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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.
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