Chapter 6: Tip The Scales

The morning comes sooner than I would like, and with its advent the stars twinkle out and the Moon hides its face in the early blushing sky. In its place a bright golden Sun rises in the East, casting more colorful rays than shadows. The day is the 25th of October in year 3,018 of the Third Age of Middle-Earth, and it is quite the momentous day indeed for in this restful valley called Rivendell by Men and Dwarves and many others besides, a committee has been called to attendance by Elrond Halfelven, wisest of loremasters and lord of the city itself. It is in his care that the whole of the valley has been come by many to be known as the Last Homely House East of the Sea.

Although not strictly true, on account of the many other peoples both large and small who have made the region of Eriador, its ambiance of peace and restfulness is unchallenged… this side of the Misty Mountains anyway. I've heard tales of an Elven land to the East that retains the beauty and majesty of their people as it was in ancient days. I should like to visit such a place someday.

But that is there. And there is not here. Here in the halls of Imladris – as it is known by those Elves who reside here – a great convalescence begins, to which I have been invited to attend. And far be it from me, a Warlock, to turn down such an auspicious request. Representatives of all the free peoples of Middle-Earth with be present. So I am led to believe. Men, Elves, Dwarves, Wizards… even little Hobbits. Each one a representative of their own realm and each arriving unsuspectingly at quite a fortuitous moment, for though their requests be urgent and their news dire, it is their counsel which will decide the fate of Middle-Earth.

At least, so I am led to believe. I've not known lord Elrond to be particularly exaggerative, so I believe him when he says so. And having been proffered only an ambiguous taste of what is to be addressed at this meeting, I am left to fill in the blanks. I try to avoid doing so. It is better that I do not let my imagination wander, and instead focus on what news is set before me.

As the pinkish hues of the yawning Sun finally bleed to gold, I leave the gardens and return to my room to freshen up and prepare for the day.

As I open my door, I am delighted to find my armor carefully cleaned and polished, set upon a mannequin display in the corner of the room. I dare say it hasn't looked so fine since I first forged it. I run my bare fingers over the many square-based pyramidal studs on its breastplate. Its matte black finish somehow still able to gleam ebony in the early morning sun drizzling in from the window. I worried that perhaps whatever Elf might take charge of its maintenance would have difficulty working with its otherworldly metal, but it seems that any inexperience seems not to show on the final product. Scratches and scrapes that have accrued over the course of my many campaigns have been largely erased, and though dents are perhaps beyond the local smith's skill to repair, it is to their credit that I hardly notice them.

I wonder when it was that the work was finished… Surely it must have been sometime yesterday, as I've not returned to my room since I first awoke the day before.

But first, before clothes, I must wash. Not for the first time am I impressed that the Elves have managed to bond porcelain enamel to cast iron bathtubs. It almost looks like something I would see back home.

Contrastingly, the water must be drawn by hand via a pump beside the tub and heated by a bricks underneath that were warmed by a fire. It is convenient that I can skip the preparatory phase of premodern bathing.

Once the water is drawn to a suitable level, I strip off my fine Elvish clothing and submerge myself in the cold water. Fortunately, it doesn't stay cold for long; I wreath my body in Light-heat, enjoying the rapidly warming bath until it's all but boiling. Once it is hot enough for my liking, I linger a while and enjoy the steaming water as it soothes my back and shoulders.

When I get out I dry myself, and set aside my Elven garb and return to my Warlock's cloak and wrap. It feels almost too good, like I am being welcomed home by a sun-warmed embrace of synthweave and space-age polymers. But as I look at myself in the mirror, I begin to doubt it today is the day to wear such an ensemble. Indeed, if it is a congregation of wisdom, then armor is not needed, and indeed, I will stand out when I do not desire to.

"Perhaps next time, friend," I say with a forlorn sigh and step away from my armor to redress in a clean set of Elven clothes. As I do, a clear tone of a bell rings across the city, and I know that it is the signal for the beginning of the council.

I travel a winding path back to the house of Elrond and come upon a wide porch where many seats were situated in an oblong ring. In the midst of them is a small, decorated stone plinth that is far too small to hold a meal around. In the many seats were people whom I have seen in passing or not at all, and I behold many Dwarves and Men and Elves, including Glorfindel, and Elrond of course, but also those of nobility like Erestor who is chief of Elrond's advisors, though he has not been present for any of my meetings with the half-Elf lord.

Elrond, perhaps sensing my presence or accurately expecting me to arrive just now, turns at my approach and smiles. Taking me by the shoulder, he leads me to a seat just to the side of him. Though between his and mine, two smaller seats are situated, and I note their occupants are both of the Hobbit variety. I immediately recognize Bilbo and his nephew Frodo.

"Why master Lazarus! Joyous am I to see you again since we last spoke five days past!" Bilbo starts with a cry, leaping out of his seat to take my hand in his. "Up Frodo! Here stands one who is to thank for that scar on your arm, for if it were not a scar it would be much worse indeed!"

Frodo stands, his brown locks waving and his eyes wide in surprise. "Is that so? I was told it was thanks to the efforts of lord Elrond and Gandalf that I was healed. Yet if Bilbo says it is so, then I must believe it. I haven't the words to thank you, sir."

Of course he was told that, since I was the one who indicated that I needn't be credited with his recovery. "Whatever your uncle or Elrond or Gandalf may say, I was a participant only. Even if I were not present, I'm sure that with their combined skill, you would have made a full recovery regardless."

"Likely or not, we can never know what might have been," Elrond says with a placating smile. "Only what has been. Therefor let credit be given where it is due. I apologize for my lie Frodo, for while it was indeed myself and Gandalf who tended to you through the perilous hours after you escaped across the Ford of Bruinen, it was not only us. So, though the hour of this introduction is late, may I introduce Lazarus?"

"It's a pleasure to meet you Frodo," I say, taking the younger Hobbit's hand in both of mine in a sincere greeting. "I pray you wear your scar with pride, for few I gather survive wounds made by weapons the likes of which you were struck with. Congratulations on your recovery."

"Thank you very much, sir. I owe you my life, for if even a portion of my life was held in your hands, it is still a portion owed. I would like to say I will one day repay you for your generosity, but I fear I do not know how."

I wave off his concern. "You own me nothing, Frodo, nephew of Bilbo, for your uncle is a guest of some renown in this city. As I am a guest of Elrond's as well, and of lesser standing, it is fitting that I should help where my skills allow. If you must, think of it as a gift, for gifts need not be repaid. I expect however, based on hints from our host, that the reason behind your wound and the reason behind this council are one and the same," I say with a glance toward Elrond.

"We shall get to that in time, for as I said when I introduced Frodo just a moment before you arrived, few have ever come hither through greater peril or on an errant more urgent. Though I fear you are too humble, master Lazarus. But I will not press the issue of credit, if indeed you desire so little."

Elrond gestures for the Hobbits to retake their seats, and then turns and indicates to those gathered, pointing out to me many of those whom I do not know: Glóin son of Gróin, and his son Gimli. Beside Glorfindel are several other counsellors of his household. Galdor, an Elf of the Grey Havens – which as I recall from my inspections of Middle-Earth's map are somewhere far west of here near the sea – on errand from Círdan the Shipwright.

Also, another Elf in whom I detect a distinction from those commonly found in Rivendell; he is Legolas, son of King Thranduil of Northern Mirkwood. I find myself examining him more than the others, for I have not yet met a Wood-Elf… though I understand a more appropriate name would be Silvan. If I recall correctly, they are a subgroup of the Nandor Elves which… admittedly confuses me if I delve too deeply; Elven lineage is a tricky history to study.

A man also sat nearby who was not Aragorn; he was dressed in a rich, fur-line cloak stained with grime of long travel. A great horn rested on his knees, and it was tipped with silver. Elrond introduced him as Boromir from the South, which could mean either Rohan or Gondor, though he does not specify.

So, I am bidden to sit, and I do.

It is here that the Council of Elrond begins in proper.

Over the course of many hours tale after tale is told detailing in abridged fashion the happenings in the wide world beyond this little valley. Much of the things I hear are new to me, and much more is lost in my unknowing. Yet it comes to the Dwarf Glóin and his account, and I begin to sit up in my seat a bit. For he recounts a tale of the trials of the Dwarves in retaking an ancient land of Moria somewhere in the Misty Mountains which has not gone so well as first hoped. Contact with the colony has ceased, and now Glóin speaks of a messenger who comes from Mordor, from Sauron himself purportedly, offering friendship in exchange for a small trinket taken from the Lord by a Hobbit larcenist. Or so he says.

My interest is now piqued, as though Sauron has in the past had dealings with the peoples of Middle-Earth, none were so recent, at least according to what records I have uncovered. Apparently Bilbo is an old friend of the Dwarves, or perhaps King Dáin only, it is for that reason (among many) that Glóin was sent by him to search for Bilbo to warn him that the enemy seeks him.

But it is the why that interests me so. For the messenger of Morder spoke to Dáin of a trifle that his Dark Lord desires, "the least of rings, that once he stole" he called it. I am reminded keenly of Elrond's words on the eve of yesterday.

"…An item of immense value was brought into this city, and a life almost lost in the doing… A council will be held tomorrow to decide its fate."

That the nephew of Bilbo should be connected to an item of value, and that Sauron should ask after a so-called thief who also happens to be Bilbo… it dawns on me that the item stolen from him may very well be the item that Frodo brought hither five days ago.

Though I say nothing, I eye the younger Hobbit. His face is pensive and features schooled, and I find nothing to glean from looks alone.

It is also relayed that messengers have come with similar requests to one "King Brand," who evidently would be placed in quite the precarious position should he refuse the messenger's offer as the Dwarves did.

"If we make no answer, the Enemy may move Men of his rule to assail King Brand, and Dáin also," Glóin ends, his voice heavy with trepidation.

Elrond nods in understanding. "You have done well to come. You will hear today all that you need in order to understand the purposes of the Enemy. There is naught that you can do, other than to resist, with hope or without it. But you do not stand alone. You will learn that your trouble is but part of the trouble of all the western world. The ring! What shall we do with the ring, the least of rings, the trifle that Sauron fancies? That is the doom that we must deem. For that is the purpose for which you are called hither."

Our eyes meet and in them I see something… something… But I cannot tell what.

"Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world."

I expect Elrond is flourishing of fate. Perhaps he thinks my presence is just as fateful at everyone else's. I cannot yet say whether it is or isn't, so I listen on.

"Now, therefore, things shall be openly spoken that have been hidden from all but a few until this day. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the Tale of the Ring shall be told from the beginning even to this present. And I will begin that tale, though others shall end it."

And so Elrond speaks to all in a resounding voice of Sauron and the Rings of Power, and their forging in the Second Age of the world long ago. A part of his take appears to be known to some including myself, but the full tale to none, and may eyes are turned to him in fear and wonder as he tells of the Elven-smiths of Eregion, and their eagerness for knowledge, by which Sauron ensnared them. For in that time, he was not yet evil to behold, and they received his aid and grew mighty in craft, whereas he learned all their secrets, betrayed them, and forged secretly in the Mountain of Fire the One Ring to be their master. But Celebrimbor, by whose hands the Three were made, was aware of him, and hid them; and there was war, and the land was laid waste.

Elrond recounts many details that I have read, and many more I have not, and so I am given a fuller picture of the tale of the Rings of Power, and of their importance in Sauron's ancient deceptions.

And in the course of his testimony he reveals that his father, Eärendil was born in Gondolin before its fall, and that he has seen three ages in the West of the world. Based on some rough head-arithmetic, that would the half-Elf roughly... six or seven-thousand years old!

I do not hide my amazement. For though Oryx and His sisters, and even His children were many billions of years old, it is one thing to look upon an inhuman thing and reconcile such an unbelievable number to their age, but for Elrond who is yet more human in looks alone than even any Awoken I have met, I find it difficult to believe. Though, I know that Elves do not age as Men or even Dwarves do, so I cannot dispute the possibility that he is being truthful, just as I cannot simply assume he is being dishonest.

Seven-thousand years… I no longer wonder how he has come to be such a renowned lore-master, sought after for wisdom and guidance. I can at least say with certainty (according to Elf counting) that it has been eighteen and three-thousand years since the end of the Second Age which culminated in the sundering of Sauron.

Of that, Elrond spoke as well, and of how Isildur cut the great Ring that Sauron had forged from the Dark Lord's hand, and so cast him down. It was then that Isildur took the Ring as a weregild for his father and brother who had been slain. But, according to Elrond, the Ring betrayed Isildur to his death, and was lost.

Had I not the experience I do, I might be confused as to how that might be, but I know well items with minds of their own. And did not Bilbo by way of Elrond say that Sauron poured himself into the Ring? Then the Ring possesses Sauron's will. If Isildur had known that, then he was a fool for thinking he might tame its power. Even in the records of the Elder days, no man I have read of has been excessively strong of spirit.

Though it does make me wonder…

No.

I push the thought away, but all to late. The question has been asked; the answer eludes me now, and its absence will doubtless plague me. Like an itch the stabs at you between the shoulder blades and in unreachable places. The kind that irks you beyond measure.

But, maybe…

Elrond speaks of how the Ring should have been cast into the Orodruin, commonly known as Mount Doom in the heart of Mordor where the Ring was first formed. But that is not how history unfolded.

"Sauron was diminished, but not destroyed. His Ring was lost, but not unmade. The Dark Tower was broken, but its foundations were not removed; for they were made with the power of the Ring, and while it remains, they will endure. Many Elves and many might Men, and many of their fiends has perished in the war. Anárion was slain, and Isildur was slain; and Gil-galad and Elindil were no more. Never again shall there be any such league of Elves and Men; for men multiply and the Firstborn decrease, and the two kindreds are estranged. And ever since that day the race of Númenor has decayed, and the span of their years has lessened.

And he spoke of the decline of Arnor, the northern kingdom of Men, and of the southern kingdom, Gondor, which still holds strong, though it has seen great setbacks.

"Then the watch upon the walls of Mordor slept, and Dark things crept back into Gorgoroth. And on a time evil things came forth, and they took Minas Ithil and abode in it, and they made it into a place of dread; and it is called Minas Morgul, the Tower of Sorcery. Then Minas Anor was named anew Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard; and these two cities were ever at war. But Osgiliath which lay between was deserted and in its ruins shadows walked.

"So it has been for many lives of men. But the Lords of Minas Tirith still fight on, defying our enemies, keeping the passage of the River from Argonath to the Sea. And now that part of the tale that I shall tell is dawn to its close. For in the days of Isildur the Ruling Ring passed out of all knowledge, and the Three were released from its dominion. But now in this latter day they are in peril once more, for to our sorrow the One has been found. Others shall speak of its finding, for in that I played small part."

And briefly though Elrond speaks, the sun rides up the sky, and the morning is passing ere he ends.

I take a the brief respite of silence as a chance to organize my thoughts. Much of what Elrond spoke of was written down in his libraries, but much wasn't. Neither were they organized in such an easily understood, linear fashion.

The Elf has confirmed, as I had suspected, that the Ring Bilbo spoke of indeed was not destroyed, and so though Sauron was weakened for a time, now he is recuperating his strength. He truly did hide his death within the Ring. It's not just an idle assumption now; I'm sure of it.

When one considered the tale of the ring-seeking messenger to the Dwarves (which might otherwise be misconstrued as some other particular ring of lesser nature) with the the revelation that the One Ring was now found… it didn't take a genius to put two and two together.

The item Frodo nearly died for. The item a chieftain of noble Northmen escorted. The Item Glorfindel road out with all speed and urgency to secure. The Item Elrond teased to me upon my invitation to this very council.

It was here in Rivendell. The one Ring was here.

No sooner does the thought cross my mind than Boromir stands, tall and proud. His voice is firm and strong, and it breaks my thoughts with its intensity.

"Give me leave, Master Elrond," says he, "first to say more of Gondor, for verily from the land of Gondor I am come. And it would be well for all to know what passes there. For few, I deem know of our deeds, and therefor guess little of their peril if we should fail at last.

"Believe not that in the land of Gondor the blood of Númenor is spent, nor all its pride and dignity forgotten. By our valor the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; and thus alone are peace and freedom maintained in the lands behind us, bulwark of the West. But if the passages of the River should be won, what then?

"Yet that hour, maybe, is not now far away. The Nameless Enemy has arisen again. Smoke rises once more from Orodruin that we called Mount Doom. The power of the Black Land grows and we are hard beset. When the Enemy returned our folk were driven from Ithilien, our fair domain east of the River, though we kept a foothold there and strength of arms. But this very year, in the days of June, sudden war came upon us out of Mordor, and we were swept away. We were outnumbered, for Mordor has allied itself with the Easterlings and the cruel Haradrim; but it was not by number that we were defeated. A power was there that we have not felt before.

"Some said that it could be seen, like a great black horseman, a dark shadow under the moon. Wherever he came, a madness filled out foes, but fear fell on our boldest, so that horse and man gave way and fled. Only a remnant of our eastern force came back, destroying the last bridge that still stood amid the ruins of Osgiliath."

I listen with the same respect and quiet as the rest, and I come to understand better the pride (and what I initially thought to be arrogance) with which Boromir spoke of the efforts of his people; its easy to think the world is at relative peace when the worst you have to deal with is a few mischievous goblins and the odd lone troll. But that Mordor wages war on Gondor certainly paints the world in a much more chaotic light.

"But still we fight on, holding all the west shores of Anduin; and those who shelter behind us give us praise, if ever they hear our name: much praise but little help. Only from Rohan now will any men ride to us when we call."

And yet Rohan is nearly three-hundred miles from Gondor. Even by horse, it would take days for word to reach them of trouble, and then many more days to muster a response force and return. If they knew an attack were coming, or were under siege, then Rohan might have the privilege of time, but if it was urgent, how reliable would Rohan's aid be? For that matter, I don't even know the militaristic capacity of either nation, save that Rohan is known for its horsemen, and Gondor must by now be quite well drilled against Mordor's advances.

"In this evil hour I have come on an errand over many dangerous leagues to Elrond: a hundred and ten days I have journeyed all alone. But I do not seek allies in war. The might of Elrond is in wisdom not in weapons, it is said. I come to ask for counsel and the unravelling of hard words. For on the eve of the sudden assault a dream came to my brother in a troubled sleep; and afterwards like a dream came oft to him again, and once to me. In that dream I thought the eastern sky grow dark, and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

Seek for the Sword that was broken:
In Imladris it dwells;
There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
There shall be shown a token
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand.

Of these words we could understand little, and we spoke to our father, Denethor, Lord of Minas Tirith, wise in the lore of Gondor. This only would he say, that Imladris was of old the name among the Elves of a far northern dale, where Elrond the Halfelven dwelt, greatest of lore-masters. Therefore my brother, seeing how desperate was our need, was eager to heed the dream and seek for Imladris; but since the way was full of doubt and danger, I took the journey upon myself. Loth was my father to give me leave, and long have I wandered by roads forgotten, seeking the house of Elrond, of which many have heard, but few knew where it lay."

"And here in the house of Elrond more shall be made clear to you," says Aragorn, standing up and revealing a familiar looking bundle of Elven cloth. He places it upon the plinth in our midst and unwraps it, baring the shattered remains of the sword Narsil.

In that moment I recognize that though the Dúnedain and the men of Gondor are of different regions, they are actually one people separated by time and misfortune, and that the shards of Narsil must be to Boromir a relic of an age long past (which it was) that he likely heard oft spoke of in legends and songs and bedtime stories.

Seeing the actual steel for the first time must be like something from a dream. Indeed, Boromir stares at it for many moments before he manages to gather himself and look to the Northman.

"And who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?" he asks, looking in wonder at the lean face of the Ranger and his weather stained cloak.

"He is Aragorn son of Arathorn," says Elrond with gravitas, "and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son of Minas Ithil. He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk."

"Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all!" Frodo cries suddenly, springing from his chair as if to rush to the Ranger's side.

My eyes narrow. I am almost certain now.

Indeed the Ring, if indeed it was the One Ring that Frodo brought with him to Rivendell, would belong to Aragorn. For if Aragorn as Elrond says (and I have no reason to doubt him) is a decendant of Isildur, and in fact rightful heir to the throne of…

My eyes widen.

This man is a prince. No, a king. Uncrowned, perhaps, but a king by blood.

I take the surprised murmuring of many to show I'm not the only one in attendance to come to the same conclusion.

"It does not belong to either of us," says Aragorn, tearing me from my epiphany. "But it has been ordained that you should hold it for a while."

"Bring out the Ring, Frodo!" Gandalf orders solemnly and suddenly. "The time has come. Hold it up, and Boromir will understand the remainder of his riddle."

A hush all around accompanies Gandalf's command, and Frodo did as he was bid with a trembling hand. In it lay an unremarkable little gold ring. It was small, and unassuming; it bore no jewels or embroidery, and in fact looked not unlike so many wedding bands back in the City.

"Behold Isildur's Bane!" cries Elrond.

Boromir's eyes glint as he gazes at the golden thing, muttering. "The Halfling! Is then the doom of Minas Tirith come at last? But why then should we seek a broken sword?"

"The words of your dream were not 'the doom of Minas Tirith,'" Aragorn reassures. "But doom and great deeds are indeed at hand. For the Sword that was Broken is the Sword of Elendil that broke in the battle with the Enemy. It has been treasured by his heirs when all other heirlooms were lost; for it was spoken of old among us that it should be made again when the Ring, Isildur's Bane, was found.

Aragorn faces Boromir fully. "Now you have seen the sword that you have sought, what would you ask? Do you wish for the House of Elendil to return to the land of Gondor?"

Boromir stiffened at the question.

"I was not sent to beg any boon, but to seek only the meaning of a riddle," he answers proudly, though he deflates slightly as he continues. "Yet we are hard pressed, and the Sword of Elendil would be a help beyond our hope – if such a thing could indeed return out of the shadows of the past."

Whatever response might have been given is interrupted by (of all people) the elder Baggins who stands suddenly in recital:

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken:
The crownless again shall be king.

He lets the words hang in the air a moment before sniffing. "Not very good perhaps, but to the point – if you need more beyond the word of Elrond. If that was worth a journey of a hundred and ten days to hear, you had best listen to it."

Bilbo returns to his seat with a snort. It seems to me his annoyance is on behalf of Aragorn. I didn't know they were such good friends…

Aragorn addresses Boromir, but not before he gives his miniature friend an appreciative smile. "For my part I forgive your doubt," he says to the Gondorian. "Little do I resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stand carven in their majesty in the halls of Denethor. I am but the heir of Isildur, not Isildur himself. I have had a hard life and a long one; and the leagues that lie between here and Gondor are a small part in the count of my journeys. I have crossed many mountains and many rivers, and trodden many plains, even into the far countries of Rhȗn and Harad where the stars are strange.

"But my home, such as I have, is in the North. For here the heirs of Valandil have ever dwelt in long line unbroken from father unto son for many generations. Our days have darkened, and we have dwindled; but ever the Sword has passed to a new keeper. And this I will say to you, Boromir, ere I end. Lonely men are we, Rangers of the wild, hunters – but hunters ever of the servants of the Enemy; for they are found in many places not in Mordor only.

"If Gondor, Boromir, has been a stalwart tower, we have played another part. Many evil things there are that your strong walls and bright swords do not stay. You know little of the lands beyond your bounds. The North would have little of peace and freedom but for us. Fear would have destroyed them. But when dark things come from the houseless hills, or creep from sunless woods, they fly from us. What roads would any dare to tread, what safety would there be in quiet lands, or in the homes of simple men at night, if the Dúnedain were asleep or were all gone into the grave."

To the less educated, it might appear that Aragorn was bragging. But if wha the says is true, then to Boromir, who as the Ranger says knows little of what transpires beyond the borders of his homeland, it bears proper declaration. The Northmen were not unlike those Guardians who shunned the comforts of home and works diligently in the dark to thin the Darkness' herd, quietly and thanklessly removing those enemies that other's would shrink from in fear.

…I think Cayde would have liked them.

'Rest in Peace, space cowboy.'

"And yet less thanks have we than you. Travelers scowl at us, and countrymen give us scornful names. 'Strider' I am to one fat man who lives within a day's march of foes that would freeze his heart or lay his little town in ruin if he were not guarded ceaselessly. Yet we would not have it otherwise. If simple folk are free from care and fear, simple they will be, and we must be secret to keep them so. That has been the task of my kindred, while the years have lengthened and the grass has grown."

"But now," Aragorn turns from Boromir to address the gathered. "Now the world is changing once again. A new hour comes. Isildur's Bane is found. Battle is at hand. The Sword shall be reforged."

He turns and nods to his fellow Man. His next words are spoken with conviction of spirit and intent, beneath which lies a deeper meaning that I do not overlook.

"I will come to Minas Tirith."

I will claim my rightful throne.

Boromir tenses at his words but does not immediately respond. Instead, he takes a moment to think before gesturing to Frodo.

"Isildur's bane is found, you say," he says at last. "I have seen a bright ring in the Halfling's hand; but Isildur perished ere this age of the world began., they say. How do the Wise know that this ring is his? And how has it passed down the years, until it is brought hither by so strange a messenger?"

Although it sounds suspiciously like he is casting doubt on the account of Elrond and Aragorn, it is not an unreasonable question. If indeed Gondor has gone without a king since the waning days of the Second Age, then I too would be skeptical of some nobody springing from the shadows and claiming rightful succession to the throne of my homeland, sword of legend in hand or no. As well, his question of the Ring is sound. I could find its like on any street corner in the City, and on the hands of many men therein.

And I too want to hear the answer.

"That shall be told," Elrond assured Boromir with a placating hand.

"But not yet, I beg, Master!" Bilbo almost whines to the laughter of most. "Already the Sun is climbing to noon, and I feel the need of something to strengthen me."

Elrond smiles at his guest, suppressing a laugh himself. "I had not named you, but I do so now. Come! Tell us your tale. And if you have not yet cast your story into verse, you may tell it in plain words. The briefer, the sooner you shall be refreshed."

"Very well," the Hobbit grumbled, standing up again to speak. He very well could have sat and spoken, but it seems the little creature has quite the flare for the dramatic.

Makes sense considering.

And so the Bilbo recounts the events that led to him finding the Ring, and not a detail did he leave out in the telling. Though he fussed at the notion, it seems he is quite at home as the center of attention, either in singing or in storytelling.

I listen to every word, but my focus gently drifts away. Instead, of Bilbo, it is on Frodo that my gaze rests. Frodo and the little golden ring…

Frodo too recounts the course of events regarding the Ring that eventually led him to Rivendell.

"The Wise may have good reason to believe that the halfling's trove is indeed the great Ring of long debate," says one Galdor of the Havens which is far to the westernmost edge of Middle-Earth, "unlikely though that may seem to those who know less. But may we not hear the proofs? And I would ask this also; what of Saruman? He is learned in the lore of the Rings, yet he is not among us. What is his counsel – if he knows the things that we have heard?"

I have heard of Saruman, both in passing conversations and in many books. Like Gandalf, he is a Wizard, and a very wise one at that. Among the Wise, that is those high figures who like Gandalf and Elrond attempt to steer the world right, Saruman is considered the most astute. I asked if he was in Imladris, but alas I was told his dwelling was in Isengard to the south, and he had not visited Rivendell in many years.

"The questions you ask, Galdor, are bound together," says Elrond, and I detect a shadow of regret pass over his schooled features. "I had not overlooked them, and they shall be answered. But these things it is the part to Gandalf to make clear; and I call upon him last, for it is the place of honor, and in all this matter he has been chief."

Now Gandalf stands, his form Elf-tall and noble despite his age.

"Some, Galdor, would thing the tidings of Glóin and the pursuit of Frodo proof enough that the halfling's trove is a thing of great worth to the Enemy," he says with simple cutting logic. "Yet it is a ring. What then? The Nine the Nazgȗl keep. The Seven are taken or destroyed. And the Three we know of. What then is this one that he desires so much."

Though I have very little skin in this game, I nod my head. At the very least his reason is quite sound to my sensibilities. That, and-

"There is indeed a wide waste of time between the River and the Mountain, between the losing and the finding. But the gap in the knowledge of the Wise has been filled at last. Yet too slowly. For the Enemy has been close behind, closer even than I feared. And well is it that not until this year – yea! – this very summer as it seems, did he learn the full truth."

So Gandalf spoke of his search for truth, his bretayal by Saruman and his incarceration at Isengard. He also spoke of his search for the creature called Gollum which as Bilbo spoke had possessed the Ring before the Hobbit had taken it. Into that tale Aragorn injected his own account of his aid to Gandalf in the same regard.

Of that account less is interesting to me until Gandalf dovetails back to the Ring and the proper manner to verify its authenticity. As Isildur wrote:

'Already the writing on it, which at first was as clear as red flame, fadeth and is now only barely to be read. It is fashion in an elven-script of Eregion, for they have no letters in Mordor for such subtle work; but the language is unknown to me. I deem it to be a tongue of the Black Land, since it is foul and uncouth. What evil it saith I do not know; but I here trace here a copy of it, lest it fade beyond recall. The Ring misseth, maybe, the heat of Sauron's hand, which was black and yet burned like fire, and so Gil-galad was destroyed; and maybe were the gold made hot again, the writing would be refreshed. But for my part I will risk no hurt to this thing: of all the works of Sauron the only fair. It is precious to me, though I buy it with great pain.'

"When I read those words, my quest was ended. For the traced writing was indeed as Isildur guessed, in the tongue of Mordor and the servants of the Tower. And what was said therein was already known. For in the day that Sauron first put on the One, Celebrimbor, maker of the Three, was aware of him, and from afar he heard him speak these words, and so his evil purposes were revealed.

"And if that Gollum's years of possession of the Ring were lengthened beyond their span, which is a power only the Great Rings could grant is not proof enough, Galdor, there is the other test that I spoke of. Upon this very ring which you have here seen held aloft, round and unadorned, the letters that Isildur reported may still be read, if one has the strength of will to set the golden thing in the fire a while. That I have done, and this I have read – "

And as Gandalf opens his mouth to speak, a change comes upon him. Nay, not just him, but upon everything! His voice is menacing, powerful, and harsh as stone. A shadow passes over the high sun, and the porch for a moment grows dark. Everyone is shaking in fear and trepidation, and the Elves all have covered their ears as if in pain.

I am not prepared for this. My heart unsettles. The words pierce like needles in my ears and a grating like steel tears at my chest. The world is plunged into darkness and I see evil un-things in the corners of my vision.

And the words Gandalf spoke – the words Isildur marked – the words Sauron chanted were thus:

Ash nazg durbatulȗk,
ash nazg gimabutl,
ash nazg thrakatulȗk
agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

At its conclusion, the shadows fade and the light returns, all sensation of unease swiftly wiped away by whatever magics existed in the city of Rivendell that had been suddenly and viciously shorn away returned.

It is in this moment that I realize my folly; as always, academic research just doesn't compete with field experience.

To read of Sauron and his power, of his wars and his evil was one thing. To experience only the language of his land and feel so disturbed…

I have felt this power before.

These are the song's powers – its gifts.

Anti-life and oblivion.

A bout of foul memories cross my mind in a panic, and my Light reflexively surges preparedly, like a trained muscle to a performance, or a practiced evasion to incoming danger.

Reflex.

…My tier list has just been updated.

But as soon as the darkness appears, it is gone. The notes of tone and staccato of speech die with intent, and evil flees.

A moment's silence passes as everyone comes to grips with what just happened, what was just spoken. Back in the light, they all breathed easy.

Elrond looked categorically pissed.

"Never before has any voice dared to utter words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey," he says, addressing the Wizard by his full title pointedly.

"And let us hope that none will ever speak it here again," Gandalf says without remorse. "Nonetheless I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond. For if that tongue is not soon to be heard in every corner of the West, then let all put doubt aside that this thing is indeed what the Wise have declared: the treasure of the Enemy, fraught with all his malice; and in it lies a great part of his strength of old. Out of the Black Years come the words that the Smiths of Eregion heard, and knew that they had been betrayed:

One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all
and in the Darkness bind them."

Much talk is had after that, and of those things precious little interests me. My ears are shut to such things, but my mind is open like a yawning gravitic fissure, consuming all those things I wished to know without prejudice.

And yet while I intake and categorize that knowledge in the palace of my mind, other thoughts consume me.

Something is wrong. Very wrong.

Since coming to this world, I have thought it exceedingly quaint in such a demeaning manner. I've been locked away in my tower for too long. The world is going to hell in a handbasket around me, and I'm liable to be whipped up in the coming whirlwind. Rather, I already am. The storm has arrived and it looms over my head. Only here in Rivendell do I not notice it. Rivendell sits in the storm's eye, and yet I look up and see clear skies and think to myself all is well?

What a fool I've let myself become. The peace of this Elven refuge had lulled me to sleep. Now the dangers of the wider world come home to roost, crowing and squawking at me, announcing their imminent dooms.

'Awaken, me. Awaken! Shake the dust off your head and open your eyes. Stretch your limbs and summon your vigor. The Darkness comes, and you've been sitting idle. Awake!'

A cold stream flows up my spine like electricity; the familiar peril that haunts me, drives me, focuses me.

I have taken Sauron lightly; he is no charlatan nor petty schemer. He is something far different. Far more. I have seen what that more can become; any creature who can wield language as a weapon attains the right to sit within the highest stratum of foes. I can't afford to flippantly dismiss his machinations, and yet I have done so...

Damn me. Here I've been strutting around like the evil everyone else is concerned about is somehow less than the evil's I have faced. I've looked at the technological disparity between us and thought, surely this Dark Lord cannot be as great a threat as those I have faced.

That was my folly… Assumption.

Now truth comes home to roost.

My blood pumps hot and anxious.

Menace looms.

The Dredgen in me stirs.

"Long yet will that march be delayed," I hear Boromir say defensively as I return to the conversation, sound fading back into my consciousness as my mind is once again set right, my priorities once again in their proper places. "Gondor wanes, you say. But Gondor stands, and even the end of its strength is still very strong."

"And yet its vigilance can no longer keep back the Nine," Galdor counters rightly. "And other roads he may find that Gondor does not guard."

"Then, there are but two choices, as Glorfindel already has declared: to hide the Ring forever or to unmake it. But both are beyond our power. Who will read this riddle for us?"

"None here can do so," Elrond says. "At least none can foretell what will come to pass, if we take this road or that. But it seems to me now clear which is the road that we must take. The westward road seems easiest. Therefore it must be shunned. It will be watched. Too often the Elves have fled that way. Now at this last we must take a hard road, a road unforeseen. There lies our hope, if hope it be. To walk into peril – to Mordor."

Hie eyes are sharp and dark, the peril of his imagination alive in his words.

"We must send the Ring to the Fire."

The meeting came to a swift end not long after those words, though nothing was decided at last nor any future set in stone. All retired to their own corners of the city and dwelled on their own thoughts alone.

Except for me, who had nothing to add during the meeting; I and my thoughts were denied our solitude by Elrond, who invited me to speak with him privately. He bothers with no pretense as our noon meal, which by dint of the sun's arc and the hunger in our bellies is long overdue, is put before us.

Contrary to my initial expectations of the Elves, stereotypes and presuppositions being what they are, they are not vegetarians. I am doubly thankful for that now, as I my mended state of mind seems to have invigorated my appetite, and doubly so.

Elrond didn't fail to notice it.

"You seem excited," he observes with a wry grin. "You say that had nothing to add at the council, and indeed I expected you to say nothing, for I deem that to align with your nature. But I cannot say that in so doing I was not disappointed."

I wash down moist bird-meat with a swig of wine. "My opinion is irrelevant," I say knowing that it is true either way. "My place isn't to dictate what I think should or should not be done with the Ring. Sauron is your enemy, not mine."

Of course, in that final regard I am lying. Sauron is an agent of the Darkness, or rather, he is a Lord of the Darkness in the same way others have been before. The technological disparity between those foes I know to and those who roam the face of this Middle-Earth does not diminish their ontological threat. In many ways, I might consider that disparity to be a sort of deception.

Nevertheless, I want to see what Elrond's reaction will be if he thinks his ploy to invest me into their dichotomic struggle has failed.

I'd be disappointed if he showed any outward displeasure at all.

Surprise, surprise… He does not disappoint. On the contrary, he sees through me and tells me as much with a laugh. "Come Lazarus. Surely you do not think I do not see the conviction on your face. Your heart is closed and your thoughts are well guarded, but more than just those things reveal your intentions."

I smile in return, glad that at least he does not prove or act the fool now that my aggression is returned. I've been playing catch since I have arrived in Rivendell. But catch is for children. As they used to say… it was time to play some real ball.

"I cannot be anything but what I am," I say, echoing a truth that was told me long ago. "Nor can you."

"Indeed," Elrond says with a nod and a straightened back. "I admit, I am hopeful that you may yet aid us in this dilemma, but nothing can be gained from forcing you."

I huff with an ironic laugh. "Then you've learned nothing since Isildur. It might have been worth tossing the Ring into the fire when you had the chance, whether Isildur was attached to it or not. You wouldn't have made many Man-friends, but the world would have been free of Sauron."

"And yet another strife would have killed as many in its advent. Enmity between Edain and Eldar would have most assuredly destroyed our peoples with more surety than Sauron ever could hope for." Elrond counters as if he expected such an answer. Of course, theirs is a storied history to the world and to the people who inhabit it, and the life of even a single hero seems much larger than back home…

Even to me, killing someone as noble as the son of Elendil, even in thought, brings a pang of sorrow to me heart, like destroying some ancient, irreplaceable relic.

And, to Isildur's credit, he can't really be blamed; he couldn't have known what the Ring would do to him, nor what his decisions would cost the world. The Ring was a Trojan horse – no – a Sicilian bull. And Isildur climbed right in, unaware of the danger…

I hum into my drink and chew a fatty bite between my molars. "If I may make bold with my thoughts, Sauron doesn't strike me as a destroyer."

Now Elrond raises an eyebrow, and I know I've caught him off guard. "Oh? You have heard the accounts of those at the counsel. You have read of the death and ruin he wrought in days long past up to now. And yet you say he is not a destroyer. What then is he?"

I nod my head. "If he's bringing other men from the South and the East into his armies, then it's not an issue with 'Man' at all, but rather an issue with 'Man not serving.' If Gondor surrendered and opened its gates him, I doubt Sauron would be as harsh as long as they followed his orders."

"I beg your pardon Master Lazarus if I say that sounds like the defeatist argument of one already broken in spirit."

I feel a grin tug at my lips. "But am I wrong?"

"No." Elrond also smiles, though only after a poignant pause. I think he is pleased that I have divined this truth.

Maybe I'm just patting myself on the back.

"Sauron seeks to bring all of Middle-Earth under his dominion. In this way you are right, but he is not afraid to destroy anything or anyone who stands against him if it is within his power to do so."

"And the fact that he's offering deals and sending out agents is because he… can't destroy you?" I frown as the words come out of my mouth. "No, that doesn't sound right… Rivendell is not a fortress. It wouldn't stand against an invasion. Why then act the friend when the world already learned long ago of his treachery?"

At this, Elrond also frowns, and his dining slows. "It is because of the price in blood that we have paid for even this moderate peace in the world. Gondor feels Sauron's malice keenest, but others to whom Sauron hides his dark ambitions and evil acts do not. And the value of the gifts Sauron offers is not to be underestimated. Three of the Seven Rings of power and the return of Moria. To the Dwarves, those are treasures beyond measure."

"But Sauron would eventually betray them, even if he did intend to follow through on his promises," I said with furrowed brow. "Shouldn't that be obvious? And for that matter, why would they want any of the Seven rings back after seeing what happened to the Nine?"

"Dwarves are made of tougher stock than Men and would not succumb to the rings the way Men did. Though a maddening lust for gold might take them, they would not be directly brought under Sauron's dominion save that he wielded the One," Elrond explains. "And in its absence, the rings would give them power and authority to govern their own."

I nod my head in understanding. "But they would think his offer genuine because most believe the One to be gone forever, and no one would suspect the treachery if they accepted."

Elrond nods. "Even as they would hand over the very device that would enslave them."

I shake my head and resist the urge to let out an appreciative whistle. Even if he's a evil monster, being unable to respect the talents of one's enemy is a disaster waiting to happen. But for Elrond's sake, who doesn't know me well enough to know my meaning, I refrain. "He's a dominator. And a cunning one at that."

"Few know this better than Elvenkind, Lazarus."

Though his methods are certainly less direct, I can't help but be reminded of a certain someone else who had a penchant for dominating his enemies.

The parallels are mounting in stupendous fashion...

"Have Hobbits ever treated with Sauron?" I ask, turning the conversation away from past failings.

"Never," Elrond says with certainty. "For he knows nothing of them, either their name or where they come from. Thus why the Nine ride alone and inconspicuous, seeking to find the way to the Shire."

I nod again and sigh.

"It's no wonder then that Frodo volunteered for such a mission," I say. "It's easy to be brave when you don't know the danger."

When the conversation at the council eventually wormed its way back around to what to do with the Ring, it was generally agreed that it should be destroyed. But to do so, one would have to traverse nigh the whole of Arda's landmass just to toss a ring into a volcano. But that the distance is so great, and through vast wastelands full of danger and adversaries, none could think of who to send on such a fatal errand.

And yet in their midst, it was the Hobbit, Frodo Baggins, who volunteered to take the Ring. It certainly surprised me, actually it would more truthful to say It had caught me entirely off guard. I had expected… well, anyone other than the Hobbit to speak up.

"He knows more than you think he does I wager," says Elrond, "though perhaps not what form that danger will take. Hobbits are resilient creatures, despite their stature, and they are stealthy in ways Men and Dwarves are not."

"Even so, you cannot mean to send him on alone, the other Hobbit notwithstanding," I say, struggling to remember the name of the fat Hobbit whose name I'd heard for the first time today.

"Of course not," Elrond assures with a look. "Already I have sent outriders ahead to scout the realms through which Frodo will be traveling. They will contact the Rangers in the north and the Elves of Mirkwood as well. To that end, Aragorn has gone ahead to scour the land."

"That's all well and good in the local region, but the danger lies thickest outside the boarders of your influence. What then? Surely you do not mean to leave those two defenseless on so great an errand."

"Nay, but on the contrary, a company shall be gathered together who will escort them along to Mordor. Had I a host of Elves in armor of the Elder Days, it would avail little, save to arouse the power of Mordor. Stealth is our chiefest ally in this mission, and so the number must be small."

I chew thoughtfully. "How many do you think?"

"Nine at least," he said immediately. "Nine to contend with the Nazgȗl."

I nod my head. That is good. I know better than most what a small team of Guardians can accomplish where an army of Light may fail.

In these things there is always symmetry.

There is a question I ask in my head, and I turn it over like a smith does a sword mid-forge. The question is not for Elrond, but rather for myself. The sword is for me, and though I smith it I am also its judge.

I tap my fingers on the table contemplatively. Elrond pretends he does not notice.

"Who then will be chosen?" I ask at last.

"Gandalf, assuredly, though he will feign hesitance among his beloved Hobbit friends," he says with a grin, "for this shall be his great task, and maybe the end of his labors."

If the old Wizard is what he's cracked up to be, then he will be an invaluable ally to Frodo. If he was sent to Middle-Earth for nothing else than to stem Sauron's tide of evil, then I can think of no better charge than escorting the device of his doom safely thither. Indeed, as Elrond says, if he succeeds then his mission will be complete.

"Who else? Glorfindel surely."

"Nay, not Glorfindel," Elrond says with a shake of his raven locks. "He is a mighty foe of the enemy, and well known to him and his servants. He would give us away. For the rest, they shall represent the other Free Peoples of the Word: Elves, Dwarves, and Men. I shall decide upon them in the course of time."

Symmetry indeed. Elrond certainly has a taste for symbolism. It's too bad about Glorfindel, but the Elf's logic is sound. And it is only right that such a company is gathered for the task.

And yet…

I look at Elrond with hard eyes. His face is stern, his expression schooled. His sharp features are harsh and lined with wisdom. Knowledge is on his forehead.

I take a breath and look out upon the bright valley beyond. "And where do you think I fit in to all this?" I ask.

Elrond gives me a look that tells me he knows my question seeks more his opinion than reveals my unsurety. He collects himself and leans forward. When he speaks, his words are measured and careful. Not in the way that one might tiptoe around a violent creature, but rather, as one might sneak past a sleeping baby.

"Forgive me if I incorrectly divine the truth of your request," he begs with measured asperity. "I can think of no better place to apply your talents."

Silence settles in the room as we stare at each other.

There it is; the reason and the hope of Elrond and ploy. He has given me leave of his archives, every scroll and book I may want. He has fed me knowledge and teased me wisdom. He has granted me courtesies and privileges that I doubt he would grant to any common guest. He has taken me into his counsel and spoken with me amongst many a trusted ally of his; Gandalf, Glorfindel, Aragorn, and others. He extends to me an invitation to such a debriefing where the peril of the world is laid bare, and the course of their next steps decided.

I know what he wants from me. I know what he hopes from me.

In my opinion, he is far too trusting… but I have said as much already. It is a simple trust these people hold to me. But this world is perhaps less obscure than mine own. Allies are allies, and they are good. Enemies are enemies, and they are evil. I am envious of that simplicity…

But if I am to accept their generosities, then I must also accept their trust, however much I may rightly criticize it.

I feel a sardonic grin twerk the corner of my mouth upwards. "You want me to help them."

It is a statement, not a question.

Elrond nods his head. "I do."

"At the risk of retreading old ground," I start, narrowing my eyes at him, "why?"

"A path is only suitable because it has been retread over again," he counsels with a smile, though he schools himself as he continues. "I believe that it would be a grave mistake to ignore you. You have shown me you are wise, and wield power few can match. If not here, then when and where else might you ply your strengths? For surely if you do not join our enemies, then you cannot sit as a neutral party. War is coming, and it will consume the world ere it's end."

A side should always be taken… Even if it's the wrong side.

I grimace at the echoing whisper in my ear. In the face of annihilation, the indolent are either consumed first, or spared for last. In either case, they're struggle is made futile by their indecision. First or last… the order doesn't matter. Death and devastation comes all the same.

I'm sure Elrond would disagree with my reasoning, though not, I dare say, with my resolution.

"What say you, Lazarus?" He asks at last, his hard eye betraying a wavering confidence in me. He is mostly sure I will accept, but there is always a kernel of doubt that comes with every certainty…

I put his doubts to rest.

"Very well."

I rise from my seat and fold my hands behind my back, standing tall and proud as a Guardian should.

"I will join this fellowship."

A/N: And that wraps up the chapter! Man this one was a tough on to work on, simply because I had to borrow A LOT of content from the book, and interweave my own bits for Lazarus in there. Wasn't easy, and I'm not sure I did a great job, but I can say I did it to the best of my current ability! So in that regard I'm proud!

Now that the Council of Elrond is over, I can get past my writer's block and work on the setting out of the Fellowship. Also I've been working on a lot behind the scenes for whole chapters introducing new characters and such in the future. I'm looking forward to letting you read them as soon as they're ready!

Leave a comment!

Until next time!