Imladris, 2942 TA
Since late the last summer, tidings from over the mountains had been first unusual, then absolutely unsettling. Erestor hadn't been remotely surprised to hear that King Thranduil had decided to detain the company of Dwarves which Elrond had graciously welcomed during Mid-summer. He'd been even less surprised upon learning that the Dwarves had made it out of Mirkwood's prison because their guard had been at the wine. His only surprise was that there had come no word of an occurrence of kinslaying when the King learned of an unauthorized use of his stock.
But then came word of the dragon and this errand no longer seemed a matter for fools. Suddenly, it started to become clear that the guarded but peaceful days of the Third Age were eroding very swiftly. Many simply blamed the Dwarves of Erebor for rousing something that might have stayed in the mountain had they never returned, but with armies of orcs and wolves also involved, Erestor had a feeling that something larger was looming and that the dragon was really rather incidental.
Beyond news of the east, there had been a feeling, a sensation to the air so subtle that even an Elf could fail to mark it. But some did mark it – why else would there have been a council between the most powerful of the Eldar and Istari at just the same time as the rousing of a dragon and a relatively minor political tiff interrupted by orcs and wolves?
Once Erestor had returned from his short sojourn south and read through the daily reports – and it was no wonder the kitchen staff were still in a state of high dudgeon, having been asking to prepare extensive meat-based dishes in the weeks before Lithe! – he'd taken private counsel with Elrond to get the rest of the story of what had gone on in his absence. It seemed that even though Elrond, Mithrandir, and Lady Galadriel all felt there was something to be concerned about in the east – particularly to do with the situation of this so-called Necromancer at Dol Guldur – the wizard Saruman dismissed it. As far as Erestor was concerned, the White Wizard was duly out-voted, but apparently the precepts of brotherhoods like the Gwaith-i-Mírdain of old did not apply to this White Council.
Moreover, Erestor noted the change in Elrond personally. Up until Erestor had departed, he'd been heartened to see Elrond more himself than he had been in the centuries since Celebrían's capture and sailing. He'd even been informed that the Lord of Imladris had ridden out with his sons on an orc-hunting expedition just as Thorin's company were arriving – reckless and unwise, as far as Erestor was concerned, but Elrond claimed it had felt good, swinging steel and not just in practice with Glorfindel for a change. And if Elrond thought he was fooling anyone when he set off to a 'council' in the east with no formal wear but arms and armour such as he had not donned since the ending of the Second Age…
But now Elrond once again seemed drawn and turned inward, wary and contemplative. Disquieted. It was exactly how Erestor had been feeling since shortly after returning. Something was stirring, and it was something that felt all too familiar, something Erestor knew far too much about from deeply personal experience. And given that the business of the Second Age had been left unfinished, Erestor had a terrible feeling he knew exactly what was on the horizon.
When spring returned to the valley that year, so too did the grey wizard and the little Hobbit. At first the kitchen staff had threatened revolt, but they were easily calmed when it was learned that no Dwarf company was due with the travelers this time and that Hobbits were quite at home lending a hand in the kitchen once they were less unsure of their surroundings – and that they were most assuredly not given to treating food as projectile weaponry.
Erestor, for his part, was keen to meet this fellow Bilbo who Elrond was so impressed with and learn as much as he could about Hobbits and their ways. He found Bilbo to be quite pleasant, intelligent company, every bit as eager to learn about Elves as he was happy to talk about the Shire. Erestor wouldn't have minded at all had Bilbo liked to spend the rest of his days in Imladris – except only that he could not shake the strangest feeling whenever the Hobbit was nearby. He could find nothing remotely off-putting or perturbing about Bilbo, and yet, try as he might to ignore it, Erestor always sensed the faintest tinge of malice about the Halfling. About… but never a part of him, as though whatever it was merely trailed along in his wake, with Bilbo entirely incognizant of its presence.
During that return stay, Elrond had, of course, been as gracious a host as ever, but Erestor hadn't failed to notice his old friend retiring rather early most evenings and nearly always having a pot of lavender tea at hand until a few days after Bilbo and Mithrandir were off again. Elrond had dismissed it as a combination of change of weather and the portion of Mortal blood in his veins.
Erestor was not so optimistic and spent the next weeks revising long-term patrol schedules and liaisons with the Dunedain. He strongly recommended that roads south and east be watched more closely and that activity in crossroads like Bree be especially noted.
It was nearly Mid-summer once again before Erestor finally got the whole story of what had occurred months earlier when Elrond had gone haring off as if to battle. It was during the mid-year celebratory days, which Erestor studiously ignored every year, that Elrond sought him out.
"Have you time to talk?" Elrond said, walking into Erestor's office with a rather old bottle of wine one evening.
"All the time in Arda, I should imagine," Erestor shrugged.
"Yes, well…," Elrond hesitated, clearing his throat, "this may take as much time. It's just… I know I won't be holding you back from…." Elrond gestured vaguely toward the window and door, generally everything outside where Mid-summer was being observed.
"Not in more than the last four and a half millennia," Erestor confirmed. "And so, as I say, I have time. At least, I have a desk-full of work, but that may be diverted as the Lord of Imladris wishes."
Elrond managed a wry smirk, setting the bottle of wine in the middle of Erestor's scrolls and books.
"I also have very deep goblets," Erestor noted. "A bottle this old suggests that whatever you would speak with me of is not a matter for offices and desks, though. Come up to my sitting room," he invited, picking up the bottle. "There is only one would dare to seek me there and he's off doing some… over-merry… ridiculous… seasonal obnoxion."
At that Elrond couldn't help laughing. "Ai, mellon! Are you really quite certain that you do not love him madly?"
Erestor looked up at Elrond seriously. "Quite. It is very much impossible to love in that way with nary half a fëa."
Elrond dragged a hand over his face. "Yes, I know. I apologise. I meant that only in jest, but it was a poor one."
Erestor shook his head dismissively. "I've heard poorer. Come. Wine."
Elrond followed along to Erestor's rooms upstairs, glad that the Mid-summer celebrations were less concentrated than the Mid-winter ones, since revelers could, and usually did, spend the longest hours of daylight outdoors.
Sat in Erestor's sitting room with a glass of wine so dark it was almost black, Elrond looked as if all he'd really needed was a few moments peace in the company of an old friend.
"Wherever did this come from?" Erestor asked, examining the bottle he'd poured from. "Somewhere hot, I'll wager."
"It was a gift from Gondor, grown in Dol Amroth," Elrond said absently. "I don't honestly now remember which king. Quite some while ago. Given in gratitude for… I don't know… some aid we rendered Arnor." Elrond sighed deeply. "It all begins to blur and blend together. Do you know, I found myself thinking some days ago of my brother. I was watching the twins instructing Estel, and I thought of how like they are to Elros and I. And then I found I could no longer remember the sound of my brother's voice. And all I could do was hope fervently that no matter their choice, that it be the same and they should not have to be sundered from one another."
Erestor sat nearby and reached out to hold Elrond's hand sympathetically. "Memory is a funny thing, mellon. There have been days when I've found myself newly aggrieved, suddenly unable to recall the shape of my beloved's smile or the cut of robes he preferred or the scent of his hair. And then, one night, I will dream of him beside me and it is as though it were all real again."
"How do you do it?" Elrond asked quietly. "You've stayed so long with a grief-rent soul…."
"I do it just the same as you do," Erestor said pointedly, his gaze falling to the ring of sapphire on Elrond's left hand.
Elrond closed his eyes and nodded as he pressed his fingertips to his temples. "Quite the skilled craftsman, he was."
"Aye, very much so. And I believe we are now coming nearer the point you wished to speak with me of in the first place, are we not?"
"You are frighteningly perceptive, I hope you know that," Elrond said. "Are you certain you do share the ability to communicate through the medium of the mind?"
"Certain. I do not require such an ability to see how troubled you've been. And I know that something fearful begins to burgeon. It is only that you have yet to say just what. And another thing I know is that there is no mortal Man who can conjure the dead. Whatever that Necromancer was, it was not a Man."
"No. It was Sauron," Elrond said bluntly.
Erestor betrayed no reaction to that name but a well-schooled inhalation. "Then he rises again. And yet, he has not recovered his Ring, for had he done so and you, Mithrandir, and Lady Galadriel walked into his presence bearing the Three, we should all be quite dead."
Elrond had the grace to accept being scolded by his Chief Counselor given Erestor's personal history with the Rings of Power. "Yes, he rises. And, no, he has not recovered his Ring. I believe that it was by the powers of the Three that we were able to drive him back, away from Dol Guldur – for now. Incidentally, may I counsel you to never anger my mother-in-law. I was terrified."
Erestor quirked an eyebrow. "Keep drinking," he suggested, "perhaps your wit will recover eventually."
"Forgive me. Again," Elrond sighed. "If I don't attempt levity, however weak, I am sure to weep."
"Or you simply develop the hide of a warg, as I have done. When you say, 'driven back'…?"
"Just as I say, driven back, away, into the east. It was my intent to pursue him into Mordor, strike while he was yet weakened, as we should have done nearly 3000 years ago." Elrond drew a hand over his face. "Another decision I fully expect to regret."
"That should depend upon what kept you from pursuing that intention," Erestor said. "Some reasons may be -"
"The counsel of Saruman," Elrond said quickly, as if to prevent Erestor from helping Elrond make excuses to himself.
Erestor was quiet for a moment, his lips pressing slightly thin. "This is, then, a second time the White Wizard dismisses the threat."
"He has long studied the arts and lore of magic rings. As you say, none of us would be here had Sauron recovered the One, and so Saruman deems Sauron quite impotent."
"Sauron is terrible enough without any ring, I need not tell you that. And if Saruman thinks otherwise then I fear his counsel is being swayed. We must tread carefully."
"I am agreed in that," Elrond nodded.
"Elrond, I think Lord Cirdan far wiser than Saruman. Might he not be persuaded to become more involved with this White Council, as he once was?"
"I fear that unlikely. His main concern these days seems to be wrapping up the affairs of the Havens, that will be ready to depart when his last ship does. It may take many years, as I'm sure you know."
"I have a fair idea, yes. Think you on this, though, Elrond: if Saruman is so wise and powerful, why did Cirdan entrust Narya to Mithrandir instead?"
"You need not convince me. I fear that we are at a time of great change, for good or ill, but I also believe that… whether good or ill, our time here is desperately short. Likely the end has already begun."
"I know it has. I had thought that perhaps it was only my own time here slipping away, but now I see it is all of us, all of the Eldar. But there is another shadow on your brow. One of which you fear even to speak aloud. One which makes all this talk of 'driving back' and 'ringless impotency' very much futile."
"Yes, there is," Elrond said lowly. "I can claim no evidence, but though the sound of my brother's voice may have gone to the mists of my memory, the feeling of being near to that Ring, even in allied hands, will not be forgotten whiles I dwell East of the Sundering Seas."
Erestor nodded gravely. "And when do you plan to speak with Mithrandir about our suspicions?"
"Soon. I do not believe Mr. Baggins poses us any harm, but if he has indeed come across it, he will be in dire peril, eventually. I tell you truly, Erestor, I cannot shake the feeling that the fate of Arda rests on such small, gentle shoulders," Elrond said wearily.
Erestor rose and walked over to his window, wondering what should occur if they were correct and an unassuming, polite, curious little fellow like Bilbo Baggins really had casually walked away from dragon-fire and orc-war with the very ring that had systematically destroyed everything and everyone that Erestor held dear since the day of its making.
Down in the garden below, a very young Man was putting up a surprisingly adept sword-fight against twin Elves twice his size – and doing it wearing a small circlet woven of (un-spiked) holly leaves. Erestor's thoughts were drawn back thousands of years to another who reveled so in playing the Holly King at Mid-summer and Mid-winter, even while he detested his own mantel of Lordship and hoped only to lead his people to prosperity and happiness.
"So rises a new Holly King," Erestor whispered to himself, touching the place on his chest where he wore a ring of mithril and rubies on a chain under his robes. Then he spoke louder, saying, "I think that those small, gentle shoulders shall not bear our fate alone, Elrond."