[piosenniel]

Prologue

Malbeth the Seer was always restless, but he was far more restless today than he usually was.

His cold, grayed eyes looked across a burnished court floor to the feet of a middle-aged man, clad in the finest garments of Arthedain, who paced anxiously across the length of his hall, the great colonnade that marked the apex of the city of Fornost Erain. Upon the head of the man, capped with a smooth mat of brownish hair, streaked with the white that came from rulership’s stresses, was a silvery fillet bound across his brow with a single glimmering jewel, silver-white, set into it at the front. This was the Elendilmir, the Star of Elendil. The man’s hands wrung in front of him, showing signs of impatience and worry not befitting a King, and his brow was furrowed in worry, bereft of its former nobility. Those clasped hands held a gilt silver rod, a scepter inlaid with many dull jewels, the Sceptre of Annúminas, a signet of the Lords of Andúnië. On the thinning finger of his right hand, which encircled the scepter, was a sturdy ring, a pair of metal serpents encircling the digit to form it and meeting to entwine around an emerald-green stone set into the loop of their tales; the Ring of Barahir, the mightiest heirloom of the House of Elendil. This, as Malbeth knew well, was Araphant, the King of Arthedain, last of the Line of Isildur.

Or, he had been that last, until a few minutes ago.

Malbeth saw many things, most of which he saw through his eyes, but some, he saw with another sense, and this day he had seen something else. He was not a gifted man, nor was he a mighty prophet, magical in any way, but he could foretell some things, and, in the realm of Arthedain, his reputation had grown, at least enough to grant him a clerical following, no clandestine orders or mystical disciples though. He was renowned for his supposed abilities, and was called “Malbeth the Seer” throughout the land. In a troubled time, a time wrought with military and economic turmoil, people could believe in anything. He was not a falsifier, nor was he a liar and a charlatan. His real predictions were very rare, but there accuracy was held of highest importance. The King and court were not as easily swayed to opinions as were the common-folk of Arthedain, and regarded Malbeth merely as a soothsayer, with some knowledge they did not possess, but not a wealth of it. The seer’s wan face reflected little feeling about the matter.

The clipping of feet on marble began to fill Malbeth’s ears, like a chorus of raindrops loudly pelting a traveled road. Noisily, a squawking gaggle of handmaidens paraded down the hall, created a great din to replace the absolute silence. The chief handmaiden, a midwife, perhaps, did not hesitate to pay her respects to the King as she approached, and rushed, flustered, towards him. She bore a carefully tended bundle in her arms, cradled with great tenderness and maternal love. With a face reddened by toil and ecstatic eyes, she neared the King, who looked up on her, his face brightening. With a smile that could have brightened a dark room, the midwife pressed the bundle, swathed in silken blankets, into the unready arms of King Araphant. “Your majesty,” she uttered quickly, “it is a boy! You have a son, King Araphant!”

With a clumsy gesture and a tarrying moment, the king handed his scepter beneath the bundle, indicating that the midwife should take it. The maid took the rod with hesitation, and held it aloft with bright reverence, backing away as the King fumbled with the child nestled in his arms. He looked down, his anxious features relaxing and becoming gentle and benevolent as he examined the silent babe, who seemed comatose in his arms. He toyed with it as if it were a parcel, rocking it from side to side, and then turned to Malbeth. The seer did not react in any visible form to the look of respite on the face of the king.

“So, seer, shall this one be a good king?” He said, smiling warmly, but Malbeth did not even shake his head as he morosely replied. “I do not know.” The Seer replied, “I have not seen as much.”

“Will his reign be profitable, then?” questioned the King, patient, “Will he be loved?”

“I do not know, milord.” Malbeth replied again, his voice a somber monotone.

At this, the King became more impatient. His smile twisting into an annoyed frown, he shoved the sleeping boy in his arms into the unsuspecting grasp of the midwife and wrenched the Sceptre of Annúminas from her grip forcefully. “What do you know, then?” he said, louder and with more anger rampant in his voice, the tenderness of his care for the young son he’d held replaced by need for satiation by the soothsayer, who, as far as he could detect, was playing a trickster’s game with him. “I was told you wished to take counsel with me about my child.” He continued, brandishing the silver rod clutched in his hand, “What have you to say? What do you know?”

“His name, milord.”

Malbeth’s words were calm and collected, so much that, at first, Araphant’s face flushed with outrage and confusion, but it was confusion that won out. Araphant looked across the courtroom at the seer, his face the picture of a perplexed monarch. After a moment of mental deliberation, he spoke. “You know…his name?” Malbeth nodded, with such great solemnity that one who looked upon him might think he was a man in mourning. His pale face remained deathly white, but his eyes twinkled deftly, giving off a quick flash and an eerie glint that attracted the attention, and piqued the curiosity of the king. But, the strange nature of Malbeth made Araphant darkly nervous, and, to alleviate the air that had settled, he nearly laughed aloud, but stifled the sound and decided, against his better judgement, to entertain this mad theory of the soothsayer’s. “Very well.” He said, gesturing to Malbeth to continue, “What shall I call him?”

The seer of Arthedain took nearly a minute before he spoke, digesting each word that was about to come. He knew that the King might find them preposterous and possibly treasonous as well, but he had come to say them all the same, and would not leave this counsel until his message had been delivered. Araphant peered at him, filled with new misgivings, and the numerous handmaidens behind him whispered secretly to each other, gossiping of Malbeth’s ill-portents. He ignored the wayward maids and their talk, concentrating on his prediction, and then the seer reared back, filling himself with a breath of air, and spoke to the King.

“Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain. Though a choice will come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become king of a great realm. If not, then much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again.”

Some time passed after these words were uttered. Araphant did not speak again, considering the foresight of Malbeth judiciously. The darkness in those words struck a pang of fear into his heart, and daunted him. Malbeth might be casting clever wiles at him, to fright him from the throne, but the prophet’s words were natural in their course, like a flowing stream, and were not disrupted be either thought or wheedling foolishness. So, Araphant said to the seer, “Your foresight is too foreboding for my taste, Malbeth, but your counsel is wise. The child shall be called Arvedui, whether or not he is the last king. Now, if you have no more to tell, farewell.” He waved Malbeth away.

“It is a pleasure to serve, milord.” said Malbeth the Seer. This tryst was finished. Without a moment of waiting or a bow of reverence to the king, who stood at hand, Malbeth trod past Araphant and his chatting train, away from the child whose name his prediction had devised. His occupation bore an unhappy promise, in truth, one that gave him no solace, but it was his to perform, as oft as foresight came to him, and now Araphant knew of it, even if he could not fathom what Malbeth had meant about his heir’s fate.

His prophecy spoke of a choice.

In the year 1975 of the Third Age, that choice would be made in the barren, icy wasteland of Forochel, and the Line of Isildur and the Kings of Arnor would end…

Here follows the tale of Arvedui’s choice, the forgotten adventure of his people, and the Fall of the North.

--- Kransha