[Kransha]

This was certainly not what Morgôs had wanted to talk about. In fact, it was something he avoided mentioning in any conversation. But, as bad luck would have it, it had not simply come up in conversation, in had come as a question from the Prince he’d sworn allegiance to a day before. He was more than just obligated to answer. “My Prince,” he said, his words coming slowly, “this is…a complicated matter, to say the least. You have read tomes of history, and have been tutored by the cream of Pashtian scholars, the finest money can buy or years of accumulated wisdom can procure. But, I am not sure your knowledge is quite adequate to understand my answer. Perhaps we should talk of something lighter, something simpler, yes?”

“I know little about you, General, besides what my father and his courtiers tell me. If you are to be my chief backer, I must trust you. If I am to trust you, I must know you.”

Morgôs could not tell whether this was wisdom or careful cleverness used by the Prince to manipulate him into answering him. Either way, he was trapped; he could not refuse to respond. Anyway, the Prince was right. He probably knew next to nothing about Morgôs – the general was sure he knew more about the young Prince. So, begrudgingly, the Elven General began a familiar long-winded yarn, one he’d told many of his kindred, and Siamak’s own father, but he shortened it severely now as he spoke.

“I have lived a great long time, Siamak; longer than even I know. Alas, my age in years is not known to me, but I can venture to guess. What I am sure of is that I have been alive longer than two thousand years, centuries of life, I suppose. Beyond that, my memory is blurred by time and cruel winds of the unknown. Past the foundation of Pashtia, I can remember little besides wandering in a land of barbarous tribesmen. Many of those savages still roam the boundless edges of our deserts and have nations in the north and south, but Pashtia rarely encounters them for they are very secretive nowadays, and, though some are hostile, do not attack us or make any war upon us. My memory has but a few baubles remaining from the time before Pashtia, and also few of Pashtia’s beginnings.”

As he paused for breath and to let the word sink in, Siamak lifted his hand with a halting gesture and spoke. “Forgive me if I sound impolite,” he said tactfully, “but I do not mean to know in excess of your age or years. My question is more specific, and begs an answer.” Morgôs gave an astute nod, understanding how boring his lengthy tales had been to Faroz when he was a boy and his father before him when they had asked similar questions. “Of course,” he apologetically replied, “it is I who is sorry. Sometimes my rambling is excessive, and becomes monotonous, or so I am told.”

But Siamak shook his head with boyish energy. “No, it is not tedious. Merely seek through your wells of memory to answer. Did Pashtians ever worship such a deity as this Melkor spoken of by the enemy?” Morgos certainly appreciated the Prince’s candor, even if there was a hint of polite dishonesty, but he could not aptly answer. “Melkor,” he murmured, dwelling on that sharp-sounding name in an unfamiliar tongue, “…I know not the name, though there is some vague familiarity. Enlighten me.” Siamak hurried to interpret, saying, “He is like Rae, said the Emissary. His name is in an old language, and it means, ‘he who arises in might.’ He is apparently benevolent, a lord of the sky and chief of all gods in the Emissary’s lands.”

“‘He who arises in might?’” mused the General, “A mighty name, certainly, but not one in a tongue I recognize. There were archaic gods in a time before your fathers ruled, when the kingdom was more an anarchy than a monarchy. But, there was no such god as this Melkor. There were more then there are today and separate patrons for Avari and Men, and different clans that traversed the sands. I believe that Rae and Rhais were primarily inspired by a mixture of Mannish and Avarin faith.”

Here Siamak spoke, sounding confused and mildly fazed. “A mixture? You make it sound as if it was concocted?” Morgôs knew that his mistakes this day were ceaseless seeming, and tried to correct himself to avoid seeming heretical. Nay, Prince Siamak.” he swiftly assured his would-be pupil, “I meant merely that our faith today was found through unity. It is hard to keep ecumenical politics in mind when speaking of such things. Your question is a deep one. I shall have to consult my own books, but the information will return to you through me. I would not withhold Avarin lore from my Prince.” He halted, satisfied, hoping that the Prince was satiated and would bring up something else.

Unfortunately, the something he brought up was a more dangerous conversation topic than the last.

“The Emissary said many things about Elves as well.” said Siamak, knowing this would arouse a spark in the General, “He spoke much of the Elven-kind in his home.” Suddenly Morgôs was hooked like a hapless fish on a barb and the Prince did not even need to reel him in to extract that fish from his comfortable peace and leave him flopping about out of water. Morgôs leaned it so quickly that Siamak jumped a little, and a grim light filled the eyes of the Elf. “W-what did he say of them?” The General said quickly, his voice raspy with anticipation and a nervous stutter developed therein. Siamak let a chuckle fall through as he saw the renewed eagerness of the General. “Now you wish to talk?” He said sarcastically, but Morgôs didn’t care.

“Yes yes, now tell me, what said he of Elves?” He was leaning closer, and Siamak saw the old glow of his face, paler than before. Taken aback, he replied. “He said that the Elves of his lands once lived across a great, far sea, on an island where they went centuries before. They lived alongside giant enchanters, who gave them arcane and terrible knowledge that singed them. I do fear that they are not as fair as Avarin Elves, those Elves of the West.”

Morgôs leapt at this, almost literally. His excitement grew greater, just as his tranquility decreased. He looked manic to the Prince. “Giants!” cried Morgôs, his voice suddenly filling the room, “What of the giants?” Morgôs had left the couch where had been and was practically hovering over the young Prince, who was repulsed by the new verve of the Avari. “He said very little;” Siamak replied with hurried defensiveness, “barely anything.” But Morgôs was no longer a hooked fish, but a insatiable predator in his own right. “He must have said something!” Morgôs cried out, “Tell me!”

Siamak recoiled fully. “General!” He said, trying calm the Elf, but to no avail. Morgôs’ hands, enveloped in scale-mail gauntlets, clapped down on Siamak’s shoulders. He nearly shook the Prince, his eyes alight. “Tell me!” He yelled, and his voice, lower and more menacing than before, boomed like thunder for a moment, and then died in his throat like a cough. The light left his eyes and his eyes left Siamak.

And then, all of a sudden, he fell back. Morgôs teetered and slumped on the couch behind, taking deep breaths. He clapped his hand to his breast and fell silent, leaving Siamak to stare, bewildered, at him from his seat. Of all the mistakes he had made this day, this was the most grievous of them all. He had assaulted the Prince of Pashtia! Was he mad? What had incurred this insanity in him that was so far beyond his control? He lay, trying to seize reality and draw it back to him. Slowly, he pushed himself off the couch and landed, on his knees, on the carpeted floor.

“My good Prince,” he said meekly, “I beg your forgiveness. I do not know what came over me, truly.” He looked, hoping the best but expecting the worst, to the Prince for forgiveness. He’d come seeking a willing pupil, and now had a good chance of having made, instead, a dire enemy. He only hoped that Siamak could understand that this was no common spasm, but a unique burst of madness, which he would never let happen again.