Fall of the North RPG

[Kransha]

Kransha's post

Four days passed uneventfully in the North Downs hold, though, despite the seeming peace of the world around them, the air of the Dúnedain was far from peaceful. Four days had been spent at the height of alertness. All the inhabitants of the temporary hold were circumspect; the soldiery of Fornost occupied watchtowers and parapets, torchlit in the cold, wintry evenings, staring out into the distance expectantly. But nothing came to strike down the doors of the fortress, to smite its walls and burn it to the ground with merciless resolve. No orcs poured from the mountain passes or popped up from holes in the rolling hills. All were ready for departure at any moment, since an order to flee could come at any time, but, just as no foes swarmed across the downs to pursue and besiege, no order came. Sleepily the dazed passed, and dustings of snow blanketed the high pickets and tower roofs of thatch and lumber. The sun grew brighter, despite the penitent cold, and all seemed well with the world.

Then, on the evening of the fourth day, movement was sighted in the hills from the highest tower, and the light of braziers marked the encampment of the enemy. They had been detained in Fornost, looting and pillaging, for days, and then trailed the path of the escapees to the downs. The hold was alerted, and peace turned to barely controlled chaos. The guards of the fort had to patrol the halls and keep harsh order as panic began to take root among the people.

So it was that on midnight of the fourth day, Captain Hírvegil of the Rearguard and his second, Lieutenant Belegorn were called into the council chamber. They were met by a host of ministers and lords, as well as all commissioned officers in Fornost’s shrunken ranks. The Emissaries of Lindon and Rivendell, though, were absent (possibly left out on recommendation from Mellonar), as were many local prefects and the like. All were seated somberly about a great oaken table, hewn from what appeared to be a single slab of tree’s wood. The table was cleared and circular, one great, shield-like disk with low-backed chairs arranged around it. The King was not present when all were told to sit by the residing regent, the minister and vizier, Naurthalion, a bold and stately lord who often acted as a liaison to the king, between he and merchants, generals, and representatives of the commoners. With a solemn mood, and a vague, enigmatic tone in his voice, Naurthalion bade all present be seated. As they sat around the table, officers and ministers clumped together in nervous isolation, Naurthalion spoke, an orator at heart.

“Good evening to you all,” he began carefully, “though I am afraid it is not a good evening, in fact. The King has retired for the night to ready himself for the morning, and I am to relay to you all the plan he has devised, a cunning device that shall grant us safety from the Witch-King’s hordes. This morning we shall depart the hold here and make for the plains to the west. But, we shall not move together, a dragging caravan to be overtaken; we shall divide into two parties. One shall depart second and head southwest towards old Annúminas, drawing the Witch-King away from his majesty, who shall be in the first train. In the Hills of Even dim, the Captain of Despair may be eluded and both parties shall reunite at the Ered Luin.

There was a rumble of idle chatter from the audience, a rising fluctuation of whispers that faded as a voice rose above it – the voice of Captain Maegorod of the King’s Guard. “But,” he queried curiously, “will the Witch-King not pursue with dark speed the second party and crush it?” Maegorod was a younger man, less hardened towards war and its ways, but ready to learn of it. He had gained his position more by the merit of blue blood that ran in his veins than by the crimson blood he spilled on the field. But, he still held some respect, though less by elder officers. Sensibly, Nauthalion responded.

“I doubt that he has the foresight to immediately decide which tracks to follow, and the second, which will be fresher in his mind, will ride all the faster to escape him. That group shall be led by Captain Hírvegil, and shall contain half of his command, the Rearguard, as well as the common civilians, many of whom have been drafted into service. The other will contain the other half, as well as the King and the nobles of Fornost, ministers and counselors alike. One minister, though, must give up his station in the first party and represent his majesty in the second. This may constitute some sacrifice, but any emboldened man may do so, and he would, by doing this, earn my deepest respect. I leave that choice up to whomever wishes to make it."

"In which party shall the Elves go?" inquired another minister, an elder one, "Shall they accompany the King as well." Naurthalion seemed overly hesitant, steepling his fingers and glancing down as he spoke, skeptical. "The King has thought of this," he said, as if striving to say something against his own will, "and decided that they shall go in the second party." This also gave rise to some whispers. "I do not understand, Lord." continued the elder minister, "Will not the Elven Emissaries be nearer to harm in the second? Would it not be best to keep them safe?"

"Indeed it would, but the King, in his most infinite wisdom," Naurthalipn grimaced as unnoticeably as he could, "does not wish to deal with the Eldar at this time, and their foresight will be more useful to the party closest to danger. Similarly, it seems to be the desire of the Elves to divert themselves from the chosen path, so they may subvert as much as they wish away from the tension of the King's council." As he finished this sentence, he changed his doubting looks to a look at least tinged with hopefullness. "Enough, though, of that matter, what say you all to this?"

His words presented what could be a damning choice to one, and a damning proposal for many. When Hírvegil heard his name spoken, he felt his heart swerve fiercely in him, and his soul fill with a fire that bore no real, determinable emotion. With little hesitation, he too spoke up in stern protest.

“I must protest, Lord Naurthalion.” He said, giving his voice the necessary volume of reverence, tempered with obvious disapproval, (he had more respect for the Lord Naurthalion than he did for most other underhanded politicians of the crown), “I suggest the people of Fornost all travel in the party with the King. We of the Rearguard are willing to be overtaken to hinder the Captain of Despair in his course. If he battles us, we may draw down his guard and slay many of his horrific spawn before they have reached even Evendim.” He chanced an offhand look at Belegorn, who sat at his side, whose thoughts were far more decipherable through the look on his face. He seemed to agree with his captain, but Naurthalion’s words banished his hopes of altering the king’s plan.

“Nay,” the lord said, “the groups must be equal in number, and you can surely keep safe those who you must guard in this hard time. You have served the King well in the past, I am sure you will not fail him. Now, all get to your stations and look to your charges, for we shall all leave this hold within a few mere hours, before the sun has crested the white hills. Organize the denizens of the fort at the tunnel that leads beneath the mountain to our west and onto the plains, from whence we shall travel swiftly, with the strength of days’ rest to arouse us. Go hence, brothers and friends. Do not dawdle here, lest the Captain of Despair come to our doorstep unexpected.” He waved his hand and thrust himself firmly from his seat. The room broke into disarray as, immediately, the rede ended and the audience dispersed very hastily, even the heavy-hearted Hirvegil and his heavy-handed lieutenant, both with dark thoughts on their minds.

It was not long before the news had diffused, spreading like wildfire, through the hold. In an hour, the worried Arnorians were ready, gathered in a narrow passage, the pass that led through the North Gates, which led to freedom from the downs. The narrowness of the pass would hinder the orc-hordes in itself, for it would take long to get through with a large force. The two groups organized, one headed by Hírvegil and the other by Maegorod and the King himself. All passed quickly as chaos became ordered confusion, a contradiction in terms, but a strangely understandable one. Time flew by, creating madness and unruliness, but, since all folk knew of the happenings, their natures were subdued and, in time, the parties departed. They were all unready, but ready; all confused, but aware; all scared, but brave enough to battle their way to safety in the Ered Luin.

As the golden vessel of Arien shed yellow light on the peaks of the distant northern mountains, an hour after the flight of the King and his entourage and guards, the second party of Fornost, with Hírvegil riding at its unsteady helm, steering a vessel that was destined for an unknown harbor, saw the light of day and the plains of Arnor stretching before them, ready for their long journey.

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Nilpaurion Felagund's post

Bethiril headed for the council chamber. She hoped that the days had brought a renewal of minds to the King and his counsellors, and that in going alone, without Erenor and her fiery temper, they would reach peacefully a path that would avert the danger from Arnor.

She found the door shut. Inside, she heard voices. This is strange . . . The Noldo approached the guard standing beside the wooden doors. “What is happening behind these portals?”

“The ministers and the lords and the captains of Fornost are holding council.”

She glowered at the guard. “How can that be? Would they hold assembly without the Elven emissaries?” She essayed to gain entry into the chamber.

“Milady,” the guard said, barring the way of Bethiril. “You cannot enter.”

“Why?”

“I am but following orders, milady.”

“Whose orders?” Bethiril asked, though she already knew the answer. “The counsellor Mellonar?”

The guard swallowed. “Yes, milady. It was he.”

Bethiril stood still, staring at the doors, as if by some Elven-craft she could see through the wooden barriers. Once again, that contemptible Man had gotten in her way. Who knows what rede the King now pronounces, with the craven Mellonar controlling his every thought.

Once again, helplessness set in. Calmly, she turned away from the doors, and made her way back to their quarters.

[CaptainofDespair]

The meeting in the council chamber was of somber mood, and it rung of defeat, at least to Mitharan. The King’s plan of splitting the host of Arnorians, to allow the King to escape, was not one the young counselor likened to that of a Numenorean descendant. He felt his people were being driven into the wilds, so that none would hear the screams that would emanate from the dark woods and shallow valleys, as Darkness incarnate overcame them. The ‘cunning’ plan of the King was merely a ploy to save his own hide. When he heard the details that Naurthalion, vizier and minister of the King, presented to the gathered lords and captains, he shrunk in his seat, and muttered a few dire words, “This will spell the end of all...”

Luckily for the counselor, none heard him, or he might have been left in the Downs to fend for himself. But, maybe that was not such an evil end for a bitter life. Nevertheless, he was to live, for now. His hope had faded, that the Witch-King would be driven off, and the lands of Arnor made safe again. The vizier continued to speak of the plan, and the methods with which it would be carried out, though he had been interrupted by a few objections from those in the service of the Crown. Mitharan continued to pass in and out of a daze, remembering little of what was spoken. However, a small section of the speech did penetrate the daze, “One minister, though, must give up his station in the first party and represent his majesty in the second. This may constitute some sacrifice, but any emboldened man may do so, and he would, by doing this, earn my deepest respect. I leave that choice up to whomever wishes to make it.” Almost immediately he became alert, and waited patiently for the other counselors to leave, knowing full well that known would give up their stations, for they would rather be with the King.

Only a few moments later, the council was dispersing, to pass into the twilight, and finalize their preparations for the morning’s departure. Mitharan however, wove his way through the ranks, to meet with Naurthalion. A few of the guards had impeded his progress, if only for a moment, and eventually he pushed his way into the path of the minister. Bowing slightly, he attempted to make his case, to ensure that no other would get what was now his coveted position. “Milord, I wish to leave the King’s direct service, and become his representative in the second train.” Naurthalion, having known the man’s father, inquired to validate the reasoning of the ‘youth’. “For what purpose would this serve you, Mitharan? Your family is not here with you, and thus we assume you are the last of your house.” A quick, seemingly prophetic response came next, “That is my reasoning. My house lies in ruin, and I am the last. I seek retribution for these despicable actions, rather than to flee with the first host, where battle may not come.” The vizier nodded, and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Then may you find what you seek...”

With his new post secured, the youthful minister strutted off, to find Captain Hírvegil, to notify him that he would be the new addition to his command. The captain and his lieutenant had lingered on the outremer of the hall, for a few moments, deep in thought. That is where the counselor found them. Stepping out of the shadow of the vaulted doorway behind the two men, he spoke, “Good evening, Captain Hírvegil. I am Mitharan, a lowly counselor of his Majesty’s court. I will be his lordship’s representative amongst your train.” The Captain responded quickly, with a hint of spite in his voice, “Why would you risk your station to journey with us, to be harried by the Witch-King’s evil?” Mitharan sighed, and hesitated to answer the query. But he did answer nonetheless. “I have many reasons, one of which is to seek some way to deliver the retribution and vengeance of my house upon Angmar’s forces. But...another is that I despise the King, and do not approve of his methods.” Hírvegil and Belegorn looked at each other, and shook their heads, chuckling under their breath. The counselor, with cloak lapping at the air, strode off to find a mount, and prepare to depart the downs.

The light of morning was only beginning to dawn over the hills and fields of Arnor, but the two trains had already prepared to march out, each equally readied for the rigors of marching, and the prospect that battle might come to them. The King’s train had set out earlier, to allow the snow to settle, and cover their tracks. Soon, Hírvegil and the Rearguard would set out with their own, in hopes of distracting the eye of the enemy. Mitharan groaned, sitting uneasily, and rather sleepily, atop his mount, waiting for the signal to begin the long, arduous journey.

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre's mouth twisted again in disgust as the messenger relayed King Arvedui's decisions and council. If it was possible for his estimation of the King's ministers to drop further, it did so. Few things displeased Angóre more than cravenness, especially when it put undeserving people at risk.

"Erenor." His voice shocked the junior emissary from her latest fruitless attempt at communication. She looked up from where she sat. "Erenor," he said again, "I am going to accept the decision of the king to ride with the rearguard. They will need all the strong arms they can get, and I tire of sitting behind walls of shields."

Erenor looked as though she would speak, but Angóre forestalled her words with his upraised hand. "Although I have no authority over you, I would urge you to protest, to stay with the king and his ministers. Though you are indeed valiant, and I doubt not that any company would be pleased to add you to its number, you -and lady Betheril, of course- may yet be able to convince King Arvedui of the folly of his decision, a task far more important and, I fear, difficult than playing the rabbit to the captain of despair's hounds."

"Whether you come with this second party or no, the decision rests, of course, with you. Either way though, I shall not be acting as your guard for much longer. I intend to ask Captain Hírvegil for a position among his scouts." His face was set, and his voice was grim. "I may yet be able to make some difference in this vain endeavor, and I would do what I can for these men."

[Arry]

The horses stamped and whinnied low in the van, their breath streaming out in misty snorts in the chill air of early morn. The riders, too, were nervous for the most part, anxious to begin, their own uneasiness at this venture translating through the reins and the nervous twitches of their knees against their mount’s flanks. Lord Ereglin’s horse stood calmly, taking his cue from the composure of his rider, though even this horse could not avoid completely the nervous air of those others of his kind who milled about him.

Rôsgollo pulled his cloak more firmly about him, shielding Gilly from the cold. The little boy’s bright eyes peeked out from the gap where the edges met. ‘So quiet, you are,’ thought the Elf, shifting the child’s body closer against him. ‘Did your mother teach you that, little one? Some measure of protection in this grim world, I suppose.’

Gaeredhel urged his mount closer to his brother’s. ‘I was talking to one of the guards at that meeting,’ he said quietly, his gaze flicking up to where Lord Ereglin sat, his back to them. ‘Apparently, the King sent us with this group because “he does not wish to deal with the Eldar at this time”.’ Rôsgollo raised his brows at this information. ‘Tis true,’ continued his brother. ‘It seems those from Rivendell counseled against the King’s decision to move to the Ered Luin.’ ‘And the King would not consider their counsel?’ asked Rôsgollo. ‘Nay, not the King, so much,’ returned Gaeredhel, ‘as that buffer he imposes between the Eldar and himself. Mellonar.’ This last word was spat out, as if it left a nasty taste in the Elf’s mouth. ‘The King, or his twisted minister, has left us to offer what counsel we may to those “closest to danger”.’

The brothers sat in silence for a moment, watching the last preparations before the small column moved out. ‘Well, here is my counsel,’ murmured Rôsgollo, glancing round at the women and children huddled on their horses. ‘We make for Mithlond. Keep the King’s people safe . . . and ourselves.’ Gaeredhel gave a grim laugh, agreeing with his brother. A number of eyes slid toward the sound then looked quickly away. ‘A sound idea, brother, and beneficial to the King, too. Do you not think so?’ Rôsgollo’s brow puckered; he did not follow his brother’s thoughts. ‘The King . . .,’ prompted Gaeredhel. ‘What good is such a title when one has nothing, and no one, to be King of?’

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen

She had spent the last few days deep in despair, thinking only of what she had lost. Finding a quiet nook she had withdrawn into it with the child, only accepting food so that she might keep herself alive for the sake of the boy; nothing brought comfort to her now, only the sight of his face. He was beginning to crawl now and she struggled to keep him close to her. The nights were the worst, and she had to sleep curled about him in case he woke and crept away. She could only be thankful that he was so quiet and placid that he was as happy sleeping close to her as he was exploring the world about him.

This world was now changed, and instead of the warm house with its tapestries, rich furniture and thick furs, the child had nothing more to explore than a dark and noisy hall, crammed with those who remained from the great city. Instead of a safe and welcoming home he was now in a cold old hall, and rather than his cradle in the corner of the grand chamber his mother and father has shared, he now slept on the floor in a corner, with only his mother for comfort.

Renedwen not only protected the child through the ordeal, but she also kept hidden from the view the sword her husband had made her take when he died. Many of the people had come here with nothing, and although food and warmth were the primary concerns and most sought after commodities, she could sense the level of fear and knew that such a weapon would catch the eye. She was terrified of anyone seizing it while she slept; in the mass of people it would never be found again, it could soon be hidden from her and its theft easily denied. In the day she had kept it hidden beneath her cloak, but while she slept, she made sure the sword was tucked beneath her. It made her nights even more uncomfortable as she felt the constant pain of the hilt digging into her ribs, but it was preferable to not sleeping through worry that it might be taken.

When the call came for everybody to move on, Renedwen was almost glad, as the last few days had been a constant worry to her. She had retreated into her despair, into the familiar comfort of misery she knew all too well, and though uneasy about what was ahead, she was glad to be moving on. She knew she would be forced into a situation where she had no time to brood; this stasis could only deepen into darkness if she remained here much longer. As she waited to move off, the talk around her was negative. People were angry about the King’s decision and spoke in hushed tones of treachery. She listened half-heartedly, as she had expected as much of their leader; of course the King would want to save himself, who were they to assume otherwise? In answer to the talk of a younger woman who sat on the horse next to her own, Renedwen snappily answered “What did you expect? For the King to defend us with his own hands?”

The child was strapped firmly to her, and she sat upright on her borrowed horse, her cold blue eyes gazing into the distance. Some who looked upon her thought she was frozen right through to the heart; she appeared to them to be noble and almost arrogant, to be trying to hold herself apart from the common crowd. But Renedwen was thinking of that strange place where her husband and family now walked in peace. She strained to see it with her eyes, trying to perceive something which was always there but not quite visible, as though it lay just out of sight along the path, the place to which she was now headed.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Hush now, good boy. There you are, North, there..."

Faerim's soft, soothing words to his horse, however nonsensical, calmed both himself and his steed as he stroked the black stallion's soft muzzle with his gloved hands. Taking a surreptitious handful of oats out of his pocket - handful being a generously used word for the few scrawny specimens which now resided in his palm - he gave them to the horse. North sniffed at the only once then greedily ate them, his lips snuffling against Faerim's gloves. The youth laughed softly at the tickling sensation and drew his empty hand away, smiling and patting the horse on the side of the neck solidly. Moving around to the side, he mounted North smoothly, checking that everything was in order on the saddle. His mother had been right to take a few things with her: he had not realised how practical she had been, taking a few servicable belongings for each of them, which were now strapped about Faerim's saddle or on Morn's. The boy looked across through the crowds, searching for the umpteenth time for where his mother and brother were, seated on his mother's mare: they had decided it would be better if they rode amid the other women and citizens. Along with them was the other woman, the one who Faerim had saved, he supposed: Renedwen. His eyes flitted across to her and hovered there for a moment. He frowned slightly: she sat haughtily upright, his chin held high and defiant, as if she thought she were better than all those around her. He sighed slightly. The nobles still felt themselves noble, the king still felt himself a king: what they did not realise was that when the city fell, the last thing to fall in the ruins of statues and towers, was the hierarchies.

What she also doesn't realise is that it isn't just sleeping with that sword close that's stopped anyone from taking it, he added silently, smiling to himself. He didn't know why, but since getting them out of the rubble, Faerim had felt something of a responsibility for the woman and her child: he would protect them, as he would protect Lissi and Brander. Not that he would let on. And not that it was probably going to last long either, he added, if she kept her nose in the air like that.

Clicking his tongue softly and digging his heels slightly into North's sides, Faerim rode the horse around and found where the soldiers were. Now came the trickier part...

The dilemma was as follows: Faerim was technically, as of a few weeks ago, a soldier in the army of Fornost. He had been enrolled in the desperation for new blood as the soldiers fell like flies against the black hordes of that...creature back in the city. However, while he had fought like the rest, he was missing a few slightly vital parts to becoming a soldier, such as a uniform, a regiment and, oh yes, any proof at all that he was actually part of the army. Now that they had left Fornost this shouldn't have been so much of an issue, you might think, being as an army to protect a city may seen slightly superfluous when the city no longer exists; but not so. The soldiers were guarding the rest of the civilians, like guards around the rest of the ex-citizens, and Faerim had every intention of doing his duty and being one of them. And, seventeen or not, he was damned if he was going to let anyone get in the way of his doing so.

Riding confidently around to where a group of soldiers were gathered at one side of the mass of civilians, he stopped and began to expertly check his equipment thoroughly, making sure his bow, quiver, and sword were all to hand (not to mention the long knife in one boot, but only North could feel that one); he fiddled slightly with his cloak; he flexed his fingers and patted North briskly on the side of the neck, murmuring a few words to the horse.

Altogether, he gave the impression of someone in exactly the right place, knowing exactly what he was doing.

But to be accepted just with that...it was too good to be true really. One of the men, a rather portly, slightly balding middle aged man who one might more easily imagine in a grocer's or butcher's shop, turned towards Faerim, looking up from where he was standing on the ground. He grinned worriedly but politely at the boy. "Sorry, do you need to ask something? We really must be off."

Damn.

"No, thanks, I'm...I'm just waiting for us to go. I need to take my place around the citizens: wouldn't want to lose anyone, and we need to be ready if the enemy catches up, as the Captain said." The words were delivered with a brisk informality that continued with Faerim's lie of confidence while inside, he quailed, like a little boy about to be caught and sent back to play with the younger children.

The portly soldier hesitated, then smiled almost patronisingly. "Now, I really don't think that will be necessary. There are trained soldiers already there, and civilians-"

"I am a soldier." Faerim realised his mistake in interrupting straight away, and continued hastily, his blue eyes and cleancut face the very picture of earnestness. "Apologies: I meant, I have already been enrolled as a soldier, sir."

"When?" The man was beginning to lose patience, his mood quickly souring.

"Several...months ago." Liar. "I was enrolled before the fighting began. My family are a military family, and so it seemed only natural that when the time was right, I would join up." It was hard to imagine a more earnest individual than Faerim was making himself out to be.

"When the time was right?" The portly man narrowed his eyes, ready to pounce.

"Well, when I turned eighteen, of course," Faerim replied innocently.

Liar!

But the portly soldier didn't pick up on a bit of it: he seemed to relax, looking back at the scrappily made list he had in his hands as he ran a hand over his head and nodded. "Ah, yes, yes, that's fine then. Eighteen...of course." He glanced up at Faerim, beaming distractedly. Then his smile faded slightly and he frowned a little. "...But I would expect to remember your face: striking eyes, don'cha know. Maybe I'm just...well, what's your name?"

Faerim thought fast. "I don't recall seeing you either, sir: maybe because I was training I didn't have chance to encounter you yet?" he hazarded. Wrong answer. The man's frown increased, the grooves on his expansive forehead deepening slightly. "No, no, I shouldn't say so - I would have thought we would meet. When did you say you joined?"

"A...a few months ago, not long before the fighting began..." Faerim was usually the smoothest liar around, but he had been able to sleep well over the past few nightmarish days, kept up by the crying of the children and those who had lost or thought they might have lost, sleep driven away by the worry and fear of 'what-if's and 'what-could-be's....

"When? I say, are you sure? You wouldn't just be trying-"

"I'm simply trying to do what I was told to do." Faerim's tone was curter this time, and his blue eyes were icing over in anger.

"Don't you interrupt me, young lad, I'm doing as I have been instructed, as I suspect you aren't." The portly soldier was practically swelling up with self-importance. "What was your name again, hrm? Hrm?"

"I-"

"Oh, for- Your city has already been destroyed, and if we do not move soon, the same fate is going to affect your people. Why exactly, then, do you feel the need to argue?"

The smooth, irritated voice made both Faerim and the portly man freeze and glance around sharply at the speaker: a wiry, dark haired elf seated on a horse with, most surprisingly, a small boy peering out of his cloak. Faerim did a double take: the boy was a mortal, a Dunedain. He looked at the elf's face again, alarmed, then glanced at the other who was positioned a few steps behind him. Meeting the elf's eyes, he shook his head. "I agree, I...sorry." His mature, confident start trailed away simply to a small apology. There was something about those grey eyes and the way they were glaring at him: from the laugh lines around his face, the elf did not strike Faerim as a bad character, but it was like being berated by a mermaid - completely unexpected. And a ruddy old mermaid at that: Faerim did not know much about how old the elves could live, but he had heard that they had many hundreds of times the longitude of even the Numenoreans...

Glad for an excuse to look away from those fierce grey eyes, Faerim turned his bright cornflower gaze back to the portly gentleman. "My name is Faerim, sir, the son of Carthor."

The man nodded irritably. "Yes, yes..." he muttered, looking away. Faerim pursed his lips, then looked back at the elf: he couldn't help wondering about the immortal's strange burden. "The...child, sir..." He looked from the innocent, wide eyes to meet the elf's sharp grey ones again. "Pardon my asking, sir, but...why are you carrying a human child?" he asked curiously, feeling somewhat foolish as soon as he had said it.

[Arry]

‘Pardon my asking, sir, but . . . why are you carrying a human child?’

Rôsgollo drew himself up straight on his mount, a quick glance measuring the one who had addressed him. For a brief moment his eyes took in the officious soldier standing near the young man, then, with a return of his gaze to the questioner, he dismissed the portly officer from his attention. ‘Faerim, is it not . . .?’ he asked, tucking the curious child closer against him.

Before he could give further answer Gaeredhel urged his horse forward, putting himself between the men and his brother. ‘Is there trouble, brother?’ he said, his hand drawing back his cloak to make free his blade should he need to draw it.

‘No trouble, just a simple inquiry,’ Rôsgollo replied, his voice smooth. ‘Faerim,’ he went on, ‘son of Carthor has asked why I carry a human child.’

Be careful with your answer, brother. The other one looks edgy. And I think he has no love of the Quendi. Gaeredhel kept his gaze on the two men as he spoke with his brother in thought.

Rôsgollo nodded, moving his mount forward to be in view of Faerim. ‘His mother is dead, Faerim, son of Carthor. Slain in the streets of your city. None stopped to see to her. Would you not have taken up such a child to bear him away from his certain doom for at least a little while? Man or Elf child, what difference should it make to me?’

The sound of hooves approaching caught Gaeredhel’s attention. One of the King’s guard was approaching, his gaze intent on their little group. Gaeredhel moved up again to block his brother . . .