Last Stone Seeing

by Noel Q. von Schneiffel

Three thousand years after the events of the Lord of the Rings: War is brewing in Middle-earth. The rediscovery of a Palantir could set it all on fire. A Man, an Orc and a mysterious old elf have to seek the ancient way into the West to get rid of it...

Last Stone Seeing

Foreword: My first real attempt at fanfiction. The setting is rather grim and no, there is no slash, but I have interspersed a few jokes for your pleasure (or not). Oh, and a strip dancer, but she doesn't do anything interesting. I might though, if you comment. (Edited: FanFiction somehow does not display my chapters, so I had to put it all into one long chapter, sorry.)

1 – Stone Shadow

„And our blood did flo-o-ow,
And they killed us, he-e-ey,
Cause we marked Dwarf's br-o-o-ow,
On Azanulbizar Da-a-ay..."

Unak's singing was very loud, but not exactly pretty, while he wiped the floor of the entrance hall. In the rythm of the song he swung the mop through a puddle of Miruvor Radler, then he spent the next stanza on the squashed remnants of a salami-lembas. Hey, yeah. Aunt Galadriel's 1001 Lembas Flavors. "If you only have one bite - make it tasty, make it right"

„And they spilled our go-o-ore,
And they killed us, he-e-ey,
Cause we broke their do-o-or,
On Pelennor Da-a-ay..."

Unak reached the edge of the hall and wrung out his mop. He looked at the wall, and at the crude graffitti that was smeared all over it. „Borry Is Fukin a Hobit" it said, a direct contrast to the pompous metal letters above that read „Welcome to Greyhaven University". Unak thought the drawing had a certain appeal, yet he would have to remove it later. Men had something against graffitti on their walls.

Unak himself was less than half Man. He was short, not much more than five feet, and stocky. His broad, open face was of a greenish hue, and white fangs glinted in the edges of his mouth. But his sight was not uncommon here. Greyhaven, the capital of Lune, was full of orcs and half-orcs like him. They had come as guest workers from their lands in the Misty Mountains, and then they had stayed and founded families. Unak was born here, he had a job and was quite content with it. The girls really dug it when he said he worked at the university, even if it was only as a janitor.

A man crossed the hall, and he was in many aspects the exact opposite of Unak. He was tall and haggard, with fine black hair that begun to grow grey, and a pale face with piercing grey eyes. He was what they called a Numenorean. „Hi Atamir!" yelled Unak, and they shook hands.

The man smiled. „Dirty work?" he asked.

„Not much", Unak answered. „Seems your lectures get better, Mister Professor. Long time since one of your students came out and puked into my hallway." He laughed, a sound that resembled the barking of a dog.

Atamir rolled his eyes. „Small wonder your kind was hated for millennia", he said, and Unak laughed again. He knew it was meant as a joke. The half-orc and the Professor for Third Age Mythology had been friends for many years.

„Still different down in Gondor, isn't it?" Unak asked, suddenly serious. „Know an orc who was there once, in Tirith, huge museum the entire town, and they were spitting out when he walked by. Have still not forgotten the old wars. I mean, morgoth! we have Fifth Age 2437, haven't we? World has changed a bit."

„Yes, and no", Atamir said gravely. „No more Dark Lords, that is true. But we do all that quite well ourselves. I just saw the news, and it does not look good." He paused, and the two friends heard a faint grumbling from outside. Through the glass front they could see the white streaks of planes. Military planes flying overhead.

Unak nodded. A long time they said nothing, watching the sky, where more planes flew by. All were flying in the same direction – southeast. At last Unak grabbed his mop. „Well, work to do", he said with a sigh. „See you at the Flaming Eye, eh?"

„Nine o'clock", Atamir said, and they parted. Unak moved to the stairs that lead up to the rectorate and started to clean them, less enthusiastic this time, humming another song about an orc maiden and her beautiful breast thorns.

-

„An Introduction to Third Age Mythology" was an obligatory lecture for history students. Thus the hall was crowded, but many of those sitting here were less than enthusiastic. Tired faces behind steaming coffee mugs, half-dried pens scraping over paper. Atamir stood in front of the rows and started the lecture.

„Topic today: Magic items, continued. Yes, again", he said as a sigh went through the hall. „Last week we took a closer look at the meaning and power of the so-called Wizard's Staffs. Today we will move on to the Seeing Stones, the Palantiri. You see, we have the same problems here we always have when dealing with those matters. Our sources are very limited." He held up a rather old and worn-out book, bound in a plastic imitation of red leather. „There is our main source, the so-called Red Book of the Westmarch. The problem is that it is not impartial. It was written by a group of halflings in the Third Age, who at this time were little more than farmers and did not understand much of what they saw. Halflings as a race disappeared in the Fourth Age, and left no traces except a few caves of archaeological interest and, especially in the area around Bree, a number of bad jokes about the size of certain body parts." A murmuring laughter ran through the hall. „In fact", Atamir continued, „it has even been doubted whether the first part of this book, named „There and Back Again", can even be considered true historical information. For a more extensive analysis of this matter I recommend the books by Micelmar and Tinezîr. To return to the topic, the Red Book gives a short description of two of the Seeing Stones, and their effect on one of the authors..." Atamir went on. He had given this lecture for a number of years now. In the beginning, as an idealistic young professor, he had tried to do it as interestingly as possible, to receive feedback from the students and give them a glimpse of what Third Age Mythology could be like. Today he just did his job. A few of the students were already dozing off. In the background a mobile phone hummed softly, one student blushed and left the room. Seconds later another phone started, and Atamir gave an annoyed frown into the general direction of the intrusion. It was then that he first noticed the old man in the last row.

Most students were young, in their tweens, but this man definitely was not. In fact, he looked a few centuries older than even most of Atamir's colleagues. He had long, but thin white hair that looked uncombed, but he had no trace of a beard. His face was wrinkled, but his dark eyes stared at Atamir with an intense concentration. For some odd reasons Atamir suddenly found it difficult to concentrate on his lecture. He tried to remember whether he had seen this man before. A spy of the university bureaucracy, to test the quality of his lecture? Something like that happened occasionally. But those people were usually less noticeable, and better clothed.

Atamir finished his lecture, several times more disturbed by phones suddenly ringing. One or two times was normal for a lecture, but today it was extremely bad. Yet the times where something like this could irritate Atamir were long past. The old man was, for some reason, much more of a disturbance.

After the lecture the man came down to Atamir. He walked with the help of a crutch, and Atamir now saw that he was indeed clothed in little more than rags. A poor old beggar, Atamir would have thought if not for those piercing eyes. Eyes that had seen centuries, if not millennia.

„I want to... congratulate you for your lecture", the old man said. His voice sounded harsh, and a rattling sound accompanied his breathing. „They told me you were the most renowned Third Age expert of the university, so I came to you."

„Most renowned is too much", Atamir said and forced himself to smile. This old man had something odd below the obvious physical fragility, something disquieting. He tried to spot whether his ears were pointy. Atamir had never seen an elf, except on very ancient photographs, so he was not sure.

„I would like to talk to you. It is most urgent", the old man said.

„Well, I'm afraid I have little time now", Atamir said rather briskly. „Why don't you come to my office tomorrow? Let's say, fourteen thirty?"

For some reason this seemed to annoy the old man. „Little time?" he hissed, and the sound of his voice was now like chalk screeching over a board. Atamir shivered. „Little time indeed. And it grows less and less. But all right. Tomorrow." He said something else, but it was cut off by violent coughing. For one moment Atamir feared the old man would break down and die on the spot. But then the man turned around and dragged himself out of the room.

-

Atamir packed his stuff and followed him out. Noise and chaos greeted him. Students were standing around, arguing heatedly with each other. People hurried in and out. A young student sat in a corner, crying. The old man was nowhere to be seen.

„What the Morgoth is going on?" Atamir asked a group of three students.

One of them turned around and looked at Atamir, his eyes opened wide in shock. „Bombs on New Annuminas", he said. „We have war."

Atamir murmured a curse, his face becoming even paler than usual. But he had no time to think of it. A small, fat man ran into him, grabbed his shoulder and shaked it. It was the Old Ferny, a professor for some rather obscure ancient languages. He came from the Breelands, and could trace his ancestry back to the ancient Landlords of the Prancing Pony. His full name was Fernard Lord of Buttbur, and the jokes were legion.

However, at the moment the Old Ferny lacked any noble dignity. „Atamir", he gasped. „Did you hear the news?"

„Yes", Atamir said. „What happened? Who started it?"

„No, no", the Old Ferny yelled. „The other news. Do you remember the Tower Hill Expedition?"

Atamir nodded. For some years an expedition, financed by the Greyhaven University, had been digging around in the ancient Elvish ruins on the Tower Hills, a rugged area in the east of Lune. „And?"

„They have dug out something." The Old Ferny suddenly lowered his voice to a whisper. „It arrived yesterday evening. Come. I'll explain on the way."

2 – Stone Found

Lune was a powerful nation in Fifth Age 2437, but it was not the most powerful one. The downfall of the Reunited Kingdom, which had marked the end of the short Fourth Age, had brought dozens of smaller nations into existance – nations which all claimed to be the rightful heirs of what the mythical hero Aragorn had founded three thousand years ago. It was an age of Men, and the wars were the wars of Men. The only one of the older races which survived on a larger scale had been the Orcs – a people which felt at home in a world of machinery and industry. All over the Misty and the Mordorean Mountains the Orcs lived. Without a Dark Lord to lead them they proved to be passable, though seldom amiable neighbours, but also stubborn and clannish, splitting themselves into hundreds of small tribes and states. Their barren lands were of little interest for the mighty nations of Men who fought against each other on the fertile plains, at the beginning with swords and spears, later with guns and cannons and finally with tanks and planes. They were sought after as workers, though, in the countries bordering their homelands.

In the Twenty-fifth Century Dunland had grown into a superpower. From the Gap of Rohan its influence crept northwards, all over Eriador. Here it was halted by Arthedain and Lune, which occupied the northern parts of the ancient kingdom of Arnor. For a decade now the three nations had lived in an uneasy truce, arming themselves to the teeth, ready to plunge the north of Middle-earth into a disastrous war. All it needed was a spark to set it all on fire. And somebody, it seemed, had provided this spark.

Atamir was led downstairs, into the wide and labyrinthic cellar system of the University. The Old Ferny unlocked the door to a small room, in which a number of unlabeled boxes were piled up. A soldier, who stood guard at the door, watched the two professors, holding his rifle with both hands. „Can't you send this man away?" Atamir asked nervously. „I hate it to have somebody pointing a rifle on me behind my back."

„Can't", answered the Old Ferny. „We have war, eh?" It was the first hint that the linguist had actually noticed what was going on besides his Great Secret. He opened the uppermost box and tried to lift something out of it. „Help me, Atamir!" he commanded. „Don't worry, it's unbreakable." Together they took the finding out of the box and dumped it onto the floor.

In the dim light Atamir saw a big sphere, two feet in diameter, perfectly round, black, shiny, heavy as stone. No markings were on it, nothing. He gazed at it in wonder.

„And?" the Old Ferny asked. „What do you think it is?"

Atamir opened his mouth, but he could not get anything out. His head started to spin. He stared into the black crystal ball. For a moment it had seemed that the opaque surface had become transparent, and that he was able to see a whirling shadow through it, and behind the shadow – what? „They were lost", he murmured. „All of them were lost." The words from his own lecture came to his mind. „The Palantiri, the seven Seeing Stones. The Red Book tells us of three of them. One was soiled by Sauron. Denethor held the second. The third one was rescued by Peregrin Took from the battlefield of Orthanc. Three others were lost in the sea – Osgiliath, Annuminas, Amon Sûl. The seventh one is said to have been on Elendil's Tower here on the Tower Hills, but those Elvish ruins have been plundered and burned down a dozen times. If somebody would find one of those stones today, he would have the possibility to see what is going on in distant lands, better and clearer than with a spy satellite or camera. What this would mean for the government of a state I need not explain..."

„This is what the war is about", the Old Ferny said gloomily. „Somehow the information must have leaked, and Dunland has immediately declared war on Lune, and our friends in Arthedain have immediately declared war on Dunland, and Dunland has immediately bombed Arthedain. This thing has such a strategic importance that the Duns would rather turn Middle-earth into an ash heap than let us have it."

Atamir only half listened, still fascinated by the palantir. But then he remembered something. „Wait", he said. If this is really the Palantir of the Tower Hills-"

„Undoubtedly", the Old Ferny said.

„-Then it is of little use for them", Atamir continued. „Have you read the essays of Stuyensen? He proves that this particular palantir could see nowhere but into the West. Elendil used it to peek to the old Elvish lands there, Eressea, maybe Valinor. It can't be used to spy into the bedroom of the President of Dunland."

„Yes, yes. Even worse", the Old Ferny said. „The Lands of the Gods, right? What if we could do that? Watch what the Great God Manwe eats for breakfast? Moreover, what if we could use it as a kind of compass, a sign, and following it actually reach those lands? And return with mighty weapons that dwarf even our own atomic bombs? What if we could get the N-Weapon from the Valar?"

„The N-Weapon. Oh my god. Oh my... god." Atamir felt as if the ground had been pulled beneath his feet. He sat down on one of the boxes, staring into the air.

„Right", the Old Ferny concluded triumphantly. „We're deep in the mess."

-

„If I was an elf
Gonna live forever, e-e-ver
I would sail away
You would see me never, ne-e-ver"

The sweet song trickled out of the speakers, mixing with the other background songs in the Flaming Eye. The tables were beer-sticky. A young woman – Atamir thought he had seen her in his lectures – was stripping on the small stage. The air was thick with pipeweed-smoke. The Flaming Eye was not exactly a good address, but it was quite well-frequented by students and the local Orcish and half-Orcish population. Here, the war was still far away. Unak and Atamir were sitting in a relatively quiet corner, and Atamir quickly explained his friend what had happened.

„N-Weapon? What is that?" asked Unak when Atamir had finished.

„Numenor-Weapon. I thought you knew that expression", said Atamir. „The Valar somehow sunk Numenor. How? Nobody knows. The priests claim it was Eru, the Supreme God. Believe it or not. It might as well have been a physical weapon. Think of that – a weapon that cold destroy an entire country in one minute. No radiation, no nuclear holocaust. Just drown it. Poof, and Dunland is gone. This is what they fear. This is why they attack us now."

„Morgoth." Unak shook his head. „But why? I mean, they'd rather be frightened now, eh? Why do they dare to attack?"

„They know we don't know much yet", said Atamir. „They don't want to give us time to find out. Dunland will win a conventional, non-atomic war, as long as nobody presses the red button. Which our own government will do, as soon as we're going to lose. This would be worse than Morgoth. Worse than Sauron. This would be the end of mankind."

„Morgoth. Morgoth." Unak could not think of anything else to say. „And that thing is really lying in your cellar? I'd put it in a bunker or something."

„To say the truth", Atamir answered, „I think they haven't grasped the importance yet. Dunland has friendly ties with Tirith. They have access to archives we can't even dream of. Small wonder they realized it quicker. And technically, the university cellar is a bunker."

They fell silent, listened to the song playing on, each one thinking his personal thoughts about the end of the world.

„If I was an elf
From over the sea, the se-e-ea
I would put a spell on you
So you would love me, love me-e-e..."

„Thought I'd find you here", said a harsh voice.

Unak and Atamir turned around. The old man from the lecture was standing there, leaning against his crutch. Atamir looked at him with a certain fear, but Unak seemed rather unimpressed. „Here, sit down", he said and pulled another chair to the table. „A beer? It's on me. World's ending anyway, no point in saving money." He laughed bitterly.

The old man gladly accepted the seat, but rejected the beer. With some difficulty he sat down. „I told you it is most urgent", he croaked. „Do you believe me now?"

„Who are you?" whispered Atamir, and a cold shiver went down his spine.

The old man shook his head. „My name doesn't matter", he said. „Yes, obviously, I am an elf. Let's say I was... left behind when the last ship sailed. I have spent the last three millennia in Middle-earth, always looking for a way back home. I saw the first plane on the sky, and later I flew with many of them, but none has ever carried me high and far enough..." His voice sank down to a whisper, then he coughed violently. Unak offered him a cough drop.

„So why are you here?" Atamir asked.

The old man stared at Atamir. „A deal", he croaked. „I want to make a deal. I want the Palantir. Yes, it can be used to find the way into the West. You have access to the Stone. I have money and a ship." He threw a bunch of 1000-Arwen notes onto the table, more money than Atamir – let alone Unak – had ever owned. „Being immortal has some advantages", the old elf laughed. „Just bring your money to a bank and wait a few centuries. The interest sums up."

It took Atamir a few seconds to realize what the old elf had told him. „You want us to steal it?" he asked.

„And bring it – and me – into the West. I know how to use the Stones. We need not waste more time. This thing must be taken out of the hands of... Men." For a moment, an ancient hatred flickered in his eyes. „Without the Palantir, no reason for a World War. World saved. That is what you want, isn't it? I'd call this a win-win deal." He laughed.

„There is a problem though", grumbled Unak. „I will be terribly seasick."

3 – Stone Lost

In the few hours that had passed since Atamir had seen the Palantir first, soldiers had been drawn to the Stone like flies to rotten meat. They were swarming through the entire university, controlling Atamir's papers half a dozen times as he made his way down into the cellar. With Unak, who did not have his kind of reputation, it was more difficult. Atamir had to spend several of the old elf's 1000-Arwen notes to bribe Unak through their controls.

„You have spent a thought on how we get out again with the stone in our hands?" whispered Unak when they were alone for a moment. Atamir nodded, but Unak thought he had seen more self-confident nods. Then Atamir checked his cellphone for the fifth time in the last three minutes.

It was another soldier who stood guard at the entrance to the Palantir's room. But he did the same that his colleague had done this morning. Unak wondered how they should steal the stone with a rifle pointed at them. He gently stroke the stone with his hands, which caused a nervous cough from the guard. Nothing more happened. „I don't think it will respond to you", Atamir said, a bit too merrily for Unak's taste. „Numenoreans only." They heaved the Palantir back into its box, then Atamir glimpsed at his cellphone once more. This time the result seemed to please him.

„Racist pigs", Unak grumbled. „So what now?"

„Enter my secret weapon", Atamir said and grinned. A second later Fernard Lord of Buttbur bumped into the guard, one hundred and fifty centimeters of kinetic energy. „Help!" he yelled. „Barbarism! Fraud! Scandal!"

Unak and the guard gazed in utter confusion at the Old Ferny, who now fell to his knees in front of the soldier. „Help me! A scientific scandal!" the Professor howled. „Your men are in my archives. They broke my precious pint. My Third-Age beer pint, an heirloom of my family. You must do something!"

The soldier pushed the old professor away. „I have to stand guard here, fool", he barked. „Go see my captain. He's upstairs. Room 128."

„Barbarian!" the Old Ferny gasped. He gripped the soldier's rifle and shook it. „Aragorn drank from this mug! In the Prancing Pony! You do not even know who Aragorn was, do you?"

„Now!" whispered Atamir. They lifted the box up and sneaked out of the room, while the Old Ferny cursed the soldier at the top of his voice.

They almost made it. They passed the guard and were halfway down the corridor when the soldier noticed them. „Hey!" he shouted. „Stop!" He tried to point his rifle at them, but the Old Ferny was still hanging from it. „Stop, or I shoot!" Then a loud bang! echoed through the corridor. The Old Ferny, suddenly silent, dropped to the floor. Atamir cried desperately, frozen in shock.

Unak was quicker. With two jumps he was back at the door. Something silvery flashed in his hand. He jumped at the soldier, and they both fell to the floor. The guard uttered a groan. Some seconds passed, which seemed like years for Atamir. Then Unak slowly rose up again. Blood was on his hands, and blood dripped down from the large screwdriver he was holding. The soldier did not move. „Now that was my secret weapon", he said with a grin that made Atamir shudder. „What did you expect from an orc, eh?"

The Old Ferny groaned, and the sound pulled Atamir out of his paralysis. He hurried over to the linguist, who lay next to the soldier, his face pale, both hands pressed against his stomach. He made a gargling sound, then he opened his eyes. „Idiot", he croaked, and blood trickled out of his mouth. „Go. Run. Save us." Then he was silent.

It was Unak who took the lead on their way out. It seemed like a miracle to Atamir that they let them pass, holding a huge box, Unak's hands still soiled with the guard's blood. Several times they narrowly avoided soldiers patrolling the university corridors. But they made it. Atamir had never believed in fate, or in what they called the Hand of Eru. But on this way he certainly had the feeling to be protected in one way or the other.

The old elf waited down at the harbour, and he led them onto a big yacht. It was a beautiful but chilly night. The stars and the nearly full moon shone onto the city of Greyhaven. Sirens howled far away, and a number of helicopters appeared and buzzed around over the university. Then there was another sound. A faint grumbling like that of planes or rockets approaching, and then flashes of light over the southern suburbs. Smoke rose, black against the moonlight. The yacht left the harbour and steered westward. They passed a military patrol boat. An officer stood on deck and hailed them, his pockets bulged as if filled with money. Then the yacht slowly slipped away down the long grey firth, and Unak puked over the railing for the first time.

-

The yacht raced over the ocean with full speed, the Palantir safely hidden on the lower deck. For three days Atamir was in constant fear that somebody might follow them. But nothing happened, and they had enough supply and fuel for weeks. Then the old man ordered them to bring up the Palantir, and Atamir steered the yacht while the old man sat in front of him, staring into the palantir with intense concentration. Sometimes Atamir saw glimpses of pictures in the stone, sometimes the old man just seemed to stare into the blackness, murmuring words Atamir did not understand. Unak tried to convince him at least to eat a bite or two, but he did not get through. On the evening of the fourth day the old man started to direct Atamir, and ordered him to steer the yacht in a weird zigzag course. Atamir started to worry again. But he did not dare to ask whether their leader had lost his way.

Then Unak came up once again. Contrary to what he said, he had adjusted to being on the sea quite well, and he even could keep food inside now. But at the moment he seemed rather annoyed. „Damn radio is broken!" he yelled. „Can't get any station. Anymore. Just white noise."

Atamir gripped the steering wheel so tightly that all blood left his knuckles. „Do you think", he whispered, „do you think they wiped themselves out?"

Unak shrugged. „There was no warning. It even seemed to calm down a bit. I don't believe that."

„Maybe we just have left the reach of all your radio stations", said the old elf, not looking up from the Palantir.

-

They drove on. The weather had been fair all the time, but now black, menacing clouds arose on the western horizon. They returned to a straight westward course. Atamir noticed that the yacht's GPS had shut down with a computer error. The yacht plunged itself into the darkness of the clouds, and a heavy rain started to fall. The old elf did not leave his post. The sea got rough, and the yacht rolled. Unak was seasick again.

On the afternoon of the fifth day the rain started to grow thinner. Atamir watched out for what he called a „silver-glass effect", but it seemed as if Stuyensen, who had dismissed this as a literary device, had been right again. The rain ceased, and the sun came through. They passed a huge island, and people in weird clothes waved at them from the shore and performed strange exorcism rituals every time Unak showed up. "Ex-orc-ism. The very word is racist", Unak commented sulkily.

Then in the West a huge mountain, covered with snow, appeared out of the haze. And just before the sun disappeared behind its mighty flanks, they could not go further. Before them a long grey beach reached as far as they could see.

„So what now", asked Atamir. „I don't think we should leave the yacht. They don't like mortals here, if we can believe the old stories. You, old elf, can go safely, I think. But what will we do when you-" He stopped in surprise.

The old man had stepped up behind him. In the last rays of the sun Atamir saw that his face was no longer beardless. White stubbles grew on his wrinkled cheeks. „Why, now I forgot to shave. I guess I'm getting old", he said with an almost childish smirk.

„You are no elf. Who are you?" Atamir croaked once more, his voice harsher than the old man's.

At this moment, a voice from the beach interrupted them. „Hail, seafarers", it said. Atamir turned around and saw a figure approaching. Another old man, clothed in a white robe, looking alike and yet unalike to the old man they had journeyed with. His hair was fuller, his white beard was long. Though he still was a good distance away, they heard his voice as if he stood next to them. „Fear not, you are welcome. But there is one of you who is cursed. Why should we welcome him?"

A silence fell, and Unak, Atamir and the old man looked at each other. Then, suddenly and to everyone's surprise, Unak exploded. „No. No! Not again!" he barked. „I have saved the world. I have spent five days on a boat on the water and puked my inside out. And now I'm here, in the land of myths and legends, and what do I find? Eh? Racism. Again the old anti-orc stuff. Three thousand years, it has been three-thousand morgothy years since one of-"

„Shut down, orc, I didn't mean you" the white-robed man said with a flash of anger. Unak fell silent, his mouth open, and gave him a dumb stare. „Come forth, Saruman."

The ragged old man on the yacht burst in a cackling laughter. „Gandalf. You can't tell how good it is to see you again. No, honestly. You look good."

„You don't", said Gandalf.

„Small wonder", answered Saruman, calmer now. „For millennia I was nothing but a shadow. Nobody predicted I would be able to build a body again. It took me two thousand years. And the result was... not overly pretty." He trembled, and Atamir feared for a moment the bony old wizard would collapse on the spot.

„At the end nothing was left in me but the desire to go... home. I think this desire helped me to succeed in the end. Then I tried to get here, once I felt strong enough to travel again", Saruman said, and suddenly tears shimmered in his eyes. „In every possible way, for one thousand years more. I failed. I realized I was still not forgiven. I had to do something first. Something to redeem myself, to prove myself worthy after... after all that had happened. I have brought this, Gandalf. It began with such a stone, it will end with one. Take it, or not." He pointed to the Palantir, which was still lying on deck. Then he turned to Atamir and Unak. „I'm sorry for this... sharade", he croaked. „You know the Third Age legends, and I don't have a... good reputation in them. I feared you would not want to work with me if I had been honest. And there was not much time to convince you."

„Uh, that's okay with me, I guess", said Unak and shrugged. „Not that I get what you're talking about, of course."

Suddenly Gandalf smiled. „The world has changed indeeed if an orc forgives and a wizard would not. Come forth then, Saruman", he added with a softer voice. Unak and Atamir helped the old wizard to get to the beach, and they carried the palantir down and handed it to Gandalf. Then Gandalf bid them farewell.

„With my luck, we'll find a silmaril next year, and we'll be back", grumbled Atamir, and Gandalf burst into laughter. He was still laughing when Unak and Atamir turned the yacht around and steered back into the East.

-

„Dunland advance in Harlindon continues! Counteroffensive in Shire region still stuck five miles north of Sarnford! Three Dunland bombers shot down over Greyhaven! Prime Minister of Lune expected to resign over Palantir affair!" The radio suddenly worked again and spew forth news. That alone was a relief, though the news were rather grim. But there seemed to be more hope than some days ago. The way Lune had lost the Palantir had been a sore blow, and their allies in Arthedain, worried by Lune's internal troubles and unwilling to fight a lost war alone, had already begun to talk of a truce.

„The Duns will want to get their share", remarked Unak. „They're in the better position."

„But it seems at least we got another chance", Atamir commented. „So what will we do now?" he added. „We can't go back to Greyhaven, that much is sure. I guess we are the most-wanted criminals in Middle-earth at the moment."

„Let's go to my homelands", Unak said. „New Moria, Gundabad, Ettenmoors. I know lots of people there. Good people, they won't let a friend down. And we don't exactly come as beggars." He let Atamir peek into his pocket. They were full of 1000-Arwen notes. „He had some left over", he said and shrugged. „He said he doesn't need them anymore. What you say, in four days we'll be eating real wolf in St. Angmar, eh?"

And he took the steering wheel, and turned the yacht to an eastnortheastern course, and he began to sing a song that Atamir most definitely did not want to listen to.

FIN