[Kransha]

Morgôs was taken aback, but did not show it. He had not expected this question. Arlome had never before shown such an interest, since Morgôs always indicated that the work he did was of little value to him and would be less so to her, and most of it might be upsetting. As long as he remained a functioning participant in the world’s machinations, she did not bother to inquire after his work. He was very unprepared to make the transition to having his work screened by her – he feared it might frighten or confuse her, and cause the advent of more dogged questions which he would be loathe to answer. Nervously, he fished for words to reply with. “This is not the best time for such a question.” he said at last.

“When will the time come, then?”

Not knowing how to respond, Morgôs did not. Arlome continued. “Elrigon, in the last month you have spent more time in here than you have in some years. You are not who you were. What has affected this change?” she walked towards him again, slowly, with a mournful somberness in her, her eyes filled with a degree of hope, but also of confused sadness. “Tell me this at least.”

The pause that fell upon the Elven General was unsteady and dark, but, after a minute, he begrudgingly gave the answer. He knew it could not be hidden forever. “The Emissary.” Arlomë had a subtle reaction, and Morgôs guessed that she did not comprehend what he meant – or she was trying not to. “What about him?” she inquired with tranquil nonchalance. Morgôs sighed quietly and replied with a grave tone. “He brought word of our kindred, other Elves in the west, as you may know.”

Still, Arlomë looked unaffected. She made an unnoticeable noncommital noise, and an unseen look of troubled recognition fell upon her face for a moment, but the General did not see. Morgôs took another deep breath, he knew she must have been told of this, but she did not know as much as he. While in communication with the Prince, Morgôs’ had, in his subtle Elven way, discerned or drawn out more. Calmly, the General was prepared to admit this now, or he knew he would get no peace from his spouse. “The Emissary told much more about the West-Elves to Prince Siamak, apparently.” He added, softly and meekly. Arlomë was at last jolted from her state of graceful serenity.

“What makes you think thus?” She said curiously.

“He told me.”

There was a pause again. Arlomë knew, actually, that Morgôs had communicated with Siamak at the festivities a month ago in honor of the Emissary’s arrival, but she did not know of his frequent talks with the young Prince of Pashtia since then, and had good reason to be a bit suspicious, since he had told her of no such thing, and he usually told her anything important that occurred. Arlomë moved closer to her husband as he turned away, trying to evade the full extent of the question that had not yet been asked, but was clearly written on his wife’s face. Morgôs sat tiredly in his chair and slumped into it, laying one arm on the desk before it, and spoke again.

“Siamak told me some of what the Emissary said to him, information which, I assume, is unbeknownst to all others save him. Siamak is not the most careful person when it comes to letting certain things slip out. His tongue is not yet trained to remain silent when it should be.” This bout of information was a trove he had not intended to let slip for quite a while yet, but it was coming out now, and he could not stop himself. He was unable to consider his wife’s next question before his mind automatically initiated an answer. “What did he tell you.” She asked, and he dutifully replied. “Not much, but enough to explain some of my own scribbles, and confirm the accuracy of others. It was also enough to cause some forgotten facts to come into my mind. If they were once forgotten, I certainly could not allow them to be forgotten again, so…” he trailed off, and gestured at the pile of newly written volumes stacked on and around his desk.

There was no reply from the other party again. Morgôs had kept his eyes from looking to Arlomë during his monologue, but looked at her now. She was unemotional, upsettingly so. This meant she was unwilling to convey whatever emotion was inundating her. Morgôs turned away again and leaned down, sliding one leather-bound book from the pile next to his desk. No dust had collected on it. He lifted it and hefted it in his hand; it was not necessarily heavy or weighty, just above average size. The General new what this book contained by heart; it was the most harmless of his volumes.

The tome contained drawings and some remembered descriptions of landscapes, as well as amateur maps forged by himself, an amateur cartographer. Most pictures depicted a place he did not know much of, but had numerous memories of floating around in the deep darkness of his mind. It was a lake he remembered, the contours of which occupied most drawings, and a forested shore-land beside it. Drawings of trees and landforms foreign to Pashtia were in the book, different forms of plant and some animal life that his mind had constructed images of from memory. They were mystical, more so than they were realistic, and so alien to Pashtian lands that they could be thought of as fantastic. Morgôs did not know where the images came from, but he guessed that he had known them at one time long, long ago, before the establishment of Pashtia. It was an interesting record and set of sketches, but utterly watered-down, unlike some other books.

He pushed himself up from the chair and extended the book to his wife. “Here,” he said, “quench your thirst with this. I must to the palace to take counsel with Prince Siamak. I do not believe I shall be long. I hope that, when I return, your questions will be lessened. Farewell.” He did not even let her open the book before he had swept himself past her, pulling his trailing cloak behind him, and left the room.