Chapter Two: BOROMIR HOLDS A BIRTHDAY PARTY

"Why he's beautiful," Faramir exclaimed when the stable master led a large, sleek bay gelding into the corral. Boromir had insisted that they visit one of the
finer stables in town as their first stop in his plans for the day. Now they stood by the fence observing the horse, who was in light tack and seemed eager for a stroll.

"His name is Amras," Ingrim, the stable master said. He grabbed Amras's bridle and led the fine beast in a walk around the corral, so that Faramir and Boromir might better evaluate the horse's gait. "A fine young gelding, only four years old," Ingrim continued. "His grand sire came from the finest stock in the Mark, as do I. He's a good-natured, friendly fellow, and far smarter than your average mount. Will you give him a ride, Lord Faramir? He needs some exercise."

"He's a big animal for a starter mount, but you will need a big horse soon, litle brother," Boromir said and gave Faramir a boost into the saddle. "Just take him around the corral a few times to test his gait and responsiveness. We don't have all day."

Amras was easily two hands taller than the desert ponies that Faramir had ridden since childhood- a full sized horse and larger than many full-sized horses. Amras did, indeed, have a lightning response to Faramir's knees and his hands on the reins. Faramir leaned over the saddle to run a hand down the horse's neck.

"So you approve of him?" Boromir asked.

Amras was the best horse Faramir had ever ridden in his life. "I'd love to take him out for a gallop, Boromir, please," he cried in delight.

"Not now. Later. My good Ingrim, see to it that this horse is delivered this evening to the Steward's Stables," Boromir ordered. "Come, Fara," he grabbed Faramir's
elbow and dragged him from the stables onto the street.

Faramir almost matched his brother's broad stride down to the fourth level, but no words came to his mouth. He was too troubled by what passed in the stable. Many evenings he had heard Father boom with pride over Boromir's excellent virtues. However, there was one weakness in the elder son that Father loved to expound upon as an object lesson for his younger, lesser son. Boromir had no concept of the value of money and blissfully spent it everywhere he went. "It is a virtue and makes good common sense to keep track of your finances," Denethor's words rang in Faramir's head. "Boromir doesn't understand this, so you must learn finance for him."

"You didn't even ask the price of the horse!" Faramir finally spoke up.

Boromir shrugged."There is no need." He stopped at the ornate gate to the third level and scowled at Faramir, "Six months I've been gone, and I come home to find you've become as grim as him. I should never have left the two of you alone together."

Faramir pursed his lips. Father's admonitions and the memory of the screams in the night threatened to steal the joy right out of Faramir's birthday.

"Can't you smile a little. It won't hurt," Boromir draped his arm around Faramir's shoulders and gave them a brotherly squeeze. "Remind me that not too long ago you had a good sense of humor."

" Right now my humor fails me. It's nearly dinner time, and we're not exactly heading in the direction of home," Faramir sighed.

"And you're afraid he'll be mad when you don't show up?" Boromir let go Faramir's shoulders and continued, "Better practice your farsight some more, little brother. Father knows you're with me."

"Ah, then it's alright?" Faramir grinned in spite of himself. Trying to guess Boromir's motives had always been a challenge, and today Boromir won.

"It's been alright all day," Boromir laughed. "Come, I have another place I want to take you."

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That place turned out to be a vast inn with the unlikely name of The Corsair's Nose. Anchors, fisherman's netting, bouys and other nautical objects served for decoration among various statues of villanous Corsairs in threatening positions. Some of the patrons appeared to be as villanous as the statues, and that included more than a few formidible looking women. Other patrons were most certainly soldiers, their tunics vivid with the colors of the different regiments of Gondor's standing army. These fellows rose when Faramir and Boromir entered the room.

"Who among you is thirsty!" Boromir raised his arms as though to embrace all and sundry.

The response was a hearty cheer from the soldierly types, who cleared a place for Denethor's sons to sit among them. Before Boromir completed introducing the soldiers from his regiment, an overflowing mug of beer found its way into Faramir's hands. Faramir's exposure to alchoholic beverages was limited to watered down wine at formal dinners. Beer was a new experience. It tasted strange and gaseous yet it did quench his by-now raging thirst. No sooner did he drain the first mug than it was refilled by a buxom waittress.

Feeling warm and no longer anxious about missing dinner, Faramir relaxed and listened to the soldiers talk. For all their posturing, he could sense they were all green about the ears, trained but untested in battle. Faramir grinned internally. He doubted any in Boromir's regiment, including his doughty brother, had seen an orc or Southron, except in woodcuts and drawings. Still the soliders bragged and cuffed each other in a friendly manner. Their boisterous humor was infectous. Faramir shared in their laughter but otherwise kept his mouth shut.

At the height of their carousing, Boromir jumped onto a chair and cupped his hands over his mouth, "Attention! Attention! That means you!" he yelled. "In honor of my brother Faramir's 13th birthday, there is roast beef, biscuits, and gravy for the room, courtesy of the House of Hurin."

Faramir was about to worry about his brother's extravagant spending when the soldiers yanked him out of his seat. They installed Faramir onto a table cluttered with mugs and slippery from spilled beer. He stood above a sea of beer mugs raised in his honor. His brain could barely focus on their calls. Were they clamoring for a speech or a song? Faramir had never delivered a speech and couldn't imagine what to speak about. He had, however, sung with Boromir at various family parties.

A song, then, he steeled himself. He took a deep breath, steadied his nerves, and then braved the first few notes. A strange unfamiliar baritone groaned out instead of his usual piping boy's voice. No more than a bar of music escaped his throat when this new low voice cracked and returned to its usual high pitch.

"A lute! A lute!" Boromir thankfully interrupted him. "Pass the boy a lute. He's not used to the drink, but I'll wager he has enough wit to play a tune. I'll sing."

A stocky man with a rough, grizzled face held up a hand to Faramir and assisted him off the table. "No one expects a thirteen year old boy's voice to charm the ears off of the elves, not to mention this tawdry lot," he quipped as he sat down beside Faramir.

The promised lute somehow found its way to Faramir's hands. Taking comfort in its familiar feel, Faramir plucked out one of his favorite tunes, a rollicking party song. Across the table, Boromir picked up the cue. Again he jumped on a chair, this time to entertain the crowd with his clear, perfect tenor.

How bold and fine he looks, Faramir thought as he played another song, this one a sailor's tune appropriate to the Corsair's Nose. Boromir spread his arms wide as he sang, as though to embrace everyone in the tavern. Many of the patrons joined him on the chorus. Even Faramir, accutely aware of his vocal shortcomings, joined in, secure that he couldn't be heard.

"The name is Eb," the grizzled man leaned in to Faramir when the song ended.

Faramir put aside the lute, which disappeared into someone else's hands. He looked at the tough man at his side and said, to both of their surprise, "You are Boromir's commanding officer."

"That I am, Ebaran Alstad," the commander said and signaled a waitress, "Come give this young lordling a mug of UN-fermented apple cider. Otherwise Boromir will be cited for violating his own father's drinking restrictions."

Faramir nodded sheepishly. Alchoholic beverages were not to be served outside the home to youth under 15. Everyone knew that law though some paid little heed to it.

"Relax, boy, the constabulary haven't caught you yet," Eb smiled before he continued. "Your brother will make a great leader, like your grandfather Echthelion of memory.

"Mmm, hmm," Faramir agreed and commenced to tuck in to the newly arrived plate of roast beef. Boromir a great leader--the thought made Faramir beam with pride in his sibling.

Eb continued, "It does my heart good to see that he who must, by birth, hold the title of Captain General, be the best candidate in several generations for that position. Now you, Faramir, son of Denethor, do you long to be a soldier?"

"I never thought of being much else," Faramir said with a mouth full of meat and gravy, "what else do Steward's younger sons do?"

"They don't have to be Stewards, so I suppose some dream of non-military occupations," Eb said. "Peace. What if we see peace in our lifetime? It could happen. You've heard of the Watchful Peace, right? What would you do if peace comes before your majority? "

"I suppose I could be a minstrel," Faramir mumbled, having wolfed down most of the dinner. "I can't sing so well but I'm good at the lute. I never tried to write a poem... Or a hunter. I could be a hunter, making my living in the woods, bringing down game and selling it on Market Day."

"You are a sensitive sort," Eb interrupted him. "You will make the toughest kind of soldier."

"Me, tough?" Faramir shook his head. "Boromir's the tough one in the family."

"The sensitive ones are the ones who learn best how to protect their hearts," Eb said. "No, twenty years from now I vow you will be a much tougher soldier than your brother. And you WILL be a soldier."

"I never thought I could be otherwise, until today," Faramir muttered. His melancholy thoughts were interrupted by Boromir calling out his name.

"Come, little brother, Come see the rest of the Corsair's Nose."