Boromir cast a bleary-eyed glance around the musty, dimly-lit chamber, his roving eyes ranging over hundreds of little nooks and crannies in the walls and on the shelves, all of which were stuffed to bursting with ancient scrolls. “How many Prophetic Books are there in this damned archive, anyway?” he asked his brother gloomily.
"Thousands,” replied Faramir, seating himself heavily and pulling out another straight-backed wooden chair beside him for Boromir, “but Mithrandir told me that only three of them were genuine. The others are all fakes.”
Boromir lurched forward, nearly toppling the proffered chair. “You mean to tell me that we’re looking for three scrolls… out of all these?!” he cried out incredulously.
“In a manner of speaking,” replied Faramir with a wry smile.
"What about in plain speaking?"
"Er—yup."

Boromir groaned and rested his head on the table before knocking his forehead against it a few times for good measure. “Are you sure it’s worth all this, Faramir?”
Faramir nodded vigorously, former traces of levity forgotten, the once-smiling mouth set in a firm, hard line of determination. “I need to know, brother. I need to finally know the Naked Truth.”
Boromir sighed again, deeply. “Well, all right, I’ll help. If it’s that important to you.”
“It is. See, look, I’ve made it easy for us. Yesterday I sorted out all the scrolls that looked promising. We’ll start from there.”

"What," gulped Boromir, flipping rapidly through the dusty pile "are 'Balrog Spanking for Pleasure' and 'Flaming Hell— a series of no-nonsense tips and tricks to outwit the most fearsome Balrog armed with nothing more than a whalebone corset and a collection of rude limericks' doing here?"
"Er, not that pile," said Faramir, blushing furiously, "They're Father's...um...private archives."
"Really?" snorted Boromir. "No wonder he spends all his time closeted in the tower and has developed that nasty skin infection on his— "
"—Never mind about that," interrupted Faramir, hastily pushing the High Steward's collection of soft porn into a vacant alcove. "It's this pile we're interested in."

Boromir eyed the towering mound of documents that Faramir had indicated and whimpered like a frightened hobbit who has just been mugged by three enormous trolls armed with copies of Bilbo Baggins' poetry. “Well, let’s get cracking, then,” he said reluctantly, and reached forward to pluck the first of the scrolls from the pile.

A heavy silence descended upon the chamber, broken only by the rustling of musty parchment and the occasional squeak of surprise, or it might have been dismay.
"Will you stop doing that!" snapped Faramir.
"What?"
"That damnable squeaking."
"It's not me," replied Boromir indignantly, "It's the mice tormenting the cat."
"Shouldn't that be the other way around?"
"They are very large mice. Remember this is Gondor where stewards are bigger than Kings."
"You've been talking to father again, haven't you?"
Boromir scowled. "No I haven't."
"Yes you have and he told you you'd never be King so long as that ragged ranger from the North was left alive!"
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
Boromir cuffed his brother and moved his chair further away.

It was some time before either of them spoke again.
“Ginger,” said Boromir abruptly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This one says your hair’s ginger.”
“Does it really?” asked Faramir casually.
“Come and see for yourself,” said Boromir, beckoning his brother. Faramir yawned hugely and theatrically, stretching his stiff limbs as he did so, and rose languidly from his chair to peer over his brother’s shoulder at the scroll in question. “See… hmm, where was it?" said Boromir. "Hmm, they went for a walk… bards were singeing… et cetera, et cetera… there! ‘furrowmire run a hadn throw his gignery heir.”
“It says ‘gignery’, not gingery. And my name is not ‘furrowmire' any more than yours is 'Borrowmore."

"Borrowmore? Where does it say 'Borrowmore?"
"Here," said Faramir, stifling a giggle, "At the bottom of the next section; 'thn Borrowmore slipped hs foots into a par of punk, fluffy slippers—"
"I do NOT wear 'punk fluffy slippers!"
"Pink. I think the scribe meant 'pink."
"Whatever. It's not true."
"Exactly," agreed Faramir. "Neither is the remark about my hair. “And look at the author… ‘leggynfaz4eva’…isn’t that the scribe that said Ithilien was in Rohan?”

“Oh… yes, you’re right.” admitted Boromir.
“You need to cross-reference your sources better, Boromir,” chided Faramir, returning to his chair and helping himself to another scroll. Boromir scowled. The things he did for his supercilious runt of a brother…
“Hmmm…” said Faramir presently, his face drawn in concentration. “According to this one, my hair is ‘reddish-goldish-brownish-blond.’ What the hell kind of a color is ‘reddish-goldish-brownish-blond?”
“I dunno…”

A few minutes of silence, punctuated only by the light rustle of pages and the squeaks of the cat which rose briefly to a piercing falsetto and then subsided into a series of self-pitying sobs as the mice trussed it up securely behind the wainscoting, were suddenly broken by a long groan.
“This is getting tiresome… Father has apparently just beaten you into unconsciousness yet again for asking when the King will return,” remarked Boromir, scanning another manuscript. “What? He’s beating me, too? Well, not as hard as he beat you, naturally, because I distinctly remember that the wench was already pregnant when I took her behind the stables, but all the same…”
“What did we do?” asked Faramir curiously.
“Hmmm… he claims that we were behaving like animals in heat...”
“Pardon?”
“Apparently we were discovered together in a compromising situation with one—no, three kitchen maids—but you were more interested in the sheep..."
"SHEEP?!" ejaculated Faramir, craning forward.

"Oh, it's OK, I think the scribe meant 'ship'. Sheep don't have sails do they?"
"Er...no," gulped Faramir,
"Oh, wait, here it explains… I think I patted you on the bottom…”
“That’s… well…”
“Rather disturbing?”
“That’s the word I was looking for,” Faramir said, absent-mindedly. “Does it say anything about my hair colour?”
“Er… well, it mentions that it’s a bit..er..sticky, or he might mean the maids...but other than that—”
“—Enough said," broke in Faramir brusquely. "Put that one away, it clearly belongs in father's disgusting personal archive. Right… this one says honey-blond… honey-blond and lavender-scented…”
“Lavender-scented? How do you know?”
“Apparently you were sniffing it.”
“What?”
“The scribe claims that it was a purely fraternal encounter…”
“I have never sniffed your hair in the course of my entire existence.” said Boromir huskily.
“I never said that you did!”
“Just making sure we’re absolutely clear on that point.”
“We’re clear, we’re clear.”
“Good… awww, another tear-filled exchange…I appear to be going on a trip of some sort and you’re upset about it… and now our sister is kissing me passionately… wait a minute, since when have we had a sister?”
“Since never, that I’m aware of.” said Faramir. "Though..."
"Though what?"
"How passionately?"

"Well..."
"Yes?"
"I don't think I should tell you any more."
"I'm beginning to suspect that this entire library consists of nothing but a catalogue of vice and debauchery," said Faramir, frowning disapprovingly at his elder brother.
"Well..."
"Well what?"
"That would explain why Mithrandir spends so much time here."
"Can we get back to the hair please?"
"If we must. At all events, this one says ‘reddish-brown’, too.” He looked up at Faramir with a triumphant smirk. “An awful lot of them seem to have been convinced you’re a red-head.”
“I don’t want to be a red-head!” cried Faramir petulantly. “And remember, only three of these scrolls can be trusted… if we want the Truth, those are the ones we have to find…”
“Alright, alright, keep your hair on; we’ll keep looking…”

“Ah, sweet Eru, I’ve died again. What the hell is up with these scribes?”
“Beats me. Boromir, what’s brothercest?”
Boromir shrugged and blushed deeply. “I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”
“This scroll says that charges of brothercest were whispered at court after you were found in my bed at three in the morning without a stitch of clothing...hang on a minute...it says here that our sister was in bed with us!"
"What?" gasped Boromir, looking up.
"Our non-existent sister was apparently sucking the poison from a spider bite you had sustained in Mordor. Whoever heard of spiders in Mordor? Oh this is preposterous!"
Faramir flung the scroll aside in disgust and picked up another from the rapidly dwindling pile

Boromir grunted and returned to the scroll he had just read. He seemed to be dying an awful lot in these so-called ‘Prophetic Scrolls’, and the scribes all seemed to enjoy going into great detail about the excruciating mental and physical agony he experienced whilst he expired. And why did it always seem to involve being shot full of arrows in defence of two people named Mary and Preppy?
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, enjoying the relief of darkness. It felt as if he’d been reading these scrolls for an eternity, and…
“Eeeiiiaaoouuugghhh!”
There was a loud, rending crash, and Boromir looked up just in time to see Faramir go careening out of his chair. “Fara, what in Eru’s name..?”

Faramir scrambled backwards on his rump, putting as much distance as was physically possible between himself and the scroll he had just been perusing, which now wafted gently to the floor, buoyed by the draft of air that his precipitate retreat had created. Faramir stared at it, eyes bulging and his expression near apoplectic with horror.

Boromir picked up the document curiously.

“Don’t read that!” Faramir burst out, scooting forward once more and attempting to snatch the scroll from his brother’s grasp.
“Why not?” asked Boromir, holding the paper safely out of reach and scrutinizing it. “It’s just says I’m giving you a fencing lesson… and…and…”
Boromir’s eyes popped. They didn’t pop nearly as much as Faramir’s, but they popped a long way nonetheless. After a blinking a few times to clear his head, he peered down at his brother, who was still cowering a few feet away. “Faramir, my darling, I love you.”
Faramir’s eyes widened still further, and a strangled noise issued from his throat.
“…but not in that way,” finished Boromir swiftly.
Faramir gasped in apparent relief. “Thank the Valar for that.” He rose to his feet shakily.
Boromir peeked at the parchment once again. “It does, however, mention that your hair is red.”
“Aiiee! I do not want red hair!”

“Faramir?”
The younger Húrin looked up.
“I think I’ve found THE Scroll. Or one of them.”
Faramir shot out of his chair in jubilation.
“Really? How can you tell?”
“It has lots of words. Lots. And they’re all spelled correctly.”
“What’s it called?” asked Faramir eagerly, dragging his chair closer to Boromir’s and sitting down next to him with his mouth hanging open.
“Monty Python: The Lord of the Rings—The Return of the King.”
“Sounds promising. How long is it?”
“Er…” Boromir carefully unrolled the scroll. It unfurled… and unfurled… and unfurled until a very long, curling parchment lay all over the table.
“Pretty long, I’d say.”
Faramir blinked and closed his mouth with an audible snap. “Well, let’s get started, then.”

There were several minutes of silence during which even the cat made no sound. The minutes lengthened into hours.
“How far have you got?” asked Faramir.
“Shut up!” hissed Boromir, engrossed. Then, “No! Run, Pippin, you bloody idiot, run!”
“Oh, you’re at that part,” said Faramir, grinning.
“I thought I told you to shut up—Why the hell are you stopping to talk to Beregond? RUN, YOU FOOL! THERE ARE LIVES AT STAKE HERE!”
Faramir fought back an amused smile and looked back down at the page he was reading.
And there was the Truth.
“Boromir!”
“Shut up!”
“Boromir, you have to read this bit right here.”
“Where?” His brother looked up irritably. “There? That’s way further along than I am.”
“You can come back to your bit later.”
“Look, Faramir, I’m in suspense here, OK?”
“Boromir,” said Faramir, exasperated. “I live, OK? Mithrandir rescues me. Relax. Oh, and I get the girl.”
Boromir let out a long, relieved sigh. “Oh, right... WAIT-A-MINUTE! Girl? what girl?"
“Just read it—here.”

Boromir glanced at the passage. “And so they stood on the Walls of the City of Gondor, and a great wind rose and blew, and their hair, raven and golden, streamed out mingling in the air… What? You interrupted me for that?”
Faramir gritted his teeth. “Read it again.”
Boromir did, annoyed.
And saw the Naked Truth.
“Your hair is raven!”
Faramir pulled a strand out in front of his eyes. “Why, so it is!”
They stared at one another for a moment, as the full gravity of the situation sunk in.
“You want to keep reading?” asked Faramir presently.
“Sure, why not?” grinned Boromir, "This chick sounds totally HOT. And for once I get to—"
"—No you don't."
"I don't?"
"No, I do. You die—horribly."

~fin~

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