A/N: This came out of nowhere, when I ought to have been studying for finals.

Boromir is bending over a broad stretch of parchment, brows knitted, so Faramir sees their father enter first. Denethor's deepset eyes sweep over the study-room, over the Master's inkstained robes, over Faramir, but his gaze only warms when it rests on his eldest son.

"Boromir."

Boromir starts in surprise, composes himself, and smiles. "Father."

"And what is this?" Denethor says, his tone almost amiable, and he leans over Boromir's parchment.

"A map of constellations," Boromir supplies, with a weary sigh. Faramir hides a smile. His brother has a quick and clever mind, but already it is clear that it is a mind for action. Boromir would order men like chess pieces, plot a skirmish, hunt a stag. Boromir has little time for books.

Denethor skims a long finger across the curving lines that sketch out the firmament, the angles of each star. "Think you that this is a sorry distillation of the heavens?" he queries, and brushes aside the Master's reedy voice that seeks to explain—"It is but theory, my lord—"

"I think it is a little dull, Father, in truth," Boromir admits. Boromir is perhaps the only one in the whole city—in the whole realm—who dares to speak candidly to Denethor.

No, Faramir remembers—there is another. Mithrandir. Always an interesting dinner guest.

He hides another smile, but not quickly enough. Denethor's gaze is on him, and Faramir trembles. But his father smiles. The smile is for Boromir, but Faramir cannot let that hurt him. To Faramir, his father's face is kingly—the candlelight catches the angles and shadows of his features like one of the statues that line the throne-room. His father could be a king, he thinks, and then he pushes the thought away. Denethor is not a king, and they are not princes.

Sometimes, Faramir is not even certain that he is a son.

"Come, then," Denethor says. "You have looked at stars behind closed doors for long enough. Let us see them in their truer form."

Boromir tosses away the star-chart in eager haste. The Master catches it before it unspools to the floor. Denethor leaves the room, with his usual firm stride.

Boromir follows, but he pauses at the door when he sees Faramir lingering, uncertain.

"What are you waiting for, brother? That means you too!" The words are sure, but Faramir knows that he has said them quietly, that their father might not hear.

And so Faramir trails out after them, keeping his footsteps quiet on the broad flagstones of the lengthy halls. The torchlight is golden and remote in the high iron brackets—the shafted windows whisper with the night's breeze.

They climb up, up, up to the rooftop garden, where the ancient tree remains in waiting.

Faramir knows about waiting.

Denethor scarcely spares it a glance. He paces nearly to the end of the broad bastion that stretches forth, and stands gazing westward with his back to the east. There are no stars to be seen above the Eastern mountains, not anymore.

Faramir wraps his arms around his chest, feeling the evening chill. Boromir throws an arm about him, pulling him close.

There is a silence, an almost comfortable silence, that falls between them all.

Then their father speaks. "Circh i-Mbelain," he says. "Do you see? They call it the Sickle, for the father of dwarf-kind was crafting one when he struck it and sent seven sparks into the heavens. A pleasant tale. But we have greater purpose for seven stars."

"I see it," Boromir says, nodding.

"Then the parchment has taught you something," Denethor says, with a low laugh. "But I would not bind these burning bodies of the sky with paper and ink. Nay. We shall not be so held back by the mumblings of scholars."

"We are warriors," Boromir answers, gravely, and Denethor looks proud.

"My son," he murmurs, and his arm falls around Boromir's shoulders. Faramir leans against his father's hand, hoping the touch will go unnoticed.

...

Faramir remembers that night.

What he does not remember is that he fell asleep leaning on his brother, and that Denethor sent them both to bed with softened eyes. Nor does Faramir remember that when Boromir pulled the blankets over him, Faramir called him father, and Boromir never had the heart to tell him that it was he, not Denethor, who had carried him in.

...

Wars rage and ebb like tides. The tree blooms, the king returns, but the memory of sorrow will last long over the Steward's line.

Faramir loved his brother and his father. He watches the stars without Boromir, and he watches the stars while he waits for news of Morannon, when his father, too, is gone.

Always he thinks, I cannot reach them.

...

Faramir sends for his mother's mantle. Eowyn's golden head shimmers above it, bright as sunlight. There are gems set like stars at the hem and throat, and Faramir thinks of Circh i-Mbelain and a night long ago.

The sky is blue above them. The shadows of the east have diminished, and the first winds of summer are rising from the South. Faramir stands close to the woman whom he knows he can and shall love forever, close enough that their fingers brush together.

He hopes that she notices his touch.