Author’s notes:  Movieverse, but inspired by a line from the book.

Disclaimer:  I don’t own these characters; Tolkien does.  However, since this is my story, they have to do as I say.  Or else.

Bored

He read the hearts of men as shrewdly as his father, but what he read moved him sooner to pity than to scorn.

      -- Appendix A, “Annals of the Kings and Rulers”

Weblog was bored.

Granted, his second cousin had pulled a bunch of strings to get him a slot in the Tower Guard at Minas Tirith.

Granted, he was grateful for the opportunity to get out of the hick settlements of Pinnath Gelin and make a name for himself in the big city.

Granted, as a new recruit, he had expected there would be a brief period of dues-paying while he worked his way up the ranks.  Say, a day or two.

Granted all that:  he still felt unsatisfied.  This wasn’t what the army recruiter had promised.  It had been three months now, and he was sick and tired of working the evening sentry shift inside the private dining chambers at the great Feast Hall of Merethrond.  It meant standing perfectly still for two hours inside roasting hot armour, watching the Steward and his sons eat.

Had Weblog been female, or gay, he undoubtedly would have found the younger son painfully attractive.  That might have helped to pass the time.

However, since he was not, he simply stood by impassively and observed Faramir’s auburn tresses gleaming softly in the candlelight as they trailed like rivulets of fire across the volcanic slopes of his rippling, manly shoulders.  Also Faramir’s clear blue eyes, flecked with wisdom and sadness like raindrops upon glass.  Soft ginger stubble fleecing a strong jaw.  Roving, gentle hands.  A sultry lower lip that just wouldn’t quit.  All of which had no effect whatsoever on Weblog.

In his left hand was a seven-foot ash spear.  He couldn’t imagine how a spear would be the least bit useful if somebody suddenly came charging through the doorway.  Then again, the diversion would be welcome.

Even beacon sentinel duty would be better than this.  At least on a remote mountaintop, he could scratch himself.

He stifled a yawn.  He counted the black marble support columns along the walls.  As always, there were sixteen.

It was very quiet in the dining chamber.  He tried to imagine what would happen if he suddenly yelled a swear word.

Nothing ever happened here.

On the left side of the door, his counterpart was nodding off.

* * * * *

At the table, Faramir served himself from a platter of mysterious iridescent meat, and avoided making eye contact with anybody, least of all the lackadaisical door sentries.  He was getting really tired of Denethor reading his heart at every single meal.  Keeping secrets from the guy was impossible.

Sure enough, his father had put down his knife and was now staring intently at him, trying to discover intuitively what thought crimes Faramir had committed that day.

Well, two could play at that game.  As it happened, Faramir had inherited the ability to read mens’ hearts from his father.  He returned the stare.  Gradually, the thoughts in his father’s heart appeared to his mind like letters on a page.

- I know what you’ve been up to, Denethor was thinking.  You’ve been sneaking apples out of the storerooms after everyone is asleep.  I can read you like a book.  And stop looking at my thoughts.

- I’ll look at them whenever I want to.  Just try to stop me, thought Faramir.  Unsuccessfully, he tried to hide that thought from his dad.

- I heard that.  Your insolence will be punished.

He could feel the old man probing further into his heart.  Desperately, he tried to block him out, but it was too late.

- Oh, so you’ve been neglecting our strategic planning sessions.  Daydreaming at Council meetings, while the other captains are making their reports.  I see you didn’t retain a single word that was said this morning about shoring up the Rammas fortifications.

Faramir hummed mentally, tunelessly, so his father wouldn’t discover that privately he thought the strategy sessions were dull and a waste of time.

- Tra-la-la-lally!  he thought loudly.  Tralalalalley, tralalalalleytralalalalley…

It was no use.  Denethor pried open his heart as easily as an oyster shell, and seized the thought.  Everything was there for the taking.

-          Wool-gathering.  Stubbornness.  I see you borrowed my letter-opener and broke it.  And don’t think I don’t know about those scrolls of dirty Quenya verse you keep hidden under your mattress.  Little pervert.

Faramir peered into his father’s heart.  He saw a lonesome old man beyond his prime, jealous of his sons’ youth and vigor.

- Your scorn moves me to pity, thought Faramir.

- Your pity moves me to scorn, was the response.

Father and son glared at each other.  They had reached an impasse.

Unfortunately, Faramir had just accidentally glimpsed his father’s plans for his birthday present.  It happened every year, no matter how circumspect Denethor tried to be.  This time, Faramir didn’t even bother trying to conceal his knowledge, or his reaction to it.

- Dad, that scabbard belt you’re planning to have made for my birthday? I like green better than brown.

- Not again!  There’s no point in trying to surprise you.  None whatsoever.

- Also I’m a size 7, not a size 9.  Size 9 is Boromir.

- If you weren’t such a daisy-munching sissy, and visited the Houses of Exercise every now and then, a size 9 would fit you.

- I don’t even need a scabbard belt.  You gave me one last year.  And the year before.  And the year before that.

- Okay, Mister Negativity.  Then maybe I won’t get you anything at all.

“Pass the peas,” said Boromir.

Without taking his eyes off Faramir, Denethor shoved the bowl down the table at his favored son.  Boromir dumped the entire thing onto his plate and continued eating.

* * * * *

A request for peas!  Weblog’s gaze dropped from the ceiling and raptly followed every forkful on its journey into the older son’s mouth.  Finally, something interesting was happening.  Something worth paying attention to.  He tried to guess how many bites Boromir would need to finish the pile of peas.  Thirty, he decided.  No, make that fifteen.

Maybe one would fall off the plate and he could watch it roll under the table.

* * * * *

- Fine! thought Faramir. I didn’t want anything from you anyway.

- You lie like a carpet, came the response.

It was true, he couldn’t fool his father into thinking he didn’t care.  For Faramir, that was the most annoying part:  being unable to conceal his innermost desires.

- For you, that is the most annoying part.  Being unable to conceal your innermost desires.

- Cut it out!  Faramir’s growing irritation was making it hard for him to read his father’s thoughts.

- You wish me to cut it out.  Your growing irritation is making it hard for you to read my thoughts.

- You’re being a jerk.

- You’re being a jerk!

- Stop it, Dad.  I mean it.

- Stop it, Dad!  I mean it!

- ARRRGHHH!!!  For two coppers, I would stand up from the table right now and pour my wine out on your head.

- You don’t have the nerve. That much is written quite clearly on your heart.

Oh yeah?  Faramir imagined himself busting a chair over his dad’s head. Take that!!

In response, Denethor imagined himself rapping Faramir over the head with the White Scepter.

Faramir imagined grabbing the keys to the city from Hurin the Tall and furiously scratching the living daylights out of Denethor’s palantir.

Denethor imagined dragging Faramir over to the Fountain and throwing him in.

Faramir visualized chopping down the White Tree, turning it into an ugly, uncomfortable futon, and selling it to Orcs at a yard sale.

Denethor visualized a Fell Beast getting tangled in his son’s hair.

Faramir imagined the entire city in flames, and Denethor apologizing for being such a crummy dad.

Denethor imagined the whole planet blowing up, taking everybody with it.

* * * * *

The peas were gone now.

From his post by the door, Weblog watched the father and son staring at each other intently over their meal, as they did every night.

It was nice to see such affection.

Probably they were just as bored as he was.  Too bored to eat.

Tomorrow, he would see about that beacon sentinel job.