Minas Tirith, Year 3000 T.A. 

When he came to the dining chamber that night, his sons were poring over a parchment.  Their heads almost touched, and he heard some chuckles. 

“Any interesting developments?” he asked them. 

Boromir and Faramir stood up and bowed to him. 

“A certain lady had written another love letter to Boromir,” Faramir said. 

Denethor waited until the servant finished serving the soup before asking to see the letter. 

Boromir had enough courtesy to the lady to keep the last page of the letter, which bore the lady’s name, only to himself.  But the first page was instructive enough.  It was full of flattery, and was clearly written by a young lady besotted by a valiant Captain whom she hardly knew.   

“The lady is clearly infatuated,” he said, “but how could you call this a love letter, Faramir?  Given your extensive reading, I expect you to know better.” 

His two sons looked askance at him.  Young people, he thought, tend to forget that their parents were once young, too. 

He did not deign to explain and his sons did not ask.  They proceeded to talk of other matters as they ate their supper. 

After the servant cleared the table, he went to his study and returned with a letter on his hand.  “This is a love letter,” he said, proffering the treasured parchment to them. 

His sons exchanged glances.  Boromir took the letter and unrolled it.  Faramir moved closer to read over his brother’s shoulder. 

“Mother was rather long winded, what was she talking about?” said Boromir impatiently. 

“Hush,” Faramir silenced him. “Be quiet.”

“O, she was giving Father her picture.  How she wrote!  Now I know whom you take after, Faramir.” 

Faramir was silent, with a rapturous expression in his face. 

“The picture which she sent with this letter, was it the one in your study, Father?” Boromir asked. 

Denethor nodded. 

When Faramir finally looked up from the letter, he turned to his father.  “Thank you for showing us this, Father.” 

Denethor gave a slight nod.  “You may keep it.” 

Faramir was surprised.  “Me?” He glanced at Boromir. 

“Why are you looking at me?  Not everything must go to the heir.  And this kind of things obviously belong to you.” 

Faramir rolled the letter carefully.  “I will treasure it, Father.” 

Cautiously, he spoke again, “One day, would you show us her other letters?” 

Denethor nodded.  “Come to my study tomorrow after the ninth hour.” 

He stood up and walked to the door. 

 “You two loved each other greatly,” Boromir suddenly said, “I suppose I will never experience such a thing.” 

Denethor turned to him.  “You never know, it may suddenly come to you.”  But he privately agreed that it was unlikely that Boromir should find such a love.  His heir’s heart was given to glory in swords and arms. 

His gaze moved to his second son.  Faramir was more likely to experience love with a woman.  Well, if he ever did, Denethor wished Faramir would be more fortunate than his father. 

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