It was all wrong.

Faramir leaned close to the parchment, squinting, then leaned back and held it away with outstretched hands, but neither angle yielded a reason for its failure.

Sighing, Faramir picked up his quill again, and not a moment too soon, for he felt his father’s presence long before he heard his heavy footsteps echoing in the antechamber.

With a quick shuffle of the parchment amidst the rabbit-quick beating of his heart, Faramir hunched over the table again, scribbling furiously.

“What have we here?” his father said, resting a large and heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. He reached for the stack of parchment, and Faramir cringed, though he smiled outwardly.

But there was no need to worry; his father was a busy man and merely flipped through the first two sheets. “You need to work more on your numbers, Faramir, many of these figures are wrong. Boromir has a head for numbers; he will show you what to do.” Denethor smiled fondly at his eldest son, and without another word or glance at Faramir he went to inspect Boromir’s work.

“Ah, this is what I mean,” he said, spreading Boromir’s work across the tabletop. One sheet of parchment pushed against Faramir’s, knocking his work askew, but he said nothing.

“Excellent work, Boromir! Your penmanship has improved as well.”

“Faramir has been helping me, Father,” Boromir said, smiling at his brother. “He has wonderful penmanship, does he not?”

Faramir glanced at their father and found no softening in his expression, at least, none meant for him.

Denethor held Boromir’s face with both hands and smiled in satisfaction. “You will be the best Steward Gondor has ever known, my son.”

“Oh, Father,” Boromir said with a laugh, though his eyes looked guilty when he glanced at his brother. Denethor kissed his brow and Faramir looked away then, and busied himself with scratching a few numbers on a clean sheet of parchment.

Faramir kept his head bent until his father swept from the room, his fur robes trailing behind him.

Pushing the parchment away then, Faramir stood and walked to the window, staring out at the city below.

“Father loves you, Faramir,” Boromir said quietly.

Faramir glanced over his shoulder without turning, and raised his eyebrows.

“He is just a busy man,” Boromir tried to explain feebly. “I…Would you like me to help you with your numbers now?”

Shaking his head no, Faramir returned his attention to the happenings in the lower levels of the city. His eyes darted from soldiers, the polished silver of their mail gleaming in the sun, to women talking in small groups, to a lone rider garbed in grey.

Faramir leaned closer to the glass and squinted as he followed the rider’s progress, the small figure coming closer and closer until he realized, “It’s Mithrandir! Boromir, Mithrandir is here!”

“What?” Boromir asked, at his brother’s side in a moment. Together they watched as the wizard reached the highest level, their level, and dismounted, handing the reigns of his brown horse to a nearby man.

Faramir ran to the doorway, knowing that to reach his father, Gandalf must certainly pass by.

A few minutes passed, and Faramir, a twitching bundle of energy, looked down the long, empty corridor. Where was Mithrandir?

A throat was cleared behind him, and when Faramir turned he was met by a long grey beard and billowing grey robes.

“Mithrandir!” Faramir exclaimed, grinning. “I was looking for you.”

The wizard harrumphed and crouched down so he was eye level with the boy. “What is it that you want with an old, grumpy man like me?” he asked gruffly, though Faramir noticed how his eyes twinkled, because he never saw such an expression from his own father.

He faltered then, just for a moment, but gathered his wits and replied, “I…it is a stroke of luck that you are here. I have been trying to draw a dragon but it does not look the way you describe them.”

Standing then, Gandalf placed a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “Lead on, Faramir of the Tower Guard,” he said in booming voice, his hand so gentle that Faramir barely felt it through the layers of the black livery he wore, though he knew it was there.

Faramir led the wizard to the table, where Boromir waited.

“Welcome, Mithrandir,” he said, smiling. “Have you journeyed long?”

“My journeys are always long,” Gandalf replied, sitting in Faramir’s chair with a weary sigh. “Now, my lad, where is this dragon?”

Faramir rifled through the sheets of parchment until he located the one he was searching for. “Here it is, Mithrandir. I…I have tried to draw it as you described but it does not look right.”

Gandalf squinted and studied the parchment for a few long moments before he set it down and motioned for Faramir to come closer.

“This is a fine drawing,” Gandalf declared with a warm smile. “In fact, it is such an accurate depiction of Smaug that I wonder if you were there.”

Faramir laughed and shook his head no.

“I see,” Gandalf replied, nodding. “Perhaps that explains why the wings are too small. Give me your hand, my lad, and we shall draw this together.”

Faramir took up his quill and allowed Gandalf to guide his hand across the parchment. Boromir stepped around the table and watched, a smile forming on his face.

“There now,” Gandalf said after a few moments. He sat back and inspected the parchment again. “Yes; that is Smaug.”

Faramir could not keep himself from grinning. “Thank you, Mithrandir! This is just as I always imagined a dragon to look like from your stories.”

Gandalf smiled fondly at the boy. “Are you going to add to your drawing?”

Blushing slightly, Faramir replied, “I…I was thinking of drawing myself slaying the dragon, but…” He trailed off, and looked away from the wizard’s penetrating gaze.

“I think that is a fine idea,” Gandalf said, smiling at the boy’s surprise. “I suppose you know how to draw yourself, Faramir, and I will leave you to it. I must speak with your father about something.”

He stood then, and Faramir and Boromir trailed behind, eliciting his promise to visit them again before he left Minas Tirith.

Once Gandalf was gone, Faramir stared down at his drawing and smiled proudly. His brother crept up beside him, and looked over his shoulder.

“Faramir?” he asked after a moment. “Will you draw me a dragon as well? Perhaps one of me slaying it?”

“Of course, big brother,” Faramir replied with a smile.