“Do these people have no sense of reality? I see people troubling themselves with rejections from pretty ladies, not having enough coins for another ale, or even complaining about each other and entering these –absolutely- pointless brawls over a spot at the hearth. Where can I find a reasonable mind around here? And where is the honour of Arnor?
It ran away. Retreated. Just like I will soon do. I cannot blame it. When these people moan in the flames of destruction, will they realize?”
Garethred progressed over his expectations, which is something to say. While attempting to cover the less able of his friends by not dragging them into this sub-war, he led multiple consultations with those he thought might help, including Irad Gwiberskarn of the Black Market, Kalwyn Thorn of the Dimaldri House and Thylance of Gondor.
It was a quiet evening, as calm as that every soul would sense incoming danger, the moon emitting what seemed to be a warning sign – its brightness uncomfortably high yet the light was rather dark. Garethred put his armour on, tightened the Mask and walked outside with a terrifying aura of both danger and safety. It was enough for the guards to notice he was holding his spear in an unusual stance - as this spectacular figure they have only heard of in tales and rumours slowly turned its head in an incomplete semicircle, examining the environment faster than an over-average mortal would – to somehow realize it would be better to leave the courtyard for now. Emptied of unnecessary watchers, Garethred moved slowly across the courtyard, his heavy steps echoing through the connecting streets, until he reached an old man with a long beard who wore clothes as rugged as that a passerby would drop a compassionate handful of coins to him. But truth was the opposite.
“I have heard a rumour, Morgang. They say you serve the Witch. That you serve Angmar. How far am I from the truth?”
The old man laughed with such sense of evilness that to Garethred he seemed to practically drop his disguise, uncovering a robe as dark as of the summoners he fights off whenever he ventures to Angmar, and the darkness of his appearance and his disturbing presence finally verified this rumour. But Morgang was yet to find out who does he have the ‘pleasure’ to speak to.
“The rumour is false, I am just an old beggar. May I have a coin, good stranger?”
Such was the talk between Morgang Ogedaluth - a dark Angmarim caster – and Garethred Nareloth - Bane of Angmar. It is not surprising that these two have battled countless times after this incident, mostly ending with Morgang’s retreat before the sun would rise, as the darkness of the night alone was his source of terrible power.
Garethred resumed causing so much damage to the Heirs of Ruin that one day the Red Witch herself sent him a letter of invitation to a private meeting. He chose a spot rarely visited by the common folk, as the Yellow Tree is overrun with wild beasts whilst standing in the middle of the road. And to a random passerby these two figures would instantly emit a thought of ‘I-better-be-going’, for a dark mist surrounded them as they talked.
“I can give you power, Garethred. So much power you would control every single soul in the Bree-lands whilst you would be a feared and respected leader. Quit being a slave of those who have left us long ago and be what you were born to be.”
Their conversation was long and the quarrel inside Garethred’s mind terrible. For he was being seduced by beauty and promises of even more glory, his own quests described as invaluable and time-wasteful. But he resisted and Nalokha walked away satisfied, while he turned around and began to absorb the treacherous thoughts that she was trying to impose into him.
Garethred returned to Bree and for a good few days the Heirs have not appeared nor caused trouble. “Something fishy is being planned; this calm atmosphere is most unusual.”
He was rethinking his purpose in Bree over and over again, when suddenly he met somebody he would not expect. “Edhel? Here?” he thought after he saved a basket of apples from being burnt to ash and realized whose basket it actually was. “Hannon le, mellon. Elen síla lumenn’ omentielvo! Telin le Imladris?” the elven lady asked him with a thankful smile due to her saved basket and a visible surprise at a mortal bewailing in Eru’s name.
Garethred nodded. “Telin o Imladris, híril. O man dor túliel le?”
They went to the back room and shared their stories. Her name is Rildheldiel and this refreshing, friendly elven lady would play an important part in his decision to leave Bree for good...
