[Kransha]

Hírvegil wished now, as he hurried through the inner sanctum, that he could be with his troops on the field of battle, but King’s orders could not be ignored. Now that the Elves’ were found, Hírvegil had to be sure that the word sent to him was not false, and make final arrangements for departure. Belegorn was a stern and proud Dúnedain commander, one who would not let him down. He had been given command of the Rearguard before, and proved extremely resourceful when such occurrences occurred. If anyone could successfully move the rearguard through two sanctums and cover the retreat of another small army of non-combatants, it was Belegorn, and this confidence boost brought up a surge of optimistic energy in Hírvegil, although it was replaced by grimness again a moment later when the sound of harsh orcish drumbeats and the steady rhythm of crashing projectiles filled his ears.

The Captain ran into the complex of hallways, chambers, vaults, corridors, and colonnades, but the area had nearly entirely emptied, and the plain bareness of the halls was eerie and dark, combined with the terrific sonic explosion that pressed inward from outside with each passing second. Sunlight in the halls had been stifled by smog from the field and the shadow of Angmar itself. Torches were going out as blustery winds blew in and particles of crumbled marble and stone from above fell from the cracks in the domes and roofs of the citadel, clattering onto the floor below where piles of worn dust accumulated into small piles and lumps that soon covered the area. Soon, Hírvegil was distractedly glancing through each doorway into every chamber to find someone who could relay information to him, until he reached a shady hallway, decked with weakened columns on both sides, and rushed down its length. This area was a clump of storerooms and economic chambers used primarily for fiscal ceremonies. There was a small auction house contained entirely in one room, and a larger bank in another, the bank whose vaults held nobility's earnings, rather than those of the common populaces. Some large rooms branched off into smaller rooms, all circular and barely large enough to hold a congregation of five. Hirvegil, huffing and puffing wearily as he went, darted into every alcove and through every arched doorway long enough to scan every room in succession.

At last he caught a glimpse of a veiled, hunched figure standing in one of the chambers, its narrow shadow cast ominously across the shimmering floor. Hírvegil recognized the figure, even with its back turned, as it bent over several marble tables erected in a claustrophobic storeroom. “Mellonar.” He said, and the figure spun about on his flailing robe tassels, obviously flustered. “Captain,” remarked the nervous Minister, hastily diverting his attention to Hírvegil, “you are not with your troops. You-”

Hirvegil quickly cut him off. He could easily have questioned the counselor’s own integrity, rummaging through items in a darkened storeroom when he should be consulting with the Elven Emissaries or reassuring the Dunedain, but this was certainly not the time to entertain personal squabbles such as that. “There is no time for banter now, Minister.” He said, not even moving towards the minister, “Are all the Elves in the passage?” Mellonar nodded, quavering with fear, confusion, or nervousness, as he often did. “I saw two Emissaries there myself, but one journeyed there, I assume, without my knowing.” He paused, looking off and stumbling over the fine Elven name that had escaped his memory before saying, with some confidence, “The Lady Bethiril, it was she.” He took a moment to visibly ponder, and another to jump, jolted by a burst of sound that shattered the stilness of his rummaging session. Behind him and above, a glass window shattered into crystalline shards, with trickled onto the floor nearby, and he backed off subserviently.

“You are sure she is there now.” Hírvegil’s voice held no urgency, but the matter spoken of was urgent. It was definitely in his as well as Mellonar’s best interests to see that all Elves escaped safely from the city. Again Mellonar nodded, his balding head bobbing swiftly up and down as he began to move across the small, closet-like room towards the Captain of the Rearguard. “I heard the guards declaiming to someone as I left the two that had come. I do not doubt that it was her.” He continued moving, but Hírvegil, his armor jingling and clanking gently as he swung around, waved him off and spoke, “Good. Are the civilians prepared for departure?” He spoke even more quietly now, with the stern seriousness stereotypical of a military commander, and of one of the Dúnedain. His proud gaze was lessened, though, by the alarmed state of emergency, the fires of anarchy that raged about him. He bore on his face a mixture of an icy glare and a heated, passionate look of need - need to make safe his city.

“Yes,” replied Mellonar, “they are prepared.” Hírvegil nodded grimly. “All is as it should be. I shall initiate the final stage of the evacuation.” With that, he dashed off down the darkened colonnade. Mellonar, shaking his cold head as the Captain made his way to the North Gate Passage, turned and returned to his daunting work – filling his robe’s orifices with various trinkets that would not be missed by the evacuating ministers, but might fetch a pretty penny if the Dúnedain ever reached mercantile civilization. He had already stuffed copper and silver coins into his robe's pockets to the brim, and clinking currency spilled out as he moved, littering the floor, once he had finished. A few medallions and semi-precious metals had found there way inside as well; anything worth something. He admitted to himself as he heard Hirvegil's footsteps' fade into a nerve-racking nothingness of sound that he was a cad to do what he was doing, but the reward was enough to keep him from caring. Once he had sufficiently exercised his sudden spurt of kleptomania, he to hurried out of the storeroom and towards the North Gate Passage.