A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Special thanks to galadriel_ladyoflorien and Cathrine for their support and enthusiasm. On with the story!!!

Chapter Seven: The Steward of Gondor

“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 no orc, or 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. “Anything.”

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 could see 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 StewardÂ’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.

* * *
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 glowered down at me, and I squirmed uncomfortably. Oh, dear, I thought. IÂ’ve let Boromir down already. But Boromir didnÂ’t reprimand me for what I had said. He remained silent as his father spoke yet again.

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” he began, “is a lowly 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, “just 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 – 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 now.”

I nodded, moving alongside the man as he turned and strode swiftly away, his cloak billowing behind him as he went. I couldnÂ’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 double doors and into a long hall, with carven 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 then that he sat slightly hunched over. I remained silent, waiting for him to speak, which he did after a long, thoughtful pause.

“So,” he said slowly. “You are an Uruk, and yet not an Uruk. You look like one, sound like one, and, heaven forbid…” he wrinkled his nose ever-so-slightly, “smell like one as well. And 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 garb of a Gondorian, though I can’t say it fits you well. But I suppose that can’t be helped. Moreover… 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 again, murmuring incredulously, “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 parentÂ’s murders, followed by how my sisterÂ’s and my escape attempt ended in capture. Then, despite the horrible lump that began clotting my throat, I related our imprisonment in Isengard, and my fight with the Orcs in the torture chamber. Next was the arrival of Saruman, my transformation, and my jointure with the horde. Denethor was silent through it all.

I then 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 FrodoÂ’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 with his sword outstretched, 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!”