[Kransha]

The ride to the Blue Mountains was just about as somber as the ride to the Hills of Evendim. It was much longer, but just as uneventful as the first. It dragged on, but, though the year was progressing steadily out of winter, ascending to lands farther north brought heavier snowfall. Valleys became glaciated, plains bore no more tufts or patches of refreshing greenery, trees became bare, and the sky seemed locked in some mockery of dusk, a wintry haze descended on the lands and the traveling company of wanderers.

I was some weeks before they passed from rough plains to rolling hills, and then into rocky straits of land, rivers of snow beneath great tides of ice-stained rock. Earthen crags of stone jutted up occasionally, giving way to deeper canyons and high rising land bridges that forded the chasms. Mountains loomed, overwhelming the shadows of sloping hills, and snowy white became deep grey and shaded black of the high rock spires shooting from mountainsides, cliff faces, and the towering peaks. The overall altitude of the land varied dramatically, so much that looking up or down might become nauseating. Before the last ranks of the Dúnedain stood one of the largest ranges of mountain peaks in all of Middle-Earth, to their eyes at least.

Hírvegil’s mood remained contemplative and dark, even as signs of civilization presented itself. Dúnedain watchmen from the first troop had been stationed in posts on the manmade roadways leading through columned passes, which stretched, looped, wound, and intertwined into the depths of the cavernous ridges, beneath the mountains. Light faded around them, but it remained and soon increased in the Dúnedain hearts. The Elves, though, were more reclusive then before, perhaps in the face of their loss. As long arches of stone closed off the vague sight of sunlight above, dancing shadows pattered like wolves around them and the black roads descended deeper and deeper, but torches of guardsmen welcomed them, some new and some old, those of the Dwarves who had marked the entrances to their caverns centuries ago.

Roads delved into the earth, into moist caves first, then through narrow, twisting tunnels in which the columns of men and women had to be packed tightly and thin out into slivers of lines that wound downward, snaking through the spiraling corriders. As the whole train spread into the lower areas, corriders became collonades, widened in width and height. The torches illuminated less of rooms as they grew more expansive. The geometric designs seemed to ripple over walls and rectangular pillars that stretched seemlessly upward to hold up ceilings that might as well have been the very sky itself, considering their massive lengths. The numbers of Dúnedain guardsmen increased, and soldiers began to populate the areas that the second train of Dúnedain entered into. Many filed into the ranks to speak with officers and gain relayed information about what had occured on their journey so they could bring it back to the king. Soon enough, the Dúnedain had been herded into more well lit areas, where they were greeted with a small concourse of counselors, soldiers, and courtiers who had earlier arrived.

Talk ran rampant quickly, with so many things to talk of. Both groups, upon arriving in the Ered Luin, were low on food and supplies. No one was starving yet, and all were eating healthily, but supplies could not hold out indeffinately, and the Dúnedain needed some new food source. The cavernous rocks of the Ered Luin did not seem like the best place for farming or herding livestock. Another favored topic of conversation was the skirmish that had cost the lives of the two Elves, Gaeredhel and Rosgollo, though most officers avoided touching on this subject so as to be politically correct, as well as simply to be polite. Many things were talked of, but the most popular subject was the one at hand. The King was taking counsel with his inner circle, about to address the people for the second time in as many months.

Soon the situation became a duplicate of what had occurred at the North Downs fortress. Uncontrolled masses, lessened since their last assembly, filed into the largest of the room, escorted on their borders by now unarmored guards who kept their ranks, unsteady and swelling, in check. They eventually amassed in the atrium, the most tremendous of the preliminary rooms. It was not as grand as some of the long-winded cavernous halls and great rooms that lay beneath, but it was grand all the same, high and long, a gargantuan chamber with a vaulted roof unseen by the naked eye, high above the cracked floor. Upturned furniture carved of rough and course stone lay strewn at random throughout the room, which was soon cleared aside by laborers to make room for a granite tablet that was suitable as a platform, which was pushed slowly to one side of the chamber and centered. The Dúnedain clumped around the platform, chatting expectantly, admiring or loathing their surroundings, and engaging in numerous discussions of the bizarre circumstances.

All fell silent when a lone figure swept up onto the newly erected platform. It was King Arvedui.

A feeling of repetition swept through the room as well with his arrival. This was almost mimicry of what had occurred at the North Downs’ and it made room for an uncomfortable air in the vast chamber, which spread like wave through every last Dúnadan. With somber voice but kingly manner and a majestic gait, King Arvedui of Fornost, monarch of Arnor, addressed his people for the second time, breaking apart the deathly silence like a rusty blade.

“My people;” his voice boomed, “my people who have come with me through great hardships; my people who have endured the fall of their fair city, assault and assailment from all sides, death, toil, and darkness: the grace of the Valar has seen us this far safely. Your bravery has led us here, to more darkness, but in the darkness light can be found! We may have lost friends and family, but we have stroven onward victoriously, swept across a great distance, and are now safe for a time. We must now relieve ourselves of blades and shields, and take up the pickaxe and the hoe, for it is time for us to live again.”

“We may be dwelling here, under these damask roofs, ‘neath pillars of mighty Dwarven stone, for a long time. We cannot farm or make a living as once we did in fields lush beneath the sun, but we can still live! The Dwarves who lived her in elder days kept great catacombs brimming with wealth and supplies for their rampant wars. We must find their coffers; find their reserves, so that we may survive where they did not. The caves around, above, and below us may well be home to dark beasts, those left by those past days, but they will not deter us. So now, I, your king, give you orders.”

“Separate into groups, all of you, and be not segregated by petty whims. Let soldiers, men, women, and children all stand and be counted, for all shall be needed. But let these concourses not be great, no more than ten or twenty perhaps, and be of watchful eyes, all, for you shall disperse into the catacombs of the deep. For reasons of solidarity, let our friends, the Eldar-kin, go together, but with a fellow of rank to escort them, and others. They have lost friends, so I am told, but have remained with us throughout, and deserve our thanks and reverence. Do not fear the depths, Dúnedain, for the depths hold nothing insurmountable. Now, my friends, be off into the caves, and bring back with you whatever you find to this, our new camp – our new home. Hope and luck to you all, by Manwë’s thunder and the light of Varda find your way!”

And he walked off of the platform.

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Some minutes later, the room was abuzz with talk again, and the officers were separating into their respective groups. Hírvegil, though, retreated unceremoniously from the din, heading with others off into some of the offshooting cubicles, dank, dusky chambers that rimmed the vaulted atrium. Belegorn and other commissioned ranks edged through the tightly packed crowd (significantly less than it had been at the North Downs) and diffused slowly into the same side chambers. Belegorn found his Captain sitting and taking deep, chest-heaving breaths on a frigid stone stool with a shattered corner and a broken limb. He looked even more tired than usual, if such a thing was possible. Hopefully, Belegorn moved towards the Captain and spoke to him with hasty words passing between his lips.

“Captain,” he said, “Shall I form some groups among our company? I will assign an officer to the Elves as the King commanded and you may oversee-” Hírvegil interrupted him with a raised, flattened hand, as he sagged in his battered seat. He spoke in an almost mournful tone, saying words that sounded as grave as death. “Belegorn,” he uttered soberly, “I am not going on any of the expedition groups. I am staying here.”

For nearly a whole minute, Belegorn gaped at him until finally stammering, “But why, sir?”

Hirvegil sighed deeply at this question he’d expected, pulling his hand across his brow and using his broad index finger to analyze the bruise left by his forehead wound. “I do not feel well,” he paused almost after each word, leaning back on nothing, his silence drowning out the din of officers’ loud discourse, “and when I say this I do not mean that I am merely ill. I do not feel like myself. I must rest. Please, Belegorn,” he sounded almost pleading, a strange emotion coming from the staunch Captain of the Rearguard, “do not question me this once. I have received permission from the King’s lords to remain behind.”

“Indeed he has.” The vulture’s voice cut in.

Belegorn swiveled about to see a familiar, pale face – Mellonar. The white-faced shade of a politician hovered behind the Lieutenant, who glared at him, but a simmering grin peeled over Hírvegil’s face instead of the expected scowl. The counselor moved closer, swooping down like the carrion-fowl he was so often likened to, his shadow slim and bent over as it was cast out over the broken stones of the floor. “Ah, Mellonar, you old fiend,” spat Hírvegil with a grim cough, “I thought, or rather, I hoped you had perished on the journey from the Downs. But, your visage does at least remind me of home.”

“Likewise, Captain.” Grinned the lord, licking his colorless, pursed lips and brushing a single loose strand of greasy hair from his face, “I see you are not in good spirits. Your haphazard victory at Lake Nenuial may account for that. I fear my long-time friend is losing himself in this mad time, but you:” he turned, gliding on his slithering robes, towards the lieutenant, who did not flinch openly as Hírvegil did, “You are a specimen indeed, unlike your commander. Word of your accomplishments this season reach many ears, Lieutenant Belegorn of the Rearguard. Even a wise old counselor like myself has seen the promise in you. This is why I caved to your superior’s request – yes, it was I” he interjected into the sentence with a biting in his voice directed at Hírvegil, a usual caustic addition, “–I wanted to see your skills at the helm. You shall lead the group containing the Elves.” Belegorn looked a bit flummoxed by this, and Mellonar’s snaky grin widened, the leathery edges of his mouth curling upward. “Also,” he continued with cold reserve, “take this boy I have heard of, Faerim,” he said the name (like he said all names) with disdain, “and his family, who aided the Elves. They will feel more assured with mortals they know of nearby. Also, I delegate to you the counselor Mitharan, who seemed so eager to go off with you and your braggart captain to the ends of the earth, and any others who the Elves associated with.”

Hírvegil cut him off seriously, ignoring the sardonic nature of his foe. “There was one, Belegorn. A woman called Renedwen. Take her as well.” Mellonar’s lip curled, his ire aroused, but he nodded. “Yes, that will do. What a motley crew you’ll make; splendid. I would wish you luck, lieutenant, but I am sure your captain has given it to you already, and his wishes far outweigh anything I might give you. Good day, Belegorn, Hírvegil. May “Manwë’s thunder” see that you do not fall prey to the creatures of the caves, or whatever terrible things decide to gnaw on your ankles.” He cackled merrily under his breath, “Farewell.” With that, he spun like a bird in mid-air and maneuvered gracefully out of the room, his feet never touching the ground.

As Mellonar disappeared, Belegorn shook his head and turned away; preparing to leave and assemble the group, but an unsteady hand on his pauldron stopped him. His head turned slightly to see the wavering arm of his captain and hear his quiet words. “Good luck, Belegorn.”

“Thank you, Captain.”