Edrahil knows of the whispers that have begun gaining noise in the dark, in the shadowed hallways and under the half-forgotten canopies and archways of Nargothrond. The Lord of his house, Nínimben, had taken to putting aside ancient rivalries with the House of Aquamarine of which Dúlindaer was lord, and they conferred more and more in secret council, oft with Celegorm and Curufin, and more oft without the Sons of Fëanor.
Edrahil too, knows that the House of Diamond under Gildor’s leadership has been in secret councils with Lords Thilior and Galor, of the Houses of Sapphire and Emerald. He had taken it upon himself to inform King Felagund of this, in private, but the King simply smiled brightly at him, thanked him for his loyalty, and waved his concerns away. He remembered then the ancient oath of fealty he swore, there at the borders of Aman with the Grinding Ice, where he drew his sword and vowed that his life he lay in service to the House of Finarfin, the House of the King, in whatever service they deemed him needed for. Be it for small errands, a member of the King’s honor guard, or a spy, he did it all, and would do it all over again. In those days, he served Nargothrond and his king. But since the Bragollach, his King had taken a blow he could not recover from. While death was not permanent for the Eldar, there was no blunting still the shock and loss. Edrahil knew how long the King shut himself in his chambers, emerging only after so many days, his golden hair shorn short, then taking to leaving the realm more and more onto the hands of his nephew Prince Orodreth and his cousins Lords Celegorm and Curufin.
Whence would his King go? Nobody knew where Prince Turgon was; Princes Angrod and Aegnor long dead, and Princess Galadriel beyond reach in Doriath -- if only because King Felagund deemed her so to be, not wanting to return into the hold of the Girdle of Melian for reasons Edrahil knew not.
He knew that King Felagund wanted so to go to Himring, his final bastion of help and hope, yet he cannot, for the roads were dangerous now, and the nights closed in with fiercer dread and gloom that sought to smother out all light.
And the discontent of the lords grew, and Edrahil, mere soldier, could not stop the tide.
(He wonders, vaguely, if King Felagund saw this in foresight as well, and if this was one of those things that could still be changed -- for vision worked like that, there were two: one set in stone, that nothing could change -- and the softer one, malleable, influenced by choices taken and decisions made.)
When Beren came to Nargothrond, Edrahil knew King Felagund made a choice, and the Lords of Nargothrond made their own choices. To use the excuse of the Quest to oust a King that had taken a mortal blow in the Bragollach; who had not recovered from it. The lord of his house, Nínimben of the House of Ruby, made his move, and all Edrahil could do was remove himself from his house, and carry on with the fealty that he swore in Aman all those years ago.
So into the dark Edrahil went, hoping that, cheap his life may have been, that it would be enough to remind his king that he was not alone, and that he was loved, even in an end such as this.