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Who: Boromir and Ilde.
What: Boromir is on his way to a tavern for post-monster slaying ale, and ~~gets drive-by trolled~~ meets Ilde along the way.
Where: Somewhere by the Gross Tar!
When: Sukkardi (Saturday) evening.
Notes: None.
Warnings: None.

Boromir was restless. In less than a week he had been slain in battle, resurrected in the strangest city imaginable, attacked by even stranger creatures and resolutely he had battled on. But when he had finally gotten back to the Valhalla Inn on Sukkardi morning, washed and tried to get some rest, he found he could only manage a few hours. He wasn't used to a long night's sleep; he had been travelling for months on end, alert and ready at the slightest hint of danger. It was impossible to suddenly stop.

The answer was to find whatever tavern was still open and hope that a good, long drink of ale could bring him some respite.

Still unsure about his bearings, especially at night, he made his way towards the Gross Tar and followed the river.

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On the contrary, she beams at him at his obliging correction; people who are willing to go along with her casual rewriting of reality are her favourite sort of people. The world is sometimes a more pleasant place with just a little bit of temporary realignment of perceptions, a philosophy she's had far more practise implementing than anyone really should. "Yes, that's right. And you are..." That gesture doesn't mean anything, Ilde. "Tall."

Yes. He's tall.

Tall. That makes him laugh again. "Such is the way of Númenórean descendents. We tend to grow tall and, in peaceful times, live long."

"You're from a war, too," she notes, the alcohol messing with her usual filter - people living in peacetime don't, she's relatively certain, feel the need to make that qualification. They'd say we live long, because that's where their life is at; he needs to clarify, she reasons, because that isn't.

(She says 'too', as if she's a little glad there are other people here who might be finding this place a mood whiplash.)

"Yes. Although I suspect it is...different." Whatever levity was in his mood before starts to slip away. "Do you remember what I spoke of before, by the river? Of Valar and Maiar? Well, not all of them are good. Our legends tell of one named Morgoth, who was defeated long ago, and only the elves have memory of him. But we are still engaged in war against his servant, Sauron." That last word is spoken with a great deal of vehemence, and it drags up memories of his last moments in Middle Earth.

He looks as though he's struggling a great deal to contain something within himself. Things he's been holding in since he came to Baedel. Then, "Might we talk about something else?"

The silence that follows is awkward because Ilde isn't equipped to make it not awkward; she doesn't know his war, but she knows what is to be wrecked by something so much larger than herself, and there is a moment where she thinks someone else might know what to say.

(Understanding people doesn't, always, mean knowing how to apply the understanding. Understanding someone else doesn't mean she wants to say I know and be understood in turn.)

Out of no where, she says, "When I was small, my father used to have these house parties, and once when they were drinking I got to ride on a baby grand piano that his friends were carrying out to the deck, I don't know why, though you know there were a lot of them because pianos are extremely heavy, especially when they've got a child sitting on them, and anyway I about got seasick because it kept tipping-" there are illustrative gestures, at this point, "-and then I rolled off and Daddy caught me and I knocked him on his arse and he had to get seven stitches in the back of his head, but he kept giggling about it." Which is what he gets for asking her to change the subject without giving her a direction to go in.

Edited 2011-06-11 08:29 (UTC)

In amongst all the mixed emotions, the pictures in his mind, floats the image of a tiny Ilde falling off a piano. It does the trick, and he seems less severe once more. In fact, he breaks out of his mood with a story of his own.

"That reminds me of the time my brother got his first pony. He was...seven? I think, yes. He was so nervous, and I stood there the entire time to encourage him. And just when he was starting to feel confident, and the stable-master let go of the lead, the pony moved too sharply and Faramir ended up falling out of the saddle with his boot still caught in the stirrup. Of course the pony just kept trotting along, so there's me, the stable-master and stable lad running after the poor thing, trying to catch a hold of both." His fondness for his younger sibling shows and his face softens once more.

Ilde has a number of fond memories of learning to ride with her uncle (he wasn't really her uncle - but he was family, anyway, so it doesn't matter), and the way she brightens has the air of familiarity, accordingly. Horse-related shenanigans were a bit different, in her case, but even so. And it's nice to sit here and remember these things that are far enough way to rarely touch her any more; to indulge that, this once.

"Did you catch him quick?"

"What else are older brothers for?" Or at least what else are older brother's for so long as they're Boromir. He's aware that some sibling relationships don't run quite as smoothly as his own (and they did quarrel, even if it was rare).

And yes, had he lived, this would have certainly made it into the Middle Earth equivalent of a best man's speech. Because it would have gone down so well with the Rohirrim. That's also what older brother's are for.

Older brothers are, Ilde is coming to see, theoretically very useful things to have.

"My uncle used to take me up on his horse with him before I learned to ride on my own," she recalls, and it's probably worth noting that she does get a little wordier when there's alcohol floating around in her system. "I'd sit in front."

"I learnt about the same age as my brother, in the same way. I'm afraid I don't have quite as eventful a story to tell in that regard. I have been told I discovered the advantage of surprise attacks at a young age, although with a wooden sword at the time." Which still had the ability to hurt, but his father had let those mischievous instances slip by, viewing it as a sign of good things to come.

"What-" Ilde pauses, as if she's not sure how she was intending to finish that sentence, and then starts again cheerfully, "what a little shit you must've been."

Boromir isn't exactly used to hearing women curse; it's unexpected and hilarious at the same time. "Virtue takes time to grow into," which is said just slightly dry.

Her prissy accent presumably only makes that all the better - she doesn't use the words awkwardly, but even so.

"That's probably where I went wrong," she sighs, as if terribly concerned with her own lack of virtue. (She's really not.) "I was still young and badly behaved and I got-" she makes a little gesture here that doesn't really translate to anything at all, though she means 'kidnapped, tortured horribly', and this is one of the other reasons she shouldn't drink, "so I'm not very good."

That she laughs, here, is not a good thing; it isn't a good sound.

Terrible things have a bad habit of happening to young women no matter what the world, and Middle Earth is no exception. Ilde's gesture may not be translatable but it doesn't take much to realise that the blank is -it is more than likely not a good thing.

"Sometimes we can't afford to be." There's the beginning of a confession in there, somewhere. He can't begin to understand what Ilde has gone through, and vice versa, but sometimes it's easier to be lenient towards other people and their circumstances than your own.

Edited 2011-06-12 17:00 (UTC)

Not during a war, she thinks, but she says: "No, I suppose that's true," with a sigh, tipping her head back for a moment to consider the ceiling through the disconcerting way the whole room spins when she does that.

"I don't know about you," he says, looking at his empty bottle, "but the music in this hall is starting to grate. I could do with less noise and clean air."

It's not strictly untrue, although the pretence is more for Ilde's benefit than his own.

Ilde's drink is empty by now, anyway, and it's probably against some kind of Gondorian code of ethics to let hammered fairies buy more alcohol, so she curls her toes against the soles of her sandals and flattens her hands on the table to use it as steadying leverage to stand. (She sways anyway, and she is going to be feeling this at home tomorrow- if she makes it home at all instead of just falling into the river to sleep it off there.)

"Okay," she says, unnecessarily at this point.

He's more or less up and there by her side when she stands, just in case gravity decides to interfere. "All right?"

It must be said at this point in time that gravity is not on Ilde's side, and she clutches his forearm for stability with only a minute hesitation. Frankly speaking, the likelihood of her walking out of here in a straight line and wholly under her own power is slim to none. (Brandy alexanders are like the song; they go down easy and get her into trouble.)

"I'm completely...fine," she assures him, in direct contradiction to the evidence.

He pats her arm, trying not to laugh. "I'm glad to know it," he says, and links their arms properly. So begins the task of carefully navigating them out of the club with Ilde remaining vertical.

There are a few near misses - she goes spinning into his side when they get bumped passing the dance-floor - and it becomes progressively more clear that just sitting and drinking is a quick path to falling over her own feet on the way out. It's better when she's moving around and sipping sparingly; she can make a whole evening out of that, dancing and all, but the alcohol hits harder when she lets herself drift.

Although they do make it out, finally. It's cool outside and the sky is darker, and industrial techno beats can slowly slip away into a bad memory. To which Boromir proclaims, "Thank the stars above for that."

Then, to Ilde, "How are you feeling?"

'Amused' is the unspoken answer, judging by how she laughs at his fervent gratitude for a lack of techno; she could've guessed how he'd feel about that, but it's worth noting that that probably played into her decision to subject him to it in the first place. Boromir vs industrial techno is an experience she feels has enriched her life and overall appreciation of this fucking city.

She's still casually using him as a tether to remaining upright, though, so let's all be grateful she's not wearing her favourite pair of heels right now. "I feel nice," she says, rising up on the balls of her feet for a moment, just because.

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