rub themselves down before going home. They have been on a long, hard mission, and most will want to make themselves at least somewhat presentable before going to their homes."

"I hope they do not take too long about it," Faramir said. "Boromir has been away for a long time, and I want to see him whether he is presentable or not."

"I, too, wish to see Boromir," Denethor said. "But we must not deprive his horse of proper care."

"He may care for his horse," Faramir allowed. "But then he must come straight home and see his little brother. And his father," he added generously.

Denethor gave a snort that sounded half like a laugh and turned back to his reports. Ever since Boromir had ridden out on his first training mission with his company, Faramir had been burning with questions. What was life in the army like? How did the old soldiers teach the younger ones? Where did they sleep, and what did they eat? What was Boromir doing at that very moment? While Denethor was pleased to see that Faramir was finally taking some interest in military matters, he found himself wearied and befuddled by the constant onslaught of questions. Faramir approached his military studies in the same way that he approached any other subject that caught his interest, wishing to know every last detail. Denethor was unable to keep up with all the questions and had finally told Faramir that the best source of information would be Boromir himself.

"When he comes back, you can pester him all you wish," he had told Faramir. "He will no doubt be more than happy to tell you so many tales about his adventures that even your ears will grow weary." Ever since then, Faramir had waited impatiently for his brother's return. Now he shifted from foot to foot as he stared out the window at the small dark clot that was the training company riding across the wide Pelennor. He looked like a cat, Denethor thought, all eyes and ears.

Denethor tried to keep his attention on the agricultural reports, but found his gaze too often wandering to this strange, intent child of his. "Faramir," he said at last. "I cannot concentrate on my work if you continue to stand there. Boromir will not be home for some time. I believe the archery fields are free at this hour. Go and take your practice now so that you do not waste the light. Then you will have an accomplishment to tell Boromir about when he does arrive."

"Very well," Faramir said. "But you must be sure to call me when he starts coming to the gates. I do not want to miss my brother coming home."

"I will send for you. Now go away and let me work in peace."

True to his word, Denethor had sent a page to collect Faramir from the archery field in time to greet Boromir as he entered the great throne room. Denethor sat solemnly in his chair, waiting to welcome his son with the dignity he felt the occasion deserved. Faramir stood beside him. At last, the door opened, and Boromir made his entrance. He looked tall and handsome in his bright uniform with the Great Horn slung on its baldric at his hip, and somehow he seemed both older and younger than his eighteen years. He smiled broadly as he crossed the hall. Denethor rose, keeping one hand firmly on Faramir's collar to maintain the family dignity. Boromir bowed. "Father."

Denethor returned his elder son's smile. "Welcome home, my son," he said warmly. Then he released Faramir. Immediately, the boy ran and jumped into his brother's arms.

"Boromir!" he cried. "You came home!" Boromir laughed and swung Faramir around in a circle.

"You have grown since I left," he said. "Soon you will be too tall to swing."

"Will you be eating with us tonight?" Faramir asked. "You must tell me all about being a soldier. And you must tell me all about the adventures you had on your mission and all about the other soldiers you were with and what they are like and what it is like to live in a camp and --"

"Faramir, please," Denethor broke in. "You will drown Boromir with your questions."

"I will be eating with you tonight," Boromir promised Faramir. "I have been looking forward to eating with you and Father for two months now, and I am not about to miss my first chance. I will tell you all about my mission at dinner." He draped an arm around Faramir's shoulders and tweaked his nose with his other hand.

Faramir giggled, but he could not take his eyes off the Great Horn. Boromir had received it upon swearing fealty to Gondor, just before he went off with his unit. It looked heavy and official, and Faramir could not quite reconcile its presence with the jolly, fun-loving older brother who wrestled with him after his lessons. Faramir looked up at Boromir again, but this time, he saw his brother as if through new eyes. The formal greeting, the Great Horn, and the easy way Boromir wore this unfamiliar uniform all combined in Faramir's mind, and for the first time, he saw clearly the high destiny laid out for Boromir. The brother who had returned was not the same one who had left.

Boromir noticed Faramir's discomfort and tightened his arm around his brother's shoulders. "I have missed you," he said. "I have been saving up stories for two months, just for you. I will ensure that, while I am home on leave, we will have plenty of time to spend together, and I will tell you all two months' worth of those stories."

"But first you must wash yourself and dress for dinner," Denethor said. "I have ordered that our meal be ready one hour from now. Boromir, a bath and fresh clothing await you in your chamber. Faramir, you should also make productive use of this hour. I would suggest that you practice either your music or your geography."

"I shall go and play my viol," Faramir said, cheerful again at the thought of the music he loved.

"And I will sing in my bath loud enough to drown your viol completely," Boromir laughed. Denethor laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder, and Boromir bowed. Both brothers left the throne room to go their separate ways.

At dinner, Boromir told story after amazing story about life in an army camp. Faramir listened with wide eyes, not even paying attention to the food that he was eating. He drank in all of the details -- the new friends, the troop commanders, the tales of everything from elaborate war drills to the preparation of food in the wilderness. He asked question after question, and each of Boromir's answers was more fascinating than the last.

Finally, Denethor broke in with an amused smile. "Faramir," he said, "you should let Boromir alone for a few minutes so that he might eat his dinner as well. You have barely given him a chance to touch his meat, yet you have eaten an entire scoop of boiled carrots." Faramir looked down at his plate in horror. Sure enough, a half-bitten orange carrot remained in evidence. He hated boiled carrots, but it seemed that he had been so distracted by Boromir's stories that he had eaten almost all of them without noticing.

"Would you like some more?" Denethor asked sweetly, nudging the bowl towards Faramir.

"No, thank you!" Faramir said fervently. "Not even with butter on them." Boromir laughed at him in a friendly way as he started on a thick slab of beef.

"If you do not want carrots, then what do you want?" he asked.

"I want to meet all of your friends from the army," Faramir said.

Denethor shook his head. "No, Faramir," he said. "That is no company for you yet. Your time will come, but at present I do not deem you old enough to keep such company as the soldiers in the army. Have some more carrots." He placed a second, smaller scoop on Faramir's plate. Faramir wrinkled his nose at the offending vegetables and took a chunk of fresh white bread. As he reached for the butter dish that sat between him and Boromir, he caught a glimpse of mischief in Boromir's eyes. Boromir smiled, winked at Faramir, and suddenly became very interested in his food.

The rest of the meal passed in light conversation between the Steward and his older son. Afterwards, as the waitstaff cleared the dishes away, Boromir asked if he might hear Faramir play something upon his viol. Faramir agreed, and Denethor excused them both from the table. As they walked to Faramir's quarters together, Boromir gave a conspiratorial smile. "Do not worry," he said. "As much as I have spoken to you of my friends in the army, I have spoken to them even more of you. I think they are as eager to meet my little brother as you are to meet them. I will arrange for you to spend an evening in their company."

"How?" Faramir asked excitedly. "Papa will never agree to let me go with you."

"Leave that to me," Boromir said. "I learned more than sword tricks on this mission. But now I wish to hear your music." Faramir skipped ahead, eager to show off his own skills to his brother.

The next day, Faramir's normal routine of lessons and weapons practice seemed somehow special. Boromir was home, and Faramir never knew when he would catch a glimpse of his brother. Even though he didn't see much of Boromir, just knowing that he was home brightened Faramir's day. The two brothers met again as they washed before dinner. Boromir scrubbed a cloth over his face and grinned at Faramir. "I believe I have thought of a way that you might meet my comrades," he said. "I will speak of it to Father over dinner, but you must trust me. Do not breathe a word, and let me do what talking is needed."

"I will," Faramir said.

True to his word, Faramir stayed quiet through much of the meal, concentrating on avoiding eating his boiled carrots and listening to Boromir and Denethor's conversation. That was another thing that had changed, he thought. Boromir and Denethor now spoke of adult matters in an easy tone, almost as if they were friends rather than father and son. Faramir gloomily mushed a carrot and took a tiny bite, wondering when Boromir would stop talking about troop movement and bring up the subject of an excursion.

At last, Boromir laid down his fork and glanced from Faramir to Denethor. "Father," he began, "Of all the joys of home I have missed, I have missed most keenly spending time with my brother. With your permission, I would have him pass the evening in my company."

Denethor nodded. "It is not an unreasonable request," he said. "Faramir, have you finished your lessons for the day?"

"I have," Faramir said.

Denethor looked back at Boromir. "Shall I have the cooks prepare a selection of dainties to be brought to your quarters later this evening? I know well the hunger of growing boys."

Boromir's gaze never wavered. "In fact, Father, I had a mind to take Faramir out on an excursion tonight." Faramir held his breath. Denethor raised an eyebrow.

"What manner of excursion had you in mind?"

"A band of skilled musicians perform in the city tonight." Boromir said calmly. "When I heard Faramir perform on his viol last night, I thought that he might appreciate their work."

"A musical performance?" Denethor asked. Boromir nodded.

"They are among the finer musicians I have heard," he said. "Although Faramir might be a better judge of such things than I."

Denethor gave the matter some thought. "I believe a musical performance would be an appropriate excursion," he said at last. "But remember that, though you are home on leave, Faramir still has his lessons tomorrow. I would have you both back in the Citadel by midnight at the latest."

"We will return by midnight, Father," Boromir assured him. He nudged Faramir's foot under the table.

"Thank you, Father," Faramir said.

Denethor smiled. "It is good that you are friends as well as brothers," he said. "It will make your working relationship easier when Boromir becomes Steward."

An hour later, Boromir and Faramir walked through the streets of Minas Tirith, enjoying the cool evening breeze in their hair. Faramir had been very good and had kept quiet throughout dinner, but once they were outside the Citadel, he could no longer hold his questions back. "Where are we going, Boromir?" he asked. "You told me that we would be meeting your friends, but you told Papa that we were going to a musical performance. Which is true?"

Boromir laughed. "They are both true, little brother," he said. "It is a most excellent joke. We are going to an inn where many of the younger soldiers gather. There, you will meet my friends."

"You lied to Papa?" Faramir asked, aghast.

"I did not lie," Boromir said. "Not exactly. There is a band of musicians who play at the inn most nights, and they are quite skilled, for all that their music is somewhat rougher than the sort you played for me. You will indeed hear a musical performance. Father did not ask what music would be performed, nor where the performance would be held, and I saw no need to inform him."

Faramir gaped, filled with new admiration for his clever, daring older brother. It was indeed a splendid joke, and he was proud of Boromir for thinking of it.

The smell of beer assaulted his nose as soon as they stepped inside the inn. Faramir stopped just inside the entryway and blinked his eyes rapidly, breathing through his mouth a little until he became accustomed to the strong smell of beer, cabbage and unwashed bodies. As his eyes adjusted to the firelight, he took in the long tables and benches full of sturdy working men and soldiers. Here and there, large, friendly-looking women nearly spilled out of their bodices as they carried mugs of beer around the room. Faramir stared, amazed both by the strength of their clothing and of their hands, which were full of more beer mugs than he had thought one person could carry. In one corner of the room, the benches had been shoved back, and two tables had been pushed together to make a rough dais. Nearby was a table full of young men around Boromir's age. They waved, and Boromir led him over to them.

"This must be Faramir," one of them said. "You finally managed to sneak him out of the Citadel, did you?"

Boromir grinned. "Father gave permission for Faramir to attend a musical performance," he explained. The young soldiers roared with laughter and invited Faramir to sit down in their midst.

"Now we must get him a mug of beer and complete his corruption," the soldier said. Faramir's eyes widened. At home, he drank wine much diluted with water. The prospect of drinking strong beer was at once exciting and a little frightening. Boromir waved to one of the large women.

"A mug of your finest for me," he said. "And one for my brother as well, but let it be diluted with apple juice." The woman nodded, smiled indulgently at Faramir and continued on her way. The soldiers laughed again, and Boromir shrugged. "I took a risk in bringing him here. I will not set him drunk immediately and compound the problem," he explained.

Turning to Faramir, he draped his arm around the boy's shoulders. "Do not let these louts trouble you, little brother," he said. "They mean well. This fellow here, Mablung, has just begun to drink his beer at full strength since he became a soldier, and he is eager that others enjoy this pleasure with him." The young soldier who had greeted them at first smiled and touched his forehead at them.

Their drinks appeared, and Faramir joined in the general toasting, settling down happily to sip at his mug. It was slightly bitter, even through the sweetness of the apple juice, and Faramir felt very grown-up to be sitting drinking beer in an inn with his brother and the rest of the soldiers. The lads accepted him cheerfully and regaled him with stories of their lives, both in the army camp and in their fathers' homes. Once, when Boromir's attention was on one of the serving ladies, Mablung let Faramir have a sip of undiluted beer from his mug, then laughed as Faramir made a face at the bitterness.

Suddenly, Faramir spied a group of men armed with fiddles, a gittern and a frame drum climbing up on the dais. He tugged at Boromir's sleeve. "Is that our musical performance?"

"Indeed it is. A song, a song!" Boromir called. The other patrons in the inn took up the cry.

The men on the dais bowed and began to play a lively dancing tune. It was similar to one that Faramir's music master had taught him, but it was faster and less decorous, and the frame drum added an infectious rhythm that soon had Faramir's feet tapping. Then the man with the gittern began to sing. He had a fine, clear baritone voice and sang loudly about the pleasures to be had at the bottom of a barrel of beer. Faramir remembered the bitterness of Mablung's beer and was not sure he believed the song, but the soldiers seemed to enjoy it, joining in on the chorus.

The singer bowed and launched into another song about a lady and her maid who held a farting contest. Faramir pictured some of the daintier ladies he had seen in the Citadel and laughed so hard that he choked, and Boromir had to slap him on the back. The singer winked at them and let out an enormous belch to begin the next song.

Soon the singer changed his theme to love, in its earthier manifestations. Faramir did not find these songs nearly as amusing as the ones involving belches, but the soldiers listened with rapt attention and chortled appreciatively at jokes which sailed over Faramir's head. He still enjoyed listening to the singer's voice even if he did not understand the jokes. The tunes were pretty, and the words sounded deliciously light and merry, even if they made no sense. The singer winked again at Faramir, and, as if understanding the boy's problem, announced that his next song would tell the story of a maid who had broken the handle of her broom and the manservant who found a new shaft with which to repair it.

This was a story that Faramir felt he understood perfectly, and he quickly picked up the tune, happily joining the soldiers in singing along. When the song ended, the singer bowed to general applause and called for a mug of beer to wet his whistle. The soldiers turned back to their own mugs. Boromir drained his and rose to his feet, a little unsteadily. "I am sorry, lads, but we must leave you," he said. "I must have Faramir back in his bed by midnight."

"Bring him back to us soon," Mablung said. "He is a most charming little fellow."

Faramir grinned and felt that he would burst with happiness at such a compliment from a soldier. "Thank you for having me," he said, remembering his manners. "I did enjoy myself."

"And you learned something, too," Boromir said. "Musical performances are good education." Dropping some coins on the table to pay for their drinks, the two brothers left to make the walk back to the Citadel.

The next morning, Boromir slept very late. Faramir woke at his usual early hour, washed his face and hands and skipped downstairs to breakfast. Denethor smiled at him when he appeared in the dining hall.

"Did you enjoy your musical performance?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, very much," Faramir said. Then it occurred to him that it might not be wise to go into any more detail, and he became very interested in his bread and butter.

Try as he might, he could not get the funny songs out of his head all morning. Faramir had always had a sharp ear for music, and he found that he remembered several of the songs nearly perfectly. As he sat in his schoolroom, reading his history text, he could not seem to focus on the long list of Stewards past. The song about the maid with the broken broom still sparkled in his mind. Without realizing it at first, Faramir began to sing, softly at first, then louder, until his clear boyish treble drifted out into the hall.

As luck would have it, one case on Denethor's court schedule had been canceled, and he had decided to take the opportunity to observe his younger son's schooling, as he did from time to time. He walked into the schoolroom to find Faramir paging idly through a history of the Stewardship, singing a tavern song of the lewdest kind. "Faramir!" Denethor snapped.

Faramir looked up, startled into silence, then blushed bright red. "Papa," he said. "Forgive me. I was thinking -- I was remembering the musical performance of last night. I know I should have been studying, but --"

"Faramir," Denethor said tightly, "did you learn that song at this 'musical performance' that you and Boromir attended?"

Faramir nodded miserably, unable to lie.

"And just where did this performance take place?"

Faramir did not wish to lie to his father, but he sensed that telling the truth would mean trouble for himself and Boromir. He compromised by remaining silent and not meeting Denethor's eyes. Denethor sighed.

"Boromir took you to an inn, did he not?"

Faramir nodded again. "But, Papa, Boromir did not lie. There was a musical performance at the inn. And I did enjoy it a great deal."

Denethor snorted. "Clearly. Faramir, do you even know what that song you were singing is about?"

Faramir sat up straighter. "Of course I do," he said indignantly. "The singer explained it quite well before he started. The maid breaks the handle of her broom, and the manservant finds a long shaft to fix it. He pushes his long thing into her hairy thing, and --"

"Enough," Denethor said. He went into the corridor and located a page. "Find my older son and fetch him here at once," he said. "Roust him out of his bed if you must, but produce him here."

In short order, Boromir stumbled into the schoolroom, muzzy, confused and distinctly hung over. Denethor regarded him with a look of disdain. Finally, he gave an odd smile. "So," he said, rather louder than was strictly necessary, "you took Faramir to an inn last night, against my express wishes."

Boromir winced. "How did you know, Father? Did Faramir --"

"Faramir did not betray your secret. At least credit your old father with the ability to discern the thoughts of his son."

"I did not mean to tell, Boromir," Faramir put in. Boromir waved his apology aside with one hand, pressing the other against his eyes. Denethor smiled, almost as though he were enjoying the scene.

"Perhaps you have not noticed, but your brother is bright, observant, and imitative," Denethor said. "He admires you greatly, and would love to learn whatever you choose to teach him. This is not a responsibility to take lightly. In this case, he has learned to sing, quite nicely, a song I find most inappropriate for a lad of his age and station. Fortunately, he does not appear to have grasped the fullest extent of its meaning. Therefore, Boromir, your punishment for your disobedience will be to finish the task you began. While you are home on leave, you will take it upon yourself to teach Faramir all about the true functions of long things and hairy things. And mind that you teach him correctly. This means that you must make sure to learn anything that you yourself do not know as well as you think you know it." Denethor smiled in satisfaction at the look of horrified comprehension that spread across Boromir's face.

Boromir glanced from his father to his brother and back again. "By your leave, Father," he mumbled, "I think that I will find some willow and ginger tea, and then I will visit the Archives for the rest of the morning. Perhaps a visit there might . . . clear my head."

"And refresh your memory on certain subjects, no doubt," Denethor said dryly. "You may go." Boromir gave a short bow and stumbled out of the schoolroom. Denethor turned back to Faramir, who had watched his brother's dressing-down with a mixture of horror and glee.

"Do not ever think you can fool me," Denethor said, not unkindly. "I learned that very song in a tavern when I was no older than Boromir. I know exactly where such songs come from. Now, return to your history. Boromir will be along shortly to educate you on other subjects."

Faramir bent his head obediently over his books. Denethor left the schoolroom, satisfied that he had disciplined both of his sons correctly, softly humming the song about the maid with the broken broom.