[Kransha]

Morgôs didn’t feel well. He rarely felt well these days, but today he felt particularly bad: the sort of bad that portends infectious disease and illness, the sort of bad that forces the stomach to tie itself up into knots, the sort of bad that induced great pangs of agony…the sort of bad that Elves were not supposed to feel. He coughed silently, clapping a fisted hand to his dry, blue-lipped mouth to stifle the already miniscule noise even more. He felt oddly self-conscious, which was also very unusual for him, but he had a good reason. Everything around him seemed as stifling as his sickly and chronic coughing, dark and barren. The usual air of strength that filled him was gracelessly dimmed, its energy sapped. His only consolation was his reasoning. At least, thought the semi-General, his motives were well based.

The King was either mad or ingenious, and both options included a sub-clause portending mental instability. Khamûl’s newest orders were most outrageous, and news of his edict was already spreading through the land. Some might accept it as a righteous course of action, but who besides his mad zealots and those he had installed in seats of power actually agreed with him anymore? The power of Pashtia’s ruler was simply too great to challenge, so no one dared to, save for straggling resistance movements. Rebellion was expected during any campaign of change or reign of an unpopular king, but the rebellion that was bandied about to rival Khamûl’s orc hordes was so motley and so feeble it could not have crushed the regime of a tyrannical gardener. Pathetic was a word that might be applicable, but Morgôs tried not to think about rebellion at all. Getting involved in such a thing, for better or worse, would be bad for him. If he ever came into contact with revolutionaries, it would probably be in battle, with his blade dealing death to them at every turn. Such an order might well come from Khamûl. In reality, any order might come from the King in this twisted state, but Morgôs didn’t care now what came. He only hoped that the King would give him some order, just so he could restore the magistrate’s faith in him.

As the General meandered down the halls of Kanak’s royal palace, he began to piece together what had happened over the past weeks. The Emissary was now, officially, allied with Pashtia, he and his mighty sovereign Annatar. At one fleeting moment in all this time, after a bizarre and painful epiphany just before the sundering of reality occurred, Morgôs had known that this was a dark pact, his terrible dream revealing the fact to him. But suddenly his mind lay clouded and he could not grasp the fact any longer. He knew, and, with grim ease, accepted the alliance as he considered it. Whatever the decision of the King was, or his opinion, he had to accept the word of Khamûl as he had the word of his father and his father’s father before him. Once, he might’ve felt a vague spirit swelling in him, one of dogged rebellion and willingness to arouse, to rise and be counted with his own words. Today, as he wandered, the icy cold of the palace marble chilling his calloused, bare feet, he felt none of this. Instead, he heard a distant voice in his mind – his own – speaking quietly; thinking hard.

His wife and son would be at the palace soon, and a suite of some fashion was being furnished for his family. He almost laughed cynically – a suite, a set of rooms, when once he had had a mansion! Arlome would not be pleased, but she would accept it. Her adjustment would be hardest. Evrathol might have an easier time of it, but not by far. Morgôs would have to send envoys to get the books in his library and bring them by the wagon-load, if the King might allow it. What if the King said no? His thoughts lay as they were whisked from his mind on the wrinkled pages of every tome; they were of dire importance to him. If the King denied him this request, could he challenge this denial?

No, he could not refute the king. Doing so would mean death, even if the king spared his mortal life. His soul would be damned without question, not by the king or the law, but by his own past foolishness. Morgôs had never been impulsive, except on one occasion, and the words he’d spoken then haunted him now, as they sometimes did. He never dwelled on the decision he’d made…he could barely remember how long ago it had been. The General had never realized before that the decision would so alter his life as it had, but, as he contemplated, he was forced to admit that the decision had, in fact, had profited far more than it had been a detriment. If he still knew what he’d known before, he would be far more alarmed by the resonance of that past choice he made, but since the memory had evaporated, he was left with only gnawing regret.

The gnaw became a voice again, but not one he was used to, even though it was familiar.

“My lord, do not do this, I beg of you.”

The voice was familiar; his own. It sounded vaguely younger, but far darker in retrospect, and full of a terrified consternation. The next voice that rang coolly in the blank darkness was young, but spoke with an archaic, ancient style of nobility and regality, like a figure of old lore or literature might. “Wouldst thou betray me, my brother?” stabbed the voice into the expanse of night, sounding mortified, “I trusted your kind; saw them through the woes done unto them by my forefathers. I liberated them. Is this my reward?” There was little real anger or rage in the voice, but a betrayed vocal tone rode it. The first voice responded pleadingly. “Your cousin’s senses fly from him, lord – he may no more be looked to for aid or counsel. He is the consul of a dark thing, a fell and dark behemoth. He deceives you with his shadowed words.” – A dark warning.

“O’er time thou hast spoke truth to me, Warlord,” reprimanded the second voice, with caustic sting in its tongue, “and I have not turned from thine advice, but today the shadows dissemble in my hall. Join them, if thou wishest, but speak not to me of such evil.” The first voice interjected readily, diving in with no thought before doing so. “By my life and yours,” the second voice exclaimed, “do this not, for if you do you shall doom us all. Know you not what they call your kinsman? ‘The Black’ is his rank, and terror is his title. Leave him to his demise and live in his stead.” This dread word forced the second voice to rattle and tremble, but it spoke with a cold, sardonic voice instead. “And what assurances have I, Warlord my brother?” said it, using a similarly archaic acknowledgement, “If my kinsman is on the path to victory, what can I glean from this? Thou hast naught to dissuade me.” The challenge was swiftly answered. “I have my service, King of Kings,” retorted the first voice after a willowy pause, “for all time.”

There was hesitation then in the second voice. “For all my children?” it questioned, “And theirs after them? Grant me this, and thou shalt have thy way.” It affirmed at last. There was no pause in the first voice. “I shall.” Spoke that voice, not eagerly, but all truthful and willing. A grin could be seen through the pale darkness on the lips of the second speaker as he continued. “Warlord Morgôs Karandûn, if thou shalt render thy services to my sons forever after, and serve the throne unbidden, then I may rest in my grave assured of the safety of my sons. But, thou must only serve the true King of Kings, and no false lord or regent but the true heir of my house. If so, I shall be at peace - my dynasty preserved by thee in battle and in peace, for I have known your service to be of infinite value. Vow, Morgôs, that thou shalt not shirk this sacred duty to me, and my cousin will make his foolhardy way across the Sea of Ice alone.”

Again, no hesitation on the part of the first voice, though the words came with a terrible strained reluctance, as if there were millennia in between each resounding syllable. “To this end,” it said, “I will bind myself to them.” The second voice quickly bore up the banner of these words. “Be warned, Warlord,” it said, “I know you to be deathless. Until the day thou art slain, your service must not end. Thou art fettered to my line and shall uphold it in the highest until it falls…And if it falls, Warlord, thou shalt fall with it.”

“Forever shall I serve you, King of Kings.”

“Very well. Word shall be sent to the west of my dissuasion.”

“Thank you, my lord. Your wisdom is as deep as your armies are strong”

“And they shall be far stronger in time, my brother, thanks to you.”

Shaking uncontrollably by now, Morgôs staggered towards the halls that allowed entrance to the King’s meeting chambers, heavily guarded in this savage time. The time for drastic action had come, if he was to keep his promise and not be condemned to some sort of dark domain after life had ended for his disloyalty.