Minas Tirith, 3003 T.A., the twelfth month.  

The Steward’s sons returned to Minas Tirith two weeks before Mettarë.  The two brothers, steadfast and valiant, had thrived among their brothers-in-arms, but they were glad to return home, and rejoiced to see each other once more. 

Boromir, now a lieutenant, had spent most of his time at Osgiliath and Cair Andros, and had not come home in three months. 

Faramir, too, was in the army, having served in various parts of Gondor as part of his training.  His most recent assignment had kept him in Pelargir for the past six months. 

When they returned home, it was not long before they sensed that something had changed. 

The Steward’s household had never been a cheerful home, though as the Steward’s sons, Boromir and Faramir knew the Steward Denethor past his stern exterior.  They had seen his worries, known his love, and responded with abounding respect and love, each in their own quiet fashion.  Ostentatious displays had no place in the Steward’s household, be they lavish adornments or excessive gestures. 

This time, too, despite the many months they had spent apart, Denethor welcomed them with little warmth, asking them more about the recent developments than about their lives away from home. 

Yet there was an uncharacteristic calmness about Denethor, which tempered the grief and burden which had always clung to him like a heavy crown upon a king’s brow.  He even seemed almost at ease at times, as though he had discovered some hidden solace.  

One morning, as they sat at the table breaking their fast, Boromir recounted an incident in Osgiliath. An unclear command had led to several barrels of grain being sent to the wrong location.  It had been resolved, but a company of men had gone hungry for a day as a result.  Boromir, grim-faced, admitted that he had played a part in the confusion. 

The brothers sat still, a familiar tension lingering in the air as they awaited their father's word.  Away at Pelargir, Faramir had obviously played no part in the incident, but Denethor often included him whenever he reprimanded Boromir.  What mistake one brother made, the other can learn from, he was wont to say. 

After a moment’s pause, Denethor spoke, his voice lighter than expected. 

“Such things happen,” he said. “And as you said, it has been rectified.” 

Boromir and Faramir exchanged concerned glances.   

Father is almost in good spirits, should we be concerned? 

Their glances did not escape Denethor’s notice. 

He cast Boromir his usual glare.  “You will learn from this, and it will not happen again under your command.” 

Then his gaze shifted to Faramir.  “I expected the same of you, Faramir, when your time comes.”   

Boromir and Faramir exchanged a glance of relief.  That was more like their father. 

“Aye, Father,” they both said. 

After Denethor left the room, the brothers planned their course of action. 

“Something is amiss,” Boromir said. 

“Something is afoot,” Faramir countered.  “We have no evidence yet to say whether it is good or ill.” 

“I will learn what I can from the guards.  What of you? Tailing Father might make for good practice; you aspire to be a ranger.” 

“A prudent ranger does not risk his life needlessly.  I will seek my answer elsewhere.” 

In the afternoon they reconvened to share their findings. 

“You would not believe this,” said Boromir.  “It has something to do with a lady: Adanel daughter of Balan, from Lebennin.” 

“I have met the lady,” said Faramir. 

Boromir threw him a look of admiration. “The Ithilien rangers will be proud to have you, brother.  Where and when did you meet her, and what is she like?” 

“Just before nuncheon, in the Archives.” 

“Did she lose her way and end up there?” 

Faramir shook his head, a small, amused smile playing at his lips.  “She comes to the Archives every day.” 

“Whatever for?” 

“She is working on a translation of Akallabêth.  I told her of the translation I made a few years ago, and she promised to read it.” 

Boromir groaned.  “And how did she meet Father?” 

Faramir’s smile faded.  “Master Iorlas told me Father has come to the Archive regularly in the past few months.  He ceased going there after I returned.  Remarkable, is it not?” 

“Most curious.  What is the lady like?” 

“She is a scribe—more given to words than to her appearance.  Intelligent and confident enough to hold her own in conversation with Father.” 

“And her lineage is pure enough to befit the Steward’s lady.  What shall we make of this?” 

Faramir grew pensive.  He looked Boromir in the eye, his tone growing thoughtful. 

“I think ... she has a strong regard for Father, and the affection seems to be mutual.” 

...