[Kransha]

As King Faroz engaged in a rather silly display and conversation, designed to teach the Emissary how to eat figs, Morgôs was munching on similar fruit, which he delicately picked from a clipped vine that lay curled into a small bowl which sat before him at the decadent royal table. He shifted uncomfortably on his cushion, still trying to hoist his elaborate garb about him so that it did not get so much in the way of his movements. He was looking, involuntarily almost, upon the Emissary, out of the corner of his eye. He sensed strange things as he saw the man, and knew already that he was not alone in this feeling. His wife, Arlomë, was also unsettled by his gait and presence, and she had seemed jolted when the Emissary greeted her. Morgôs still bore a gnawing feeling in him, from the resonating shock that had come from her. Now, he did not wish to look on, or to speak with the Emissary. He had already been foolish enough. He had addressed the Priest Tarkan as a High Priest, which he was not, as revealed to him by Lord Korak, the suitor of the King's daughter, inadvertantly. The Prince, Siamak, seemed less noticing of the elder General's shortcomings, and for this, Morgôs was thankful. If there was anyone in the court of Pashtia who he thought he liked, it was young Siamak. Now, he did not dwell on his awkwardness in social matters, and ate instead, even though his appetite was small.

He heard the King and the Emissary speaking, more noisily than was appropriate, perhaps, and very jocundly at the table near him. He glanced at his wife again, subtly, trying to ignore the blather that filled his ears, streaming in from the other direction. He did not even hear a comprehensible word of the King’s conversation until his name came up, and he spun about as he heard it, to see King Faroz looking past the Emissary, at him, with a look that could be worn by any clever tempter.

“Morgôs, be not so silent. Come, talk with us.” He gestured merrily, directing Morgôs to lean closer ad join in their energetic, jovial session of talking. “As you wish, your majesty,” said Morgôs, somewhat begrudgingly, but with a typical bow of respect, “but I think I have nothing to contribute, save to listen in awe to what our mutual friend has to say.” The Emissary let his thin mouth, which was currently twisting around some variety of unknown fruit, cracked a little smile, that was meant to make Morgôs more at ease with the circumstances, and induce contentment in the General of Pashtia, but it only served to irk the military commander, though he masked his mild annoyance with a feigned smile of his own.

Faroz spoke then, and, as he did, he seemed nearly drunk off the knowledge he’d gained, and far more jovial than Morgôs had seen him in a long time. “I have told the Emissary of you, Morgôs. You need not be so hesitant in speech. The Emissary is very curious about you.” Dutifully, Morgôs scooted around the circular table, so that he was closer to the Emissary. The table was too wide for him to position himself opposite the Emissary, so he was forced to hunch over, dropping his overly clothed elbows onto the table, encircling the bowl that contained his light meal.

“So,” said the Emissary looking at him from below, for, even sitting, the Elf was a tall, prominent figure, “you are one of the Avari. I have heard of your kind, but not met one in your division, except, of course, for your lovely wife. The Elven-kind where I come from do not mingle so among simple mortals.”

Morgôs did not react to this, on the outside, but within, his heart skipped a beat, jumping for a moment. It had been a great long time since he had heard of Elves mentioned that were not Avari. At first, in his hasty decision-making, he could not conclude what elves the Emissary was speaking, or who he meant in this context. He had some vague memories of the elves in what was called, in Pashtia, the Before-Time. Histories in Pashtia, those contained in educational documents and libraries, did not entail the ‘myths’ that some of the elder Avari spoke of, and some claimed was accurate to a fault. The stories told by Elves about the Before-Time fell into the genre of religious mythos, and were not historical. Morgôs himself no longer knew if his own snippets of memory from the time before Pashtia’s rise were accurate, or simply had developed because of the myths that his people believed in. Those myths did speak of other Elves, and in those myths, those Elves were called Dark-Elves, because, it was said, they were taken away into the darkness by horsemen from the west.

This seemed ironic, at the moment, to Morgôs, since the Emissary and his men were horsemen from the west, but the Avarin myths spoke differently, and described all the circumstances far more mystically. Those legends spoke of demons and gods, but also held the roots of the adopted religion of Pashtia, that religion that was centered on Rea and Rhais. Priests and theologians studied records taken by both the first Pashtians and the Pashtian Avari first taken into mannish society. Either way, Morgôs’ curiosity was piqued, and a blink of light glinted in each of his starry eyes again, and he said to the Emissary: “Now you touch upon a thing that interests me, sir.”

“The Elves in my land, you mean?”

“Yes, that is it.” Morgôs said, nodding emphatically, “In Pashtia, we are not concerned with other Elves, and, I myself did not know that many remained on this world alive. I had…” he hesitated here, thinking on the myths that he had considered and the ideals they contained, in comparison to what this proud Emissary before him was saying, “…other perceptions of their fate when they left here and removed to the west, led by strange hopes and schemes stranger still. If they live in the west, I fear my curiosity about them will not be quelled. Tell me of them.” He looked eager to learn, just as King Faroz was, and the Emissary looked ready to please, but Morgôs had a mind that saw past the look of imparting wisdom on the Emissary’s face. He saw a speck of hesitation and of quick thinking in the Emissary’s eye, the kind of quick thinking that must be employed when one has to lie.

After very little time, the Emissary spoke. “I think that would take far too long, and is not a light topic for our meal.” He looked sorry, and was apologetic in the way he spoke, but a glimmer of suspicion very briefly aroused in Morgôs, but it was soon quelled by the sheer mildness and kindness of the foreigner’s attitude as he said, “You seem as if you know more than me of them, for, from what you say, you knew of them before I told you?” He blinked and leaned forward, not really curious, but certainly possessed of some interest, small as it might be. His mind was arranged in a manner that made it hard for Morgôs to probe it further, so he ceased trying.

“Yes, but that is also too long a tale.” Morgôs replied. He was disappointed at not gaining the information he desired, as a passionate need for it has risen and fallen in him. Now, it was but a fleeting thought, but a thought locked into place inside the Elven General, and would not leave him unless appeased. So, pressing the matter further, Morgôs said to the Emissary, “But, I beseech you; tell me of them another time. I am very interested.” The Emissary smiled again, and gestured dramatically, bowing. “I would not dare turn down the mighty General of Pashtia.” He did seem hesitant still, as if the matter of the Elves was not one he would ever relish speaking of, no matter the situation.

Faroz laughed, not loudly, but loudly enough, and then, as if he’d hit upon something, pursued the Emissary’s words. “Here is something we can discuss. Morgôs,” he exclaimed, with excitement in his royal voice, “tell the Emissary some tale about Pashtia’s wartime epics, I know you have enough stories in your mind to fill more volumes than the royal archives could bear.” The Emissary just tilted his head a little, instead of bowing his head or nodding. “Such things are more intriguing, General.” He said then to Morgôs, though the General looked hesitant, “Have you a victory song to sing, perhaps?”

“My voice is not a musical one, sir.” The Elf objected.

“Now that is strange.” Said the Emissary, frowning, “In my land, Elves sing often, and an Elf would be hard-pressed not to sing often, for it seems to many men that they were born with songs on their lips.” Faroz did not laugh, but pursed his lips and awaited a retort from the Avari, with a mere curl of his kingly brow in further curiosity. “Regardless of that,” Morgôs said, very firmly, “I am no singer, nor am I much of a talker.”

“You are talking now, are you not.” The Emissary shot back, as if he had joined a playful argument.

“When spoken to, it is polite to speak back, in Pashtia.”

“A most respectable custom indeed.”

“Respectable, yes, but it does tend to prolong conversations and wear out the voices of Pashtians. Perhaps that is why Avari do not sing; too much talking has denied them the talent.”

At this, Faroz laughed aloud, and the Emissary chuckled. After this repartee, Morgôs felt as if he was, in earnest, caught in the conversation, and might enjoy it just a bit. He was not a clever being, of wit or of tongue, and he guessed that the Emissary was the silver-tongued one at the table, and not he, but he felt good to be speaking to the man, in spite of the strange sensation he felt when he looked upon him. Faroz clapped his hand upon the table, nearly upsetting a filled-to-the-brim cup that sat near him. “That, General,” he said, “is a merrier tune you speak of now. Come, let us talk more.”

Letting his hesitation go to the stray wind, Morgôs did just that.