Fall of the North RPG

[Garen LiLorian]

Hírvegil had almost disappeared into the blessed silence of his tent when Angóre's voice halted him once again. "And captain," the voice had changed, impassivity now draped it where sharpness had been but a moment before. Hírvegil turned, surprised despite himself at the change. Angóre continued; "I must apologize for our rude behavior. I need not explain to a lord of men such as yourself the dismay that fell upon us when we were found in breach of our trust: having failed those who depended upon us. But now is a time for cool heads, and not hasty deeds. Orcs do not love daylight, and I do not suppose that they will travel far or swiftly while the sun shines. Prisoners can only serve to slow their travel as well. Therefore, take your rest and gather your strength. It will do us no good to charge after them, only to be killed or taken as well." Angóre then bowed, after the fashion of the Men of Arnor, and retreated.

Hírvegil stared in wonder at the receeding Elf, who had spoken so calmly while his charges lay in bondage. Truly, he thought, the ways of the Firstborn are strange beyond any Man's knowledge. He shook his head and vanished into the tent.

[Arry]

Come! It will not help Lord Ereglin if you speak any further.

Gaeredhel urged his brother out of the entrance and away from the Captain’s tent. He feared the Captain would harden his less than favorable opinion of the Elves and attempt to keep them from helping in the rescue attempt at all. Angore, at least, had placated the man somewhat, or so he thought. If he could redirect his brother’s anger it would be all for the best.

Rôsgollo was quiet as they walked back toward their tent, his mind racing. He was already chafing at the idea they would need wait for the Captain and his 'skilful' trackers. Lord Ereglin had been injured. Who knew what further things the Orcs had done to him with their filthy hands and weapons. Or would do with each space of time now passing. He stopped, forcing his brother to a halt also. ‘There is no reason we cannot assist the trackers. The signs of the Orc troop’s passing are fresh. Let us follow them. One of us can always circle back to bring the Dunedain troops forward.’

‘And what of the young one?’ Gaeredhel asked, nodding toward the drowsing child his brother held in his arms. ‘He can’t be left to fend for himself when we leave. And certainly you won’t be bringing him.’

Rôsgollo said he had already thought of that. He bade his brother get ready their horses and gear, saying he would see to Gilly. He would ask the women with the young child he had met if she would watch Gilly while he was gone.

‘And what of Angóre?’ Gaeredhel asked as he turned toward their tent. ‘See if he wishes to come with us,’ Rôsgollo called back over his shoulder as he hastened off.

Around them, they could hear the guardsmen making their way through the camp, rousing the soldiers to readiness . . .

[Saurreg]

Belegorn stared at the messenger incredulously. Droplets of water navigated their way through the wrinkly folds and lines on his face before dripping from the pronounced chin back into the basin.

“Kidnapped you say!”

“Yes sir. Well… At least that is what the elves are claiming. The captain requests your immediate presence, sir.” Answered the flush faced guardsman.

Belegorn scowled fiercely, causing the nervous young soldier to cringe. The former then wiped his face with a clean but worn out towel before placing it beside the wash basin. He then reached for his chain mail shirt and leather belt.

“I want all the sentries of last night’s detail assembled and accounted for. The duty sergeant is to take the statement of each man under the oath, on what they did and what they saw last night. All senior sergeants to my tent and await my return!”

The messenger snapped into a smart salute before scampering off to have the lieutenant’s orders relayed.

Belegorn hastily donned his attire, thinking dark thoughts of elves all the way…

*********************

Moments later, Belegorn arrived at Captain Hírvegil’s tent. The commander of the rearguard bade his subordinate to enter and acquainted the latter with the situation in hand. Hírvegil sounded calm enough, but his appearance was more haggard than ever. It was all too clear to Belegorn that his superior’s chronic headache had been acting up and the unpleasant development in matters had aggravated it.

It would seem that the three elven envoys – the one from Lindon and other two from Imladris had gone missing and their impetuous guards had barged into Hírvegil’s tent demanding immediate action to be taken. And just to complicate matters even further, a youth by the name of Faerim also chose to report at the same time that a woman and child he knew were also missing.

“And thus is the situation so far.” concluded Hírvegil. “I have also requested the presence of Counselor Mitharan. But I want to hear what you have to say first. So what say you Belegorn?”

Belegorn cleared his throat and spoke as a matter-of-factly,

“Sir, it is in my opinion that we should not do what the elves are insisting,”

Hírvegil raised an eyebrow and implored the lieutenant to continue.


“Firstly, our mission is to escort the civilians and baggage wagon to Ered Luin as soon as possible and effect a rendezvous with the king’s contingent. That is our primary objective and it must be accomplished at all costs. As such speed is of the essence and we can ill afford to loss any time.

Secondly, our charges are the refugees. They and their children are what remain of the Anorian people and they represent whatever hope we have left. We own to them our utmost care and devotion. This will involve whatever strength we can muster to defend them.

Thirdly, our strength in arms is scant. We have but only a hundred guardsmen and a little over twenty militia men. Most of the guardsmen are injured in one way or another and the quality of the fillers is doubtful. Every single blade will be needed, if we are to accomplish our mission and remain as faithful as possible to those we are protecting. If we are obliged to send out searchers to find the missing persons, a large number must be sent for the search to be effective and to withstand any enemy ambuscade or interception. The defense of the column would then be greatly compromised and weakened.

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, sir.

And lastly, we know not the true reason behind the presence of the elves in the first place. Their exchanges with the king were top secret and neither one of us were and are still privy to that information… Quite frankly, I find the disappearance of three of their kind and the envoys themselves at that to be too coincidental. The elves are secretive, who is to say they have told us the whole truth or in this case the very truth of the matter itself?”

[Nuranar]

One moment Lissi was calm, peaceful, and very much asleep. The next all her senses were wide awake and aware, controlled by sure maternal instinct. The gentle whisper of cloth on cloth, the subterranean creak of stiff joints, the deliberately muted movements, were nearly inaudible under the noise of the waking camp; and yet they had woken her up. Without moving a muscle, without conscious thought, Lissi catalogued every sound. She knew with the intuitive certainy of mother-wit that Faerim was getting up with every intention of stealth. Instinct having made its report and Intellect having deliberated briefly, Lissi lay still until the swish of tent flaps betrayed her son's departure.

Conscious mind now almost fully awake, Lissi rolled to her back and stretched slightly. She reflected distantly on the marvelous cognizance that came with motherhood. That night when Faerim was still so little: She, the ignorant girl-wife, had been roused out of the heaviest sleep she'd known in weeks, had found herself on her feet, halfway to the infant's cradle without any waking intention, and had rescued the little one from the bedclothes that nearly suffocated him. Carthor had been absent on duty that night, at that time a rare occasion. The baby one more asleep in her arms, she had paced the balcony in the warm, velvety night air. A lovely summer that had been... so warm, so clear...

Involuntarily Lissi's whole frame shivered. As the memory of that warmth faded, the cold penetrated her consciousness, and the hard ground beneath her penetrated the blanket as if it were pure ice. Sleep was irrevocably fled for the time being, and the outside noise was more insistent. Another day had begun.

With infinite care she slipped out from beneath the cloaks that covered her and Carthor. Her husband's head wound still needed care, although his burns had healed rapidly, and she had no intention of waking him sooner than need be. She slipped out of the tent more silently than Faerim, huddling on her shawl.

The calm air was crisp without bitterness, and it was mostly habit than a need for warmth that kept Lissi pacing while she smoothed and replaited her long black hair. Habit, and the desire to stretch her legs. Muscle memory was a wonderful thing, and she was a born horsewoman; but the forced neglect of years could not be remedied in a few days. The first week of bitter soreness was long past, however. Beneath the ever-present anxiety, and the even deeper despair, lay a simple but genuine delight to be riding once more. All that remained was a residual stiffness every morning, itself a joy to be walked off.

How glad she was they had brought Carthor's horse! His heartfelt joy at their reunion had moved her to tears. He was proud to ride beside her and Brander with the people - at the forefront of the people, nearest the advance guard, it was true. Brander, too, was making great strides. Lissi had known, even back in the city, that Morn would never be able to carry double for long. It had taken little time at the hold to find the extra horses. With their dead and wounded, there were quite a few horses to spare, and Lissi had chosen a steady, compactly-built gelding for her blind son to ride. After what he had managed in their flight through the city, she knew he was capable of riding on his own in ordinary times. Without the distraction of sight, he learned to ride by feel and motion. Now, Brander sat his horse with a straight back and the regal bearing and grace that only instinct can supply. Furthermore, although Lissi had led the gelding the first day out, Carthor had insisted on doing it from then on. For the first time, a closeness seemed to be growing between father and son.

Finished with her hair, she stuck her head back into the tent. Both were still sleeping. Carthor hadn't moved. Brander had, but his face was peaceful. Lissi's own frowned as an unpleasant caterwauling filtered through the canvas. She saw Carthor jerk in his sleep, and she swiftly turned around and darted through the tents. Stupid, noisey women! she thought savagely. Lissi did not suffer fools gladly, whether highborn or low. Petty jealousies and trivial but vicious spats had arisen in the last week as fear had faded. This was just one too many.

Amidst the screeches and yammering, she caught a few words as she neared their epicenter.
"...I told you..."
"...such nonsense..."
"... but the Elves..."
Rounding a large, flamboyant pavilion into the company street, Lissi saw the two culprits just down the way, a few gawkers already gathering. I'll put a stop to this one, at least! she thought, lips tightening.
"...all gone, the orcs have taken them!"
The fragment made her stumble. Orcs! A flood of dismayed surmise welled up within her.

The previous commotion was nothing to what the women could do when they really tried. A truly alarming exhibition of wails and lamentations assaulted her ears as she rushed up to the pair. "Ladies, come inside! This will never do," she said firmly, and bundled them into their tent with scant ceremony. Instantly she ducked back out. "Don't go anywhere," she ordered one of the erstwhile rubberneckers, whom she had noticed on her way in. Faerim froze, then nodded mechanically, aghast at the narrow-eyed imperative in her cold gaze.

Back in the dim chill of the tent, the wailing was still ear-splitting. "Please, you need to hush!" she cried over the racket. "We must be calm and quiet. Think what would happen if the whole camp panicked! You must be quiet." The shrewish face of the louder woman, red and distorted with crying, was mirrored in the wrinkled and stricken visage of her companion as both turned to her, but under the force of her authority the noise diminished to shuddering sobs and sniffs. Lissi sank to her knees and gently laid a hand on each of their shoulders. "Now, tell me what's happened." Their confused, convoluted story tumbled out in confused, convoluted words, but eventually Lissi grasped what they knew. Having comforted and, she hoped, impressed them with the importance of order to their safety, Lissi stepped back out of the tent.

Faerim was scuffing the ground absently and, she thought, a little nervously. He turned to her with a very shamefaced expression. Lissi forced him to meet her eyes for a full second, then took his arm and led him slowly down the row of tents. "Faerim, what do you know about this?" she said in a low but masterful voice that would brook no evasion.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Stopping short, Faerim gaped in surprise and then looked affronted by Lissi's question. "Mother," he answered quietly. "Are you suggesting I had anything to do with-"

"I'm not blaming you, Faerim," Lissi replied sharply. She glanced up at her son, meeting his eyes for a second, then simply waited. Faerim sighed. It was a method that his mother had tried, tested and perfected over the years, and one that, every time, would eventually worm out all the information she wanted. Resistance, Faerim had learnt at a young age, was futile. He continued to walk slowly along the row of tents towards their own, and summed up shortly what had caused the women's panic.

"The pair of women probably told you everything you need to know, Mother - the woman's sister and son have been kidnapped by orcs."

Lissi narrowed her eyes. "Why? Why would they go out of their way to creep in at night and only steal away a woman and a child, when they could have easily slewn the entire camp."

Faerim shrugged non-commitally, raising his eyes to look straight forward. "Doesn't make sense, does it?" He hesitated, then went on, lowering his voice. "There is more, of course. The woman and child were not the only ones to be taken: three elves were kidnapped from their tent."

Lissi stopped short. "Elves?" Her startled exclamation was loud and two passing soldiers glanced over curiously. Faerim shushed her frantically then nodded. "Aye, elves. The elven emissaries. Which is why the soldiers have been roused: Captain Hirvegil is intending to go after the orcs and retrieve the captives, elves and Dunedain."

Lissi nodded mutely, frowning slightly as she walked onwards. They were only a few feet from their tent now and Faerim hoped childishly that they could get there before his mother asked the next, predictable question, so that he could find some diversion. He didn't exactly relish the thought of Lissi viewing her eldest son as an eavesdropper. But alas, it was not to be: the woman turned to Faerim and fixed him once more with that stern gaze. "And you know all of this exactly how, Faerim?"

Faerim hesitated and glanced towards their tent. "We-ell, I..." he trailed off, but with reason, his gaze fixed over Lissi's shoulder, and she turned around to see what he was looking at. When she saw, her eyes widened: two elves, advancing purposefully, their object very definitely Faerim and Lissi's tent. They paused as they reached the pair, and the taller of the two - Gaeredhel? - nodded curtly to Lissi then addressed Faerim. "We are looking for the woman who you were with at the beginning of this expedition - the woman with a child. Do you know where we could find her?"

Lissi broke in before Faerim could answer, her voice level but stern, a tone not unlike that which she had previously been using with her son. "Why are you looking for them, sir?"

Gaeredhel glanced at Lissi then looked to his brother, who pursed his lips and replied accordingly, jiggling Gilly a little to keep the child warm. "I must leave Gilly with her - the two children got on well together." Lissi nodded, apparently satisfied with the elf's answer, and motioned towards their tent.

"Where are you going?" Faerim did not mean to seem disrespectful but the question simply came out. As the two elves turned to fix their still grey eyes on him he felt like a foolish child but did not shrink against them. Rôsgollo looked across at Gaeredhel then replied quietly, "To find out kinsmen." With that, he ducked inside the tent behind Lissi to speak to Renedwen.

Faerim hovered outside reluctantly, knowing that the inside of the tent would be too crowded if he was to go in as well - he was satisfied at least that Rôsgollo would not do Renedwen or her child any harm. Gaeredhel stayed outside also, but as Faerim watched him out of the corner of his eye, he noted that the elf showed a statue-like lack of cold, despite the chill of the air. As Faerim moved to go towards the tent, his eyes darted up quickly, pinning the youth like a butterfly on a collector's plate.

Faerim shivered inadvertently, a reflex not entirely due to the cold air, and held Gaeredhel's gaze. This elf seemed somehow the more approachable of the two, as far as that was possible: there was something, some air about Rôsgollo that the other did not possess: something ancient and untrusting, Faerim deemed, of the Dunedain. The other elf, the one who had been speaking so heatedly to Hirvegil, had this also; Gaeredhel seemed different somehow. Faerim stamped his feet, breaking the elf in question's gaze as he looked away distractedly towards the tent. Plucking up his courage, he asked the question that had been nagging, perched on the edge of his tongue for the past few silent minutes. "Are you really going to find your kinsmen?"

He looked back sidelong at Gaeredhel, and the elf nodded silently. Faerim nodded quickly, fidgetty, and fell back to silence. After a moment or two, he broke it again. "But...what about Captain Hirvegil? He said to wait; the soldiers are not ready yet..." he trailed away under Gaeredhel's impatient gaze. The elf did not say anything for a moment, then he frowned irritably and replied, "Captain Hirvegil can take all the time he wants to prepare and make decisions. We cannot wait - anything could happen in such wasted time..." this time, it was the elf's turn to drift off, and he seemed distracted, worried. Faerim nodded slowly, not speaking. He understood the elf's worry. Yet at the same time...at the same time, something stirred within him, some urge to please or need to help. His mind began to tick, a plan forming. The elf was right: the soldiers were taking time to prepare, whereas the elves were already ready to go - they could be gone in a few moments to find their comrades. What was the use in wasting time? Yet...yet even if they took a horse each - which would be more practical, as it would allow them to move more swiftly and concentrate on tracking rather than on another animal - how would they get the elves and Dunedain woman and child back to the camp? Even with two to a horse, they would be a horse short, and having horses laden down with a cargo twice as heavy would slow them down, taking away the edge of their all-important get-away. They would need extra horses - and who was to take them...?

Inwardly, Faerim grinned.

The tent flap opened and Rôsgollo strode out briskly, rubbing his hands together as if at a loss for what to do with them. He nodded to his brother. "It is done," he said. Gaeredhel nodded in return and laid a hand on the other elf's arm, and for a moment their gazes locked. Faerim looked away, feeling as though he was intruding, and feeling strangely left out: it was as if they were still talking to one another, but without the inconvenience of words. Then the moment had passed, the elves moved on, striding briskly away from the tent.

"Wait!" Faerim called after them. Rôsgollo stiffened impatiently but Gaeredhel turned to see Faerim standing hesitantly behind them. He darted forward, as near as he dared, and spoke almost conspiratorially. "I could come with you."

The two elves simply looked at him, apparently unimpressed. Gaeredhel laid a hand on Faerim's upper arm and shook his head, giving the youth a slight smile as if he was a child who had asked his father to come to war. "I do not think so, Faerim."

"Hear me out!" Faerim leant forward, speaking urgently. "When you get to the orcs camp, how will you get your fellows away? I presume you are taking one horse each - you will still be a steed short even if you double up. That is if you were intending to rescue the Dunedain woman and her nephew also, instead of just leaving them there to the mercy of the orcs..." he let the sentence trail off, knowing that they would not be able to do so - or at least, hoping that Rôsgollo's strange compassion for Gilly, despite his apparent distrust of the Dunedain, could extend to another human child. The elves looked at each other, each searching the other's eyes. Faerim went on. "If I was to come as well, I could bring the extra horses - you would be able to track without being hindered by an extra animal each. It would allow a quicker approach and a quicker get-away - the horses would be quicker with less cargo apiece."

There was a pause in which Faerim got the decided feeling that he was being measured up. Rôsgollo spoke first. "Why would you voluntarily do this?"

Faerim grinned. "Why did you take in Gilly?"

[CaptainofDespair]

The pale light of the new morning had risen, and issued forth its rays upon the land. However, all was still cold and bleak, at least to the counselor. He had awoken with a yawn, but still retaining some exhaustion, he fell back onto his cot with a resounding thud. He could hear soldiers running about the camp. “Just morning combat exercises,” he thought. But then, an emissary, one different in appearance than the normal ones, probably one of Hírvegil’s, tore open the flap to his rather weakly built tent, and spurted out a few words. “Milord Mitharan, your presence is requested by the Captain. It is of utmost urgency.” The counselor groaned, attempting to refuse the summons by all means. But, at long last, he wearily rose, and put on a few articles of clothing. Wrapping himself in a fur robe as he exited, he muttered, “The Captain better have good reason for dragging me away from a near-slumber...”

The camp was aroused, full of excitement. But over what, the counselor knew not, and probably cared not for. It took him a few moments to find his way through the crowds of soldiers who were pacing about, but he eventually made it to the Captain’s tent. He could hear Belegorn’s voice, but he could not decipher the words, save for “The elves are secretive, who is to say they have told us the whole truth or in this case the very truth of the matter itself?” The grogginess would soon pass, he hoped, or not. He would rather be sleeping. Lazily, he folded back the corner of the tent’s flap, and stuck his head, and a bit of his upper torso, into the Captain’s chambers. Hírvegil looked up from his hands, but did not respond. So Mitharan did, in his most tired and irritated speech, as he pushed his way past the leather hide flap. “Why have I been roused from slumber? The reasoning for such intrusion of my rest had better be good, Captain.” At this, the world-weary captain did respond. “We have a situation, counselor. Orcs have come in the night, and captured the Elven emissaries of Lindon and Rivendell.”
“Captured?” That was the only response to the event the young counselor could muster. He looked at the captain in dismay, pondering the next course his mind would take. After a moment he added, “What is the course of action you are to take, or have you summoned me here for counsel, as is my purpose?” The captain could only nod, and Mitharan took this to be a ‘yes’ at the latter portion of his query. “Then my only counsel is on the Elves to determine why they were taken. As for the initial purpose of this train, continue with its course.” The counselor sighed, adding, “I would recommend allowing all to rest, as may have been intended, while allowing scouts, and military detachments to go forth in search of these lost Elves.” He paused, allowing himself to take a breath, and wake up a bit more. He continued from there, attaching, “I believe this path would allow us to continue to Ered Luin, and search for the Elves without much pause. The King would not be pleased to lose a nation-saving alliance because we allowed the Elves to not only be captured, but be kept as hostages.” He bowed low, and exited, finishing with “I will be in my quarters if needed for further counsel,” as he pushed past the flap in the tent, and out into the morning air.

As he left the presence of the captain and his lieutenant, he could not help but marvel at the stealth of the orcs. But, those thoughts would have to wait, he needed to return to his tent for another stint of sleep. He meandered his way through the droves of militia and guardsmen, slowly at first, but then at a speedier pace, as his desire to sleep just a mere moment more forced him on. He cared not for who he bumped into, and nor did he notice much. But, once in awhile he would attract a scowl and “Hey! Watch where you’re going!.” Finally, he had arrived in his home away from home, his own personal lodgings. As he plopped down onto the rickety cot, he heaved a sigh of relief, and tried to slip into his world of dreams. But alas, he could not, for his mind was not at ease. “How could Orcs slip into the camp without anyone knowing? They would need an especially crafty and strong-willed leader to keep them from marauding and plundering the camp. Yet, this cannot be the work of the Witch-King, or his chief minions.” He closed his eyes again, and rubbed the side of his head, trying to weave his way through the maze of thoughts that was his mind. “Whatever the case, they had a purpose. Perhaps the Elves themselves could be the answer...”

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen was happy to look after the boy, she knew where the Elves were going, she had heard the whispering in and aorund the encampment and knew they would want to find their kin. It was not just their kin who they sought but the woman and her child. Thinking of what might have come to pass had she been the unfortunate one caught by the orcs sent a shiver through her. She hoped they would be rescued, and so she gladly answered the request to care for the orphaned boy.

Rosgollo had a look of fear in his eyes when he spoke to her, his words polite but his mind elsewhere, and yet she noticed that when he bade farewell to the child, his expression changed and Gilly did not see that harried look, but the same kindly warmth he had always seen in the Elf's face. If this Elf does not return, she thought, then the child will only remember the kindly face of his protector, he will not know his fear as he has not seen it. So smiling, and heartened by what she had seen pass between the two, she gathered the boy towards her with a warm smile of her own.

Her son, awake and attempting to crawl about the tent, noticed Gilly and laughed; the older boy immediately headed towards him clutching some kind of sweet bread that Rosgollo had given him, and sat with the infant, breaking off tiny pieces of the dainty for him to suck on. Renedwen watched the pair for a few minutes and half closed her eyes, imagining herself safe at home. It was a comfort to her to see the children innocently playing and forming a bond while outside fear began to stalk the camp after the events of the night before. But she could not dream for long. She had to take this chance to gather her scant belongings and take stock lest it soon be time to move on again.

The familiar feeling of foreboding came over her just as it had done the night before the sudden evacuation of the city, and she sought her comfort in making herself ready. There was nobody now to tell her otherwise, she reflected sadly to herself as she rolled up the blankets and strapped them tightly into a bundle. She might even warn Lissi to do the same. The other woman did not carry around the burden of fear as much as she did, she seemed to be hopeful, but Renedwen decided she would tell her about her fears all the same. It was the least she could do for someone who had helped her.

As she finished her work, Renedwen shook out her cloak and her husband's sword lay on the ground where it had been hidden all night beneath her dark blue mantle. Gilly noticed it, his eyes caught by the bright blue enamel decorations, and he stopped playing and reached out a hand to take up the weapon. Too late, Renedwen saw him attempt to lift it.

"No," she said, her eyes wide. "You must not touch this. It is far too heavy for a boy to handle. And sharp". She was not, however, frightened that he might come to harm, but afraid he might tell somebody about what she was keeping hidden. She bent and picked up the blade, and took it firmly in her hand. It felt odd to her, strangely heavy and firm to grip, yet as she moved it, she noticed how lightly the blade moved. This was more than a mere ceremonial item, it had been made by one of the finest smiths in the city, a fitting reward for her husband's efforts, and as she handled it, she realised why he had bade her take it. Even with the scant skills she had learned all those years ago in her youth, on those miserable days when her father had made her learn skills which she deemed to be pastimes for boys, she realised that with this blade she could defend herself.

She carefully placed the sword back into the sheath which hung from her belt, and skung her cloak about her shoulders; once more the folds swung forwards and concealed the existence of the blade. Nobody would take this from her now, she was more determined than ever. It had been fear of the loss of something so dear to her husband which had at first driven her need to conceal it, but now it dawned on her that trouble might be coming and she would yet have need of this to defend her son. A shiver passed through her again as she thought of that, and turning around, she saw that Gilly had been watching her every move.

"Shall we go and find some breakfast?" she said to the boy, knowing that the thought of food would distract him from what he had just seen. And more than breakfast, she thought to herself, some news would be welcome. She smiled warmly at the boy, and he nodded his agreement eagerly. "Then let me wrap up little Derendur against this chill and we shall go." She caught her breath for a moment as she said her son's name; it had also been the name of her husband.

"Let me help you", said Gilly, finding the infant's fur hood and offering it to Renedwen with an eager look. He touched her hand gently, hopefully, and she drew him towards her and hugged him.

"Yes," she said. "You can help me." It seemed to her that he had already forgotten about the sword.

[Kransha]

The counsel of Belegorn and Mitharan had, thankfully, been swift. Mitharan was already gone from Hírvegil’s tent, so lengthy deliberations would not be necessary. This meant that, if a decision could be reached soon, the Elves might be appeased. The problem was the decisions that had been made so far. Mitharan spoke ever for the King, but even he did not seem insistent upon dedicating force to the Elves, or perhaps that was his weariness speaking. Belegorn, his growing comrade, had proposed something easier, more logical, but less politically correct. That was the rub for Captain Hírvegil.

“Belegorn,” he said to his lieutenant, pulling off the bracers he had just put on as he spoke and casting them onto his bedroll, “You know, do you not, that I must listen to Mitharan above you?”

“Yes, sir. He is a Lord, I am a soldier – as you are – his words hold far more importance.”

“I did not mean that. I merely meant…” Hírvegil trailed off uncomfortably, realizing with some annoyance that Belegorn was right. He was a slave of politics, even if it was his prime enemy. Mitharan had done nothing to earn his hatred, but the profession was what he disliked. People like Mellonar had doggedly attacked him and his father for years. His father, Sildathar, remained defiant into old age, but Hírvegil was fast losing that defiance and becoming a lapdog of the political system, in the thrall of the counselors of Arvedui: a sad fate indeed. After a moment of looking troubled, Hírvegil shook his head to shake off the nagging doubt instilled in him, and said, “You speak some of the truth, Belegorn, but the lords of Fornost do not lead our armies.”

“No, Captain, you do.” Belegorn said this as if he knew how much the truth’s irony stung Hírvegil, and it did. The Captain eased his own mental anguish by shifting the spotlight. “And someday,” he said, grinning a weak grin, “you will do so in my stead.” Belegorn barely acknowledged the praise, “Now, a decision must be made.” Belegorn again looked noncommittal. “No need to tell me, sir. I know this.”

Hirvegil nodded and rubbed his stubble-ridden face. “The Elves may not relent,” he said, “so we must be quick. If only your proposal and that of Mitharan’s could be adapted. Alas, I do not think the Elves desire our help overmuch.” Belegorn’s response took the words from his mind. “Then why extend it to them?” Hírvegil shook his head darkly, murmuring, under his breath, “Politics, again.” Belegorn agreed. “Politics, of course.”

“Their decisiveness,” said the Captain, after a brief pause, “and our lack thereof, is what is making this complicated. If they could keep their fiery heels planted in the ground for one moment longer-” He was interrupted by a windy gust from the tent entrance as the flap flailed upward and a feebly armored figure, uniformed as a watchman, burst in, breathing unsteadily. Belegorn and Hirvegil spun about as he spoke. “Captain Hirvegil,” said the man through stifled, terse breaths, “word spreads through the camp.”

Hírvegil did not exactly what this meant, so he responded incredulously, “When orcs steal into a camp in the middle of the night and vanish, word does tend to spread swiftly.” But the watchman shook his head abruptly, flinging loose hair from side to side. “No, milord, word of the Elves’ doings is what spreads now, replacing the old word. It has been overheard that they plan to depart to track their kinsmen, regardless of your aid.” Hírvegil stifled a gasp, but noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Belegorn did not react. “Are you sure of this?” He questioned urgently. The guard nodded, relying more on gestures to convey the answers, since he was out of breath. “Yes,” he replied, “they were overheard speaking with the youth who you spoke to before.”

Hírvegil’s eyes widened and narrowed at the same time. “That lad? What was his name: Forim? Fordim? Ah, Faerim! It was Faerim.” The soldier let his drooping head nod. “Yes, sir.” Hírvegil’s look became confused revelation, and then turned to sour resignation, and he dismissed the watchman. “Thank you, friend.” He said, the confused air of emergency gone in his voice. “Now, be off, and see to your duties.”

As the guard, with a hasty nod, left the tent, Hírvegil sank back and relapsed into deep thought. ‘Fools,’ he thought, ‘arrogant fools.’ He was now glad that he had not made the acquaintance of the Elves before, for they were proving to be no more than stubborn and insubordinate. He understood where they were coming from, but could not fathom the mood that led them to this doom they had perceived. He admitted that the contradictory views of Mitharan and Belegorn surprised him, but he should’ve expected as much from both. Hírvegil’s own sensory and mental perception of his circumstances had dulled to the point where he could no longer determine the course of action others would take, which had once been a prized skill of his. Thankfully, his prowess in battle or under tactical pretenses remained sharp as sword-steel, and he acknowledged this with gratitude to the Valar, who had left the favored parts of his aging mind intact. Though he was no longer blessed with the wisdom he’d held, Tulkas allowed him strength and sapped no power from him, despite the graying of his beard with passing seasons. This, at least, would allow him to devise a proper plan for the circumstances.

He weighed Belegorn’s, Mitharan’s, and the Elves’ views against each other on a three-pronged scale, trying to sort out each. Belegorn’s, the perspective of a soldier, an officer, and a man after his own heart, appealed to him most. The Elves displeased him and seemed to shun his aid even if he were to give it. Perhaps they would function best left to their own devices. Then again, Mitharan, steady regardless of his youth and candor, had pointed out with political tact what should be done to ease the Elves’ plight and please the King, when they reunited with him. Both views were worth consideration. The Elves seemed to support Mitharan’s view, but they did not care what Hírvegil did with the refugees, and would probably be content if he dismissed them, and sent them off on their own. It was a puzzling dilemma, but one that he resolved to quickly overcome. He spoke to Belegorn, who now stood pensively in his tent nearby.

“All is moving too quickly, Belegorn. I should have slept this day through.” He kneaded his brow, plucking a tell-tale gray hair from the foreground of his scalp and quickly dismissing it after a suspicious inspection. Belegorn, though more sprightly than he, gave hearty agreement. “We all wished for that, Captain, but orcs do not sleep as we do.” Hírvegil growled slightly. “Nay, and neither do the Eldar.” His lieutenant’s brow was piqued in interest. “You trust the Firstborn less and less, I see.” said Belegorn.

“I had not talked with them until this morning. Now, I hope never to treat with them on such a matter again. Their cooperation is much desired, but I fear it will never come, for they are an independent sort. In most, I would admire this, but here and now it is folly. But, I will not brush them aside. The King shall have his alliance.” He stood up, sounding very firm as he did so, and pulled his bracers on again. Belegorn rose with him expectantly. “You are going to lead the Dúnedain after the Elves?” he questioned, but Hírvegil shook his head. “No, I am not. Excuse me, Belegorn.” With that, the Captain of the Rearguard swept out of the tent.

[Kransha]

The day after the night raid passed slowly and groggily, despite turmoil in the camp. Confusion abounded, but a very lazy sort of confusion in which no one wished to be energetically bewildered, merely tired and unknowing. Word of the Elves’ departure quickly spread, but none seemed to object. Though knowledge of the orc break-in was a douse of realism to the train, it was not disheartening. After days of sleepless traveled, all that most cared about was that they had not been harmed by the orcs, and that the orcs were gone.

Hírvegil organized a small detachment of tracking Dúnedain from the unit Belegorn had arranged and sent them to do what he’d told Faerim they would – follow the Elves. They were to keep far away and strictly avoid contact with the Elves, unless they encountered the orc host. Based on the signals he hoped Faerim would give, their actions would be determined at a later date, and would, hopefully, not involve the other Dúnedain further. The worst possibility would be the loss of all Elves and the trackers, the best being the safe rescue and arrival of the Elves at the camp again – it was impossibly to foresee which was more likely to occur. The Dúnedain rangers were resigned to this stealthy task and, under the command of a minor commissioned officer, left the camp on the still-burning tail of the Elves and their idiosyncratic companion.

Now they’re seemed to be a layering of knowledge in the camp. Some had no idea what had happened, some knew only that the Elves had been kidnapped, some knew Hírvegil had sent out rangers, and some knew almost everything about what had transpired through spreading gossip. Hírvegil prayed that most knew less about his plans than he did, though some seemed to know more. To his chagrin, Hírvegil discovered that the counselor Mitharan had found out most of the happenings of the day when he came for the second time into Hírvegil’s tent. The rustle of leathery tent flap awoke the Captain from an unsteady slumber, one he sorely needed, and caused him to sit bolt upright in alarm. His shoulders, arched like the hairs on a cat’s back, sagged and relaxed when he saw the visage of the lord, but he was filled with consternation.

“The Elves are gone?” questioned Mitharan plainly. Hírvegil sighed again and spoke, his voice indistinct in the moments after waking. “Yes,” he coughed, “their impatience could not be helped.” Mitharan’s hasty air settled, and he slowed the pace of his words and breath, stabilizing. He paced nobly about the tent as Hírvegil rose from his bed, wishing he could remain in it for once. Mitharan’s question came in a stabbing manner that annoyed Hírvegil, but its bluntness could not be helped. “You did send some soldiery with them, did you not?” he intoned, less as a question and more as an accusation. Mitharan was not a caustic, sardonic creature like his unrelated kinsman Mellonar, but he was obviously displeased.

“Not with them;” groaned Hírvegil, brushing a couple of loose hair strands out of his eyes, “behind them.” Mitharan either did not comprehend this, or he was beating around the bush. “Dúnedain may not have the swiftness of the Eldar,” he said, “but that is no reason-” Sternly, Hírvegil interrupted, pleading with invisible forces to end this uncomfortable conversation. “Lord Mitharan, they departed too hastily to assign a unit to them. There was nothing I could do.”

Mitharan looked indifferent. “You could have been more decisive, Captain.”

“I’m sure I could have, but, alas, I was not. What’s done is done.”

The counselor never became louder or more aggressive, but his words became more stinging in time. “What’s done is the alliance between His Majesty and the Firstborn by your negligence. Captain Hírvegil, I respect your abilities, but this matter cannot be dismissed as it has been. If you knew the Elves were going to depart unaided, you should’ve detained them. Now we risk losing all the Elves when some could’ve been saved.” He spoke directly to Hírvegil, a strange trait for a politician. Most counselors Hírvegil knew would speak their petty woes to the universe rather than to one, insignificant man, dramatically stroking their own egos. Mitharan was, at least, slightly different from all of them. Hírvegil tried to pacify the lord. “At this stage,” he said, “I do not believe anything can be done.”

“I was taught, Captain,” Mitharan continued, unheeding of Hírvegil’s words for the moment, “that something can always be done, even if it is not the something that will induce a desirable result. I suggest you try to remedy this matter in what way you can. If nothing comes to you, I will not persist, but the King will know of it, if not by my word then by the lack of Elves in this camp. I bid you good day, Captain Hírvegil.” With a very meager bow to the Captain, Mitharan whisked himself like a regal gust of wind out of Captain Hírvegil’s roomy tent.

As Mitharan departed, Hírvegil fell back on his bedroll for the fifth or sixth time that same day, heaving a heavy sigh from his weary throat. He rasped and let himself cough once, then returned to breathing steadily. Mitharan was right in more ways than one, and his passive objection struck Hírvegil hard as he realized his mistake, one of many he’d made. He contemplated a new course of action, but none presented itself. The only recourse available was to try to figure out what the Elves were planning so that he could send word to his trackers to outmaneuver them. With a somber look on his cold face, he ushered in the guard who’d stood at the entrance to his tent almost all day and spook quickly to him. “That boy;” he said, “Faerim, does he have family in the camp?”

The guard hesitated, and then nodded readily. “Yes, sir. He is the son of Carthor.” Hírvegil’s brow rose at this. He had heard tell of Carthor, the lone survivor of the Arnorian Vanguard who’d been rescued from the ruin of Fornost while all his companions, dead, fleeing, or injured, had eventually expired. “You mean Carthor of the Vanguard?” he inquired curiously to affirm his suspicions, “The survivor?” Again the guard nodded, but after no hesitation. “Yes, that is he.”

Hírvegil let this information sink in in silence, and then spoke up, mouthing his thoughts vocally. “Now that is an interesting development.” He mused, mostly to himself, “Have Faerim or the Elves been seen treating with any others of the Dúnedain?” Again the guard nodded, more steadily though, and with less haste or hesitation. “Just one, sir,” he paused slightly, “a woman.” Again Hírvegil’s curiosity was piqued. He did not think of the Elves as folk who would deliberately interact with any Dúnedain, but perhaps this woman was an acquaintance of Faerim’s. He would soon find out, he supposed, and let the matter rest in him.

“Do you know her?” asked the Captain of the Rearguard, and the guard gave positive response. “Yes, I believe she could be located.” Hírvegil let slip another moment of contemplation, and then spoke up in an orderly fashion. “Very well, have the woman and Carthor brought to my tent. If there are other family members of the boy who went with the Elves, bid them come as well.” He waved his hand dismissively and the guard allowed himself a curt bow and a polite, “Yes, sir.” before he departed the tent.

[Kransha]

When the guard who Hírvegil had sent returned to his tent with a Dúnadan man, a boy, and two women, Hírvegil had fully dressed himself, complete with his usual panoply, glistening dimly in light that spurted in through the tent flap. The sound of clanking plate and jingling links of chain irritated his aching head, but he ignored the imaginary welt on his scalp and mustered a commanding look as the five Dúnedain civilians were escorted, somewhat confusedly, inside. The innards of the tent had been rearranged, with two rickety stools and two rickety chairs that had been scrounged recently from supply wagons placed in a semicircle, facing away from the tent entrance. As the four came inside, Hírvegil put on his most amicable face and welcomed them with a venerable gesture.

“Welcome, welcome.” He said, recalling the noble etiquette his father had taught him, “Please sit. It was hard enough to find stools and chairs in our many supply wagons, so I would appreciate it if you utilized the accommodations procured.” The Captain’s grin lit up, but then faded into an expected dark and serious look as the quartet began to sit. The man who Hírvegil assumed was Carthor aided one of the two women, the one who looked to be of higher birth, with brighter, bluer eyes that bore a simple radiance which Hírvegil had to admit caught his interest. The other man, a boy really, did not aid the other, more simply clad woman. This boy had his eyes gently closed for some reason, but was able to find his own seat easily enough, though he gave no unnecessary aid to the older woman who sat, after carefully making sure he had sat down, at his left. Once all were settled, and Hírvegil had duly looked them over, the Captain of the Rearguard spoke.

“No doubt” he began, “you all have at least some idea of what is going on. But, before I begin, I would like to at least know to whom I speak. I have not had the pleasure of meeting any of you, but I do know one of you.” He looked admiringly to the man garbed as a soldier and took his hand in greeting. “Carthor, it is an honor.” He had heard tell of this man, the lone survivor of the doomed Vanguard of Fornost, a resident celebrity, in more blunt terms. He was the only man to have been so far at the front of the Arnorian troops at the battle that he could witness the goings-on in the outermost sanctum – the first to fall. Carthor responded as a venerated man-at-arms might, throwing off the veil of Hírvegil’s flattery.

“Moreso for myself, sir.” He said, and bowed from the waist, somewhat stiffly. Hírvegil responded in much the same manner. “Now is not the time for flattery.” He said with a good-natured glance at the others around.
“From what I have been told, I admire you all the more.” This was true, even though he knew not what real admiration he held for the man. Surviving the annihilation of the Vanguard was no mean feat, but Hírvegil knew Carthor had not achieved it alone. “I met your son, and I knew that the father of that boy must be a strong fellow, worthy of praise.” He laughed as if he’d made a good joke, and Carthor showed some sign of bemused amusement. Hírvegil turned to the woman at his right, looking at her serene face and grey eyes. “And you must be his mother.” He said, noting immediately the apparent fragility of the woman, though he knew it might be a planned or unintentional façade on her part.

“Yes.” She said, “My name is Lissi.” She gestured to the boy who had not aided her in sitting, “This is my son, Brander.” Hírvegil, going through traditional motions, extended his hand to the lad, but he did not take it customarily. Instead, he looked blankly forward with closed eyes and, as he heard his name, bowed meekly in the general direction of Hírvegil. Perplexed, Hírvegil retracted his hand. “It is a pleasure,” he murmured, and then looked quizzically at Carthor. “Wait, this is Faerim’s brother?” Carthor nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

Hírvegil, despite his upbringing, could not help but stare at the boy with closed eyes, unable to continue. He peered darkly into the young man’s face, seeing a pale but kind expression, that of a friendly person with a good heart. But Hirvegil could not perceive the boy’s heart, instead he could only perceive the boy’s noticeable lacking. “You are…blind?” He questioned, wishing immediately afterward that he had not mentioned this, but no one seemed even remotely offended.

The boy did not hesitate, or seem remotely affected by the observation. He nodded simply. “Yes.” Hírvegil masked his surprise and impolite interest. He marveled at the strangeness of this family that had been produced for him: a stalwart, foolhardy son, a blind brother, a famed, venerated father, and a mysterious mother – what a brood indeed. Shaking himself of the reverie inwardly, he managed to unglue himself from the family and look to the final woman, noticing for the first time that the bundle in her arms was a baby, seemingly asleep. He did not let his gaze linger on the tranquil visage of the child and looked to the woman, venturing a question. “And you are a friend of Faerim’s?” He asked.

The woman seemed to hesitate very slightly, following Hírvegil’s gaze as it fell periodically on the baby clasped maternally in her arms. “Yes,” she glanced at Carthor and Lissi, “– I believe I am now. My name is Renedwen.” She bowed as well, but, now that introduction had all been made, Hírvegil did not have the time or sense to return the acknowledgement, and continued on eagerly.

“Very good. Now that I know all of you, I have a grave matter to discuss with you.”

A few wary looks were exchanged, none of them noticed by Hírvegil as he stood and walked before them. He began, using an interrogating tone, but not a suspicious or stabbing one. “As you probably know,” he said quietly, “the Elves have gone after their kin, and Faerim with them. They left without divulging their real plans, only saying whither they were going. I need to know, in short, if any of you have any idea of what plans they have. If not, that is all well, but if so, I must demand that you speak now, for the political stability of the Dúnedain in exile is at stake. If you know nothing, then tell me what you know of Faerim and the Elves, for it may be an aid to my next plans to know their minds.”

[Kransha]

Hírvegil’s eyes peeled open hesitantly, the lids apparently unwilling to lift themselves off the swollen orbs beneath. He blinked and felt again, the surge of reality rushing up to meet him. The sting of a wound on his forehead came into focus, and the stink of recently dried blood wafted odiously into his flared nostrils. He instinctively moved his now un-gauntleted hand to his brow, feeling the thin crust of dry crimson plastered to the rent skin there. There was some wet blood still simmering in the wound. With a pained breath, he arched his back, shifting numb legs beneath him so that the ruffled sheet beneath him was kicked aside.

“Captain?”

The voice was Belegorn’s, and it stabbed Belegorn sharply. Hírvegil winced, gritting his teeth and slapped his palm against his brow as it throbbed once and then again steadily for a few seconds. His eyes managed to focus as he turned his heavy head towards his lieutenant. “What?” he groaned, twisting his mouth about around his tongue and screwing up his face to accommodate the words, “What is it?” As the fuzzy vision presented to him became clear and acute, he saw Belegorn nearing him, scooting closer on a rickety stool. Overhead was the willowy fabric of his tent’s drooping flat roof. He rubbed his eyes firmly, working bony fists into the red-rimmed sockets, trying to beat out the pain in his head, as Belegorn spoke.

“How do you feel?” asked the lieutenant patiently. Feeling a little better, Hírvegil tossed off a glib response. “Like I’ve been drinking all night.” He said. Then, after looking down at the quiet earth for a moment, he glanced up at Belegorn quizzically. “Have I been drinking all night?” The lieutenant grinned half-heartedly, but did not laugh. Instead, he simply shook his head with minimal briskness and replied.

“No, you fell from your horse. Thank Oromë you were not trampled.” He gestured, indicating the wound on Hírvegil’s forehead. Hírvegil continued to look at him, blinking erratically, with a questioning look on his face. “Trampled?” he mumbled, mostly to himself, and then his eyes brightened – a revelation. “Ah, yes, I remember.” Again his mood changed suddenly to one of urgent distraction, “Belegorn,” he whispered sharply, holding his breath, “were we victorious?” The answer was obvious, but Belegorn indulged him.

“Yes, but our charge was ill-planned. More men were lost then needed to be...including,” his tone became solemn, and Hírvegil shifted unreadily, "some of the Elves". Hirvegil looked stricken, his face losing a hint of its still vague color. Seriously, he spoke. “How many?” asked the Captain, his own voice becoming slow and steady. Like a well-oiled machine, Belegorn rattled off casualty numbers from memory. “Two Elves, fourteen of ours dead, three mortals gravely injured, and many more with minor wounds. Luckily the maids of the camp volunteered to tend to them, though little real tending or medical attention was needed. The loss was unfortunate and, dare I say, it unnecessary." He paused, letting Hírvegil absorb the information.

"Which Elves were slain," questioned the captain gravely. Belegorn instinctively lowered his head, the words flowing from between seemingly closed lips. "Gaeredhel and Rosgollo, the two guards of one of the Mithlondhrim emissaries." Hírvegil looked at him, his eyes dim and unseeing, like those of one blind. "How have the Eldar taken this?" His question was darkly made. Belegorn's reply was one of semi-dejected confusion. "They are, as usual, enigmatic. Obviously they mourn his loss, but I do not know their post-mortem rites for comrades in arms, so I cannot speculate."

After a moment of pondering, Hírvegil questioned his second again. “How long was I-”

“Less than a day, Captain.” Belegorn deftly interjected, anticipating what his captain would say, “I hope you feel better. I must say,” he paused again, an uncomfortable lump welled up in his usually stern and resolute throat, “you were…strange, yesterday; not yourself.” He said this all with great uneasiness, but his tense shoulders sagged with relief as Hírvegil’s downturned head nodded. “No,” he acknowledged, “I was not. Your honesty is always refreshing, Belegorn, but we cannot dwell on that now. We must make haste to the Ered Luin.” With a little more spring in his step, though a still feverish one, he rose. Belegorn, though, bade him remain seated wordlessly.

“Captain,” he said, “I must advise that we wait a day. This ordeal has left many tired, traumatized, injured. It may not be sensible to push the Elves on after losing two of their company. It will be hard to resume our appointed course.” Hírvegil, though, did not heed his good advice, shooting a watered-down glare of arrogance and familiar Dúnedain hubris at the lieutenant. “Since when,” he intoned, “have the Dúnedain bowed to such petty challenges? We will journey on before the sun reaches…” he trailed off, realizing, to his mild dismay, that he did not know what time it was. “Belegorn, where is the sun now?”

“It has just risen on a new day.”

“Very well.” Continued the captain haughtily, rising to his full height, “We must not be felled by this loss, and the Elves will have to perservere beyond it. We shall ride out before noon.”