[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.