Chapter 12 - Purpose


15th March, 3007

"It must be here somewhere, Badhor," muttered Winter, scowl hidden beneath the hood of her cloak. "Surely you know your way around Minas Tirith, seeing as you were born here?"

If her tone was waspish, Badhor paid it no mind.

"Nay, milady. It is a little much to expect that any one person should be acquainted with every cobblestone of Minas Tirith's many streets. Alas, that I did not pay more heed to the location of the finest dressmakers in the upper levels!"

All right sass-master, cool it. I was just asking.

"Perhaps we ought to ask for directions?" she inquired instead, doubtful.

The pair were standing in the midst of a desolate street on the sixth tier, flanked by an escort of Sam and Will. They had ventured to a part of the city Winter had not yet explored. The sixth level formed an uninterrupted circle all the way around Minas Tirith, broken only by the huge spur of rock jutting out on the eastern side. This did not stop the level from curling about on itself, as the street merely tunnelled through the spur to complete the circle.

On the western side behind the city, this spur was only as high as the fifth level, which formed the path to Rath Dínen. Those lower levels were incomplete circles, as the walls met Mount Mindolluin behind and could go no further. However, shops and residences filled the higher sixth tier even on the western, mountain side, behind the Citadel. They lacked the exquisite views of the buildings which faced in any other direction, instead staring along Rath Dínen's rocky path to the raw face of Mount Mindolluin. Winter had not ventured there before, instead preferring to walk about in sight of the Pelennor. Never before had she been tempted to investigate the sixth level behind the Citadel itself.

Until today.

"There is no need to ask for directions," replied Badhor, easily. His eyes scanned up and down the street once more.

Men. Even in another world, they won't ask for directions! Honestly!

"We shall have to, in a moment," Winter retorted. "Are we too far along? Could we have missed it?"

"I should not think so." Her byrath sniffed haughtily. He seemed somewhat affronted that Winter should question his navigating.

"Let us try, at least. Come, think what Mistress Glavorlien shall do if I miss my appointment!"

Badhor glanced down and muttered into his neat-trimmed beard. "Keep your gown for herself, and wear it to Tuilere?"

Winter could not help the bubble of laughter which erupted. Her dancing eyes fell on Will, who was struggling mightily to keep countenance.

"Come, Badhor, be serious," Winter grinned, after a moment.

"Forgive my intrusion, Master Badhor, but perhaps milady is correct. It does strike me as entirely possible that we might have missed the building. Did not Mistress Túiel say that Glavorlien's was an unobtrusive establishment?" suggested Will.

Begrudgingly, Badhor nodded. "Let us make another circuit of this part of town. There is still ten minutes until your fitting, Lady Faenil. Perhaps we shall find it ere you must reconcile yourself to Mistress Glavorlien making off with your property."

The contingent all chuckled once more as Badhor led them back the way they had come.

Winter scanned the street appraisingly as they passed each building.

You know she's good business when she's this hard to find, and people still come to her!

"Milady—there?"

Winter's gaze snapped to where Will was pointing. He indicated a stone townhouse, built flush against its neighbour. There was nothing to distinguish it from an ordinary home, save a very small wooden sign. It was propped above the door frame and read: Mistress Glavorlien, Minas Tirith's finest dressmaker. Winter did not even register that the sign was written in Sindarin, so grateful was she to have found it.

"Ah! Wi—we have found it!" She cut herself off before she used the guard's Earth name; Badhor and Túiel thoroughly disapproved of this small act of rebellion.

Will merely bobbed his head as properly befitted a guard who had been of service to his mistress.

"Observe, Lady Faenil," said Badhor, with something that almost comprised a smirk, "the capacity for the native-born Gondorian to orientate us without the need of aid."

Winter shot him an arch look over her shoulder as she strode forward. The byrath had to scarper to arrive at the door ahead of her and hold it open.

Just as Badhor was about to push open the door, Winter heard a distressing sound; Sam coughed. She had heard him coughing over a week before, when he and Will had escorted her to the Houses. Now, however, the sound was far worse; a frame-wrenching, gasping sound which made Winter feel ill.

Reflexively, Winter's head snapped towards Sam. Her escort was standing a little behind his partner. He bobbed his head down, one arm up to cover his mouth as the coughs shattered him. Despite his half-covered face, Winter could see his skin was greyish and his forehead glistened with sweat.

Oh gosh, how did I miss that when we set out this morning? her thoughts jolted. Goodness, he sounded sick a week ago, but I dismissed it—stupid me. He was coughing, that time he took me to the Houses… eight? Days ago? He's probably got pneumonia, and no one's doing anything about it!

"Badhor," she said immediately, voice adopting a sharp tone of command. She spoke more softly the second time. "Sam is unwell. Perhaps Will ought to escort him home?"

Badhor's countenance morphed swiftly from sharp disapproval to concern. His own quick eyes flipped to Sam, who looked back apologetically. Winter realised immediately that the neglect of one of the guards fell upon Badhor's shoulders; Sam was under his jurisdiction as the manager of Lord Lossemen's household. Despite the unorthodoxy of the situation, the byrath nodded.

"Aye. You ought to be in bed, man."

Sam rallied well, his face set in protest. "Nay, Master Badhor. I am well enough to do my duty."

Badhor gave him a hard look. The guard quailed slightly under his superior's scrutiny.

"You have done well to stand at attention this long, lad. Go home and rest. None shall think worse of you for it."

Will nudged his friend on the arm, and coaxed him with a few soft-spoken words. It was not long before Sam gave a grim nod.

"Forgive us, Lady Faenil," Will intoned, nodding respectfully.

"Please, take him home and see him to bed," was Winter's blunt response. Will had the good humour to grin.

"Aye, milady."

The two men shuffled off slowly along the street. Sam did his best to walk unaided, but Winter was pleased to see that Will stayed close by.

And this afternoon, Winter vowed resolutely, I will attend to him.

She was twinged with guilt about her neglect of the Earth-born guard.

"You have sharp eyes and ears, milady," muttered Badhor, reaching out once more to push open the door to Mistress Glavorlien's store. It appeared she was not the only one who felt badly about Sam's sickness. "Forgive me, that I did not notice sooner. He should have been of little use had trouble come to you."

Winter's lips quirked in a smile as she paused on the store's threshold. "It is not me I am worried about. He is from my home; I would not see him die from a trifling cold."

Tucking her concern for Sam reluctantly aside, Winter stepped forward into Mistress Glavorlien's store.

The house in which she found herself was brightly lit and immaculately clean. The floor was unpolished stone free of any kind of dust or dirt. Winter almost stooped to check her shoes before entering. It was a large entrance hall, bare of almost any furniture except several stiff chairs, a low table, and potted plant which stood rigidly to attention. Upon the table rested a small bell. It was hardly what Winter had expected from a seamstress of such great repute.

"Sit, milady," urged Badhor, "and I shall ring for Mistress Glavorlien."

For someone who denied any knowledge of this place, he seems to know what's going on pretty well.

Winter eased herself onto the hard chair. Badhor reached for the small bell and rang it firmly. Mere seconds later, the single door leading out of the entrance hall was flung open.

Winter had not yet seen anyone truly overweight in Minas Tirith, but Mistress Glavorlien came closest. She was a plump, robust looking woman clad in dark blue. The gown was simple but precisely tailored. Most surprising, however, was the uniqueness of her appearance. There was nothing willowy or raven-haired about Mistress Glavorlien; she was short, rosy and curvaceous. Her hair curled wildly about her face, glinting auburn in the soft light. Her merry appearance was juxtaposed with her cool, flat expression.

Huh.

"Ah! Lady Faenil!" Glavorlien moved towards her at a stately pace which belied the speed of her arrival. "You are early."

"Mistress Glavorlien," Winter replied, rising from her chair gratefully. "I hope it will not inconvenience you."

"Not at all, my Lady; I revere punctuality. Come, and we shall begin." Her eyes flickered to Badhor almost dismissively. "You may wait here."

Badhor succumbed to this decree with surprising meekness.

"I shall remain here and await your summons, Lady Faenil."

Winter nodded in her most regal fashion. Mistress Glavorlien indicated that she should pass through the inner door, which she did.

Today, Winter was presented with a new form of challenge. Since their horseback ride, Boromir had called again and escorted a dreary Lady Faenil on a short walk about the upper levels. She had managed to avoid a second outing by professing herself occupied today, and thus been given the opportunity to adopt a new façade. Yesterday's Lady Faenil was dull; today, she was imperious and lofty.

Much more fun, she decided doggedly, as Mistress Glavorlien followed her into this second room. As a middle-ranked noblewoman, Faenil could not afford to be too haughty in company. In front of a seamstress—even a famous one such as Glavorlien—she was able to play her part to the full.

Not that I've had a chance to be out in company much, either, she mused. Not until after Tuilere. Which is five days away.

"The dress is all but finished, my Lady," Glavorlien informed her, closing the door behind with a muffled thud.

"Good," Winter replied, glancing about the room as if to scrutinise the quality of the furnishings. Her real motive was far more innocent.

Just as with the outer room, Mistress Glavorlien's inner chamber was aggressively utilitarian. The floors were just as bare and spotless, and the furniture minimal. From where she stood, Winter saw a series of half-dressed mannequins through an archway. Another room led down a narrow corridor, and Winter caught a glimpse of rolls of fabric at the far end. What differentiated this room from the outer one, however, was the rows of gowns which stretched along two walls.

It was as refreshing as a vibrant palette of watercolour paints. Each was of a different hue, and varied from the floatiest of chiffons to heavy brocade to papery silk. Winter had to dig her nails into her own hand to prevent herself from gazing open-mouthed at the lavish display. The dresses hung limp on hooks, and still managed to convey their richness despite the unpretentious display.

Instead of blinking, starry-eyed, Winter pressed her lips together. Her expression was light, without being awed.

Nevertheless, Mistress Glavorlien must have recognised that Lady Faenil admired what she saw.

"I am pleased to see you have good taste, Lady Faenil," the seamstress stated flatly. "The fabric your companion provided for your gown is pleasing."

Winter gave the slightest nod of her head. "Túiel knows her business."

Glavorlien returned the gesture of agreement. "Indeed. Come hither, and we shall try on this gown. I daresay it shall need no alterations, for you are very like Túiel described. Nevertheless, we must see."

The seamstress indicated they progress further into her stone home. The next room Winter found herself in could almost have been a dressing room from Earth. A screen partitioned off one corner in the name of modesty, and three carefully-positioned mirrors allowed a lady to observe herself from all angles.

Most exciting, however, was a gown of cool grey-blue which was draped over a mannequin. Glavorlien picked it up with reverent hands and held it before Winter's eyes for her to peruse it.

Truth be told, Winter had not seen the fabric Túiel had chosen—but she could not deny that her companion had done exceptionally well. The bodice of the dress was made of light silvery blue silk, embroidered at the front from bust to waist. The embroidery was like a tangled vine done in darker blue cottons and shimmery beads. Similar work had been done about the wrists of the gown. The waist was tight and cinched by a band, whilst the entire full skirt was also traced by beaded embroidery. This was paler, blending with the colour of the silk so that it shimmered entrancingly.

It's perfect.

"It is well-made," she remarked instead, striving to contain her delight in the garment. Her countenance maintained its cool placidity. "But shall it fit?"

Glavorlien opened her mouth, offended. "Lady Faenil! A Mistress Glavorlien gown will always fit."

Winter raised an eyebrow slightly, as if in lofty scepticism. Unheeding Glavorlien's barely audible mutterings, she allowed the seamstress to help her out of her day-gown.

"We shall have to tighten your lacings," Glavorlien remarked, her hands resting on either side of Winter's already-slim waist. "The dress is made smaller than your regular gowns."

All g. Didn't want to breathe anyway.

The pair stood before the array of mirrors. The blue gown was awaiting its new wearer. Winter stared at herself, stripped down to the traditional undergarments of Gondorian women. They were mostly comfortable; even her corset was not painful to wear. Still, lacing it any tighter would transform it from snug to restrictive.

"As you wish, Glavorlien."

"To the rail, then," the woman said, nudging Winter gently in the back. They moved away from the mirrors to a stout wooden rail embedded in the stone wall.

Invented for torture such as this?

Resolutely, Winter gripped the timber surface and braced herself for Glavorlien's tugging. The seamstress was as gentle as could be expected, but Winter still felt her lungs jerked free of air more than once.

As she endured Glavorlien's ministrations, Winter half-wished the seamstress was chattier. The clean, functional décor of the rooms appeared to be a reflection of the owner's personality. Glavorlien evidently knew her work. However, she was not the tittering, know-it-all tradeswoman Winter had half-hoped to find. There was to be no city gossip, no busy-body prattling.

A shame, too, Winter sighed, as the laces were coaxed tighter around her middle. I bet Glavorlien knows everybody's business. All the ladies who would visit here together must have all the goss.

"I believe that shall be enough," puffed the seamstress, at length. Apparently pulling corset laces was hard work.

Winter straightened up. She could still move, sit and breathe—mostly—but the boned garment was already growing more uncomfortable. She was glad that the ladies of Minas Tirith only wore them this tight to special functions, and that they did not favour the tiny waists of Victorian women on Earth. They were tight and boned, certainly, but more to smooth the figure—and give you great cleavage.

Wordlessly, Glavorlien held up the blue gown. Winter stepped in amongst the vast swathes of fabric carefully.

What does one say, to learn of the court gossip from a tight-lipped businesswoman like this? Winter pondered, as Glavorlien flittered about adjusting the dress. It fit like a glove, sliding perfectly over her confined waist.

"Have you had many customers as Tuilere nears, Mistress?" the girl inquired, after the silence grew heavy.

Glavorlien did not allow her thoughtful eyes to leave the dress. "A fair score, lady."

and?

"Oh," Winter replied, lamely. The gown was now in place, but Winter could not see herself in the mirror as yet.

Silence fell once more. Winter longed to kick herself. At least with Boromir, her dull wordlessness achieved what she wished. Here, she looked a simpleton.

"I hope I shall give you credit where credit is due then, Mistress Glavorlien," Winter said at last, as a welcome burst of inspiration enveloped her.

Glavorlien met her gaze with questioning hazel eyes.

"Forgive me, milady; I do not understand."

"Oh!" smiled Winter, graciously. "I merely meant to imply that I hoped to recognise your fine work at Tuilere and attribute it to you in due course. If the attire of the other ladies is as lovely as this—" Winter's hands fell to the beaded silk skirt "—then I shall be in great company, indeed."

There, Win; you've done it.

Glavorlien's rosy skin flushed even pinker under the burden of the compliment.

"You are very kind, milady," she murmured, turning bright eyes to a further checking of the fine embroidery.

Winter also glanced down, triumphant at her success.

"Did you bead this yourself, Glavorlien?"

"Not entirely," the seamstress admitted. "I have four girls under me these days, and they worked upon the skirt. The bodice and sleeves are my work."

"It truly is exquisite."

The colour in Glavorlien's countenance bled up to her hairline.

"Thank you, milady."

Glavorlien straightened. "Come to the looking-glass."

Winter obliged willingly, moving to stand before the mirror.

Her compliments of the seamstress were thoroughly warranted. The gown was even lovelier upon a live figure. Winter was also silently smug about bodice; her corset showed off her bust to best advantage, whilst the wide square neckline of the dress aided it nobly.

Better not lean over at the festival, or half of Gondor will be able to admire your assets.

Lewd!

"It is lovely," Winter confessed, abandoning the guise of a haughty noblewoman.

Glavorlien smiled, the expression setting off her robust colouring to best advantage.

"Nor will it need alteration," the woman added.

Winter twirled gently, shaking her head in wonderment. "No indeed."

All right little girl, get your act together.

Turning to meet Glavorlien's gaze, Winter found her resolutions to remain aloof crumbling. She strained mightily to grasp the threads of her haughty demeanour, and found them slipping from her grasp. Glavorlien's earlier dull expression was replaced by one of glinting enthusiasm. The seamstress had lost her dispassionate look.

"How shall you fashion your hair for the Steward's ball?" Glavorlien inquired, fingering a lock of her own flyaway mop.

Winter gave a slight smile, releasing caution. "I confess I had given it little thought. We of Anfalas lag a little behind the fashions of Minas Tirith. How are the fashionable ladies wearing it these days?"

"Fashioning it upwards is still common," Glavorlien remarked, "as you wear yours today, Lady Faenil. Many of the younger ladies let it down, adorned with circlets and pins and tiny braids. The older women have always fashioned it in intricate braids, and I believe it is growing more common once more."

"And what should you suggest, to accompany this gown?" inquired Winter, a hint of playfulness in her eyes. For a flickering moment, she allowed her gaze to stray to her figure in the mirror. She looked like a queen, not a simple girl from Brisbane.

"Out," Glavorlien stated, resolutely. "You shall stand out as a beacon in the darkness, milady."

I should pass that one onto Túiel. It's poetry.

Winter wrinkled her nose slightly. "I doubt that drawing such attention would be wise, Mistress Glavorlien."

The other laughed, and then her countenance stilled. "Perhaps it is a little late for veiling yourself, Lady Faenil; all the ladies of the court must now know your name, and watch you with jealous eyes for the favour you receive."

Something within Winter stiffened; fear.

"Oh?" She gave Glavorlien an appraising look. "Why is that?"

The seamstress started, as if realising where her tongue had led her. Her face closed off once more under Winter's cool stare.

"Forgive me. I spoke out of turn. We had best wrap your gown, as I expect another customer in half an hour."

Glavorlien would not meet her gaze again. For the next twenty minutes, the two women worked in silence to loosen Winter's corset and clad her in day-garb once more. The blue gown was packed carefully away as Winter straightened her hair.

She knew exactly what Glavorlien was hinting at.

"…all the ladies of the court must now know your name, and watch you with jealous eyes..."

Boromir.

Lord bloody Boromir. Why was it always him?
Winter entertained no doubts that her acquaintance with the Steward's son was the root of Glavorlien's remark. "Lady Faenil" had been the source of some speculation through her work at the Houses, but now the tales must run riot. Lord Boromir had visited her thrice, a woman of moderate standing and little consequence. Oh, no other folk of Minas Tirith were acquainted with her as yet. No, none could vouch for her character. Could she be a spirit, a ghost? Certainly not, for she had been seen abroad with Lord Boromir. She was undoubtedly real, yet seemingly retiring. What was it about this flame-headed slip of a girl that fascinated the Captain-General?

One does not simply hide bright red hair, Winter groused silently. Damnable thing, gossip. Oh, but I wish Boromir'd never found me in the store room that day. Would've saved a heap of trouble.

Still, Glavorlien's slip had put Winter back on her guard.

You should've realised that you'd still be the centre of gossip, her critic scolded. Even when you play your part perfectly, the fact Boromir has sought you out more than once is something to remark over. He's not really a socialite, as he's told you himself. Stay on your toes, Winter Newhall.

Winter bid Glavorlien a grave farewell moments later. Winter's dress was produced by one of Glavorlien's minions—who had materialised out of nowhere bearing the parcel—and Badhor took it gravely. The seamstress waited silently as the byrath helped Winter into her cloak, and they stepped outside. She regretted that she had ended her conversation with Glavorlien on such a sour note. For a time, they had been almost merry. In her defensiveness over the mention of Boromir, Winter had become lofty and cool once more, and the seamstress retreated with equal swiftness.

Ah well. At least she told me how to do my hair before I sent her scarpering back to her shell.

After they had ambled some thirty metres down the road, Badhor turned to Winter.

"Did all go well, Lady Faenil? You are remarkably silent. Was the gown not to your liking?"

Winter sighed, glad that this part of the city was empty.

"The dress is wonderful, Badhor. All was going well until Mistress Glavorlien gave a thinly veiled hint about Boromir's attentions to me."

"Ah." He gave a slow nod. "I am scarcely surprised, milady."

Winter scratched her cheek. "Nor am I, Badhor. I had just hoped that my dull behaviour would discourage Boromir, and quench the rumours. Unfortunately, it appears that I was wrong." She could not conceal the bitterness in her tone.

Badhor patted her hand conciliatorily. Winter's fingers were wrapped about her byrath's elbow as they walked. His voice was kind and his presence reassuring as he matched his long legs to hers. If it seemed odd to make such a confession to a middle-aged man, it did not occur to Winter at the time. He was like an estranged uncle come to call.

"Do not blame yourself, milady. I was witness to yesterday's stroll, and you played your part admirably."

Winter glanced up at him with hopeful eyes. "Really?"

"Quite."

Winter breathed a half-sigh of relief. It did not undo the knot in her stomach, but it stiffened her resolve to conquer Minas Tirith's court, just as she had conquered every other challenge in her short life. It also caused her to press her mouth shut; she would not prattle to her companion like a spineless girl.

"And we shall continue in just such a way," she stated, resolutely. "Now, may we take a slight detour? I wish to step into the Houses briefly." She smiled up at the kindly face beside her. "I believe there are some herbs that would ease Sam's cough."

The look Badhor gave her was one of such affection that it almost erased Winter's earlier discomfort.


16th March, 3007

Every time Winter heard the clatter of shod hooves outside Lord Lossemen's home, her heart stopped. There were few horses in Minas Tirith, and so the sound generally signified Lord Boromir's descent.

Today she was given no warning of his arrival. He came on foot, curse him.

The visit was like a sudden burst of painfully bright light; it stunned her senses, and retreated so swiftly she began to question its existence. There was nothing mild or soft about Boromir son of Denethor.

Winter had been composing a letter to Lachie when Badhor announced Lord Boromir's arrival. Her epistles to Lachie had remained difficult to write. Still, as she heard Boromir's tramp upon the stair, she wished fervently she could be left to struggle through her letter-writing. After Glavorlien's comments of the day before, any contact with the Steward's son was galling.

This visit will just stir the gossip pot even further…

Once again, Boromir's presence was like a looming sentinel. He filled the drawing room, arresting her attention and filling her with something akin to fear. Oh, he was not frightening. No, Winter merely hated and feared how he made her feel. His mighty frame was both imposing and pleasing, and his bold manners left her feeling helpless before him. Her charade left her to protest against him feebly, Lady Faenil being unable to summon any resolve to deny Lord Boromir anything. And so Winter stood, feeling both nervous and furious, as Boromir smiled down upon her.

You blooming chauvinist, she growled, as she returned his gesture with a sweet smile of her own. I'd love to take you sky diving with a slit parachute.

"Lady Faenil," he had rumbled, eyes bright. "I am afraid this is to be but a fleeting visit. Nay! do not put aside your writing, for I shall be but a moment."

Winter placed her quill back on the desk. "How do you fare today, my Lord?"

He laughed. "Oh, well enough. And I know you are well, for you look it, so I will not ask that question. I am pressed for time; I am on an errand for my father."

She had seized the petty chance deftly. "What kind of errand?"

Waste his time, just as he wastes yours. Satisfaction.

Boromir had merely raised his hands in a cheerful protest. "I shall happily tell you on the morn, Lady Faenil. Suffice it to say that it is a trifling task which I shall take no pleasure in, when I might spend the morning with you."

Why do you always blush?

"You are too kind, my Lord."

"Perhaps," he teased. "At any rate, I come to offer an invitation."

"Oh?" Winter looked up at him wide-eyed. She adopted her best simpleton expression.

Should I feel bad that I picture Emily when I try to look like a stupid girl?

"Two invitations, in fact." He paused, switching deftly to Sindarin as he voiced his next request. "Lady Faenil, would you do me the honour of accompanying me to the Tuilere Dance and Planting of the Trees?"

It took all Winter's self-control not to swear aloud.

Her eyes shifted instinctively to meet Badhor's. Her byrath stood to one side, his face implacable.

No answers there.

Can you rightly refuse? He's the Steward's son. Besides, it's just the maypole dance thingy the kids do and the tree-planting at the Houses. It's not like he's going to ask you to—

"I also desire to lead you into my Father's Ball that evening. However, as you are new to Court, you shall enter unaccompanied, without a partner. I hope, regardless, that we shall dance together in the course of the evening." He grinned boyishly. "Unless, of course, you are already engaged and accompanying another to both events?"

The way Boromir intoned his final query caused Winter to flare red. It was not a coy blush of embarrassment, but rather irritation about his assumptions. He teased as if it were impossible any could compare to his company. She wanted to slap him—and probably would have, if Badhor had not shot her a lightning glance of warning.

Winter breathed deep. Boromir was twinkling at her as if he perceived the flush on her cheeks to stem from his flattery.

Lucky for him he doesn't know how close I am to removing his ears.

"I am not otherwise engaged, my Lord."

"All is well, then! And now for my second invitation, Lady Faenil; shall you ride abroad with me tomorrow, and venture beyond the city to the Pelennor? It is beautiful at this time of year."

Winter could only nod. It was enough for him.

"I await your company tomorrow, then. The usual time?"

Another nod.

Boromir gave a slight chuckle. "You are overcome this afternoon I see, Lady Faenil."

If you had any idea how much I want to lynch you—

"I must depart, and allow you to continue your writing." He bowed. Winter managed to curtsey in response. Her face was still warm with anger, and her eyes lowered. Thus it took her by surprise when Boromir reached forth with both hands. One clasped hers, drawing it upwards to kiss it. With his other hand, he gently tilted her chin upwards until she looked at him. His forefinger rested beneath her jaw. The action rattled her.

"Your eyes are much nicer when they look upward—at me," he chided her lightly. His finger remained under her chin as he kissed the back of her other hand. As he did so his thumb brushed her chin in a soft caress.

At this, Winter found her words. She swayed backwards a fraction, moving only enough so his fingers lost contact with her jaw.

"Until tomorrow then, my Lord," she said, smiling decisively and putting an end to their interview.

Her firm refusal only seemed to amuse him. "Until tomorrow, Lady."

She had stood and fumed silently at Boromir's retreating back.

"Do you need anything else, milady?" Badhor inquired, after he had shown the man out.

"No, Badhor," Winter sighed wearily. "I just want to finish this."

Badhor had the grace to retire silently.

Perhaps the most galling thing about Boromir son of Denethor was his propensity to spark a rollercoaster of emotions in her. Winter scowled as she sat back at her writing table. His broad assumptions and bold manners left her angry. Moments later, his teasing look would fade to something more like tenderness, and she'd find herself as helpless as a boned fish.

You're just not in control enough! Why do you let him do this to you?

Because if I respond in any other fashion, I lose our 'oh I'm a boring little girl, as interesting as Anastasia Steele' kinda vibe. Every time I snap at him, it just attracts him further.

Oh, right, as if your school girl blushes weren't doing that already!

Winter shook her head moodily. Her letter to Lachie was not a soothing sight; to her chagrin, it took only two or three days for post to pass between Minas Tirith and Rivendell using the portals. Lachie took every opportunity to write, so Winter found herself labouring over these responses at least twice a week. James' mail came even more frequently, but it was far easier to compose those breezy notes.

Ah well. Five more days till Tuilere.

Yeah, five more days to spend with Boromir, and then Tuilere with him also. Woop-de-doo.

Winter replaced the quill on the desk, abandoning her writing endeavour. She propped her elbows on the desk, hands cupping her chin where Boromir had brushed her face minutes before.

This whole thing's awfully unlucky. Think, you could've been fangirling over Boromir from a distance. Instead you're having to brush him away, getting the full brunt of his overbearing ways… Bloody flirt.

At this, Winter could not help but laugh. The chuckle bubbled up from within her, withered and wry and sardonic.

"Ugh," she muttered to herself, brushing away a stray tear of mirth. "Well, at least after Tuilere I can go out in company and meet other people, and dilute Boromir a little." She sighed. "Perhaps it's time to get buddy-buddy with Ioreth."


17th March, 3007

The days leading up to Tuilere were remarkably busy in the Houses of Healing. A contingent of soldiers from Osgiliath and Ithilien had limped back on brief leave before the spring festival, bringing with them an odd assortment of injuries.

Winter had made good on her word to spend more time at the Houses. Three weeks' work in the garb of a Healer had strengthened her confidence and capabilities. She knew the peculiar quirks of Ioreth and half a dozen other senior Healers. Her knowledge of herbs and remedies had grown exponentially, spurred by genuine interest in this peculiar world. She'd won over the Warden with a smile and quick thinking; she'd alienated Gaerel even further in that same moment.

Ah well. If you don't learn to accept that some people will hate you, you won't get far in the world, Winter decided, with philosophic resignation.

Thus, with a sudden influx of patients, Winter found herself amply occupied. She had started in the Houses early that morning, and would not be dismissed until the sixth hour after noon.

Far too late for Boromir to come calling by that time, came the smug thought.

True. But since when did we start calling six o'clock the "sixth hour after noon"?

Winter moved away from her workstation to rinse her hands, dismissing the thought as easily as the herbs were washed from her fingers.

All morning, she had laboured in one of the wards, seeing to the comfort of the children who called the Houses home that day. She was expected to return there presently, once she had finished replenishing her Healer's kit. Still, the brief respite was welcome. She'd been working in one of the rooms for an hour, double-checking stores and preparing herself for the afternoon shift.

"Lady Faenil."

Flicking her hands free of droplets, Winter turned to greet the owner of the voice. It was Silef, a wide-eyed noblewoman from Andrast who reminded Winter of Zooey Deschanel. Silef had come to the Houses some months before Winter. She was taller than the Australian girl, very slender, and stunningly pretty. Not a few of the other Healers loitering in the room turned to look as Silef approached Lady Faenil.

"Lady Silef," Winter replied, smiling slightly.

The younger woman's mouth tilted in the barest hint of pleasure. "Where are you bound this afternoon, Lady Faenil?"

"To the eastern wing, attending to the younglings."

"Oh." Silef looked rather disappointed. "I am bound elsewhere." She glanced down, smoothing her face of emotion as she did so.

Winter still struggled to imitate the unreadable expression of Gondorian women. Silef was sensitive and sweet, but still managed to school her countenance to stillness. Nevertheless, she did not wear a hard mask like Gaerel did. Her calm was merely a soothing of the emotions she felt, not a guise for anger or annoyance. At the very least, Winter felt she could make a reasonable guess as to Silef's feelings. The girl seemed eager for companionship. They were the only two ladies of similar station in the Houses, and had consequently spent a fair portion of time together. Winter could not deny she was glad to form an acquaintance with another woman. Perhaps, in time, they might be friends.

This thought warmed her, even more so as Silef glanced back upward.

"I hope you are attending Tuilere, Lady Faenil," the other woman proffered, softly. Her hands fiddled with the soft grey of her gown. The demure shyness only added to her allure. It was no surprise that she was considered a favourite among Minas Tirith's young lords.

"Certainly I am," smiled Winter in response. "I shall count upon your company at the Wreathweaving, Lady Silef."

The girl blushed a becoming rose colour.

"I should be delighted to count you one of my companions," she managed, in spite of her obvious embarrassment. She hesitated, then gave a tiny shrug. "I have few acquaintances in Minas Tirith, my lady."

"As do I. We must take comfort in one another."

This drew a shy smile from Lady Silef.

"I hope so. Yet now I must depart, or brave Healer Ioreth's wrath." She quirked her lip in what could only be interpreted as wryness. Winter welcomed the display of humour.

"Yes, we should not risk that," the latter replied, lightly. "I had best be going myself."

Silef nodded, fingers tangled in her skirt once more. With another smile, she glided to another part of the work room. The eyes of the other Healers followed her again as she did so. Some faces wore envy, and others admiration. Winter did not begrudge Silef her devotees. The girl was as elegantly and seemly as a rose.

As Winter finished gathering her things, she smiled to herself. Tuilere, now only three days away, had loomed over her rather menacingly. The prospect of a day spent in Boromir's company was not one to be anticipated, for she hated the dance that he led her on.

Much better when he was on the page of a book, and no more than that!

The prospect of Silef's company to temper the Captain-General was delightful. Winter could not be faulted for turning to a fellow noblewoman as a confidante, even in Lord Boromir's presence.

And, with any luck, Boromir's eye will be caught by our lovely Lady Silef, Winter mused smugly. She slung her bag over her grey-clad shoulder and moved towards the door. That would be a wonderful way to be rid of him. And, really, he and Silef would make a charming couple, even if Boromir's not really supposed to be married.

Not my problem, her other side replied breezily.

As she left the work room, Winter nodded deferentially to several passing Healers. The older women returned the gesture. It pleased her, knowing that her work was accepted by the real Healers of Minas Tirith. Only Gaerel seemed to resent her, and Winter was happily reconciled to the fact.

She moved confidently along the corridors and down several stairwells. The children's wing was not difficult to find, and tended to have a steady supply of inpatients. There were always little ones brought in by mothers to be healed, and some that required more constant care. The Warden was liberal with his remedies, and those who could not afford the Healers' attentions were not forced to pay.

Winter took a steadying breath as she neared the ward. She had always adored children, particularly babies. The Houses of Healing had their fair share of little ones, and Winter had eagerly volunteered to look after them. Kids, she'd reasoned, would be the same on this side of the portal as the other. That much was true. What she hadn't been prepared for was the difficulty of soothing tiny people without the advantages of modern medicines.

She pushed open the door resolutely. Inside, she was met with the low hubbub of childish voices.

Winter pressed a pleasant expression to her countenance. Darkhaired mites met her gaze with wide eyes. Many stares were glassy with pain or the drugs that countered the former. At some beds, devoted mothers sat, cradling their offspring with protective arms and wary looks. For the most part, however, the little creatures fended for themselves. The ward was two-thirds comprised of beds, whilst the last section hosted cribs. Winter headed for the latter end, drawn by the bright grey eyes of the babies.

"Ah! Healer Faenil," chirruped the matronly Healer woman who was also in residence on the ward. "Good. Would you change the wrappings on the child in the fifth cradle?" She was holding a child herself, patting its back to soothe its low sobs. Her sun-spotted hands moved in practiced motions over the child's little body.

Winter did not pause to ask how the older woman knew her name, but merely nodded. "Yes, Healer."

Ah, yes. Exactly what we moved to Middle-earth to achieve. Changing nappies.

Better than dealing with the gory wounds that come in from the millers and farmers. Mangled fingers and crushed legs are worse than nappies, methinks.

Unable to argue with that logic, she deposited her kit and rolled up her sleeves as she approached the fifth cradle. The child within was lying on its back, gurgling happily with its hands in its mouth. Drool cascaded across its fingers, and as Winter approached it gave a happy chirrup. When she made to pick it up, however, it squawked indignantly.

"Oh! Ya little blighter," she murmured, low. "C'mon, ya scallywag. You're right as rain." Something about the monotonous Aussie phrase seemed to capture the child, for it quietened as Winter moved to a changing table. She continued to mutter Australian nonsense, low enough that the other Healer could not hear. She had always been met with success when she'd tried such techniques on the children, for the unusual Aussie accent caught their attention. In a moment, Winter had deposited the baby upon a change table and begun to unwrap—ah, it was a him.

The afternoon progressed in this fashion. The eastern ward fell into shadow as the sun concluded its daytime journey. Several new Healers were just beginning to trickle in for the evening shift when Winter heard her name.

She turned to the entrance to the ward.

Second Captain Rostor.

Winter's stomach flipped. He'd caught sight of her, and been directed to the infant ward by another Healer. Meeting him again was unsettling. Her jaw tightened as she recalled how close she'd come to betraying herself the day she'd treated him. In retrospect, she realized how many toes she must have trampled in that act. Not only had she done something potentially dangerous, but gambled the reputation of the Healers in doing so. Had things gone amiss, it could have spelt disaster for more than herself or the Arda Exchange Program. This chilling realisation mingled with pride as she surveyed his movements; she could scarcely tell which arm had been dislocated, and he moved without any hesitance. His face was still hard and unreadable, but pain no longer lanced his eyes.

"Lady Faenil," he said, a little gruffly.

"Second Captain," she replied. He bowed and she responded with a slight curtsey.

"I hope I do not disturb you, my lady," he continued, glancing around with the air of a man who despises hospitals. He eyed one of the nearby Healers with distrust. Then his gaze moved to one of the babies, and his expression softened.

"Nay, Captain; I am all but finished. Are you well, sir?"

Rostor bobbed his head. "Indeed, my lady. That is the purpose of my visit; I wished to convey my thanks. I have been forced to rest by Captain-General Boromir this half-score of days. I—little did I enjoy it, yet it was necessary. Your remedy was swift and effective. After Tuilere, I am to return to Osgiliath." He punctuated this with much pausing and throat-clearing, evidently uncomfortable.

Winter gave a half-smile.

Still regret being bold and helping him? Goodness knows what they could've done to him if one of these medieval healers had mistreated it.

and this is why we hide in the children's ward, avoiding the serious injuries.

Huh.

"I am glad to hear you are somewhat recovered, sir," Winter said warmly. "Though I would caution you to treat your arm with care for some weeks yet. Had I my way, it would still be bound at your side."

Rostor's face betrayed the hint of a smile, as if to say, Good luck with that.

"Come; I return to the entrance to the Houses. Will you accompany me?" Winter suggested, flipping her long braid over her shoulder. Rostor gave a gruff nod, and she hurried to gather her last things. After a quick word with the supervising Healer, who gave her an approving look, Winter ambled back towards the central part of the Houses in Rostor's company. As they left the children's ward, his eyes lingered pityingly on the small residents.

"So you are to spend Tuilere in Minas Tirith, Second Captain Rostor?"

"Aye, my lady."

Winter glanced surreptitiously to the side as they ambled along the corridor. "With family, I hope, sir?"

Rostor gave the broadest smile Winter had yet seen. "Aye. My wife—and son."

Winter couldn't help return his expression. He was a well-built man, mid-thirties and in the prime of his life. He was not as handsome as Lachie… or Boromir—stop it—but there was a wholesomeness about him which Winter liked.

Not to mention it's hard not to be warmed by that gruff yet loving fatherly figure.

And explains why he seemed so sorry for all the babies in the hospital.

"I am very glad."

He seemed embarrassed by that remark, bowing his head and averting his eyes. As they neared the Healers' quarters, Winter paused.

"Thank you for your company, Second Captain. I wish you well at Tuilere, and hope that I shall not see you again—at least," she amended, with an unrestrainable grin, "not when you have come for healing."

Rostor returned her civilities in a raspy voice and left her side. Winter watched him go with warm eyes. He moved straight and tall, no longer crippled by his shoulder. He was evidently a proud man, and fiercely protective. Her journey to Arda had been a complicated one. There was Lachie, who she undeniably cared for, and Boromir, who she undoubtedly did not. She was made to muddle along with her charade toward the Steward's son, furious with herself for becoming entangled in that mess and fervently wishing it would go away. She longed for an anonymous existence, characterised only by awe at Middle-earth's terrain and her work in the Houses. No lie to live, boring Boromir with listlessness and ill humour.

And then there was Rostor.

Somehow, seeing the man transition from pain to wholeness settled something within her. Oh, she'd blundered. She'd wrought herself a frustrating situation with Boromir. But there was one thing she'd done right, even when it had looked hopelessly stupid.

My purpose here—that's it, she thought, at Rostor's retreating back. One man. One man is whole and well and spending the spring festival with his family before he returns to the front. His arm will work, and he will keep defending these walls. I'm here, feeling slightly run down because I'm having to make a book character I admire dislike me. He's out there, saving the world.

And you fixed his arm.

Yeah. I did. If that's all the good I manage here… then that's enough.

It was nearly impossible to wipe the smile from Winter's face as she went to gather her cloak and prepared to head home.

Something had gone right. The thought of it lent her renewed strength, and it was not the bitter, defensive strength she had drawn upon in previous days. It blossomed from her sense of satisfaction in seeing Rostor move freely. Realising the impact she could make softened her. Even the sting from her meeting with Mistress Glavorlien was diminished. The thought of rumours concerning Lord Boromir and Lady Faenil flitted away, mindless as autumn leaves.

And you know what? came the ponderous thought.

What?

Keeping your guard up with Boromir's not just about preserving your own reputation. You screw that up, you lose your chance to help people like Rostor.

And my chance to smuggle out as many artefacts of Minas Tirith to the real world.

that too.

Winter couldn't argue with that.


AUTHORS NOTE

So we're getting towards the more exciting aspects of Winter's journey. I think she's beginning to settle in now, but as Tuilere/the Spring Festival nears in Minas Tirith, things do begin to get more interesting. Some things are going to erupt and toss out the plot.

I love getting your reviews so please leave one! Let me know what you think of Winter's character, the plot so far, and how I've portrayed other characters in the story.

Thanks for all your faithful reading!

- Finwe.