Heeeeeeeeere's chapter thirteen! Very few reviews... (makes sad face) But I so do appreciate the ones I got.
Otto's Goat in particular: Brisaen suffers from annoyingly-headstrong-character-disease (AHCD) which affects a lot of my characters (including Denhamir, actually) and means that they don't respond in any way to my directions, commands, or orders. I'll try to make her behave, but I can't guarantee anything at this point. :)
Chapter Thirteen: Morning
Morning broke soundlessly, the sun hidden sullenly behind straggled clouds, the elves, as usual, quiet and collected as they went about their business and duties. Denhamir dragged himself out of sleep, woken by some inner sense that the time for his departure was nigh— Boromir slept on, impervious to the light filtering in through the windows, his pillow over his head. Faint, damp-sounding snores emanated from beneath it. Denhamir, shrugging on his tunic over his head, smiled briefly.
He'd had another dream the night before, one that made a deep impression on him and colored the world around him a slight lavender— he could not recall the exact details, only knew that, having had it, he did not look at things in quite the same way.
He stopped, and leant against the bedpost.
He wished for a frantic moment that he could remember the dream, whatever it was that had happened. He thought it had been good, though on reflection he could not suppose what it was that had made it enjoyable. A certain presence, felt but not acknowledged—
Brisaen, probably, he thought to himself with a certain amount of satisfaction. He knew immediately that this was not the case. The presence, whoever it was, was of a person yet unnamed— yet unknown, perhaps.
Denhamir resolved to forget it. He finished dressing quickly and pounced on Boromir, flicking back the bedcovers to reveal his brother's half-naked body and beating it mercilessly with a pillow. Boromir groaned slightly and kicked convulsively— by unhappy chance, his foot connected with Denhamir's nose.
Denhamir yelled.
Boromir awoke, took in the situation, and laughed.
Denhamir punched him.
Boromir blocked the blow with the pillow and grinned at him in a most infuriating manner.
Eventually they went down to breakfast hurriedly. They were both to leave that morning, and were still gulping down food, bits and pieces spilling from Boromir's mouth and adorning his bearded chin, when Gandalf the Grey came and stared at them with marked disapproval.
Denhamir looked at him and swallowed before speaking. "Is there a problem?"
"No, no, not at all," said the old man. He scrunched his mouth up to indicate that they should not take him at his word. Boromir shrugged.
"I'm coming," he said. "Fear not."
"You'd best hurry," advised Denhamir. "Those halflings are looking a bit jumpy. They may leave without you."
"Never," grumbled Boromir. "I have been hired as a pack mule."
"None could perform the task better," Denhamir assured him as his brother stood. "Beg pardon, brother, but did you intend to wipe your mouth and merely forget, or is the food in your beard being saved for later?"
Boromir swore lightly at him, smiled, then said, "Tell me, brother, do you leave at once?"
"No, I will wait for a bit. There is someone in particular that I wish to see."
"Aha." Boromir eyed him knowingly. "The woman I saw at dinner with you last evening?"
"I will not say."
"Why not?"
"Why, I have been sworn to secrecy," said Denhamir flippantly.
Boromir smiled once more, then moved to hug him. Denhamir held up a finger.
"Beard first," he said.
Boromir attended to his beard, and then Denhamir condescended to embrace him in farewell. Gandalf, watching them with a slight, irreproachable smile on his face, inquired gently, "And where go you, Denhamir son of Denethor? You do not travel with us, I know."
"No," said Denhamir. "I do not."
"Are you going our way?"
"No, I don't believe so."
"Will your journey take you long?"
It was clear to Denhamir that the wizard was angling for more specific information as to his travel plans— he concealed his resentment of the old man's meddling behind his teeth as he smiled.
"I trust not. My father needs me at home."
Gandalf returned the smile, but his eyes showed that he knew Denhamir lied. However, somewhat to Denhamir's relief, he decided not to pursue the issue, and merely motioned to Boromir. Boromir smiled once more and Denhamir, and walked away.
To fame, I hope, thought Denhamir, smiling after him. To a future of greatness. As he deserves, so may Boromir receive.
So may all of us.
Especially me.
He waited for some time, sitting alone and ignored at the dining table. He decided to go to his room to see if perhaps Brisaen was waiting for him there. Upon arrival he found a note instead—
He did not recognize the writing, but knew at once who it was from, and what it would say.
Thus he waited until he had left Rivendell before opening it.
"My dear sir (the letter read)
I beg your forgiveness for reneging on our agreement to meet this morning, but must say I do not regret my actions. You must understand my position— as one who is, I must admit, extremely attached to someone of great merit, namely your brother, I cannot and will not allow my heart to be in more jeopardy. I realize that I may have no consequence in Faramir's eyes, other than as a life to cherish as he would any other, but I cannot deny myself, and the hope that I have in that way. Once again, I do not regret my actions in the slightest.
Brisaen"
Staring at the black handwriting, reading it once, twice, three times, Denhamir read more into it than was written. Jeopardy, she called it— danger. A victory in itself, that she acknowledge his attentions thus. And the total lack of closing, ending the letter simply with her name— that too pointed to conflicted feelings. All in all—
Denhamir smiled to himself, folding the letter back up and placing it in a saddlebag. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much," he murmured to himself, eyes squinting against the sun.
But there again— it was a rejection.
After some more thought, he retrieved the letter from the saddlebag, read it through once more, then crumpled it up and pitched it into the ditch at the side of the road, where it soaked through at once with ancient rainwater.
His horse walked on.
