Chapter One: A BIRTHDAY SURPRISE

Thirteenth Birthday has won second prize in the Races:Men:Gondor category in the 2007 Middle Earth Fan Fiction Awards (MEFAs). Thanks to everyone who reviewed the story.

This tale was originally written in answer to the alphabet challenge at the HA yahoo group. The subject, Fearful Faramir, inspired me to crawl out of my shell and return to writing fanfic. So come join the Sons of the Steward in the fullness of their youth.

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THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY

The boy sat at a stone table in their father's garden, a dusty book spread open before him. However, his head was turned away from the text. His body faced the broad view of the White City, spread out beyond the manor walls in all its beauty and despair. The boy was either too distracted, or, more likely too mired in silly children's dreams, to hear his brother creep into the garden behind his back.

How had Faramir gotten so big in such a short time? thought Boromir, son of Denethor, as he watched his kid brother from behind the flimsy camouflage of a rose bush. Six months had passed since Boromir left their comfortable home in the Citadel to begin military training. Six months he had slept on the ground, trained in armor, and sneezed in the grassy air of Lossarnarch. But now, hah! now he was going to have some fun. Sometimes it was good to be Denethor's son. Sometimes not.

Boromir crept out from behind the bushes and squeezed his brother's shoulders on either side of the neck. He was well pleased when Faramir easily slipped out of the strong grip and twisted away. When Faramir turned to face Boromir, the boy's body was already in fighting position, long hands tightened into fists. After a shocked pause, Faramir yelled out in delight and leaped up to hug his brother. "What are you doing here? I thought you were off on patrol in some place no one ever heard of You didn't sneak off from your company did you?" the boy's glittering eyes narrowed.

"Of course not," Boromir said. "They knew full well that I was going. Being the Steward's heir has its privileges, as you will learn, little brother." (Soldiers always got a two week leave after six months of service, but Boromir didn't think it necessary to inform his brother of military policies just yet.)

Faramir sprawled into the bench beside the table, his long legs spread out, "I'm so glad to see you, especially because its my ..."

"Thirteenth birthday," Boromir completed the sentence. "A special day. Your first day as a man."

"As a man?" the boy's blue eyes grew very wide. "Father didn't tell me today was THAT special."

I am going to have a difficult time hiding my motives from those eyes of his, Boromir reminded himself of Faramir's peculiar abilities. He
would have to avoid thinking about any matters except what was going on in the present. Otherwise, Faramir might guess what he was up to.

"So what are you supposedly studying right now?" Boromir asked.

"Mathematics, supposedly," Faramir groaned. "I'm waiting for Meneldil. He's late as usual."

Excellent, Boromir thought. "And what else is on your schedule for today?"

"Archery, when Meneldil finally lets me go. And Government. Then I go to dinner where Father will inevitably grill me about what I learned."

"Just like he used to grill me," Boromir groaned. "Well, today you will have none of that. You're coming with me."

"Coming? Where?" Faramir gasped.

"Anywhere I decide to take you," Boromir said. "It's your 13th birthday. That's a good enough reason to skip out on your lessons."

Faramir's reaction was somewhat less enthusiastic than Boromir expected. Given the opportunity to skip out on his lessons, Boromir
would have jumped for joy and been out on the streets in a second. Instead, his brother's lips tightened and the kid drew his outsized
limbs into his body.

"As the heir to all of Gondor I order you to skip out of your lessons and come with me," Boromir tried being officious.

"But Meneldil will be here at some point," Faramir protested.

"At some point, maybe, but he's not here now," Boromir bellowed. Of course he wasn't there. Boromir had seen to it that the tutor would not return until tomorrow.

"I'd hate to miss archery..."

"Archery? You don't need archery training. You're ten times better than the instructor. You can't tell me that you couldn't miss
Government for one day. I hated Government."

"Well, one of us has to study Government," Faramir retorted. "That's what Father says. He'll cane me if I skip out this afternoon."

"When's the last time he caned you?" Boromir defied him.

"Why, I don't remember."

"Of course not. As I recall, I was the one who always saw the butt of his cane. Something about how I was older and therefore I should know better. So stop worrying and come with me. I don't understand why you are afraid of Father."

Faramir paused. It would not do to tell Boro of the odd events he'd witnessed the past several months. About those evenings when he'd slipped into the White Tower to read the stories and myths that Denethor so disdained. He'd seen the flashing lights in the
highest room of the Tower. He'd heard the sound of their father's voice booming threats and crying in agony. Faramir had a good
imagination and sometimes saw things that were happening far away. But this, this weirdness in the Tower. He did not dream THAT.

"I do not fear Father," Faramir said softly. "I fear for him."

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."

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."

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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."