[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamûl was weeping.

He sat in the dark of his apartments and wept for the poetry that would no longer come. He had been trying all this day to recall but one of the poems or songs that he had written in the long years of his solitude, but all were absent from his heart. The words were still there, written on his mind, but they were empty now – empty and meaningless, bled dry of their passion and feeling. For his cares were many and growing daily. He knew of the treachery that surrounded him, and of the evil that stalked his streets. Rarely now did he remove the Ring; only when the demands of kingship were such that he had to be seen by his people. For the rest of the time he wrapped himself in the comforting shadows of the Lord Annatar’s power where he took counsel with his distant brother monarch. He hard learned much from Annatar, about the Ring. He was able now to see goings and comings of his subjects, but what he saw only increased his woe for everywhere the people who had formerly loved him now plotted against him. At this very moment, he could feel his son and the demoness priestess herself meeting in secret to discuss how best to remove him from his throne. Such madness! Who would they put there in his place? Siamak no doubt sought the role for himself, and formerly the King would have given it to his son gladly, but now that he had fallen under the spell of Morgôs… Kamûl would rather his kingdom burn than fall into the hands of that mad Elf. The violence of the General was well known to the King, and he had been careful to remove the Elf from the centre of power.

And if not Siamak, Gjeelea and her husband Korak? Worse and worse choices for the realm. A vain girl who craved power for its own sake, little understanding the rigours of responsible rule, and a stupid man who had come to within a single step of the throne through the luck of fate which had put the secret of Khamûl’s birth into his hands.

Neither of his children would ever rule Pashtia – nor need they. For among the other gifts of the Ring was that of long life. Ashnaz had revealed already his own great age. To look at the fair visage of the Man of the West, one would think him no more than two score years of age, and yet he was almost two centuries old! And such longevity would belong to Khamûl for as long as he possessed the Ring. Already the King felt himself expanding, growing larger like the shadow cast upon the wall by a man who walked toward the flame. For he knew now that the One Lord Morgoth was the true source of light in the world, and to him was he dedicated, heart and soul.

But to whom could he turn? He had no allies, save one, and the time had come to bind himself to her more firmly. Already, he could feel her wavering in her pledge to him; already, he knew, she was faltering in her own loyalties. He did not condemn her for this, for he knew how subtle his enemies were, and how fair they could appear to those they would delude. He cast his mind toward the house of Korak and felt Gjeelea seeking to ensnare the Lady Arhsalous in her vain webs. His daughter, he knew, sought an ally of her own to help her to the throne. Through his tears, the King managed a wry smile at the thought of her disappointment – for when she was old and wrinkled and ugly, and all hope of power and memory of beauty was gone from her, he would be very much as he was this day. If anything, he would be more powerful even – filled as he would be with the grace and love of Morgoth.

Confident as he was, however, there was still the need for action. He could not sit idly by by his own family plotted his overthrow. He strode from his chambers, hidden from all eyes by the power of the Ring, and his passing was as the wind of winter. Little heeding those who fell away in nameless dread of his unknown and unseen presence, he left the Palace and walked the streets of Kanak. A patrol rounded a corner and fell back immediately in terror of him. He barely noticed them as he passed, so used had he become to the presence of the orcs. It irked him that they were required now, but he knew that he could not trust the army, riddled as it was by traitorous allies of the General. The time would soon come, however, when the army would be purged, and then he could dispense with the vile orcs and see them destroyed like the vermin that they were.

He soon arrived at the house of Lord Korak. Removing the Ring he passed through the door and came face to face with a startled, and terrified, servant who fell to her knees before him, trembling. “Majesty!” she stammered at him from between whitened lips. “You are here!”

Khamûl did not acknowledge the idiocy of her claim. He merely sighed at her terror. Reaching down to her, he helped her to her feet and he spoke to her is fair and comforting tones. “Do not be afraid, lass. I know that there is much that has changed in our realm, and that the enemies of Pashtia come about us thick as flies. But I promise you, I will not allow them to destroy us and all that we have built. It will be difficult, but I will cleanse our land of their evil, and prepare us for the glorious destiny that is our birthright.” The girl merely curtsied before scrambling away to announce his presence. He seized her by the arm to stay her. “I have not come to speak with your lord or his wife,” he said. “I some seeking the Lady Arshalous. You may tell Korak that I am here, however; but I will speak with the Lady first.” The girl ran away with the messages.

Guided by the Ring, Khamûl found Arshalous in conversation with his daughter. As he approached he moved silently, and once more slipped on the Ring so that they were unaware of him. He thus overheard their conversation, and he smiled at it. Apparently, he had arrived only just in time to prevent his daughter from corrupting Arshalous completely. Removing the Ring and stepping into the hallway he greeted them both, curious as to how they would explain their presence here together.