"Yes, my Lord Boromir. A hunter mare, Lúna. She is housed in the small stables here, on the fifth tier."
Her companion frowned. "A black mare, with two small white markings about her rear feet?"
"You describe her well," replied Winter, a little amazed. "Have you visited these stables, my lord?"
He shrugged. "There are precious few horses in Minas Tirith, my lady. Our soldiers do not all travel on horseback, as the people of Rohan do. Many stables are empty."
"And yet you are acquainted with the horse of one woman," Winter countered, with a trace of her former merriment. "I am impressed, my Lord."
"It is no great effort to wander amongst the horses whilst another tends to them, Lady Faenil," he replied. "I visit the stables on the fifth level frequently. The mare is a rare creature indeed. You are fortunate."
Winter smiled involuntarily. "Yes, Lúna is a beautiful mare. My father gifted her to me for my twentieth birthday."
"A noble gift, Lady Faenil. I am certain she will carry you nobly when we ride abroad tomorrow."
Is it bad that I'm rather looking forward to this?
"I look forward to it."
Boromir nodded, pleased. He shifted forward in his chair, making as if to rise.
"In which case I shall depart, and forego the pleasure of your company until tomorrow," he smiled, rising like a large cat.
Winter stood politely in response, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Ah—yes, my lord."
Where did your words go, woman?
Boromir smiled again at this, taking one nimble step closer to Winter. A fleeting instant later, she was staring up at his dark face. One side of his mouth was tilted in a smirk. His large, coarse hand extended towards her.
Oh.
Fervently wishing she could avoid it without appearing rude, Winter reached out her hand. Boromir took it in his broad palm. The rough thumb slipped across Winter's knuckles. His skin was calloused and hot as he pulled her hand towards his mouth. His grey eyes met hers over her knuckles, swirling in their depth and playfulness. Winter wished his breath wasn't quite as warm, or his lips as practiced, in that moment. His mischievous watching was an eternity…
And he released her. Winter smiled skittishly and curtseyed politely as Lord Boromir twinkled upon her. Then they were walking side-by-side to the entrance of the room. Badhor had beat them there, and was holding it open for the lord and lady to pass.
After several more polite civilities, Winter observed Boromir mount his great bay horse with a flourish. Moments later he was clattering away with his small retinue of guards, dark hair glossy in the sunlight and a smug expression on his countenance.
"You held yourself well, Lady Faenil," said Túiel, emphatically. "Do not distress yourself."
Winter pressed her lips together tight, wishing the storm inside would cease raging. Sections of her meeting with Boromir were playing repeatedly in her mind as the three sat about the table, languidly sipping tea.
"I simply do not understand," Winter managed, at length. Her grey eyes were wide as she stared across at Túiel and Badhor. "Why did he come?"
This time it was Badhor who rubbed his face with his palms.
"I do not know, milady," he sighed. "By all rights and customs, he should have waited until your formal presentation to call upon you in this way. Indeed, a formal presentation alone would not have been enough to warrant such a casual visit. He ought to have had his steward request a personal greeting in court beforehand."
Túiel cradled her teacup placidly. "Lord Boromir has hardly fostered a reputation as one who favours protocol."
"Yet he must, to some degree," snorted Winter, "for he has advanced in the ranks of Gondor's military. Even being Denethor's son cannot guarantee you such a promotion, surely?"
Both the Gondorians shook their heads emphatically.
"No indeed, Lady Faenil. Lord Boromir is thoroughly deserving of his appointment to Captain-General, unusual as it is." Badhor scratched his dark head thoughtfully. "The truth is that Lord Boromir cares little for the nuances of his father's court. He is neither unmannerly nor uncouth, yet he glides about with little thought for subtlety. If he has a grievance with another man, he shall visit him and demand a duel. Political niceties simply do not occur to him."
Well I guess he learns some caution by he reaches Rivendell.
Don't you remember the Council of Elrond? He's blundering about verbally the entire time, about the Ring, and all that. I would hardly call that "caution".
It was certainly true. Boromir's temper would not have abated even in a decade's time, nor did it seem he would learn much of Faramir's supposed discernment.
Winter drained her now-lukewarm tea. "So I suppose that means that if Boromir was idle and interested in a strange noblewoman, he would simply walk over to see her regardless of the consequences?"
Badhor nodded wearily. "Precisely."
"And we must now gather the fragments," Túiel said. "At the very least, Lord Boromir shall not consider anything underhand has been done. He will simply declare you have already been introduced, and be naively confused if anyone states there is something amiss."
Winter jabbed moodily with her spoon at the tea residue in her cup.
Be thankful for small mercies, I suppose?
And now you know for certain that Boromir, at least, doesn't despise you.
The memory of his insolent grin threatened to spark another blush upon her cheeks. It was both flattering and disconcerting to be looked at with that roguish, teasing expression by a fictional character. Boromir seemed every bit the lady's man. Oh, not that he seemed fickle or unfaithful, but his good-looks and pleasing smile were certain to beguile anyone he turned his eye to.
But not you. Never you.
No. Not me. I'm too busy freaking out as to why he's disregarding every social rule to come over for tea and chill.
Oh man. What if he likes me? What if this has complicated things no end?
Well at least your visit to Middle-earth hasn't been boring?
"What shall we do?" Winter asked, instead of voicing her vicious internal monologue. Unfortunately, Boromir's surprise visit had merely added to her concerns.
Túiel placed her cup down with a resolute ting. Her grey eyes met Winter's. "Nothing at present. And tomorrow, milady, you shall go riding."
12th March, 3007
Six minutes to four.
How much do you want to bet he clatters in at four on the dot?
Nothing. Of course he will. That's like me throwing money away.
To yourself.
…Right.
Winter rubbed her palms on her thighs for the fifth time that afternoon. Túiel's sharp eyes caught her in the act and she swiftly ceased.
"Lady Faenil, you shall crease your habit," sighed her companion, in a long-suffering manner. "You must learn to wait without this manner of distress."
Winter exhaled sharply and turned her gaze to one of the windows. Her vision clouded over as she stared at nothing.
"Easier said than done, Túiel. There is so much which depends on this. I must be polite, and yet uninteresting. We must prevent him from seeking me further, without spurning him. It is trickier than balancing upon a tightrope!"
"Aye indeed, and I am assured that you shall carry yourself well," soothed the older woman.
Winter grimaced slightly.
Wish I had that confidence in myself.
Ever since Winter's meltdown several days before, Túiel had been a different creature. Oh, she was no less her starched, traditional self. Yet rigid protocol had been brushed aside to reveal the matronly concern beneath. It was comforting for Winter, to see Túiel's gentleness. However, it did not entirely dispel the shackles of worry which had latched firmly onto Winter's being.
She longed to disregard her cares, to throw them into the wind and stride forward with her usual confidence. She was strong, steely strong, and very proud. Somehow, in the past days, that assurance had been st
olen from her. She was no less skilled at erecting walls about herself, in smoothing her features and brushing aside that which might attempt to hurt her.
But she could not convince herself that she didn't care what happened to Middle-earth.
No, she was invested. If she were to trigger disaster today, she would not be able to shove her humiliation aside or ignore the disappointment of her peers.
Winter was terrified.
Shaking herself, Winter glanced once more at the dining room clock.
One minute to four.
As if reading her thoughts, Túiel glanced in the same direction. Winter watched as her companion breathed deep and squared her shoulders. Then, the older woman moved to stand directly before her.
In the same instant, the clatter of horses heralded Boromir's arrival.
Túiel dropped to a crouch, deep grey eyes surprisingly calm as they met Winter's.
"You must do this. I have faith in you."
Winter had time only for the briefest bob of her head before Badhor entered to announce Lord Boromir's presence.
Túiel made herself scarce as Winter rose to greet the Steward's son. Her snug riding kit felt claustrophobic after the looser Healer's garment she had worn that morning. Once more—surreptitiously, so as to avoid Túiel's ire—Winter wiped her palms on her divided skirt.
Boromir strode into the room, bringing with him a gust of musky air. He still wore his chainmail hauberk, but had swapped his other armour for a grey shirt and tunic of midnight blue. He wore the fine garments with ease, as if he had simply been born thus.
Meeting her gaze, he smiled.
Winter's heart promptly sank in her chest. One part of her mind scowled viciously, as if she were a slave driver overseeing an unruly bondsman—herself.
You must be perfect, she told herself firmly, as she executed a curtsey and turned once more to Boromir.
Pride rising, she snorted silently.
I will be.
"Lady Faenil," Boromir said, advancing another few steps.
"My Lord Boromir." The significance of his speaking first was not lost on her—for the ruling house of Denethor to address another in that fashion was a great compliment.
"I am gladdened to see the fitful spring weather hath not betrayed us," the man remarked, the arch of his brow projecting a hint of playfulness. "And, thus attired, I presume you are prepared to venture abroad and explore Minas Tirith?"
"Certainly, my Lord."
Boromir gave a slight smile once again. Swivelling, he moved so he stood at Winter's right side, facing the door. He extended his left arm for her to take.
"Shall we proceed?"
Winter supposed her acceptance of his arm was answer enough, for Boromir led her out of the room. He measured his long stride to hers, making polite remarks as they descended the short steps at the front of Lord Lossemen's home.
For her part, Winter was seriously disconcerted. Her resolve was set, sealed and soldered like a sturdy foundation.
And somehow, she sighed inside, half-amused, you manage to be very distinctly aware that your hand is tucked around the arm of Boromir of Gondor. Silly girl.
Winter did not dignify that with a response.
"Have you seen much of Minas Tirith, my lady?"
"Precious little," Winter replied, honestly. "I have wandered somewhat about the upper levels—I am afraid walking in solitude does not appeal to me overmuch."
"This shall not do! A lady of Anfalas should not be so neglected, and I shall amend this lack of escort myself, Lady Faenil. If," he paused, eyes flicking to her teasingly, "you shall permit me to escort you this time, as you would not before?"
From now on, we work on avoiding blushes under pressure.
…but it's Boromir. Member of the Fellowship, son of the Steward, hangs out with Elrond, meets Galadriel, Boromir. And you expect me to be completely calm?
Winter glanced down as if to check her footing, disgusted with the pink which heated her cheeks.
"Too kind, my Lord," she murmured softly.
Fortunately, they had arrived at the horses, which had been tethered in the open street outside the house. Here was Boromir's mighty destrier, along with a mounted guard of four riders wearing Denethor's livery. Nearby stood two more horses; one for Winter, and one for Badhor, who would provide Lady Faenil's chaperone.
Seeing Winter and Boromir, Badhor led Lúna forward promptly. The black mare whickered softly as she saw her mistress. The latter took this opportunity to release Boromir's arm—her inner fangirl sighing forlornly—and move towards her horse. Lúna's liquid dark eyes surveyed her quietly.
You don't have any idea what's going on, do you? And you're not even worried. Well, that makes one of us.
Lúna merely brushed Winter's arm with her velvety lips.
"I stand by my earlier assessment," Boromir remarked, joining Winter and running a broad hand down Lúna's neck. "I have rarely seen a finer horse."
Sure helps when Rohan funnels you their best horses. Hats off to you, Calaron. You sure have friends in high places.
"Mm," Winter agreed, running her hand beneath the horse's jaw to check her harness absently. She would not have noticed even had it been twisted thrice around.
"Shall we depart, Lady Faenil?"
Winter nodded at Boromir's suggestion, forcing herself to meet his eyes as she did so. Lady Faenil was not supposed to be reclusive—merely boring. Nevertheless, it was a mighty task to prevent a sparkle from gracing her eyes as she looked up at the flesh-and-blood fictional hero.
So much for your stern, determined little pep talk back inside. You're already classified as an idiot over Lachie. Don't add Boromir heartthrob to the list. He is fictional.
Looks pretty real to me. But, you know, I could always pinch him to find—
No.
Winter gathered Lúna's reins, accepting them from Badhor with a smile of thanks. Her byrath helped her to slip them over the mare's ears, before moving to provide her with a boost into the saddle. Having ridden horses from childhood, Winter was confident she could have managed as much alone. Still, better not to rock the boat. Badhor steadied Lúna's head and ensured Winter's feet were in the stirrups before he climbed aboard his own horse.
In the interlude, Boromir had managed to get himself atop the huge bay. Seeing Winter was neatly settled in her riding habit—a gown of dark brown with a wide, divided skirt—he nudged his horse forward towards her.
Unprompted, Lúna started forward alongside Boromir's mount, not eager to be outdone by the strange gelding. She seemed content to follow the lead of the other horse. So it was that Winter had very little to do as they started down the fifth tier street, aside from make conversation with Boromir.
Two of the guards had trotted forward to ride ahead of the pair, whilst the others remained behind with Badhor. They were left to ride in company, uninterrupted and unhindered by the folk who moved about on foot. Pedestrians moved aside with alacrity even before they recognised Boromir son of Denethor riding abroad with the strange lady.
"Had you seen much of Gondor, Lady Faenil, until your coming to Minas Tirith?"
Winter shook her head. "No, my Lord. My father did not desire me to travel."
"Alas, that our lands are unsafe for young ladies such as thee to wander at will! For you seem to me, Lady Faenil, as one much inclined towards adventure." Boromir glanced down upon her with a gleam of humour.
How come he gets a taller horse, when he's already taller than me? This is terribly unfair.
"Perhaps you have read me amiss," countered Winter, lips twitching in the hint of a smile she could not quite suppress.
"That is a great pity, for I had planned many adventures for this afternoon. Chief amongst them being a visit to Rath Celerdain."
Winter was unable to quench her enthusiasm entirely. "The Lampwrights' Street," she echoed, alight with interest. Then she added, wryly, "Perhaps I spoke too hastily about my disinclination for adventure."
Boromir gav
e a low chuckle. "I had hoped as much. Come. There is some distance to travel, and we shall not tarry." He nudged his gelding into a brisker walk, and Lúna followed suit.
Winter felt her nerves slowly seeping away as they rode stirrup-to-stirrup along Minas Tirith's main streets. Her brown riding gown was both comfortable and becoming, overlaid by a cloak of cornflower blue. The spring afternoon held a welcome hint of coolness, dusting her face as they moved across the fifth tier and down to the fourth.
She could muddle through this somehow.
"You smile as if you are privy to all the great joys of life, my lady," Boromir remarked.
Winter immediately contained the beatified expression which the beauty of the afternoon had inspired.
"Merely enjoying the day, Lord Boromir," replied she, lightly.
Winter breathed deep, as if to emphasise this. A moment later, she glanced across at her companion. He sat astride the gelding easily, swaying with the movement. His countenance, however, was masked in mild bemusement as he stared at Winter.
Someone shoulda taught you not to stare, mate.
"Forgive me," he uttered, almost a chuckle. "Your delight is refreshing. Come, tell me of your interests, Lady Faenil."
Huh. Somehow I don't think I'll be able to tell you about the Halo wars with Howard.
"My interests, Lord?"
"What is it that you should be doing this afternoon, had I not claimed your attention?"
Did I get a choice?
C'mon, don't pretend you don't wanna just sit here and listen to that beautiful, deep, rumbly voice…
"I—I do not know, my Lord," Winter said, groping helplessly for some idea. "I suppose I should have composed a letter to my brother, or ventured out for a walk." She paused, lost. "I am learning the harp."
"Ah, forgive me—I forgot that it is fashionable for all ladies of Gondor to dabble in music," Boromir chuckled. "Your brother, Lady Faenil; does he correspond with you?"
Winter nodded slowly. "Of course. He aids my father on our estate, for he it is bequeathed to him, and my father is in poor health of late."
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