[Kransha]

With the questioned individuals departed, Hírvegil sought comfort in lying on his bed again. He should really be up and about; he had spent far too much time during the day isolated in his semi-spacious temporary quarters, most of that time sprawled on a disheveled bedroll. The Captain’s mind had used up its daily reserve, which was significantly less than usual, and felt both peaked and spent, both different feelings as far as he was concerned. One encompassed the pain in his head, the other the uselessness of his thoughts. Both put him off extraordinarily as he lay, thinking dejectedly about his predicament.

He was not himself. He, Captain Hírvegil of His Majesty’s Rearguard, had been spoken down to by a middle-class soldier’s wife, a common woman. He usually never even considered the class stations assigned by his archaic society, but he had always considered himself part of a specialized caste, a warrior class of elite comrades. Never had he held himself above others, but as that woman, Lissi, spoke to him in such a caustic, condescending fashion, and then had the nerve to walk out on him, he felt petty societal prejudice rearing its ugly head in him. Was he so different that he could not hold sway or command with common-folk? This was not the Captain of the Rearguard.

Hírvegil started to wonder if the fall of Fornost had altered him, changed him in some way. Usually, inspiring wartime oratory came from him passionately, as the speech-craft of ancient lords of war, but his words to the troops at the North Downs had been weak and threadbare, lacking in his typical abilities. His stratagems were not themselves either. Under most circumstances, he could’ve efficiently devised a solution to this whole sorry dilemma, but today his mind was dulled and content to beat lazily around the bush, concocting second-rate schemes which he could not even issue in a timely manner.

His father would have easily concluded the situation with a thought out solution, and so would he have done if he were the man he was but a month ago. His father would’ve done so many things differently, and this was no consolation for that father’s son. Rolling uncomfortably back and forth, wishing for sleep, Hírvegil pushed memories of his past glories away, trying to remain firmly rooted in the present, rather than the more desirable past. He rubbed his eyes and closed them tightly, scratching his scalp with an aimless hand that had nothing else to do, trying to empower himself with the spirit he’d once possessed.

Now he resolved that something had to be done. The lord he’d been charged with was obviously displeased with him, morale among the soldiers was dropping (through lack of information, disillusion, and other motivations), his own lieutenant seemed to have lost some confidence in him, and even the civilians were reacting negatively to his actions. Though his logical half spoke out against it, he blamed, inwardly, the Elves. Their stalwart braggadocio had cost him the support of his people. Yesterday, he’d been merry, ready for a good night’s rest and a needed period of slow, plodding travel that would tax neither him nor those beneath and around himself. Instead, through the arrogance of the Firstborn, as well as their clumsiness and the stealth of their orcish adversaries, he found himself unconscionably depressed and with no recourse he could see. The only things he could do where go on, go to the Elves, or stay where he was. Remaining static was out of the question, since that would just worsen the situation, and too many would react aversely if he chose to march on. That left one option.

Two minutes later, Hírvegil yawningly ambled outside his tent, fully armored and ignoring both the jingle-clank of his panoply and the orderly greeting of his guard who had been stationed outside his tent for hours and hours. With an ill cough, he dragged himself through the camp until he reached Belegorn’s tent. His blurry vision caught sight of the lieutenant some distance away, heading towards the tent and him. Belegorn’s look of withered disappointment overshadowed feigned surprise at seeing Hírvegil. “Captain?” he said.

“Belgorn,” Hírvegil mumbled, slurring syllables together as he spoke with both haste and tiredness, “Arise all able-bodied men.” His lieutenant looked at him confusedly, his eyebrow rising unnoticeably beneath a stern forehead. “Captain, I’d say all able-bodied men are aroused already. Day passes swiftly, and all men have woken and know of the evening’s transpirings.” Hírvegil barely heard this, picking at his ear with a hand encased in an embossed leather glove, minus his plate-mail gauntlet. “Good, good, get ‘em ready to move out.”

“Move out?”

“Ye, we’re headin’ after the Elves.” Hírvegil’s refined annunciation was all but gone, replaced by a slummy, country accent caused by the weariness of him, in voice and mind and sight. Belegorn stared at him as if he were mad. “Sir, you just dispatched a unit of rangers to-” “I know that, lieutenant, but we’re going to catch up with them, we are. Organize all troops into their respective companies and have some guards and watchmen appointed to remain in the camp and keep lookout. All soldiers are to move out in an hour. We will trail those blasted Elves at a speed even their proud steeds can’t match and finish this whole sorry affair with one swordstroke. I’ll take no insults from commoners and politicians, nay; we’ll slay all those elf devils ‘afore the day is out.”

“You mean ‘orc’ devils, Captain,” interjected Belegorn, still very confused. He looked a look Belegorn had never before seen – one of utter disbelief and utter incredulousness. It would have amazed and intrigued Hírvegil, but his eyes were focusing instead on a blank spot somewhere in the distance, past his trusty lieutenant. With a grunt and a blink, Hírvegil managed and “Umm…” followed by, “yes, I do. Now, get on it.”

With that (and another yawn), Hirvegil plodded back to his tent to get another hour of sleep.