[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.