Wild Monster

by Matthew Harrington

  At least you feel. Gaerel looks like she's got the emotional spectrum of a Mary Sue.

  Winter grinned to herself, and was caught doing so as Aeglossel swept back into the room after an errand. The pretty maidservant moved with all the grace of a ballerina, a fact Winter envied a little.

  "Lady Faenil, you do not play for me?" Aeglossel inquired, demure without being subservient. Winter liked to see the slight twinkle in her maid's eyes.

  "Nay, Aeglossel, for my fingers are sore and my pride even more so. I believe I shall not profit from further playing today."

  Her maid nodded. "As you wish, milady. And seeing as you are finished, you might also desire to read this. You have received letters."

  This pronouncement captured Winter with single-minded interest. It had been ten days since she had last heard from her friends in the Program—and what craziness has happened in this ten days!—and she longed for news. Aeglossel must have read the eagerness on her face, for she promptly produced a small wad of envelopes and passed them to Winter.

  "I shall await milady's summons downstairs, when you are ready to dress for dinner." The girl curtseyed and departed.

  Winter, for her part, had already begun to flick through her "post". These letters would be written and ferried between the nearest portals scattered throughout Middle-earth. The one closest to Minas Tirith was slightly to the north, in Anórien. Any letters for Winter would be carried from this portal by horseback to her manor house.

  One from Lachie, one from James, one from Sarah, and one from Liz. Lovely.

  Winter looked uncertainly between the envelopes, torn.

  May as well just do it. You know you want to.

  She grasped the note with Lachie's neat, workmanlike handwriting upon the front. Rising, she rose from the harp stool and moved to sit in an armchair. Lachie's letter was sealed with its author's customary precision. Winter opened it carefully and withdrew the fine pages within.

  She was both worried and intrigued by what might be contained upon that elegant paper. For a moment, fear of Boromir's social retaliation was gone as she lost herself in Lachie's epistle.

  Dear Winter, it read.

  I've rewritten this several times now, and I think it's probably easier for both of us if I don't "beat about the bush" any longer. I care about you a lot. I hope that was obvious the day I left, and I hope the feeling is returned. As it is, there's not much else I can do or say about the matter via letter. I've never attempted a love-letter before, and I don't think I'll try now. Know that your kiss was the nicest I've ever had, and that I long to talk about this with you when we finish the Exchange Program. I think that I'm falling in love with you, Winter Martha Elizabeth Newhall. There, the elephant in the room has been discussed. Fingers crossed that now I'll be able to continue with this letter without turning into a soppy bard. Have you met any of those in Minas Tirith, yet? I think it would be rather funny to see one in real life. Please write to me all about it if you do.

  Anyway, Rivendell is all I could have hoped for. The Elves are taller than even you or I could expect. I have run past Glorfindel several times in the past few days, and he's got to be over seven feet tall! On Earth he'd be called a giant. Here, he's merely a tall Elf. Go figure.

  Everything about the Elves is elegant and graceful. They are beautiful beyond compare, but in such an inhuman way you half wonder whether it's even possible to look like that. They are a cheerful folk, half-serious and half-childlike. Sometimes it's a bewildering change between the two facades, but I suppose I'm getting used to it.

  The other thing which surprised me was Elrond himself. I suppose the Arda Exchange knows best, but would you believe he knows about the Program? I was shocked. They taught us at Caoloth that none of the major characters must ever be exposed to this knowledge, because it might affect things adversely. And even the ordinary characters mustn't know of about the future. Apparently rules don't apply to Elrond of Rivendell. He called me Lachie, would you believe it, at our first meeting? Bet your Túiel never did that! It makes sense though, in some ways. I don't think you could hide anything from Elrond, and he is all up-to-date on protocol. Somehow, it doesn't surprise me that that Elf knows about an alternate world, and manages to react as calmly as you please.

  I feel rather like I'm prattling on, but there's just so much news to convey in these first few days. I guess once things settle down and I begin to work more directly with Elrond as another healer, I'll have more manageable titbits of info to share with you about my weeks. Now, I'm just overwhelmed by how wonderful everything is. The Valley of Rivendell is about as exquisite as it gets. Even the Rockies in Canada are nothing in comparison. And, I'm sorry to say, even that view from Minas Tirith doesn't quite meet the standard of Elrond's home! It takes me half an hour to get out of bed most days, because as soon as I open my eyes I get caught admiring the perfect view.

  But I won't taunt you any more with tales of things you aren't here to see. Especially as it makes me want you here with me, so that I can take you out under the stars and treat you as I should—not just kiss you and depart. There, I've become love-struck again; I promise I'll stop.

  We could go for so many lovely walks here, you and James and I. I think Rivendell would be an even nicer playground than Caoloth, as fun as that was. You'd have so many good laughs with Lindir, one of Rivendell's bards—who looks nothing like Brett McKenzie, I can assure you—and sneak around the house trying to catch a sight of Bilbo Baggins without being caught. And to the question I know you will ask: yes, Winter, I have indeed seen Bilbo. He's perfect. I wish I had my camera so I could photograph him for you, but you know what a stickler I am for protocol.

  Know that I think about you a lot, Win, and that I miss you. Goodness, I hope that's not presumptuous to say. You've told me you don't have anyone back home, and I'm trusting to that—I just hope that I'm not mistaken in your feeling for me.

  Anyway, I miss your fiery head and that smirk you wear when you've just outwitted James. I miss hearing you play the banjo, looking so smug as your fingers fly everywhere. And, if I'm honest, I'm miss the way you and James run rings around me verbally. I never thought I'd miss being confused by Australian slang and idioms, but I admit I am. Heartless woman.

  I hope this letter finds you well.

  Love, Lachie.

  Winter shook with laughter as she dropped the letter on the small side-table beside her armchair.

  Of all the lovely, sweet idiots, Lachlan Howes is the nicest.

  Almost immediately, she retrieved the letter and began to scan certain sections a second time. A beatified smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The expression lit up her eyes, as if they were a pale, cloudy sky lit from behind with sunshine. One slim hand held up the paper, whilst the other rested coyly at the side of her mouth.

  For something that isn't a love-letter, it's surprisingly affectionate, her inner voice tittered.

  Mm. Winter's gaze fell on those heartfelt passages. Why did her stomach feel warm as she reread them?

  Didn't you decide this was like playing with fire? That he was already too close to you, and you didn't want to encourage him? C'mon Winter, you're supposed to be practicing your Spock face and watching him impassively as he turns himself inside out to please you! Not smiling and applauding!

  But—I can't just tell him no. Not via letter. He's right, we can't talk about it until he's back.

  It was as if sardonic laughter echoed in the crevices of her mind.

  You've fallen for him, haven't you? Oh goodness, Winter.

  She sprang to her own defence sharply. I have not.

  Unbidden, her eyes fell upon one passage: "I think I'm falling in love with you, Winter Martha Elizabeth Newhall."

  Oh, how that made her heart—

  No. She had decided she couldn't encourage him, beckon him closer. Lachie was too perceptive to be allowed near. Just as, in her emotional state yesterday, she had allowed Túiel to approach her. She'd been burning with regret the mor
ning after.

  Neither of those things can keep happening, Winter reminded herself, resolutely. Honestly, what would Mum say if she found out you'd gotten all weepy and ridiculous with a strange woman? Or that in a few short weeks you'd been swept away by Lachie, as if you were a twelve-year-old at a One Direction concert?

  The imagined spectre of her mother's face twisted in disdain.

  No. Ada Newhall would not be pleased. Keeping that fixed firmly in mind, Winter folded Lachie's letter and slipped it reverently back in the envelope. She would craft him a beautifully disinterested reply. Tomorrow. She would not encourage his feelings. Yes, she must put off turning him down until the Program had concluded. Until then, she must remain friendly, yet aloof.

  As she rose and moved to her dressing table, Winter smiled softly.

  Lachie is absolutely—

  —not for you.

  She started, realising that she was grinning like a lovesick baboon as she tucked the letter behind a bottle of perfume in one of her dresser drawers.

  Stop it, she scolded, and pushed the drawer roughly closed.

  Shaking her head to clear it, Winter put aside Lachie's frank confessions.

  Just another thing you've got to learn to ignore, she thought, resignedly.

  To soothe herself, Winter turned to James' letter. It was shorter than Lachie's, but brought her far more untainted amusement. There was no conflict in her heart as she chuckled over his witty tales of the folk of Laketown. Her fellow Australian was doing exceptionally well up near Erebor. He described the Lonely Mountain as eloquently as Lachie depicted Rivendell, and then moved abruptly into a comical retelling of his first encounter with Dwarves. As Winter finished reading, she brushed a tear of laughter from her cheek.

  Dear old Jimmy, she sighed, flipping to the last page of the letter. Here, James had included a drawing. Winter had known he was handy with cartoons, but it still caught her attention.

  The series of caricatures showed the King of Dale, several ordinary Dwarven folk, and Dain Ironfoot, King Under the Mountain. Winter wished she had seen the real versions, in order to compare them to their beautifully-drawn exaggerated selves.

  Nevertheless, she was delighted with James' thoughtful gift.

  Her spirits infinitely higher, Winter concluded her letter-reading with Sarah and Elizabeth's notes. They were cheerful, friendly epistles, telling of the day-to-day goings-on and inquiring about Winter's Exchange experience. Whilst neither of the two girls had been as close to Winter as James and Lachie, she was glad to hear from them. They were sweet, forthright, and unaffected. Friends like that were hard to find. Smiling, Winter closed her last letter and leaned back in her chair.

  For several minutes, she basked at peace. As time passed, however, her niggling concerns came to the fore. They pooled like ink within her mind, tainting her sense of calm. She reached swiftly for James' letter and reread it. She dawdled through the wittiest passages, aching for his jokes to once again dispel her concerns. They did not. Her mind was full of Boromir and Lachie, of social disaster and the—dare she call it an ache?—of forbidden affection.

  Oh, yes, she was certainly in danger from Lachie.

  Sighing, Winter placed the rest of the letters with Lachie's and rang the bell to summon Aeglossel. She needed to dress for dinner.

  Get your act together, Winter. There's nothing you can do about the Boromir thing. And adding a foolish romance to your list of mistakes won't help any.

  She nodded.

  When Aeglossel entered a moment later, Winter smiled sweetly and allowed her maid to dress her in a fine gown of pale blue silk.

  "Tuilere approaches in ten days' time, Lady Faenil, and we must ready you for your presentation to Lord Denethor's court."

  Winter nodded thoughtfully, repressing the stab of worry she felt about that fact. She sat sword-straight in her chair, daintily slicing at the roast mutton on her plate. Two weeks ago, she would've found this stiff position uncomfortable. After four-hundred reprimands from Túiel about the importance of posture—and as many hours practicing it—Winter felt surprisingly at ease. She listened carefully to Badhor's talk of the upcoming Spring Festival in Gondor, and wished fervently she was to be presented when Lord Boromir was not at home in Minas Tirith.

  "Why," she inquired curiously, "have I not been presented to Lord Denethor before now? I thought that the Steward held court weekly for the petitions of noble families, and the introduction of those new to Minas Tirith?"

  Badhor nodded, pleased with her memory. "You are correct, milady. However, Lord Denethor held court only a day before you arrived. He has been prevented from doing so again by a number of factors; first, a minor illness, and then by the arrival of his sons, Lords Boromir and Faramir. They come with tidings of unrest east of Osgiliath."

  Winter glanced between companion and byrath before she spoke again. "Yet surely Lord Denethor must realise that avoiding court after the arrival of his sons must only further such rumours? Does he wish his city to be uneasy and suspicious with gossip of war brewing?"

  Badhor gave Winter a piercing look, but there was approval in the sharp gaze.

  "He has issued a statement," put in Túiel, a tad acidly, drawing Winter's eyes to her, "declaring that court shall not be held ere Tuilere arrives, at which there shall be a great celebration for the return of his son from his campaign. Oh, fear not, Lady Faenil; Lord Denethor knows the danger of rumours."

  "And yet covers them poorly," grumbled Badhor. "Do you not see that he celebrates the return of Boromir only?"

  Both women stared at him—Winter in amazement, and Túiel in surprise that he spoke so bluntly what she had implied.

  "Forgive me," Badhor amended, somewhat contrite. "My words were ill-spoken. Yet I cannot help but feel unconvinced by Lord Denethor's ruse. Lord Faramir returns to Osgiliath with the garrison tomorrow. Only Lord Boromir remains for this celebration—"

  "Badhor, we should not—"

  "Yes, Túiel, I know," muttered he. "Yet you cannot tell me that you approve of the manner in which Lord Denethor brushes his younger son aside?"

  Winter followed the exchange between the two with interest. Much of what they said she knew or suspected, yet it was interesting hearing such things directly from the Gondorians. All her knowledge came from books; Badhor and Túiel added a layer of depth to her understanding of Gondor's politics.

  "I will not speak ill of the Steward any further," replied Túiel, primly.

  "In which case I shall not ask Lady Faenil to do so, though I see indignation burning upon her countenance. Ah yes, milady, I read you well."

  "Compose yourself, girl!" from Túiel, who seemed a little ashamed of her own lapse.

  Winter bowed her head in acquiescence and smoothed her features before speaking.

  "And so Lord Faramir returns to strengthen the garrison at Osgiliath, whilst Lord Boromir remains for the celebration of Tuilere?" She paused, wondering whether to continue. "Why?"

  Badhor sighed. Túiel merely ate some more seasoned potato.

  "That is what I have attempted to puzzle out for a number of days," Badhor said, slowly. "Evidently Denethor has some ulterior purpose in detaining Lord Boromir. Perhaps it is but a whim, to have his eldest at his side, though I doubt as much. Lord Boromir is as headstrong as his father, and cares not for the intrigues of court. He would not give up his position in the garrison at Osgiliath for any length of time, except at great need."

  "So Lord Boromir would not remain merely to keep Lord Denethor company?"

  Badhor shook his head emphatically. "No indeed, milady. Lord Boromir has not great aptitude for the social intricacies one must follow in Gondor. He is neither witless nor uncaring; he devotes himself wholeheartedly to the defence of the realm, and yet gives little thought to the subtleties of political manoeuvres."

  Winter nodded, though she did not speak. Her thoughts were busy.

  Everything Badhor said merely confirmed the profiling she had done of Gondor's nobles whilst she h
ad been in Caoloth. Calaron's researchers had gathered a great deal of information on the ruling family, in particular.

  Lord Denethor, it was said, governed by pride. He was a noble man, haughty and strong, skilful in battle as well as capable of deep thought. Each movement he executed was calculated. As Badhor had said, he did fall subject to the odd whim—especially regarding his elder son—but largely could be expected to act with utilitarian efficiency and great foresight.

  Lord Boromir shared much of his father's pride. Winter could attest that much herself, she thought wryly. He was just as fiercely haughty, strong, valiant, courageous, and deserving of his position as Captain-General. Lord Faramir, on the other hand, was utterly different to his brother. He was hardly less physically capable than Boromir, and yet had inherited his father's wit and skill in managing people. As much as Boromir adored to be in the thick of battle, Faramir was equally happy as emissary or scholar. He was not conniving or duplicit—at least according to Winter's sources—and yet managed to grace Minas Tirith's court and harbour a great deal of favour. Where Boromir wandered about, taking the most direct route and being left unhindered due to his position, Faramir stepped with grace.

  Much of this information Winter had known before her studies at Caoloth; her preparation in the south of Gondor had merely honed her skills. Meeting Boromir in person had affirmed the accuracy of her knowledge of him, at least. Now, Túiel and Badhor corroborated the rest. She was reasonably confident in her understanding of the situation.

  "And so," Winter said, after a few moments of silence, "we must discover to what purpose Lord Denethor has detained the Captain-General."

  Her two companions met this remark with silence.

  Finally, Badhor said, "It is not wholly necessary; yet I would not deny the usefulness of such information."