Chapter Eleven: Very

Very little time had gone by between when Denhamir first saw this woman, this Brisaen, alone in the crowd, and when he finally divested himself of Boromir. But as he pressed through the people, searching for the nook in the wall where she had disappeared to, he found that she was no longer there. There was no trace of her in the surrounding areas, and so once again he began to search.

He was immediately frustrated by the sheer number of people around him--- Elves, Men, Dwarves, all were busy with various tasks, the nature of most of which Denhamir could not bear to contemplate. Despite this, he located her almost immediately.

She sat on a stone bench near one of the Great Doors (bloody capitals everywhere), apparently deeply engrossed in mending a stocking. His shadow fell on her and she did not even look up. He stood directly in front of her and she did not even look up. He sat down beside her and she did not even look up.

After some time considering this he decided that she had actually seen him coming and was now ignoring him.

He scooted closer along the bench.

"Milady, will you not talk with me?"

"I am busy, as well you know," she said quickly.

"I wish to speak with you."

"Do you wish to apologize for your behavior this morning?" She glanced up at him from underneath her eyelashes.

"Apologize?" said Denhamir. "Well— not particularly, no."

"Then I cannot imagine what else we would have to talk about."

Boromir does it, why can't I? Denhamir thought. He leant forward and whispered in her ear. She stabbed him in the hand with her needle.

"I do not consort with soldiers," she said.

"But I am not a soldier," said Denhamir, "at least— only technically." He sucked at his finger, which began to bleed. "That hurt, you know."

"I can only assume that your suggestion was a jest," she said, very primly. "As I am a lady of the house of Elrond, I am of course unused to such talk. In fact the terminology was nearly unintelligible, and if you promise to go away and not bother me again I shall try my best to forget it."

"House of Elrond?" said Denhamir. "But you are no elf."

"Only technically," she said, with easily-identifiable mockery. "I am a guest here. But I do not wish to give my bloodlines to strangers. Pray, sir, tell me who you are."

"I am Denhamir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor."

"Younger brother of Faramir?" she said, sitting up very straight. Her pale cheeks stained crimson.

"Yes," he said, unwillingly. He squinted at her. "What knowledge have you of my older brother?"

"Not enough," she said, almost inaudibly.

This exchange took Denhamir entirely by surprise. Quite against his will, his mouth gaped open slightly and he could do naught by stare at the young woman beside him.

"You have met Faramir?'

"Many times."

"What— what thought you of him?"

She moistened her lips and stared straight ahead. "I— I would speak well of him, and warmly, to anyone, and— not simply because you are his brother."

"I find that quite astonishing," said Denhamir. "I must admit, I did not think that Faramir was in the habit of making— favorable impressions on young ladies. Perhaps I am wrong."

She turned a glare on him. "I rather resent your tone, young man."

"Pray tell where you encountered my brother, then."

"At my fathers home, to the north of here. He was patrolling the border and they stopped with us a while."

"I don't suppose my own father will be too pleased to hear that whilst Faramir is engaged in business he takes time for pleasure."

The crimson on her face deepened. "He has done nothing wrong, and nothing dishonorable."

"Ah," said Denhamir lightly. "I see."

"Do you hate him, that you speak thus?"

"No, lady, I do not hate him. He is a good man, if a somewhat stifled one. I would like to see him grow to his full potential. I simply doubt that it is possible, in his case." Denhamir thought for a moment. "I really am pleased that you like him. Most people do. Well, with the exception of my father, of course."

The frown-lines in her forehead eased, and she leant forward. "You did not seriously intend to offend my virtue with your suggestion?"

"No, of course not. Let us call it an experiment in human nature." He smiled at her easily. "Do you know what I would like, though?"

"What, good sir?"

"Your companionship at dinner. I would willingly fetch and carry for you if it would make up for my behavior this morning."

A very, very faint smile appeared on her face, transforming the darkness of her eyes to firelight and sparkle.

"I would enjoy that, my lord Denhamir."

"Until tonight then, my lady Brisaen."

He stood and bowed to her formally, then moved off among the crowd, thinking hard.

Well, well, well.

Faramir had made a conquest all on his own. And one that no one had heard of, as well— likely he did so without even knowing of it. Young girls such as Brisaen were prone to misguided attachment to grown men who oftimes did not even realize their regard. Likely that was the way of it.

And yet, what if it was not that way?

Suppose Faramir had been attracted to Brisaen much as Denhamir had?

Denhamir resolved to think this over, though in his heart his decision was already made. Faramir was far away. It was Denhamir who was here and now, with Brisaen, and if he could not convince her to give him a good memory to go away with, he was less charming than he thought he was. And he knew that was not possible.

After all, he left the next morning. How much trouble could one person cause in one evening?