A month later, a thrush winged its way into Elarothiel, a glint of sunlight dancing on its feathers. In its beak it bore a small scroll, the summons of the White Council. The moment Kaen Eowenríel received it, he departed without delay, journeying to Rivendell beneath the whispering boughs of autumn.
High in Elrond's great hall, beneath the glass dome where starlight met the mist of waterfalls, the Council was gathered.
There sat Saruman the White, his robe shimmering like fresh snow; Gandalf the Grey, his eyes calm yet alight with care; Galadriel, Lady of Lothlórien, bright as moonlight upon still water; and Lord Elrond Half-elven, grave and wise as the ages themselves.
But among them was one whom Kaen had not expected.
He was an Elf of great antiquity, his long hair silver-grey, a beard upon his chin, rare indeed among his kind. His face bore the serene weariness of endless years, yet his eyes were like twin stars, piercing and filled with the light of remembrance.
Círdan the Shipwright.
The name leapt instantly to Kaen's mind, and with it came a flood of memory, of lore long buried in the scrolls of Lindon and Valinor alike.
Círdan of the Teleri, kinsman to Olwë of the royal house of Alqualondë, had chosen in the dawn of the world to remain in Middle-earth, lord of the Falathrim, the Elves of the Coast. To him the Valar Ulmo had granted friendship, and from the Maia Ossë he had learned the music of the Sea.
He had stood at the grey harbors for millennia, watching the ships of his kin fade into the West. His gift of foresight was great among all the Eldar; it was he who first welcomed Gandalf upon his arrival from across the sea and bestowed upon him the Ring of Fire, Narya.
In the First Age, the white ship Vingilótë, upon which Eärendil sailed to Valinor, had been fashioned by his hands. In the Second, he had obeyed Ulmo's counsel and remained in Middle-earth to guide all Elves who would sail West, guarding the last harbors through countless ages.
Among all the Eldar that yet walked beneath the sun, Círdan was perhaps the eldest, over twenty thousand years old, a living fragment of the Elder Days.
Kaen remembered their brief meeting years ago, when the Shipwright had visited Elarothiel to behold the Golden Tree. Their paths had crossed but once, yet Kaen had felt the weight of centuries in his presence.
Now, before that venerable being, Kaen bowed deeply. "I did not expect that you would join this Council, Lord Círdan. It is an honor beyond words."
Círdan smiled, inclining his head. "Once, I was bound to the Grey Havens, bidding farewell to my people. But because you, Kaen of Eowenría, have saved the Elves of Middle-earth from fading, my duty is lightened. Thus, as a member of this Council, I come gladly to lend my voice."
The gathering exchanged greetings and took their seats.
Saruman, ever the first to speak, turned to Kaen. "So then, young lord, you have called us together in haste. What matter bears such weight that you summon the White Council itself?"
Kaen's expression darkened. "A grave one, Lord of Isengard."
He spoke of the fortress in the Ettenmoors, of the Cold-drakes bound by iron and shadow, and of the resurgence of Angmar's Witch-king. When he had finished, the chamber fell silent.
"Yet," Kaen continued, "it was not merely these discoveries that brought me to summon you. The true reason, my friends, is this: the Enemy grows stronger."
At his signal, Elven guards entered bearing a heavy chain. Between them they dragged an iron cage, which they set upon the marble floor with a dull clang. Within it lay a withered Orc, breathing shallowly, its eyes faintly red beneath grime.
The sight made even the wise draw breath.
Saruman rose first, robes whispering as he approached the cage. He studied the creature keenly, his brows furrowing. "There is a power within this one," he murmured, "faint, but ancient and foul. I feel the echo of a darkness older than Mordor."
Galadriel, Elrond, and Círdan joined him, each examining the pitiful being through eyes that had seen the world's first dawn.
After a time, Círdan spoke softly, his voice like the rustle of the sea: "This creature reminds me of the ancient Orcs of Morgoth's making, in the First Age."
Galadriel's tone was grave. "Not yet of that same depth, but the shadow within them… yes, it is kindred to that same evil."
Elrond nodded. "It is the power of Morgoth himself. In the First Age, he sank his malice deep into the bones of the earth. It lingers still in all dark places."
All eyes turned then to Kaen, waiting for his account.
He inclined his head. "You recall Lord Brill of Azure Spring, once a mere man, transformed by Morgoth's cursing into a creature of dreadful might before he fell. Two months ago, my scouts found signs of similar corruption. Orcs from the Ettenmoors raided and burned one of our northern villages. So I sent my King's Guards to uncover the truth and bring back a prisoner."
He gestured toward the cage. "That is what they found. And under questioning, this Orc confessed—the realm of Angmar has gathered strength anew. Before winter's end, their armies will march south."
He paused, letting the weight of it settle. "Their dark priests have learned to draw upon the buried power of Morgoth, to twist and remake the Orcs in his image. They are faster, stronger, more savage than ever before."
Silence gripped the chamber.
Elrond's gaze grew distant. "If this is true, it is a peril to rival the Wars of Beleriand. Another age of ruin approaches."
Gandalf's eyes darkened. "If the Witch-king wields Morgoth's power, then Sauron of Mordor surely does as well. The two evils may be moving in accord."
Saruman frowned. "Then Gondor stands upon the knife's edge. They have fought Mordor openly for generations, while Rohan's strength wanes. Their king, young will not be able to offer much aid."
Galadriel's voice was soft, but resolute. "Then we must stand united. I shall send word to Turgon, Steward of Gondor. And if need arises, the hosts of Lothlórien shall ride south."
Kaen nodded. "And I will send word to the Caladhîn Elves. Should the darkness come, Yenagath shall lead twenty thousand of his kin to join your host and fight beside Gondor."
So they spoke long into the evening. When the Council at last adjourned, a pact was forged,an alliance of mutual defense, a promise that the Free Peoples of Middle-earth would not stand alone again.
Kaen was tasked to hold the northern frontier; the others would safeguard their realms and ready their armies. Círdan, for his part, revealed that in Lindon the Elves were already gathering strength, and soon would form a kingdom anew in the West.
When asked who would wear its crown, the Shipwright only smiled faintly and said nothing. But in his ancient eyes, the others glimpsed the glimmer of a secret yet to unfold.
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T/N:
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