Eldarion stood at the summit of Minas Tirith, gazing east over the White City toward Osgiliath the way his father Aragorn in life had done. He would call Eldarion to him, lift the boy onto his shoulders, and the two would survey this hard-won land that would one day pass into his care. As a child he could hardly believe the tales his uncles Merry and Pippin had told of the War of the Ring and the horrors of Mordor. Aragorn always said their stories were exaggerated, though the hobbits told them with the gravest of faces between puffs on their pipes. Aragorn comforted his son, telling him whatever evil dwelled to the east was destroyed. Long had Orodruin lay dormant beyond those jagged peaks. And indeed Gondor had enjoyed a time of peace, prospering again under King Elessar's reign. The black mountains had been imposing, yes, but as Eldarion grew into adulthood he no longer felt nor feared their shadow.
When Eldarion first took over the Reunited Kingdom all was calm. But trouble weighed heavy on his mind, for in recent days out of the eastern ruins of Mordor a thin grey stream of smoke pierced the sky like a pointed tail. He watched it now, blue eyes focused intently on the horizon, and as the cold wind blew west from Ephel Dúath, a sinister whisper came with it.
It had been slithering on the air for weeks. At first Eldarion brushed it aside. After all, it was not a voice he recognized or understood, and the whisper itself was so soft that he wondered if it wasn't just a trick of his imagination. But as the days went on the whisper grew stronger and more frequent. Eldarion couldn't ignore it — his skin prickled and his head pounded each time his ears caught the sound. He sought counsel in Emyn Arnen with Elboron, son of Faramir and Prince of Ithilien. But Elboron was in ill health and could not hear the whisper. Eldarion was reluctant to add to his burden, especially for a feeling of unease he could not fully explain.
No one else seemed to notice the shift. Life continued in Minas Tirith as it had for ages. Most of the elves were gone, having sailed west into the Undying Lands. Those that were left were reclusive and far from Gondor, as were the dwarves. Gandalf was departed; Radagast and the Blue Wizards Alatar and Pallando had not been seen or heard from in ages. There were none to turn to. There could be no Council of Elrond to call upon. What to do? Where to seek help? Eldarion was king, but without his father to guide him he felt powerless. Aragorn had only been gone for two years and Arwen for one, and already Eldarion felt a storm brewing. Yet no one else sensed it. Was he losing his mind?
With a sigh he pressed his palms against the smooth stone bannister and hung his head, long hair falling across his clean-shaven face. Orodruin's power had been tied to Sauron's and thus had also been vanquished after the destruction of the One Ring, or so Eldarion thought. So how could Mount Doom be awakening once more?
Around him the air grew dense, filling his lungs with a heavy chill. Eldarion's eyes shut tightly as he gripped his forehead, attempting to steady himself against the pounding in his temples. The whisper came again, venomous, as clear as if someone were standing right behind him, breathing into his ear.
Mog, it hissed.