PROLOGUE
No amount of furs could keep out the bitter cold, not even the thickest Warg-pelt. The icy wind whipped around her face, cutting her cheeks as she undid her scarf. This was the spot, no doubting it. None other alive could - or would- have dared this stunning feat, but she was not thinking of that. She was thinking of the cold, black water that would swallow her up, leaving her frozen. But this was the only way, and they must be recovered. She stood up, stretching to her full height, well over six feet tall, and thin even through the layers of leather and wolf hide that covered her. She looked around her in the desperate hope that the items she sought would have been encased in ice above the surface of the wintry sea, but to no avail- all she saw was ice and snow and frigid black water. There was nothing for it. She shed her cloaks of wolf fur, as well as all her heavy winter robes, until she wore only a tightly woven tunic and hose fitted close to her lean form. She shook her dark tresses from her hood and tied them back with a leather thong. With a quick prayer to Elbereth and to Ulmo who rules all waters, the Elf dove into the frozen waters of the Ice Bay of Forochel. Many long minutes passed. The cold wind howled over the snowswept plain, perhaps screaming a lament for things past. Save the whistling and moaning of the wind, all was silent in that last outpost of ice, that last reminder of the ancient Helcaraxë. Suddenly the Elf's head popped above the inky water, gasping for breath, and then she reached up with one arm, scrabbling for solid ice. She pulled herself out of the hole she had cut in the frozen surface and dragged herself onto the ice, still heaving and spluttering. She shuddered, and crept forward on hands and knees to the pile of discarded clothing and heaped it upon herself, then crawled into a shelter she had cut from the snow. She fell inside and sighed, leaning against the wall, then started a small fire with a pre-prepared stack of wood. The elf took out the thing that she had been clutching so tightly in her left hand and held it up to the fire. "Ai, vanima," she murmured, gazing at the smooth, glossy black surface of the heavy round object- the lost Palantír of Arvedui. She held it tightly as she lay by the fire; she had spent the past four hundred years of her life in the search of an untainted palantír- since the Ithil stone had been lost in the deeps of Mordor, the stone of Osgiliath in the Sea, and the stone of Amon Sûl broken in fire, and the stone of the Towers departed, the only Stones left were in Minas Tirith, or Minas Anor, its sometimes name. But the old Orthanc stone had a natural bent towards it, and the Anor-stone was filled with the image of Denethor II's demise. She had then set out for the coldest North, and after months of searching, had finally found it. The Elf gave herself over to the dark embrace of sleep as the wind howled outside.
When she awoke, she shuddered- it had gotten much colder in the night. But the Elf was not to be distracted- she set the palantír in her lap and looked deep inside it. As outside the shelter the wind raged and roared, inside her eyes were fixed, unmoving, on the dark glassy ball. Within were many images, each fluttering by, hardly resting for a minute- a vision came of Orc hordes again gathering, their numbers swelling. It faded out and another vision took its place, a scene of happiness. Somewhere within a warm dwelling of men, a girl was born, and the Elf smiled- she knew the Dúnedain who were with the baby. Some special significance must be attached to this child, she thought, but before she could surmise further, a wilful power appeared, a figure of darkness and cold filling all the palantír's sight as the wind came colder, blasting into the shelter. The Elf gasped at the sight of the cold figure. "Aran-ulaírë," she whispered, and with effort redirected the gaze of the ball towards the dark East, fearing what might come into view. First there came a glimpse of a shining city built into a mountain, glowing with the light of the Sun. "Minas Anor," she murmured. The eye of the seeing-stone moved further and further East, and she caught a glimpse of many-faceted eyes, but it was gone in a second, replaced by a scene of wind blowing ashes about. But it was neither the wind nor the ashes that caused the Elf's stomach to turn and her blood to run cold. It was not even the half-completed tower, made all of black stone and blackened iron and steel, towering high above the grey and ashen plain, crawling with Orcs. It was the glimpse of a figure, dark and tall, moving about the reconstructed remains of the tower, a figure with an Eye, slitted and orange like a cat's. That brief glimpse left the Elf shaken, and she dropped the Palantír to the ice, where the flaming image of an Eye continued to burn. Outside the wind howled with fell voices as Anor Ithil Gil-galad witnessed the return of Sauron to Middle-earth.