Chance Encounter: Legacy of the Third Age

Disclaimer: Forgot this in the prologue. I don't own anything that you recognize. They all belong to their respective creators and History.

Note: For Balian's personal history, watch Kingdom of Heaven, Director's Cut, and read my other story, Prelude to Heaven. That is, if you want to. If you don't want to watch the movie and/or read the story but still want to know, you can contact me.

Chapter 1: France

If he had not been in such a dire situation, Balian would have laughed. He looked around at the familiar rafters. There were holes in the thatched roof. It had always been his task to maintain the roof. Nièvre; his own birthplace. After all his journeys throughout numerous strange lands, he had come full circle and returned home.

In his arms, his son shivered, pulling the man out of his reverie. If Balian did not do something soon, both he and his son would freeze to death. Wet clothes did nothing to keep them warm, and he had no means to make a fire.

But who could he go to? The first person who came to mind was Thomas, his childhood friend. He quickly dismissed the idea. He didn't exactly want Thomas to declare to the whole world that he was alive. After all, he was a man of controversy; he had surrendered Jerusalem to the Saracens. Furthermore, he was a fugitive in this area. Eight years ago, he had killed the village priest, his brother, and then fled to the Holy Land. For all he knew, they were still looking for him.

His thoughts turned to Arnaud, who was the brother of his first wife, Jocelyn. The carpenter had been his comrade when the lord of Nièvre, Reginald, had ridden to war against a neighbouring lord.

"Come on, mon petit," said Balian to his son. "Wake up! Don't go to sleep just yet. This is not the right place."

"But I'm sleepy, Papa," protested Barisian, snuggling up to his father in an attempt to keep warm.

"No, no," said Balian. "You cannot go to sleep. Not yet! We'll get you some food and some dry clothes, and then you can sleep." Balian hurried out of his old rundown cottage and hurried down the dirt path in the direction of Arnaud's workshop.


Two years later...

France, Nièvre

The sun's golden rays slowly reached over the horizon, spreading colours over the land as they dispersed the darkness of night. Dew glittered on the blades of grass in the meadows, as if someone had scattered diamonds on the ground during the night. The air was crisp, but the cloudless sky promised another hot day.

In the castle of Nièvre and the village below it, men and women were beginning to wake up. Some of the more industrious matrons hurried out of their cottages to fetch water from the well for their families. Pennants flew from the battlements of the castle. One man stood on the wall; he had been waiting for the sunrise.

Balian enjoyed the peace and tranquillity of the hours before dawn. For those few brief moments, he could forget that he was a lord, and simply be a man. At times, he could almost imagine the breezes whispering to him in the cool darkness, but he could never decipher whatever message they were carrying, if indeed they were saying something to him.

Time had passed so quickly, and so much had changed. Two years ago, he had returned to this village with nothing but his son and what he had had on his person when they had been shipwrecked off the coast of Gondor. And now, he was the baron of Nièvre.

A few days after he had returned, Reginald, the old lord, had found out that Balian was back. Balian was Reginald's closest kinsman, being his illegitimate nephew, as Balian's father had killed Reginald's heir. Reginald, although he had no love for his brother's bastard, was not so keen on letting King Philippe take his fief. The old lord had searched out his nephew and made him his heir. A few months later, Reginald had succumbed to his illness, leaving Balian as his successor.

It felt strange for Balian to think of Reginald as his uncle. For the first twenty-five years of his life, Reginald had been his lord, and a man whom he'd had to respect, no matter how corrupt Reginald had been. Balian had always been a commoner, a blacksmith who had only been good for building siege weaponry and shoeing horses.

Even harder to accept was the fact that Reginald's son, the late Luc, had been Balian's cousin. His first wife had suffered greatly at Luc's hands, and Balian was certain that Luc's actions had played a part in Jocelyn's suicide. Luc was dead and cold in his grave now, but Balian still could not find it in himself to forgive his cousin.

"Papa!" came a shout. Balian turned to see his son running towards him. He held out his arms, and Barisian leapt into them. Balian grunted. His son had grown quite a bit over the past year. Soon, he would be too heavy for this sort of activity.

'I'd better enjoy it while I can,' thought the man. "Good morning, mon petit," he said, lifting his son up and kissing the boy on the cheek. The boy giggled.

"Stop it, Papa," he said. "It tickles! You have a hairy face."

"Is that how you talk to your father?" said Balian, pretending to be stern. Somehow, he could never intimidate his son, and he still did not know why.

"Aye," replied Barisian without even the slightest hint of hesitation.

"No, not 'aye'," said Balian. "Here in France, we say 'yes'."

"But I wanna be a pirate!"

"You are definitely not going to be a pirate. No son of mine will ever be a pirate, savvy?"

Barisian laughed again, and Balian could not help but smile at his child's joy. "You don't sound like Uncle Jack-Jack," said Barisian. "He doesn't say 'savvy' like that."

"Good," said Balian, setting the boy down. "I don't want to sound like Jack Sparrow."

"It's Captain Jack Sparrow, remember?" said the boy as the two of them went into the great hall to break their fast. "He always tells you that, and you keep on forgetting."

The servants bowed to them as they passed, and Balian acknowledged their greetings with a nod. The threshing on the floor was fresh, and the sunlight made the interior of the castle seem less gloomy. Barisian stayed close to his father; he was convinced that there was a ghost in this part of the castle. The smell of freshly baked bread greeted them as they neared the door of the great hall.

"Master Barisian!" came a woman's voice. "There you are!" It was Barisian's nurse, Marguerite. The woman's face was red and sweaty from exertion, and her hair was escaping from her kerchief.

Balian looked down at his son and raised an eyebrow. Barisian grinned back at him, his face bearing an angelic expression. Why was it that his son seemed to enjoy vexing his poor nurse? Marguerite was a homely woman who had not been given a great deal of wit, but she was honest, and Balian trusted her. She just couldn't keep Barisian within her sight.

"Um, I was in a hurry," explained the boy. "I was looking for you, Papa, see?"

"Not really," said Balian. "Try not to drive your nurse mad, Barisian."

"I'm so sorry, milord," said the flustered Marguerite, curtseying to Balian. "I'd just turned around to tidy the bed, and when I looked up again, I couldn't find Master Barisian."

"It's not your fault, Marguerite," said Balian, giving her a reassuring smile to show her that he did not fault her for his son's mischief. Inwardly, he sighed. Barisian was becoming more and more like his surrogate uncles every day. Certainly, Balian had not been the one who had taught him how to make diabolical plans and to carry them out. Perhaps it was time to get the boy a tutor. He was six, after all. Under his father's tutelage, he had learned how to read a little and to write his name, but there was only so much that Balian could teach his son. A lord's son needed to know more. Education never hurt anyone.

"Really, Papa," said Barisian when his nurse was out of earshot and they were seated at the table, "Marguerite's very boring. She doesn't let me run or jump, saying that I'll get hurt or something." He took a long drink from his cup of milk, leaving a white moustache on his upper lip. The boy wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"She's just worried about you," said Balian, trying to be reasonable, although he did think that not letting a little boy run or jump was too much. Little boys liked to play, and they had to play. How else were they going to learn and grow up to become men? He cut a slice of bread, spread precious golden honey over it, and then handed it to Barisian. The boy stuffed the bread into his mouth and chewed noisily. His father didn't mind too much. To him, table manners were not that important, unless one was dining with a lady.

"You let me run and jump and you still worry about me, don't you, Papa?" said Barisian after he'd devoured his bread and honey.

"Of course!" said Balian. "I'm your father. I'll never stop worrying about you, not even when you're a grown man with a wife and children of your own."

Barisian wiped his sticky fingers on his shirt. That did not really improve the situation; he only succeeded in getting honey everywhere. The laundry women really did have to earn their keep in this castle. He made a face at his father. "Bleurgh," he said. "I don't like girls, and I won't ever marry one."

"Not even if she was beautiful and sweet?"

"Auntie Arwen's the beautifullest woman," insisted Barisian. "No one can be more beautifuller than her. And I've tasted girls. They are not sweet."

"How do you know?" Balian was appalled. His son was only six, for God's sake!

"I bit Jane Turner once," admitted the boy. "She wouldn't give me back my wooden horse." Seeing the expression on his father's face, he decided that confession was a bad idea. "It was a long long time ago," he added quickly.


Documents were piled high on his desk. The room was hot and stuffy. Balian wiped his brow with his ink-stained hand. He glanced out the window, wishing he could just go out and forget about all this administration, but it had to be done if the people of Nièvre were to continue to live in peace and prosperity. The village below the castle had grown so much that it was almost a town, and there were other villages slightly further away. More people meant that administration became more complicated.

He held up the map. There were many other lords surrounding him, and Nièvre was not strong enough to fend off all of them on its own. He needed an alliance. Recently, he had heard that a neighbouring lord, Roger de Cormier, had been looking for suitors for his daughter. Roger had long been an ally of Nièvre, but if his daughter married another lord, then his allegiance would surely change; Balian could not let that happen. There was only one solution, but that meant he had to do something which he was most reluctant to do. He would have to ask for Agnes de Cormier's hand in marriage.

The baron threw down the map in frustration and then closed his eyes. Images of Sibylla manifested. He saw her laughing, smiling; God, he missed her so much. How could he marry another woman when he still loved her?

'What about your people, Balian?' asked a voice inside his head. 'They need this alliance, or else Nièvre will be taken over by other men who are crueller than you.'

"God, help me," he whispered. He wasn't ready for another wife yet.


France, Cormier

Agnes of Cormier was not a remarkable woman to look at. She had pale skin and hair, and a stern humourless expression. She also had a bit of a temper, and that was the key to her father's troubles.

"Agnes," said Roger tiredly, rubbing his gnarled hand over his face. "Will you please stop driving your suitors away with your sharp tongue, girl?"

The girl pursed her lips. "He couldn't even read," she said. "Do you really expect me to marry a fool like that?" She gave a dry laugh. "If he can't even think of a clever rebuttal to defend his manhood, then he isn't worthy of being called a man."

"Whether he is worthy of being called a man or not is none of your business," said Roger. "It's unseemly for a woman to speak like that, and I'll never find you a husband that way."

"I don't want a husband," said Agnes, glaring at her father. "And I don't need one." She clutched a Bible with a leather cover to her chest. "Ever since I had been a little girl, you had said that I would go to a convent. I am happy to serve Christ and be His bride."

"That was before your brother got himself killed," said Roger through gritted teeth. He clenched his fists, reminding himself that he shouldn't hit his daughter, in case he damaged her. What man would want a defective wife? "You will marry," he said at last. "And you will be married within the year. I would rather my lands went to a man of my choosing than to that young wolf on the throne in Paris!"

Threatening Agnes was easy. Carrying out the threat was not so easy. Where would he find a man brave enough to wed his daughter? As if God Himself had taken pity on him, a messenger walked in through the door and bowed to Roger. "A letter from the baron of Nièvre, milord," he said, handing Roger a folded piece of parchment which bore a large red wax seal.

The baron of Nièvre? Roger tried to remember his name, and then gave up. It didn't matter; whoever he was, Roger knew that he was young, and Nièvre had always been a good neighbour. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter. As he read it, he could hardly believe his luck. Balian of Nièvre was asking for Agnes' hand.

"Fetch my scribe," he commanded. "I need to reply to my lord of Nièvre." He turned to his daughter. "You cannot stop fate, girl, so you might as well accept it."

Agnes bit her lip as she watched her father go into his study to compose a letter to the baron of Nièvre. Balian, she thought his name was, but she couldn't be sure. She wasn't interested in finding out either. All she wanted to do was to be like Hildegard von Bingen. Hildegard had been one of the most renowned scholars in her time, and there was nothing Agnes liked more than to think about the issues of religion and write about them.

"What is it that you want of me, God?" she asked softly. There was no answer.


France, Nièvre

The stalks of the wheat were bent by their heavy heads, still not yet ready for harvest. It would be a good one this year, and no one would starve during the winter. At least, Balian hoped not. The leaves on the trees were still lush and green. Beneath him, his horse felt as if it wanted to go to sleep. He nudged it with his heels just to remind it that he was riding it. The animal snorted and shook its head, as if it was feeling annoyed with its rider. It probably was.

The man glanced back at the castle. Barisian stood with his nurse at the gate, still waving. His son had wanted to go with him to Cormier, but since Balian was going to see his prospective bride, it did not seem such a good idea to bring another woman's child along. He could not deny that he was feeling nervous. After all, he was asking for the hand of a girl who was half his age. Agnes was only seventeen; marriageable, yes, but still a child.

Balian waved back to his son. He could only hope that Agnes of Cormier would not resent Barisian's presence.


France, Cormier

Roger de Cormier welcomed Balian personally into his fortress. "Lord Balian," said Roger. His smile was so wide that it almost split his wrinkled face. Balian thought it could not be genuine. No one could smile like that and not be hiding something. "At last, we meet."

"The pleasure is mine, Lord Roger," said Balian, dismounting. Cormier was not so different from Nièvre, although there was less cheer in the air. The people feared their lord, but they did not love him. The children of Nièvre had often run after Balian on those rare occasions when he'd walked in the village, just simply talking to the villagers and asking them about their lives. The children of Cormier had kept their distance and watched him with wide eyes. When he had smiled at them, they had run away, unsure of what to make of him.

Grooms led his horse away to the stables. "You must be tired," said Roger, ushering him inside. "I have asked the kitchens to prepare a humble feast."

"You needn't have," said Balian. "Bread and cheese would have been fine."

"Oh no," said Roger. "The lords of Cormier spare no expense in welcoming their guests." He leaned in closer to the younger man. "And the king's envoy has just arrived. Even if you didn't want that feast, I have to prepare it for him."

"The king's envoy?" said Balian. Philippe was certainly wasting no time in trying to absorb all the fiefs into the royal principality.

Roger nodded and grimaced. He had no fondness for Philippe, but what could he do about it? King Philippe Auguste of France was not a man to be trifled with.


Agnes' maid, a cheerful girl by the name of Heloise, rushed into Agnes' chamber, where the lady was reading. "He's here!" she said, gasping for breath. Her face was red with excitement. "Lord Balian of Nièvre is here!"

Agnes looked up from her book. "What's all the fuss?" she said. "He's just a man."

"But don't you want to know what your future husband looks like?" asked Heloise. Sometimes, she didn't understand her mistress. Agnes was seventeen, but she acted as if she was a woman of forty.

"I saw him, milady," said Heloise, trying to interest Agnes. Roger had sent her to fetch his daughter, and she would be punished if she failed to complete even this simple task. "He was very handsome, with dark hair and skin like a Spaniard. But do you know what I liked most? I liked his eyes. They were so warm—I could look at them forever."

"Did my father send you?" said Agnes. She sighed and closed her book. Balian was probably not any more handsome than her other suitors. People always tended to say that lords and their kinsmen were handsome, but it was not true. Most of them were fat, and had less wit than a pigeon. "I suppose I will have to go down and greet this Balian of Nièvre then, whether I want to or not." She smoothed her skirts with her hands.

Heloise watched her mistress dubiously. "You are not going down like that, are you, milady?" she said.

"Why not?" said Agnes. "Am I not presentable?" True enough, her brown dress was not pretty at all, but it was comfortable. With a veil, she would look like a pious daughter of God.

"It's not that..." began the maid, but she trailed off when she could not think of anything that would not offend her mistress. "At least let me put some ribbons in your hair."

"You know I hate such superficiality," said Agnes. "This is what he's getting, and I might as well let him see it tonight."


When Agnes de Cormier first laid eyes on the man beside her father, she almost turned around and ran back to her chambers. Was Heloise blind? Why, that man might be dark and swarthy like a Spaniard, but his jowls were loose and his eyes bulged, like that of a frog's. From his exaggerated movements and blubbery lips, Agnes could deduce that he probably had not the intelligence of her favourite hound.

"Milady, what are you doing?" whispered Heloise.

"If that's Balian of Nièvre," Agnes whispered back, indicating the man who was still speaking with her father, "I'll go and throw myself off the battlements now. I would rather suffer the fires of hell than be married to him."

"Him?" said Heloise. "Oh no, that is not Lord Balian. Look to your father's left, milady."

Agnes followed her maid's directions. There, staring at the ceiling and looking as happy as she was, was a much younger man. The first thing she noticed was that he was tall, and his attire was almost like a commoner's; it was so plain. There was no embroidery on it. For all she knew, he could be a commoner. However, the sword which hung on his belt said otherwise.

"He doesn't seem too bad," said Agnes. "And he looks bored."

"He probably is," said Heloise. "Isn't he handsome, milady? You should count yourself lucky."

"I suppose he would be called handsome," said Agnes reluctantly, "but he must be almost thirty."

"He'll be thirty-five in a month or so, actually," said Heloise. "I heard his attendants talking about it."

"Thirty-five, and still without a wife?" said Agnes. Her innards felt as if they had turned into lead. Perhaps there was something very wrong with him after all. How could a handsome man with such a rich inheritance not have a wife?

"I think he did, once," said Heloise. "He has a son."

"But what happened to her?" asked Agnes. Images of dead women in dungeons flashed before her eyes. It was highly possible, wasn't it? "Do you think he...did something to her?"

"Don't be silly, milady. Does he look like the sort who kills his wife to you?"

At that moment, Balian stopped staring at the ceiling and he gazed towards the doorway. His eyes met Agnes', and she immediately stiffened. He gave her a slight shy smile, and then looked away. It seemed as if he was as uncomfortable as she was about this whole business.

Heloise gave Agnes a little shove. "Go on," she said. "You can't stand in the doorway forever."

"God help me," said Agnes, and then she walked in. Her father and the other man stopped talking.

"Ah, Agnes," said Roger. "You're here at last. Come, child." Her father went over to her and took her hand, almost dragging her over to where Balian stood. Her face reddened with humiliation. She felt as if she was simply an animal, and her father was showing her off to a prospective buyer. "Lord Balian, this is my daughter, Agnes de Cormier."

Balian bowed stiffly. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, milady," he said, sounding as if he had practised this line many times. He probably had, judging from his tone and his expression. "I am Balian of Nièvre."

'As if I didn't already know that already,' thought Agnes. However, she bit back the barrage of sharp retorts. After all, he had been very civil to her, and he was definitely not unpleasant to look at. Remembering Heloise's words, Agnes tried to look at Balian's eyes without seeming as if she was staring at him. She was taken aback by the sorrow and the warmth in them.

"Well," said Roger. "Now that everyone is here, I shall ask the servants to bring in the dishes."

Platters of roasted meats in rich succulent sauces, baskets of soft bread and bowls of fruit were put on the tables. Each person had been supplied with his own pitcher of wine. Agnes, predictably, was sitting beside Balian. She tried to pretend to focus on her meal so that she could observe him better.

The main thing that she noticed about him was that he was very quiet. Even when her father and the other man, the king's envoy, boasted of their hunting successes, he did not join in. "Do you hunt, Lord Balian?" asked Agnes in an unusual stroke of boldness.

"Yes," replied Balian.

Was that it? Would he not speak of how he shot a moving hind from a hundred paces away?

"Of course he hunts, Agnes," said Roger. "He is a man."

"But I must say that I am not very good with the bow," said Balian. There was silence at the table. Not very good? That was a first. All of Agnes' suitors had boasted about their prowess in an attempt to impress her.

"Whatever do you mean?" asked the king's envoy. "A young man like you would surely be good with the bow. After all, you have strength in your arms."

"And elsewhere," said Roger with a wink. The two older men laughed.

"Indeed, compared with my friend, I would look like a child playing with a bow," said Balian. For the first time, he genuinely smiled. To her surprise, Agnes found herself liking this man. She might never fall in love with him, but at least she did not hate him. "My friend can kill two with one arrow."

"You jest," said Roger.

"I do not," said Balian. "First, he would stab an enemy with his arrow, and then he would shoot the arrow. Even if the target was three hundred paces away, he would still be able to hit it."

"Good God," said the king's envoy. "I know for certain that you jest, my lord Balian. That is impossible."

"Perhaps," said Balian. "But never say that something is impossible. I for one know that God has a way of making the impossible possible."

Agnes almost laughed. That was definitely not how most noblemen spoke. He almost sounded like a philosopher. Perhaps Balian was a better man than she had originally thought. He certainly was a bit of a mystery, and Agnes liked the challenge of solving a mystery.


Agnes was almost sad to see Balian go. He had been good company, even though he had hardly said anything to her. However, when they did speak, she was always pleasantly surprised by his wisdom and his strange ideas concerning religion. She found out that he had been to the Holy Land, but he seemed reluctant to tell her about it. 'If you do marry him, Agnes, you can debate with him every day,' she told herself.

"But I don't want to be subject to a man's whim," she said to no one in particular as she walked beside her prospective husband.

"What was that, milady?" said Balian. "I beg your pardon. I was not listening."

"I...I didn't say anything," said Agnes, for fear of offending him. If she did have to marry, then Balian would not be a bad choice. To drive him away was unwise; who knew what sort of monstrosity her father might consider then?

"Ah yes," said Balian. "There are those times when you wish you can take back your words. Very well, I shall pretend that I heard nothing." He swung into his saddle and took hold of the reins. "Farewell, Lord Roger, Lady Agnes; I feel that we will meet again soon."

'I daresay you will come back for me, and then I will probably be with you every day until one of us returns to the heavenly home,' thought Agnes. A few days ago, that would have caused her great distress, but being with Balian was much better than having to be paraded before suitor after suitor.


Rome

In the dark bowels of the Papal palace, amidst the piles of scrolls and old manuscripts, a man, wearing the robes of a cardinal, was poring over a yellowed and disintegrating document. The single candle cast long shadows on the walls of rock and provided very little light. Cardinal Ambrosius de Magio was much too occupied to notice the cold of the room or the lack of light. This could be the greatest discovery in the history of mankind.

The year three hundred and ninety-nine of Our Lord (the year twenty-two thirty of the Third Age)

It is with great excitement and trepidation that I, Lucius Aurelius, write these words. It has been twelve years since I first found myself in the wondrous lands of Middle Earth, a place abound with tales of otherworldly creatures and divine struggles for power. I can scarcely find the words to describe this place, for I find it difficult to convey the image of the sprawling lush plains of Rohan, nor is Minas Tirith comparable to anything else that I know. It is a city of seven levels, built completely of white stone, like a citadel of Heaven. The warriors are clad in shining silver armour, like the angels of God. In the dark bowels of the city, old chronicles reside, and can only be accessed by those who have express permission from the Steward.

It was in Gondor that I stayed, and I served the Steward Belegorn, who was the son of Herion.

But I digress, for how came I, a citizen of Rome, to this place called Middle Earth? In the year three hundred and eighty-seven of Our Lord, the Emperor Honorius, Caesar most revered, led a campaign against the barbarians of Germania. I was a centurion in the Fifth Legion, proudly bearing the Roman Eagle and the Cross of Christ on my shield, and ready to die for the glory of Christ, who has redeemed us by his blood.

We came to a river. It was spring, and the melting snow from the mountains had filled the river to its fullest. There, as we forded the river, the heathen gods took matters into their own hands. I, along with others of my company, was swept away by the fierce icy torrent. Fear filled me, for I felt that I was going to die. I prayed to God, begging him to deliver me from this watery and unholy grave. It seemed like eternity, but it could only have been a few hours. However, my prayers were answered, and I was pulled from the river, only to find myself in a completely different place.

It was later that I found out I was in a country called Gondor, and the river which had brought me here was called the Anduin. I know not how this Germanic river became the Anduin, for I now know that they are not the same.

The men who had rescued me were good honest fishermen, but they did not have the answers to my many questions. Therefore, as soon as I was well enough to travel, I took my leave of them and went to Minas Tirith. It was said that the city was full of men of lore, and I was certain that they would have answers for me.

I did not find answers, but I befriended an old scholar who was studying the History of those beings called 'Elves'. I found it hard to believe half of what he told me of these unearthly beings, for how can anything be immortal in both body and soul? However, these were pagans, so I must pardon their lack of understanding. There was one thing which caught my attention. My friend mentioned a smith named Fëanor who had crafted three jewels of unimaginable power, and those jewels could not be destroyed by any means. At first, I believed these jewels, or 'Silmarils', as they were called, to be a mere myth, like the stories of Jupiter and Aphrodite and the other pagan gods of our ancestors before Christ brought the truth to them. My fascination for the Silmarils grew, for I found it curious that someone could craft stone, and supposedly, these Silmarils shone of their own accord. The story of the Silmarils was never far from my thoughts, not even when I was shipwrecked off the coast of Gondor, and miraculously delivered into the arms of my friends who had thought me dead.

A year after my return, I, once again, followed Caesar on one of his campaigns against the pagan Germanic peoples. In Germania, I heard the most outlandish stories concerning the 'Tree of Life'. They brought to mind the tale of the Silmarils, for it was said that at the site of the Tree of Life, miracles happened. My friend in Gondor had said that that Silmarils held the trapped light from the Two Trees of a place called Valinor, which was the homeland of the immortal Elves. What if the Tree of Life was in fact the site of one of those missing Silmarils? What if one of those jewels, like me, had passed miraculously between worlds?

Here, the page stopped. Ambrosius searched and searched for the next page, but he found nothing. Apparently, everything else written by this Lucius Aurelius had been lost through time. The cardinal suppressed the urge to curse like a common man. Looking around to make sure that no one was watching him, Ambrosius rolled up the document and hid it under his robes. He would very much like to read it again to search for any clues which might pertain to the location of one of these jewels. From his studies, he remembered that when Charlemagne had conquered the Germanic pagans, he had destroyed a sacred object called the Irminsul. The chroniclers had written that the pagans had called the Irminsul the Tree of Life.

But what if Charlemagne had not destroyed the Irminsul at all? What if the chroniclers had only said that he had destroyed it to make this great king look good? There was a very large chance that the Irminsul could still be hidden in the heartlands of Germany. It was a pity that Middle Earth was an unknown place. If only someone knew of it...


A/N: Umm...yeah, this chapter was all about Balian and his return to France. I was hoping to cover all of that in one chapter. Next chapter, we'll go back to Middle Earth and see what the others are up to, and then the fun will start when they all come to...yes, Europe! Please bear with me.