Chapter Three: DENETHOR'S BIRTHDAY GIFT

This chapter contains mild sexual situations and humorous innuendo, but no explicit sex or bad language, therefore the PG-13 rating. However, three popular fanons are violated.

Boromir chuckled inwardly as he gave Faramir a hand up the stairs to the second floor of his building. Poor Faramir had a hard time negotiating the stairs, no doubt from all the beer he'd consumed. What fun it was to introduce your brother to the better things in life on his 13th birthday. Soon enough they would be fighting for the life of Gondor. Might as well partake in the old 13th birthday tradition and have a good time while they could.

At the top of the stairs was the establishment called Ancalame's Vessel, though no sign to that effect was on the door. Ancalame's was well known in Minas Tirith as a high quality Home. Boromir opened the door. He gestured for Faramir to enter first. What might the boy be expecting? Boromir wondered. Faramir was such a dreamer, who knows what he thought about? Battles, dragons, corsair ships on the coast of Dol Amroth? Girls? Faramir was of an age when boys started to think about girls, Boromir decided, based on his own personal experience.

The boy's body blocked the entrance to Anclame's Vessel. Boromir gave him a gentle push to the side as he stepped into the plush reception room of the Home. Upon the walls hung thick tapestries depicting scenes that were usually reserved for the bedroom. A vast upholstered couch occupied the center of the room. Three young women clad only in diaphonous chemises spread their bodies languidly across the couch. One of them had her legs spread wide. Boromir felt as though he
should look away, but he couldn't bring himself to turn his head. What would Faramir think of this display?

"Welcome, Lord Boromir," an older and more fully dressed woman parted thick curtains as she greeted them. "May we be of service to you?"

"Yes, indeed, Mistress Nerdanel," Boromir grinned. Mistress Nerdanel was about 30 years old and breathtaking lovely. She had a luxurious head of waving black hair and the thickest black brows. Unlike the other women, she did not take clients, aparently having risen from that occupation some years ago to manage Ancalame's Vessel. At the corner of his eye, Boromir noted Faramir's mouth hanging open in astonishment.

"Mistress Nerdanel, this is my brother Faramir," Boromir said and nudged his brother. He was well pleased when Faramir took the courtesan's hand and kissed the back of it with the proper courtesy due every Gondorian woman, even courtesans.

"I am pleased to meet you, Mistress," the boy was slow to drop the courtesan's hand.

"Today is Faramir's birthday," Boromir said. "So I've brought him to you to help him celebrate."

Nerdanel gestured to the lounging girls. They immediately got up and moved gracefully to Faramir's side. The tallest girl ran her hands over Faramir's shoulder. "What a handsome boy he is, Lord Boromir," she exclaimed.

"There is quite a family resemblance," Mistress Nerdanel cooed.

"I do concur," Boromir said. He noticed that Faramir's high color was up and hoped, for the boy's sake, that something else was as well. "You know what type of place this is, do you not?" he whispered under his breath to Faramir.

Faramir nodded stiffly but did not speak. The three women now pressed against the lucky boy. It was impossible to tell whether Faramir enjoyed their company or was acutely embarassed. At this moment Boromir wished that he was the one in the family with the Numenorean gift of farsight.

The short brown haired girl ran her hand from Faramir's neck down his chest and across his stomach. But before that hand could descend further, Mistress Nerdanel
deftly removed it to the woman's barely covered breast. "How old are you, Lord Faramir?" Nerdanel asked.

This time Faramir could croak. And being Faramir, he could not consider lying, Boromir thought with some dismay.

"I should have expected as much, tsk tsk," Nerdanel scolded Boromir. "Thirteenth birthday. The old pagan custom. You know the laws full well. He's too young. This is respectable brothel. Our rent is never late. I don't tolerate fights among the customers or the girls, or break any of the Steward's laws."

"What do you mean?" Boromir defied her. "This is strictly between Ancalame's Vessel and the sons of the Steward. Look at my brother. He's a big boy; his head is practically level to my eyes."

A full scarlet flush blazed across Faramir's face.

"Your brother is tall for his age, but I wager that he is not mature enough to enjoy himself," Nerdanel said. "Few thirteen year olds are, and thirteen year old girls are more ready than boys at that age. How old were you, Lord Boromir, when you lost your virginity?"

"Fourteen."

"Oh really? I seem to recall that not so long ago..." Nerdanel began.

"Oh, maybe I was fifteen," Boromir admitted.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Faramir suddenly squeaked.

"You wouldn't have understood," Boromir complained.

"I have a request," Faramir said, "since Boromir has brought me all this way. I have neither a mother or sister and have never seen a woman unclad, except for statues. Could I have a girl to look at in private, please? I hope there is no law against a boy furthering his education simply by looking."

It's the beer talking, Boromir thought, but what a fine compromise. He must tell Father of Faramir's budding statemenship.

Nerdanel put Faramir in the hands of the tall girl with the raven hair. The two disappeared beyond a thick tapestry to one of the bowers off the main hall. Surely the boy could have done the deed, Boromir thought. Faramir's body had grown so in the past six months. His voice was changing. Boromir had noticed a soft red down on his brother's lips. Why, a year from now, the boy would have the makings of a beard. A red one, too, though Faramir hardly had the fiery temper that the plain folk said went with a red beard.

"Lord Boromir, can we be of further service?" Nerdanel winked and draped a knowing arm across his shoulders.

"Not now, sweets," Boromir kissed her delectable cheek. "I have some business with the publican downstairs, as you might imagine. I'll return in a day or two, and we can discuss, ahem, this establishment's books."

********************************************************

In the hour before midnight, Faramir and Boromir finally returned home. The publican of the Corsair's Nose had lent them two mounts, so the brothers didn't have to haul themselves up three circles of Minas Tirith on foot. Nevertheless, Faramir was exhausted when he dismounted the small, shaggy rental nag. Boromir sat atop
his aging rented stallion, unable to move. How much had he drank while Faramir was otherwise occupied?

Faramir gave a hand to his brother as he dismounted to keep Boromir from falling over. The Tower Guardsmen who faithfully guarded the Steward's door night and day quietly approached to help them. One guardsman took the horses while the other man helped Faramir lug Boromir inside the Steward's House.

The large front room was dark, save for the blazing fireplace. In a thickly padded chair beside that fireplace sat Denethor, son of Ecthelion. He did not rise when Faramir and the guardsman dragged Boromir past them. However, his deep voice asked, "Is he conscious, Faramir?"

"Aye, I am awake," Boromir groaned, "and able to speak for myself, Sire."

"Then I suppose that business is not that good at the Corsair's Nose," Denethor said calmly. In the uneven light, Faramir watched his father. Denethor had an oblong, chiseled face and long, waving black hair shot with silver. His all-knowing grey eyes were trained on Boromir, thankfully.

"I assure you, Father, that business IS good," Boromir squeezed out of Faramir's grip and lurched forward, only to collapse against the nearest wall. "However, I think the publican is skimming some money off the top of the beer profits, though I am not sure."

"It is your income, my son, so it is in your own interest to make sure the publican isn't cheating you," Denethor sighed and finally removed his stare from Boromir's face. The Steward turned to the fire and yawned, "I don't suppose you also checked the accounts for Ancalame's Vessel, as well."

Boromir burped. "I did, Father. Mistress Nerdanel is very scrupulous, pays the rent and her taxes, as you know. I wish the publican would do the same."

"And you let Faramir sample the wares, no doubt to celebrate his 13th birthday," Denethor scowled at his heir.

"I just looked, Father," Faramir protested. "She was very pretty but I was not allowed to, uhm, sample."

"Ridiculous pagan custom," Denethor interrupted. "Be gone then, my drunken heir, and sleep it off. I expect you in the White Tower by mid-day tomorrow." Less mildly he said, "You, Faramir, are not excused. I would speak with you."

A knot automatically formed in Faramir's stomach. He pulled a bench that was against the wall up to the fire and prepared for a verbal drubbing.

"So you approved of the noble steed Amras?" Denethor asked.

"Wny yes!" Faramir jumped. Perhaps Father had not seen fit to scold him. "Then he has arrived at our stables and you have seen him?"

"I assume that he has," Denethor said. "I did not go there this evening." In the dark, Faramir could barely see his father's eyes.

"But how did you know about him?" Faramir asked.

"Why, I picked him out for you a few days ago," Denethor said. "I had Boromir take you to Third Circle Stable to see if you liked my choice, as you not surprisingly did. However, you must think of the horse as a gift from all the people of Gondor. As my son, they expect you to fight for their country above and beyond the average foot soldier. Amras is the perfect horse for you to learn the beginning drills of cavalry warfare. And he should be a fine town steed, as well."

"I will take the best care of him," Faramir promised earnestly. Then he turned to his father and gulped, "What has Boromir to do with the business of the tavern?"

"Why, he owns the building that holds the Corsair's Nose and Ancalame's Vessel. Their rents are his income," Denethor chuckled. "The Steward's heir can't survive on a humble foot-soldier's pension. So I ceded some properties owned by our House to Boromir on the day he reached his majority. As I will also do for you when you begin military service."

"And here I thought Boromir spent without thinking first," Faramir admitted. "He treated everyone in the bar to dinner and rounds of beer ."

Denethor clapped his hands together, "Excellent. The customers will get a taste of the fine food and beer in the Corsair's Nose. Next time they'll come back and pay for more." The Steward then straightened himself to his full height. Faramir caught a glimpse of the mail coat Denethor had recently taken to wear beneath his robes.

His father moved forward and sat down on the bench beside Faramir. He then placed a hand on either side of Faramir's forehead. Faramir could feel his father taking his measure and his own inability to hide his thoughts from parental scrutiny.

"You look so much like Finduilas, you and Boromir," Denethor's voice was surprisingly wistfully. "Boromir will be our great war leader. That he gets from me. But you, my younger son, from me you received the gift of the Numenoreans. It can also be a curse, so use your farsight carefully. Remember that not much passes beyond the sight of Denethor, son of Ecthelion."

Faramir looked long and deep in his father's eyes, sensing Denethor's deep loss from the long ago death of his mother.

"You have heard me in the Tower," Denethor dropped his hands from Faramir's head. Faramir turned away.

"I see that in your heart. Know that I search far and wide for tidings that affect us here in Gondor," Denethor whispered. "I cannot do this with farsight alone. I use a tool, which shall remain a secret between us. Sometimes the events that I see fill me with dread. You were wise not to tell Boromir any of this. Years from now, it will fall to you to use this tool. You will use it and your farsight to help Boromir to protect our country."

Faramir trembled as he once again looked at his father. Denethor stood up slightly and kissed Faramir's brow. The Steward's face glowed with warm love for him, even though he was the younger, lesser son. Denethor did not have to say anything for Faramir to know this. And of, course, Denethor did not require words to know how much Faramir loved him.

The Steward got up and reached behind his chair. He withdrew a knapsack that bulged out into a peculiar shape. Denethor placed the heavy object in Faramir's hands, "This present is from me to you, my son, on your 13th birthday."

In a flash, Faramir withdrew a gleaming lute, shining and spanking new.

"And now," Denethor said, "Give your father a few songs."

Faramir cradled the instrument in his hands and played a soft tune, not accompanied by his teenager's voice. Denethor returned to his chair and sank down to listen comfortably.

When the tune was done, Faramir took a deep breath and confessed, "Father, I told you a lie."

"About the girl," Denethor nodded and closed his eyes contentedly. "You touched as well as looked. So did I, on my 13th birthday. Nasty pagan custom."