[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.