Wild Monster

by Matthew Harrington

"I am sorry to hear of your father's health. Yet I am surprised you are able to coax your brother into composing epistles to you, my lady!"

  Winter blinked. "Why?"

  Manners, idiot!

  Boromir appeared just as surprised. "Perhaps you have lived in the provinces too long, lady." He grinned conspiratorially. "Letter-writing is the duty of scribes and women!"

  We-ll.

  You. Absolute. Dill brain.

  Shall we take him home and toss him to the feminists?

  "I fear you are mistaken, Lord Boromir," retorted Winter, icy as her name. "Perhaps it is you alone who despise writing such letters, for my brother returns mine willingly enough."

  Are you really arguing on behalf of your made-up brother?

  Of course! The family honour is at stake.

  Rather than looking affronted, Boromir chuckled. His eyes dwelt almost merrily upon her haughty face.

  "Perhaps you are right, lady, on both accounts. My brother Faramir certainly does not despise letters as I have stated, though he is something of a scholar. For my part, I do not harbour much affection for pen and ink, save when the need arises. Nevertheless," he said, a smile showing beneath his dark stubble, "if the one to whom I wrote was as fair as thee, I might be more like your brother."

  Despicable flirt.

  Now, don't ya—

  "Perhaps," she replied coolly. "If you could convince such a lady to write to you."

  He laughed. He held his reins in one hand, the other palm splayed across his thigh, and chuckled. The grey eyes, so steady, were full of mirth as he surveyed her.

  Winter bristled.

  Try again, big boy. Give it another go. I will wreck you.

  Her satisfaction evaporated like dew on an Australian summer morning. Boromir spurned her insult with merriment, his sense of pride and control holding him far above her petty remark. She could be as caustic as she liked, Winter knew, and he would merely smile upon her as if she amused him.

  Unless you insulted his kingdom or family.

  BUT we're not going to do that, are we? Do you have a burning desire to create World War 3?

  No.

  Thus, Winter bit her tongue and looked stonily out upon the street before them. Boromir made no real effort at talk, though she could see in her peripherals that his lips were pressed together to quench a smile. Rather than trusting herself to remain civil in conversation, Winter soothed her mind with observing their surrounds.

  They had weaved lazily across the fourth level and were already on the third, clopping between milliners and general stores. The houses down here were not fine as the noblemen's quarters closer to the citadel. Here dwelt titled families who had fallen out of fortune and favour, along with the moderately affluent middle-classes.

  Though she had been warned of as much by Calaron, it was saddening to observe that many houses had been closed off entirely. The windows were shuttered, and the steps to the door had welcomed moss in the absence of busy feet. As they passed one forlorn, greyish building, Boromir turned to her once more.

  "The White City does not know the full account of people who dwelt here in bygone years," he said, quietly. "Many houses are abandoned, as you see."

  The teasing humour had lessened in his countenance—damn him—and in that moment Winter saw only quiet regret for the decline of his homeland.

  Charismatic fool. Now you're gonna make me like you again. Pick whether you're going to be lovely or a giant twelve-year-old boy, and stick to it. Please.

  "I suppose, my lady, compared to the populous south, Minas Tirith must appear rather empty and desolate."

  Winter continued to survey buildings they passed. "Hardly desolate, my Lord. It is very large."

  "And yet this—" Boromir gestured widely with one hand "—is merely a guard tower, built to reinforce Osgiliath. Alas, that she stands no more. Minas Tirith is but a shadow of her beauty."

  And still very beautiful.

  Winter turned her face skyward. They had passed through the shoulder spur of Mount Mindolluin once more, and the hulk of the city above hid the mountain proper from her view. Below, the huge, dark outer wall towered many storeys above the lower level of the city.

  "How many dwell in the city, my Lord?"

  Boromir grunted. "I could not tell you precisely, Lady. Yet there are over 5,000 soldiers of Gondor who dwell here, and another 1,500 who comprise the Guard of the Citadel." He grimaced slightly. "Perhaps my brother might tell you the number of ordinary folk who also reside within the walls and villages beyond, though I am afraid I must disappoint you."

  Winter was too busy thinking to absorb the latter part of the speech.

  6,500 soldiers! A small garrison, all things considered, though I suppose many of the other soldiers would reside south of Ered Nimrais.

  And if 6,500 of them are soldiers, how many ordinary people would that mean?

  "I suppose," Boromir continued, "that it could be as many as ten ten-thousands. It is long since I last perused my Father's records of such things. Shall it be enough if I promise to speak to Faramir of this matter, when next he returns from his campaign? I am certain he would know."

  "Of course," replied Winter, congenially, all the while her mind cried 100,000! "It is of no real importance." She exerted herself to display a slight smile. It would not do to ride onwards in bad grace.

  Boromir seemed pleased by the return of her good spirits, and proceeded to guide his gelding slightly closer to Lúna, in order to better point out notable landmarks to Winter.

  Despite her underlying tension, it was almost impossible not to enjoy the guided tour. Boromir was frank and knowledgeable, speaking of cheery inns and notable herbalists. He described to Winter the setting out of the gardens they passed, and even consented to share a tale or two of his childhood roaming about with Faramir. He was such an intriguing mix of gravity and roguish twinkles that Winter was kept dancing about on her toes.

  You're enjoying yourself, admit it, an accusatory voice cried, as she turned to check that Badhor still followed. Her byrath was plodding along with a contented expression.

  …Look, it would be hard not to, she reasoned.

  Just don't get too careless. Boromir didn't react when you scolded him just before, but I wouldn't trust to luck.

  Therefore, Winter found herself teetering between her acute interest and the necessity of making Lady Faenil seem dull and boring. Somehow, she felt she was failing miserably at the latter. Boromir was enjoying himself immensely, and, try as she might, it was impossible not to gaze about the city with awe. If this was Minas Tirith in its decline, Winter wished fervently she had observed it in the golden years. On the upper levels, the city's failure was less obvious. As they descended, traces of neglect became more obvious.

  They finally arrived at the lowest part of the city, overshadowed by the mighty outer wall. Winter smiled. Her grave fears of betraying the program had been smothered almost to nothing. She felt weary, very weary, of navigating the tightrope set before her. She had not blundered; could they really expect her to be as dull as ditch water in such a moment? Oh, she would not discourage Boromir—perhaps next time she would decline his invitation—yet she was determined to enjoy this one.

  Even if I can feel Mum's eyes on my back, and—

  Nuh-uh. Not this afternoon.

  "Welcome to the Lampwrights' Street, Lady Faenil," said Boromir, drawing his horse to a halt.

  For the first time, Winter realised how very busy the lower levels of Minas Tirith were. By this late hour of the afternoon, the city was throbbing with its lifeblood. People flocked to and fro, bustling on errands or crying their wares. The folk were not as richly attired, and appeared to dress chiefly in cool, dark shades. It was rather like watching a singular mass of dark hair and fair skin as they wove expertly amongst one another. Winter's company was one of very few on horseback; aside from the odd contingent of soldiers and a scattering of noblemen, everyone else moved about on foot.

  Boromir chuckled,
and at that moment Winter realised she was gaping.

  Well done.

  She snapped her mouth closed, but continued to eye the people. Even in this lowest level, their faces were proud and fair. Many even returned her looks, studying her with unveiled curiosity. Winter carefully tugged her cloak a little further over her hair. It was better, she supposed, to stand out as little as possible when one accompanied Boromir son of Denethor.

  "Do you wish to venture into any of the stores, Lady Faenil?"

  Winter blinked twice. "Inside?" she said, before realising how foolish she sounded. It merely elicited a smile from Boromir.

  "Aye. Are there any purchases you wish to make?"

  Winter gaped around stupidly, wondering where to begin. The majority of the supplies she needed had been shipped out from Caoloth. Anything which ran out could be purchased by a servant in Minas Tirith until more goods were shipped in by the Exchange Program. She had never thought to be allowed to venture into the stores in Minas Tirith's lower levels as if she was dropping by Myer on Queen Street Mall. Moreover, she did not carry any money in her purse.

  "I—no—my Lord—there are no purchases I require," Winter stammered. Quick as a whiplash, she composed herself and regathered Lúna's reins. She was not here to gawk, but to fend off Boromir's interest.

  To his credit, the man was not so quick to take Winter at her word.

  "Are you certain you do not wish to at least explore a little on foot?" inquired he, mildly.

  Composed as could be, Winter nodded.

  "I suppose that should be interesting."

  Boromir gave her a wry look, before guiding them to the side of the thoroughfare. He swung easily down from his horse. Before Winter had even begun to disentangle her habit and cloak, the Steward's son was standing beside her left stirrup.

  In spite of all her resolutions to the contrary and her calmed nerves, Winter felt heat flood her face.

  Surely not here, in front of everyone! We are only friends! Not even friends! Bare acquaintances! Strangers, in fact.

  She glanced about desperately for Badhor. A moment's search found her byrath moving towards her hastily—but still not fast enough…

  You don't have a choice.

  I can't let him touch me!

  Win, you're being silly.

  He's treating me like a child!

  He's helping you off a horse!

  In front of everyone!

  Because he's polite!

  What's everyone going to think?

  Oh, I dunno, maybe something like, "Why is that woman sitting on her horse staring blankly at Boromir for a good ten minutes?"

  Winter cursed inwardly. Fleeting seconds had passed. Boromir glanced up at her inquiringly, before offering her a hand.

  She took it.

  Meaning to dismount in ordinary fashion, Winter slipped her feet free of the stirrups. She froze, realising that such a manoeuvre would certainly result in her booted foot colliding with Boromir's head.

  Hm.

  To her mortification, she realised she would have to lift her leg over Lúna's withers and dismount facing the Captain-General.

  Lord bloody Boromir strikes again. Badhor—ride faster next time.

  Gritting her teeth at the indignity of the circumstance, Winter lifted her right leg over the mare gingerly. Her shift in weight caused her to lurch forward. Boromir's tall shoulder was there. Thus, Winter's first pedestrian journey through the lower city began by being lowered to the ground by the Steward's son.

  Revolting.

  She barely resisted the urge to squeak and flee when his hand had brushed her waist. She met his gaze almost accusingly. He placed her gently upon the cobblestones, grey eyes twinkling like burnished metal, and turned to greet Badhor. To his credit, Winter's byrath looked remarkably unruffled. As soon as Boromir's back was turned to secure the horses, the older man gave Winter a look which was both teasing and horrified.

  Well, looks like I'm in for it again.

  13th March, 3007

  …so we wandered about for what felt like an hour. I think by that point I had abandoned hope of being a satisfactory person for Badhor and Túiel. Like, screw it. I'd already chucked it in. I just tottered about the shops with Boromir in tow, admiring things. And for that hour it was lovely; I saw so many odd trinkets and herbs and flowers. Oh, and the clothing! Nothing was overly nice, all pretty tacky, but it was rather delightful to wander in a milliner's shop and realise that this wasn't a Middle-earth display, it was a genuine store!

  Of course there was bad news waiting at the end of the visit, but I'll put that off a while yet. Boromir, throughout this little foray, was well worth describing. He trailed behind me, looking rather like a proud older brother as he showed his naïve little sis around. And then when anyone would look at him and realise he was the Steward's son, he would get this stern, gruff-kinda expression on his face. Like, "If you point out who I am, I'll smack you around the ears." It was pretty hilarious, aside from his weird protective kinda look when he was helping me. Cripes.

  That's probably my problem. Badhor saw the whole thing, so when we got home we sat down with Túiel and had it out. I mean, no one yelled at me, but Badhor just had this resigned look on his face. Túiel's pretty sharp, she realised straight away our attempts to bore Boromir hadn't worked. Looks like I failed again, Jimmy—don't look so knowing! But I shan't bore you with details about that. I could tell they were both excessively disappointed—but then, I'm used to that! It comes as naturally to me as my excellent sense of humour (I can see you smirking in the future. Admit it, I am outrageously amusing!)

  Aside from that, everything has been grand. I've got 2 new dresses for Tuilere, the spring festival. I know how much you adore hearing about fashion, so I will describe them in detail. No? You don't wish to hear about the precise weave of my new green silk gown? Shame on you!

  My work in the Houses has been going well. I think everyone—except Gaerel, bless her acid soul—has forgotten how I managed to reset Rostor's arm. Well, Rostor still remembers. He's left me several tokens of appreciation over the last few days, but I haven't seen him yet. Still, it was thoughtful. James, why don't you give me presents? I'm sure I'd like you loads better if you did. Anyway, I'm back to regular duties with Ioreth which is rather nice. She's beginning to trust me with more tasks, so I'm getting to use more of my ninja physiotherapy skills.

  Boromir hasn't scheduled our next date yet—woe betide me—so at the moment I'm just sitting tight while everyone gets ready for Tuilere. He didn't mention another meeting when we said goodbye yesterday afternoon. Don't think I've ever been so thankful in my life! Maybe I did manage to scare him off. Cross your fingers for me, Jimbo.

  Hope everything is well with you! Pretty disappointed you haven't snuck into the Lonely Mountain yet for me. I expect a sackful of gold when you come back to see me.

  Missing you, you silly idiot. Who am I to insult when I don't have your delightful company?

  Sending lots of love in the hopes it will convince you to steal gold for me,

  Win.

  Winter skimmed the letter over again with her eyes. Her reply to James' most recent letter was a lengthy one. It was a profound relief to spill out the tale of the day before—even if she did paint it in rosy hues.

  Are you really that used to being a disappointment?

  She scowled and flapped the pages about to let them dry.

  Trust me, I'm a pro.

  As she placed the parchment back on the desk, the rest of the letter caught Winter's eye. She stared down at it accusingly, as if to blame the quill and ink for the words written upon the page. Bitter, shrouded sarcasm, cleverly woven in a tapestry of witty tales. Would he make note of it? Oh no, she was far too skilful for that.

  What made her feel acutely unnerved, however, was the fact that the same letter would speak volumes to Lachie. He would look up at her with a quirked eyebrow and a knowing look in the bright blue eyes. Pitying, almost. Undoubtedly compassionate.


  Too close.

  No, she would not write of these things to Lachie. His letter, already complete, sat to one side. It was a light, detached retelling of the previous days, dwelling far longer on a description of Minas Tirith's streets than her encounters with Boromir. Architecture was, surely, a safe topic. He could not read into it—or become jealous.

  Yes. Definitely safer.

  Thus James became Winter's confidant, in a measured sense. Spilling out that epistle had been cathartic. And, more to the point, she could seal them imminently and give them to Aeglossel for posting.

  Shaking herself, Winter stretched her arms above her head. The cool afternoon found her in her bedchambers, scribbling away at her desk. She was wrapped in a creamy rug to ward off the slight chill which hovered in the room.

  Aeglossel had been in to tidy whilst she was busy in the Houses that day. Consequently, her chambers had the freshly starched look of a hotel. Not a feather in her doona was out of place, nor was there a speck of dust upon the floor. It was a little too sterile for Winter, who had been disconcerted to discover her artistic scattering of books and papers had been clinically stacked to one side.

  Winter rose. Her slippered feet padded across the timber floor.

  Since the first day she had occupied these chambers, Winter had fallen in love with the view from her balcony. Lord Lossemen's manor had an unobstructed view over the Pelennor. The colonnaded porch cupped the light of the day and held it, glimmering, for Winter's perusal.

  She rested her hands upon the balcony railing, just as she had done so many days before in Caoloth. That evening had been starlit and icy. Today was gilt in rosy hues, warmth splaying across Winter's body as she leaned out from the rail.

  So much had changed since that night. She could still see Lachie's lolling form on the chair behind her, a silly grin plastered on his face. She'd been elated then, excitement mingling with uncertainty.

  Now?

  Winter sighed, leaning her weight upon her arms as the sunlight lapped at her. Her relocation to Minas Tirith had not been quite as wholly delightful as she might have hoped. Oh, the White City was like a dream. She had morphed into a model pupil in the Houses, dancing to Ioreth's frantic tune.