Fall of the North RPG

[Kransha]

“You realize that you cannot lead in this state.”

“Of course I can, and you know I can.”

Mellonar scratched his jutting chin thoughtfully, assuming the port of a philosopher, quiet and contemplative. He leaned back on the “imported” divan he had procured from the Arnorian supply wagons and lazily blinked, allowing an icy grin to perk up his colorless lips. “You do yourself too much credit, Hírvegil. You are sick, we both know it, but you, as always, are to stubborn to admit it. Perhaps it is a strain of the plague that harried us years ago, or a new strain. You are often in close proximity to the orcs and the dead. You are probably the most likely to fall ill in all the land, considering your exploits.” He feigned concern deftly, but Hírvegil was neither satiated nor amused. The Captain of the Rearguard sat woozily in a stone chair near Mellonar’s divan, leaning both arms on his downturned sword, which was stuck between the cracked floor stones.

“You are no physician, Mellonar, nor are you a healer – quite the contrary. Your prognosis is hardly one of an expert. I will be well after some rest, and the King no doubt has confidence in that. Besides, both of us want Belegorn to demonstrate his prowess as a commander and, after what happened to their brethren, the Elves probably despise me. It is better that I remain.” Mellonar clucked his tongue like a chiding school marm and giggled under his breath, obviously delighted by the whole situation.

“Yes, by the Valar, you’re a stubborn fellow, just like your father before you.” Hírvegil grimaced. His already whitened, pale face losing what little color it had as he became livid. “Don’t you bring my father into this, snake.” Mellonar looked slighted. “Snake? You call me this when all I wish to do is help you? I compliment your parentage and I am titled a serpent. Hírvegil, have you no shame?” He cackled noticeably, and Hírvegil’s face regained its color, but flushed irate red. He sputtered a little, feeling as if he should say something caustic, but nothing came from him, and he simply sat, rocking meagerly and flushing deeper and deeper crimson as Mellonar noticed his discomfort – and laughed again.

“I do not relish-” laughter “-your discomfort, Hírvegil, but it is rare that I see such an proud man of Númenórean blood, reduced so much, and yet so very arrogant still. You have not even the sense to admit your illness, but, t’is all the more humorous for me. The counselors in the King’s Chamber speak even now of what transpired at the Hills of Evendim; you are not what you once were, Hírvegil, do not pretend you are.” As these words fell from Mellonar’s lips, his tone remained an intonation of political sarcasm, but now deathly grave, as if the very syllables had become pale and grim. His eyes, bright with merry wickedness, lulled into serene dankness that peered, with some curiosity, at Hírvegil, as he snarled deep in his throat. “My mistakes,” the Captain said with a harsh rasp reverberating in his sore throat “shape my future successes. You are one to speak of such things, a politician whose career has been forged by underhanded movements and shady dealings. My faults are honest at least.”

“You fault may be honest,” Mellonar said in reply, slowly now and with no joy in him, all happiness having evaporated suddenly, “but you, Captain of the Rearguard, are not. You did not fare well, I dare say, and our troops have suffered. The Elves may have had their aristocrats rescued from the maw of goblins, but the loss of those two guards will cost us all.” He paused, gracefully, and settled back against the divan, easing into its sooty cushions like a wriggling serpent. “And,” he whispered, even though no one else was in the room, “I hear of other shortcomings. Some of the citizens have spread rumors, Hírvegil.”

The Captain’s graying eyebrows rose questioningly, both hairy tufts as skeptical as hairy tufts could be, “What rumors?” he said, his voice as deadly as a sword, but without the commanding strength of a well-forged weapon. Mellonar made a noncommittal chuckling noise.

“That boy, Faerim son of Carthor; you tried to enlist his aid in spying on the Elves.” Hírvegil winced, remembering this. He had felt dreadful doing that, weeks ago, but it seemed to be a perfect solution considering the circumstances. Darkly, he nodded, his head drooping downwards. “Yes, I did. As far as I know, he did not uphold his end of the bargain, but I blame him not. The situation became very chaotic later on and it would have been monstrously unjust to charge him.”

Mellonar perked up, his hooked nose giving a little rigor-mortis-like twitch, that of a dead rodent. “Charge him with what?” Hírvegil winced again, but not because of painful nostalgia. He shouldn’t have assumed that Mellonar knew of everything he had told the boy on that chilly Evendim morning. Obviously, someone had overheard snippets of the conversation of the camp borders and word had diffused fierily throughout the refuge of the Dúnedain. Now, inadvertently, he had given away the source of his guilt, the ruthless attempt by him at bribing a Dúnadan youth, a shady maneuver that rivaled some of Mellonar’s. With uncharacteristic reluctant, Hírvegil dove onward, “I did threaten, at one time, to charge him with high treason if he did not comply with my plan. It was a moment of weakness, one which I am sure you will cherish, but it is in the past. I do not know if that boy has forgotten the fact, but it was never brought up again. I certainly don’t intend to bring charges against him now, so the matter rests. You have your answer.”

Mellonar drew a long, manicured fingernail against the cushioning of the divan, drawing a bit of fuzz stuffing like blood from a wound, and placed a finger before his mouth, pursing his lips in contemplative repose. Then, he threw himself up suddenly, his billowing fur robes fluttering as crows arched wings and alighting on the floor, kicking up some cobwebs that had settled between the cracks in the stones during their conversation. “That is all one, Captain. See that you get well before matters become…” he halted, “complicated.” The word seemed strangely impacted, ringing like a weighted bell that struck and sounded in Hirvegil’s already pounding skull. “I am off to do what you cannot: lead. I suggest again that you consult someone skilled in leech-craft, or perhaps simply consult a leech and let him do the job, without the hassle of social interaction. Farewell.” With a self-satisfied grin, Mellonar swished dramatically out of the room, leaving Hirvegil to wallow in the pain induced by unknown ailments and well-known ills.