[Kransha]

When the messenger came to Hírvegil’s tent, he had to be yanked forcefully from his slumber. When he finally awoke to find himself being violently shaken by the confused young man, he had to be told carefully what was going on. The knowledge registered with him after a few minutes and, since he was already suited up, though very disheveled, he was able to traipse over to the marshalling field outside the camp to meet Belegorn. He did not speak to his lieutenant, or even acknowledge his presence, and his only words were to the youthful messenger as he helped the captain onto his mount, saying that he needed no aid.

Less than a few seconds later, he fell off the horse.

He didn’t retreat into thought, for he couldn’t comprehend that he wasn’t himself. With a minor bruise from the fall, he remounted and wordlessly signaled the troops to move out. He was totally incommunicative, his face sweaty and wrinkled, the youth of his position gone. Perhaps he was just sick. A plague had taken his mother from him years ago, and the disease might be lying dormant in him, in a happy slumber until his system was weak enough to let down its guard. He showed many signs of generic ailment – tiredness, confusion, feverish activity, dysfunctional behavior – it seemed perfectly obvious. But Hírvegil didn’t get sick. He could not remember a time when he had felt bad, besides his chronic headaches. Had the fall of Fornost triggered some downward spiral?

The Captain of the Rearguard did not for a moment realize what he’d become in a day. Yesterday he’d been a healthy, fit, normal fellow. Over the course of the journey from the Downs to the Hills of Evendim he’d been depressed and detached from cold reality, but not so distant and changed. Now he was different, his elegant devices stripped from him and his powerful mind dulled like an age-old blade, similar to the one that hung feebly at his side. That sword, at his waist and in his soul, no longer burned with the mental or physical fury it had once. His sickness, though, that which caused that sword to loose its deadly edge, was untraceable, in a fashion. Personally, Hírvegil was unaware of how much he’d been altered, so he was unable to trace the cause, and his comrades knew too little about the circumstances.

Hírvegil, still without words, in the limbo of life proceeded onward. His quiet ushering bid the riders move. The steeds all hesitated on the grounds, braying noiselessly to themselves and glancing with eyes full of foreboding at the sky, which was caught between night and day, a mixture of shade and light. Hírvegil was at first oblivious to the hesitation of the troops, even of Belegorn, mounted close at hand to him. His horse teetered as he did atop it, but he managed to swivel the beast precariously about, and his face formed a look of dim displeasure, his sweat-soaked brow furrowing.

“Move.” He coughed in a barely commanding manner at the large clump of reluctant horsemen. Half of them didn’t hear him. Bewildered by angered, he continued to prod the horse into spinning about, watching its unwieldy form sway beneath him. “You heard me,” he yelled, his voice again rasping, “move!”

This time, most heard him. Many snapped to sharp attention and started cantering slightly forward, or meandering about. The rows began to diffuse over the field, but most remained stationary. As Hírvegil glanced around at the indecisive cavalry, Belegorn expertly wheeled his own steed about and sidled up next to the commander, startling him. After a quick intake of breath from Hírvegil, he settled and inclined his drooping head to look at his lieutenant. Quietly, but with an air of command himself, Belegorn spoke. “Captain,” he posed, “are you sure you want to-”

Hírvegil, even in his state, could guess what Belegorn was saying. Swinging himself foolishly to on side on his horse, he said “Yes, I am sure.” His face was only tempered with anger, for the look of sickness and hurt dominated it. After a brief silence between the two officers in the midst of the Rearguard, Hírvegil nervously posed his own question. “Are you questioning me, Belegorn?”

Belegorn did not answer directly. “Perhaps you are not well, sir.” He ventured.

The Captain was used to being commanding, but he could not be now. He tried to brandish a scolding finger at the Lieutenant, but succeeded only in batting at the air and sliding over on his saddle. “Don’t you think I know whether I am well or not?” he snapped, spitting accidentally, “I’m perfectly fine.” He spun himself again, driving sharp heels and glimmering spurs into his mount’s flanks that sent it rearing up and forward. His voice rose, catching the attention of all the nervous soldiers of the Rearguard. “Now, all of you; move! We must catch up with the Elves and our riders within mere hours. We must push ourselves to the greatest swiftness we can muster, is that clear?” His possessed roar faded like a dying gasp in his throat.

There was no answer. The chatter of gossip among the soldiers disappeared and was replaced by silence, accompanied by a mélange of accompanying emotions. The Rearguard’s confidence in their leader had not broken, but his behavior was cracking it slowly but surely. Like good soldiers, the riders placed themselves back in their respective lines without hesitation, organizing into four neat columns. They looked to their captain for guidance, for leadership, for the words of the man they knew – but they got none of that.

“Good.” groaned the man who’d been their captain. “Now, ride!”

So they rode.