Chapter 4

Mel was frozen in the doorway. All she could do was stare. Her mouth was dry, her stomach felt like it was going to come up her throat, and once her heart started beating again it felt like it might hammer its way out of her chest. She kept her hand on the door to make sure she didn't just slide right down to the floor.

Denethor stood in the hallway, assessing her calmly, that innocent smile on his face. He was no longer wearing black, but royal blue robes with silver hemming and white fur lining. The clothes looked odd on him, festive which she hadn't expected. Then again, he wasn't in mourning, why would he wear black? Maybe this was what he wore every day.

The Steward finally finished measuring her up, but one look at her face and his features rearranged into an expression of genuine concern.

"My dear young lady, you look so pale. Are you feeling well?"

Mel swallowed and took a sharp breath through her nose.

"Sorry, you surprised me. I thought you were someone else."

Denethor nodded, almost apologetically.

"My son was supposed to meet you, of course. You must forgive Boromir, there was an urgent matter I wished him to attend to and I assured him I would be only too happy to escort you in his place."

The Steward held out his hand and Mel had to fight the urge to flinch.

"Shall we?"

She hesitated. She impulsively wished for her sword, but quickly dismissed the thought. She didn't think Denethor would try to hurt her using conventional means. He was a clever man. If he wanted to hurt her, he would use his mind rather than his strength and a sword would be useless against an attack like that. Besides, if his sons were anything to judge by, she would be horribly outmatched in a test of swordsmanship anyway.

She steeled herself and put her hand in his. It was warm and his fingers wrapped around hers gently before he pulled her out into the hallway and shut the door behind her. The thud sounded ominous in Mel's ears, but of course she was a little freaked out. Denethor smiled and carefully tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. She resisted the urge to pull away. They started a slow stroll down the hallway.

"I must tell you," Denethor said, "There was another reason I asked my son to allow me the pleasure of your company."

Mel's whole body tensed, but she took a deep breath and looked up at the Steward as casually as she could.

"And what would that be, Lord Denethor?"

"I think I might have frightened you today and I wish to apologize."

His abrupt confession startled her. She stared at him, but he didn't seem to notice.

"My behavior must have seemed odd to you, perhaps even hostile," he continued, staring ahead down the hallway, "After what my son tells me you have been through, I do not blame you for your fear. But I wish to assure you," He turned so he could meet her eyes, "I meant no harm to you. You are the guest of my son and he holds you in the highest regard. You will be treated as an honored guest of this family for as long as you are here."

He smiled, but Mel wasn't exactly convinced. His words were eloquent, his face the picture of repentance and friendship, but Mel got the feeling that he wouldn't be apologizing to her unless there were something in it for him. Maybe she was being unfair, maybe she was allowing her previous knowledge to cloud her judgment, but she knew that, despite his reassurances, she would still be keeping an eye on the Steward of Gondor. For now though, she smiled back.

"Thank you, my lord." she murmured, dipping her head politely.

He seemed pleased that she had accepted his apology.

"Now then, tell me a little more about yourself. Have you lived long in Imladris?"

Mel's guard went up like a wall.

"A while."

"And before?"

This would be tricky.

"I came from the forest."

It was true. She had been found in the forest, so technically she guessed that's where she came from.

"You're parents were woodsmen?" he asked, without so much as a blink.

Mel figured that sounded as good as any lie she could come up with, so she nodded.

"But I remember very little of them. They died when I was young and the elves took me in."

"Boromir tells me you have the Sight."

Mel jerked slightly, startled. It wasn't something she had expected Boromir to tell him. What else did he know?

"You could say that. But that gift has become… sort of unreliable."

"But I hear your other gift has not."

He glanced down at her and Mel caught a glint of something cold and calculating. They had finally reached the heart of the discussion.

"No, my lord, my connection to the trees has not weakened at all."

"I have heard many strange things about you, Melody of Rivendell," he said, "Some whisper that you are a witch, a servant of a dark master."

"And what about you, Lord Denethor?" she asked, looking him in the eye, "What would happen if everyone believed the rumors that are whispered behind your back?"

He looked down at her curiously. Then he grinned and this time it reached his eyes. He inclined his head to her.

"Well met, my lady, well met indeed. If everyone believed every rumor and rambling of crazed men we would all lose our minds."

Mel wasn't entirely sure if she should be happy that Denethor seemed so pleased with her answer, but she tried to smile anyway.

"Of course," Denethor went on, "One cannot help but wonder how power such as yours has come to one so young. It must come from somewhere, don't you agree?"

Mel dropped her eyes and used every bit of her self control to keep from fidgeting.

"I only know that I was chosen, Lord Denethor, and until the reason is revealed to me I'm just trying to do what I think is the right thing," She looked up at him, "I'm here to help as much as I can."

Denethor's smile turned rigid.

"Ah, yes, you say that you would help defend our city. I am interested to know how you think your power could possibly make a difference against the army that even now rises against us," He looked down at her with disdain, "I have seen this army. A single person could not hope to stand against them, much less a woman barely out of girlhood."

Something in Mel's mind twitched. Something was wrong with what he'd just said or how he'd said it, something that caught at the back of her consciousness and hung there, fluttering just out of reach. But she didn't have time to analyze it right now. The Steward was obviously waiting for some brilliant response and she didn't have one to give him. How did she expect to be any help defending this city? She could barely defend herself. She didn't know battle tactics or have any skills that might be of any help at all. All she could do was talk to trees. So small, so insignificant… what could she possibly do?

She turned her eyes back to the floor, "I don't know, my lord. But if I can help, I will."

Denethor smirked and they walked on in silence. Mel wasn't sure what to say. Her mind was racing, but not going much of anywhere. Not for the first time, she wished Boromir was there.

They approached a set of large double doors, guarded by two men at arms. They were dressed in gold and blue with the White Tree emblazoned on their chests. Guards of the Citadel. As the Steward approached, the guards each took one of the doors and pushed them inward in a grand gesture.

The room was large, too large for the amount of people inside, about a dozen men in different uniforms. They were seated at a large table in the front of the room, the only table of many that was set for dinner. A large roast pig and platters of vegetables and breads were set out. Mel recognized Gandalf and Faramir, but the other men in the room were strangers to her. Boromir wasn't there. Denethor led her forward and the conversation stopped. The men stood, staring as they crossed the hall. Mel felt very self-conscious. What was she doing here? She didn't belong here any more than she belonged with the elves.

"I do hope you don't object to keeping an old man company at the dinner table, Lady Melody," Denethor said.

Mel stared at him and the words left her mouth almost as soon as she thought them.

"There are a lot of words I would use to describe you Lord Denethor, but old isn't one of them."

Denethor laughed out loud at that, a deep, brash sound that took Mel by surprise. A lot of things about the Steward were not what she had expected.

"You are too kind, dear girl, much too kind. After keeping the company of my son for so long, I hope that I don't seem a bore to you."

"Boring is another word I would never use to describe you, my lord," she answered and she meant it, though not necessarily as a compliment.

He laughed again as he led her to the table. His laughter seemed to have relaxed the group. The lords (that's what they were, they had to be), leaned their heads together in murmured conversation. The only one still watching them closely was Gandalf and Mel couldn't interpret his stare, enigmatic as always. Damn wizards.

Faramir smiled as they passed, looking cleaner and much more rested than when she'd last seen him.

"Well met again, Mel, and under considerably better circumstances."

Mel smiled back, "I think any circumstances would be better than the circumstances we met under, Lord Faramir."

He inclined his head to her, "Indeed so."

He was seated two seats to the right of the center chair, but he pulled out a chair for her just to the left of the center, next to Gandalf. Denethor released her arm and allowed her to be seated. The men all followed her lead. She managed a small smile for the wizard, which Gandalf met with a nod.

"Good evening, Mel."

"Hello again." she said, trying not to sound nervous.

Denethor took up his wine goblet and the men fell silent.

"Tonight we gather to celebrate hope. Even in the face of evil, despite the cleverness of the Enemy and the darkness of the hour, hope still lives in Gondor and in the Men who defend her, as it has lived for generations before them," the Steward raised his glass, "May it live on for countless generations more. To hope and a new day!"

A chorus of voices echoed his toast and everyone sipped from their glasses. Mel tasted her wine. It was rich and fruity and she quickly put it down. Best to sip that stuff carefully. Denethor lowered his glass and sat next to Mel. There was an empty chair between him and Faramir, and it drew Mel's attention. Where was Boromir?

A servant appeared and began carving the roast pig. He first served the Steward, then Faramir, then he turned to Mel.

"My lady?" he said politely, indicating the piece he was cutting.

Mel was so nervous, she didn't know what she should do. She didn't want to look like an idiot. She decided it would be safest to treat this like Thanksgiving at her grandmother's house. Super-polite and as quiet as possible. She smiled and picked up her plate. Her hands were shaking. She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself, but she needn't have bothered. The servant took her plate from her and served her a portion, then set it on the table again.

"Thank you." she said automatically.

The servant started and glanced at her, but quickly recovered and moved on to the next dinner guest. Denethor glanced at her as well, but said nothing. Mel dropped her eyes. This was getting ridiculous. Was it considered a faux pas to be polite around here? She decided she needed another sip of her wine.

"To business, my lords," Denethor said, once again effortlessly commanding the attention of the entire table, "We have troubling news from the East. My sons tell me that the Enemy has crossed the river and overrun Osgiliath. We must decide whether to send fresh troops to the eastern border to reclaim the crossing, or to maintain our own defenses here in the capital."

"The force crossing the Anduin is great," Faramir said, addressing the other lords, "Many thousands strong and more arriving even as we retreated. The Nazgul were present as well, leading the forces of Sauron forward. I believe that any attempt at regaining the city of Osgiliath would be an unnecessary risk and my brother agrees with me."

"Perhaps the Lord Boromir would like to speak for himself. Where is your long lost son, Lord Denethor?" one of the lords asked. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, his dark hair graying a little at the temples, and gray eyes that leaned more toward blue.

"My son seems to be running a bit late this evening," Denethor said politely, but with a hard edge to his voice, "Perhaps, Lord Hurin, you would like to scold him when he appears."

Lord Hurin lowered his eyes and took a sip from his goblet, but didn't reply.

"Perhaps the young lady can tell us," said another of the lords, making Mel jump. This was an older, larger man, almost fat, with a gray beard and sparkling eyes the exact same color. He leaned over Gandalf and grinned at her, "You are his companion, are you not?"

Mel swallowed, "I… traveled with him, yes. But I haven't seen him since this morning when we rode into the city."

She clasped her hands under the table so no one would see her shaking.

"Well then, perhaps Lord Denethor could tell us what exactly you're doing here," The first lord, Lord Hurin, said, "Bringing a lady to a council of war is highly unusual."

"She is here at my request."

Mel's heart leapt and everyone turned to the doors. Boromir strode across the room, dressed in a blue and silver tunic emblazoned with the white tree of Gondor.

"You would do well not to underestimate her, my lords. She is far more than she appears."

He came around the table and bowed to Denethor before he sat in the empty chair.

"Forgive me, Father, I was delayed. There is much to be done."

Denethor nodded, his expression brighter in his son's presence, "Of course. We were just discussing the situation in Osgiliath."

"The situation is as grim as they say and more so," Boromir said, sweeping his gaze around the table, "Orcs crawl through the city streets like rats, arming themselves and preparing for a march on Minas Tirith."

"Which is why we should attack them now, while they are still disorganized!" said another of the lords, a younger man whose eyes glinted with eagerness.

"I agree with Dervorin," said another, the only lord with hair that wasn't dark. It was a sandy blonde and his eyes were bright blue. He was also the only one at the table besides Mel wearing green, "We should attack the forces of Mordor while they are still in preparation. Perhaps we will have the chance to beat them back while they are vulnerable."

There was murmur of agreement from the other lords. Mel stared at them like they were all crazy. Really? Was this actually happening? She caught Faramir's eye. If this happened he was going to get hurt, really hurt, close to death. Of course, that was how he met Eowyn and it all worked out, but… what if it didn't work out this time? So much was different, so much had changed. If she didn't speak up and Boromir's brother died, he would never forgive her for it. And what about all the other men that would march on Osgiliath, the men who never came back? Could she live with their lives on her conscience?

"They aren't vulnerable." she mumbled.

She might as well have shouted. The room went completely silent. Everyone turned to stare at her. Gandalf gently grabbed her elbow.

"Mel..." he said in a warning tone, but she shook off his hand and repeated herself, louder this time.

"They aren't vulnerable!"

"And who are you to speak on such things?" Lord Hurin said.

"One who knows," Boromir said, his eyes never leaving her face, "One who knows and would not speak unless the need were dire."

Denethor put his hand on hers. Mel flinched and looked at him. His face was grave.

"Tell us what you know of this, Lady Melody."

Mel took a deep breath.

"If you do this, if you send men to try to take back Osgiliath, they'll all die." Her eyes slid over Faramir, locked desperately on Boromir, trying to tell him, to convey with her expression what would happen if he let this go, "And it won't stop anything. The army will still come to Minas Tirith. You'll still be besieged. You should concentrate on protecting the city, not taking back what you've already lost."

It felt good to say the things she'd always said as she was reading, shouted at the movie screen countless times, and to actually be heard. At the same time, it was terrifying. She wouldn't look at Gandalf, refused to turn her head even a little in his direction. She did not want to see what he thought of her right now. The other men at the table glanced at each other with varying degrees of nervous skepticism. After several moments of tense silence, Lord Hurin spoke.

"Forgive me my lords, but are we to take the word of this woman who has only this morning come to our city, untested and of questionable origins, over the opinions of well-respected lords and seasoned warriors?"

"I do not believe my nephew would bring anyone into our midst that he did not trust with absolute certainty."

The deep voice came from a man at the far end of the table that had not yet spoken. Mel couldn't help but stare, the word echoing in her ears. …my nephew Dressed in a deep blue cloak, eyes the color of a stormy ocean, his dark hair just long enough that it touched his shoulders, Prince Imrahil looked at her with a stern gaze, but he inclined his head to her politely. Mel had just enough of her dignity left to keep from gaping.

"If you do not trust the word of the lady, Lord Hurin, then trust in the judgment of two of your own who have come from Osgiliath," Faramir said, putting a hand on Boromir's arm. The movement drew Mel's gaze and she saw that Boromir's fists were clenched and shaking. He was glaring at Hurin.

"Both Boromir and I fled the city and we are of one mind on the matter," Faramir continued, squeezing Boromir's arm almost imperceptibly, "Any attempt to reclaim Osgiliath would be foolhardy."

"Ultimately, the decision rests with the Steward," Gandalf said, speaking for the first time on the subject. Everyone turned to look at the wizard, but he kept his eyes on Denethor, "What say you, Lord Denethor of Gondor?"

Denethor looked slowly around the table, pondering.

"As much as I respect the opinions of everyone present," he said carefully, "I must defer to my sons' judgment on the matter. They were present when Osgiliath was overrun and I trust their assessment of the situation. Osgiliath is lost. We must prepare for an inevitable attack on Minas Tirith."

Mel nearly couldn't believe it. There would be no attempt to reclaim Osgiliath. They had saved all those people. She closed her eyes and allowed herself a long, slow breath of relief as the lords mumbled amongst themselves. When she opened them again she caught Lord Hurin watching her over the edge of his goblet as he sipped his wine. He didn't exactly scowl, but it certainly wasn't a friendly look. Mel dropped her eyes to her own wine and took another tiny sip.

"Well, now that's been settled we can get down to the business of tactics," another of the lords said eagerly, this one scruffy like a mountain man, with pitch black hair and beard and eyes. The two younger men on either side of him looked very much like him, "My sons can each command the archers on the battlements on either side of the city."

With the conversation safely turned away from her, Mel risked another glance up. Boromir was watching her and he smiled when their eyes met, raising his glass to her a bit. She grinned and did the same. He mouthed something to her that looked like 'soup' and gestured down. She looked and saw a small bowl in front of her. It looked like some sort of broth with mushrooms floating around, along with some other things that she didn't recognize. She picked up a spoon and glanced one more time at Boromir, raising an eyebrow. His smile widened a bit and he inclined his head in not-quite-a-nod. She dipped in her spoon and took a taste. It was heaven. Mel closed her eyes and sighed. Mushroom soup that tasted like it also had onion or leek, in a beefy broth, seasoned with other things that she couldn't quite name, but it all came together, perfection in her mouth. She opened her eyes and looked back at Boromir. His eyes were bright and he was really grinning now.

"Boromir!"

They both jumped and Mel's spoon clattered to the table. Lord Hurin was glaring at Boromir and Mel in turn.

"I was only asking for your opinion on how the men should be positioned on the levels of the city for the best defense against the coming hoards," Lord Hurin said, his tone clipped and stiff.

"…and trying to keep you from being sucked in by the wiles of the beauty in our midst!" said the gray-haired lord next to Gandalf.

The other lords laughed and Mel felt her cheeks start to heat up even as she covered her mouth to hide a snicker. The older lord leaned forward to get a good look at Lord Hurin.

"Not trying to steal her for yourself, are you Hurin? I think she's a little young for you," He glanced back at Mel and winked, "Now me on the other hand, I'm the exception to the rule."

Mel fought back a grin and mustered up the haughtiest look she could.

"My lord, I make it a rule never to flirt with strangers. Lord Hurin, therefore, is a full step ahead of you. At least I know his name."

The older man roared with laughter, then leaned over to look at Boromir.

"I don't know where you picked her up, lad, but keep an eye out, she's got a tongue to her!"

"So I've been told," Boromir said, glancing at his father. Denethor said nothing.

The lord got up from his chair and saluted her with his hand on his chest.

"I am Forlong, lord of Lossarnach, one of the southern provinces of Gondor."

He reached out and offered her his hand, grinning widely. Mel smiled and allowed him to give the back of her hand a whiskery kiss.

"I am pleased to meet you, Lord Forlong."

"The pleasure is mine, Lady Melody of Rivendell." He leaned down and stage-whispered to her, "But I'm afraid our pleasantries must end or I might find myself on the wrong end of a certain young man's sword."

A laugh bubbled out of Mel before she could put a hand over her mouth to stop it. Lord Forlong winked at her again and returned to his seat.

"It seems that as a host I have been remiss in my duties to you, my dear" Denethor said, patting Mel's hand, "I have brought you into the midst of strangers and made no effort to introduce you properly. You must forgive me."

Mel managed to smile at the Steward, "There's nothing to forgive. You were busy with much more important things."

"But now I will make it up to you," Denethor said decisively, pointing to the far end of the table, "There is my late wife's brother, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth."

The prince raised his glass to her and she smiled and nodded at him.

"Beside him is Lord Duinhir and his two sons, Duilin and Durufin, archers from Blackroot Vale."

These were the scruffy, black-haired men.

"Next to them of course is Lord Hurin, Keeper of the Keys of Minas Tirith."

Lord Hurin did not looked pleased at all, but he did manage a polite nod.

"You already know both of my sons…" Denethor said, moving on to the other side, skipping Gandalf completely, much to Mel's surprise, "And you've already been introduced to Lord Forlong of Lossarnach. Next to him is Lord Dervorin, the eldest son of the lord of Ringlo Vale."

This was the young man who had been so eager to attack Osgiliath. He grinned and raised his goblet to her, with apparently no hard feelings. Mel smiled back at him.

"Next is Lord Golasgil of Anfalas."

This was the only man at the table who had not yet spoken. He was tall and gaunt, with short brown hair and a thin mustache. He looked up at her with timid, blue eyes that were almost clear. Mel smiled at him and he returned it briefly before lowering his eyes to his plate again.

"And there at the end is Lord Hirluin of the Greenhills."

This was the fair-haired, blue-eyed man in green who had agreed with Lord Dervorin. He grinned and raised his goblet to her. Denethor regarded them all.

"Gentlemen, may I present Lady Melody of Rivendell."

They all raised their glasses and drank, some more grudgingly than others.

"Well, perhaps now that the pleasantries are all out of the way, we can continue preparing for the battle to come?" said Lord Hurin with a disdainful look in Mel's direction.

Mel sighed and dropped her eyes to her plate again. She didn't look up for the rest of the evening.