[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Bethiril followed the Dúnedain guard to the king’s court.

The main thoroughfare to the court was choked with people trying to flee the nearly fallen city. She looked at the refugees. Some would not be parted with their riches, carrying heavily laden carts that they dragged while negotiating the crowded avenue. Others, wiser and more foresighted perhaps, carried nothing more than what would fit in a pack they could easily carry in their backs. Still, she thought, even these wise ones would not be able to outrun the black tide once it gains mastery. And even if they could flee from its reach—when first she came to the city, a layer of snow newly fallen covered it. For the next days the blizzard waxed in might, as if in league with the Orc host. Winter would take those who did not fall to the bitter steel of the Orcs. It was sad to ponder. In her youth she cherished the gloom of Winter.

The dark clouds run swift, and hide Menel’s light.
And Manwë covers all with a blanket of white.

Her guard/guide forced her back to the present situation. He said that time was of the essence, and they would now take circuitous passages to avoid the crowds. And so they walked, and she knew she would never see most of those Men again. Perhaps if she had come earlier . . .

A high-pitched cry shattered the last remnants of tranquillity in the city. All stopped in their tracks, and turned to the direction of the sound. Some fell to their knees and covered their ears, as if such an act could shield them.

She had not heard such a cry of despair and blackness since the winged Dragons first troubled Middle-earth, when last the sons of Valinor went to battle against the hosts of Morgoth in the Plains of Gasping Dust. But such potency of malice in one fell voice—if ever evil were to be music, this would be its chord of victory. Her mien remained impassive, yet in her heart fear spoke ever loud: Even were all the hosts of the Elven realms sent to the aid of Arnor, none would withstand the waxing might of this Master of the Shadow of Fear.

Nay, Bethiril gainsaid the voice. Fear ever seeks to weaken the resolve of all who lend ear to it. Her lord Elrond still puts trust in the swords of Elves and Men united, essaying to root out where the seeds of Morgoth sprouted. This seedling, however strong and deep its roots were, would fall to the same doom.

Still, as they neared the king's court, a silent tune from the past played within her . . .

Chill music that a herald piper plays
Foreseeing winter and the leafless days.
The late flowers trembling on the ruined walls
Already stoop to hear that chilling tune.