A/N: This is kind of a morbid day. Sorry.
Chapter: Solitude
Solitude.
It was what Denhamir craved now, as his body was wracked with pain from the scourges. He arched his back underneath them and cried out, the pain filling his mind till nothing else existed, nothing else could be thought of.
Pain.
Pain beyond what he'd ever known before.
The beatings from the creatures standing behind him as steady, more constant even, than the beat of his own heart.
Blood trickled down his back, ran around the front of his body to his ribs. He was a mess. He would never heal.
There was a banging, a pounding in his head—
He thought he would explode.
He thought that he would die if the whip hit him just one more time.
It came down on him, reopening old wounds, reinforcing new ones—
He did not die. Neither did he become numb. He felt a million pains and a stab in his heart, he felt his head leave his shoulders, he felt the loss of his limbs, he did not die. He was not alive but he was not dead.
He'd dreamt like this before, when he was a child, but not in years. In the dream, he could not remember what it had been like before— he thought it was real, that reality itself was the fantasy, that everything good that had ever passed was only the imaginings of his feverish mind.
The pieces of his broken body were laid to rest in a cold tomb, where all he could see was blue-gray stone. There he stayed for an eternity, until he felt a touch on him— somewhere— he could no longer identify which part of his body went where. He was like a jigsaw puzzle that would never be put together, it was an impossible task.
She came and took the impossible task on.
He felt her hands, first, picking up his head and replacing it where it belonged, her touch healing the skin, reaching below the surface to reattach nerves and muscles. Then his arms and legs, till he was whole and human again, though he could not move. A million pins and needles danced around his joints, as though he had been but asleep. He knew that was not the case.
She came and picked him up as though he weighed nothing. She made him walk. She forced him to move.
She took him to the window and allowed him to look out on the war-drenched landscape. She said nothing, but he understood— this is what resulted from Denhamir's attempt to fix things, to take a place in history. This was the only possible consequence.
He ventured finally to look at her, to try to ascertain her identity, but it was impossible. She had no face.
He awoke to a pounding on the door. A gruff voice demanded that he get up and come at once to Saruman's throne room. Sitting up on the hard little bed, he wiped the tears of pain from his face and ran a hand down each arm, then his legs, tracing the feeling of the muscles, making sure everything was all there. When he stood he was definitely shaky.
He'd had dreams like that before, but that one—
That was the worst.
Ever.
He wondered if someone was trying to tell him something.
The dreams only reinforced his determination to avoid all culpability, all responsibility—
Which was what, he reminded himself, he was doing here.
Still trembling, he dressed himself and emerged into the passage. The evening before was quite a bit hazy, blurred by the strength of the wine he'd imbibed. Perhaps the third cup had been unwise, but he'd had a hard journey that day.
He thought he perhaps remembered sitting at the table next to Saruman—
And spilling some food in Saruman's lap—
Oops.
Suddenly recalled to himself, he grinned.
Rather a lot of food.
Mashed potatoes with gravy.
He laughed out loud. Ah, now it was all coming back. The enraged look on Saruman's stony face— classic. However, if this summons involved bending on one knee and apologizing and volunteering to do the laundry himself, Saruman was out of luck.
Now pleasantly assured of himself by all this, and with the crippling dream receding in his mind, he strode out and reached Saruman's throne room in good order. The wizard waited for him there, his always-angry eyes boring into Denhamir upon his entrance. Denhamir swept him a short bow as a morning greeting— he could not quite see saying "Good morning," or "How are you this fine day?" or "Lovely weather we're having," to the hawk-nosed visage that was currently trying to dissect him with its eyes. On top of which it appeared to be raining.
Saruman said nothing, only gestured him forwards. Denhamir obeyed.
"What lies in store for us this day?" he inquired genteelly. "I believe I informed you of my intentions last night?"
"Your intentions, and your purpose for coming here, remain to be seen," Saruman answered.
"But I thought I told you—"
"I know what you told me. Nevertheless—" Saruman's eyes never left him for a moment. "I would like to show you something, Sir Denhamir. Do you mind?"
"Provided it doesn't involve the removal of any of your clothing," said Denhamir cheerfully, "I shan't be bothered."
Saruman did not reply, but gestured him forwards again, into a corner of the room.
Wait a moment, Denhamir thought— this is a round room— how did I get a corner out of a round room—?
With some effort he banished this unfruitful train of thought from his mind and attended to what Saruman wished to show him.
There was a pedestal, made of the same black rock that the rest of the room had been carved of. Denhamir reflected briefly that this entire castle must have been a bugger for the poor laborers who created it. On the pedestal was an ambiguously-shaped lump, covered by a cloth.
Looking at Denhamir to make certain he was properly awed, Saruman whipped the cloth off in a quite unnecessarily dramatic gesture.
"This is how we will shape the future," he intoned.
Denhamir stared at it. "That? The marble?"
Saruman glowered.
"It is a palantir," he rumbled, clearly expecting more from Denhamir.
Denhamir shrugged. "Well, that's as may be, but it looks like a marble."
"It will help in our quest."
"Marble of Doom," Denhamir half-whispered, lifting his shoulders and wriggling them slightly.
For a moment, from the look on Saruman's face, he wondered if perhaps he had gone too far. Then the wizard beckoned him forth once again— that seemed to be a gesture that he was quite fond of— and gave him a command.
"Look into it. Touch it with your fingertips— lightly— thus—"
Underneath Saruman's rather frightening fingers, light blossomed in the depths of the Palantir. Denhamir, interested despite himself, drew closer and placed his fingers on it as well.
Saruman, unnoticed by him, backed off.
Denhamir was quickly immersed in what he saw in the Palantir.
There was his father, crying bitterly—
There was Faramir, fallen—
There was Boromir, his mind taken by something evil, as he chased after peasants with a mad light in his eye, swinging a double-edged axe that was already covered in blood—
There was Denhamir's dream.
He'd never seen it before— only felt it as it happened to him. Now he watched from the position of a helpless spectator as his body was tortured, observed his own beheading, watched his own death—
The eyes blinked.
Not alive, but not dead.
Denhamir leapt back from the Palantir, clamping his lips shut to keep himself from crying out, looking quickly to Saruman, who watched him with a keen eye.
"Illusion?" inquired Saruman with a deceptively soft voice. "Or— prophecy?"
For once, though not for long, Denhamir found himself at a loss for words.
