[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.