[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.