Fall of the North RPG

[Osse]

Slowly, Carthor’s eyes opened to take in the ruddy light. He was stretched out on a bier of yew; the branches were lashed together and covered in fabric to form a membrane which was currently sagging under his weight. As his eyes slowly reached out to focus the great room around him, he became aware of a cold wall of grey stone to his right. The wall was covered in richly embroidered tapestries and hangings depicting great scenes of battle. One by his cold, grey right hand depicted a great hunt, the dogs rearing as they went in for the kill upon a large boar, fighting to the last. Carthor’s head swirled as he tried to raise it, the blood rushed to his throbbing head and he lay heavily back down upon the bier. His eyes closed and his tired, damaged mind tried to piece together the happenings of the last day, the last bloody, horrible day.

Flashes of the battle raced like stampeding kine through his mind, their thundering, steel clad hooves breaking the soft ground of his mind and throwing other memories, like dust into the wind. Faces, both man and orc, alive and dead, swirled in the dust. Carthor could feel his own hand as it gripped his broadsword, could feel the shudder as it bit into flesh. A tall building, aflame suddenly reared up out of the dust, its form like a great beast itself, stricken by many hurts, yet still unconquered. He could hear the screams, taste the hot blood on his parched lips, feel the cobble stones underfoot and the sickly wind as it mockingly caressed his face with the stench of the dead. And then out of the dust came a great beam, burning as it fell on him.

Carthor opened his eyes. There, kneeling by his left side, bathing some linen in steamy water, the fragrance of which filled the air, was his Lissi. It was then that Carthor realized that the fear and doubt in his mind was not directed at what had happened to him, but rather what had happened to her, her and their two boys. Carthor’s gnarled hand reached over and touched hers, the porcelain skin warm from the water. She started and looked up from the bowl, her lovely grey eyes bright in delight. Lissi’s lips opened for speech, yet the words lingered on her tongue. Carthor gently raised his finger deftly to her soft lips and with much effort pulled himself upright enough to place a delicate kiss on their supple curve. Lissi sat upon her haunches, quite shocked at this tender change in her stone hard husband.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Carthor said gently. “You and my boys.”

“Where are they? Are they safe? What of Brander??” The questions that had been plaguing Carthor rolled like waves from his heart.

“They are quite safe. Those two are no braggarts, and looked after their mother well. They are both now helping the men prepare, the king has addressed us.” Lissi’s voice had softened from the usual strength it held when directed at her husband, and her face seemed tired and worn and she said no more.

A short period of time passed where neither of them spoke, Carthor just reveling in her presence, Lissi looking around the large stone hall with interest. Neither saying what was on their mind.

Part of Carthor’s organized mind longed to fill in the events that he had missed – how had he got to the North Downs stronghold, a place he had been on two previous occasions? Who was responsible for his rescue? What had happened to the rest of the Vanguard? How close was the enemy behind them? Where would the people go now, for surely this was no better a place than Fornost?

Instead, he just laid his head in the lap of his beautiful wife, quieted his mind and gave his swimming head a rest. Lissi bent down and placed a beautifully soft kiss on his furrowed forehead and his eyes fell closed. Carthor escaped into the soothing quiet of dreamless sleep.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn

Belegorn raised an eyebrow and rubbed his stubble covered chin absentmindedly with his ungloved left hand,

Ered Luin. So that’s the king’s plan!

A burly man in front of Belegorn turned around cursing and brushed passed the First Lieutenant rudely much to the latter’s irritation. Jolted out from his thoughts, Belegorn looked around and saw that his men were still standing among the civilians near to him, their filthy faces betraying anxiety, nervousness and unease. Many a few were straining their heads and scanning the crowd, with the look of those trying to identify familiar faces. It was all too understandable to Belegorn, for the guardsmen had not seen their folks since the day they took up positions behind the secondary battlements and then there here they were, mingled with the survivors of Fornost. The urge to go off and find their families and loved ones were overwhelming, but as they were still on duty, their discipline and honor forbade them to leave their post without permission.

The occupants of the seemingly endless hall of curved stone was now in an uproar as the king’s foreboding announce sank in and realization of its significance struck the cold and tired Dúnedain refugees like a merciless invisible hammer. A mob of agitated men folk standing nearest to the dais were gesturing threateningly and yelling their displeasure in the direction of the King’s entourage. The nervous bodyguards of the king were quick to note that and quickly formed a line separating their charge and his glittering staff from the rest of his royal subjects, their black leather clad hands grasping the gilded hilts of their swords tensely. Belegorn sneered at the rowdy men.


The First Lieutenant looked for and found Hirvegil. His captain was looking in another direction and standing very still, facial expression undecipherable. Belegorn made his way over slowly and tapped him gently on one of the broad shoulders,

“Sir, the men have not rested since the day the retreat begun and are exhausted. Would you have them gathered and addressed before dismissing them from their stations? I’m sure a kind word and praise or two from their lord captain would be most appreciated.”

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

During the King’s speech, the Noldo was silent. But in her mind, Bethiril decided that the time for action has come.

After the King had finished his address, she looked for her fellow emissary. She found Erenor in one of the armouries, whetting her blade. Bethiril almost faltered at the sight of the weapon, but she gained composure and moved on to her task.

“We must do something. If the Men of Fornost persist in daring the elements, they will only open the doors of Mandos wider for them.”

“That I know. Did you not read my thoughts then, when we were gathered at the passage of the North Gate?”

“I did, but I deemed it then that the time was not proper. Yet now, we are in a place of safety, if any place will ever be safe from the grasp of the Witch-King, and we will find no better place and time to avert the doom of Arnor.”

Erenor sheathed her sword, then stood to her feet. “Will you not help me with this task? You have more experience in this than I have.”

Bethiril was silent. Her eyes were transfixed by the dull gleam of the scabbard hanging on Erenor’s right hand. It still doesn’t make sense. She of all people should understand: emissaries should aim to rid Middle-earth of the blood-thirsty metals and their wielders, not carry one themselves. Erenor perceived her mind, and hid the sword under her robes. “Arnor must survive this onslaught. I am willing to set aside our differences to achieve our goals. Will you not do the same?”

Bethiril raised her eyes, and stared at the Elf before her. They said that Erenor was a woman unsentimental. Who is this then before me? She spoke: “You know that you have more authority in this place than I have. I was sent for a purpose now bereft of meaning. Let us hope your errand falls not to the same doom.”

“Let us go then,” and summoning Angóre the two emissaries trod the paths to the king’s chambers.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor answered her co-emissary "this is not a time for that dispute - those who do not wield swords are still liable to die on them - I will not pass to Mandos without offering resistance". She sheathed her sword and uttered no further word until in the presence of the king. She made a reverence, but the gesture seemed cursory compared to those of the obsequious courtiers. Her language was similarly direct; Arvedui was not her king, her status protected her and her honesty was a more valuable gift than her skill with blade.

"My Lord, I must advise you against this course. The road to the mountains is long and into the depths of winter. The journey to Imladris is no longer and conditions would be easier. Furthermore, aid could be expected from our kindred. If you insist on the westward course it should be to the Havens not the diggings of the Naugrim. It may be even now that the Earnil of Gondor has harkened to Arthedain's need and aid from the south will await us there."

[Kransha]

Mellonar was indeed disappointed about having been absorbed into the last party to leave Fornost. His train had apparently arrived almost two hours later than the others at the northern hold, which explained why the King had so readily orated when his group arrived. He and about ten other nobles had not been part of the emergency rede of counselors held in the chambers of the hold, and had little idea of what was going on. He had to be filled in by nobles’ attendants and guardsmen, since all the Arnorian lords already busied themselves during this time settling in for a brief stay. After the King left the main hall, the throng dispersed into other rooms, and guards divided them into units that occupied small rooms of the fortress. The hold became more controlled by soldiers, but was still a chaotic mess of a situation, one which Mellonar did not like and could barely, in this ill time, fathom fully.

In his haste, the minister found himself worming his way illicitly through the crowd, constantly proclaiming his status so underlings would scoot clumsily aside, and made his way with great, serpentine speed to the chamber of the king. It was not a large room, certainly not befitting of royalty, and had been, at one time, the seat of some provincial Dúnedain lord, possibly, so the weathered old rock stone that the King now sat in, kneading his creased brow with a bony hand, bore some merit, but little. Lords and ladies were crowded around, running back and forth to attend to their own respective duties or needs. It was hard to near King Arvedui, but Mellonar soon attained close vicinity to the last Arnorian monarch, and attempted to approach. Unfortunately, before he came near enough, another source addressed the king – the Elf, Erenor.

They were speaking to the King, of course, which made Mellonar seethe. They should have sought him out. He was their ambassador to the king, in charge of relations with the Elven-kindreds of Middle-Earth. Sourly, he approached them as they concluded what they were saying. Mellonar noted that the King was still too busy kneading his brow to take complete notice, probably very weary from all the business he had to tend to, so Mellonar took the opportunity to shove himself in front of the Elves.

“Lady Erenor, Lady Bethiril, pardon my rudeness but, if I may, I will take your questions.” He said all this with sickening sweetness, fitting of his nature, and smiled grimly, but the look of the Elf who’d spoken, Erenor, was somber. “Our query was addressed to the King.” She steadily and seriously intoned, and Mellonar diverted a scowl and nodded accordingly. “And I will tell him of it, I assure you.” He continued smiling, but was certainly grimacing within. “Now then, what is it you want?”

Erenor spoke, and Bethiril simply stood by. “We” she looked quickly to Bethiril for final confirmation, “believe that the King is making a mistake.” Mellonar winced noticeably, but recovered his smile, though it was now tempered with a stern furrowing of his threadbare eyebrows. “My dear Lady, the King does not make mistakes, even in times of war.” Erenor looked a little disdainful when this was said, and Bethiril looked indifferent. Both were oddly cold, and shot a look at Mellonar that bordered on ennui, which annoyed the minister to no end. Quietly, Erenor responded.

“All men make mistakes, Lord Mellonar, it is not a shameful thing.”

Mellonar sighed. “I suppose Elves make no mistakes, yes?” He shot back with a tone of caustic sarcasm ripe in his wheedling voice. There was a slight pause, as the graceful Elven maid was digesting this retort. It was, in fact, Bethiril who replied, possibly covering for her compatriot. “All creatures are flawed,” she said, in an attempt at vague pacification perhaps, “but that is not the matter we pursue here. The course of the king is a wrong one. The Ered Luin hold only catacombs and darkness, an asset to the Wraith Lord who pursues us rather than a detriment. We can reach the harbors of Mithlond easily once we have gone far enough west.”

Again Mellonar sighed at the ignorance of the Elves (his image thereof, at least), and set off in a brief harangue. “You should consult your maps, Emissary. Between us and Mithlond many perils lie. It is not as easy a course as it sounds or even looks. Orcs are numerous now in the north. Have you not heard of the terrors the Witch-King has brought upon us?” he widened his eyes and gestured with his politician’s fluttering hands to illustrate, “There are wraiths, spirits, and phantasms in the south, infesting the graves of our dead. Goblins from the mountains swarm over the hills, and wolves gnaw at those lost on the plains. A journey to Mithlond is a journey to death.” He spoke the last word with grinding sternness, and some people who were walking in the area nearby stopped and shot concerned glances in the direction of the three Elves and the minister who was trying to dissuade them from their course. Unfortunately, Bethiril was quick on the uptake.

“But, if we reach the Ered Luin, will we be farther from that death?”

Mellonar’s throat allowed a bubbling growl of contempt to escape it, though his face remained stately, despite rising anger. “Why must you question his majesty now?” he said tiresomely, “He is tired and his wisdom should not be questions.”

Erenor picked up the argument again. “You speak rightly, he is tired – and his wisdom may be dulled.”

Mellonar’s eye twitched, and he did not bother to answer. Annoyance plain in his voice, he gestured to two nearby guards, who were only two of the many who were gathered in clumps throughout the room, answering questions, issuing directions and orders, and keeping order in the area. The guards hurried over, and Mellonar turned back to the two bemused emissaries and the ever-silent Elven guard. “We have not the time for this.” He said, gesturing again, unnoticeably, to the armored guards. “Here,” he indicated the guards, “these men shall escort you to your quarters. We will be here for some days, but do not settle, for we shall uproot again before the new moon.” He jabbed his quavering index finger in the direction of the nobles’ chambers under his billowing robes and turned away before the Elves even had a chance to protest, hurrying towards the King. A moment later, the rushing crowds of ministers and lords had moved all around him and concealed him from view.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

The guard motioned for the emissaries to follow them. Bethiril held her ground, her stare following the slithering form of Mellonar.

Here she was, believing that the sword was the greatest danger to all, able to take more lives than anything else this world could throw against anyone. This Man, though weaponless himself, is more dangerous than a thousand swords and spears. With a sickening infusion of pomp, stubbornness, and arrogance, he sends the people of Arnor to a fate they otherwise should not have tasted.

She turned to the King. His head was now bowed, his hands rubbing his temples, revealing a glimpse of the tempests that essayed to scatter the ashes of his wisdom, the gales of contradictory advice this Man must have received ever since the hated host reared its banners before the walls of now-doomed Fornost. Perhaps, on his own, Arvedui would have been a better king, a great king even. But with Men like the insecure Mellonar as his counsellors, he may perhaps live to his name.

She was tempted to try to persuade the king once more, pouring out the last of her strength in an appeal that she hoped would prevent Arnor from partaking of this deadly fruit. She was tempted to take her ring, and cast it before the feet of the king, washing her hands of any evil that might after befall. She was tempted to do many other things, but the knowledge that all these would ultimately prove useless prevented her from being dragged away by the mad thoughts.

Erenor beside her felt the momentary turmoil in her mind. She reached out to touch her shoulders. “It seems that the king has burned his ships,” she said, her voice quavering, as if she struggled to remain master of it. “Let return to our quarters for new counsel.”

Bethiril turned to the window, looking at the Dúnedain women and children huddling in the cold. She remained silent as she turned her back and left the presence of the king.

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre didn't bother to keep his voice down as the guards approched hesitantly. "This is foolishness." He directed his words to Betheril and Erenor. "To where are we fleeing? Are the holes of the Naugrim more defensible with a hundred men than the Citadel of the north with a legion? What friends are there to aid us in the frigid north, when we are beset again by the pursuing forces of Angmar?" His tone was scathing, his normally impassive face twisted. The braver of the two guards felt that some response was called for.

"You would do well to trust in the decision of our king, Elf. Never before has his wisdom failed." The man was red in the face, but resolute.
"For you and yours, once will be enough," replied the Elf with a twisted smile. "But I do not deny the north-King's wisdom. It is against the mistrustfulness of his ministers that I speak. For I think that many among those who have the king's ear hold no love for the Eldar, and I see their hand behind this ill-fated choice. Alas that it should come to this! Will we now hold petty squabbles of more import than the survival of the heirs of Númenor? Tell me friend, do you see any hope in this choice?" But the man was silent as he and his companion ushered the Elves out of the hall. Angóre took one last look over his shoulder at Arvedui, last king of Arnor, and his countenance softened. The man sat lost in thought, the toil and strain of his decisions clearly visible in his features. It was plain that Angóre's questions had been oft in the mind of the king as well, and similarly plain that, for all his wisdom, he didn't know the answers either.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor had not trusted herself to speak again before the king and his minister but the second the elves were alone in their quarters her anger exploded. "This is madness - he will lead them all to death in his pride, rather than seek sanctuary in another's kingdom. And that MAN!!! How dare he lecture me - I dwellt at Mithlond when Elendil fled Numenor and I have traversed Eriador oft in the long years since. Does he think me some child to be frightened by his tales of phantasms and goblins? I fear the Witch-King himself less than his stupidity. " Erenor paced the small chamber. In her plain, somewhat masculine travelling clothes she ressembled more than ever her warrior father.

"We must try to speak to the king again - I fear the old fool will haunt my steps and I will be hard pressed to get near the king's ear - but perhaps the Lindon emissary may add his voice to our cause - I cannot imagine they wish to roam the mountains any more than us. But if the king refuses - what should our course be? surely our duty is not to follow to certain death - theirs if not ours? My sire was slain fighting on the slopes of Orodruin and the victory won by his death and those of so many others was squandered in pride and folly - must we too pay the price for the arrogance of the line of Isildur?" . Erenor spat the words at noone in particular .........and spun on her heel to face her companions, her hand unconsciously rested on the hilt of the sword at her hip.

Then calmer she said : "Lady Berethil - I will try to seek contact with the minds of our lords at Imladris - I would you would add your essais to mine since your power is the greater and some are closer in kindred. We may get counsel even if we cannot hope for aid." She sat on a bench and rested her head in her hands, fatigued by her own outburst.

[Nuranar]

As the King stepped down, the chaotic hubbub rose once more. Lissi forcefully quelled the despair rising in her and turned to her sons. "Go find us a place to rest. Here, Brander, take this" - she handed him the bag she had brought. "Faerim, take care of them. I'm going to look for your father among the wounded. If--"

"You can't do that," Faerim interrupted. Concern was written all over his face. "You don't know - I'll go with you, or I'll just go, and--"

"Faerim." The tone was sharp and brooked no objection. "You need to look out for your brother and the lady. When you've had some rest, help the men wherever they need you. I need to find my husband. If he is not among the wounded, I will meet you by the main entrance to this hall shortly. If I do not return, I am with him, and will come to you when I can."

Faerim nodded and began to turn away, gently directing Renedwen and his brother. The woman seemed intelligent and aware, but the listless apathy in her face was alarming. Lissi had no intention of leaving her alone. Brander hesitated. His searching hand found Lissi's arm, then her shoulder. Then he enveloped his mother in a fierce hug, just for an instant, and turned and found Faerim. Lissi blinked, swallowed hard, and began shoving her way in the other direction, where she'd seen the wains go.

~ * ~ * ~

The infirmary was a series of small rooms, inadequately heated by braziers holding coals, but still warmer than the rest of the Hold. Lissi picked her way through the livid darkness, peering uncertainly for the face she knew, kneeling beside those she could not see, hoping that the face behind the blood might be Carthor's. A number of dim figures also stooped and rose, other women hoping against hope. The noise here was not the clamor of conversation; it was the low murmur of groans, cries, orders, and weeping.

With a sigh, Lissi rose again. She looked at the next man, then the next - then back to the first. Quickly she stepped across and looked into his unconscious face. It was he! Her heart was pounding so hard it frightened her; the tears that suddenly began flowing down her face were a relief.

A minute composed her, and she was busily looking him over for injuries. Someone had removed his helm and set it beside him; a large dent in it mutely testified as to the ugly bruise on his brow. There were large, painful-looking burns on his shoulders and neck, but it was the head wound that worried Lissi.

Remembering something seen on the way to the infirmary, she quickly left the infirmary. There he was - a bent old man tending a fire. And yes, there was water heating on it. Carefully Lissi filled a bowl and hurried back. The old man never looked up.

Lissi washed Cathor's burns with the hot water and bandaged them with long strips of linen torn from her smock. She knew she hurt him, for the man's face grimaced and he moaned, but never did his eyes open. Then she carefully cleaned the blood and dirt off his face and bathed the bruise on his head. Once she left to get more water. Silently she cared for him, sitting quietly by his side through the long dark hours.

Suddenly a hand - his hand - reached out and touched hers. Lissi jumped, and she gasped to see Carthor's piercing blue eyes fixed on her. She opened her mouth to speak, but her relief and gratitude were wordless.

Her husband smiled at her confusion and shushed her wordlessly. Then, rising carefully, he leant forward and gently kissed her. If Lissi had had any words before, this incomprehensible action would have obliterated them. She could not recall the last time her husband had kissed her. All she could do was stare, her mind reeling from the double shock.

"I thought I’d lost you," Carthor said gently. Oh, so gently! When had been the last time? "You and my boys." Wondering, Lissi saw the anxiety in his face grow. "Where are they? Are they safe? What of Brander?"

"They are quite safe," Lissi said, her voice trembling. She cleared her throat and pulled herself together, even trying to smile. "Those two are no braggarts, and looked after their mother well. They are both now helping the men prepare," she finished - no, one more thing. "The king has addressed us." And made clear his folly and our doom, she did not say. Carthor did not answer immediately, and Lissi's thoughts wandered back.

"We shall traverse the lands to the west and make haste to the Blue Mountains," the King had said. "There, the refuges of the Dwarves shall be home to us until we have recovered from this stinging blow." Does he not know that the mines have been deserted for a century? Is he that much a fool? "Food and supplies can be found there, and metals in those mines to forge new weapons that shall replace our splintered blades. Shields will be remade, spears sharpened, armor wrought, and victory regained in time." There is nothing there - no food, no fuel, no supplies. Victory with a hundred swords, against Angmar! There is nothing but death. Why does he lead us there? Why?

Lissi's thoughts, wandering in sad circles, were interrupted as Carthor sighed wearily. He looked around once more, then laid his head in her lap as if it was the most natural thing to do. Lissi's eyes filled with tears. She kissed his forehead and watched him sleep.

[alaklondewen]

Ereglin was deeply troubled by the King’s decision. He could not fathom taking these people across dangerous land with winter upon them to reside in abandon Dwarf mines. They should be heading to the Havens and to Cirdan, where real aid would be available. The Councilor did not fail to notice that the King had left the city long before the Elves, and therefore, took no counsel with the Eldar. It was folly.

“Lord Ereglin.” Rôsgollo’s voice brought him from his thoughts, and Ereglin noticed a guardsman talking to his personal guards. “He wishes to take us to our quarters.” The young elf said as he followed Ereglin’s gaze.

“That is good,” Ereglin answered. “I believe we can all use some rest.” As he spoke the young child that clung to Rôsgollo began to fuss, and the Elven guard set to calming him.

The mortal guard led them down a long, narrow hallway, lit with mounted candles whose light danced on the walls and floor before them. Several doorways along each side emptied into storage rooms. Ereglin glanced into each room as they passed and saw that they were quickly filling, mostly with nobility who were settling in to rest for the short time they were allowed. As they neared the end of the hall, the Elf’s highly sensitive ears picked up the melodic sound of Elven voices. “…must we too pay the price for the arrogance of the line of Isildur?” Ereglin raised his eyebrow at the statement and wondered if his guards heard it too. He almost smiled at the similarity to his own thoughts. The voice died down just before the guide halted at a heavy wooden door on the left. He knocked dutifully on the door before pushing it open, exposing the forms of the Imladhrim.

After thanking the guard for showing them to the room, Ereglin stepped in front of his guards and greeted the other Emissaries. “Lady Bethiril…Lady Erenor.” He bowed his head toward each of them. “I hope we have not interrupted you, but it seems we will be sharing quarters for the next few days.”

[Kransha]

“I do not believe my words will console them, Belegorn.”

Hírvegil was not tired; he had learned to remain alert and awake for hours on end. In fact, he hadn’t slept since the beginning of the siege days ago. Yet, he felt no weariness now. The speech of the king had filled him with too many strange thoughts to allow him to nod off. His eyes were reddened, though, and dark wrinkles creased the rough skin beneath each one. His brow sagged and looked heavy, as if weighted by a battle-helm. As he looked to Belegorn, he saw the amazingly sprightly nature of his Lieutenant who, by rights, should have been far wearier looking than he. The battle had taken little physical toll on him, besides the prerequisite injuries he’d received. The man was an aspiring soldier indeed, though his Captain. With a serious expression glazed on his soldierly face, Belegorn responded.

“They did well in combat against forces Arnor has never faced the likes of before. They deserve congratulations.” His honest selflessness was as refreshing as his contemplative vigor. Hírvegil could not smile, but he allowed his spirits to rise and clapped the lieutenant hard on the shoulder, striking his un-removed pauldron and taking him by surprise. “You deserve congratulations, Lieutenant. You have done well…” he paused hesitantly, but continued soon after, “Better, perhaps, than I would have.”

After Belegorn gathered the gist of the words, he gestured negatively. “Your flattery is undeserved.” He said. He was not really a humble person, as Hírvegil knew, but his pride allowed for similar modesty. Hírvegil shook his head swiftly and replied with further accolades. “But it is.” He retorted, chiding his second like a father or older brother, “If we ever reach stability in the north, I will see that you are promoted. When I speak with the King, I will recommend you for a higher post.” His face glowed warmly, though he looked no less weary.

“What post is there in an army of hundreds?” Belegorn was grateful, but could not avoid adding the jarring phrase. Hírvegil tried to laugh it off, even though he knew the words to be deadly serious. “None, I suppose,” he said, clucking his tongue, “but I will make sure the King hears your name.” Belegorn nodded and bowed his head in reverence, saying quietly: “Many thanks.”

As the noise of conversation and the hollow sound of footsteps against brick rang emptily in the chambers, silence fell on Belegorn and Hírvegil, leaving a nervous atmosphere over both comrades in arms. Hírvegil realized, as he glanced absentmindedly away from the lieutenant, that he had little to do but contemplate, though all thoughts there were to be pensive about were darker than he cared for, and he did not want to be drowned in that sorrowful humor that might overtake him if he lost himself in thought. Thankfully, Belegorn spoke again, reminding him of another option.

“So, you will say nothing to your men?” questioned the man.

Hírvegil didn’t need to think on it for long. He required a diversion – even a brief one. “Very well,” he said, waving dismissively, “assemble them in the barracks.” With another acknowledging nod, Belegorn hurried off, rounding up the remnants of the Rearguard milling about the chamber. Soon, armored men were filing into another offshoot chamber, another large room. This room held weapons on racks, mounted shields and tables of maps and papers. The men, all tired and not having slept in days, or even sat, slumped eagerly on the cold, hard floor when told they could. Sitting in a variety of positions, they reclined in cramped clumps. As Hírvegil moved, with Belegorn, towards the front of the room, he looked across it to see a decimated throng, but not a defeated one. They looked like acolytes awaiting a preacher’s words, looking up from where they sat to their Captain.

When Hírvegil stopped at the front of the room, the Rearguard cheered, very unexpectedly, and Hírvegil reeled a little, but recovered and quieted them with a commanding gesture. They seemed strangely jovial, despite the loss of the city and the news of travel-to-come. Hírvegil supposed that they considered escaping a victory and, in many ways, it was. The Captain began:

“Soldiers of the Rearguard, you have fought well, nay, excellently. An enemy has come upon our lands whose power is unmatched in south, east, and west combined, but you, the soldiers of the north-kingdom, held him and his spawn back and allowed us all to escape safely from a doomed citadel. Your strength was great, like the peerless courage of our forefathers. I feel the pride of Númenór when I look upon you, all warriors from a generation that came after my own, one which I did not fully understand, but now revere. In my veins runs blood that has fueled my arm, my sword, my shield, and my strength, but your blood is that which has been spilled in Fornost, and that blood has spared the blood of many.”

“I was with you for some of it. You stood as my armor when the Captain of Despair fell upon us, but I am sad to say I was drawn from you. But, by the Valar’s grace, you still had a mighty captain.” As he paused gratuitously, a cheer rose; all men looking to Belegorn where he stood at Hírvegil’s side. Ever humble, Belegorn put up his hand to halt the cheer, and it diminished. Hírvegil spoke again. “Your hearts may now be hardened against death, since you have drunk of it deeply and, I am afraid, have developed a taste. It is a taste that, once acquired, will not leave you until the day or your death. Do not drink of death lightly, my brothers, for it is cruel liquor, and a cold one that will leave you with nothing.” The melancholy tone made the silence settled around him all the drearier. “But, you have something today; you have hope. You have given all of us hope. And that, brothers, is no mean feat.”

“We will soon depart, and you will further defend the King of Arthedain and the people of Fornost. In future days, when books and tomes of lore bandy about tales of Arvedui, they may say he fled his capital, but indeed he did not. He flew from the city, with you as his wings and the sword in his hand which bore the hope of Arnor from Fornost and to safety. We do not idly flee, but hasten to a new land where we will stand again. And we shall stand again, my brothers. It is as the King said: the north has not fallen yet!”

Another cheer rose from the energized audience, and Hírvegil smiled.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Nilpaurion Felagund's post

Bethiril was looking out the window. Snow fell lightly outside, and once more, she was young again, watching in wonder the falling of the feathery tears of ice falling from a frowning sky. The staves from her youth she hummed again.

The dark clouds run swift, and hide Menel’s light.
And Manwë covers all with a blanket of white.
All go into slumber in this long and cold night.

Then she looked down, and saw the destitute of Arnor shivering anew. Her reverie was rudely ended, and she heard now the request of Erenor. The emissary was tired out by her effort to control her emotions before the king, followed by this outburst. Just a day before, Bethiril would have thought her less emissary-like than before. But now she saw in the younger Noldo a tenacity and dedication sometimes needed to change the minds of these proud Men of the West.

There was a knock on the door. It opened moments later, and the emissary from Mithlond walked in. “I hope we have not interrupted you, but it seems we will be sharing quarters for the next few days.”

“That is well.” The emissary from Rivendell sat down beside her superior, and she waited for Erenor to stir from her respite.

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Mithalwen's post

Erenor looked up and a glimmer of a smile passed briefly over her face as she saw the emissary from the Havens. Although he was younger than she - he had been less than a couple of centuries out of childhood when she had removed to Imladris after Gil-galad was lost - she knew him to have risen to high office through great determination. Furthermore his experience of the court far exceeded that of Berethil or herself who were relative newcomers, sent as the severity of the situation had increased. Finally - and Erenor hated to think that this was a factor - there was the possibility that by virtue of his gender, Ereglin's view would be taken more seriously than those of the Noldorin ladies despite their seniority in years and perhaps also in power. It rankled still how the old courtier had spoken to her as if she were a wilful and ignorant child. Ereglin with his strong resolve and the authority of his long ambassadorship would be a powerful ally.

Erenor spoke, and when she did so her voice was dulcet enough to meet even the most demanding standards of diplomacy.


"My lord Ereglin, your arrival is as the answer to a prayer for I wish greatly to have you counsel and if you will it your aid" . She relayed the facts of their attempt to speak with the king in measured terms. "Every instinct tells me that the king's choice leads to doom - I would attempt to persuade him but I fear I will be denied access - I will attempt to reach the minds of our Lords in Rivendell - perhaps if you will you might try likewise to gain counsel from the havens. the distance is great but our need may aid the transmission if there are those whose minds are open to our thought. "

Erenor fell silent and sought with her mind for contact. Knowing that the sharing of thoughts was easier with kindred and close friends she focused her will on her kinsman, a councillor of Elrond. She closed her mind to outside influences but it seemed that a great fog lay between the downs and her home sapping her power. She sighed...... " We cannot give up " she said.

[Arry]

Arry's post

Gaeredhel sat on his rough made cot, his sword held lightly in his left hand, his sharpening stone in his right. Snick . . . . snick . . . it went as he moved it smoothly along the blade’s edge. His knife, already sharpened lay on the quilt beside him, its keen edge catching the light from the small, slit window in the room. It was cool in the room, with the thick tapestry pulled back from the high opening, but the brothers preferred it to the dim, close, smoky enclosure it had been before they’d tied back the curtain.

‘Push your knife back further,’ came Rôsgollo’s request as Gilly toddled across the thick skin rug the brothers had foraged for in one of the hold’s cellars. A cry of frustration escaped the little boy as his intended plaything was put out of reach. ‘Here, Little Star,’ crooned Gaeredhel, offering the chubby fingers the sheath to play with instead. Gilly plopped down on his amply padded bottom and banged the knife sheath about on the bear skin. It was soon abandoned as some other object of interest caught his eye.

‘How long must we stay here?’ asked Gaeredhel, sheathing his sword. ‘Are we not simply waiting for the next blow to fall from the foul hand of the Witch-king?’

Rôsgollo nodded his head in agreement. ‘There are so few left – I cannot think how we might hold out against him.’ With his own knife, he sectioned a wizened apple he’d managed to secure from what small larder the hold had. He held a small piece out to Gilly, and one to his brother. A last bit, he popped into his own mouth, savoring the flavor. He wiped his knife on his breeches and resheathed it.

Gilly chortled happily as he gnawed the sweet offering. ‘Were it my choice,’ Rôsgollo said watching his antics, ‘I would have us leave these Fírimar to their fated end. No good will come of us staying with them. They care not for us or what counsel we can give. Why should we follow them to certain death?’

‘My thoughts echo yours, brother.’ Gaeredhel fished out a small piece of plain waybread, and leant forth, smiling, as the boy reached for it. ‘Once we cross the Baranduin, we should head south, to the Emyn Beraid and then to Mithlond.’ He looked up at his brother who stood to light the wall lamp as the sun descended. ‘What do you think? Would Lord Ereglin agree to come with us? I cannot see why he would stay, can you?’

‘That is the problem, is it not?’ Rôsgollo continued, drawing the tapestry across the window. ‘We are sworn to guard him . . . however wise or foolish his decision might be.’

Gaeredhel raised his brows as he considered the dilemma. ‘I suppose it is out of the question to simply kidnap him for his own good.’ He was startled as his brother laughed; it was a sound he had not heard in a long time.

‘Should push come to shove, we may have to consider that as a real course of action. I suppose that being sworn to guard him might include guarding him from himself.’

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Saurreg's post

Belegorn was pleased that the address went well. Hírvegil was a natural born leader of men and like all who partook in this gift of genius, he had an irresistible charisma that few could deny. His inspirational speech, delivered by that crystal clear animated voice aroused the fiery spirit of his people within the hearts of the soldiers and filled them with newfound hope and courage. The first lieutenant found it especially gratifying to see that as his men filed out of the barracks, their grey eyes were sparkling and the corners of their mouths curled upwards. Belegorn had little doubt that if their beloved captain was to order them to head back to Fornost and retake the great city right at that moment; they would do so without the slightest hesitation.

Belegorn turned to his captain to congratulate him but was taken aback when he saw the eyes his intent. The very eyes which captivated his audience and held them spell bound during the speech were now dull and lifeless – devoid of the wild fire that spun its hypnotic dance in them a few moments ago. Those grey eyes were still beautiful and clear, but they were heavy, spiritless. It was as if a totally dissimilar Hírvegil was sharing the room with Belegorn; the inspirational captain whom men would gladly lay down their lives down for had disappeared amidst the ranks of exiting soldiers and replaced by the same man whom he accosted in the main hall. For a moment Belegorn felt incredibly depressed and an irrational urge arose to seize the man before him by the shoulders and shake violently just for a glimpse of that hope again. Hirvegil noticed that his lieutenant was staring at him intently,

“Lieutenant, you should get some rest too. You must be tired after your ordeal in the north passage,”

“Sir…” Belegorn begun, but the rest of the words died in his mouth and never came forth. He eluded the still penetrating glance of Hírvegil and stared at the aged stone paved floor like a child who had discovered a secret those around were trying to hide from him. A spider darted across the floor from a cot and disappeared beneath the cracks of a stone curved wall.

Hírvegil narrowed his eyes and spoke, this time a bit more sternly,

“You may speak your mind lieutenant, if there is something you wish to say,”

“Belegorn cleared throat mildly and started a new,

“Beg your pardon sir. I was going ask you if I could have your permission to round up some of the civilians as fillers for the ranks. Some of the men are too seriously wounded for duty and all are too tired. Replacements are needed sir.”

“Very good Belegron,” replied Hírvegil addressing his subordinate by his name, “you have my permission to carry out your drafting. And don’t confine your search to the commoners alone, you may also include the youths of higher society in this exercise. They too must play a part in this nation’s defense, no?”

Hírvegil gave Belegron a wane smile as he concluded. The latter knew that his captain understood his distain for the aristocracy and nobility and must have added the last punt in jest just to lighten the air, but the younger man did not reciprocate. Squaring his shoulders, Belegorn continued in sonorous voice,

“And also, I am in the opinion sir, that the role of the rearguard must change. We are too scant in numbers and capacity to operate under current doctrine. If you would permit sir, I would like to have every single guardsman mounted on chargers and thus fighting as mounted light infantry. Every one of the one hundred is a trained rider – a basic prerequisite for entry into the Rearguard, so there shouldn’t be much problems sir. As for the replacements, we’ll try to pick out accomplished riders and at least those with some experiences handling the noble beasts. At worst, there’s nothing a good crash course in mounted warfare couldn’t solve.”

Hírvegil nodded and replied,

“I am also for this idea. Very well, you may carry out this reorganization of the rearguard lieutenant. Except I feel that a hundred mounted infantrymen would be hard pressed by the enemy in a standard engagement, with or without the crash course. I’m thinking on the lines of reconnoitering and scouting. At this point of time, I will have to pay a higher premium on battles avoided over battles won.”

Belegorn nodded curtly. Taking a step backwards from Hírvegil, he snapped into a smart salute, turned and strode towards the exit into the main halls hoping to find a senior sergeant or two.

As the first lieutenant passed the rows of green painted oak wood cots, he debated whether to stop and speak his mind to Hírvegil but decided against it. After all, a vexing comment would do no good in such times…

Hírvegil son of Sildathar, you give hope to others. Why do you not keep any to yourself?

[Kransha]

Kransha's post

Four days passed uneventfully in the North Downs hold, though, despite the seeming peace of the world around them, the air of the Dúnedain was far from peaceful. Four days had been spent at the height of alertness. All the inhabitants of the temporary hold were circumspect; the soldiery of Fornost occupied watchtowers and parapets, torchlit in the cold, wintry evenings, staring out into the distance expectantly. But nothing came to strike down the doors of the fortress, to smite its walls and burn it to the ground with merciless resolve. No orcs poured from the mountain passes or popped up from holes in the rolling hills. All were ready for departure at any moment, since an order to flee could come at any time, but, just as no foes swarmed across the downs to pursue and besiege, no order came. Sleepily the dazed passed, and dustings of snow blanketed the high pickets and tower roofs of thatch and lumber. The sun grew brighter, despite the penitent cold, and all seemed well with the world.

Then, on the evening of the fourth day, movement was sighted in the hills from the highest tower, and the light of braziers marked the encampment of the enemy. They had been detained in Fornost, looting and pillaging, for days, and then trailed the path of the escapees to the downs. The hold was alerted, and peace turned to barely controlled chaos. The guards of the fort had to patrol the halls and keep harsh order as panic began to take root among the people.

So it was that on midnight of the fourth day, Captain Hírvegil of the Rearguard and his second, Lieutenant Belegorn were called into the council chamber. They were met by a host of ministers and lords, as well as all commissioned officers in Fornost’s shrunken ranks. The Emissaries of Lindon and Rivendell, though, were absent (possibly left out on recommendation from Mellonar), as were many local prefects and the like. All were seated somberly about a great oaken table, hewn from what appeared to be a single slab of tree’s wood. The table was cleared and circular, one great, shield-like disk with low-backed chairs arranged around it. The King was not present when all were told to sit by the residing regent, the minister and vizier, Naurthalion, a bold and stately lord who often acted as a liaison to the king, between he and merchants, generals, and representatives of the commoners. With a solemn mood, and a vague, enigmatic tone in his voice, Naurthalion bade all present be seated. As they sat around the table, officers and ministers clumped together in nervous isolation, Naurthalion spoke, an orator at heart.

“Good evening to you all,” he began carefully, “though I am afraid it is not a good evening, in fact. The King has retired for the night to ready himself for the morning, and I am to relay to you all the plan he has devised, a cunning device that shall grant us safety from the Witch-King’s hordes. This morning we shall depart the hold here and make for the plains to the west. But, we shall not move together, a dragging caravan to be overtaken; we shall divide into two parties. One shall depart second and head southwest towards old Annúminas, drawing the Witch-King away from his majesty, who shall be in the first train. In the Hills of Even dim, the Captain of Despair may be eluded and both parties shall reunite at the Ered Luin.

There was a rumble of idle chatter from the audience, a rising fluctuation of whispers that faded as a voice rose above it – the voice of Captain Maegorod of the King’s Guard. “But,” he queried curiously, “will the Witch-King not pursue with dark speed the second party and crush it?” Maegorod was a younger man, less hardened towards war and its ways, but ready to learn of it. He had gained his position more by the merit of blue blood that ran in his veins than by the crimson blood he spilled on the field. But, he still held some respect, though less by elder officers. Sensibly, Nauthalion responded.

“I doubt that he has the foresight to immediately decide which tracks to follow, and the second, which will be fresher in his mind, will ride all the faster to escape him. That group shall be led by Captain Hírvegil, and shall contain half of his command, the Rearguard, as well as the common civilians, many of whom have been drafted into service. The other will contain the other half, as well as the King and the nobles of Fornost, ministers and counselors alike. One minister, though, must give up his station in the first party and represent his majesty in the second. This may constitute some sacrifice, but any emboldened man may do so, and he would, by doing this, earn my deepest respect. I leave that choice up to whomever wishes to make it."

"In which party shall the Elves go?" inquired another minister, an elder one, "Shall they accompany the King as well." Naurthalion seemed overly hesitant, steepling his fingers and glancing down as he spoke, skeptical. "The King has thought of this," he said, as if striving to say something against his own will, "and decided that they shall go in the second party." This also gave rise to some whispers. "I do not understand, Lord." continued the elder minister, "Will not the Elven Emissaries be nearer to harm in the second? Would it not be best to keep them safe?"

"Indeed it would, but the King, in his most infinite wisdom," Naurthalipn grimaced as unnoticeably as he could, "does not wish to deal with the Eldar at this time, and their foresight will be more useful to the party closest to danger. Similarly, it seems to be the desire of the Elves to divert themselves from the chosen path, so they may subvert as much as they wish away from the tension of the King's council." As he finished this sentence, he changed his doubting looks to a look at least tinged with hopefullness. "Enough, though, of that matter, what say you all to this?"

His words presented what could be a damning choice to one, and a damning proposal for many. When Hírvegil heard his name spoken, he felt his heart swerve fiercely in him, and his soul fill with a fire that bore no real, determinable emotion. With little hesitation, he too spoke up in stern protest.

“I must protest, Lord Naurthalion.” He said, giving his voice the necessary volume of reverence, tempered with obvious disapproval, (he had more respect for the Lord Naurthalion than he did for most other underhanded politicians of the crown), “I suggest the people of Fornost all travel in the party with the King. We of the Rearguard are willing to be overtaken to hinder the Captain of Despair in his course. If he battles us, we may draw down his guard and slay many of his horrific spawn before they have reached even Evendim.” He chanced an offhand look at Belegorn, who sat at his side, whose thoughts were far more decipherable through the look on his face. He seemed to agree with his captain, but Naurthalion’s words banished his hopes of altering the king’s plan.

“Nay,” the lord said, “the groups must be equal in number, and you can surely keep safe those who you must guard in this hard time. You have served the King well in the past, I am sure you will not fail him. Now, all get to your stations and look to your charges, for we shall all leave this hold within a few mere hours, before the sun has crested the white hills. Organize the denizens of the fort at the tunnel that leads beneath the mountain to our west and onto the plains, from whence we shall travel swiftly, with the strength of days’ rest to arouse us. Go hence, brothers and friends. Do not dawdle here, lest the Captain of Despair come to our doorstep unexpected.” He waved his hand and thrust himself firmly from his seat. The room broke into disarray as, immediately, the rede ended and the audience dispersed very hastily, even the heavy-hearted Hirvegil and his heavy-handed lieutenant, both with dark thoughts on their minds.

It was not long before the news had diffused, spreading like wildfire, through the hold. In an hour, the worried Arnorians were ready, gathered in a narrow passage, the pass that led through the North Gates, which led to freedom from the downs. The narrowness of the pass would hinder the orc-hordes in itself, for it would take long to get through with a large force. The two groups organized, one headed by Hírvegil and the other by Maegorod and the King himself. All passed quickly as chaos became ordered confusion, a contradiction in terms, but a strangely understandable one. Time flew by, creating madness and unruliness, but, since all folk knew of the happenings, their natures were subdued and, in time, the parties departed. They were all unready, but ready; all confused, but aware; all scared, but brave enough to battle their way to safety in the Ered Luin.

As the golden vessel of Arien shed yellow light on the peaks of the distant northern mountains, an hour after the flight of the King and his entourage and guards, the second party of Fornost, with Hírvegil riding at its unsteady helm, steering a vessel that was destined for an unknown harbor, saw the light of day and the plains of Arnor stretching before them, ready for their long journey.

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Nilpaurion Felagund's post

Bethiril headed for the council chamber. She hoped that the days had brought a renewal of minds to the King and his counsellors, and that in going alone, without Erenor and her fiery temper, they would reach peacefully a path that would avert the danger from Arnor.

She found the door shut. Inside, she heard voices. This is strange . . . The Noldo approached the guard standing beside the wooden doors. “What is happening behind these portals?”

“The ministers and the lords and the captains of Fornost are holding council.”

She glowered at the guard. “How can that be? Would they hold assembly without the Elven emissaries?” She essayed to gain entry into the chamber.

“Milady,” the guard said, barring the way of Bethiril. “You cannot enter.”

“Why?”

“I am but following orders, milady.”

“Whose orders?” Bethiril asked, though she already knew the answer. “The counsellor Mellonar?”

The guard swallowed. “Yes, milady. It was he.”

Bethiril stood still, staring at the doors, as if by some Elven-craft she could see through the wooden barriers. Once again, that contemptible Man had gotten in her way. Who knows what rede the King now pronounces, with the craven Mellonar controlling his every thought.

Once again, helplessness set in. Calmly, she turned away from the doors, and made her way back to their quarters.

[CaptainofDespair]

The meeting in the council chamber was of somber mood, and it rung of defeat, at least to Mitharan. The King’s plan of splitting the host of Arnorians, to allow the King to escape, was not one the young counselor likened to that of a Numenorean descendant. He felt his people were being driven into the wilds, so that none would hear the screams that would emanate from the dark woods and shallow valleys, as Darkness incarnate overcame them. The ‘cunning’ plan of the King was merely a ploy to save his own hide. When he heard the details that Naurthalion, vizier and minister of the King, presented to the gathered lords and captains, he shrunk in his seat, and muttered a few dire words, “This will spell the end of all...”

Luckily for the counselor, none heard him, or he might have been left in the Downs to fend for himself. But, maybe that was not such an evil end for a bitter life. Nevertheless, he was to live, for now. His hope had faded, that the Witch-King would be driven off, and the lands of Arnor made safe again. The vizier continued to speak of the plan, and the methods with which it would be carried out, though he had been interrupted by a few objections from those in the service of the Crown. Mitharan continued to pass in and out of a daze, remembering little of what was spoken. However, a small section of the speech did penetrate the daze, “One minister, though, must give up his station in the first party and represent his majesty in the second. This may constitute some sacrifice, but any emboldened man may do so, and he would, by doing this, earn my deepest respect. I leave that choice up to whomever wishes to make it.” Almost immediately he became alert, and waited patiently for the other counselors to leave, knowing full well that known would give up their stations, for they would rather be with the King.

Only a few moments later, the council was dispersing, to pass into the twilight, and finalize their preparations for the morning’s departure. Mitharan however, wove his way through the ranks, to meet with Naurthalion. A few of the guards had impeded his progress, if only for a moment, and eventually he pushed his way into the path of the minister. Bowing slightly, he attempted to make his case, to ensure that no other would get what was now his coveted position. “Milord, I wish to leave the King’s direct service, and become his representative in the second train.” Naurthalion, having known the man’s father, inquired to validate the reasoning of the ‘youth’. “For what purpose would this serve you, Mitharan? Your family is not here with you, and thus we assume you are the last of your house.” A quick, seemingly prophetic response came next, “That is my reasoning. My house lies in ruin, and I am the last. I seek retribution for these despicable actions, rather than to flee with the first host, where battle may not come.” The vizier nodded, and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Then may you find what you seek...”

With his new post secured, the youthful minister strutted off, to find Captain Hírvegil, to notify him that he would be the new addition to his command. The captain and his lieutenant had lingered on the outremer of the hall, for a few moments, deep in thought. That is where the counselor found them. Stepping out of the shadow of the vaulted doorway behind the two men, he spoke, “Good evening, Captain Hírvegil. I am Mitharan, a lowly counselor of his Majesty’s court. I will be his lordship’s representative amongst your train.” The Captain responded quickly, with a hint of spite in his voice, “Why would you risk your station to journey with us, to be harried by the Witch-King’s evil?” Mitharan sighed, and hesitated to answer the query. But he did answer nonetheless. “I have many reasons, one of which is to seek some way to deliver the retribution and vengeance of my house upon Angmar’s forces. But...another is that I despise the King, and do not approve of his methods.” Hírvegil and Belegorn looked at each other, and shook their heads, chuckling under their breath. The counselor, with cloak lapping at the air, strode off to find a mount, and prepare to depart the downs.

The light of morning was only beginning to dawn over the hills and fields of Arnor, but the two trains had already prepared to march out, each equally readied for the rigors of marching, and the prospect that battle might come to them. The King’s train had set out earlier, to allow the snow to settle, and cover their tracks. Soon, Hírvegil and the Rearguard would set out with their own, in hopes of distracting the eye of the enemy. Mitharan groaned, sitting uneasily, and rather sleepily, atop his mount, waiting for the signal to begin the long, arduous journey.

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre's mouth twisted again in disgust as the messenger relayed King Arvedui's decisions and council. If it was possible for his estimation of the King's ministers to drop further, it did so. Few things displeased Angóre more than cravenness, especially when it put undeserving people at risk.

"Erenor." His voice shocked the junior emissary from her latest fruitless attempt at communication. She looked up from where she sat. "Erenor," he said again, "I am going to accept the decision of the king to ride with the rearguard. They will need all the strong arms they can get, and I tire of sitting behind walls of shields."

Erenor looked as though she would speak, but Angóre forestalled her words with his upraised hand. "Although I have no authority over you, I would urge you to protest, to stay with the king and his ministers. Though you are indeed valiant, and I doubt not that any company would be pleased to add you to its number, you -and lady Betheril, of course- may yet be able to convince King Arvedui of the folly of his decision, a task far more important and, I fear, difficult than playing the rabbit to the captain of despair's hounds."

"Whether you come with this second party or no, the decision rests, of course, with you. Either way though, I shall not be acting as your guard for much longer. I intend to ask Captain Hírvegil for a position among his scouts." His face was set, and his voice was grim. "I may yet be able to make some difference in this vain endeavor, and I would do what I can for these men."

[Arry]

The horses stamped and whinnied low in the van, their breath streaming out in misty snorts in the chill air of early morn. The riders, too, were nervous for the most part, anxious to begin, their own uneasiness at this venture translating through the reins and the nervous twitches of their knees against their mount’s flanks. Lord Ereglin’s horse stood calmly, taking his cue from the composure of his rider, though even this horse could not avoid completely the nervous air of those others of his kind who milled about him.

Rôsgollo pulled his cloak more firmly about him, shielding Gilly from the cold. The little boy’s bright eyes peeked out from the gap where the edges met. ‘So quiet, you are,’ thought the Elf, shifting the child’s body closer against him. ‘Did your mother teach you that, little one? Some measure of protection in this grim world, I suppose.’

Gaeredhel urged his mount closer to his brother’s. ‘I was talking to one of the guards at that meeting,’ he said quietly, his gaze flicking up to where Lord Ereglin sat, his back to them. ‘Apparently, the King sent us with this group because “he does not wish to deal with the Eldar at this time”.’ Rôsgollo raised his brows at this information. ‘Tis true,’ continued his brother. ‘It seems those from Rivendell counseled against the King’s decision to move to the Ered Luin.’ ‘And the King would not consider their counsel?’ asked Rôsgollo. ‘Nay, not the King, so much,’ returned Gaeredhel, ‘as that buffer he imposes between the Eldar and himself. Mellonar.’ This last word was spat out, as if it left a nasty taste in the Elf’s mouth. ‘The King, or his twisted minister, has left us to offer what counsel we may to those “closest to danger”.’

The brothers sat in silence for a moment, watching the last preparations before the small column moved out. ‘Well, here is my counsel,’ murmured Rôsgollo, glancing round at the women and children huddled on their horses. ‘We make for Mithlond. Keep the King’s people safe . . . and ourselves.’ Gaeredhel gave a grim laugh, agreeing with his brother. A number of eyes slid toward the sound then looked quickly away. ‘A sound idea, brother, and beneficial to the King, too. Do you not think so?’ Rôsgollo’s brow puckered; he did not follow his brother’s thoughts. ‘The King . . .,’ prompted Gaeredhel. ‘What good is such a title when one has nothing, and no one, to be King of?’

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen

She had spent the last few days deep in despair, thinking only of what she had lost. Finding a quiet nook she had withdrawn into it with the child, only accepting food so that she might keep herself alive for the sake of the boy; nothing brought comfort to her now, only the sight of his face. He was beginning to crawl now and she struggled to keep him close to her. The nights were the worst, and she had to sleep curled about him in case he woke and crept away. She could only be thankful that he was so quiet and placid that he was as happy sleeping close to her as he was exploring the world about him.

This world was now changed, and instead of the warm house with its tapestries, rich furniture and thick furs, the child had nothing more to explore than a dark and noisy hall, crammed with those who remained from the great city. Instead of a safe and welcoming home he was now in a cold old hall, and rather than his cradle in the corner of the grand chamber his mother and father has shared, he now slept on the floor in a corner, with only his mother for comfort.

Renedwen not only protected the child through the ordeal, but she also kept hidden from the view the sword her husband had made her take when he died. Many of the people had come here with nothing, and although food and warmth were the primary concerns and most sought after commodities, she could sense the level of fear and knew that such a weapon would catch the eye. She was terrified of anyone seizing it while she slept; in the mass of people it would never be found again, it could soon be hidden from her and its theft easily denied. In the day she had kept it hidden beneath her cloak, but while she slept, she made sure the sword was tucked beneath her. It made her nights even more uncomfortable as she felt the constant pain of the hilt digging into her ribs, but it was preferable to not sleeping through worry that it might be taken.

When the call came for everybody to move on, Renedwen was almost glad, as the last few days had been a constant worry to her. She had retreated into her despair, into the familiar comfort of misery she knew all too well, and though uneasy about what was ahead, she was glad to be moving on. She knew she would be forced into a situation where she had no time to brood; this stasis could only deepen into darkness if she remained here much longer. As she waited to move off, the talk around her was negative. People were angry about the King’s decision and spoke in hushed tones of treachery. She listened half-heartedly, as she had expected as much of their leader; of course the King would want to save himself, who were they to assume otherwise? In answer to the talk of a younger woman who sat on the horse next to her own, Renedwen snappily answered “What did you expect? For the King to defend us with his own hands?”

The child was strapped firmly to her, and she sat upright on her borrowed horse, her cold blue eyes gazing into the distance. Some who looked upon her thought she was frozen right through to the heart; she appeared to them to be noble and almost arrogant, to be trying to hold herself apart from the common crowd. But Renedwen was thinking of that strange place where her husband and family now walked in peace. She strained to see it with her eyes, trying to perceive something which was always there but not quite visible, as though it lay just out of sight along the path, the place to which she was now headed.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Hush now, good boy. There you are, North, there..."

Faerim's soft, soothing words to his horse, however nonsensical, calmed both himself and his steed as he stroked the black stallion's soft muzzle with his gloved hands. Taking a surreptitious handful of oats out of his pocket - handful being a generously used word for the few scrawny specimens which now resided in his palm - he gave them to the horse. North sniffed at the only once then greedily ate them, his lips snuffling against Faerim's gloves. The youth laughed softly at the tickling sensation and drew his empty hand away, smiling and patting the horse on the side of the neck solidly. Moving around to the side, he mounted North smoothly, checking that everything was in order on the saddle. His mother had been right to take a few things with her: he had not realised how practical she had been, taking a few servicable belongings for each of them, which were now strapped about Faerim's saddle or on Morn's. The boy looked across through the crowds, searching for the umpteenth time for where his mother and brother were, seated on his mother's mare: they had decided it would be better if they rode amid the other women and citizens. Along with them was the other woman, the one who Faerim had saved, he supposed: Renedwen. His eyes flitted across to her and hovered there for a moment. He frowned slightly: she sat haughtily upright, his chin held high and defiant, as if she thought she were better than all those around her. He sighed slightly. The nobles still felt themselves noble, the king still felt himself a king: what they did not realise was that when the city fell, the last thing to fall in the ruins of statues and towers, was the hierarchies.

What she also doesn't realise is that it isn't just sleeping with that sword close that's stopped anyone from taking it, he added silently, smiling to himself. He didn't know why, but since getting them out of the rubble, Faerim had felt something of a responsibility for the woman and her child: he would protect them, as he would protect Lissi and Brander. Not that he would let on. And not that it was probably going to last long either, he added, if she kept her nose in the air like that.

Clicking his tongue softly and digging his heels slightly into North's sides, Faerim rode the horse around and found where the soldiers were. Now came the trickier part...

The dilemma was as follows: Faerim was technically, as of a few weeks ago, a soldier in the army of Fornost. He had been enrolled in the desperation for new blood as the soldiers fell like flies against the black hordes of that...creature back in the city. However, while he had fought like the rest, he was missing a few slightly vital parts to becoming a soldier, such as a uniform, a regiment and, oh yes, any proof at all that he was actually part of the army. Now that they had left Fornost this shouldn't have been so much of an issue, you might think, being as an army to protect a city may seen slightly superfluous when the city no longer exists; but not so. The soldiers were guarding the rest of the civilians, like guards around the rest of the ex-citizens, and Faerim had every intention of doing his duty and being one of them. And, seventeen or not, he was damned if he was going to let anyone get in the way of his doing so.

Riding confidently around to where a group of soldiers were gathered at one side of the mass of civilians, he stopped and began to expertly check his equipment thoroughly, making sure his bow, quiver, and sword were all to hand (not to mention the long knife in one boot, but only North could feel that one); he fiddled slightly with his cloak; he flexed his fingers and patted North briskly on the side of the neck, murmuring a few words to the horse.

Altogether, he gave the impression of someone in exactly the right place, knowing exactly what he was doing.

But to be accepted just with that...it was too good to be true really. One of the men, a rather portly, slightly balding middle aged man who one might more easily imagine in a grocer's or butcher's shop, turned towards Faerim, looking up from where he was standing on the ground. He grinned worriedly but politely at the boy. "Sorry, do you need to ask something? We really must be off."

Damn.

"No, thanks, I'm...I'm just waiting for us to go. I need to take my place around the citizens: wouldn't want to lose anyone, and we need to be ready if the enemy catches up, as the Captain said." The words were delivered with a brisk informality that continued with Faerim's lie of confidence while inside, he quailed, like a little boy about to be caught and sent back to play with the younger children.

The portly soldier hesitated, then smiled almost patronisingly. "Now, I really don't think that will be necessary. There are trained soldiers already there, and civilians-"

"I am a soldier." Faerim realised his mistake in interrupting straight away, and continued hastily, his blue eyes and cleancut face the very picture of earnestness. "Apologies: I meant, I have already been enrolled as a soldier, sir."

"When?" The man was beginning to lose patience, his mood quickly souring.

"Several...months ago." Liar. "I was enrolled before the fighting began. My family are a military family, and so it seemed only natural that when the time was right, I would join up." It was hard to imagine a more earnest individual than Faerim was making himself out to be.

"When the time was right?" The portly man narrowed his eyes, ready to pounce.

"Well, when I turned eighteen, of course," Faerim replied innocently.

Liar!

But the portly soldier didn't pick up on a bit of it: he seemed to relax, looking back at the scrappily made list he had in his hands as he ran a hand over his head and nodded. "Ah, yes, yes, that's fine then. Eighteen...of course." He glanced up at Faerim, beaming distractedly. Then his smile faded slightly and he frowned a little. "...But I would expect to remember your face: striking eyes, don'cha know. Maybe I'm just...well, what's your name?"

Faerim thought fast. "I don't recall seeing you either, sir: maybe because I was training I didn't have chance to encounter you yet?" he hazarded. Wrong answer. The man's frown increased, the grooves on his expansive forehead deepening slightly. "No, no, I shouldn't say so - I would have thought we would meet. When did you say you joined?"

"A...a few months ago, not long before the fighting began..." Faerim was usually the smoothest liar around, but he had been able to sleep well over the past few nightmarish days, kept up by the crying of the children and those who had lost or thought they might have lost, sleep driven away by the worry and fear of 'what-if's and 'what-could-be's....

"When? I say, are you sure? You wouldn't just be trying-"

"I'm simply trying to do what I was told to do." Faerim's tone was curter this time, and his blue eyes were icing over in anger.

"Don't you interrupt me, young lad, I'm doing as I have been instructed, as I suspect you aren't." The portly soldier was practically swelling up with self-importance. "What was your name again, hrm? Hrm?"

"I-"

"Oh, for- Your city has already been destroyed, and if we do not move soon, the same fate is going to affect your people. Why exactly, then, do you feel the need to argue?"

The smooth, irritated voice made both Faerim and the portly man freeze and glance around sharply at the speaker: a wiry, dark haired elf seated on a horse with, most surprisingly, a small boy peering out of his cloak. Faerim did a double take: the boy was a mortal, a Dunedain. He looked at the elf's face again, alarmed, then glanced at the other who was positioned a few steps behind him. Meeting the elf's eyes, he shook his head. "I agree, I...sorry." His mature, confident start trailed away simply to a small apology. There was something about those grey eyes and the way they were glaring at him: from the laugh lines around his face, the elf did not strike Faerim as a bad character, but it was like being berated by a mermaid - completely unexpected. And a ruddy old mermaid at that: Faerim did not know much about how old the elves could live, but he had heard that they had many hundreds of times the longitude of even the Numenoreans...

Glad for an excuse to look away from those fierce grey eyes, Faerim turned his bright cornflower gaze back to the portly gentleman. "My name is Faerim, sir, the son of Carthor."

The man nodded irritably. "Yes, yes..." he muttered, looking away. Faerim pursed his lips, then looked back at the elf: he couldn't help wondering about the immortal's strange burden. "The...child, sir..." He looked from the innocent, wide eyes to meet the elf's sharp grey ones again. "Pardon my asking, sir, but...why are you carrying a human child?" he asked curiously, feeling somewhat foolish as soon as he had said it.

[Arry]

‘Pardon my asking, sir, but . . . why are you carrying a human child?’

Rôsgollo drew himself up straight on his mount, a quick glance measuring the one who had addressed him. For a brief moment his eyes took in the officious soldier standing near the young man, then, with a return of his gaze to the questioner, he dismissed the portly officer from his attention. ‘Faerim, is it not . . .?’ he asked, tucking the curious child closer against him.

Before he could give further answer Gaeredhel urged his horse forward, putting himself between the men and his brother. ‘Is there trouble, brother?’ he said, his hand drawing back his cloak to make free his blade should he need to draw it.

‘No trouble, just a simple inquiry,’ Rôsgollo replied, his voice smooth. ‘Faerim,’ he went on, ‘son of Carthor has asked why I carry a human child.’

Be careful with your answer, brother. The other one looks edgy. And I think he has no love of the Quendi. Gaeredhel kept his gaze on the two men as he spoke with his brother in thought.

Rôsgollo nodded, moving his mount forward to be in view of Faerim. ‘His mother is dead, Faerim, son of Carthor. Slain in the streets of your city. None stopped to see to her. Would you not have taken up such a child to bear him away from his certain doom for at least a little while? Man or Elf child, what difference should it make to me?’

The sound of hooves approaching caught Gaeredhel’s attention. One of the King’s guard was approaching, his gaze intent on their little group. Gaeredhel moved up again to block his brother . . .

[Saurreg]

Belegron

The standard of the King’s rearguard fluttered proudly in the breeze, winding gracefully like some great emerald serpent gliding through clear waters. It was made of the purest of silks and the intricate regimental insignia and decorative motifs were hand-woven using the finest threads dyed with the color of the precious metals so that it reflected incoming light into brilliant hues of green fused with silver and gold. To Belegorn, the triangular pennon felt not like an inanimate object but a living entity in its own right. Every beautiful serpentine motion and twirl seemed to convey secret expressions and feelings to those who would care to notice. It displayed defiance in crucial moments of danger, unrestrained joy in victory and quiet sorrow in tragedy. He had never seen the flag flutter during services to the fallen of the regiment; the heavy banner seemed to hang limp on its pole as if in silent respect to those which it represented.

Irrational! But nevertheless it was a thought that he felt comforting to have.

The standard of the Rearguard was a sacred symbol of the regiment – its capture was a great disgrace and shame that warranted disbandment. It represented the eternal bond between king and men. It was proof of the regiment’s battle honors, generation to generation. It remained when men came and went. It was the heart and soul of the regiment. It was the regiment itself.

And to Belegorn it was alive.

The Rearguard was no more. It was now more than just the King’s honor guard. It was now the symbol of Anorian defiance and the will to live in adversity. It was now the last line of defense of the people and the keeper of its sacred trust. It was now the people’s regiment.

The sun shone weakly in the winter sky and offered no warmth. But within sight of the fluttering banner, Belegron felt warm and secure, invincible even. Hours have passed since the second column left the North Downs for the ancient Dwarven realm of Ered Luin but nothing had came into sight except for undulating hills covered by thin layers of snow. The column was moving too slowly for Belegorn’s liking but with the old, young and the infirmed in tow and in such weather, it could not be helped.

Captain Hírvegil, the disgruntled Mitharan and the Elven emissaries were at the head of the column leading the way like great maritime explorers charting the unknown. The rest of the hundred strong horse mounted guardsmen were now dispersed into smaller units. The two larger ones at twenty riders each now formed the vanguard and the rearguard while another fourty were sent out in all directions as scouts to alert the column should the enemy be sighted. The rest of the regulars and the replacement militia were kept close to the column itself.

Belegorn had detached himself from the head of the column for his periodic checks along its depth, looking out for refugees in need of special assistance. He had requested that the flag bearer follow so that all who saw the green banner would be encouraged and be glad of heart. It turned out to be a poor judgment call, for civilians being civilians had little interest in sacred military artifacts and the journey was starting to take its toil, very few seemed to notice his presence and none responded positively to his words of encouragement and good wishes (there were unfortunately, several rude replies starting generally with an expletive and followed by an ‘off’).

“Ungrateful wretches!” cursed the flag bearer.

Belegorn was now clad in his less cumbersome chainmail vest and had acquired a long lance as his primary horseback weapon (all the guard men were armed with this new issue). The sallet with its impressive red plume had also made way for a Cardolan styled cavalry helmet, with flared sides all round and a knot of black horsehair fixed to the top. The headwear offered an unobstructed panoramic field of vision at the expense of protection to the side of the head and neck.

Finding their presence amidst the refugees less than welcomed and no special aid required, Belegorn and the grumbling flag bearer turned tail at the end of the column and trotted back leisurely to its head. It was along mid column did he notice an interesting sight;

A youth was engaged in conversation with one of the Elves and in between them was one of the militia fillers drafted in the North Downs. Fearing that a squabble was forming and that it involved the militia (who was under Belegorn’s charge), the first lieutenant signaled to his companion to follow and galloped to the trio. Once within range, he slowed his charger and confronted them,

“Hold people! May I inquire what is going on here! Are there any disturbances? Let’s start with you soldier!”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim turned his horse around expertly to face the approaching sound of hooves, and his pale skin paled even further beneath his light freckles as he saw the flaring flag standard. He recovered quickly, his face shifting subtly into a polite, impassive mask as he took in the two approaching horsemen. One, the clean shaven, officious looking soldier beside the flagbearer, called over.

"Hold people! May I inquire what is going on here! Are there any disturbances? Let’s start with you soldier!"

Faerim nodded respectfully at the man, who was obviously a high ranking officer from his fine clothing and way of speaking. He recognised him a second later, and it hit him just how high ranking. "Captain Belegorn, there is no disturbance. Merely a-a misunderstanding." His voice was polite and almost flawlessly confident, apart from the slight stammer in the middle. He saw the elf with the child, the one who he had been talking to, shift slightly in his seat, and could feel the grey eyes on his face, watching him with quiet interest. But Belegorn's gaze shifted as he turned his attention to the rotund officer who had been making the fuss.

"Well soldier, is there anything going on here that I should be aware of?"

Faerim, an expert at concealing his emotions when necessary, managed to hide his gleeful grin as the soldier squirmed beneath his superior's gaze, before he muttered a few words and was dismissed by Belegorn. The Captain then turned back to Faerim, and the youth was surprised to see that he was grinning. Unsure of how to respond, Faerim kept his face emotionless - he had no idea what to expect, and Belegorn had a fiersome reputation, from what Faerim had heard: certainly Carthor wasn't exactly a fan. Belegorn regarded him for a moment, and seemed about to say something when he simply sighed and turned to the elves where they had moved over to Renedwen. Faerim couldn't see his face clearly because of the wide helmet that the man wore, but he could feel his uneasiness. He started to say something, to try to prove some sort of reliability. "They will not harm h-"

But Belegorn was gone before he really started, signalling to the flag bearer and speeding away, leaving Faerim to watch his retreating back thoughtfully and wonder. Not only an acquaintance with an elf carrying a human baby, but now Captain Belegorn appearing rather considerably less terrifying than may have been made out: an intriguing passage of events certainly.

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen rode in a dream, her deep blue eyes focussed on something just out of reach; the vision was fragile, halfway between reverie and nightmare. She saw the faint shapes of those she had lost, walking through the long grass on that distant field, but the colours were dull and washed out as though a mist had descended. If she did not concentrate she saw only the grey walls of the city, the despoiled gardens, the awful black terror which had nearly taken her.

She was silent and still, and though she held the reins, she allowed the horse to take his lead from those about him. Her son had remained still, fast asleep wrapped in his swathe of blankets, but now he began to stir, and sensing the movement from the bundle strapped to her body, Renedwen was shaken from her visions.

The child’s small head turned and he opened his grey eyes to look up at the face of his mother. He grizzled a little. Looking down, she saw that he was hungry, but how was she to satisfy that while they rode? She knew she could not stop lest she fall behind, and though she knew she would quickly catch up, the fear of being alone in this place was too much to contemplate. Taking firm hold of the reins with her right hand, she did all that she could for now, and that was merely to soothe his brow for a few moments.

Now she was aware of what was going on once more, she caught sight of Captain Beregond, who had known her father. He had broken ranks and was riding quickly toward Faerim, the young soldier, who spoke with one of the Elves and another man. She hoped that Faerim might not be in trouble, for she knew Beregond to be an exacting Captain, and extremely proud. Taking up her reins again, she gently urged her horse on a little faster so that she might hear what was said. As she got closer, she suddenly slowed, for she saw something unexpected. There, peering from the folds of the Firstborn's cloak, was the face of a Dunedain boy not much older than her own son.

[Arry]

Surely there are more important things that a Captain might attend to than questioning some young man who wishes to speak with us? But, then again, perhaps he thinks we will draw our blades and have at the stripling for his impertinence. Gaeradhel’s thoughts held a hint of amusement as did his face. His lips curved up briefly at the scene.

Rôsgollo pulled his mount up to where he could see the scene more clearly. He shifted a bit forward on his seat to see both the speakers. The young man, Faerim, after a very brief falter, had taken command of himself and seemed to be acquitting himself well in the face of one who outranked him. He nudged his brother. He has some measure of strength in him . . . Faerim . . . do you not think so?

For a man . . . yes. Gaeredhel watched Faerim for a moment. Perhaps he will escape this foolish venture’s doom and live long enough to be scion of a healthier branch on his family’s tree.

Rôsgollo raised his brows questioningly at his brother.

He is Carthor’s son . . . Gaeredhel went on. There are many interesting stories whispered about the father. Dissolute . . . married more to his command than to his wife and family.

The brothers’ eyes shifted to another who had come up to the edges of this scene. A woman looked on at the two men, her eyes paying particular attention to the captain. Her glance fell on the Elves, her cloak parting slightly with the movement. She, too, had a young child held close against her. Gilly’s face lit up at the sight of another small being. ‘Baby!’ he squealed in delight, a grin on his face. Rôsgollo guided his mount around the Captain and the Faerim to where the woman sat.

‘Greetings, Mistress,’ he said, coming only close enough that she would not startle at his approach. ‘My charge,’ he continued, indicating Gilly, ‘wishes to greet another of his own age and size.’ Gilly waved the piece of waybread he’d been munching on at the other child. ‘Baby?’ came his plaintive question.

[Saurreg]

"Captain Belegorn, there is no disturbance. Merely a-a misunderstanding."

The youth spoke eloquently in measured tones and he looked at the inquisitor squarely in the eyes with confidence. His syntax hinted of education and it was devoid of the vernacular of the lower echelon of Arthedain society. Belegorn ventured to guess that the young man before him was no riff-raff from the slums, but someone brought up in a household with culture and discipline.

He then turned to the intended recipient of his query who was averting his sharp glance whilst fidgeting on his saddle. The portly militia was obviously unsettled by Belegorn’s sudden appearance, frightened perhaps. No doubt Belegorn possessed a sour countenance that discomforted the weak willed, but his sinister reputation as the monstrous hangman of Fornost helped not also.

“Well soldier, is there anything going on here that I should be aware of?”

The militia shook his head slightly, head bowed and pudgy shoulders slumped. He was a sharp contrast to the confident teenager beside him who was viewing the spectacle with some amusement.

“Very well then. Off with you. Return to your place in the column and keep a sharp eye out the signals”

Without a word of leave-taking, the outsized rider turned quickly and galloped towards the column, his rotund body shuddering with every hoof step the horse took. Belegorn grinned and look towards the teenager. The youth was still looking at him coolly. Belegorn gave him a curt nod and continued,

“Since my attention is not required here, I shall take my leave. Return to the column, lest you get left behind.”

Belegorn turned to the elves, but they had since left him and the teenager and were riding towards a slender looking woman who held a bundle before her. He would have preferred the elves to ride in the front of the column where Hírvegil could keep an eye out for them. It was unsettling for Belegorn to see the emissaries of and their guards interacting with the people when he knew not their agenda nor why they were in Fornost in the first place.

Wolves among sheep? Carrion birds waiting by the wings?

The jurisdiction of Belegorn's office did not extend over the elves and Hírvegil did not give him any specific instructions on dealing with them. There was nothing he could do but observe from a distance. Sighing quietly to himself, Belegron signaled to the flagbearer and the both of them broke into a gallop back towards the head of the column, the green ground passing swiftly under the hoofs of their exceptional horses.

[Kransha]

For the days it took to reach the Hills of Evendim, Hírvegil kept himself sequestered coldly from all others. He rarely spoke to anyone, save Belegorn, who began to communicate to his charges in his stead and act as a go-between when Hírvegil became reclusive. Though he rode proudly at the front, his eyes peered ever downward and no word passed between his chilled lips. He, a consistent extrovert, was now reduced to a veritable hermit, while Belegorn, who Hírvegil had known to be not the most social of men, began frequently interacting with the Dúnedain civilians, as well as the Elves. Oddly, Hírvegil did not interact at all with the Elves, despite his curiosity about them and interest in their own devices. Any who had earned (or so he heard) the detestation of Mellonar was worthy of friendship, but Hírvegil had neither had or made the time to treat with any of the three emissaries, or their guards and attendants. Overall, he had retreated into a turtle shell and was not in the fashion of speaking to anyone, save those he was required to.

Again, the course of time was sped up to accommodate the boredom-tempered fear of the train. Days and nights passed as minutes, ticking by on Arda’s cosmic clock, signaling, each day, a step closer to safety in a second set of rolling hills, the Hills of Evendim. The first few days were slowest; a weary journey across newly snowed-upon plains, which, over time, became warmer as the column wound southward towards the southernmost inlet of Lake Evendim. The group was swift as they could be on horseback or foot, hoping they had long since eluded the Angmar host. Many feared the rabid beasts lay in wait, trailing them and yapping at their heels from behind the nearest lumps of earth or scattered assortments of trees. Others knew better – the host was far behind enough not to worry and, as long as the fire of Arnor’s sun still dwelled, though meeker now, in the hearts of men, they would not catch up. Confidence was not high among the Dúnedain, but each day put a few more leagues between them and their foes.

It was on the eight day of their journey that they reached the banks of the Baranduin River, which spilled out nearby into the Nenuial, called Lake Evendim in Westron, which was flanked on its own northwestern shores by the Emyn Uial, or Hills of Evendim. The process of getting the column across was somewhat arduous, and many became fearful that, during this struggling time, the group might be beset upon by orcs or goblins, but the Rearguard’s solemn ranks surrounded the passing civilians and thickened their own rows, steel at the ready, though no enemy came. A shallow point in the quick-footed river was found and, by the grace of mighty Arnorian steeds and makeshift wagons, all were drawn across, and not a man was lost in the rocky rapids to the west or east. Afterward, to the chagrin of all, it was discovered that an ancient bridge, though decrepit and neglected, still stood not far off, and could’ve reduced three days work to a few hours passage.

After some time, on the fourteenth day, the gray stones of Annúminas, the dead city, could be seen like mountain peaks in the distance. The lake’s fragile surface shimmered gently beneath the overhanging cliffs they trudged over, moving steadily towards the massive structure of rock and marble, built into the earthen face of Lake Evendim’s shores. The site of the city, as its vague silhouette arched above them and fell upon the people, was a sight that soured the collective mood, and so it was avoided. Moving out of their way, the train was pushed around the walls of Annúminas, the citadel which had once held the great seat of Arnor the North-Kingdom, but now lay as a stony carcass, a shelled tomb that jutted into the sky ominously, but whose high peak had been struck down as a reminder of its eventual defeat at the hands of Carn Dûm. The walls were crumbled and crumbled still, tossed aside by the great boulders of Angmar, the dooming projectiles of the Captain of Despair, as if hurled by a godly hand from his own fortress leagues and leagues away. Some steaming wisps of smoke still rose like tattered arms from the coomb of the city and the highest heights. No light glimmered and a cloud hung over the once-great place. It was a saddening thing to look upon.

That night, there was no camp erected in the shadow of Annúminas. Sleepless troops marched on doggedly, past and out from beneath the shadow, and into a moody light, that of a tired morning, that awaited them. Lake Evendim came fully into view, and the waters softened the hardness of the refugees, though it did not thaw the snow on the ground or that which had instilled itself in their hearts. Fortunately, escaping the vicinity of the three dead cities (Annúminas, Fornost, and probably the North Downs by then) granted everyone a strange relief, as if they had been freed from the fetters of true fear and were now only wary, rather than outright terrified and miserable. Their load was lightened, and, even if the sun did not shine fervently upon them, they were no longer the ghostly shades some had been.

From then on, their course became routine. It took ten days for them to transfer from the withered plains to hilly land, which meant they were nearing the hills. For days, they all talked little, and cold Hirvegil spoke less and less. It was guessed that they would all relax when the hills were achieved, for then there would be time to sit and think, to speak, and to get to know one another. By this time, twenty-four days after the start of the journey, Hirvegil had still spoke with no one outside his inner circle and was in a daze, aching in body and soul day by day. None questioned his motives for this retreat though, and he eventually promised Belegorn that he was merely trapped in a grim malaise, and would break from it as soon as he saw the Emyn Uial.

And he did.

[Kransha]

“Though it surprises me, my heart sings to see you well, Captain.”

Belegorn was grinning beneath his familiar soldierly look, but Hírvegil bore a busy smile on his face as he hurried throughout the camp, issuing offhand orders and making sure all was well, with his lieutenant hot on his swift heels. “As does my own, Belegorn.” He replied, not gleefully but full of a relieved warmth that allowed his nature to brighten and become sprightly once again. As the Captain whisked himself lithely back and forth, Belegorn was left to trail behind, shaking his head as a fool undergoing an epiphany might. “I suppose you never were a man who made ill on his vows.” He said, yielding to the fact that Hírvegil had made good on his promise. He had probably not expected, even if he had fervently hoped, that Hírvegil would truly become his former self once the Emyn Uial were reached. Though Belegorn seemed apparently defeated by this loss, Hírvegil was not too proud to rub his nose in the wrong opinion.

“Now I can hold you to that, eh?” he remarked flippantly, casting a bare glance at his lieutenant over the battered spaulder affixed to his prominent shoulder, a lingering relic of past battles, “Never can it be said that Hírvegil of Fornost was not a man of his word.” After much business in the camp, he came to rest near a larger tent, and his dramatic pace slowed. He had been running about ever since the train of Dúnedain first entered through a wide pass into the Hills of Evendim, after dismounting a hitching his horse at a shoddy post erected for the small army of mounts at one end of the newly constructed camp. Already night had fallen, and a resonant dusky haze lay peacefully on the sky, a welcome change from the dank skies of turmoil that had littered the journey of the Arnorian escapees. Stars were invisible, their silvery light clouded from view by thick, billowing mist that drifted across the arc of the heavens, but the fog that lay on the earth was not a shadow, simply an opaque blanket that covered the camp as it was built, and filled the journeyers with weariness, which was brought to the forefront of all their minds.

As Belegorn and Hírvegil headed towards the area where the officers’ tents and officials’ tents had been pitches, the Captain of the Rearguard spoke again. “But,” he said, linking back to his last words, “promises are set in stone, and I am curious about a far more earthen issue. I have not spoken in some time, to anyone. You may or may not know that I exchanged some words with the minister Lord Mitharan some nights when we made camp, but all we discussed was drab and political – I believe we were both dwelling on something else. You however, have oft spoken with the people. You know their way better than I now.”

Belegorn stopped walking as the tent he knew to be Hírvegil’s appeared before them and laughed quietly. “Their way?” He said, a comical skeptic, “I know little of that; I only know their outward mood.” This seemed to be a resolute thought, but Hírvegil’s interest was already piqued, and he was full of verbiage after not speaking for so very long. “You treated with the Elves?” He inquired.

“Yes, not much.” The lieutenant replied, “I had to address them, but I have not formally met the Emissaries, they have kept very much to themselves. We all have. Now, though, I shall probably seek them out.” He nodded after a moment, confirming the matter in his own mind as well as his Captain’s, and Hírvegil pursed his thin lips in thought, saying soon, “I think I will do the same. I yearn to hear their age-old minds’ ruminations on our situation.” At this, Belegorn seemed to jump, and hooted, “Ha! The great Hírvegil wishes to seek the aid of others making strategies, and the Firstborn as well!” he looked as if he’d been struck by a bolt from the sky and laughed once uproariously, obviously caught up in the upturned mood of the camp, “What a day this is!”

“Night, Belegorn,” Hírvegil corrected astutely, “It is night, which is why we shall wait until morning to talk. I do not believe a single one of us has slept in days, except for jolted slumber on horseback. A night of undisturbed sleep will be much enjoyed. Many are already descended into that realm, and I will journey there to. I suggest you do the same.” He gestured towards the numerous roomy tents pitched in a disorganized formation around his own, but Belegorn replied negatively. “I could not sleep if I wished to.” Hírvegil’s thick eyebrow was uplifted in a skeptic fashion and he jabbed his finger, encased still in his plate-mail gauntlet, at the younger man. “I’ll wager my mithril helm you fall asleep within the hour.” He said.

Belegorn did not respond immediately, for he was instead looking around. Hírvegil followed suit. The two realized, to both of there surprises, that no other sound of voices, of song, or of mortal men or Elves could be heard in the camp. Though, in the dark of night, little could be seen, the illumination of torches set up all around revealed the pathways of the campsite to be empty and as still as the grave. Some low-voiced conversation could barely be heard but, overall, the camp had already fallen into a well-deserved, peaceful slumber as the Captain and Lieutenant of the Rearguard loudly spoke, creating the only great sound in all of the hills, save for the whistling wind that rumbled in the distance.

After an uncomfortable minute, Belegorn spoke again. “I dare not take that bet, for I know that if I make it, fate will see to it that I doze off before a quarter of that time has passed.” He smiled, “Goodnight, Captain.”

With the smile returned, Hírvegil lifted the flap of his tend and walked soberly inside. “Sleep well, Belegorn,” he said as his second-in-command turned with a final acknowledging glance and headed off towards his own tent, “and may you be granted happy dreams.” He yelled the final words and let his loud, merry voice wither and fall into a pleasant nothing, which died on his lips as well, leaving less than nothing. With a breath and sigh that bore in it all his emotions, the Captain turned and, unsteadily, thrust himself onto the cot that lay on the earth. He had no covers or sheets, but his armor warmed his heart and soul enough to ward off the chilly winter winds. He did not even have time to think before his eyes forcibly closed and he was lost from the world for the evening, with a smile still on his face even as he slept.

[CaptainofDespair]

The shadows of night had settled across the Hills of Evendim, leaving the cold land shrouded in a seemingly eternal dark. Torches burned within the camp of the refugee Arnorians, providing the only source of light, but also attracting the eyes of a foe much more frightening than the silent darkness. Orcs had come, from where, it was not known, but they were certainly in the service of the Angmarim. They had been stalking the camp, for some time. They had gone unnoticed by the whole of the host, and they preferred to remain that way.

Far off the camp was, but not far enough to leave it safe. The orcs had come with a purpose, and they had been stalking the party for some time. Nagbak, chieftain of these orcs, stood on a small rock, gazing deep into the shadows. A lieutenant, standing near him, shivered in the cold, muttering in broken Common and Black Speech. “Silence, you fool,” came a quick reply to the muttering. “There are elves in that train, and they may be able to hear us.” The bowlegged underling looked up to his chieftain, inquiring into his lord’s course of action, “What are we to do? We cannot face the whole of them, and still be able to have strength to flee.” A short grunt came from the chief, followed in quick succession by a wisp of steamy breath rising from the nostrils of the large orc. “That’s why we are sneaking in. I will be taking a contingent of the guard, to creep into the camp, subdue what guards we must, and capture the elves and any other priority targets.” He paused, pointing into the shadows, “You will wait in the trees. When I return, we must make haste. We cannot afford to be caught in the daylight. My mission depends on this raid,” he finished, adding a snort to fortify his point.

Only a few moments more had passed, and the orcs had split into two groups, one far outweighing the other in numbers. The plans were finalized amongst the higher ranking orcs, and then the trains split, one to the forest, to wait in silence, the other to the human camp. A light fog had now descended upon the hills, furthering the cloak and dagger mission the clever chieftain had devised. Slowly, they crept into position, careful not to make any noise ‘unnatural’ to the region.

A guard patrolling the torch-defined perimeter, suddenly noticed a few torches burn out. Too weary to think much of it, he lackadaisically wandered over the edge of the lights to investigate, thinking it was only a spurt of wind. Then, without warning, he was swallowed up by the shadows, as several lightly clad orcs snuck into the camp. They then took up positions within a cluster of the tents, prepared for battle, should it come. A weary elf, possibly one of the emissaries to the humans, was awake within stretched hide hovel, sitting on a bedroll provided for him (though Nagbak could not tell if it was possibly a female, for the darkness obscured his vision, and he was not sure if Elves even had men and women). His two compatriots were asleep, as much as Elves can be. Nagbak gave a low grunt, like that of a boar, rousing the elf from his position. As soon as he came to the edge of the shadows, the chieftain conked the elf in the head, with the back of his large hand, incapacitating the diplomat. The other elf, having ‘heard’ the thump of his fellow elf hitting the dirt, rose up, only to meet a similar fate. A third elf, whom Nagbak had not seen in the darkness, came up behind him, in a semi-daze, attempting to rouse the guards. This failed, as the elf was grabbed, and flung to the earth. Two other orcs then cast themselves upon the fallen Moriquendi, and bound him as quickly as possible. Fearing that the elven guards had discovered them, the orcs pulled back, to the edge of the camp, to gather their cargo, and prepare for the long flight away from the camp.

But, just as the orcs were preparing to pull out with their prizes, they were interrupted. A woman, with a child walking upon her heels, had entered the cold of night, for an unknown reason, strolling towards the night-cloaked orcs. Making a hasty decision, Nagbak gave the signal to capture the woman and child, and cart them off with the elves. Two orcs waited in the shadows, as the two humans passed by. When they had passed just beyond them, they leapt out, each taking a prisoner. Nagbak stood before his gathered men, who had the elves bound and gagged, to make them easier to carry off. However, the woman and child were merely slung over the broad shoulders of their captors, each having been incapacitated. With another hand signal, the orcs crept back out of the camp, unseen, and unheard, to the forest.

It had taken the orcs several long minutes to reach the tree-line, partially due to cargo, and somewhat due to the fear of an alarm being sounded in the camp. But the alarm was never risen, and the orcs paraded into the cold-soiled forest unscathed. Nagbak’s lieutenant was waiting for him, to hear the news of the kidnaping. He spoke in a low tone, both weary of no sleep, and of out of the habit that had been acquired over the past few days, “How went the operation, my chief?” The larger orc shrugged, and without looking where the prisoners were, pointed into the nothingness of the night “It went well. The scouts were correct, and we managed to take all the elven emissaries. We were almost caught however, by some woman and a child. So, they were taken as well.” A sigh came from the subordinate. “Good. Now where do we go from here?” The chieftain grunted, and then snorted. Cracking his neck, he added “To the southwest. If my plans are to come to fruition, I will need the elves for bartering. The humans will be handed over as well, unless something unfortunate should befall them.” He chuckled, and sat down on a fallen tree, removing his helm. “We will depart shortly, but first I must rest.” The old orc (for an orc at least), too tired to get up, drifted into a sleep.

When he awoke, only an hour or two after sitting down to catch his breath, he found his loyal companions were assembled, with all of the hostages bound and gagged, and prepared to march out. A wry smile crossed the hard features of the orc, and he placed one of his large hands on the shoulder of another, and gave a hardy laugh. “You boys are deserving of reward. And it will come, after we get what we want from the Elves.” A few gave a low cheer, still wary of the camp. Then, Nagbak, raising his fist into the air, gave the signal to move out. The orcs bustled forward, some carrying the cargo on their backs.

Song had broken out from the ranks once they had gotten a few miles from the camp. Nagbak could only marvel at the liveliness of his ‘boys’. A few hours had passed and they had gotten a safe distance from the small forest, if it could have been called that, so the whole of the orcs decided to rest amongst a crowding of rocks and boulders, for both the reason of stealth, and for protection from attack, should something of that nature come upon them.

The Elves and the Dunedain were unbound, and permitted to eat some of the orc rations, but it left a horrible taste in their mouths, and they ate it no more. One of the Elves, who had refused the food outright, made a gamble, one that could prove fatal. He dared to question the chieftain, without permission to speak. In a beautiful elven voice, he inquired into the mind of the orc chief. “Why have you taken us from our beds, and dragged us into the night? Do you intend to slay us here, or force the dominion of your master upon us?” Nagbak was not pleased with the disrespect to his title, but he decided to humor the elf, as it could prove useful if they knew his plan. “ I do not intend to bring any harm to you, Elf. Nor will I allow you to fall into the hands of Angmar. I intend to bring you to those of your house, and strike a deal,” he chuckled, hoping for some sort of expression on the face of his prisoner. When none came, he frowned, but continued on, “You are now my pawns, in a bid for a land the orcs can call home, without fear of conquest or dominion. And I bid you, do not disrespect my title of chief again.” Then, in a strange showing of compassion, he tossed a sack to the elf, adding “Take this to your companions, and feed them with your way bread. The Elf nodded, and was led back to the others, to be rebound. The rest of the night was lonesome and quiet, all good signs that the camp had not noticed the kidnaping yet.

[Saurreg]

Quicksilver crept through the slits of the entrance and underneath the edges of tent where cloth met ground. Some stray iota were met by the large burnished shield and reflected, resembling small precious white jewels that glittered in the night. The man stared and was momentarily memorized by the gift of Tilion. He then frowned, threw his head back onto the folded cloak that doubled as a pillow and cried,

“Sleep! Merciful sleep! Receive me now!”

A few seconds passed and the man opened his eyes reluctantly, his night vision was superb and he could make out the folds of the tent at its ceiling, rippling like waves in a calm sea as the night wind blew. He sighed in resignation; sleep visited not.

He mourned. Disappointed.

The man turned starboard in his small cot making the wooden frame creak and joints squeal. He pulled up the woolen blanket to his broad shoulders and then drew them away again. He turned port and accompanied by the customary protest by his bed, found himself staring into the nothingness of the large airy tent.

A strong breeze rose, it parted the slits of his tent a little wider and blew across the tent, caressing the rough unshaven face of the man. Refreshed, he took a deep breath.

Salty. Smoky. Cheese… no! Ham. Somebody’s been cooking. Hmmm… Hungry.

The man drew a heavy arm from the cot, crooked it and placed the lazy appendage overhead, palm underneath his head. His was still staring into darkness above him but his thoughts were with the militia detailed for night duty. He worried that they would fall asleep during their shift and the security of the camp would be compromised.

Sleeping militia…. Hang them! Camp in danger.

The man wondered if he should get up and visit the perimeters of the camp but decided against it. His hearing was superb and he listened. Nothing. He began to suspect that he was the only person still awake in the camp. He yawned and hot tears welled by the edge of his eyes.

So tired… must sleep...

Sleep final bestowed its grant upon the man an hour later and so Belegorn of the rearguard slept, unaware of the happenings at night.

[Arry]

Night into the cold first light of day . . .

It was quiet in the tent where the Elven guards were quartered. Quiet and for the most part dark. Rôsgollo had bade the other two let the little one sleep as men do, and so the night had passed with Gilly curled in a little ball beneath the blankets, his back tucked against the Elf’s side. Still, the little one had frightening dreams that woke him from his sleep to cry and fret several times during the night. Between these times, the Elves passed the night in sleepless dreamings.

A pale sun crept up, but barely, from the east, lending what light it could to push back the darkness. Gilly woke and sat up, patting Rôsgollo on the arm. Angore and Gaeredhel were already stirring in the tent. The flap had been thrown back and a small cook-fire started for something warm to drink.

‘Do you think we will move on today?’ Gaeredhel’s question was aimed at no one in particular. He had noted Angóre beginning to stow away his gear and wondered if perhaps he had heard something from the Lady Bethiril or Erenor. No such word had come from Lord Ereglin. ‘But then,’ he chuckled to himself, ‘we Elves are rarely consulted on such matters.’

Rôsgollo had just hoisted himself to a sitting position, when he cried out, clasping his head at the back, a grimace of pain and surprise on his face. Gaeredhel ran to his brother’s side and crouched down, a look of concern on his face. ‘You are hurt, brother?’ he asked, touching Rôsgollo lightly on the arm.

‘It is not I who is hurt,’ Rôsgollo rasped out. A spasm of disgust crossed his face. ‘They have taken him, brother.’ Rôsgollo clambered to his feet, hoisting the child to him as he did so.

Angóre had picked up on the tenor of the brothers’ conversation and drew near as Rôsgollo stood. ‘Yrch! The Lord Ereglin has been taken by the foul creatures. His head is painful where they struck him. It was during the night, while the camp slept. Angóre, make haste to see if the emissaries from Rivendell have also been captured. My Lord has fallen silent now; he did not say.’ Rôsgollo buckled on his blade as did his brother. ‘We will run to the Dúnadan captain’s tent.’

A drowsing guard at Hírvegil’s tent tried to bar the Elves from the captain’s tent. The flat of Gaeredhel’s blade knocked him to one side, as Rôsgollo threw back the tent flap. ‘While you sequestered us apart from our charges, with the unspoken promise that your troops would see to Lord Ereglin’s safety,’ Rôsgollo said coldly to the man on the cot, ‘Orcs have stolen into the camp. Lord Ereglin has been taken. How will you assist us to recover him safely?’ He paused for a brief moment to let the information sink in. ‘Or must we attend to this on our own?’

Before the captain could answer, Angóre burst in . . .

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre sped over the soft ground, his mind reeling from Rôsgollo's revelation. Orcs! How had they escaped detection? In three weeks of scouting for the train Angóre had not seen a single trace of orc spoor, and the yrch were hardly stealthy under normal circumstances. Everything about this felt wrong, and Angóre feared some dark design lay behind it.

The camp lay still and silent; the night's activities had not yet been discovered by the majority of the host when Angóre reached the tent that had housed Betheril, Erenor and the lord Ereglin. The ground was churned up, many heavy, iron-shod feet had left their imprints on the soft ground, and Angóre could tell without entering the tent that his two charges were gone. He knelt, studying the tracks. There was no sign of the lightly shod Elves, and he sighed. They must have been carried out rather than led. He had been hoping for a sign they had been conscious and alert during their capture, but even that frail hope had been dashed.

He moved inside the tent. The place looked serene, undisturbed as though the inhabitants had just stepped out. He frowned. Another odd sign. In Angóre's experience, Orcs would slash and batter anything, especially items and keepsakes of Elven craft. It took a fell captain to keep such soldiers in line. He found Erenor's sword, untouched and still sheathed, lying beside her bedroll.

Angóre traced the tracks back outside the tent, and followed them slowly towards the wood. He saw where they had encountered another, apparently unexpected person. At least, a small set of tracks intersected the rough Orc-prints and came not away again. But he could see no blood anywhere; a hopeful sign, if distinctly odd.

Angóre straightened. He had followed the tracks as far as the edge of the camp, and he dared follow them no further without taking the council of Rôsgollo and Gaeredhel. He crossed back through the camp, headed for the tent of the Dúnedain lord.

The guard at the flap looked up from where he sat, his cheek showing red as though he had been struck. "Another of you bloody Elves, is it? You can damn well sit out here 'till Lord Hírvegil tells me different," he said, but Angóre ignored his complaint and ducked under the tent flap.

He caught the end of Rôsgollo's sentance "Or must we attend to this on our own?" The Lord of the Dúnedain was lying on his cot, having propped himself on his elbows to listen to the Elf.

"There is more," Angóre interjected. "Another, I would guess a woman, was taken as well as Lord Ereglin and Ladies Betheril and Erenor. I do not think that they were harmed, but there is something exceedingly strange about the whole endeavor. Were it not for Rôsgollo's intelligence I would almost think the culprits were Men, rather than Orcs. They did not despoil the tent, shed no blood and showed stealth and woodscraft in the capture. There is much about this that I do not understand. But the answer to this puzzle must wait. Lord Hírvegil, we must give chase soon!"

[Mithalwen]

Erenor's spirit had been robbed by it's fire by her situation. It takes a mighty blow to stun an elf and she still felt nauseous - a strange and disproportionately distressing experience for a being who had never known sickness. She could not have swallowed even elvish food at that time and the orc fare made her retch. Her self esteem was further damaged by the fact that they had been taken unawares. This seemed impossible - that three Elves should have been surprised by notoriously heavy footed orcs. It did not surprise her that the men should have been taken unawares - after the decisions the king and his councillor had made she felt their stupidity knew no bounds - but she thought of Angore .. where was their guard when they needed him?

The fact that they were still alive had small comfort to her. She had heard tales of elves being captured in the Elder days - she would prefer death to thralldom without end. And what help was there of rescue? Even if those doltish men effected their release it would be only to lead them to death in the blue mountains. She had failed in all attempts to contact the minds of her own kindred far away. Escape was hopeless ... she had no sword, her possessions were etiher still at the camp or taken by orcs.

The cold made her head ache worse and she shrank back into the folds of her furlined cloak. The orcs had not taken that yet. She felt he tug on the wound from her hair, matted with blood and tried to make herself as comfortable as possible despite her bindings. Something was digging into her hip and the realisation of what it was gave her a glimmer of hope - not a bright glimmer but enough to prevent her willing her spirit to Mandos. It was the hilt of the dagger she wore, like her mail shirt, under her outer tunic. She guessed the orcs must have noticed the mail but the mail itself had disguised the knife. It was strange that they had not taken the mail; the shirt was of noldorin craft and far surpassed antything the orcs possessed - but then an orc would find elf-mail a narrow fit.

Though she appeared as passive as before, seeming to her captors and companions as no more than a barely animate bundle, Erenor's spirit had revived and she tried to absorb details of their plight that might help. she was aware of Ereglin talking to their captors but made no effort to follow suit. Her passivity might lull them into a false sense of security - she just wished that it was not entirely feigned - if only her head would stop hurting. The faintest moan escaped her lips and her mind slipped into a waking dream.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim awoke slowly, his eyes remaining shut as his ears tuned in to the sounds around him. The camp was still largely peaceful and still, although the sounds of the first early birds moving around, and the enticing smells of cooking starting, drifted lazily over to Faerim. He sighed contentedly and turned over onto his back, opening his blue eyes and blinking a few times in an endeavour to wake himself up a little more. Not that he wanted much to wake up - sleep was at least a peaceful place where he could rest, alone with the stirrings of his own mind, and his own largely dreamless peace: where Brander appeared to give dreams much grave respect, Faerim had never paid them much attention, and rarely dreamt, or not generally of anything specific that he could remember in the morning. But he knew his largely peaceful sleep was not shared by everyone: during the past few nights since they had left the city, the youth had often been awoken in the middle of the night to the sound of shallow breathing or even cries as others in the camp woke in the thrall of nightmares. Probably dreams of Arthedain, he mused grimly.

Propping himself up on his elbows and shaking his tousled hair off his face, Faerim looked around the crowded, makeshift tent at the others nearby. The refugees had stayed largely in families, but with some groups of women departing and staying together for modesty's sake, and the soldiers had their own quarters. Much as he had leant towards the idea of slipping in with the soldiers and attempting to keep up his pretence of genuinely being conscripted, Faerim had stayed with his family in the end: Brander slept beside him, his eyes, as always, slightly open, a slither of white showing beneath his lids. Faerim saw the blind boy's lips move slightly, his brow creasing lightly, then he turned over onto his back, sighing deeply. Dreaming...

Keeping his elbows tucked into his sides and his feet still as he pushed his cloak-blanket off, so as not to disturb anyone by nudging them, Faerim sat up carefully. He yawned silently, rolling his stiff neck from side to side and running his fingers through his hair to collect it into some semblance of sanity. Dressing quickly - that is, as far as he had been able to undress the night before - he eased his boots on, and stood.

Having disturbed only the specks of dust, Faerim slipped out of the tent and into the still morning air. There was no breeze - nearby the flag hung limp on it's pole - and as a result it was not particularly cold. Faerim stifled a yawn and sniffed the air: the smells of cooking still wafted through the air from where a group of three or four women were cooking. He grinned and began to whistle a tune as he purposefully ambled in that direction, hoping to find someone he knew to take a bite of breakfast with.

The sounds of low, frantic voices caught Faerim's attention as he passed one tent, and as one particularly agitated voice interrupted another, he hesitated. Feeling guilty, he looked around nonchalantly to check no one was watching him, then edged towards the tent and began to listen. The voice that was speaking was an elven one that he did not recognise.

"...not for Rôsgollo's intelligence I would almost think the culprits were Men, rather than Orcs. They did not despoil the tent, shed no blood and showed stealth and woodscraft in the capture. There is much about this that I do not understand." You and me both, mate, Faerim thought, puzzled. What the...

The elven voice continued. "But the answer to this puzzle must wait. Lord Hírvegil, we must give chase soon!"

Faerim jerked back guiltily at the sound of the Dunedain captain's name. He didn't want to be caught eavesdropping on some matter of state, and bearing in mind the serious tone of the elven voice, this was no light matter certainly. Yet curiosity stopped him from leaving. He listened harder, having the strain to hear over a sudden flurry of noise which came from a the civilians' camp.

"A Dunedain woman was taken as well, you say?" Hirvegil

"In addition to two of our own, Ladies Betheril and Erenor."

"How would the orcs have got in undetected? It doesn't make sense!" A more agitated, furious voice spoke next, panic tinged with fury. Another shushed him but the first snapped back something in a strange language. The other replied in the same, and another human voice attempted to come between them, speaking in the Common Tongue again. But before he could pick up on the words, someone approached the tent flap, the silhouette looming towards Faerim and the youth scrambled backwards guiltily, running a few steps away back towards the camp where he had come from. He frowned, dissatisfied, digging his hands into his trouser pockets as he slowed to a walk: he hadn't learnt much and now the bits and pieces were simply confusing...

"'Gone'?" An old woman's incredulous screech pierced the peace of the still air making Faerim jump. "What do you mean 'gone'? People don't just up and vanish, Sara, even children as difficult as your Tathy-"

"He has!" A younger voice butted in, and Faerim pinpointed it to a particular tent. "He has! He ain't anywhere to be found, mam, I've looked everywhere-"

"Outside? You haven't looked outside, have you? Don't worry, Sara, didn't you say that no-good sister of yours had gone as well? They'll simply have gone to get breakfast, you know what Tathy's like, all stomach, that's what I've always said..."

"No, mam! I've looked! I can't find either of 'em, not even getting breakfast! Oh, my Tathy, I hate it when he strays like this.." the woman moaned forlornly. The front flap of one of the nearby tents stirred and the owner of the voice stepped out, wringing her hands anxiously. Seeing Faerim, she flung up her hands and approached him. "Ah, you, boy, you haven't seen a little lad wandering about have you? A skinny wee tyke of about so high, dark-"

"I...haven't, I'm afraid, sorry ma'am," Faerim replied. The snippets of conversation he had heard were beginning to fit worryingly. The woman made a small worried noise then stuck her head back into the tent. "That's it, mam, I'm going to report it!"

Despite her elderly mother's muffled cries of disagreement from within the tent, the mother set off determinedly in the direction of Hirvegil's tent. Faerim watched he go for a moment, then caught up with her, walking along quickly beside her to keep up with her cracking pace. "Er, ma'am, that may not be such a fine plan - Captain Hirvegil is a little busy at the moment I think-"

"Poppycock!" The woman crowed. "He'll see me about this - we can't have people vanishing left right and centre and I want something done!" Her accent was that of the upper society of Arthedain - a voice that was used to having things done for it. Faerim winced. "Ma'am, your son may just be getting break- er, ma'am, please..." Faerim trailed off, his attempts having failed as the woman flung open Hirvegil's tent flap and striding in purposefully, with Faerim somehow beside her.

"Captain Hirvegil, it is my understanding that-"

The elf who had been speaking stopped suddenly, spinning around on his heels to face Faerim and the woman beside him, and the youth felt keenly on his face the eyes of three immortals and, somehow more terrifyingly, Lord Hirvegil. The tableau remained in stunned silence for a moment before the elf who had been speaking flung up his hands and glared at Faerim in disgust. "What is the meaning of this interruption?"

The woman appeared to be frozen in terror, her mouth having dropped open and her eyes like saucers. Faerim resisted the urge to elbow her hard in the ribs and stepped forward. "Captain Hirvegil - and my elven Lords, " he added hastily, including the elves in his address. "My name is Faerim. I believe this woman may be relevant to your discussion. She awoke this morning to find her son and her sister gone - presumably taken also by the orcs."

The woman gasped, then slapped solidly Faerim on the arm. "Taken by orcs?" She squawked. "I don't bloody think so, mate, I would have noticed if a crowd of flamin' great monsters had stormed through my tent in the middle of the night-"

"So you did not hear anything?" Rôsgollo pounced as the woman paused to take breath. Her eyes bulged but she managed to reply, carried along by her outrage. "I...well, no, no of course not - and I'm a very delicate sleeper, mind, quite accustomed to waking at the slightest noises in the night, so I am-"

"Her tent is some way from the quarters of the other elves, Lord Rôsgollo," Faerim added, his voice respectful and understated in an attempt to rule out the fact that he had obviously been eavesdropping. "I presume her son and sister must have been outside the tent when they were taken - but nonetheless the orcs must have moved with surprising stealth."

"It was planned then!" spat the elf who had been speaking when Faerim entered. He turned and paced across the floor, looking across at Hirvegil sharply as he began to speak to the Dunedain lord once more. Now that attention had apparently been transferred away from him, Faerim glanced at Hirvegil and began to edge out of the tent quickly. The woman did the same, darting out and expressing her distress quite vocally enough for the entire camp to hear as she returned to her mother. Faerim opened the flap and followed, but as he did so a quiet voice arrested him in his tracks. "Stop."

Faerim turned, dreading some sort of reprimand for eavesdropping, but he simply saw Rôsgollo standing behind him, those grey eyes fixed steadily on his face. Behind him, his brother, whose name Faerim did not know, was also watching. Rôsgollo nodded curtly at Faerim. "Our thanks for your help, Faerim son of Carthor," he said. The youth smiled quickly, not quite knowing what to say, then nodded to all four of the others in the tent and removed himself into the fresh air sharpish, breathing a sigh of relief as he did so. He couldn't help a slight grin though, however inappropriate to the situation. Who says eavesdropping doesn't do any good...

[alaklondewen]

alaklondewen's post

Ereglin walked slowly toward the small fire around which sat the ladies, Erenor and Berithil, and the lone mortal woman with her babe. His eyes wondered down to the way bread that found its way into his hands by a stroke of strange compassion by the Orc captain. As he moved across the camp, he did his best to tune out the curses and sneering from the soldiers. Several times he felt something heavy thud against his back, shoving him forward, but he kept his eyes on the bread and feet moving ahead, refusing to react to their bestial behavior.

As he approached, Berithil looked up and met his gaze. Ereglin touched her mind with a half smile. Do not be afraid…we have hope. Before she could answer, he sat beside her on the cold earth and placed the bread in her hands. With head tipped and eyebrow raise, Berithil look curiously at the Lindon Elf. “It is better than that retched meat from some unknown creature,” Ereglin offered in response to her expression.

What did you learn from the captain?

Ereglin did not answer immediately as he phrased his answer in his mind before opening to her. It seems they plan to ransom us to the mortals. What he did not reveal was his doubt as to whether the men would pay to have them returned. The King had shown what little regard he had for the Elves, and Ereglin assumed his Captains would show the same attitude.

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Nilpaurion Felagund's post

Bethiril had been close to Orcs before. During Morgoth’s assault on Gondolin, when she was but a child, a band of them came upon their escaping band in Cirith Thoronath. One of the guards was cut down before her eyes by their curved blades, and the same doom would have befallen her and her mother had not Thorondor and his folk swooped down and sent the Glamhoth shrieking to their doom.

Now, their guard was nowhere to be seen, and no eagle came to their aid. Yet, to her surprise, they were still alive, and even treated fairly well. There was no torture, nor threats of it, and no despoiling was done: things she had heard Orcs do to their prisoners. She had obtained news from Ereglin, and she was astonished at the way this abduction was being used.

Politics.

This proves that she was right all along: even the Orcs, putative enemies of Middle-earth, tire of bloodshed. And this could be her chance to take that great step towards the cessation of all hostility. All she needed to do was take it.

She could start by not escaping. She turned to her companions, hoping neither of them was planning flight right now.

[Kransha]

Hírvegil’s head hurt at this point, though years of practice allowed him to cleverly mask the fact. Though none new of it, he suffered from chronic headaches. At the moment, the grinding of wheels in his mind had begun, and the gritty mechanics of the matter were instilling pain in him that, thankfully, his willpower could overbear. He had awoken from a too-pleasant dream to find himself in an anarchic nightmare of sorts. He was bombarded by information that forced him to act, even though he had fully expected a few days of rest. His feeble brain was forced to process numerous thoughts, and create a plan of action to be put into action hastily. He reviewed what he’d learned in the spare instant of gentle silence that preceded the departure of the youth called Faerim: Orcs had, by night, stolen into the camp by means of craft he knew not, and taken captive the Lady Bethiril and Erenor, and Lord Ereglin, as well a woman of the Dúnedain and a child. Foul deeds were afoot, wrought by the yrch, as the Elven guardsmen called them in their tongue.

The Captain was far from ready to organize a plan. He sat on his cot dejectedly as the three Elves turned away, their keen eyes, those of mighty hawks, followed the Dúnadan from the tent. Hírvegil knew that showing any mental or physical weakness before those eyes could be dangerous. He could not hide mental fatigue, but he could conceal his weariness and occasional error. He clasped his knotted hands and laid his elbows on his knees, looking down and contemplating the ground as the Elves turned back towards him, immediately noticing his state of contemplation. The Elf called Angóre spoke.

“Now that we know what has happened we must give chase.” He said; Elven calmness evident in him despite the urgency of the matter. “Surely you know this.” Hírvegil nodded, seeing no other recourse besides agreement. The Elf was right, after all, time was of the essence. “Yes.” He murmured under his breath and rose, “We will follow their tracks. Among the Dúnedain are skillful trackers. The fiends cannot have gotten far.” His voice was tempered with a tone of reassurance, hoping that the Elves would be satiated, but they all looked upon him skeptically, and the guard by the name of Rôsgollo spoke then.

“Orcs do not tire, Captain,” he said, moving towards the Captain, who glanced back with the uneasiness he always felt when in the presence of Elves, “not easily at least.” After the addition, he continued, turning to pace towards his two kinsmen in the tent. “They may be miles from here.” He spun again towards Hírvegil, “Time cannot be wasted talking.” Hírvegil was put off by the hasty behavior of the Elf, and his seeming lack of confidence in Hírvegil’s skills as a captain.

“My people are tired, Elf.” He shot back, somewhat coldly but with no spite or anger. Still, the Elf was quick to respond. “We are not.” He swiftly objected, “If you do not go after our kin than we will do so alone.” He seemed very sure of himself in this, as if a trio of Elves could annihilate a whole great band of uruks. Perhaps, though, their prowess in combat could diminish orcish ranks, but they would not rescue their charges. The orcs would slay their captives as soon as defeat was evident, to win at least a moral, posthumous victory. If all Elves perished, or even the Emissaries of Rivendell and Mithlond, political relations between Elves and the Dúnedain of Arnor would dwindle in strength and their bond would weaken, when the Dúnedain reached civilization. Besides having the camp of refugees destroyed, this was the worst possibly scenario, and it had come at the worst possible time.

Hírvegil shook his head solemnly and turned, taking his hauberk of mail from the wooden rack it hung upon and flung it over himself quickly, becoming disheveled in the process, but he maintained his grim nobility, despite the obvious loss of sleep he suffered and stress he was under. “No,” he said, shaking his head again, “we will hasten after them with you, but I must take counsel with my lieutenant and the King’s lord, Mitharan.” As he looked to the Elves, still blinking remnants of sand from his sleep-deprived eyes and running a hand through his unkempt hair, he saw further skepticism, but ignored it. “I will have them both sent for immediately.” As he said this, he pulled on his bracers and pauldrons in a messy fashion and moved between the Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo, edging quickly towards the tent flap, which he practically punched open so that it whipped upward in the windy air, startling the guard outside.

“Issue my order to all guardsmen of the camp. Tell them to arouse the soldiers of Fornost, but leave those civilians who are still slumbering where they lie. Also summon to my tent Lord Mitharan and Lieutenant Belegorn when they have been told what occurred this night. See to it that they consider a course of action and come to me when they have found one.” The words spouted from him quickly and all in one, ceremonious breath. The guard was flustered and confused, but soon digested the command, gave a threadbare salute, and turned on his heel to do the bidding of his captain. Hirvegil, not satisfied with his own position in the situation, turned towards the Elves, who, by now, looked even more unconfident in him.

“You would have a politician and your second make plans for you, Captain of men?” inquired Angóre, but Hírvegil made a negative gesture and said instead, “I have a plan, Elf, and one that shall see us through. You would do well to trust in it. I will seek the opinion of those two, and we will then depart to track the orcs. As for you, go and ready yourselves for our leaving. I thank you for your aid in this matter, but it shall no longer be needed until I take counsel again. Make ready and arm yourselves; perhaps you can even assist my soldiers arousing the camp. Again, I thank you.” Again having let slip this lengthy harangue, Hírvegil took a quick, deep breath, and nodded in acknowledgement to the Elves. Though unsatisfied, Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo turned, but Angóre remained, lingering a moment longer. Hírvegil lifted his tent flap and was about to duck inside when the clear Elven voice stopped him.

“Captain,” said Angóre behind him, “I will do as you say, but I ask you to remember that my name is not ‘Elf,’ it is Angóre. You would do well to remember that.”

Hirvegil did not turn, but only said, “I shall.” and disappeared into his tent.

[Garen LiLorian]

Hírvegil had almost disappeared into the blessed silence of his tent when Angóre's voice halted him once again. "And captain," the voice had changed, impassivity now draped it where sharpness had been but a moment before. Hírvegil turned, surprised despite himself at the change. Angóre continued; "I must apologize for our rude behavior. I need not explain to a lord of men such as yourself the dismay that fell upon us when we were found in breach of our trust: having failed those who depended upon us. But now is a time for cool heads, and not hasty deeds. Orcs do not love daylight, and I do not suppose that they will travel far or swiftly while the sun shines. Prisoners can only serve to slow their travel as well. Therefore, take your rest and gather your strength. It will do us no good to charge after them, only to be killed or taken as well." Angóre then bowed, after the fashion of the Men of Arnor, and retreated.

Hírvegil stared in wonder at the receeding Elf, who had spoken so calmly while his charges lay in bondage. Truly, he thought, the ways of the Firstborn are strange beyond any Man's knowledge. He shook his head and vanished into the tent.

[Arry]

Come! It will not help Lord Ereglin if you speak any further.

Gaeredhel urged his brother out of the entrance and away from the Captain’s tent. He feared the Captain would harden his less than favorable opinion of the Elves and attempt to keep them from helping in the rescue attempt at all. Angore, at least, had placated the man somewhat, or so he thought. If he could redirect his brother’s anger it would be all for the best.

Rôsgollo was quiet as they walked back toward their tent, his mind racing. He was already chafing at the idea they would need wait for the Captain and his 'skilful' trackers. Lord Ereglin had been injured. Who knew what further things the Orcs had done to him with their filthy hands and weapons. Or would do with each space of time now passing. He stopped, forcing his brother to a halt also. ‘There is no reason we cannot assist the trackers. The signs of the Orc troop’s passing are fresh. Let us follow them. One of us can always circle back to bring the Dunedain troops forward.’

‘And what of the young one?’ Gaeredhel asked, nodding toward the drowsing child his brother held in his arms. ‘He can’t be left to fend for himself when we leave. And certainly you won’t be bringing him.’

Rôsgollo said he had already thought of that. He bade his brother get ready their horses and gear, saying he would see to Gilly. He would ask the women with the young child he had met if she would watch Gilly while he was gone.

‘And what of Angóre?’ Gaeredhel asked as he turned toward their tent. ‘See if he wishes to come with us,’ Rôsgollo called back over his shoulder as he hastened off.

Around them, they could hear the guardsmen making their way through the camp, rousing the soldiers to readiness . . .

[Saurreg]

Belegorn stared at the messenger incredulously. Droplets of water navigated their way through the wrinkly folds and lines on his face before dripping from the pronounced chin back into the basin.

“Kidnapped you say!”

“Yes sir. Well… At least that is what the elves are claiming. The captain requests your immediate presence, sir.” Answered the flush faced guardsman.

Belegorn scowled fiercely, causing the nervous young soldier to cringe. The former then wiped his face with a clean but worn out towel before placing it beside the wash basin. He then reached for his chain mail shirt and leather belt.

“I want all the sentries of last night’s detail assembled and accounted for. The duty sergeant is to take the statement of each man under the oath, on what they did and what they saw last night. All senior sergeants to my tent and await my return!”

The messenger snapped into a smart salute before scampering off to have the lieutenant’s orders relayed.

Belegorn hastily donned his attire, thinking dark thoughts of elves all the way…

*********************

Moments later, Belegorn arrived at Captain Hírvegil’s tent. The commander of the rearguard bade his subordinate to enter and acquainted the latter with the situation in hand. Hírvegil sounded calm enough, but his appearance was more haggard than ever. It was all too clear to Belegorn that his superior’s chronic headache had been acting up and the unpleasant development in matters had aggravated it.

It would seem that the three elven envoys – the one from Lindon and other two from Imladris had gone missing and their impetuous guards had barged into Hírvegil’s tent demanding immediate action to be taken. And just to complicate matters even further, a youth by the name of Faerim also chose to report at the same time that a woman and child he knew were also missing.

“And thus is the situation so far.” concluded Hírvegil. “I have also requested the presence of Counselor Mitharan. But I want to hear what you have to say first. So what say you Belegorn?”

Belegorn cleared his throat and spoke as a matter-of-factly,

“Sir, it is in my opinion that we should not do what the elves are insisting,”

Hírvegil raised an eyebrow and implored the lieutenant to continue.


“Firstly, our mission is to escort the civilians and baggage wagon to Ered Luin as soon as possible and effect a rendezvous with the king’s contingent. That is our primary objective and it must be accomplished at all costs. As such speed is of the essence and we can ill afford to loss any time.

Secondly, our charges are the refugees. They and their children are what remain of the Anorian people and they represent whatever hope we have left. We own to them our utmost care and devotion. This will involve whatever strength we can muster to defend them.

Thirdly, our strength in arms is scant. We have but only a hundred guardsmen and a little over twenty militia men. Most of the guardsmen are injured in one way or another and the quality of the fillers is doubtful. Every single blade will be needed, if we are to accomplish our mission and remain as faithful as possible to those we are protecting. If we are obliged to send out searchers to find the missing persons, a large number must be sent for the search to be effective and to withstand any enemy ambuscade or interception. The defense of the column would then be greatly compromised and weakened.

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, sir.

And lastly, we know not the true reason behind the presence of the elves in the first place. Their exchanges with the king were top secret and neither one of us were and are still privy to that information… Quite frankly, I find the disappearance of three of their kind and the envoys themselves at that to be too coincidental. The elves are secretive, who is to say they have told us the whole truth or in this case the very truth of the matter itself?”

[Nuranar]

One moment Lissi was calm, peaceful, and very much asleep. The next all her senses were wide awake and aware, controlled by sure maternal instinct. The gentle whisper of cloth on cloth, the subterranean creak of stiff joints, the deliberately muted movements, were nearly inaudible under the noise of the waking camp; and yet they had woken her up. Without moving a muscle, without conscious thought, Lissi catalogued every sound. She knew with the intuitive certainy of mother-wit that Faerim was getting up with every intention of stealth. Instinct having made its report and Intellect having deliberated briefly, Lissi lay still until the swish of tent flaps betrayed her son's departure.

Conscious mind now almost fully awake, Lissi rolled to her back and stretched slightly. She reflected distantly on the marvelous cognizance that came with motherhood. That night when Faerim was still so little: She, the ignorant girl-wife, had been roused out of the heaviest sleep she'd known in weeks, had found herself on her feet, halfway to the infant's cradle without any waking intention, and had rescued the little one from the bedclothes that nearly suffocated him. Carthor had been absent on duty that night, at that time a rare occasion. The baby one more asleep in her arms, she had paced the balcony in the warm, velvety night air. A lovely summer that had been... so warm, so clear...

Involuntarily Lissi's whole frame shivered. As the memory of that warmth faded, the cold penetrated her consciousness, and the hard ground beneath her penetrated the blanket as if it were pure ice. Sleep was irrevocably fled for the time being, and the outside noise was more insistent. Another day had begun.

With infinite care she slipped out from beneath the cloaks that covered her and Carthor. Her husband's head wound still needed care, although his burns had healed rapidly, and she had no intention of waking him sooner than need be. She slipped out of the tent more silently than Faerim, huddling on her shawl.

The calm air was crisp without bitterness, and it was mostly habit than a need for warmth that kept Lissi pacing while she smoothed and replaited her long black hair. Habit, and the desire to stretch her legs. Muscle memory was a wonderful thing, and she was a born horsewoman; but the forced neglect of years could not be remedied in a few days. The first week of bitter soreness was long past, however. Beneath the ever-present anxiety, and the even deeper despair, lay a simple but genuine delight to be riding once more. All that remained was a residual stiffness every morning, itself a joy to be walked off.

How glad she was they had brought Carthor's horse! His heartfelt joy at their reunion had moved her to tears. He was proud to ride beside her and Brander with the people - at the forefront of the people, nearest the advance guard, it was true. Brander, too, was making great strides. Lissi had known, even back in the city, that Morn would never be able to carry double for long. It had taken little time at the hold to find the extra horses. With their dead and wounded, there were quite a few horses to spare, and Lissi had chosen a steady, compactly-built gelding for her blind son to ride. After what he had managed in their flight through the city, she knew he was capable of riding on his own in ordinary times. Without the distraction of sight, he learned to ride by feel and motion. Now, Brander sat his horse with a straight back and the regal bearing and grace that only instinct can supply. Furthermore, although Lissi had led the gelding the first day out, Carthor had insisted on doing it from then on. For the first time, a closeness seemed to be growing between father and son.

Finished with her hair, she stuck her head back into the tent. Both were still sleeping. Carthor hadn't moved. Brander had, but his face was peaceful. Lissi's own frowned as an unpleasant caterwauling filtered through the canvas. She saw Carthor jerk in his sleep, and she swiftly turned around and darted through the tents. Stupid, noisey women! she thought savagely. Lissi did not suffer fools gladly, whether highborn or low. Petty jealousies and trivial but vicious spats had arisen in the last week as fear had faded. This was just one too many.

Amidst the screeches and yammering, she caught a few words as she neared their epicenter.
"...I told you..."
"...such nonsense..."
"... but the Elves..."
Rounding a large, flamboyant pavilion into the company street, Lissi saw the two culprits just down the way, a few gawkers already gathering. I'll put a stop to this one, at least! she thought, lips tightening.
"...all gone, the orcs have taken them!"
The fragment made her stumble. Orcs! A flood of dismayed surmise welled up within her.

The previous commotion was nothing to what the women could do when they really tried. A truly alarming exhibition of wails and lamentations assaulted her ears as she rushed up to the pair. "Ladies, come inside! This will never do," she said firmly, and bundled them into their tent with scant ceremony. Instantly she ducked back out. "Don't go anywhere," she ordered one of the erstwhile rubberneckers, whom she had noticed on her way in. Faerim froze, then nodded mechanically, aghast at the narrow-eyed imperative in her cold gaze.

Back in the dim chill of the tent, the wailing was still ear-splitting. "Please, you need to hush!" she cried over the racket. "We must be calm and quiet. Think what would happen if the whole camp panicked! You must be quiet." The shrewish face of the louder woman, red and distorted with crying, was mirrored in the wrinkled and stricken visage of her companion as both turned to her, but under the force of her authority the noise diminished to shuddering sobs and sniffs. Lissi sank to her knees and gently laid a hand on each of their shoulders. "Now, tell me what's happened." Their confused, convoluted story tumbled out in confused, convoluted words, but eventually Lissi grasped what they knew. Having comforted and, she hoped, impressed them with the importance of order to their safety, Lissi stepped back out of the tent.

Faerim was scuffing the ground absently and, she thought, a little nervously. He turned to her with a very shamefaced expression. Lissi forced him to meet her eyes for a full second, then took his arm and led him slowly down the row of tents. "Faerim, what do you know about this?" she said in a low but masterful voice that would brook no evasion.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Stopping short, Faerim gaped in surprise and then looked affronted by Lissi's question. "Mother," he answered quietly. "Are you suggesting I had anything to do with-"

"I'm not blaming you, Faerim," Lissi replied sharply. She glanced up at her son, meeting his eyes for a second, then simply waited. Faerim sighed. It was a method that his mother had tried, tested and perfected over the years, and one that, every time, would eventually worm out all the information she wanted. Resistance, Faerim had learnt at a young age, was futile. He continued to walk slowly along the row of tents towards their own, and summed up shortly what had caused the women's panic.

"The pair of women probably told you everything you need to know, Mother - the woman's sister and son have been kidnapped by orcs."

Lissi narrowed her eyes. "Why? Why would they go out of their way to creep in at night and only steal away a woman and a child, when they could have easily slewn the entire camp."

Faerim shrugged non-commitally, raising his eyes to look straight forward. "Doesn't make sense, does it?" He hesitated, then went on, lowering his voice. "There is more, of course. The woman and child were not the only ones to be taken: three elves were kidnapped from their tent."

Lissi stopped short. "Elves?" Her startled exclamation was loud and two passing soldiers glanced over curiously. Faerim shushed her frantically then nodded. "Aye, elves. The elven emissaries. Which is why the soldiers have been roused: Captain Hirvegil is intending to go after the orcs and retrieve the captives, elves and Dunedain."

Lissi nodded mutely, frowning slightly as she walked onwards. They were only a few feet from their tent now and Faerim hoped childishly that they could get there before his mother asked the next, predictable question, so that he could find some diversion. He didn't exactly relish the thought of Lissi viewing her eldest son as an eavesdropper. But alas, it was not to be: the woman turned to Faerim and fixed him once more with that stern gaze. "And you know all of this exactly how, Faerim?"

Faerim hesitated and glanced towards their tent. "We-ell, I..." he trailed off, but with reason, his gaze fixed over Lissi's shoulder, and she turned around to see what he was looking at. When she saw, her eyes widened: two elves, advancing purposefully, their object very definitely Faerim and Lissi's tent. They paused as they reached the pair, and the taller of the two - Gaeredhel? - nodded curtly to Lissi then addressed Faerim. "We are looking for the woman who you were with at the beginning of this expedition - the woman with a child. Do you know where we could find her?"

Lissi broke in before Faerim could answer, her voice level but stern, a tone not unlike that which she had previously been using with her son. "Why are you looking for them, sir?"

Gaeredhel glanced at Lissi then looked to his brother, who pursed his lips and replied accordingly, jiggling Gilly a little to keep the child warm. "I must leave Gilly with her - the two children got on well together." Lissi nodded, apparently satisfied with the elf's answer, and motioned towards their tent.

"Where are you going?" Faerim did not mean to seem disrespectful but the question simply came out. As the two elves turned to fix their still grey eyes on him he felt like a foolish child but did not shrink against them. Rôsgollo looked across at Gaeredhel then replied quietly, "To find out kinsmen." With that, he ducked inside the tent behind Lissi to speak to Renedwen.

Faerim hovered outside reluctantly, knowing that the inside of the tent would be too crowded if he was to go in as well - he was satisfied at least that Rôsgollo would not do Renedwen or her child any harm. Gaeredhel stayed outside also, but as Faerim watched him out of the corner of his eye, he noted that the elf showed a statue-like lack of cold, despite the chill of the air. As Faerim moved to go towards the tent, his eyes darted up quickly, pinning the youth like a butterfly on a collector's plate.

Faerim shivered inadvertently, a reflex not entirely due to the cold air, and held Gaeredhel's gaze. This elf seemed somehow the more approachable of the two, as far as that was possible: there was something, some air about Rôsgollo that the other did not possess: something ancient and untrusting, Faerim deemed, of the Dunedain. The other elf, the one who had been speaking so heatedly to Hirvegil, had this also; Gaeredhel seemed different somehow. Faerim stamped his feet, breaking the elf in question's gaze as he looked away distractedly towards the tent. Plucking up his courage, he asked the question that had been nagging, perched on the edge of his tongue for the past few silent minutes. "Are you really going to find your kinsmen?"

He looked back sidelong at Gaeredhel, and the elf nodded silently. Faerim nodded quickly, fidgetty, and fell back to silence. After a moment or two, he broke it again. "But...what about Captain Hirvegil? He said to wait; the soldiers are not ready yet..." he trailed away under Gaeredhel's impatient gaze. The elf did not say anything for a moment, then he frowned irritably and replied, "Captain Hirvegil can take all the time he wants to prepare and make decisions. We cannot wait - anything could happen in such wasted time..." this time, it was the elf's turn to drift off, and he seemed distracted, worried. Faerim nodded slowly, not speaking. He understood the elf's worry. Yet at the same time...at the same time, something stirred within him, some urge to please or need to help. His mind began to tick, a plan forming. The elf was right: the soldiers were taking time to prepare, whereas the elves were already ready to go - they could be gone in a few moments to find their comrades. What was the use in wasting time? Yet...yet even if they took a horse each - which would be more practical, as it would allow them to move more swiftly and concentrate on tracking rather than on another animal - how would they get the elves and Dunedain woman and child back to the camp? Even with two to a horse, they would be a horse short, and having horses laden down with a cargo twice as heavy would slow them down, taking away the edge of their all-important get-away. They would need extra horses - and who was to take them...?

Inwardly, Faerim grinned.

The tent flap opened and Rôsgollo strode out briskly, rubbing his hands together as if at a loss for what to do with them. He nodded to his brother. "It is done," he said. Gaeredhel nodded in return and laid a hand on the other elf's arm, and for a moment their gazes locked. Faerim looked away, feeling as though he was intruding, and feeling strangely left out: it was as if they were still talking to one another, but without the inconvenience of words. Then the moment had passed, the elves moved on, striding briskly away from the tent.

"Wait!" Faerim called after them. Rôsgollo stiffened impatiently but Gaeredhel turned to see Faerim standing hesitantly behind them. He darted forward, as near as he dared, and spoke almost conspiratorially. "I could come with you."

The two elves simply looked at him, apparently unimpressed. Gaeredhel laid a hand on Faerim's upper arm and shook his head, giving the youth a slight smile as if he was a child who had asked his father to come to war. "I do not think so, Faerim."

"Hear me out!" Faerim leant forward, speaking urgently. "When you get to the orcs camp, how will you get your fellows away? I presume you are taking one horse each - you will still be a steed short even if you double up. That is if you were intending to rescue the Dunedain woman and her nephew also, instead of just leaving them there to the mercy of the orcs..." he let the sentence trail off, knowing that they would not be able to do so - or at least, hoping that Rôsgollo's strange compassion for Gilly, despite his apparent distrust of the Dunedain, could extend to another human child. The elves looked at each other, each searching the other's eyes. Faerim went on. "If I was to come as well, I could bring the extra horses - you would be able to track without being hindered by an extra animal each. It would allow a quicker approach and a quicker get-away - the horses would be quicker with less cargo apiece."

There was a pause in which Faerim got the decided feeling that he was being measured up. Rôsgollo spoke first. "Why would you voluntarily do this?"

Faerim grinned. "Why did you take in Gilly?"