A Gathering in Rivendell

He had founded it over a thousand years before, a refuge in the dark times of the Second Age when Sauron had nearly taken all of Middle Earth.  Save for the might of Numenor, landing on the western and southern shores to turn the tide, this settlement in an upper valley of the Misty Mountains might have been a haven for orcs, and not that of the son of Earendil the Mariner.

It had grown over the years, unhurried in Elven time.  Exquisitely crafted, its design blended seamlessly with the architecture of the steep walled valley, the haven slowly expanded to include the great house, and an array of homes, dwellings, bowers, and cottages linked by trails and arched bridges of many sizes and configurations. 

Much of what was built was hidden amongst the boreal trees that sought purchase in the rocks and thin soils of the higher valleys.  Equally hidden was the access to this realm.  Though the old East West Road ran through its environs on its way east over the mountains to Greenwood, many other hidden trails led over steep ridges and through narrow defiles, subtly camouflaged by ancient arts, blending into the folds of the land and creases of the cliffs.  Only the fair folk knew their true paths and the dead ends and confusing loops that would frustrate the curious, unwelcome visitors.  And should that not be enough, there were others who guarded the entrances day and night with the keen sight and deadly bows. 

It was indeed a safe refuge, though in the end increasingly an outpost, as was Lorien, a vestige of what was once an immortal land, now an uneasily shared world of many races.            

This Elrond knew well though it gave little satisfaction.

“I like it not at all, Gandalf” Elrond frowned as he stood in his elven robes on the high terrace overlooking the turbulent Bruinen, still young in its journey from the snows.

“Do they benefit from ignorance?  Will you and those who yet remain in this mortal land take full custody of its fate?” Gandalf replied quietly.

Elrond turned to him, resignation and anger competing for attention on his face. “Was it not enough that my brother’s line was dissipated in vanity and lust for power?  Was it not clear in the victory of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men what should have been done with the Ring by Isildur? And in the years since, have they not squandered much of what was left of their inheritance in endless battle amongst themselves?”

“Remember that many a battle was fought against the hordes of the east and south who respond only to the darkness of our adversary.  The people of Gondor and the descendants of the Rhovanian kings have paid in blood for the defense of this land.  Arnor is no more, due much to its own weakness of spirit, yet the line still remains.  That candle still burns and you would not extinguish it lightly.”

Elrond was silent, brooding, hands clasped behind him, his eyes the windows to memories of five thousand years.  Gandalf continued.

“To you it is all discouraging.  Where there should have been progress there is disintegration, a falling back instead of a leap forward.  The gulf between the ideals of the Quendi and the race of men grows wider.”

Elrond nodded his head, still silent, his hands grasping the rail at the edge of the terrace.

“I was not called here because all was well with Middle Earth, Elrond.  It serves no good to treat our sick patient with scorn.   Such a remedy only prolongs and worsens the affliction.”

“And the cure…?” Elrond turned, facing him

Gandalf smiled, shaking his head ever so slightly. “There is no cure for a mortal life Elrond.  We have time in ever abundance to spend.  They must crowd the experiences and emotions of an eternity in a space of years that are a mere passing season to us.  It is our role to link those seasons together for them that they may transcend the thought that they are just melting snowflakes or falling leaves.”

“I do not…”

“Feel that you should pretend to discuss affairs with them as equals.” Gandalf interrupted.  Elrond’s grey eyes flashed momentarily.

“They are not your equal nor will they ever be.  They are sorely diminished.  The northern kingdom has fallen and will not return.  The southern kingdom has no king and may not have even have an heir for the Steward that struggles to maintain it.  The other peoples of the race of men are young, rude, unaware of their position in the wheel of time and fate.   But despite all of this adversity they do not die out.  Their short spans insure that they will multiply and fill this still empty land with their descendants.  They are still willing to be led, guided.  We do them no favor by keeping a distance, intervening to solve problems without their inclusion.  They will learn nothing, becoming the spoiled child that cannot make its own way, forever a burden.”

“You speak for the others?”

“The others…Saruman is gone to the east quite some many years now as he has done before on his journeys.  Radagast is content with his forest home and its creatures…he has his concerns, but seeks no active role in the affairs of elves and men.  There were two others, but they have left us far beyond the shores of the Sea of Rhun not likely to return. 

No, I do not speak for them, Elrond.  I speak for what I think is best for the mission I was given.”

“Mission.  I cannot dispute what you have been sent to do.  But do not forget the ages that we have spent in this land, born into it, defending it against all that Darkness could hurl at us, living on after the sundering of the ancient lands into the sea.  In the

Farthest Elder days well before my time, the Elves were not fully strangers to the Maia and others, even higher placed, ‘ere the Great Journey into the West.

“I did not intend any disrespect and full do I know what you recount, Elrond, for though I was yet young in those days.  I walked the starlit lands of Middle Earth briefly as a visitor even as the Quendi were awakening in the East.  Then I was called away til the events of this Age.”

“Forgive my umbrage, Gandalf.  It is perhaps the lost mortal half of my being, abandoned in time these many years, though still my inheritance, that speaks for me in times of duress.”

Gandalf stood next to him at the rail, overlooking the turbulent young Bruinen, hurtling over massive boulders in white spring foam, down from the snowy peaks to their East. 

“You chose this Elven path free of will, Elrond as your brother chose another.  Still the blood of Earendil flows within you.  Do not think that to be the lesser half of you.  And for all their imperfections, the men who come here to listen to you carry a similar strength.  It is all they have.  For all that I have been given, I will always be a spectator to that, an outsider to this realm, a missionary to a land that will never be home.”

Elrond turned to him.  The gray metal in his eyes had softened, lines in his face relaxed. 

“A pity then, for you do truly love this land and its peoples as if it were your own.”

“Indeed I do…and may I have the wisdom to find strength in that love to preserve it and then to leave it should my task be done some day.”

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They were happy together.  Aranarth could see that in the way they laughed, the ease of their company.  Oriel’s pregnancy was well advanced now, the swell of their womb filling out her graceful gown.  She was a warm, lively young woman with a quick smile, bright blue eyes, and long wavy golden hair.  Arahael had done well to find her.

Aranarth smiled to himself.  He had actually found her as he had found many others of the Dunedain in his long travels, carefully noting the blood lines of the old families and the kin of the kings of the past.  A few words to Elrond had insured that Elladan and Elrohir would take the young Arahael past a certain small settlement in the lee of the Blue Mountains where he would ‘by chance’ meet a certain sparkling beauty.

He did not begrudge his son this happiness.  Far from it.  He knew well what lay in store for him.  It separated them now as it had for years.

Oriel now left the room, knowing that father and son needed to talk.  Arahael turned and walked towards the open doors to meet his father, standing in the bright spring sunlight on the small patio.  He was slightly taller than Aranarth and athletically built.  A mane of light brown hair with auburn tints framed a noble, high browed face with gray-blue eyes and a confident smile that seemed to hold a trace of condescension in it.

“She glows with life Arahael” Aranarth commented to his son as he came out into the sunlight.

Arahel smiled, genuinely appreciative of his father’s words.  “She was glad to see you again, and uncle Arthed.  You said there was another we should expect?”

“Ardugan, if he deigns to join us.”

Arahel’s eyes widened.  His father had rarely spoken of his third uncle who he had never met.  His elven companions at Rivendell had little else to add, other than whispers of a secretive hunter, a ghost in the night, and a son of the last ruler of the Northern Kingdom.

Even the elves of northern Mirkwood spoke with grudging admiration of his stealth and woodcraft, what little evidence he left for them.

Aranarth motioned Arahael to a chair next to his.  Oriel had laid out some refreshments on a small table, some light mead and delicacies.  The sun filtered through the pines.  It was a warm morning with little wind.

“I would have come to Rivendell before long even if Elrond’s invitation had not arrived.” Aranarth opened.  Arahael sat silently, slightly on edge in the presence of his father.

“More than one hundred summers have passed since the days when I was a child roaming the corridors of Fornost.  A great many of them spent in the lands of our former kingdom and its surroundings.  You have joined me on occasion in these journeys.”

“And many more in the company of Elladan and Elrohir.  Through the north of Mirkwood, to the halls of Thranduil, then south to the very borders of Lothlorien.” Arahael replied.

“And elsewhere I am sure.” Aranarth interrupted gently.  “They have seen well to your upbringing.  I am not unmindful of your familiarity with the lands, of your training in the arts of war and the history of men, elves, and the other inhabitants of this world.  This was all done with purpose.”

Arahael looked away, a shadow of unhappiness crossing his face.

“You know or should know that, I would think” Aranarth continued, glancing over at his son, who now stared off through the pines. 

“It is just that…”

“That you do not wish for it to begin now.  Oriel with child, you soon to be a father, the strength of manhood and the fullness of your marriage in your grasp.”

Arahael stared at him, angry at first for so easily defining his thoughts.  Then the anger receding to resignation and a grudging respect.

“Do not think that I am without knowledge of this, my son.  Your mother too was aglow with you about to be born.  And she had the wisdom to know that you would not be staying with us, but bound for Rivendell to be fostered by others.  Oriel will at least stay here with this child and others you may both conceive.”

“It will be hard for her”

“It is always hard for the race of men, husbands, wives, and children all!” Aranarth replied quickly, his underlying sternness coming through for a moment.  Arahael’s eyes flared for a moment as if he was being rebuked by his father.

“No…that was not meant for you, Arahael…it is more for the passage of my own years and the years that you, and those who will follow you, can expect.”

“And if I choose not to follow or if I choose not to lead my sons in that path?” Arahael responded defiantly

“Then the line of the kings of men is dead and you, and your sons, and their sons to be will vanish into the gray future of purposeless men.” Aranarth replied with finality. 

They were silent for a while.  The sun passed the noon hour.  Arahael spared a glance at his father, a hulking figure barely contained in the finely carved chair to his left.  Graying at the temples, his face weathered and lined, the older man still projected strength and power, the kind that could bring a room of rowdy men to silence if need be.  The hands were scarred and calloused from years of handling reins, swords, and farm implements.

But the grip was still as iron, the arms and legs like old oaks.  He was the true son of a king, tested in battle in his youth and in hard duty in the prime years of his life.

In that lay Arahael’s own fears and the distance he had maintained with his father.  For he had been carefully fostered at Rivendell, protected, less the line of his father be severed by some twist of fate.  Trained in the use of sword and bow, knife and snare, adept in riding, strong with the endurance to march many leagues.  Learned in the history and ways of those who still dwelt and had once lived in Middle Earth.  Elrond had spared little in his efforts.  Yet with all this he felt the lesser next to the man crowding the ornate chair next to him.  For this man had earned the respect of other men, had defended himself and others in real combat, not just in training and exercises. 

These were shoes he was not sure he could fill, despite his outward confidence and seeming easy manner among the high and noble of Rivendell’s court.  Aranarth broke the silence as if reading his thoughts. 

“It will take time, Arahael.  I have still have enough good years left.  Had my father lived, it would have been easier for me, though that was not my fate.  Your training has been sound.  It is now time to put it to work for the task you were born to bear, though I fear that we are both about to be tested by something unexpected”

“And what would that be father?”

“We have been summoned, Arahael.  The sons of the last king do not meet for idle conversation with one such as Elrond.  Gandalf is here as well.  I know him well enough that he is no small conjurer, though I cannot say what his true nature is.  The young warrior with him, rude as he is, is a Chieftan’s son from the northern peoples.  Others may yet join us.  Something of no small import requires us here.  We may all be tested more than we care.”

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Elrond’s face was impassive as he stood at the western gate to Rivendell.  His guards had told him of a party arriving, led by Haldir of Lothlorien.  He was not acquainted with him though his young daughter had given him favorable mention from one of her more recent visits to the secretive realm.  This he took with a grain of salt given the high spirits of his budding adolescent child.

He had invited representation from Gondor and had received word that they would attend.  Galadriel had agreed to provide a guide for the party north along the Anduin and over the High Pass.  He had not expected her to make the journey, having much to attend to in Lorien after the loss of Amloth and Nimrodel, which was still fresh in the minds of her people though more than a hundred years had passed.

His lookouts had told him to expect four in the party, including Haldir.  Yet as he gazed up the valley he now saw five approaching, Haldir and another beside him, followed closely by a second pair, then a hooded straggler two hundred yards back clad in grey-green leather garments, riding a black stallion.  Two small shapes scampered about the horse’s hooves. 

His face warmed to a smile as Haldir rode up. 

“Welcome to Rivendell Haldir.  Your journey was safe I trust”

Haldir gave a slight nod of respect. “We had some luck.  The early spring warmth has already sent the stone giants down into the upper valleys, off the high path, which was favorably cleared of snow for us.”

“You may thank Gandalf and his companions for those efforts some days prior.  I see you bring a delegation from Gondor with you.   Would that they would remove their hats and cloaks and introduce themselves.”

“M’Lord I bring the second born of Mardil, Steward of Gondor, with two of his most experienced cavalry scouts.” 

Elrond nodded then walked up to the rider positioned next to Haldir.  He could see a pair of eyes glittering a pale icy blue beneath the hooded cloak.  Blond ringlets spilled out of unusual length.  The rider suddenly raised a hand and flipped back the hood from the cloak.

“I am Drianna, second born of Mardil and his chosen representative to your invitation, Lord Elrond”

Elrond was taken by rare surprise, his mouth half open, momentarily speechless.  Haldir fidgeted uncomfortably in his saddle, having dreaded this moment.

She dismounted, standing before him, a shade taller, the brash confidence of youth competing with nervous awe at the presence of one who had been almost a mythic figure in the histories she had learned as a child.   She withdrew two scrolls from the folds of her cloak.

“My father extends his gratitude for your invitation” Drianna handed the first, smaller scroll to Elrond who immediately opened it.

Lord Elrond.  Please accept my appreciation for your invitation to the kingdom of Gondor to join in your deliberations.  Would that I could have sent my eldest son, Eradan, to represent me, but as you know he is presumed lost in the Brown Lands near the edge of Mirkwood.  My second son is young, a student of poetry and the arts, having yet little interest in matters of state and war.  The leaders of our men at arms are of need at the defense of the kingdom against what threat may appear from the East.  More of that I pray you will read in the second scroll.

 

My daughter is my second born.  She has been well schooled by our best tutors.  Her brother, Eradan has taught her much about the arts of war, and much she has learned on her own.  She is a formidable huntress and has an equally formidable will.  Forgive her if at times that will ignites the passion she feels for her brother and the land she loves.  There are few I would trust as I do her.

 

Mardil, Steward of Gondor

 

Elrond looked up from the document unrolled in his hands.  He would have preferred Eradan, or if truth be known, he would have preferred the counsel of Gandalf and a few select of his own race.  But above all he had no patience with weakness and the young woman before him was no weakling.  His own daughter had a streak of willfulness in her that both troubled him and bound him to her.  He could understand Mardil’s decision and expected that more was revealed in the second scroll Drianna extended to him.  His face warmed to a slight smile.

“Gondor is well represented.  Please let my guards take you and your party to your accomodations, Drianna.  We will meet with the others this evening.”

Drianna barely hid a sigh of relief at the acceptance of her mission.  Two tall elves took her mount off towards a cluster of dwellings overlooking the turbulent Bruinen.  Elrond turned to Haldir.

“You said you were two guides accompanying her.  I see three.  It would seem that the Marchwarden of Lorien shares an inability to count visitors.”

Haldir smiled.  He had known of the horse and rider for some time and guessed that Elrond was making some sort of example of this intruder, now not 50 yards away clad in grey green leather, riding slowly on a midnight black stallion.  He drew his sword.

“Lord I did not know…this was not one of our party…” Haldir pretended to stammer.

“No matter…he is the now the mark of a hundred archers nestled in the cliffs and treetops around us.  You there!” Elrond called in a commanding voice, “You would be well advised to halt at once and identify yourself if you wish to live!”

The horse still came on slowly, the rider making no effort to stop or remove his hood.  Elrond nodded, looking up to a tall pine next to him.  An arrow whirred out at high speed, hitting its mark in the shoulder of the rider, who simply collapsed into a heap of garments in the saddle.

“What deviltry is this!” Elrond growled theatrically.  He snapped his fingers and a dozen tall guards emerged from hiding places, bright swords drawn, and surrounded the stallion.  The horse seemed little discomforted as if used to this display.  One of the guards gingerly poked the leather tunic and trousers with his sword.

“There is nothing but garments and sticks, Lord!”

“Sticks?!” Elrond strode up himself to look.  Indeed it was true, a tunic, hooded cloak and leather trousers, inside of which was a cleverly crafted framework of hinged sticks and pads designed to take the form of a man to the casual observer.

“Clever indeed! But it seems our real visitor has met up with old friends” Elrond laughed, unable to contain the ruse any longer

The guards turned and the figures of two bobcats were standing next to what appeared to be an irregular shaped moss covered boulder.  One of the cats began to leisurely lick an outcropping while the other nestled itself on the top of the rock. 

“Come Ardugan, rise and join us.”

The ‘boulder’ moved, unfolding into the shape of a man clad in brown, gray and green, dislodging the two felines.  The man glared at the bobcats with large pale blue eyes.

“If not for these old companions of mine the ruse would have been successful!” Ardugan groused

“Successful in the land of men or in pursuit of orcs perhaps, but not in Rivendell where the fall of a leaf or the shape of every shoot of spring grass is known to me.  You have been tracked these last three days by guards who have patrolled these woods and gorges for a thousand years.  Your brother Aranarth told me to expect you in this manner and well that he did or you might have ended up like your simulacrum.  Have a care to make your intentions clear should you contemplate a second visit.”

Elrond motioned to the guards who led Ardugan away with his mount.  The cats followed, gleefully dashing about his feet, artfully avoiding his attempts to kick them with the point of his boot.

“Now Haldir, please join me for a time.  I would have news of Lorien.”

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It was an enchanted evening they would always remember.  Late in the afternoon elfin visitors arrived at their lodgings with bundled packages and sealed invitations in ornate script.  The packages contained garments fit for kings, woven of the finest fabrics and silks.  They were of no recent craft, having the air of ancient raiments carefully folded and set aside in great chests and wardrobes from a time long past. 

The invitations allowed for those attending to wear their full ceremonial heritage of birthright, whether it be sword or crown or badge of courage.  It would be as each saw fit.

The same elven visitors came at dusk, a knock at the door, a smile and gesture that they should each follow.  From their different points of rest at Rivendell they were summoned and guided over lamplit paths through fragrant pines to a small courtyard illumined by glowing orbs hung from tall hemlocks.  A tall golden haired elven warrior greeted them.

“Welcome to the Hall of Elrond.  I am Glorfindel.  Please…follow me.”

They all made their way up a flight of stairs, carved in stone at the very edge of a cliff that towered above them in the gathering darkness.  Up and ahead there was a glimmering that grew to a great wash of light that whitened the night cliff beside them and spilled out over the valley of the young Bruinen off to their right.  

The stairs rose until they reached the edge of a massive rock shelf that thrust out from the face of the cliff.  Upon it was set the elven hall.  To the rear, the hall nudged up against the looming cliff.  In front and to the sides carefully tended trees and flowering shrubs thrived on soils laboriously hauled up the stairs.  Glorfindel led the guests through the garden, all aglow with the light of countless small lamps hanging from branch and twig, some no larger than a fingertip.  The path wound like a like a small stream in a flat delta, taking curves and detours around strange and unusual plantings, lovingly manicured.

Though it was still early spring, many had opened their first blossoms, pink, white, pale lavender, golden yellow, sending out a delicate aroma that softened the chill of the night air. 

The path rounded a bend and widened as it approached the entrance to Elrond’s Hall.  Two large doors, twice the height of a man, opened out to them, each a mosaic of stained glass set amidst what appeared to be a latticework of vines.  They entered, marveling at the smooth marble floors in which were inlaid scenes of a far off and ancient land, a white tree, and faces of great nobility and power. 

The interior of the hall was lit from an abundance of small orbs of various sizes suspended from the high peaked ceiling.  Each carried a different hue, some bright white, others a pale aqua, soft pink, or warm golden glow.  Together they filled the great room with light which spilled out over the nighted gardens.

Four great hearths provided comfort and warmth on the chill early spring night, their heat rising to jostle the lit spheres above them ever so slightly.  Two serenely contented bobcats posed sphinxlike on a richly appointed carpet in front of the largest fireplace, soaking up the heat.   Huge tapestries covered the walls, depicting scenes of Elder days and startling figures both fell and fair.

In the center of the hall there were tables arranged in a square.  At the head table stood Elrond, dark haired and regal, with his wife Celebrian, tall and queenly, golden haired like her mother Galadriel.  Beside her was young Arwen in a green gown with silver accents.  To Elrond’s left were his two sons Elladan and Elrohir, youthful nobility resplendent in silver mail, over white and gold tunics.

Gandalf, Aranarth, and Arahael were guided to a table to the right of the head table.  Arthed and Hagar were seated at a table across from Elrond.  To the left of the head table sat Haldir, Drianna, and Arudgan.   The white linen tablecloths were arrayed with fine, almost translucent china, exquisite crystal goblets that took on different hues, and golden table service that felt warm and heavy to the hand.  Young elves of Arwen’s age discreetly filled goblets, brought in gleaming silver serving platters of meats and vegetables that filled the room with scents of exotic spices. 

There were frequent toasts to the friendship of elves and men in the past, storied references to ancient days and times when dark powers rose and were then defeated. 

Then all was cleared and small, intensely sweet fine fruit pastries were set out with a dark, robust hot drink that cleared the senses.  At last Elrond and Celebrian rose together.

“We thank you for accepting our hospitality this evening.  It has been long indeed since the kingdoms of men sat together with us.” Elrond stated simply.

“Too long perhaps.” Celebrian replied.  “My mother sends her greetings to you from Lorien.  She regrets not being able to join us, but her people are still in great need of her counsel.”  A small shadow of sadness briefly passed across her face.  She and Elrond embraced briefly and then she left, taking Arwen with her out the great doors into the night.  The elven servants made last minute additions to the hearths, cleared a final dish or two, then left them discreetly to the business of the evening.

 Elrond turned to his guests.  Tall and grave, he wore a heavy ivory toned tunic woven with green and silver.  A gleaming belt of interlocking silver and gold links girded his waist, clasped in the front with a great square emerald and supporting a great blue steel scabbard at his side inlaid with turquoise.

“I thank all of you for accepting my invitation.  For some” he nodded in Drianna’s direction, “it has been a long journey on short notice.  For others” he glanced at Aranarth “it has been an uncertain addition to already long and lonely duties.  And for one” he said with a hint of smile towards Hagar, who squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, “it has come as one more strange event in a series of new experiences.”

“Strange events are what draw us here today.  As sons of kings and Chieftans and daughters of Stewards, you represent the kingdoms of men in Middle Earth today in this hall.  I must confess that it was not my intention to convene such a meeting, but I was persuaded otherwise.” Elrond nodded respectfully in Gandalf’s direction.

Gandalf now rose, garbed in his usual gray cloak and pointed hat.

“Thank you, Lord Elrond.  It is only because what has arisen threatens us all as it has in the past that I felt strongly that we are better served to take counsel together than act independently.”

“You speak of threats and there is mention of strange events.  I suspect are not here to parse riddles or guess at shadows.  Forgive my plain talk, but of what danger is it that you speak?”  Aranarth interrupted somewhat gruffly.

 “One who survived the cataclysm of sundered lands five thousand years ago.  The same one who many thought destroyed on the slopes of Mount Doom two thousand years ago, cut down by the sword of Elendil.” Elrond replied

“My father Arvedui told us He was dead! That his form vanished in a great wind, the only vestige of his tenure being his Ring, which too vanished from the hand of Isildur when he was attacked in the Gladden Fields.” Aranarth responded, becoming agitated.

“Would that He was dead, but alas it seems not, Aranarth.” Gandalf replied somberly.

“But how…”

“Sauron is not easily removed from this world, Arararth.  He is neither man nor elf, but of another order entirely, one whose roots are as ancient as Middle Earth itself.   Ages ago, before the first ancestors of the elves walked in starlight, he had aligned himself with a great evil and in turn had become evil himself.  That evil was undone for three ages, but returned again, with Sauron as his chief lieutenant.  But this time there were arrayed many forces, the swords and shields of elves and men and other powers who no longer range among the lands of Middle Earth.”

“In the final battle Ancient lands of Middle Earth were splintered and sent beneath the seas.  The great evil, Morgoth, was banished forever, but Sauron lived on, eluding his reckoning, repairing to Mordor to create an evil kingdom of his own design.  For the while he was forgotten.  In gratitude for their assistance in vanquishing Morgoth the nobility of the race of men were granted the kingdom of Numenor, which lasted three thousand years.”

“My brother was first king of Numenor” Elrond continued. “Great and powerful their kingdom became, but at the same time Sauron grew strong and treacherous.  Through his arts and deceptions he induced the forging of the rings of power, then secretly forged his own to control them all.  His armies marched from Mordor across the land, laying waste.  We were forced to retreat, building Rivendell as a refuge until such time that forces could be marshalled to drive him back.  Eventually he was taken by the armies of Numenor, then at the very zenith of their power.  But that proved a false victory, for soon he plied his evil with their kings, grown vain and fearful of their mortality.”

“I know some of the rest of this tale as it has been passed down from the ancient days” Aranarth said quietly.  “Numenor too was sundered when its rulership broke the Ban.  Elendil and his sons managed to return to Middle Earth, founding the kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor.”

Gandalf continued “But Sauron returned to Middle Earth as well, a dark spirit that soon resumed his plans of conquest from his former fortress in Mordor.  The Last Alliance of Elves and Men gathered and his armies were utterly defeated though at terrible cost to the Alliance. His great ring was taken and he too was seemingly vanquished.  But not so it seems.  Some among the Wise think that the ring still exists, perhaps at the bottom of the ocean, or in the deep sediments of the Anduin, too far removed for anyone, even Sauron, to find. Yet it could still remain a reservoir of his dark power, providing enough distant strength to maintain the life of his spirit, though it was likely weakened to near extinction. 

“You speak with such certainty that He has returned.  Could this not be just the machinations of the Witch King, who has already caused great harm to the northern and southern kingdoms” Drianna challenged.

“The Witch King has not the power to act alone.” Elrond advised. “He is one of the nine that Sauron controls.  Indeed it was his rise to power that raised the specter of Sauron’s hidden hand to us.”

“Would that we had the foresight to truly appreciate that sooner.  My father and his father too had suspected that the rise of Angmar’s evil and the sieges of Gondor by the wainriders and others were no coincidence” Aranarth added.

“You speak truly Aranarth” Gandalf replied, “For He was orchestrating events by that time, seeking the erosion and destruction of the kingdoms of men, eliminating his ancient rivals one by one.”

“In that he has had success enough already” Aranarth muttered angrily.

“Indeed! You have lost a kingdom and we have lost our king!  And as much as I am honored by such noble company, it is not history that concerns me, but the fate of my brother Eradan, if he yet lives.  For all that has been said, I stand no closer to him here and now than I did in Gondor many days past!”

Drianna was standing now, her eyes flashing blue steel, hands clenched by her side.  

Haldir’s face showed alarm at her bold statement in the presence of his elven superior.  Ardugan, sitting to her left, managed one of his enigmatic smiles.

“What news is this!?” Arthed spoke for the first time.  “The son of the Steward is lost?  He is a fine warrior.  I have ridden with his company in the past though he knew not it was me.”

“His fate is unknown, Arthed.” Gandalf replied, trying to calm the situation.  Such news as we have and may know will be shared amongst us this night.  Suffice to say that he was last seen with his men at the very southern border of Mirkwood, caught in a fierce battle, surrounded by orcs and wolves.”

“These are ill tidings to be sure.  What venture could have taken him to such a distance from Minas Tirith.  And what are orcs and wolves doing in such numbers to join battle in the southern reaches of the forest “ Aranarth questioned.

Drianna then recounted the loss of the trading party and the initial scouting patrol, the cavalry expedition that Eradan had led, and the express instructions he had violated in his crossing of the Anduin.

“This is Sauron’s doing? Or the dark mischief of the Witch King at his bidding, taking full advantage over an overly impetuous adversary” Aranarth looked at Elrond and Drianna.

“There is more”, Elrond replied, looking in Haldir’s direction, who took up the tale.

“Beyond the Anduin lies a great wood, known in times past as Greenwood the Great, though now most call it Mirkwood.  Few east of the Misty Mountains know much of its reach and fewer still have seen or entered it.  But in ages past it was home to elves who deigned to stay in Middle Earth rather than make the Great Journey west.  In the Second Age Oropher and his people dwelt in the southern marches of the forest, across the Anduin from Lorien.  Time, events, and suspicions drove them north, abandoning their settlements.  None took their place and Oropher’s son Thranduil now rules in the far north. Lorien was content within its borders, the kingdoms of Gondor, even at its high tide, never reached the wood.  But a thousand years ago something crept in out of the darkness and claimed Dol Guldur and the lands around it as home. This I say now in hindsight, for we knew not then.”

“Few in Lorien venture far from its vales and little of the outside world intrudes upon us.  That is by design and intent.  Still, there began a sense of unquiet, of rumors, that the area around Dol Guldor was to be avoided.  Stories were passed on about changes in the forest, new trees growing up dark and sinister, vines and molds strangling the life out stalwart old oaks and birches.  Strange fell creatures emerged, large poisonous spiders the size of small dogs stringing their webs as far north as the Old Forest Road.  The small mammals of the forest, squirrels, chipmunks, and rabbits, now look queer and hostile, their bodies twisted and misshapen.”

“In the last hundred years the rumors have become less frequent but what does come to us is darker and more troubling.  Word that orcs and men from the East are gathering in and around Dol Guldur.  Strange cries of beasts unknown to Middle Earth, whispers of great snakes and sightings of a huge black hound leading packs of wolves.  On certain nights when the wind blows from the east there is an odor in the air, even in Lorien at the very treetops, a sickly odor, part rot, part fume and smoke.”

“And there are none who cross the river from Lorien to assess this directly?” Aranarth inquired sharply.

“None that have returned” Haldir replied, a brief flash in his golden eyes. “Two cousins and a number of friends I now count lost, who dared to enter the southern forest in the last 50 years seeking answers.”

“It is a fell and noisome place indeed as I have found”

Heads turned as Ardugan spoke for the first time, his pale blue eyes luminous, his normally smug smile replaced by an unfamiliar hardness about the corners of his mouth.

“As you have found?!” Haldir looked at him with astonishment.

“I favor the dark places and the night, Marchwarden.  Noose and dart, knife and snare, cross my path if you dare…or so I say to my prey just before I strike” Ardugan smiled momentarily at his little rhyme.

 “Yes, the south forest is difficult.  I have killed large spiders to gut them and wrap the shells of their bodies about me to disguise my form and scent.  Orc skin and armour serves just as well.”

About the room faces blanched and the sound of the fires crackling in the hearth grew loud.  Only Gandalf seemed unperturbed.  Indeed the faintest trace of a smile tugged at his beard as Ardugan continued.

“There are serpents as I have seen whilst hanging spider like from the bough of some slimy were-oak.  Great things with bodies as thick as a large man’s, with golden eyes and what seemed small wings.  No flight from these, just large bulks a hundred feet long coursing through the damp forest floor in seek of prey.”

“Cold drakes…” Elrond stated flatly, exchanging a knowing look with Gandalf.

“By whatever name they are formidable enough for several men.”  Ardugan continued.

“And once there followed behind them the great hound you speak of.  Black as night, big as a horse, with red glowing eyes that see with a malevolent will.  Still as death I was that night as it sniffed the ground not far from me, its great head searching as if unconvinced by my ruse.  Dawn’s approach interrupted its task or I would be in its belly today I fear.”

“You dare much Ardugan” Gandalf said appraisingly

“And what else is there for me to do” Ardugan shrugged without guile, then continued. 

“But there is more.  Inside the skin of an orc I was able to trail a patrol to the very opening of Dol Guldur.  It is as Haldir said about the cries of strange beasts.  Indeed one came bursting through the opening, thundering past, splintering large were-trees and severing vines till it fell through a great covered pit over fifty feet deep.  Still its head, if that is what it was, rose above the spongy mire of the forest floor, groaning with pain.  It was a foul thing and I have seen much of foulness.  But this was some squamous cobbling of parts, scales, fur, fangs, hide and bulk that had no natural parentage.  A party of orcs surrounded it, poured oil from barrels in the pit and burned it.  I was long gone when the smoke rose above the forest, though the cries of the thing echoed for miles.”

“What Ardugan says is no travelers tale my friends” Gandalf commented soberly, then continued.  

“Another who lives by the forest has told me as much.  Some may know him by Radagast, a member of my order who has gifts with growing things and creatures, birds in particular.  They perform many tasks for him, bringing messages… as you have all learned in recent days, but also reporting back to him on the doings in the lands, often at great risk.”

“What spreads from the south is no natural occurrence nor the work of some ambitious spellmaker.  It is the sorcery of the past rekindled, the arts of creating new things evil and foul.  He seeks to recast the world as it once was in a time and dark place beyond all that sit here today, scavenging the bloodlines of today’s living things for remnants of that past time.  Fortunate for us that such evil has been so diluted and dissipated as to take great effort to reconstitute.  More effort mayhap than He thought needed. 

“Still He must be stopped now and driven out before further harm can be done.” Gandalf concluded.

“By what power is this deed to be done?” Aranarth responded to Gandalf with an edge of frustration. “The northern kingdom is long gone.  I cannot speak for Gondor but with its last king no doubt dead these ten years in Mordor, the Steward’s son taken to an as yet unknown end, and it’s eastern border not so many leagues from the Witch King’s tender mercies…well it is at least unclear what can be mustered from the south.  As to Rivendell and Lorien…”

“I will speak for Lorien.” Haldir replied.  “The loss of Amloth and Nimrodel has struck hard in our land.  The arrival of Galadriel and Celeborn after their many years of travel has assuaged our grief, though their tidings of affairs in the forest to our east have not been comforting.  You do not know us Aranarth.  We do not march to war lightly having spent much in the Last Alliance.  Perhaps the security that our power provides makes us too reluctant to try to shape the affairs of this world again, but that is our choice.  Yet with that I am here to help, if only to guide whosoever will take the task upon them.”

“And I will speak for Rivendell” Elrond addressed them. “It is well that you challenge us Aranarth, you who have also experienced loss…that of your father and the surviving kingdom of the north to the henchman of this evil.  As such your insight is not of some hearthside warrior.  Rivendell was created as a refuge to His marauding armies in the Second Age and many who defeated Him two thousand years past are no longer with us.  As with Lorien we now are better at defending what we yet have than marching forth once again to battle.”

“And of Thranduil?” Aranarth inquired once again, though more resignedly

Elrond sighed, shaking his head ever so slightly.  “They feel comfort in the distance they have bought in settling in the far north.  Their ranks too have been thinned from the Last War we all fought against Him and there is little appetite for more.  I fear it will take a peril more insistent than today to rouse them.”

The scrape of a chair turned heads as Drianna rose.  Her mouth was set hard, her eyes flashed blue scorn.  She tossed her golden hair defiantly, its red streak seemingly grown with her anger.

“Well it may be for all to grieve the pains of the past as reason to let the future slip away, but Gondor is not dead and its wounds have been deep for many a year.  Its king may be gone and my brother too for all we know, but of all who sit here it is only he who has sortied out to challenge Him!  Why are we here if only to talk of what must be done and find excuse not to do it!”

“Such wrath will be better used against Him than us, Drianna” Elrond responded sternly, taking offense to her challenge.

“Yet she speaks truth, if not as artfully as others” Gandalf interrupted quickly.  “None here have taken up the task and none will for it is duly mine, as others of my order are either not available…or capable”

“You would go alone!?” Drianna replied incredulously.  “Is this not madness…has the defeat of my brother with two companies of Gondor’s finest cavalry not been example enough of their strength!?”

“You do not know my strength, young woman!” Gandalf replied in a commanding voice that filled the hall.  He seemed suddenly taller, his bushy brows fierce, his gray eyes deep and compelling.  Drianna backed away from her chair, surprised and momentarily silenced.

“Nor would you be expected to know such things” Gandalf’s voice returned to normal and he was once again the slightly threadbare wizard in the pointy hat, mildly sheepish at having revealed himself if only briefly. “I am prepared to go alone…this task requires more than brave swords to take it to its conclusion…though swords are not unwelcome”  

“The son of Breor, Chieftan of the Eotheod, will join you!” Hagar stood suddenly, speaking for the first time.  He was dressed in his dragon skin armor over which hung a loose open tunic embroidered with white horses on a green veldt.  “And the sword of Fram, dragonslayer, will be at your side!”  In one motion he flipped the tunic back and drew the great black sword, holding it high.

All in the room were startled by his allegiance so suddenly blurted out, and equally struck by the blade he wielded whose fine edge glittered like black glass while the thick, dark body of the sword seemed to suck the light from the orbs above.

“Hold son of Breor!” Elrond strode over to the young blond giant.  “This is an ancient blade, not the work of men, though one man, Turin Turambar, who wielded its sister blade came to a dark end, in the days before Numenor rose from the waves.  May I wield it a moment”

Hagar reluctantly passed the blade to Elrond.  He examined it closely, the runes on the pommel and hilt, the workmanship of the strange black metal.

“It is indeed Anquiriel, sister blade to Anglachel, lost since Eol crafted both in the First Age, even ‘ere I was born.  It is no accident that your grandfather slew a dragon! With Anglachel Turin himself slew the great fearsome dragon of his Age, though the blade itself was broken.   Both blades were not of this world.  Their metal comes from beyond, a great stone hurtling to Middle Earth.  Steel and dragon skin are no match for it.  Strange that it reappears after all this time, but good that it is in your capable hands to join with Gandalf.”  Elrond handed the blade back to Hagar.

“It will not be alone” Aranarth announced.  “You have been a friend to me these many years Gandalf, and to my father and his fathers before.  I too will accompany you”

“And I” Arthed asserted. 

“The son of Aranarth will ride with his father” Arahael stood and committed.   Aranarth flushed with pride at his son’s pronouncement.  

“Haldir of Lorien will guide you to the gates of the Forest and beyond” the Marchwarden joined in.

All eyes turned to Ardugan and Drianna. 

“Gondor is already represented in the blood of its cavalrymen and the fate of my brother” Drianna responded quietly.  “But I too would come if only to know if he is still among the living, but as yet I know not the manner of our fight, the nature of our plan, the test of our adversary”

Gandalf smiled and cast a brief glance to Elrond who nodded slightly.

“You are right in that our small group cannot overcome his minions.  They must be drawn out and dealt with separately.  But Sauron must be driven out, not merely allowed to flee only to return at his choosing after we have gone, unaffected by our efforts.  His exit must be at as great a cost as can be inflicted so as to dissuade Him from contemplating more of his deviltry for many a year.”

“And this can be done?” Drianna persisted.

“He is not yet that strong, not by far as he was ‘ere Isildur severed the ring from his hand.  All the more reason to deal with Him whilst we are a match for His power which is already formidable enough.”  Gandalf replied.

He motioned them all towards a long table situated in front of the easternmost hearth.  On it were several scrolls and a large map, unrolled and weighted down at the corners. 

“We begin by offering Him a prize he has yet to seek, one which will tempt him against all proper caution….”