Chapter Seven: White Wizard, White City

Gandalf's return came as a pleasant surprise to the rest of the Fellowship. Many joyful greetings were exchanged, mingling with lots of laughter. The hobbits seemed to be the happiest of all, though Boromir's relief and cheer were evident in his voice as he spoke to the wizard, smiling at Merry and Pippin's antics.

I stood a little apart from the rest, watching them longingly. If only I could have this kind of a reunion with my sister. But it would never happen, not with me looking like an Uruk. Appearances could be deceiving; she hadn't known me the first time, so why would she recognize me if we ever met again?

Gradually my senses were diverted to a conversation between Gandalf and Aragorn that seemed to be important, as well as concerning me. I tried to eavesdrop inconspicuously.

"…I don't blame Isilden for mistaking you for Saruman," Aragorn was saying. "If you ask him, perhaps he will tell you his story; it's not my place to say."

Gandalf nodded. "But I do find it strange; an Uruk, wanting to aid the forces of good against Evil? What could have shielded him against Saruman's wrath?"

"Again, it wouldn't be right for me to tell you that," Aragorn replied. "But what is the reason for your return, Gandalf?"

"War has come to Rohan," the wizard told him gravely. "We must ride to Edoras with all speed. I suggest we divide our forces. Four of us should journey to Rohan, while the other four continue to Minas Tirith."

Aragorn nodded. "You should come to Rohan, Gandalf. Legolas, Gimli and I can go with you, while Boromir, Isilden and the hobbits head south to the White City. When should we leave?"

"Dawn," Gandalf replied. "But for now, we should all get some sleep. Our minds and bodies will be better suited for travelling once we are rested."

Aragorn nodded, glancing around him briefly before settling down. I was sure his gaze had passed over me for a moment. I lay down on the driest patch of land I could find that was not already occupied, and fell almost at once into a deep, dreamless sleep.

----

The sun rose bright and warm, and I woke to soft birdsong in my ears and a gentle breeze playing across my face. That immediately put me in a good mood, for a moment at least. The grim looks on my friends' faces were what punctured the swelling bubble of my cheeriness.

Not even a simple "Good morning" was exchanged; everyone was utterly silent. Even Gimli, with his sharp dwarfish wit, was unsettlingly solemn. Merry and Pippin were not much different.

My three companions and I journeyed south in silence, not stopping for a rest until midday. We were barely halfway across the marshes. As we ate a simple lunch, Boromir spoke for the first time in a long while, saying that we would leave the Nindalf by the day after tomorrow, and reach Minas Tirith the day after that.

Our water supply was running low; all we had left was enough for two days. The hobbits wandered off in search of fresh water, and whatever else they could find that was edible. They returned shortly with full water-bottles and armfuls of wild vegetables, mostly mushrooms. It was a pleasant change from lembas.

After three days of solid travel, a great white citadel loomed before us, glimmering in the blinding sunlight. Unconsciously I pulled my hood over my face, to shield my eyes from its glare as I stared in shock.

Boromir, delighted by the sight of it, pulled out a curved hunting horn and blew a great blast. The echoes trembled in the air for minutes afterward.

"That is to alert my people that I have returned," the man informed me. "Come – my father will be waiting."

"Who is your father?" I asked as we made our way swiftly toward the great city, across the wide Fields of Pelennor.

"My father is the Steward of Gondor," Boromir replied. "He rules our country well. We need no king to defend us; no Heir of Isildur to keep Mordor at bay. Our people are safe under my father's rule."

The gate of the citadel creaked open before us, and we entered Minas Tirith, the White City of Gondor. Almost before we crossed the threshold a voice cried out in joy, "Boromir! Boromir! Lord Denethor's son has returned!"

Boromir smiled. Merry, Pippin and I gazed all around us, marvelling at the mighty citadel's grandeur. Minas Tirith, the City of Kings. It was certainly fit for kings, I thought. It must have taken hundreds of years to hew from the mountain, all of snow-white marble.

All through the citadel, people bowed as we passed. We made our way through the seven levels of the city, to a great courtyard at the top. A tall tree stood in the middle of the courtyard, its blossoms as ivory-white as its bark. A man stood beside it, an imposing figure with broad shoulders and greyed shoulder-length hair.

By his stance I could tell that he must be the Steward, Lord Denethor; he stood erect, like a king or a warrior would. But he was not the king, only the caretaker of the throne.

Boromir called out joyfully to him as we approached. "Father! Father!" he cried.

"Boromir?" said the man, turning. "Boromir! My son, you've returned!"

"Father," replied Boromir fondly, embracing the man. "It's good to be home."

"Boromir?" called another voice from nearby. "Is that you?"

A young man, younger than Boromir, was descending a flight of steps to the courtyard. He wore a brown tunic emblazoned with a pattern of the White Tree, Gondor's emblem. His brown eyes lit up with delight when he caught sight of his brother. "Boromir!"

"Faramir," Boromir sighed, embracing the man. "Good to see you, brother."

"And you," Faramir replied, grinning. "Father and I were worried you might not return."

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?" Boromir laughed. "And if it hadn't been for Isilden, my good friend, I might not be." He turned to me, smiling. "Come forward, Isilden. Be recognized as the one who saved my life."

"Saved your life?" Denethor repeated disbelievingly. "When? How?"

"About a week ago," said Boromir. "My companions and I were attacked by a rabble of Orcs from Isengard. One of them, an archer, was aiming for me when Isilden leapt on it and slew it. If he hadn't, I would surely have been slain."

"Well," said the Steward, his grey eyes riveted upon me, "this deed shall not pass unrewarded. Isilden, is it?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord," I replied, remembering my manners. "That is my name."

Denethor nodded. His eyes now showed the faintest hint of disapproval. "Why have you covered your face, Isilden?" he inquired. "The day is warm, it would be unwise. Come, remove your cloak. Let me see you."

I swallowed nervously; this was what I had been dreading. I chose my next words carefully: "With all due respect, my lord, I would rather not."

"Come now, let me look at you," said the Steward patiently. "I wish to see the face of my son's rescuer."

"My lord," I replied uneasily, "I beg your pardon. I dare not remove my cloak, for my own sake."

"Then will you simply lower your hood?" Denethor asked me, stepping forward a few paces. "Surely that would do no harm."

"It is all one, sire," I said, my voice cracking anxiously.

"I insist," said Denethor, advancing further still, and extending his hand. "Just for a moment…?"

I backed away, protesting urgently. "N- no – sire, please–!"

But it was too late; Denethor's hand reached out, grasped the hood of my cloak and pulled it back from my face. His eyes widened in shock, and he let out a horrified cry. "Aaahhh!"

The man's right hand plunged into his robe, and emerged clutching the leather-bound hilt of a long, naked sword. I staggered back as he swung it at me, but another figure leapt between us, crying, "Father, no!"

There was a sharp clash of steel on steel as the other man parried the Steward's blade; it was Boromir. "Get back!" he hissed at me.

I turned and tried to flee, but stumbled over the trailing hem of my borrowed cloak. I landed hard on the cold stone of the courtyard, moaning in pain. Merry and Pippin rushed over to help me.

"Are you all right?" the younger hobbit asked in concern, as he and his friend helped me to my feet.

I nodded, shaking slightly. "I – I think so," I stammered.

Meanwhile, Denethor was sputtering in rage at his son, his face a blotchy purplish hue. He was trembling so much he could hardly get his words out.

"How dare you, Boromir? How dare you bring that – that—" he pointed a quivering forefinger at me, spitting out his words, "—that THING into my citadel? That orc! You should have slain it!"

"No," said Boromir defensively. "He is not evil. He was taken by evil, and evil tried to use him for its purposes, but evil does not rule him, and so I cannot kill him."

"I can!" cried Denethor, angrily pushing his son's blade aside.

"Not while I'm here," Boromir replied calmly. "He saved my life, Father! And know this: Isilden is neither orc nor Uruk."

"Then what is he?" Denethor snarled.

"He is a hero," replied Boromir simply. "Tell me, Father, did you happen to notice the color of his eyes?"

"I am not blind, Boromir!" the Steward snapped. "They are as black as his heart. Even a fool could have told you that."

"Wrong!" Boromir declared. "They're blue!"

"What?" Denethor gasped. "Impossible! No orc or Uruk has blue eyes!"

"Exactly!" Boromir cried triumphantly. "That proves it. He is neither orc nor Uruk."

"Well, I've never seen an elf that looked like that!" Denethor spat. "And don't tell me 'he has a good heart' or any rubbish like that. I refuse to believe it!"

"Then I won't," said Boromir, "but nor will I deny that it's true. If you need more proof, just keep watching. If this does not convince you, then I don't know what will." He turned to me, calling my name. "Come forward, Isilden."

I hesitated. "What are you going to do?" I asked fearfully.

"Don't worry," the man reassured me. "You will not be harmed." He glared at his father as he added, "I'll make sure of that."

Swallowing, I moved tentatively to Boromir's side. He nodded to his father, and then to me. "Say something in Elvish," he told me.

I glanced up at him, confused. "Man anirach pedin?" (What do you want me to say?) I asked.

Boromir smiled broadly. "There! You see, Father? If he were an orc or an Uruk, he couldn't possibly have spoken in the Elven tongue! They all detest that language, besides not remembering how to speak it!"

I saw a vein throbbing ominously in Denethor's temple, and inched back nervously. Boromir placed a hand upon my shoulder. "Wait," he murmured.

I waited, watching mutely as the color receded gradually from the Steward's face. His eyes were as hard as stone as he glowered at the two of us. Merry and Pippin lingered uncertainly behind us, not knowing what to do.

At long last Denethor sheathed his sword, drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly before he spoke.

"All right, Boromir," he sighed heavily. "I will not touch him, nor will any of my men. I will leave instructions with the guards not to harm him in any way."

I breathed a silent sigh of relief. Boromir looked equally gratified. But the Steward spoke again, raising a cautionary finger.

"But," he said warningly, "I am only doing this because of the debt between you two. Should Isilden violate this oath, he shall pay dearly for it. Is that clear?"

Boromir and I both nodded. "Inescapably so, sir," I stammered.

"Good." Denethor's steely eyes never lost their venom. "Now get out of my sight."

Boromir, the two hobbits and I all turned to leave, but Denethor called his son back. "Boromir, come with me. I wish to speak with you, alone."

The man patted my shoulder reassuringly as he followed his father away. Merry and Pippin both gave me "What now?" looks. I shrugged, and decided to make myself comfortable. This was likely going to be a long discussion.