"In the worst-case scenario, we'll just fight the Last Alliance War all over again."
At the small, private meeting of only three people, Garrett voiced his fallback plan.
"But any faction that took part in that war back then has weakened so much that they couldn't even muster one-third of their forces from that time."
Elrond did a quick calculation and immediately shook his head in denial. But when he saw the subtle smile on Garrett's face, realization dawned on him.
Oh, right. Things had changed.
Since the end of the Second Age, the Elves had departed westward in great numbers. Few remained. The kingdoms of Men had fractured and declined, each fighting their own wars, and mostly losing them.
As for the Dwarves, there was no need to mention them: their homes were gone, their clans scattered, their people driven underground just to survive, no longer caring for the outside world.
That was how things were a hundred years ago.
But now? Looking at the city-states and leaders before him, if they focused solely on offense, they alone could gather as many troops as in that ancient alliance.
You couldn't deny it. They really could fight.
Garrett continued, "But that's only a backup plan. Personally, I don't want to resort to it unless absolutely necessary."
A war on that scale was no laughing matter. Once it began, both sides would go all in. Even with the Free Cities' superior equipment and combat standards, the losses would be severe.
Mordor's brutal, disciplined armies were nothing like Angmar's half-ruined remnants after ten years of attrition, nor the rabble from the Misty Mountains, underequipped and leaderless.
Against those, Garrett's forces had swept through like a storm. But facing Mordor... that was another story entirely.
Under the shroud of the Dark Will, such a war would be a clash of sheer force. Even mustering all their strength, victory would come hard, far harder than the campaigns against Angmar in its prime. It would be hell itself.
It wasn't that they couldn't fight. Simply put, it would hurt too much to.
In this regard, Garrett had always been a stubborn conservative.
Gandalf shook his head as he listened. Elrond remained silent.
Fight or not fight, only Garrett could decide. Until the situation became truly desperate, neither of them had the standing to urge him into war, because doing so would only breed chaos.
And that chaos... was not something they could bear the consequences of.
Even so, Garrett's words gave them a measure of reassurance.
At least for now, there was a force capable of standing toe-to-toe with the great enemy, so they needn't fear that one misstep would plunge them all into the abyss.
Setting that topic aside for the moment, he thought of the envoys he'd seen on the way over.
"I saw Legolas just now. The Grey Havens sent an emissary too, but Círdan himself didn't come."
Elrond replied, "That's fine. Galdor can speak for Círdan's will."
Galdor, Círdan's messenger, had mainly come to confirm the matter of the One Ring's reappearance. As for Círdan himself...
"He's keeping watch over the sea at the Grey Havens, guarding against any possible threats."
"Oh, that reminds me," Garrett said, clapping his hands. "The City of Waters should also send some forces to monitor the coast. Let me think... maybe we can station an Apprentice-class warship in the bay between Mithlond and the Gulf of Lhûn."
Gandalf nodded in agreement.
"A sensible deployment. With the size of an Apprentice-class ship, even one would be enough to deter enemy fleets. And if necessary, it can sail off quickly..."
Their discussion continued on the terrace.
Meanwhile, beyond the valley, envoys from every land were arriving. Elves, Dwarves, Men, Hobbits... Some had come following mysterious visions in their dreams, seeking answers. Some were here for news. Some had simply arrived by coincidence. And a few were already residents of this place.
"Oh, by the way, where's Aragorn?"
After the meeting ended, Garrett asked casually.
That single question was enough to put a shadow on Elrond's face.
"He..."
Elrond just shook his head.
And Garrett suddenly understood.
Oh, right. Arwen was in Rivendell at this time too.
With so little time to spare, how could the two of them possibly miss such a chance to be together?
---
The night before the council convened.
Before the shards of Narsil, the holy sword, Aragorn stood in silence, lost in thought.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps behind him broke his contemplation.
Boromir.
Following a voice that seemed to call from deep within his heart, the first captain of Gondor had wandered here.
Now, as he stood before the mural depicting the Battle of the Last Alliance, his gaze moved from the figure clad in black armour, wearing a ring, to the broken sword lying before him. For a long while, Boromir said nothing, his mind consumed by unspoken thoughts.
"Welcome, traveler from the South."
Aragorn broke the silence first, slightly surprised himself, and his words made Boromir realize he was not alone.
The old Ranger's ability to stay hidden was indeed impressive.
Boromir turned toward him and gave a small nod.
"And you are?"
"A wanderer, and a friend of Gandalf and Garrett."
"Oh, then it seems we're both here looking for our 'friends.'"
Boromir gave a short, humorless laugh, then turned his gaze back to the shards of Narsil. Reaching out, he picked up a fragment and murmured as he examined it.
"The shards of Narsil, the very sword that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand."
"After all these years, it still gleams sharp and bright."
As his fingers brushed the edge, the sharp blade suddenly sliced open his skin, leaving a thin red line.
Staring at the blood on his fingertip, Boromir recalled an obscure rumour.
They said that Narsil possessed its own will, that it would serve only the one worthy of wielding it. Anyone else who touched it would be hurt. And when that worthy one drew near, the blade would grow keen once more.
Clearly, that person was not him.
Boromir turned sharply to look at Aragorn, who met his gaze in silence.
"It's nothing but a broken relic!"
He threw the sword down and left without another word. He could not bring himself to accept that this nameless wanderer, this man he had never met, was the king he was supposed to serve.
A man he didn't even know. How absurd.
So he thought. But what he did not know was that his father had once known Aragorn well. That during his time in Gondor, Aragorn's deeds had even surpassed those of Denethor himself, earning the praise of many.
Yet Denethor had never spoken of it to his son.
Too many complicated reasons lay behind that silence.
He understood them, deep down, but refused to acknowledge or face them.
Rustle...
After Boromir left, another figure appeared in the room.
The steps were silent. Only the faint whisper of fabric marked the movement.
Aragorn turned, a gentle smile forming on his face.
Yes. This was why he had stayed here tonight. Boromir's visit had merely been an accident.
"Arwen," he spoke her name softly.
They talked and laughed, savoring this rare moment of peace. But Aragorn had miscalculated.
That same night, Frodo, unable to sleep, had wandered out for a walk, and happened to stumble upon the scene. Seeing the two figures leaning close together, he remembered the tale Aragorn had once told him, of the love between an Elf and a Man.
"How romantic," he murmured.
Fortunately, the young Hobbit was tactful enough not to intrude. He only watched for a while from afar before quietly slipping away. And so, at last, Aragorn and Arwen truly shared a moment of quiet together.
But peaceful moments are always fleeting.