Chapter Nine: Celebration and Swordplay

We met back in the throne room, where Denethor inspected me. He seemed pleased with the outcome as well. "They fit," he smiled. "Yes, quite well, I'd say. It was difficult to choose a color, as not much goes well with green…" I looked down self-consciously, and the man added, "But I thought white would look fine, and I was right."

"Thank you, sire," I said, pleased.

Denethor glanced upward, frowning; the sun was approaching its zenith. "We'd best get down to the Great Hall," he told me. "I wouldn't want you to miss your feast."

"My feast?" I frowned.

Denethor laughed. "Of course! You are the guest of honour. The feast can't commence without you, Isilden. Now, leave those old clothes here and come along."

Nodding, I followed the Steward to a great chamber furnished with hundreds of long tables arranged in rows, with one overlooking the rest. Boromir, Faramir, Merry and Pippin were seated there already, along with several other important-looking men and women. Denethor stood between his sons, and I sat at Boromir's right.

Then Denethor addressed the Gondorians seated at the long tables, his strong voice ringing out through the hall like a brazen bell. "My people! Today is a glorious day for our great city. Among us now is a hero…"

I tuned out the Steward's voice as he repeated my story to the people of Minas Tirith. I had told it before in greater detail than Denethor was now relating it. He was skimming over many details, including my sister.

My sister… ai, how could I have forgotten her? My beloved Elennar. What was she going through? I was here, surrounded by noble men and women, and she was trapped in a dark, dank tower, with no-one to care for her. She was so young… how would she survive? If she wasn't already dead of grief or agony…

I drifted back to reality as Denethor said, "…I ask you now to rise, and lift your glasses, to Isilden."

The whole population of the White City got to their feet, held up their goblets of wine and tankards of ale, and cried as one voice: "To Isilden!" I lifted my wineglass as well and drank like the rest of them, but it was a half-hearted gesture. I no longer felt honoured, for I knew I had left my only remaining relative to die in darkness and despair.

"Let the feast begin," commanded Denethor.

The Gondorians began their meal with gusto. I longed to join them, but I could not. I nibbled at a leg of roasted chicken, not enjoying one bite of it. Boromir noticed my complete lack of merriment, and leaned toward me in quiet concern.

"Isilden, are you feeling well?" he wanted to know. "You've hardly touched your dinner."

"I know, Boromir," I muttered almost inaudibly into my plate, sighing miserably. "I just can't stop thinking about her…"

"Your sister?" Boromir inquired softly. I nodded. "What about her?" the man asked.

"I can't bear thinking about how Saruman must be treating her," I moaned. "I'm here, among so many good people, and she's locked in a dungeon with no company but the scum of the earth. And even then she might…" I broke off, vainly suppressing a sob.

"She might be dead," Boromir finished for me.

I nodded, feeling hot tears begin to sting my eyes. But then an even hotter rage suddenly boiled up, swiftly overwhelming it. I slammed my clenched fist down onto my plate.

"I hate them," I snarled, anger igniting my dark eyes and hardening them to stone. "I hate them all. Murderers, cannibals, bloodthirsty monsters, that's all they are, the lot of them... I wish I could see every last one of them dead."

"We all do," Boromir said softly, laying a kindly hand on my shoulder. "But it is feelings just like that which get many innocent people slain. Tell me," he said, gazing keenly into my eyes, "have you ever killed someone?"

I thought, and two memories slid to the front of my mind. The first was the most recent, a memory of myself accidentally smothering an Uruk who had aimed to kill a helpless warrior. The other took me further back, to a rank chamber in a dark tower. Six orcs stood over my dear sister, my last relative in the world. I saw and heard myself, roaring in rage as I flailed a broken spike and cut two down. And Elennar was sobbing…

"Isilden?" Boromir said softly.

Jerking back to the present, I glanced up at my comrade and replied, "Yes, I've killed. I slew three orcs two different times. One was the Uruk I suffocated when I save you, and the other two I stabbed to death with a spike from a broken mace."

"I see," Boromir nodded. "When was that?"

I tried to answer him, but the anguish of remembering my sister's treatment by the orcs caused my throat to clot. I bowed my head, squeezing my eyes shut as I fought back tears.

"Oh," Boromir murmured sadly. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to upset you. But if you want revenge on Saruman, and I know you do, you will have to learn how to fight, and from there to kill, with strategy and accuracy. I'm guessing that the first two orcs you killed were slain by random, wanton blows, am I correct?"

"I didn't really know what I was doing," I nodded. Then I looked hopefully up at him. "Can you teach me?"

"Teach you to kill?" said Boromir. "No. You learn that on your own. I can only teach you to fight."

"When can we start?" I asked eagerly.

"Slow down, Isilden," Boromir advised me. "We can start as soon as the feast is over. After we visit the blacksmith, we'll begin your lessons in the courtyard."

"Thank you, Boromir," I said gratefully. "I'll be the best student I can."

"I'm sure you will," Boromir agreed. "But you'll need to eat first, to get energy for your training. Besides, your food's getting cold."

I ate passionately now, my hunger for food heartened by a hunger for revenge. I was slaking the first to prepare for the time I might finally satisfy the second. That time would come much sooner than I thought…

----

Once the feast ended, Boromir and I slipped out of the Great Hall and down to the blacksmith's forge, where we each selected a weapon for practice. I chose a light, keen-edged sword, and Boromir chose a slightly heftier blade. Then we headed up to the courtyard for my lessons.

The first thing we noticed was that Denethor was standing there, leaning casually against the White Tree. He held his own sword in his hand, and he strode deliberately toward us as we approached.

"Father," said Boromir in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to supervise you while you help Isilden train for war," the Steward explained. "Just in case someone is injured."

"That's good of you, Father," Boromir replied, smiling. "But tell me… why do you have your sword with you?"

Denethor only smiled, and I understood. "You want to help me train as well, don't you, sire?"

The Steward nodded. "Our fighting styles differ, so I thought it would be good for you to learn how to defend yourself in different ways."

I nodded. "That's an excellent idea, sir."

"I thought so," Denethor agreed. "But before we get into any fighting, you need to learn the basics: your stance, how to hold the weapon, and how to parry, thrust, and stab with speed and precision. First, different stances…"

I listened carefully, copying the man as he demonstrated various fighting postures. Once I mastered those, we progressed to gripping swords and maintaining a balanced feeling in one's hand. From there my colleagues demonstrated a sample fight so I could watch them and get an idea of what to do and when.

At last Denethor nodded to me, saying, "Isilden, come here. It's your turn to fight. We'll help you along a bit, but in a real battle you'd be on your own. Are you ready?"

I nodded, holding my sword and crossing it with Denethor's in the "on guard" position. Denethor nodded, and we began our fight. Denethor swung his sword, and I parried it swiftly while Boromir called out advice and encouragement.

"Watch yourself, Isilden… careful, block that – very good! Very good, now dodge that, parry, stab – oh, excellent form!"

"You're doing very well," Denethor praised me, smiling. "And to think, you've never had any prior instruction…"

"Thank you, sir," I replied, quickly blocking a stab at my stomach. "Whoops…"

It went on like that for a while, until a wayward parry ended up with my thumb being stabbed accidentally. "Ow!" I yelped, dropping my sword as the sharp steel pricked my hand. A small amount of blood appeared, glistening darkly on my greenish skin.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Denethor said, handing his sword to his son and coming up beside me. Examining the cut, he murmured, "Interesting. Boromir, look at this," he called.

"What is it, Father?" Boromir asked, hurrying to my side. "Oh, he's bleeding… wait – his blood! It's red!"

"Yes," said the Steward. "And don't true orcs have black blood? This would appear to be another 'latter attribute', would it not?" he added quietly, glancing at me with a small smile.

I nodded, feeling a grin tugging at my own lips. "It certainly seems so, my lord. Oh, thank you," I added as Denethor bound a small strip of cloth around my thumb.

"You're quite welcome," said Denethor, picking up my sword from where I had dropped it, and handing it to me before accepting his own weapon from Boromir. "Ready to continue?"

I nodded again, and we went on with our duel. After several minutes I found Denethor's weak spot and dove at it. My blade halted just barely an inch from the Steward's chest.

Denethor stared down at the sword, then up at me, and smiled. "Good. You've learned well."

"I've been taught well," I said. "You and Boromir are great instructors."

Denethor smiled again and told me, "I think that's the best we can do for you. You have learned to fight, but you need to teach yourself to thrust your sword forward just a few inches more than you did. That is how you learn to kill. Remember that, Isilden."

I nodded solemnly. "I will."