A/N: I'm so sorry to those of you who read this story, I know its been a long time. I want you to know I haven't completely abandoned you and crossed over to the dark side (AKA Phantom of the Opera fiction) but other stuff has been going on as well. Thanks for your patience, or lack of patience, whichever is appropriate.
Chapter 12: Long
Long did Denhamir remain in close conference with Saruman, their heads bent together as they spoke in low voices of the coming destruction of the world. Denhamir listened, staring at the floor, as the voice of Saruman went on— marching like soldiers, thundering like cavalry, invading his ears and corrupting his mind.
Only once, when Saruman spoke of the spoils of victory, did Denhamir raise his head. The eyes were hypnotic, their depths unknown, and in them Denhamir saw himself— then the image changed and it was Brisaen he saw there, captured and bound, half frightened and half willing to please as she was delivered to Denhamir's feet.
"No," said Denhamir.
Saruman breathed in deeply and the image changed again, Brisaen coming to Denhamir of her own free will; they gazed in each other's eyes and felt half their souls bound in concordance with a law more ancient than anything they knew.
"Yes—" said Saruman. It was a suggestion, and a question.
For a long time Denhamir remained rapt in the vision he saw, his fingers twitching as he felt her hair and her skin beneath them. He did not blink.
"Yes," he said, quietly.
Afterwards he couldn't remember everything that had gone on, everything that had been discussed while they remained cloistered in that stark, cold room. His mind was overthrown with visions of men, cheering for him, and the uncompromising adulation of women. His only thought was that there must have been some sort of bargain made, for when he awoke in his room once more there was a bloody wound on his chest, over his heart.
He stood and stared down at himself for a moment.
Then he reached frantically for his pulse.
It was a tense few moments before he found it, and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe while he searched, but there it was, a faint flutter underneath his fingertips. As he sat back down and buried his head in his hands, his ears were covered and gradually he heard the boom boom of his heartbeat echoing around his skull.
It was there.
It had not been taken, somehow.
What had he contracted with Saruman for? He could not remember.
It must involve the fulfillment of his wishes— even hypnotized by someone like Saruman, Denhamir was single-minded enough to stick to his guns. Therefore he must have gotten what he wanted, somehow—
But what had he given up in return?
