Faramir and the Never-ending Story

by Erestor

Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to Lord of the Rings. And Boromir is obviously smarter in real life. Apologies.

"Perfect," thought Faramir with great pleasure. "Finally I've found the book for me!"

Unfortunately, it was too heavy for him to pick up. Faramir tried easing the huge volume off its elaborate stand, only to drop it on his foot.

"Ouch!" squeaked the boy, clutching his crushed toes in agony. "Well, at least I got it off the shelf."

That was Faramir for you, always optimistic.

"Boromir, I need a little help here," Faramir yelled across the room. Boromir jumped guiltily from where he had been doodling on a piece of paper.

"You're going to decode that?" Boromir asked in horror, reading the title. "History of Minas Tirith Vol. I."

"The first of fifteen," explained Faramir proudly. "I'm going to read them all!"

"Are they all five hundred pages?" Boromir asked, with genuine interest.

"Of course not! Some are even longer."

"Well, happy reading," Boromir said, hefting the heavy tome onto the table.

Faramir licked his fingers and carefully pulled the book open. "Minas Tirith, also known as the White City, was. . ."

"Faramir," came the hissing whisper.

"What?" asked Faramir grumpily, his eyes still fixed on the page.

"I need another pen, someone chewed on this one."

"Boromir, you chew on them. I think it helps you concentrate."

"Oh," Boromir said in surprise, gazing at the quill's mangled remains with new respect.

"Here," Faramir said resignedly, passing Boromir a new quill pen. He resumed reading. ". . .was founded by. . ."

There was a crash, followed by a whispered curse. Faramir glanced up in surprise. "You know Elvish?"

"No," Boromir snapped, shoving several shards of glass underneath some parchments with his foot.

"Where did that come from anyway?" Faramir asked, watching his brother.


"Whatever you smashed," Faramir clarified.

"Oh, it was just a vase," Boromir explained.

"That was just an ancient Númenórean vase," Faramir choked out.

Boromir cursed again, just a little more quietly. Faramir raised one eyebrow reprovingly and turned to the book again. "It is made up of seven. . ."

"Do you think Berelann likes me?" Boromir asked.

Faramir glared at his brother. "I don't care if she likes you. Will you just let me read?"

"I need to know," Boromir whined.

"You are insecure," Faramir said. "Why don't you just go and ask her?"

Silence. Blessed silence. Faramir flipped the page. "Minas Tirith is nearly impossible to defeat since. . ."

There was a sharp poke in his ribs."What is it this time, Boromir?"growled Faramir.

"How did you know it was me?" came the awed voice of his brother.

"Because it's always you!" Faramir groaned.

"Do you know what we're eating for dinner?"

"Roast orc, corn, and fried spider legs," Faramir said sarcastically.

Boromir was taken aback. "Spider legs?"

"Spider legs," Faramir confirmed. He glanced over the page. "Defenders of Minas Tirith. . ."

Boromir gazed at his brother idly. "Maybe you should take a break. That book is making you crabby."


"Why didn't you tell me that before?" Boromir asked innocently.

Faramir simply heaved the book at his brother, with a colossal effort. Boromir ducked.

"Why don't we go outside?" he suggested. "You need a break from your studies."

"All right," Faramir sighed. "But if I fail this important test, I'm going to blame you."

"Why is that always your excuse?"

"Because you always do distract me."

"Want to practice your sword fighting?"

"As long as you don't knock me unconscious."

"Like last time?"

"You said you wouldn't mention that again!"

"I lied."

"I'm going to throttle you!"

"You can try, brother dear."

Two lively boys raced off through the palace.