[Kransha]

Quill on paper – quill on paper – quill in ink – quill on paper

Repetition was not boredom to Morgôs, it was torture. He had never been able to endure it. Every campaign of his unique, every stratagem one and only, every tactic different from the one devised before or after it. Doing the same thing again and again was a curse. He wrote nothing but numbers and words equally inconsequential in between, scratching his feathered quill spitefully against parchment, carving out what he’d been ordered to. After a brief vocal discharge (in his mind, at least) all was silent but for that terrible scratching. The palace seemed empty, a great ghostly vault, haunted by noiseless beings that left only the echoing noise of their footsteps and nothing else. Morgôs found himself yearning for company.

Being immortal eventually instilled an indelible sense of time in one, and a total immunity to impatience, but sitting at a desk for months, day after day, hour after hour, word after horrible word, left the Elven former General feeling sicker than he was. He waited, contemplating, hoping for many things. He hoped someone would come by to make the hours go quicker, he hoped the King would favor him again, he hoped for hope itself. Skeptical as he was of Faroz-Khamûl, he wished more for his favor than his anger, and greatly desired that favor to fall upon him again. The days of his glory were gone, his passion and prowess waned. What had become of Morgôs Elrigon, he thought with mournful irritation and confusion.

“General?”

Morgôs, realizing that his head was drooping, long, grayed hair unfurling onto the desk-slab, snapped upward, feeling the bones in his back crack stiffly. His head arched and inclined, his body maneuvering sideways on his seat to see a young page in the heraldic garb of the court standing nearby, a number of thickly-laden scrolls bunched up under his arm. “Yes?” he murmured, fumbling to pull the parchment he was scribbling on in his now illegible chicken scratch towards him, “What is it?” A depressing thought flashed through his mind. He was actually afraid of what the page might say about his work habit to the King – afraid of the gossiping words of a meager courtier, no more than twenty years old.

“Have you filled out the recruit ledgers, sir?” Recruit ledgers, yes. Morgôs had been passing merry, merry hours filling out ledgers that recruited this month’s recruits from the populace. Technically, there were no “recruits” since most of the Pashtian army consisted of orcs, but Morgôs still had to rewrite the crude, foreign names of the orcs month-by-month, as well as transcribing their pompous titles. Torture. “Yes, lad, I have.”

“The King appreciates your services.” The boy smiled dimly and advanced. Morgôs willingly, but with a foul look on his face, organized his parchment into piles and shoved them across the slick stone table towards the page. He took them, stuffing them under his arm with the other papers. As he gathered them up neatly, Morgôs leaned forward on his chair, looking towards the page with enigmatic intent in his eyes. The look of an Elf was always mysterious to mortal kind, and most especially to the young who did not understand it, or had little real experience of it that they could draw upon in context. “Your predecessor said the same to me the other day. I wonder now if it is true.” The boy halted; his work slowing as he shot a quizzical glance of the Avari. “My...predecessor?” he wondered allowed, looking uncouth with lack of experience as he did. Morgôs gave a similarly grim nod. “Yes, the page who came to me the day before. He said, word for word, what you have said today. And his predecessor said the same before him, and so on. You all say it, but I do not think the king appreciates my services at all.” His face was serious and grave, but the remark he tossed off sounded almost glib. Still, the page shook his head as if he knew. “Milord, I am sure he does. I do not know, I admit, but still-”

“I don’t need your condolences, child. Go to your master.” Morgôs shooed the boy away disdainfully, but the page hesitated, and barely budged. He looked at Morgôs confusedly. “Milord,” he muttered, half under his breath as if he thought Morgôs did not need to hear it, but was saying it to him anyway, “You are my master.” The General’s shoulder arched a little as a half-grey eyebrow on his forehead rose. “What do you mean? The King is your master.”

“No, sir. The pages who collect your ledgers are assigned to you. We all serve the king, but my prime duty is to you, as long as you reside in the palace for your daily hours. Technically, it is a loophole in the structure of my service, but most courtiers indulge it. All the nobles in court have pages and servants, though we consider ourselves assistants more than menial laborers.” The speech sounded rehearsed, even though Morgôs could not imagine the boy had ever used it before. Perhaps, though, he had practiced it if the occasion ever presented itself to him. “So,” he ventured, raising his hand with a questioning, affirming gesture, “I command your duties?” The page nodded without hesitation. “Very well.” Morgôs considered this, leaning back against the cold, sturdy back of the seat, letting his billowing cloak sag like a misty cloud over the black stone. “Then I command you to remain here. You can take the ledgers to his majesty later in the day. For now, I have another task for you.” Though he remained dark in mood, an eerie, satisfied glint beamed from the bottomless orb of his eye. He lay his hand and arm upon the table, sweeping several sheets of blank vellum from the slab, and leaned forward, placing his gloved hand beneath his chin and positioning the armored elbow of that arm on the table.

“Sing me a song.”

The boy looked at him, awestruck. “What?” He almost choked. Morgôs clucked his tongue, “You heard me lad. All Pashtians can sing, and Pashtia has many songs. Sing me one.” The boy gawked at him for a moment more, then nodded dumbly, knowing not what else to do. He coughed again, several times, clearing his throat in a melodramatic fashion as Morgôs’ fingers tapped impatiently on the stone, and, eventually, began.

“The songs are sung in Kanak of the day that Khamûl won,
The Lord of all the windswept lands beneath the golden sun,
With sword and shield, spear, blade, and bow,
The strength and power of his will grow
On the day that Khamûl won, oh-”

The passionate, grandiose verse was cut off by a protesting grunt and words from the General. The page stuttered to a fumbling halt. “Not that one, by Rae’s blue sky, that is not the song for me.” The page looked at him with apology written all over his face. “I am sorry, milord. It is a well-liked song in Kanak these days.” But Morgôs snarled deeply, under his audible breath and voice so that the page did not detect it. “Do you know, boy, any older songs? Any songs of battles in the time before King Khamûl, if such a thing is possible these days. Something less anthematic, perhaps, and a bit more rousing.” The boy nodded a dumb nod again, saying, meekly, “Yes, General, I do, but I fear it is not as rousing as you might like…” he paused, hesitant in a fearful way, “It is about you, milord.”

“Good,” Morgos said resolutely, “sing.” With considerably more hesitation, the page began, singing softly at first, trying to sound far from “anthematic.” His verse was steady and slow continually, with as hint of mournful emotion deep within its clouded, vague metaphors and winding words…

“Ah Karandûn, in the twilight of the sands,
The beacon of the stars your way alights,
Into the valley, to the shadow of the bladed night,
The reaping dark is at last conquered.”

“Ah-lara Karandun, in the sunset of the sands,
Grim-looked night its toll may take,
But all men’s souls shall not be shaken till the day has come,
Golden day shall come again…”

The boy’s voice faded, though his mouth remained open as his eyes widened and looked towards the general.

Morgôs sat, upright in his chair, eyes half-closed; mouth quivering strangely, a peculiar glow welled up beneath his thick eyelids. He hands, lay on the table before him, twitching like those of a seizing man. The page was about to venture a question, to ask if the General was alright, but before he could, a wind blew through the windowless room, and a gentle, wafting sound filled the air, seeming to permeate the area like a cloud of wonder. Words formed from nothingness and the blowing of the sparkling wind took shape, forming single, articulate sounds. “Aure entuluva…”

The beautiful, magical silence was shattered a moment later by manmade thunder, as Morgôs’ clenched fist slammed down on the table so hard that the stone splintered and cracked, chips of it whistling in several directions. The slab sagged beneath the mighty fist, empowered by some unknown source. The page, shot backward, startled out of his wits, and fell to the floor. The beautiful moment, so perfect, was now filled with Elven fire. The General, not even paying heed to his hand, severely bruised from the action, stalked away from the table and past the fallen page, murmuring cold, emotionless words as he left the room.

“Take your accurséd ledgers and begone. I must speak with the King.”