Chapter Nine: First
It was his first time.
In his young life, there were so many things he'd never done. First times were nearly a rule of thumb. He kept a list, in his head, of the things he hoped to accomplish. It worried him on a deep and hidden level that most of the list was comprised of events that involved only him, affected only him— where did his brothers come in, in his life? His father, his land, the memory of his mother?
But there was a war on, and as he stared in shock at the body of the man he'd just slain, he began to wonder if any of the things he'd hoped for would ever come to pass— if his life wasn't destined only to be a spark from a furnace, destined to pass away momentarily.
If he had only five minutes left to live, what would he do?
This seemed an admirable chance to find out.
Around him the battle raged, a world full of pain and anguish and suffering and blood and death. He couldn't breath. A hot wind blew, bringing to him the stench of mankind, drenching him with the scent of battle, and he could not breathe.
A long, long time ago, Faramir said in his ear, "War will make corpses of us all."
Then it was over. There was a homecoming, sadness in the slack banners, sadness in the diminished troops that marched wearily back to their fallen city. He stood before his grief-ravaged father, watching as sanity left his eyes— Boromir was dead, fallen in conflict, his head cloven in two. Faramir was gone, no one had heard of him for days, weeks, months— he'd left so long ago that even the memory of his face was beginning to be usurped by mental visions of soldiers, soldiers endlessly marching and killing and dying.
Denethor wept.
Denhamir stared in shock, his night-blue eyes wide in horror. His father was weeping with such emotion, Denhamir never would have thought it possible. His father's heartache would not be assuaged, it would be the death of him, it would bring the line down in ignominy to the youngest son, alone and weak with the eyes of all on him.
Denethor leapt to his feet with a terrible cry, and began to run.
He had reached the edges of the courtyard before anyone could react, and as Denhamir emerged at a dead run from the great hall, he watched his father fling himself off the battlements, falling— falling now in perfect silence, falling to his death, reaching out with open, welcoming arms.
The funeral was awe-inspiring and terrible, and the land looked to Denhamir to cure the people of their unrest, to rid them of the poison that sapped their strength and vitality. But Denhamir was young, and did not know what to do. The once-bright eyes turned haunted, the strong figure gaunt and withered, the handsome face deteriorated, till Denhamir found that he had slipped away. All his life he thought he had a firm grip on himself, and now he blinked and he was gone.
Insanity ran in the family, as well.
In his manner, his conversation, his dealings with others, Denhamir saw reflections of his father's unreason, Boromir's weakness, Faramir's unhappiness. He knew what was happening.
An aide came to him, a soldier of Gondor who had seen the difference between what things were now and what they had once been. He bowed before the bent figure of the Steward and said gently and urgently, "My Lord, the situation in Gondor is becoming intolerable. The people are considering revolt, and the Enemy once again masses against us."
"The Enemy," said Denhamir, with dark cynicism. "Methough we destroyed that threat long ago."
"My Lord, I fear we did not thoroughly eradicate it."
"You fear," said Denhamir, with a dusty laugh. "What care I for what you fear?"
"My Lord—" said the young soldier. "What is it then that you fear?"
"I fear—" said Denhamir hollowly. "I fear more than all else that which has come to pass."
He closed his eyes.
He woke up.
Denhamir's pillow was wet and cold with sweat, the bedclothes twisted and tangled around his lower limbs. He felt terribly weak, but forced himself to sit up and breathe deep. He looked around the room to reassure himself. It was a perfectly ordinary guest room at Rivendell, obviously well-kept by the elves. Last night, after several hours spent in the raucous company of Boromir, he'd been grateful for a cool surface on which to lay his head. Now, after that nightmare, he looked around the unfamiliar but genial room with undeniable fondness.
Was it because of the plans he'd settled upon that he dreamed in that vivid manner? Was it because he'd cast his lot with a people other than those of Gondor? Was it merely his subconscious prodding at him guiltily for not telling Boromir of what he intended to do?
Above all, he thought, was it dream— or vision?
His father certainly had tendencies towards mania.
Boromir would almost certainly get himself killed one of these days.
And if Denhamir were treated the way Faramir was treated, he would have left long ago, and good riddance to the Steward and his house.
Denhamir sighed deeply and began to unwind himself from the covers, wishing he'd thought to bring clothes to sleep in. It was undeniably cool in the early morning air here at Rivendell, and his bare legs developed gooseflesh almost immediately. He found his trousers and slipped them on, then began searching for his tunic— it took him a few moments and in the meantime he half-heartedly admired the muscles of his upper arms. Boromir and Faramir were both big men, broad-shouldered, strong, the physical embodiment of brash. Denhamir's body was much sleeker, finely-tuned— much more suited to politics than warfare, he'd always been told by his father, though politics didn't sound like a lot of fun either.
Finally attired appropriately, he left the room and walked down narrow, curving stairs, hoping he wouldn't get lost. He'd been somewhat intoxicated when the serving girl had shown him to his quarters that evening— briefly he wondered if he would be required to apologize for his conduct.
Blurrily he found his way to one of the many dining rooms— it didn't look like the one in which he had dined the evening before, but then, a dining room was a dining room was a dining room was a dining room— tangled in convoluted thought much as he had been tangled in his bedclothes half an hour before, he stumbled in sitting down and the young woman across from him said politely, "Are you alright, sir?"
"Fine," he mumbled, staring at the tablecloth. The dream would not go away.
"Is there anything I can get you, sir?"
"Breakfast," said Denhamir peremptorily.
He sensed that the woman's presence stayed seated a moment longer, then her shadow crossed over before his eyes as she went to fulfill his request. Demand, really. He wished he had the energy to apologize. But he wouldn't be here for very long, and so it didn't matter, really, did it?
He needed sustenance before facing the day. He hoped that the dream would wear away before too much longer, as he wasn't sure of his ability to face Boromir without getting supremely irritated at him. Fortunately Boromir usually slept late, and with the help of all the ale he'd consumed the night before, he'd more than likely be sleeping even later. Denhamir was supremely grateful for the fact that—
"Good morrow to you, brother!" said the jubilant voice of Boromir behind him. His big form slid into the seat next to Denhamir, and one large hand clapped him between the shoulder blades with damaging force. Denhamir winced.
"Brother— I didn't expect to see you so early."
"Yes, I can understand that. Nor did I expect to see you." Boromir laughed. "That was some ale they fed us last night, was it not?"
There was another explanation for the dream— it had been simply the product of an overwrought and extremely drunk mind. "Yes," said Denhamir fervently, "it was, surely."
But the dream refused to be dismissed so easily. In his head Denhamir heard his own voice, echoing—
I fear more than all else that which has come to pass.
The reason for Boromir's joviality was soon evident as a young maiden passed by with a shy smile, a quick glance, and a tentative wave. Boromir smiled and waved back, and Denhamir began to chuckle.
"You never miss a chance, do you?"
"I should hope not! I am only away from Father's all-seeing gaze nine months out of twelve." Boromir's voice indicated that this was far too short a time.
"Why not get married, then? Father could hardly disapprove of it then."
"Not if it gave him grandchildren, no," Boromir agreed. "And yet I do not want to be married. Not to Helene, whom you just saw." He took a deep drink from the flask of water he carried with him— at least Denhamir presumed it was water. "And not to any of the others, either." He smiled again and clapped Denhamir on the back once more. "Lets face it, little brother, if Faramir's furtive love affairs continue not to work out, you may be left with the responsibility of carrying on the family line."
Denhamir made a mental note to compare knowledge of Faramir's love life with Boromir at some later date. Now, a woman came and dropped his plate in front of him with something less than courtesy.
Denhamir looked at it. "I should like some more bread."
"Then you should get it yourself, I have done with fetching and carrying for you," said the woman, and seated herself once more across from him. Denhamir looked up, his gaze now somewhat less blurry, and saw her to be young, perhaps a year or two older than he himself, with the dark hair of the people of the south. The cloud of hair framed a face set in a stubborn scowl, and the pale, vivid eyes flared at him for a moment before returning to her own food.
"I thought you were a serving girl," said Denhamir.
"I can see where you made the mistake," said the woman, and he saw that she was a human. And more than that, she was dressed in exceptionally fine clothes. He began analyzing who she might be, and she looked up at him.
"Would you kindly stop staring at me? I get nervous when other people watch me eat."
"Fine," said Denhamir, and turned his attention to his own food.
Boromir excused himself to get a plate of his own, and when he returned, half-hidden behind the piled mass of food, he began to ask Denhamir of his plans for the day. Denhamir replied, concentrating partly on eating, partly on the conversation, partly on banishing the demons of the dream, and partly on the striking young woman across from him, who ate until her plate was clean, stood in one fluid movement, and left.
"Excuse me—" said Denhamir, reaching for and not quite capturing her sleeve. But she ignored him, sweeping onwards, leaving him more than slightly dumbfounded, staring after her.
"And so do you really plan to defeat the alien menace that stalks the horse stables?" said Boromir, oblivious to all of this as well as to the ludicrousness of what Denhamir had been telling him.
"Quite," said Denhamir blankly, and brooded, giving one-syllable answers to the next several things Boromir said. After breakfast he found, somewhat to his surprise, that the four quarters of his attention had been united— the eating over with, the conversation discounted, the demons banished— and the whole of his mind focused on the dark hair and pale eyes of the woman whose name he did not know.
