I meant to say earlier on, but I put this picture I found on my website. It's of David Wenham, but its exactly what Denhamir looks like... except not dressed properly of course. Anyway, the site link is on my author's bio page, as the homepage, if you want to check it out.
Please continue reviewing! I'm sorry it took me so long to get this new chapter up, but.... I've been sick. cough cough Really. :)
Chapter Eight: Various
Various happenings were, well, happening that afternoon as the Council met on the Temet Pavilion. Denhamir had briefly considered attending but decided, afterwards, his time was better spent on a new project he'd come up with.
He called it "Civilian Orc Restoration." Mostly it involved intensive campaigning among the elves in Elrond's domain— very few were at all receptive.
"Excuse me, Lord, do you mind if I speak with you a moment?"
This particular elf looked puzzledly at him. "I suppose not, Sir Denhamir, but are you not meant to be attending the Council this noon?"
"Ah, who knows what is truly meant to be," said Denhamir wistfully. "All in all, when you consider the fact that in that very Council are representatives from most races, excluding merely Orcs, isn't it possible that support of said Council is rather hypocritical? They say they're fighting, banding together, for the good of the citizens of Middle-Earth— tell me truely, Lord elf, are not Orcs also citizens of our lands? True they have been exiled, ostracized from all good society, from civilization as we know it. But can that be all their fault? Should we not give them a chance?"
By this time the elf was looking at him with definite distaste in his expression. "Sir Denhamir, are you seriously and soberly suggesting that Orcs be allowed to join in this Council?"
"Why not?" asked Denhamir brightly.
"Even considering that you could find an Orc willing to engage in conversation with Men and Elves without trying to stick them full of arrows— how would you find one who also is capable of understanding words of more than one syllable?" the elf snorted.
"Ah, see, that is exactly the sort of prejudice that I am warring against," said Denhamir.
The elf went quiet and serious. "You use the word 'warring' rather lightly, Sir. I should be careful who you speak to thus."
"But I am speaking to anyone who will listen," said Denhamir. "The main criteria I look for in an listening audience is if they are breathing."
"I should be careful," repeated the elf warningly, and moved off without allowing Denhamir sufficient chance to reply.
Denhamir didn't really mind; this was actually one of the politest replies he'd received thus far during his campaigning. It was strange, but this idea had caught hold of him and he was determined to see it through to the end— or at least until the situation suggested physical harm might not be far off.
It got that way not too much later on, and when Boromir returned, shaken, from the Council, he found Denhamir seated in their rooms, holding a wet cloth over his eye.
"What happened?" Boromir asked, concerned.
Denhamir removed the cloth and displayed a purple bruise high on his cheekbone, directly below his left eye. "I made the mistake of suggesting that Orcs are people, too, to an elf who'd recently suffered a— call it a tragedy, at the hand of a band of Sauron's minions."
"Who was this elf?" Boromir demanded, immediately angry.
"I did not catch his name."
"I will find out. He will pay for striking a soldier of Gondor, an heir of the Steward's house."
"I do not wish him to be punished," said Denhamir, discovering as he spoke that, to his surprise, he spoke truth. In this case, it did not matter to him that someone suffer for bringing him harm. "I should have been more careful who I spoke with. At any rate, I was looking for results—" He gestured to his eye and grinned. "And I was rewarded."
"What did you say to him?"
"I said only what I said to everyone I spoke to this evening. But I will discuss that with you later. Tell me what occurred during the oh-so-secret Council this past noon."
"We are formed into a Fellowship," said Boromir, looking unaccustomedly grim. "We leave in two days time to travel to Mordor and destroy the One Ring."
"Ah, they did have it then, these halflings? I heard rumours this morning, but none were confirmed till now."
"Yes, a halfling had it. He and three of his kind travel with us."
"What?" said Denhamir, and laughed shortly. "What good will they do? You might as well take children."
"I know," said Boromir, sounding exasperated. "Children— or women. At least women would be of some slight use during the trip."
"Well," said Denhamir, used to his oldest brother's attitude about women, "perhaps one of the halflings is an accomplished cook."
Boromir looked confused. "I mentioned nothing about cooking." Denhamir decided to pass over this without comment.
"Who else travels with you, in this Fellowship? I trust they have not saddled you with these children alone."
"No, no— Gandalf the Grey travels with us—"
"That old man?" Denhamir laughed. "Oh, sorry. I imagine he is very, um, accomplished."
"More than some others," Boromir grumbled. "Gimli the dwarf will come, as well as Legolas, that Mirkwood elf."
"Ah, Legolas. And a dwarf as well? This should be a fun little trip."
"Also—" Boromir hesitated, then continued. "Also Aragorn, son of Arathorn, travels with us." Denhamir examined Boromir's expression. He looked decidedly torn.
"An admirable man, no doubt," Denhamir prompted.
"Who can truly know?" said Boromir gloomily. "I suspect we will find out."
"I imagine you will."
"I did not volunteer your assistance as well, brother. I did not feel I could do that without asking you first."
"I am glad."
"And perhaps after all you would rather go back home. Father could find you a position, I'm sure, with whatever level of responsibility you wished. You could assist Faramir in patrolling the shores—"
Denhamir thought for a moment and a smile spread slowly over his handsome features. "I have an idea what I truly want to do," he said. "You would be proud of me, brother— it is, for once, not self-centered in the least." He considered, nodding slowly to himself. "Truly, it is very— generous of me to think of it, I think. A position in which I can truly— help people."
Boromir smiled at him. "Will you not tell me what you think of doing?"
Denhamir mirrored his smile. "I won't. But trust me, you will hear of me."
The brothers shook hands, their features looking suddenly very much alike. Denhamir favored his mother's side, and bore more resemblance therefore to Faramir's slightly more delicate features— but the three sons of the Steward had more in common than the average onlooker might think.
Together, the two brothers went to dine.
