A/N: LAME! Feel free to hurl stuff at me.
Thanks to:
Magechild
Rana Ninque
FFAMasquerade2005
for reviewing.
III
The steward, I knew, was Lord Denethor. He looked older than he did in the movie. And his hair was longer too. Boromir walked with me up to the Citadel.
"My father," Boromir said, "is a man that is set in his ways. And he speaks very plainly."
"Okay," I said. "I understand."
The doors opened by an unseen force. I couldn't help thinking of those horror movies. You know. At the end of the hall was this old man sitting on a chair, his head lifted up. His eyes pierced mine.
"Father," Boromir said when we got close. He bowed and I bowed too. "This is Carrie Mendenberg of Greenwood."
Lord Denethor looked at me. I could tell he didn't like what he saw. "Tell me," Lord Denethor said. "Is this the way all the lasses in your country dresses? Like a lad?" Boromir winced.
I looked down at my clothes. I was wearing my favorite Nike t-shirt, my black sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, and sneakers. Yeah, okay, the jeans needed a good wash but... what was wrong with it?
"Yes," I said. Then I hastily added, "M'lord. Yes."
I saw a flash of red from behind the marble pedestal the throne was set on. Faramir! He wanted to see me get into trouble, probably. I frowned.
"Does something displease you?" Lord Denethor said in his crisp, presice, English. Although they didn't call it English. Common Tongue, I remembered.
"Nothing, m'lord," I said. I was definetly not going to get used to this 'm'lord' stuff. I'm glad that I was born at a time when the Parliament had all the power, and there was no monarchy in America.
"Where is this... Greenwood you come from?" the Steward asked.
"In America, sire," I said.
Lord Denethor frowned. "Do not lie to me," he said stiffly. "Greenwood was the old name for Mirkwood until the Dark Lord took it under his unfailing grasp."
"Sorry m'lord," I said. "But I'm not lying. The Greenwood I come from is in a place called America. A country called America, to be presice."
"Where is America?" he asked.
"Oh," I fumbled. "Across the Great Sea, far out onto the horizon."
"Do not toy with me, wench!" Lord Denethor said, irritated. I squirmed. Everyone calls me 'wench, wench, wench'. Isn't that a rude way of calling a girlor something? Maybe I was being a little rude.
Oh great. Now I had awoken His Lordship's wrath. How wonderful. It's off with my head for me. If they did behead people in Minas Tirith. I hoped not.
"I'm sorry," I said hastily, "if I have upset you, sire." I bowed. I could sense that Boromir was pleased with me. Lord Denethor leaned back in his chair.
"Leave," he commanded and pointed to the door.
Boromir and I bowed one last time and hurried out of the room. That was the hardest five minutes I have ever experienced.
"Carrie," Boromir said. "You can stay with my kinswoman Ethwin. She lives on the third level. I think she'll be happy to invite you into her house. If you need any help, you can come here and ask for either Faramir or me. The guards will direct you to us."
As we walked down the stone paths, I couldn't help feel a tiny eensy weency spark of liking toward Boromir.
A/N: Lame isn't it?