Sorry its been so long, everybody! Hope you like this chapter, it took me all of five minutes to write! :)
Chapter Twelve: Brisaen
Brisaen was a delight, utter and unpredictable, laughing in the right places during conversation, taking Denhamir's moods in stride, and looking absolutely lovely as she glided, on his arm, into the main dining hall.
Denhamir guided her to a seat across from Boromir, who had both hands full with a disdainful elf lady on one side and a lovestruck young girl on the other. He was trying to fend off the girl and attract the elf's attention all at once, and having a hard time of it. By a series of eyebrow wiggles and pained faces, he endeavored to get Denhamir to help him out. Denhamir ignored him.
He spent the entire meal with his head bent low over Brisaen to speak with her, occasionally shooting glances at Boromir. She noticed his evident enjoyment of his brother's difficulty and commented on it.
"Do you like to see people thus discomforted?"
Denhamir's gaze returned to her and he smiled. "Why, yes, of course. It is one of life's greatest entertainments, I find."
"And is everyone to you an experiment in human nature, as you said this afternoon?"
"Most people," he said. "Though after a while some lose their appeal. And when that happens I drop them. It rarely, if ever, happens, however," he added.
A slight smile quirked Brisaen's lips. "I can see that happening to me, sometime in the future," she said. "I will become routine to you, and you will release me from your life."
"I am glad to see that you predict a future for us together," said Denhamir, and she blushed, "but I sincerely doubt that I could ever get exhausted from you. Perhaps you would be pleased to give me an opportunity to test this theory?"
She blushed again, slightly, and did not reply to this jibe. "You speak of leaving on the morrow," she said. "Will you not tell me where you intend to go?"
"I travel far," said Denhamir, " but I cannot tell you exactly my destination."
"I see. Well— I believe I may miss you, obnoxious though you are."
Denhamir smiled downwards, attempting to cut his meat with a blunt fork in his distraction.
"You look so much like Faramir I can hardly credit it," she said, watching him. "At first I found it hard to believe, based on your manner alone, that you two could be truly related. Now I believe it."
Denhamir did not wish to discuss Faramir, and said as much. "Instead, will you tell me about yourself, Brisaen? Where you grew up, what you were afraid of as a child, what kind of man you intend to marry, what you wish to do with your life."
She tipped her head to one side. "An odd question."
"Hmm? What is?"
"I have never been asked what I intend to do with my life. The others, yes, but never that."
"Well," said Denhamir after some consideration, "I think that is very indicative of the sort of people you keep company with. You ought to spend more time with me. It is practically guaranteed to broaden your mind."
She laughed. "I can fathom that easily, yes. I fear, however, that my mind would suffer in the broadening, or perhaps be broadened in ways I would not wish."
This amounted, Denhamir perceived, to a rejection of his romantic overtures. He reconciled himself to it at the moment, realizing that, as a proper young maid, it only made sense. From her standpoint anyway.
And he still had a few hours to try and convince her to change her mind.
"Tell me," he began, "when you were with Faramir, did he speak of his family at all?"
She thought about it, frowning, remembering. "We did not speak much, you understand," she said. "He was chiefly concerned with attending to my father's fears about the coming war."
"Very considerate that way, our Faramir," agreed Denhamir conscientiously.
"But he did say a few things, I believe— more about you and Boromir than anyone." She frowned slightly, small lines appearing above her eyebrows. "Incidentally, is there anyone else? I was given to understand that his mother had passed away, and I supposed, because of Faramir's reluctance to discuss his father, that something had happened to him as well. I hope I did nothing to offend his feelings or cause him grief, but if I did it was quite inadvertent— "
"Fear not, kind and gallant lady," said Denhamir expansively, "our father is alive and well. He is Steward of Gondor, you know—"
"I— somehow I thought that the Steward was your grandfather."
"You are not the first person to make that mistake, but when they mention it to his face he always corrects them immediately."
"Oh, dear."
"Do you find it odd, a bit, that Faramir did not mention our father?"
"Perhaps," she said unwillingly. "But I am sure he had many other things on his mind."
"And I am sure of that as well," said Denhamir agreeably. "Indeed, I know I certainly would, if I was around you, endeavor to keep my mind of Father as much as possible. But perhaps there is another, and more tragic, reason for Faramir's omission."
She gazed at him, wide-eyed. "Is there?"
"Faramir's relationship with Father has not always been of the greatest terms of cordiality. It is largely Father's fault, I will admit. He is headstrong and puffed up with pride, loving mostly himself, with occasionally crumbs of appreciation for myself and Boromir. But Faramir— ah, Faramir is a problem for him. He looks like our dead mother, for one thing, which Father resents. And he is brave, smart, strong, heroic, and above all quiet, which Father cannot fathom."
"So you believe that he will not speak of your father because of his relationship with him? That is very sad."
"It is sad," Denhamir agreed. "But it makes me worry, to hear you say he never spoke of him. It quite frankly makes me downright afraid—"
She poked him a little when he stopped talking. "Go on," she said. "You cannot stop now, I am worried also merely by your words."
"Far be it from me to cause a lady to fret," said Denhamir, "but— well, it is all in something Boromir said not too long ago. He was afraid that Faramir was becoming too resentful of Father's dislike, and that Faramir— would find himself forced to do something about it."
Her eyes were wide, the light in them faded. "What do you mean by this?"
"I would say nothing definite," said Denhamir. "Only— I worry a little not to be home with Father and Faramir. Just a little."
She dropped her gaze from his immediately and attacked her meal with fork and knife. "I cannot believe that you would for a moment think—"
"Keep in mind, Lady, I have known my brother much longer than you have."
"I do not wish to discuss it."
Denhamir laid a hand on hers. "Do not hate me for it," he beseeched her. "It is only concern for the well-being of my family that inspires me to speak thus. I would not for the world credit Faramir with any wrongdoing. Do not hate me for it."
She relaxed a little and returned her gaze to his face. "I do not hate you," she said sincerely. "I would commend you for your concern, rather."
They stared into each other's eyes for a bit, staring each other down. Then Dehamir relaxed as well and said, quietly, "Perhaps you would accompany me outside, Lady Brisaen?"
They were able to slip out without Boromir noticing. Denhamir led her around a corner and placed his hands on her face, brushing back the loose dark hair that felt like goose down. He kissed her hungrily until she pushed him away.
"You must tell me where you are going," she said. "I worry about you."
Denhamir smiled like a wolf. "You worry about me?"
"I do."
"I appreciate it."
"I am sure."
"You'll never like me as much as you do Faramir, though— will you?"
"Never is a very long time," she said, quietly, her eyes downcast. "All sorts of things can happen in that time."
"But you will not come with me tonight."
"I will not. I belong to no one and I intend to keep it that way for quite some time."
Denhamir laughed. "You may think you belong to no one— I am sure it is a pretty fantasy. I hate to ruin it by informing you that you belong to me, no matter what you say or might think. And apparently you belong to Faramir as well, in your heart if not in reality."
A strange and bitter smile twisted at her lips. "You are young, my lord Denhamir. I am older than you, even if not by much, and old enough to know the difference between an infatuation and belonging. In both our cases we have much to aspire to."
Denhamir watched her for a moment. "I travel to Isengard, to treat with the wizard Saruman. I do not expect to return for quite some time, but when I do, I hope to be much improved in many ways."
There was fear in her eyes and she stood up straight, clutching at his shoulder. "I would have you stay here. Or go home. Anything but what you intend to do."
"I cannot help it, my lady," said Denhamir facetiously. "You have inspired me to be a true man, to stand up and accept responsibility. Thus I take it on myself to travel to Saruman and attempt to forestall a war. Ambassador is the word for it, I think." He smiled at her again but she would not return it, only shook her head.
"I must go to bed now," she said. "You will not follow me. Do you promise?"
"I promise nothing."
"You must promise, or I will not see you again."
He hesitated for a minute, then nodded.
"I will say my goodbyes in the morning," she said, "I cannot face them tonight." Not pausing to allow him a farewell kiss, she fled, leaving behind Denhamir with a face like stone.
