I know, I know, its been for-bloody-ever. I've been busy. Also I was kicked off FF net for reasons which I'd rather not go into (mostly because I've gone into them on several other of my fics, so people are getting sick of hearing me complaining.) But here it is, the next chapter. Incidentally, I'd like to know what people think I should do with Denhamir's relationship with Brisaen. I mean, I kind of have an idea where I'm going with it, but as I said before, they are both very head-strong individuals, so it may turn into something entirely different. So I just wondered what you all thought.

And! If you like my writing, and if you like Phantom of the Opera at all, you should check out "The True Saga Of Weak Willed Christine." Its what I would call my very first fic ever to combine randomness, hard writing, and a sense of humour in the Terry Pratchett vein. At least, I would call it that if this one hadn't already taken the description... :)

One more thing: I rearranged chapters, so as to make them longer. So if you try and review, it may say that you already have (I've noticed this on other stories) Sorry for the inconvenience, but I guess if you logout you can review that way... thanks!

Read on, dear audience, and please don't forget to review. I've got the flu, so appreciation would make me feel better... hint, hint...

Chapter Ten: Gaining

Gaining entrance to the great tower at Isengard was easier, perhaps, than he had expected. After considering his options, Denhamir managed it by dint of banging on the door and authoritatively demanding to be let in.

There was a pause.

Then the great door creaked as a smaller door set in one side of it opened a few inches. A horrid face peered out, that of an orc, the features misaligned and malformed.

"Ah," said Denhamir. "I am reminded of why your race is not, after all, allowed in civilized societies. You might put everyone off their feed."

The face glared at him and said something in a guttural language. Denhamir didn't understand what had been said, but the tone of voice left little doubt— clearly he had just been insulted. He flushed angrily.

"If you ever speak to me in such a tone again," he said, "you will be extremely sorry. I'll speak to your superiors, and you'd better hope they put you in prison, because iron bars are the only things that will prevent me from getting to you. Now, are you going to let me in or shall I just stand outside and insult your mother?"

The orc said something that sounded like, "Graa-zhak!" and slammed the door shut. Denhamir rocked back on his heels, surprised, insulted, aghast, unsure.

Then there was more rattling and the great doors swung ponderously open. Denhamir found himself facing a blackness that didn't seem to end— it went on forever— he stared into it, doubt creeping into his heart.

The orc appeared in front of him with a suddenness that made him jump.

The orc did a peculiar sideways movement that put Denhamir in mind of a crab— it took him all of five minutes to realize it was a bow.

"My master wishes to speak with you," said the orc, his speech hampered and distorted by his overabundance of teeth, most of which seemed to belong to several different people. His tone clearly indicated that he had no idea why his master would condescend to meet with such human slime as stood before him— Denhamir stood up straighter and lifted his chin.

Then he followed the orc into the blackness of the interior.

Once inside, his eyes began to adjust, and he discerned that there was actually some light, which came from extremely narrow slits high up on the walls. In his military-trained mind, he knew the advantage of windows such situated— it would take a very fortunately-aimed arrow to penetrate the keep, and a more physical ambush wouldn't be possible unless A, the attacker could fly, and B, the attacker was exceedingly thin. His anti-military-conscienceness completely ignored his military-trained mind and instead concentrated on not tripping over the stairs he now started to ascend.

It took quite a while to reach the first landing— Denhamir was breathing heavier than normal, but his toned body was able to take it without complaining too much, and he smiled in response to the gloating look the orc gave him.

"Lead on, sir orc," he said gallantly. "Incidentally, do you have a name? I expect your friends call you something humorously appropriate, like Deathface or Boarsteeth. May I do the same?"

The orc growled at him, a feral sound, and continued to lead the way upwards.

Upwards, ever upwards. Denhamir forced himself to breathe slower and deeper, concentrated on not losing his breath– they reached another landing and this time the orc didn't pause, didn't even slow down. They went on, and now Denhamir forgot, for the moment, his dignity, and simply attended to not passing out.

Step, step, step, step, ragged breath, step, step, step, step, pant, step, step, step-step-step—

Curse it, the orc was speeding up.

Well, Denhamir thought grimly, if he was angling for an apology, he would be disappointed.

Step-step-step-step-step-step-breathe in step-step-step-step-step-step-step-step-breathe out—

He was very near the verge of collapse, which he would have allowed long before he requested the orc to slow down, when the orc suddenly darted to one side of the stairwell and pushed at a section of the wall. It opened, and Denhamir saw it was a door, artfully placed in the rock, with no attendant landing to indicate its existence.

He lurched towards it, breathing heavily and trying to bring his heart rate down. The orc smiled evilly at him as he passed.

Once inside the empty room, the door slammed shut behind him. Denhamir whirled around in a panic, an old surge of his childhood claustrophobia rushing through him—

Boromir locked him in the cellar. The last bit of light as the door closed illuminated Boromir's grinning face, Faramir's worried, almost panicked one behind him, mouth open, yelling, fists pounding on the back of his oldest brother—

"Father will hear about this and then you'll be sorry!"

Denethor hadn't been, as far as Denhamir could recall.

"Greetings, my young friend," said a dire voice behind Denhamir.

Denhamir turned once more and saw there a man, where a second ago no man had been. He was tall and had long, flowing white hair. Piercing dark eyes looked out over a hooked nose. A cruel face, one used to getting what it wanted, one used to riding carelessly over carcasses as it left the battlefield—

Denhamir shivered and shook himself. Premonition? Dream? The cadence of his uncertainty was, by now, formulaic and typical enough to be almost reassuring. For a moment as he stared at the man— man?— in front of him, he felt the chill of a day for killing— a day not far off.

He bowed as low as he could manage. He still had not caught his breath.

"My lord Saurman," he said.

Saruman stared at him with those livid eyes. "Call no man lord, Denhamir," he intoned. "I believe that is your aim in coming here, is it not?"

"My lord sees much," murmured Denhamir, dropping his gaze hastily. He'd heard that the wizard could read minds, could look through the windows of the eyes and see the innermost thoughts and motivations of the hearts. He had never lent credence to such reports— till now. "In fact I am come on a mission of peace. I believe the proper term would be ambassador."

Saruman did not speak, but his eyes invited Denhamir to go on.

"I think the lands and peoples of Middle-Earth can be united," Denhamir obliged him. "Perhaps only with strenuous effort, which I hope I shall not have to undertake personally. Perhaps only with a series of battles that will kill off many of the more difficult members of the respective races. Perhaps not, truly, at all. But I thought it could. And so I am come to get my lord's advice on said subject."

"Are you," said Saruman softly.

Denhamir flicked his eyes up to the wizard's face, and a brief grin illuminated his countenance.

"In fact, it is also a mission of personal importance," he confided.

"So I understand," said the wizard darkly.

"You see, I wish to avoid being known throughout history as merely a soldier. I wished to avoid an ignominious death as the youngest son of the Steward of Gondor. I even wish to avoid my possible fate as Steward, with dead parents and two dead brothers to my name."

"You wish," Saruman completed for him, "to avoid any and all responsibilities that may lay in wait for you."

"My lord," repeated Denhamir, grinning, "sees much."

Saruman eyed him a moment longer. He didn't seem to find anything he liked— on the other hand he didn't call the orcs back in and have Denhamir killed either, which was, Denhamir supposed, a step in the right direction.

Finally Saruman stepped towards him and said, "We shall have to see what we can do for you."

"Yes," said Denhamir, "we certainly shall."