Chapter Eight: Recollection and Revelry

Boromir returned about half an hour later, a relieved smile upon his face. I rose from where I had been sitting, leaning against the White Tree alongside the hobbits, and we all addressed him hopefully. "Well?"

"It's been decided," he told me, his grin widening. "Isilden, you can stay, provided that you obey the laws of Gondor at all times, and especially in front of my father. You do not want to get on his bad side again, believe me."

I sighed elatedly. "Thank you so much!" I cried. "I won't let you down, I swear!"

"I believe you," Boromir laughed. "Also, we're going to have to get you some clothes that actually fit. You can't wear those–" he indicated my borrowed outfit "–forever, no matter how you may grow into them."

"But I can't just get rid of them!" I protested. "They belong to Aragorn—"

"Aragorn?" demanded a harsh voice behind me. I whirled around, to find myself gazing up at Denethor again. He spoke in the same angry, disbelieving tone. "Did you say Aragorn?"

"Y- yes," I stammered, backing away anxiously and cowering under the Steward's withering stare. What did I do now? I thought. Surely Aragorn isn't a bad person? He spared my life, didn't he? I gulped as Denethor continued, "Aragorn, son of Arathorn? Is that his name?"

"I don't know," I replied. "He never mentioned his father's name, not to me anyway. Is something wrong?"

Denethor drew another deep breath. "In a manner of speaking," he answered. "If this Aragorn you mentioned is indeed the one I am thinking of, then he is the Heir of Isildur, and the throne I now occupy is rightfully his. He is the last of his house, and the next King of Gondor."

"Well, what's so bad about that, sire?" I asked. "Isn't it a good thing that you know who your King is?"

Denethor glared down at me, and I squirmed uncomfortably. Oh, no, I thought. I've let Boromir down already. But Boromir didn't reprimand me for what I had said. He stayed silent as his father spoke yet again.

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn," he began, "is a Ranger from the northern lands. His blood is that of the ancient realm of Numénor, and I thought that it had all been spent long ago. Where did you meet this man?" he demanded.

"At the plains of Emyn Muil," I replied, "about five days ago. We were heading here."

"Did he come with you?"

"No – he went to Rohan with the rest of our group. There were four of them in all – Aragorn, Legolas the elf, Gimli the dwarf, and Gandalf the wizard."

"I see." Denethor nodded slowly. "Well, Isilden, now I would like to discuss this matter with you. Follow me."

I nodded, moving alongside the man as he turned and strode swiftly away, his cloak billowing behind him as he went. I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder at Boromir as I hurried away from him. His calm, hopeful expression did nothing to settle my nerves.

----

Denethor led me through a pair of tall double doors and into a long hall, with stone statues of previous Kings lining the walls. A throne stood at the far end of the chamber. Denethor seated himself in it, and I noticed that he sat slightly hunched over. I remained silent, waiting for him to speak, which he did after a long, pensive pause.

"So," he said slowly. "You are an Uruk, and yet not one. You look like one, sound like one, and heaven forbid…" he wrinkled his nose ever-so-slightly, "smell like one as well. Yet you have compassion, courtesy, and enough sense and intellect to use the Elven tongues where none other of your kind would. My son is also indebted to you. It seems that the latter attributes outweigh the former, does it not?"

"It seems so, sir," I replied.

Denethor nodded. "And there are a few points I missed. You wear the clothing of a Gondorian, though I can't say it fits you well. But I suppose that can't be helped. Also… could you come a little closer? I wish to see your eyes, and determine if they truly are blue, as Boromir said earlier."

I stepped self-consciously forward, and Denethor gazed intently at my face. His own eyes widened slightly, and he leaned back, murmuring in disbelief, "My son was right. They are blue; as blue as sapphires. Amazing…" He stared at me in quiet awe. "How is this possible?"

"I think I know," I told him. "But it's rather a long story, sire."

"Well, tell it," the Steward urged me. "I wish to hear more of this phenomenon, and its origin."

I nodded, and launched into the tale. I told Denethor everything, not missing a single detail: the hunting trip, the band of Orcs, and my parent's murders, followed by how my sister's and my escape attempt ended in capture.

Then, despite the horrible lump that began clotting my throat, I related our captivity in Isengard, and my brief fight with the Orcs in the torture chamber. Next was the arrival of Saruman, my transformation, and my jointure with the orc-horde. Denethor was still through it all.

I recounted my second narrow escape from the Uruks, and the discovery of Boromir and Frodo, as well as their fight over the Ring, ending in Frodo's flight. Here the Steward held up his hand, and I halted to hear what he had to say.

"Did you ever see this Ring?" he wanted to know.

"Not clearly," I admitted. "I only glimpsed it a couple of times."

Denethor nodded slowly, a slight frown of disapproval creasing his brow. "Continue."

I did, relating Boromir's pursuit of his friend, and my pursuit of him, followed by the arrival of Aragorn. Denethor's lips tightened, but he said nothing. I went on to explain how the orc-horde had returned and attacked, and the timely arrival of Legolas and Gimli.

I shuddered inwardly at the memory of Aragorn lunging at me, his sword extended, aiming to kill. I repeated my first word to him, my scream of "Dartho!" that had saved my life by a fraction of an inch.

I concluded my narrative with Aragorn's act of mercy, Boromir's debt to me, Frodo and Sam's departure and my union with the Fellowship. I told him of the discovery of Gandalf the White, the division of our forces, and the journey to the White City. "You know the rest, sire," were my final words.

"Yes," said Denethor with a nod, leaning forward a little. "Now, could you tell me-?"

He broke off suddenly as the doors burst open with a loud crash, and an urgent voice cried out, "My lord! My lord – we're under attack!"

Denethor stood up, repeating, "Under attack? How so?"

The guard drew a breath and replied, "There's an Orc in the citadel, sir! It followed your son inside when he returned. It was in disguise, too – it wore a Gondorian's clothes. I saw it come in here, sir, and – sire?"

Denethor held up his hand to silence the guard as he spoke. "Go back to your post, Madril," he said calmly. "The city is quite safe."

"B- but sire!" cried Madril. "The orc, it's—" I turned then, and Madril let out a yell.

"Look out, my lord!" he cried, drawing his sword. I stepped back, and Denethor strode forward, addressing the man in level tones.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

By the look on Madril's face, he obviously thought the Steward was losing his mind. But he replied in a rather odd voice, "No, sire. I was mistaken."

Denethor nodded. "Do me a favour, Madril," he said. "Go and inform the other guards that Isilden is not to be harmed."

"Isilden, sir? Who is that?" Madril wondered.

Denethor gestured to me and answered, "He is."

"The orc has a name?" said Madril, incredulous.

"Yes," Denethor replied, placing a hand upon my shoulder. "But he is neither orc nor Uruk, no matter how he resembles one. He is a hero who holds the debt of my son, and my own gratitude. And one more thing," he added, as Madril bowed and turned to go. "Send word to my people that there is to be a feast in the Great Hall today, in honour of my son's rescuer."

"Yes, sire," Madril nodded. "When will it begin, sire?"

"At noon," Denethor replied. "Now go; you are dismissed."

Madril bowed again and departed. Denethor remained standing as he spoke again.

"Well, that's him taken care of," he murmured, "and now it's your turn. Come with me."

----

I followed Denethor to a large, steamy chamber, filled with large tubs of hot water which were obviously intended for bathing in. Each was separated from the others by a large curtain; they were all drawn back at the moment, as no-one was using them.

"You may bathe here," Denethor told me, indicating the nearest tub. "Towels are here…" He indicated several fluffy towels, neatly folded, set near the tub, "…and I believe you will find soap somewhere; ah yes, just here."

At the sight of the small, sweet-smelling oblong bars, I gave a sigh of elation. "Soap…"

Denethor laughed. "While you bathe, I will tell the tailors to make some clothes for you that fit better than the ones you're wearing now." He circled me slowly, looking me up and down and murmuring to himself. "Mm-hmm, mm-hm. Very good. I'll see you later, then. Bring your old clothes to me once you're finished with them."

"Yes, sire," I nodded. "Thank you for everything."

Denethor smiled. "You are most welcome," he replied, and left the chamber.

Pulling the curtain shut around the tub, I climbed out of Aragorn's travel-weathered clothes and sank into the steamy water with a deep sigh of content. This was paradise.

I reached for a bar of soap, revelling in the feeling and fragrance of the lilac-scented lather that foamed up as I cleansed myself thoroughly. Only once was I disturbed, by Denethor checking up on me. He probably thought I had drowned, I laughed to myself later on. But it was good of him to be concerned, I reasoned. He had brought me my new clothes then as well.

Once I was sufficiently scrubbed, I climbed carefully out of the tub, dried off with a luxuriously soft towel and donned my new garments. I had a pair of breeches, and a white tunic embroidered in silver thread with Gondor's emblem. There was also a pair of brown leather boots that just came past my ankles.

Slipping the boots on, I wiggled my toes experimentally and found that they were extremely comfortable, and not several sizes too large, as Aragorn's had been on me. I picked up my too-large, borrowed clothing and set off to meet the Steward.