Prologue
Galadriel…
Gerin cuinar o i minuial o anann…
I have lived since the dawn of time…
Gerin tirad i eriauin beleg aran… a i dannauin taur ardh
I have seen the rise of great Kings… and the fall of vast realms.
Gerin and darthan cenedril i manadh o Sauron a i ash nazg
I have long waited to see the fate of Sauron and the one ring…
Nae si nedh i enedh ned tur, a eden talraph…
But now in the midst of victory, a new evil stirs…
The cold stone room was no more than a square hollow carved deep within the earth. A small tightly closed door stood at the far corner separating the confined space of the darkened underground world from the light of the cold sun shinning above onto the land bordering that of Isenguard and Gondor. Sealed for the last two days with no windows or vents, the air was stuffy but not yet stale. Sparse candles lit to room creating a faint yellow glow around the walls and immediately above a blackened well of smoke clustered on the ceiling. The smell of soot hung in the air with a hint of sandalwood in a vain attempt to repel the rooms' natural pungent aroma. The furnishings were practical and intermittent leaving only a table, bench, bookcase, and small sleeping couch situated in the corner furthest away from the door. In contrast to the humble simplicity of its surroundings, an ornate pillar stood in the centre of the room holding a mottled blue spiralling orb familiar to only the most knowledgeable magic users. Crouched over the orb, peering deep into its inner chasm stood a lone frail ancient figure.
"So Sauron has fallen…"
His voice echoed around the room like a whisper of the tide on a moonlight beach during a cold winters night.
"The prophecies of the old ones have been fulfilled…"
The tall aged figure stooped over the palantiri. He swiftly placed a crimson cloth over the stone as the eye of Sauron diminished into the blackness. Upon his fragile bones he walked slowly over toward the pile of manuscripts that lay on the solid wooden beamed table across the room. Steadying himself on a twisted and gnarled walking stick he carefully placed himself down to sit on the bench beside it. Moving his long white beard he began to fumble through the piles of parchments and manuscripts before him.
Two days later he had barely moved from his workbench save for food and other necessities. A pile of discarded papers lay on the floor beside him whilst a much smaller array were carefully placed in front of him. Quill and ink in hand he had continuously and tediously made detailed notes on his findings stopping periodically to read them over with a vain attempt to understand what he had found as though he could not be sure of his own interpretation. Rubbing his forehead, anxiety crossing his face he stepped away from the bench and fumbled to open the solid wooden door, his only portal to the outside world.
Next to the door on the steps leading to the surface diligently sat a young page silently dozing as he awaited instruction. As the door creaked open he was awakened from his light sleep and jumped to attention awaiting his command from the grey ancient hermit…
"Summon Mithrandir hither post haste."
His traditional tones never rose beyond the calm solitude gravelled whisper to which it were accustomed, but the urgency behind it was expressed clearly enough to send the boy scrambling toward the surface. Satisfied the message had been sent the old mage closed the door and steadily went back to his research.
Only a few hours had passed when a thud breached the silence of the hermetic stone room followed by an eerie silence. The old man reached for his stick to steady himself as he stood. He faced the door with a look of siege in his eyes and held out his free hand as if to feel what lie behind the door. The silence continued but his instincts forewarned him of the danger looming.
The silence ringed in his ears and echoing around the room. He had no escape, only choices…in his aged and frail form he ready himself for a fight…
Minutes passed and the dark time elapsed had seemed like hours. There had been no more echoes or thuds from the deep yet the atmosphere of death and fear plunged deep into his heart.
Suddenly and without warning the door burst inward and a torrent of splintered and shattered wood pieces exploded toward him, the force sending him flying backward until his brittle back hit the stone wall behind and he crumpled to the floor in pain and despair.
Before the dying corpse stood a tall black figure, a wraith like form clocked in a shroud of black. No part of his body could be seen for the billowing swards of heavy black cloth and black leathered gloves covering his long thin hands. He bent down to look closer at the old man grasping for his stick, his lifeblood pouring out of him. Sensing the power that lay in the prophet's stick, the revenant took hold, breaking the staff in two. All hope faded with a dying grimace from the mages eyes, without his staff he was merely an old man waiting to die…he had failed…
Leaving his charge, the wraith like form took hold of the palantiri placing it succinctly into his heavy black robes leaving an empty pillar. Steadily and methodically he began to shuffle through the numerous parchments and scrolls that now lay scattered all around, the old dying seer looking on…