[Kransha]

It was going to rain soon. Morgôs Elrigon did not need the ominous darkness of the sky to tell him this.

The room was silent he sat in, but for a quite scribbling. The feather of some desert bird, tipped with a bubble of ground ink, clutched in a hand pale for lack of sun and thin for lack of food, scratched against weary parchment, carving a highly intricate image. This was how Morgos wiled away his many hours in the dank, torch lit vault that was his personal library and archive. He scribbled sketches, drew drawing, and wrote all that came into his head. He consulted his own works and those of countless other Pashtian and Avari authors pertaining to the past, primarily distant. No image entered the General’s head that did not find its way to a thin manuscript of vellum in one of his volumes, no word left unwritten. He was a dedicated Elf, perhaps even an obsessive one, and had been involved in the same sketch for hours, letting the single image overlap onto other papers that lay strewn across his work-desk, lain over an open book. His shoulders were stooped, his sable hair dripping onto the hardwood desk. He was ghastly-white, having not seen the sun in a long time, and his eyes were bloodshot from staring at the page. He was in a trance, which could only be disrupted by something from outside, which was exactly what interrupted his concentration, just as it always did.

“Elrigon?”

The voice was stirring, since it was the first lively sound to resonate in the room since days ago. Recognizing the gentle concern of his wife, Morgós hastily slid all the messy papers back into the open tome and slammed shut the dusty volume, shoving himself up from his chair and pushing the book aside with less grace than he usually exhibited. “What?” he said, sounding half-panicked as he spoke, “What is it?” He looked up and forward with greyer eyes to where his spouse Arlomë was, descending into the shady room. She neared him slowly, examining his nervous, whitened face and lessened demeanor. “You have been walled up in here for nearly two days now.” She said softly, “You shall waste away into nothing if you do not come out of this cell you have entombed yourself in. You are needed.”

“By whom?” Morgôs knew he sounded caustic, as well as very raspy. He had not taken a drink in hours, as his forgotten chalice of wine had been emptied hours before and he had not sought food or drink since then. The General’s eyes thinned, their starlit gleaming diminished severely. Arlomë was not for a moment lost in the question, and shot an answer back barely a moment after he’d delivered the question. “By your Lieutenants, who send dispatches daily; by the king, who seeks your counsel often; by Pashtia, which requires your guidance,” she paused here, looking away from him, “…and by me, and Evrathol.”

Morgôs’ cold form softened and was warmed again. He walked forward and took her hand. “I am sorry, Arlomë, I was busy.” He was honestly apologetic. This was not the first time he’d become lost in his library, and he knew the repercussions, but Arlomë was not satiated. She looked upon him again, her eyes peering coolly into his. “With what?” she asked sternly, “Elrigon, what could draw you from the world and into the dark recesses of your mind, where none can enter? What occupies your thoughts and keeps you bound to that table?” She was always far too serious for Morgôs’ liking when discussing this matter.

The Avari General released his wife’s hand. “It is nothing, my dear, but a fleeting exercise.”

“Fleeting?” she persisted, trying to follow his gaze as it fell solemnly to the floor, “You have been indulging this ‘fleeting exercise’ constantly. It is no simple practice.” Morgôs turned back upon her, dazed and irate. “For years I have indulged it!” he proclaimed, loudly enough for the vaulted chamber to shoot the same words back at him as a lifeless echo, “There is no reason to distance myself from a practice that has eased my mind for half a century.” He eased up again, turning towards the desk where he had sat and placing his hands on its edges. He looked as if he were merely stooped over the table in contemplation, but he was really seeking stabilization; he had not walked in two days. “I admit,” he conceded, “I do become greatly involved at times, but not so much that I no longer live and breath and speak.”

Arlomë’s hand pulled him around, almost sending him to his knees, but he did not stumble and concealed his weariness as Arlomë goaded him to face her. “And what practice is that? Alchemy? Dwimmer-crafting?” Morgôs shot back quickly, “You know as well as I what it is.” It was the truth. She knew what occupied his time, but that retort was not the final word. Arlomë pressed the issue, her keen gaze piercing Morgôs where he stood. Her mind was sharp and wise, and she knew even he would let slip something. “I know,” she said then, “but not as well as you do. Writing may be an admirable art, but you have practically abjured the society of the outside. Why do you dissemble, Elrigon? Your intentions could not be so dark that you must continually conceal them from me.”

Morgôs was tired of this discourse now. It was a repetition of many he had had with her, and, in his opinion, a useless endeavor. “What good is there in redundancy?” he snapped, “We oft converse like this, but all is shortly forgotten once I have conceded to your will, and all is well again. When again I resume, you come upon me again with the same words. Let the matter die where it lies, so that I may have peace.” The last word echoed as well, as if to drive home the message or at least allude to finality, but Arlomë was not to be outdone. “Every time you steal away into this catacomb,” she replied, “I ask the same question, and every time you give no response. You are my husband, Elrigon, not a sinister enigma. I will cease today, but next time my efforts will be doubled.”

“And my heart shall be doubly hardened against them.” The General snarled, his tired face twisting, if only for a moment, into a dark grimace. Then, it sagged and became weary again, and the great figure staggered and nearly fell. His wife hurried to his aide, helping him to stand. It dawned on him as she aided him what words he had said and the harshness of them. This was not madness, just folly. As he regained his composure, he grasped her hands again, returning to himself.

“Forgive me, my love. You know how I become in these periods of seclusion. It is my own fault. If not for you, I would be locked away in this place. I am sorry to be angry with you.” Arlomë seemed to understand. “You were not yourself – as you rarely are these days.” She could not help but add the final section, but Morgôs ignored it and spoke calmly. “I will not venture here again for a great time, I swear. I rebuke these pages and books and their tempting spells, for I would be more at peace with you.” He embraced her, and a smile managed to appear, albeit small, on his grim face.

There was a pause and a silence in the room, broken by Arlomë’s curious question that came a minute later. “Would you rebuke them eternally?”

“Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answers?”