Fanfic 🧝Elrond and the 🧙Blue Wizards

[Kiredor]

ELROND AND THE BLUE WIZARDS (Title to be changed)

Prologue

The Pursuit of Truth

Rose Gamgee lay on her eiderdown covered bed, her eyes closed and at peace with the world. Her husband Sam held her hand to his cheek while tears rolled down his cragged, brown face. He recalled a fond memory of them during their childhood. They played in the Bywater Pool, laughing and splashing each other. Rosie Cotton she was then, but Sam knew there would be no other. Now they’d been married sixty-two years.
The bedroom was quiet, though filled with their thirteen children and three grandchildren and they listened as Sam spoke, ‘Goodbye, my petal’ he whispered, using her loving pet name for the last time.
Today rolled in the 60th mid-year’s day of the Fourth Age. Rays of its sunlight twinkled on the tears of the Gardner family, the name the Gamgees had been honoured with after Sam replanted the Shire with Lady Galadriel’s gift from over sixty-five years ago.
It was there, on the shores of Lothlórien, she gave Sam a small grey wooden box. On the lid sat an embedded silver rune; translated as ‘G’ for Galadriel. Inside, it held elven earth from Galadriel’s orchard and a single silver nut of a Mallorn tree. It was the last of its kind anywhere east of the Belegaer sea or west of the Mountains of Shadow. After the sowing of that single nut all those years ago, the tall majestic Mallorn woods of Hobbiton that sprang from it could be seen stretching for many miles, standing as silent sentinels as if protecting the hobbits’ realm.
Sam buried Rosie next to the Bywater Pool with her barrow mound facing west. He thought that way she would enjoy the countless beautiful Ilúvatar sunsets, and he would remember himself sitting there with her.
The entire Gardner family began the journey to the seaport of the Grey Havens the following day. They sat in two hay wagons pulled by four sturdy ponies, packed with enough food and water for the seventeen hobbits and their ponies, and headed west along the Great East Road. They rode their luck (so to speak), for the six days it took to travel the one hundred and fifty miles only once did it rain; then the sun dried them quick enough.
As the family reached the port of Grey Havens at last, they wished to savour this last day with Sam. They decided to sit on a hill for a final meal and hear more tales of Bilbo, Frodo and of course their hero Sam.
The hill overlooked the beautiful harbour with its architecture hewed into the natural grey rock and outlying pinnacles guarding the entrance, built by the Elves of Lindon in the Second Age who called it Mithlond.
Sam, as a ring-bearer and now aged one hundred and two, welcomed the longstanding offer from the elves; to sail into the west and live out the end of his days in the undying lands. He would see Frodo and Bilbo once more.
After they ate their fill and the telling of tales was complete, the Gardener family walked with Sam down to the water’s edge. He stood on the dock and looked out to the Gulf of Lune. He wore smart green velvet breeches, a brass-buttoned yellow waistcoat, and a green jacket. He draped one arm with a dark green cloak pinned with a golden Lothlórien leaf, with the other he held a brown leather satchel to his shoulder. He beamed a smile across his face which made wrinkles deepen around his sad brown eyes. One by one his children and grandchildren hugged and kissed him, their faces full of tears and sorrow.
Elfstan, his twenty-two-year-old grandson, was second last to come forward. Sam stepped forward and squeezed him tight. Elfstan was the best of the gardeners of Hobbiton, and one of the most serious hobbits imaginable. He was built much in the same way as Sam, only bigger.
‘Do you have to leave us Grandpa Sam?’ he pleaded; his eyes almost spent of moisture.
Sam choked as he answered him, ‘I made a promise to Mr Bilbo and Mr Frodo. I told them I would see them again one day, and it’s a promise I must keep.’ Sam tousled Elfstan’s brown shaggy hair then kissed his forehead.
Elanor, his eldest, approached him last. She cuddled adoringly into Sam’s arms, with her golden hair flowing on the sea breeze,
Frodo Baggins suggested her name from the star-shaped golden flowers they saw growing on the forest floor in Lothlórien as they trekked their perilous journey across the land of Mordor to Oroduin. The land with a fiery mountain at its centre. The common speech called it Mount Doom, whose molten inferno was the only thing able to destroy Sauron’s infernal ‘One Ring.’
Sam inhaled a deep breath, shaking as uncontrolled emotion took over. He let their embrace linger awhile as he remembered the day of her birth. Moments later he loosened his hold and looked into her bright blue eyes. He smiled as he said, ‘You were born at the end of a glorious age my Elanorellë the fair. You have seen sixty-one summers and have learned much in that time. So…’
Sam turned to his favourite satchel and rummaged inside to lift out a thick, well-thumbed book. The book was leather bound and coloured the deepest crimson. His voice croaked a little as he said, ‘This I entrust to you my beautiful flower. It’s the book Bilbo and Frodo penned their stories into.’
Elanor widened her eyes in disbelief, ‘You must be joking Da. I can’t take it, it’s yours and Frodo’s and Mr Bilbo’s. I’ve no right to be holding onto something as precious as this.’
Sam smiled his usual sheepish grin as he replied, ‘It’s called the Red Book of Westmarch; your husband Fastred will like that.’ Sam watched fresh tears flow from his daughter’s eyes, as he continued. ‘You loved the tales in this book my golden girl, and so will generations more of Gardner children who know our name of Gamgee.’
Sam hesitated, making his face a little more serious. ‘Now, I must ask one last thing of you. Don’t go showing the book around to others. My writings is not as good as Mr Bilbo, nor as Mr Frodo’s. There’s nought clever in the words I used. So, hide it away safe from prying eyes and be wary and watchful of any strangers who asks after its whereabouts. You promise me?’
Elanor beamed, more than she had for a long time since her mother Rosie became old and unwell.
She replied, ‘I will, Da,’ then smiled. ‘I can still see both you and Ma reading them to all of us when we were little ones. So, I’ll do the same, don’t you worry.’
He didn’t tell her about the secret sewn into the binding. He couldn’t.
Sam turned to the rest of his family and said, ‘Well, this is it. I’m leaving now. My love to you all. I will miss you terribly but will think of you every day. Bye now.’
As Sam turned, a tall handsome elf stood by a beautiful sailing ship. This was no ordinary elf. His name was Nardír, the fourth son of the most famous ‘Círdan the shipwright.’ Nardír stood over seven feet tall and broader than his famous father. He bowed his head to the ageing ring-bearer, and with a wave of his hand towards the ship, said to Sam, ‘The white shores of Valinor await you. Your esteemed kin, the most revered of all shire-folk, will be glad to see you. It is my greatest honour to take you there.’
Sam looked at Nardír with wide eyes and an increasing unsettled stomach before saying, ‘I’ve never sailed on a sea before, so I’m not making any promises to be one of your best passengers.’
The elf smiled with a kind nod, and replied, ‘The eastward wind is favourable, and it is almost sunset. Now is the time we must leave.’
Círdan’s elven-designed ship was moored at the stony wall of the seaport, bobbing against the evening tide. Sam thought it reminded him of a painting of another elven ship, known as the Vingilótë. With its white timbers of Birchwood, oars of golden Acacia, billowing sails of silver cotton, and a beautiful carved swan-shaped prow; it waited to be sailed into the west.
Sam didn’t know it was a copy of the same ship, and it was old, ancient beyond measure by shire reckoning. As he looked above the mizzen mast at the rear of the ship, he could see the Lonely Star twinkling above the horizon of the setting sun, showing the way to their destination, and he thought. 'Yes, it’s time.'
Sam walked with tentative steps as he boarded the ship and began quoting words of the last entry Bilbo penned in the Red Book.
‘Day is ended, dim my eyes, but journey long before me lies.
Farewell, Friends! I hear the call. The ship’s beside the stony wall.
Foam is white and waves are grey; beyond the sunset leads my way.’
Nardír released the moorings and, with the sails set ready, pulled up the anchor. The magnificent ship began to slice through rippling foam and towards the open starlit sea.
As Sam watched the harbour wall and the faces of his kin retreat into the distance. He called back to Elanor.
‘Remember sweet daughter of mine, keep it hidden, keep it safe.’

Here ends the prologue of Sam finally leaving Middle-earth and sailing to be with his life-long friend Frodo.


We are now in the 121st year of the 4th Age, on the shores of Tirion - East Valinor

Chapter 1 - The Fading Star of Elendil

Above the Woods of Oromë, at the foot of the Pelóri Valion, a waxing gibbous moon lit up the night sky and flooded the forest with its silver light.
Elrond, once the bearer of the ring known as Vilya; Vice-regent and herald to the High King Gil-galad, and last Lord of Rivendell, sat on a fallen moss-covered Mallorn tree. The ancient half-elven son of Eärendil opened his grey eyes which remained glassed in grief, and he looked down once more into his left hand. There, he gripped hard on the Elfstone known as the Elessar. The lustrous star-shaped white gem, known in Middle-earth as the “Star of Elendil,” the gift once glowing with energy, now dulled and lifeless.
In front of Elrond, stood the last remaining Elf of Rivendell. Having placed the Elessar in Elrond’s hand, he remained silent but tearful. His greatest and most honourable task, bestowed upon him by Galadriel, Lady of the Galadhrim and Mistress of Magi, was almost at an end.
Elrond’s heart had broken on hearing the soft-spoken Sindarin tongue of the Rivendell elf’s message.

“Lord Elrond. It is with the greatest of sorrows I bring terrible tidings. Aragorn II, known as King Elessar, King of Arnor and Gondor, and Queen Arwen, the Evenstar, known also as Undómiel, of the Reunited Kingdom have passed from this realm.”

Elrond stood unsteady as several emotional breaths rose in his chest and walked over to the elf named Elrohir. Placing a hand on his shoulder, and with his eyes still watering, he mournfully said, “Thank you, Elrohir. I release you from Galadriel’s command, and mine.”
The younger elf’s shoulders slumped and shook a little. As he lifted his head, he struggled to look into Elrond’s eyes, looking forlorn and lost within himself.
Elrond brought up his other hand gripping both Elrohir’s shoulders, and said, “With the highest distinction and most honourable allegiance, you have fulfilled your oath, my son. No more can, nor will, be asked of you.”
Elrohir looked up and saw the comforting, still weeping, eyes of his father and collapsed into him; his youthful, thick, long black hair entwined with Elrond’s whose thin greying locks flowed in the sea breeze.
Moments later, Elrond released his fatherly embrace and enquired stoically, “Now tell me, what news of your brother? Why is he not here to grieve with us?”
Elrohir winced a little, replying “Elladan is well, father. His grief for our young sister has not diminished, however, nor has his appetite for living amongst the remaining Dúnedain. I fear he seeks continued revenge on the Easterlings and the Haradrim for the destruction of our ancestral home Imladris.”
Elrond nodded in acquiescence and turned to sit down again. Stopping in mid-step, he turned back to look at Elrohir. Sighing quietly, he said, “It is late, and you are weary my son, and in need of rest. I will see you in the morn when you must tell me everything!”
Elrohir bowed his head and left for the resting boughs of the trees. There he would eat, meditate, and blend the living night with deep dreams. The walk through the glorious forest did nothing to ease his anguish. As the silvern moonlight of Valinor danced his walking shadow on the ground, Elrohir took no comfort in its beauty.
Upon reaching the sleeping boughs, within a golden rondure of Mallorn trees, its thick canopy diminished the light of the moon. In that same darkness with his exhaustion almost complete, Elrohir sought the nearest hammock and let himself drop inside to the comforting shape of the bound giant Silver Mullein leaves.

The following morning, as the sun began to light the world, the smell of goodly meats burdened the breakfast boards, and soft chatter of Sindarin Elvish filled the air. However, Elrohir held no feeling for company. He sat away from his kin, beneath some blazing torches, and simply broke his fast with fruit and berries. When he had his fill, he set out to find his father.
After a walk of about a mile or so, he found Elrond sat at the edge of the forest on one of seven well-made chairs of white oak. He was staring out west to the Outer Sea where the island of Tol Eressëa used to be visible in the morning mist. That isle was lost to the sea many years ago, never to be seen again.
'Just like Arwen.' Elrohir thought.
Throughout the forest a distant sound of gentle and melodic Elvish voices echoed as they sang laments of Arwen and Aragorn’s lives.
Elrohir approached Elrond and asked with a quiet voice ‘Father. Are you ready to listen to their last days?’
Elrond’s face looked more saddened than the previous day. He nodded in approval at Elrohir’s request and spoke, ‘Please, sit. Do not rush your telling. I fear it will tarnish my memory of them.’
Elrohir sat down and watched his father make himself comfortable. He began. ‘By the wishes of Galadriel and your command, Elladan and I gave constant guard and companionship to both Arwen and Aragorn when asked for. Many years passed in peace though the campaigns against Easterlings and the Haradrim brought intermittent peril to our charge.’
Elrond looked deep into Elrohir’s eyes and saw his despair. ‘Please continue.’ He said with a soft voice, and smiled to comfort to his son.
Elrond’s pleased appearance gave Elrohir new vigour as he continued. ‘Towards the end, we saw Aragorn ageing and weakening and his Dúnedain blessing of long life faded fast. The brightness within his eyes dimmed and he often talked of his son and heir Eldarion as the new King.’
Elrohir paused to see if his father wished to hear more.
Elrond lifted his head and said, ‘Please continue, albeit slower.’ Elrond’s face tightened as he dreaded the telling of their deaths, waiting for the pain and sorrow of the words to come.
Elrohir continued, ‘We were with Aragorn and Arwen when they travelled to the House of the Kings in Rath Dínen. He passed his crown and sceptre to Eldarion...’ Elrohir hesitated, knowing he must give the new name and titles, and it pained him. ‘It was on this day Eldarion the first became the twenty-seventh King of Arnor, thirty-sixth King of Gondor and the second of the High Kings of the Reunited Kingdom.’
Elrond raised a questioning hand ‘Did Aragorn have any last words?’
Elrohir cursed himself for allowing his grief to forget the King of Gondor’s message. He pulled a small parchment from his pocket and read:
‘I am the last of the Númenoreans and King of the Elder Days, and to me has been given a span of life thrice that of Men of Middle Earth but the grace to go at my will and give back the gift. Now, therefore, I will sleep.’
As Elrohir finished reading, Elrond held out his hand and Elrohir placed the parchment in his palm.
‘Please continue,’ said Elrond.
Elrohir grimaced and tightened his jaw as he began the telling of their deaths and last resting places.
‘Aragorn lay at the bottom of the slopes of Mount Mindolluin and passed from this realm on the same day. Arwen stayed with him, but refused to allow their son Eldarion, or their daughters Elanór and Eniphrëdil to watch their father die.’
Elrond nodded his approval in silence, although he could hear his son choking back the tears.
As Elrohir began to speak of Arwen’s demise his faltering voice worsened.
‘Aragorn’s death consumed Arwen in grief. The brightness of her eyes slaked and to her people she became cold and grey as nightfall in winter. Arwen left the city of Minas Tirith not long after she bade farewell to her children, and to all whom she loved. She travelled with her elf-maidens to the land of Lórien and dwelt there. When the last of the leaves fell and spring had not yet come, she laid to rest upon Cerin Amroth and closed her eyes forever. She lies there in her green grave, surrounded by the White and golden Elanorellë flowers she adored.’
Elrond’s tears flowed once more once Elrohir finished his telling. His entire body trembled as he closed his eyes to the world around.
Elrohir remained sitting in front of Elrond, unsure what to do. A few seconds later he ignored the uncomfortable silence, and sat down next to his father. He closed his eyes and shared the peace of quiet reflection.

Within a few hundred heartbeats of silence and memories, the singing from the woodlands stopped and both elves felt a powerful presence in the air. The presence neared them from the Northeast; stronger than anything they knew in the undying lands. Their eyes opened straight away as they stood, drawing their weapons.
Elrond’s magnificent Elvish-made sword, the Hadhafang, nicknamed the ‘throng-cleaver,’ shone brightly in the morning sun, ready to protect its owner. (I’m not sure they would need weapons in Valinor! But there you go.)
Elrohir raised and strung his Mallorn bow with two arrows quicker than he could blink, prepared for whatever came out of the trees.
A strange figure of a man, not as tall as the elves, walked towards them covered in a light-coloured cloak with the hood hiding his features. Both elves looked at each other in mutual surprise before snapping their heads to look at the shrouded figure once more.
Elrond shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Stop! Name yourself or feel the strength of Hadhafang and the pain of Mallorn arrows!’
An old-sounding voice emanated from the cloaked character. ‘Master Elrond, is this how you greet an old friend of Valinor?’
Elrond relaxed at the familiar voice. ‘Mithrandir! You should know better than to approach unknown to elves.’
Elrohir released his bow, and gaped, letting both arrows fall to the ground. He appeared visibly stunned at such proximity to the White Wizard. Olórin was his Maiar name, revered in Valinor and regarded by the elves as the greatest spirit of the Maiar and the wisest of the Istari.
The Wizard spoke with a grin across his features, ‘My title, as well you know young Elrond, Ring-bearer of Vilya, Vice-regent of Eriador and Herald to Gil-galad—is Gandalf the White, so please be kind enough to use it.’
Elrond replied with a bemused look on his face, ‘We sensed your arrival and your ancient power. It is stronger than before—much stronger.’ He paused for a moment before asking, ‘How did you get here? The last Elven ship left the Grey Havens many years ago.’
Gandalf replied, ‘A perilous journey on the back of Gwaihir the eagle. Due to the great distances, he was reluctant at first, but the severe need for my return persuaded his agreement. He is resting at the docks in Alqualondë.’
‘And your power?’ repeated Elrond.
Gandalf nodded his agreement and answered, ‘Yes, yes. I will tell you later, but only in private council.’
Elrond gave a nod and hint of a smile before returning to his solemnity, his grief for Arwen still raw.
Elrohir remained bewildered by the conversation but stood silent.
Elrond saw his son’s discomfort and with a guiding hand brought him forward. ‘Gandalf, allow me to introduce one of my twin sons, Elrohir. I think you have met once before.’
Elrohir stepped forward and greeted Gandalf with a respectful sweep of his bow.
‘Gracious me, you have grown,’ said Gandalf with a knowing smile. ‘Last time I saw you would have been, let me think. Ah yes, you were only 1,550 years old, and one of the competing novices in the Rivendell archery competition, I believe.’
‘NOVICE?’ fumed Elrohir, and was about to answer when Elrond’s voice interrupted. ‘Gandalf, my friend. You left for the Grey Havens twelve years ago. We did not expect your return for many years. Why have you come back so soon?’
With a frown Gandalf replied, ‘I have grave news from the far realms of Middle-earth, and you will not like it.’ A slight pause hung in the air before Gandalf added, ‘Not one bit.’
Without a word, Gandalf stepped forward and placed a hand on Elrond’s shoulder. ‘But now is not the time for such tidings. I have heard the tragedy of Aragorn and your beloved Arwen. The news came to me through Meneldor, the great Eagle of the northern mountains. It is with the deepest grief I share with you, which calls for my council to wait.’
‘No!’ Elrond snapped. ‘I wish to hear what ails you and bids a return from your quest.’
Gandalf closed his eyes for a few seconds and inhaled an unusually large breath, then blowing his cheeks out hard, answered. ‘Very well. When Meneldor and his convocation informed me of Aragorn and Arwen’s passing, they also mentioned strange goings-on, and rare happenings in the lands of Mordor, and beyond to the South and East.’ Gandalf watched their surprised faces with interest.
Elrond replied with a mild glower, ‘What happens there within the dominion of men is of no concern to me. We left them the precious lands of Middle-earth to live out their lives in whichever way they chose. They must face these—strange goings-on, and rare happenings alone.’
Gandalf blurted out, ‘It is said a Blue Wizard lives there, and…’ he let his words trail off into silence.
Elrond looked into Gandalf’s eyes with an intensity he had not felt in many years, promptly asking, ‘And what?’
Gandalf's response was not pleasant news, ‘And, it would seem, an evil resides within him. If this is true, we must find out…’
‘A Blue Wizard .’ interrupted Elrond, ‘Is this known to be veritable?’ he challenged.
Gandalf shook his head slightly. ‘You very well know my old friend the great eagles do not lie, nor do they exaggerate news.’ The White Wizard continued, ‘The Blue Wizards travelled into the East with Saruman, by the order of Oromë, Lord of this very forest, but neither returned to the West.’
Elrond voiced his irritability, ‘I am not so old and mind-addled to require history lessons from you. Is there a point to these useless utterances?’
Gandalf closed his eyes, as if in deep reflection.
Elrond glanced at Elrohir before returning his gaze once more to the silent Wizard .
A moment later, Gandalf opened his eyes, and they were furious. He raised his arms, holding his staff in both hands. The sky seem to darken, and he grew in size and looked ominous over them. Gandalf’s voice grew deep and in strength as a deafening roar, ‘When I utter the histories, Elrond; the Peredhel son of Eärendil, you will listen!’
Shocked to their core, both elves bowed their heads in muted submission. Elrond detested being reminded his grandfather, Tuor Eladar, was indeed a man. However, deep down he knew Tuor was a hero of the Edain and of the Elves in the last years of the First Age. These great deeds negated the barbarous slur on his parentage.
Gandalf subdued his powerful oration and the light of the sky brightened. He continued, albeit still angry. ‘They went as emissaries to the East and South to enemy-occupied lands, as was told to me. What success they had? I know not. I fear they failed, as Saruman did, and I suspect they were founders of covert cults and ‘magic’ traditions, and they survived the fall of Sauron.’
Gandalf continued to glower at them, ‘Their original task was to circumvent Sauron. To bring help to the few tribes of Men who had rebelled from Melkor-worship, to stir up rebellions—and after Sauron’s first fall to search out his hiding; in this I fear they failed. There were indications they caused much dissension and disarray among the tribes of the dark East. There is evidence they had a profound influence on the history of the Second and Third Ages, in weakening and disarraying these forces of the East, who would have otherwise outnumbered the peoples of the West.
Gandalf’s eyes softened as his anger subdued further, ‘It would appear these Blue Wizards, or Ithryn Luin in your tongue, have survived but hidden for a reason. A reason of which I cannot fathom.’
Elrond spoke quietly, making sure not to anger his powerful ally again. ‘Thank you, Gandalf. You are a true and loyal friend of Valinor, and your return with this at the expense of your…’ he paused a little, ‘clandestine pilgrimage is much welcomed.’
Gandalf nodded and half-smiled at the futile vanity of Elrond. He still would not reveal the purpose of his original pilgrimage.
The Wizard continued ‘These tidings are the worst I could bring to these hallowed shores. The lands of Mordor, the Haradrim realm, and those of the Southrons and beyond, are not devoid of life as we once thought. These lands, which for over half a century have lain in ruin, are being rebuilt. This has revealed the possibility of unknown enemies to us. Their identities, like watching tears in the rain, are invisible even to me. But what we know, in recent times, is there has risen in these vile lands a Magocracy.’
Elrond raised his head and said, ‘So, you suspect both Alatar and Pallando are alive?’
Gandalf acknowledged, ‘Yes. It would seem they are very much alive, and together they could be powerful, even more so than Sauron himself, although I do not know how or where they would find this unknown power. If I remember, they are not known by these names to the people of Middle-earth, but call themselves Morinehtar, the Darkness-slayer, and Rómestámo, the East-helper.
Elrohir gasped, ‘But, as you indicated their evil intent, this could mean the end of Middle-earth and all who live there.’ He turned to his father and added, ‘Elladan lives there, as do the last of the Dúnedain.’
His father, Elrond, spoke first, ‘By the will of Eru, the end of their dominion has always been a possibility. It is with a great sorrow I will hear of their demise.’
Gandalf frowned at Elrond’s indifferent remark but said nothing.
Elrohir opened his arms in dismay, ‘But father, you cannot let this happen. The old alliance can remain strong within the realm of men. They will look to Elvenkind to honour it once more. You know this.’
Elrond snorted derisively at his son. ‘Very well my firstborn, answer me this. Do you think me heartless? Do you think I have lost the intelligence to know what is right?’ With his eyes firming to a scowl, he added, ‘It would be foolish to think after all this time the Blue Wizards have united to destroy the world of men and ruin Middle-earth. These Istari, charged with an honourable task to disrupt everything in Sauron’s lands and to thwart his allies, have nothing to gain from this!’
Elrohir looked stunned at his father’s lack of sympathy to the plight of men and glanced towards Gandalf with wide and pleading eyes.
Gandalf re-joined the conversation, ‘The Magocracy would suggest otherwise, my Lord Elrond. You must never underestimate the power of the Istari. If the Blue Wizards have indeed become corrupted, they may not see the world of Valinor or Middle-earth as we do, or how they used to...’
Elrohir asked, ‘Would they see us as their foe, Mithrandir? I, I mean Gandalf, apologies.’ The younger Elf sounded perplexed and nervous in his stance against his father’s position.
Gandalf allowed a faint smile to cross his face and placed a hand on Elrohir’s shoulder. ‘Nothing is certain until we know what is true, and more importantly, what is not.’
Elrond interjected, ‘And how do we find this out, Gandalf? Our contact with Middle Earth no longer exists and for good reason. There are next to no boats left; even the ones which still exist are far from basic seaworthiness let alone long voyages.’
Gandalf grinned. ‘There is one. And it is ready to sail at the rock harbour of Alqualondë. A famed swanship with a golden beak and eyes of jet is moored there. It’s the one which brought Samwise Gamgee to these undying lands more than half a century ago. The Vingilótë.’
Elrond looked surprised. ‘The Vingilótë?’ The ship my father and Círdan built in the 1st Age.’
Elrohir looked up smiling and murmured a song, ’Eärendil was a mariner, tarried in Arvernien...’
‘Enough,’ snapped Elrond, his eyebrows lowering. ‘As well you know, my father Eärendil the Mariner sailed the Vingilótë into the night sky. Never will it return.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said an exasperated Gandalf, ‘He did, and with the brightest of the three Silmarils upon his brow, sailed Vingilótë into the sky where the jewel shines forever as the morning star,’ Gandalf’s jaw trembled as he angered slightly once more, ‘It is the second ship bearing the same name I’m referring to.’
Elrond roared, ‘The Vingilótë II is far too old to be sailing across the Belegaer Ocean! It’s called the Sundering Sea for an excellent reason!’
Elrohir’s smiling face turned ashen at the Wizard’s admonishment. He had not heard his father raise his voice so loud in over two hundred years.
Gandalf nodded as he spoke, remembering not to enrage Elrond over the tragic memories of his father’s demise. ‘Normally this would be true. But there is a certain young Elf who has looked after it well and kept its seaworthiness intact. You know of him; Nardír.’
Elrond’s eyes flickered as he tried to recollect the name. His face brightened as he remembered. ‘Ah yes, I recall the name of the youngest son of my old friend Círdan.’ Elrond’s smile disappeared as quick as it came. ‘Nevertheless, I have made my decision Gandalf. The return of the Star of Elendil, whose power has faded into darkness forever, means there is nothing left in Middle-earth for the Elves. I will not allow a fruitless search of Middle-earth just on the words of Meneldor the eagle, or to satisfy your perverse curiosity.’ He turned and walked away, signalling the conversation was over.
Elrohir lowered his voice as he said to Gandalf, ‘My father says there is nothing for the Elves because Arwen is gone, and he knows my brother Elladan will return to these shores by his command. But Gandalf, we cannot abandon the people of Middle-earth. They are innocent and don’t deserve to to suffer any evil.’
Gandalf whispered, ‘Your father is strong, wise, and noble, but he’s also loving and kind. Don’t let his grief cloud your judgement, Elrohir. He will come to his senses in the days to come—I hope. You are correct in knowing the strength of the old alliance. It stays resilient and we must protect it. Now, I have important people with whom I must hold council. Meet me at the harbour of Alqualondë in six days at sunset - and tell no-one of this.’
Elrohir appeared uneasy and paused in thought briefly. His shoulders slumped before he nodded with a reluctant acknowledgement.

Gandalf strode towards the southern woods to hold his council. One hour later, he stood at the entrance to the southern woods, and saw five familiar small hillocks rise into the air. Upon those hillocks were built three small and unusual homesteads which looked out of place in the elven world of mountains, trees and sleeping boughs. Gandalf smiled at the homesteads which he’d frequented before.
The first one, like the others, had a round front door, painted green, with a brass knob in the middle. Gandalf knew the door opened onto a long narrow hall: a comfortable tunnel with wood panel walls, floors tiled here and there with a scattering of picturesque rugs. Wooden chairs would sit in the main entrance hall, with ornate pegs for hats and coats—the owner was always fond of visitors.
The frontages of each homestead looked very homely, for these were the only ones to have windows. Deep-set round windows which overlooked the small well tended gardens. Behind them, tall Oak and Beech trees sloped down to a slow-moving stream.
Gandalf used his staff to knock gently on the door to the first house. No answer came. He knocked again, twice as long and twice as hard. But no answer came.
‘I’m sorry, but Bilbo Baggins died a few years ago,’ came a voice Gandalf knew well, ‘can I help you at all?’
‘I’m sorry too Frodo; old habits. I still expect him to answer.’
As Gandalf turned to face the famous hobbit, the moment of recognition came quick.
‘Gandalf? Gandalf! Gracious me! Sam, Sam, it’s Gandalf!’ he shouted.
Gandalf dropped to one knee and with outstretched arms laughed aloud, saying,
‘Frodo Baggins, my dear, dear friend.’
Frodo ran towards his old companion and jumped into his arms. Seconds later, Sam came running out, yelling, ‘Mr Gandalf! Mr Gandalf!’ He too rushed into the welcoming arms of the White Wizard . Together they embraced, laughing, and crying as the emotion of the unexpected arrival overtook them.
Frodo then stood back, arms folded, and said, ‘You’re early, exceedingly early.’
Gandalf frowned and replied sternly, ‘A Wizard , Master Frodo, is never exceedingly early, nor is he ever exceedingly late. He arrives precisely when he means to.’ A few seconds passed before they both burst out laughing at the familiar scolding.
Sam looked bemused and thought, ‘I’ll never understand those two. Could it be I’m never meant to?’ As a pause overtook the happy welcoming, Sam asked, ‘Who’d like a cup of tea then?’, as a strange look arose between Gandalf and Frodo.

‘What’s wrong, Gandalf? Why are you here? Why have you returned so early?’ asked Frodo, his concerned look and soulful eyes begging for an answer.
Gandalf felt his heart sink deep in his chest and sighed.
‘Mr Gandalf? What is it?’ asked Sam, looking worried. He’d seen this kind of look before, and he didn’t like it.
‘When was the last time either of you spoke to Lord Elrond?’ enquired Gandalf.
Sam piped up, ‘Last week, while we was taking some leeks, carrots, and taters to the celebration of the new Harvest Day, withstanding my honour as Master Gardner of Yavanna’s Plantation.’ looking proud as only a hobbit could.
Gandalf said, ‘I think I’ll take your offer of tea Master Gardner. We have a lot to talk about.’

When Bilbo died, Sam built a remembrance garden next to Bilbo’s house and carved three beautiful oak seats. Gandalf, Frodo, and Sam now sat on these same seats. However, there was no barrow mound as was the custom for hobbits.
At Bilbo’s request, the Elves laid him to rest in a cave halfway up the tallest of the Pelóri Mountains called Taniquetil. It overlooked a deep cleft in the middle of the Pelóri range known as the Pass of Light. The cave was Bilbo’s favourite spot to pen his poems and songs. Sometimes he would sit for hours just imagining the original light of the Two Trees pass through the cleft and into the city of Tirion.
Frodo sat on the middle seat which bore a simple inscription on the backrest.
‘Bilbo Baggins. Celebrating 137 years of life and a friend beyond measure.’
After the three friends supped and finished their tea, Gandalf began to speak. Twenty long and difficult minutes passed as he told them everything. The news of Aragorn’s and Arwen’s passing hit the Hobbits hard. Both were crying and holding each other for comfort, as Gandalf spoke the last of his news on the threat of the Blue Wizards.

‘So, there we have it, my friends. The safety of Middle-earth with everything, and everyone we have ever known, could be in mortal danger if we don’t find the truth. Frodo, we must find Radagast the Brown and hope he can help us; if he still lives.’ Gandalf finished speaking and waited for the hobbits’ reactions.
Frodo spoke first. ‘I am in no doubt we must help. We must find out if the Blue Wizards are malicious and corrupted, or merely exercising these newfound powers for a greater purpose.’
Gandalf looked at Sam and said, ‘Samwise. I know it would be customary for you to go with Frodo, but for this quest I must ask you stay behind.’
Sam wiped his tears away before saying, ‘There is nought in this world, or the next, can stop me Mr Gandalf. You will have to kill me before I let Frodo step one foot toward home without me.’
Gandalf’s face softened and a single tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek.
‘Samwise Gamgee. You are most stubborn in your ways, but I will not stop your path. Now listen both of you. Thanks to the power of the one ring, and your blessed gift from Eru to age slowly in Valinor with long life, you would see many more days than you ever hoped. But know this, when you leave these hallowed shores these gifts will diminish, and you will return to growing old again as normal hobbits.’ Gandalf looked at the expert gardener then asked, ‘Have you thought about Elanor and your kin? They think you have passed from this world. What do you plan to say to them on your return?’
Sam as usual hadn’t thought that far ahead, but quipped, ‘I don’t know rightly, I don’t. But what I do know Mr Gandalf Sir, is I will be returning to Hobbiton with you and Mr Frodo, make no mistake.’
Frodo smiled at Sam and grasped him close. He spoke with a determined look toward the White Wizard and with words Gandalf knew well.
‘Gandalf, my old friend, I think we’re ready for another adventure.’

End of Chapter One

Mod note: Any discussion should be posted here:

https://thetolkien.forum/threads/elrond-and-the-blue-wizards-discussion-thread.31104/#post-575436

 

[Kiredor]

ELROND AND THE BLUE WIZARDS (Title to be changed)

Prologue

The Pursuit of Truth

Rose Gamgee lay upon her eiderdown-covered bed, her eyes closed and finally at peace with the world. Her husband, Samwise, sat beside her, his rough hand clasped tightly around hers, and tears streaming down his weathered, brown face. His mind wandered back to the fond memory of their childhood, playing in the Bywater Pool, laughing, and splashing about. Rose Cotton, she had been then, but in Sam's heart, she would always remain his Rosie. And now, after sixty-two years of marriage, he would have to bid her farewell forever.
The bedroom was filled with the presence of their thirteen children and three grandchildren, but the only sound that could be heard was Sam's whisper, "Goodbye, my petal," as he used her tender pet name for the last time.
It was the 60th mid-year's day of the Fourth Age, and the rays of sunlight that filtered through the windows twinkled on the tears of the Gardner family, the name that the Gamgees had been granted after Sam had taken on the daunting task of replanting the Shire with Lady Galadriel's gift, over sixty-five years ago.
It was on the shores of Lothlórien where Galadriel gifted Sam a small, grey wooden box, with a silver rune 'G' embedded on the lid, standing for Galadriel. Inside, it held the earth from her elven orchard and a single silver nut from a Mallorn tree, the last of its kind in Middle-earth. After Sam sowed that single nut all those years ago, the magnificent and towering Mallorn woods of Hobbiton grew, stretching for miles, as if standing as silent sentinels, protecting the hobbits' realm.
Sam buried his beloved Rosie beside the Bywater Pool, with her barrow mound facing west, so that she could enjoy the countless beautiful sunsets of Eru Ilúvatar, and he could remember himself sitting with her.
The entire Gardner family began their trek to the Grey Havens the following day, sitting in two hay wagons pulled by four sturdy ponies, packed with enough food and water for their journey. They rode their luck, and for the six days it took to travel the one hundred and fifty miles, only once did it rain, and the sun dried them quickly enough.
As the family reached the Grey Havens port, they wished to savour this last day, and so decided to sit on a hill for a final meal, and hear more tales of Bilbo, Frodo, and of course, their hero, Sam.
The verdant hill loomed over the wondrous harbour, with its architecture hewed into the natural grey rock and its outlying pinnacles guarding the entrance. It was a remarkable sight, built by the skilled hands of the Elves of Lindon in the Second Age, who called it Mithlond.
Samwise, still a humble hobbit and now aged one hundred and two, welcomed the long-standing offer from the Elves to sail into the west and live out the end of his days in the undying lands. There, he would be reunited with Frodo and Bilbo, whom he had sorely missed.
After they had partaken of a sumptuous feast and exchanged tales of their adventures and memorable anecdotes , the Gardener family walked with Sam down to the water’s edge. The hobbit stood on the dock, gazing out at the Gulf of Lune, his heart heavy with bittersweet emotion. He was dressed in smart green velvet breeches, a brass-buttoned yellow waistcoat, and a green jacket, one arm draped with a dark green cloak pinned with a golden Lothlórien leaf. With the other hand, he held a brown leather satchel slung over his shoulder. Wrinkles deepened around his sad brown eyes as he beamed a smile across his face, taking in the scene before him.
One by one, his children and grandchildren, their faces wrought with tears and sorrow, bid farewell to Samwise Gamgee. His kin, some small and delicate like roses, and others sturdy like oaks, each embraced him as they choked back their tears.
Elfstan, his eldest grandson, known for his serious and studious demeanour, was second to last. As he stepped forward, his eyes nearly drained of moisture, he pleaded, "Do you truly have to leave us, Grandpa Sam?" Sam's heart ached as he held him close and responded, "I made a vow to Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo, it’s one that I must keep."
He ruffled Elfstan's shaggy brown hair and then kissed his forehead.
Finally, Elanorellë, his eldest and most beloved, approached him. Her golden hair rippled like the sea breeze as she snuggled into his arms. Frodo Baggins had suggested her name, inspired by the star-shaped golden flowers they had seen growing on the forest floor in Lothlórien as they trekked their perilous journey across the land of Mordor to Oroduin, the land with a fiery mountain at its centre. The common speech called it Mount Doom, whose molten inferno was the only thing able to destroy Sauron's infernal One Ring.
Sam breathed deeply, his chest heaving with the weight of uncontrolled emotions. He held his daughter Elanor in a tight embrace, her golden hair swaying in the gentle wind. He remembered the day of her birth, sixty-one summers ago, when the world was a different place. His heart swelled with pride at the sight of her, and he knew he had to share with her something that was dearer to him than any other treasure.
With trembling hands, he reached for his satchel, a worn and weathered bag that had seen him through many journeys. His fingers fumbled inside until he found what he was looking for: a book bound in deep crimson leather, its pages yellowed with age, but filled with the stories of two of the greatest hobbits who ever lived - Bilbo and Frodo.
As he lifted the book out of the satchel, he held it close to his chest, feeling the weight of its memories. The book had been with him through thick and thin, and he knew that it was time to pass it on. He turned to Elanor, her bright blue eyes brimming with tears.
"My Elanorellë the fair," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "You have learned much in your sixty-one summers. But there is something more that I want to give you - something that has been passed down to me from two of the greatest hobbits who ever lived. This book holds the tales of Bilbo and Frodo, and it is my greatest treasure. I entrust it to you, my beautiful flower, to keep it safe and to pass it on to those who come after us."
Sam placed the book in Elanor's outstretched hands, his fingers lingering on hers for a moment. He knew that this was not just a book, but a part of their family's legacy, a reminder of the sacrifices that had been made and the courage that had been shown. He stepped back, his eyes fixed on Elanor's face, as she clutched the book to her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Elanor's eyes widened with disbelief as she listened to her father's words. "You must be jesting, Da," she said, "I cannot accept it. It belongs to you, Frodo, and Mr. Bilbo. I have no right to hold onto something as precious as this."
Sam smiled his sheepish grin and replied, "It is the Red Book of Westmarch, and your husband Fastred will be pleased to know of it." He watched as fresh tears flowed from Elanor's eyes and continued, "You loved the tales in this book, my golden girl, and generations of Gardner children who bear our name will do the same."
But then Sam's expression grew more serious. "I must ask one last thing of you," he said. "Do not go showing the book around to others. My writings are not as good as Mr. Bilbo's, nor as Mr. Frodo's. There's nought clever in the words I used. So, hide it away safe from prying eyes and be wary of any strangers who ask after its whereabouts. You promise me?"
Elanor beamed with pride and replied, "I will, Da. I can still see you and Ma reading them to all of us when we were little ones. So, I'll do the same, don't you worry."
But Sam held a secret in the book's binding, one he could not tell Elanor about. He turned to the rest of his family and bid them farewell. "My love to you all. I will miss you terribly but will think of you every day."
As Sam turned, a tall and fair elven lord stood beside a wondrous ship, adorned with all the beauty and grace that only the hands of the Firstborn could create. This was no ordinary elf, for his name was Nardír, the fourth son of the renowned Círdan the Shipwright, the greatest mariner among all the Eldar. Nardír towered over seven feet tall, a mighty figure, with broad shoulders and a regal bearing that spoke of his noble lineage. He bowed his head in reverence to the ageing ring-bearer, and with a sweeping gesture towards the ship, he said to Sam:
"The white shores of Valinor await you, Master Samwise. Your esteemed kin, the most revered of all the hobbits, will rejoice to see you once more. It is my greatest honour to bear you there."
Sam gazed at Nardír with awe and wonder, yet his heart was filled with a deep-seated unease. He had never sailed on the vast and perilous seas before, and the prospect of such a journey filled him with trepidation. But Nardír smiled with a kind nod, and spoke with a voice that was as gentle as a summer breeze:
"Fear not, Master Samwise. The wind is in our favour, and the sun will soon set. We must depart now, if we are to reach our destination in time."
Círdan's ship was moored at the stony wall of the seaport, swaying gently with the ebb and flow of the tide. Sam was struck by its beauty and majesty, for it was like no other vessel he had ever seen. Its hull was fashioned from the finest Birchwood, its oars made of golden Acacia, and its sails billowed like silken clouds in the evening breeze. A beautiful swan-shaped prow, carved with exquisite skill, glided through the waves like a thing alive.
Sam did not know that this ship was a copy of the same vessel that had carried the exiled Noldor to the shores of Middle-earth in ancient times, a ship that was renowned among all the Eldar as the Vingilótë. But he sensed its ancient power and the weight of its history, and he knew that he was embarking on a journey that would take him far beyond the bounds of his own small world.
As he climbed aboard the ship, he recited the words of Bilbo's final poem, his voice trembling with emotion:
"Day is ended, dim my eyes, but journey long before me lies.
Farewell, friends! I hear the call. The ship's beside the stony wall.
Foam is white and waves are grey; beyond the sunset leads my way."
Nardír loosed the moorings, and with a swift motion, he pulled up the anchor. The ship groaned and creaked as it began to move, and Sam felt a surge of exhilaration mixed with fear. But as they passed beyond the walls of the harbour and out into the open sea, he saw the glittering stars above and the endless expanse of the ocean below, and he felt a sense of wonder and awe that filled his heart.
As the ship sailed away from the shore, Sam turned and called out to his daughter, Elanor, who stood with her siblings and kin on the pier.
"Remember, sweet daughter of mine, keep it hidden, keep it safe!"
And with those words echoing in his mind, Sam watched as the faces of his loved ones faded into the distance, and the ship sailed towards the setting sun, towards the undying lands beyond the horizon.


Here ends the prologue of Sam finally leaving Middle-earth and sailing to be with his life-long friend Frodo.


We are now in the 121st year of the 4th Age, on the shores of Tirion - East Valinor

Chapter 1 - The Fading Star of Elendil

Above the Woods of Oromë, at the foot of the Pelóri Valion, a waxing gibbous moon lit up the night sky and flooded the forest with its silver light.
Elrond, once the bearer of the ring known as Vilya; Vice-regent and herald to the High King Gil-galad, and last Lord of Rivendell, sat on a fallen moss-covered Mallorn tree. The ancient half-elven son of Eärendil opened his grey eyes which remained glassed in grief, and he looked down once more into his left hand. There, he gripped hard on the Elfstone known as the Elessar. The lustrous star-shaped white gem, known in Middle-earth as the “Star of Elendil,” the gift once glowing with energy, now dulled and lifeless.
In front of Elrond, stood the last remaining Elf of Rivendell. Having placed the Elessar in Elrond’s hand, he remained silent but tearful. His greatest and most honourable task, bestowed upon him by Galadriel, Lady of the Galadhrim and Mistress of Magi, was almost at an end.
Elrond’s heart had broken on hearing the soft-spoken Sindarin tongue of the Rivendell elf’s message.View attachment 21393

“Lord Elrond. It is with the greatest of sorrows I bring terrible tidings. Aragorn II, known as King Elessar, King of Arnor and Gondor, and Queen Arwen, the Evenstar, known also as Undómiel, of the Reunited Kingdom have passed from this realm.”

Elrond stood unsteady as several emotional breaths rose in his chest and walked over to the elf named Elrohir. Placing a hand on his shoulder, and with his eyes still watering, he mournfully said, “Thank you, Elrohir. I release you from Galadriel’s command, and mine.”
The younger elf’s shoulders slumped and shook a little. As he lifted his head, he struggled to look into Elrond’s eyes, looking forlorn and lost within himself.
Elrond brought up his other hand gripping both Elrohir’s shoulders, and said, “With the highest distinction and most honourable allegiance, you have fulfilled your oath, my son. No more can, nor will, be asked of you.”
Elrohir looked up and saw the comforting, still weeping, eyes of his father and collapsed into him; his youthful, thick, long black hair entwined with Elrond’s whose thin greying locks flowed in the sea breeze.
Moments later, Elrond released his fatherly embrace and enquired stoically, “Now tell me, what news of your brother? Why is he not here to grieve with us?”
Elrohir winced a little, replying “Elladan is well, father. His grief for our young sister has not diminished, however, nor has his appetite for living amongst the remaining Dúnedain. I fear he seeks continued revenge on the Easterlings and the Haradrim for the destruction of our ancestral home Imladris.”
Elrond nodded in acquiescence and turned to sit down again. Stopping in mid-step, he turned back to look at Elrohir. Sighing quietly, he said, “It is late, and you are weary my son, and in need of rest. I will see you in the morn when you must tell me everything!”
Elrohir bowed his head and left for the resting boughs of the trees. There he would eat, meditate, and blend the living night with deep dreams. The walk through the glorious forest did nothing to ease his anguish. As the silvern moonlight of Valinor danced his walking shadow on the ground, Elrohir took no comfort in its beauty.
Upon reaching the sleeping boughs, within a golden rondure of Mallorn trees, its thick canopy diminished the light of the moon. In that same darkness with his exhaustion almost complete, Elrohir sought the nearest hammock and let himself drop inside to the comforting shape of the bound giant Silver Mullein leaves.

The following morning, as the sun began to light the world, the smell of goodly meats burdened the breakfast boards, and soft chatter of Sindarin Elvish filled the air. However, Elrohir held no feeling for company. He sat away from his kin, beneath some blazing torches, and simply broke his fast with fruit and berries. When he had his fill, he set out to find his father.
After a walk of about a mile or so, he found Elrond sat at the edge of the forest on one of seven well-made chairs of white oak. He was staring out west to the Outer Sea where the island of Tol Eressëa used to be visible in the morning mist. That isle was lost to the sea many years ago, never to be seen again.
'Just like Arwen.' Elrohir thought.
Throughout the forest a distant sound of gentle and melodic Elvish voices echoed as they sang laments of Arwen and Aragorn’s lives.
Elrohir approached Elrond and asked with a quiet voice ‘Father. Are you ready to listen to their last days?’
Elrond’s face looked more saddened than the previous day. He nodded in approval at Elrohir’s request and spoke, ‘Please, sit. Do not rush your telling. I fear it will tarnish my memory of them.’
Elrohir sat down and watched his father make himself comfortable. He began. ‘By the wishes of Galadriel and your command, Elladan and I gave constant guard and companionship to both Arwen and Aragorn when asked for. Many years passed in peace though the campaigns against Easterlings and the Haradrim brought intermittent peril to our charge.’
Elrond looked deep into Elrohir’s eyes and saw his despair. ‘Please continue.’ He said with a soft voice, and smiled to comfort to his son.
Elrond’s pleased appearance gave Elrohir new vigour as he continued. ‘Towards the end, we saw Aragorn ageing and weakening and his Dúnedain blessing of long life faded fast. The brightness within his eyes dimmed and he often talked of his son and heir Eldarion as the new King.’
Elrohir paused to see if his father wished to hear more.
Elrond lifted his head and said, ‘Please continue, albeit slower.’ Elrond’s face tightened as he dreaded the telling of their deaths, waiting for the pain and sorrow of the words to come.
Elrohir continued, ‘We were with Aragorn and Arwen when they travelled to the House of the Kings in Rath Dínen. He passed his crown and sceptre to Eldarion...’ Elrohir hesitated, knowing he must give the new name and titles, and it pained him. ‘It was on this day Eldarion the first became the twenty-seventh King of Arnor, thirty-sixth King of Gondor and the second of the High Kings of the Reunited Kingdom.’
Elrond raised a questioning hand ‘Did Aragorn have any last words?’
Elrohir cursed himself for allowing his grief to forget the King of Gondor’s message. He pulled a small parchment from his pocket and read:
‘I am the last of the Númenoreans and King of the Elder Days, and to me has been given a span of life thrice that of Men of Middle Earth but the grace to go at my will and give back the gift. Now, therefore, I will sleep.’
As Elrohir finished reading, Elrond held out his hand and Elrohir placed the parchment in his palm.
‘Please continue,’ said Elrond.
Elrohir grimaced and tightened his jaw as he began the telling of their deaths and last resting places.
‘Aragorn lay at the bottom of the slopes of Mount Mindolluin and passed from this realm on the same day. Arwen stayed with him, but refused to allow their son Eldarion, or their daughters Elanór and Eniphrëdil to watch their father die.’
Elrond nodded his approval in silence, although he could hear his son choking back the tears.
As Elrohir began to speak of Arwen’s demise his faltering voice worsened.
‘Aragorn’s death consumed Arwen in grief. The brightness of her eyes slaked and to her people she became cold and grey as nightfall in winter. Arwen left the city of Minas Tirith not long after she bade farewell to her children, and to all whom she loved. She travelled with her elf-maidens to the land of Lórien and dwelt there. When the last of the leaves fell and spring had not yet come, she laid to rest upon Cerin Amroth and closed her eyes forever. She lies there in her green grave, surrounded by the White and golden Elanorellë flowers she adored.’
Elrond’s tears flowed once more once Elrohir finished his telling. His entire body trembled as he closed his eyes to the world around.
Elrohir remained sitting in front of Elrond, unsure what to do. A few seconds later he ignored the uncomfortable silence, and sat down next to his father. He closed his eyes and shared the peace of quiet reflection.

Within a few hundred heartbeats of silence and memories, the singing from the woodlands stopped and both elves felt a powerful presence in the air. The presence neared them from the Northeast; stronger than anything they knew in the undying lands. Their eyes opened straight away as they stood, drawing their weapons.
Elrond’s magnificent Elvish-made sword, the Hadhafang, nicknamed the ‘throng-cleaver,’ shone brightly in the morning sun, ready to protect its owner. (I’m not sure they would need weapons in Valinor! But there you go.)
Elrohir raised and strung his Mallorn bow with two arrows quicker than he could blink, prepared for whatever came out of the trees.
A strange figure of a man, not as tall as the elves, walked towards them covered in a light-coloured cloak with the hood hiding his features. Both elves looked at each other in mutual surprise before snapping their heads to look at the shrouded figure once more.
Elrond shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Stop! Name yourself or feel the strength of Hadhafang and the pain of Mallorn arrows!’
An old-sounding voice emanated from the cloaked character. ‘Master Elrond, is this how you greet an old friend of Valinor?’
Elrond relaxed at the familiar voice. ‘Mithrandir! You should know better than to approach unknown to elves.’
Elrohir released his bow, and gaped, letting both arrows fall to the ground. He appeared visibly stunned at such proximity to the White Wizard. Olórin was his Maiar name, revered in Valinor and regarded by the elves as the greatest spirit of the Maiar and the wisest of the Istari.
The Wizard spoke with a grin across his features, ‘My title, as well you know young Elrond, Ring-bearer of Vilya, Vice-regent of Eriador and Herald to Gil-galad—is Gandalf the White, so please be kind enough to use it.’
Elrond replied with a bemused look on his face, ‘We sensed your arrival and your ancient power. It is stronger than before—much stronger.’ He paused for a moment before asking, ‘How did you get here? The last Elven ship left the Grey Havens many years ago.’
Gandalf replied, ‘A perilous journey on the back of Gwaihir the eagle. Due to the great distances, he was reluctant at first, but the severe need for my return persuaded his agreement. He is resting at the docks in Alqualondë.’
‘And your power?’ repeated Elrond.
Gandalf nodded his agreement and answered, ‘Yes, yes. I will tell you later, but only in private council.’
Elrond gave a nod and hint of a smile before returning to his solemnity, his grief for Arwen still raw.
Elrohir remained bewildered by the conversation but stood silent.
Elrond saw his son’s discomfort and with a guiding hand brought him forward. ‘Gandalf, allow me to introduce one of my twin sons, Elrohir. I think you have met once before.’
Elrohir stepped forward and greeted Gandalf with a respectful sweep of his bow.
‘Gracious me, you have grown,’ said Gandalf with a knowing smile. ‘Last time I saw you would have been, let me think. Ah yes, you were only 1,550 years old, and one of the competing novices in the Rivendell archery competition, I believe.’
‘NOVICE?’ fumed Elrohir, and was about to answer when Elrond’s voice interrupted. ‘Gandalf, my friend. You left for the Grey Havens twelve years ago. We did not expect your return for many years. Why have you come back so soon?’
With a frown Gandalf replied, ‘I have grave news from the far realms of Middle-earth, and you will not like it.’ A slight pause hung in the air before Gandalf added, ‘Not one bit.’
Without a word, Gandalf stepped forward and placed a hand on Elrond’s shoulder. ‘But now is not the time for such tidings. I have heard the tragedy of Aragorn and your beloved Arwen. The news came to me through Meneldor, the great Eagle of the northern mountains. It is with the deepest grief I share with you, which calls for my council to wait.’
‘No!’ Elrond snapped. ‘I wish to hear what ails you and bids a return from your quest.’
Gandalf closed his eyes for a few seconds and inhaled an unusually large breath, then blowing his cheeks out hard, answered. ‘Very well. When Meneldor and his convocation informed me of Aragorn and Arwen’s passing, they also mentioned strange goings-on, and rare happenings in the lands of Mordor, and beyond to the South and East.’ Gandalf watched their surprised faces with interest.
Elrond replied with a mild glower, ‘What happens there within the dominion of men is of no concern to me. We left them the precious lands of Middle-earth to live out their lives in whichever way they chose. They must face these—strange goings-on, and rare happenings alone.’
Gandalf blurted out, ‘It is said a Blue Wizard lives there, and…’ he let his words trail off into silence.
Elrond looked into Gandalf’s eyes with an intensity he had not felt in many years, promptly asking, ‘And what?’
Gandalf's response was not pleasant news, ‘And, it would seem, an evil resides within him. If this is true, we must find out…’
‘A Blue Wizard .’ interrupted Elrond, ‘Is this known to be veritable?’ he challenged.
Gandalf shook his head slightly. ‘You very well know my old friend the great eagles do not lie, nor do they exaggerate news.’ The White Wizard continued, ‘The Blue Wizards travelled into the East with Saruman, by the order of Oromë, Lord of this very forest, but neither returned to the West.’
Elrond voiced his irritability, ‘I am not so old and mind-addled to require history lessons from you. Is there a point to these useless utterances?’
Gandalf closed his eyes, as if in deep reflection.
Elrond glanced at Elrohir before returning his gaze once more to the silent Wizard .
A moment later, Gandalf opened his eyes, and they were furious. He raised his arms, holding his staff in both hands. The sky seem to darken, and he grew in size and looked ominous over them. Gandalf’s voice grew deep and in strength as a deafening roar, ‘When I utter the histories, Elrond; the Peredhel son of Eärendil, you will listen!’
Shocked to their core, both elves bowed their heads in muted submission. Elrond detested being reminded his grandfather, Tuor Eladar, was indeed a man. However, deep down he knew Tuor was a hero of the Edain and of the Elves in the last years of the First Age. These great deeds negated the barbarous slur on his parentage.
Gandalf subdued his powerful oration and the light of the sky brightened. He continued, albeit still angry. ‘They went as emissaries to the East and South to enemy-occupied lands, as was told to me. What success they had? I know not. I fear they failed, as Saruman did, and I suspect they were founders of covert cults and ‘magic’ traditions, and they survived the fall of Sauron.’
Gandalf continued to glower at them, ‘Their original task was to circumvent Sauron. To bring help to the few tribes of Men who had rebelled from Melkor-worship, to stir up rebellions—and after Sauron’s first fall to search out his hiding; in this I fear they failed. There were indications they caused much dissension and disarray among the tribes of the dark East. There is evidence they had a profound influence on the history of the Second and Third Ages, in weakening and disarraying these forces of the East, who would have otherwise outnumbered the peoples of the West.
Gandalf’s eyes softened as his anger subdued further, ‘It would appear these Blue Wizards, or Ithryn Luin in your tongue, have survived but hidden for a reason. A reason of which I cannot fathom.’
Elrond spoke quietly, making sure not to anger his powerful ally again. ‘Thank you, Gandalf. You are a true and loyal friend of Valinor, and your return with this at the expense of your…’ he paused a little, ‘clandestine pilgrimage is much welcomed.’
Gandalf nodded and half-smiled at the futile vanity of Elrond. He still would not reveal the purpose of his original pilgrimage.
The Wizard continued ‘These tidings are the worst I could bring to these hallowed shores. The lands of Mordor, the Haradrim realm, and those of the Southrons and beyond, are not devoid of life as we once thought. These lands, which for over half a century have lain in ruin, are being rebuilt. This has revealed the possibility of unknown enemies to us. Their identities, like watching tears in the rain, are invisible even to me. But what we know, in recent times, is there has risen in these vile lands a Magocracy.’
Elrond raised his head and said, ‘So, you suspect both Alatar and Pallando are alive?’
Gandalf acknowledged, ‘Yes. It would seem they are very much alive, and together they could be powerful, even more so than Sauron himself, although I do not know how or where they would find this unknown power. If I remember, they are not known by these names to the people of Middle-earth, but call themselves Morinehtar, the Darkness-slayer, and Rómestámo, the East-helper.
Elrohir gasped, ‘But, as you indicated their evil intent, this could mean the end of Middle-earth and all who live there.’ He turned to his father and added, ‘Elladan lives there, as do the last of the Dúnedain.’
His father, Elrond, spoke first, ‘By the will of Eru, the end of their dominion has always been a possibility. It is with a great sorrow I will hear of their demise.’
Gandalf frowned at Elrond’s indifferent remark but said nothing.
Elrohir opened his arms in dismay, ‘But father, you cannot let this happen. The old alliance can remain strong within the realm of men. They will look to Elvenkind to honour it once more. You know this.’
Elrond snorted derisively at his son. ‘Very well my firstborn, answer me this. Do you think me heartless? Do you think I have lost the intelligence to know what is right?’ With his eyes firming to a scowl, he added, ‘It would be foolish to think after all this time the Blue Wizards have united to destroy the world of men and ruin Middle-earth. These Istari, charged with an honourable task to disrupt everything in Sauron’s lands and to thwart his allies, have nothing to gain from this!’
Elrohir looked stunned at his father’s lack of sympathy to the plight of men and glanced towards Gandalf with wide and pleading eyes.
Gandalf re-joined the conversation, ‘The Magocracy would suggest otherwise, my Lord Elrond. You must never underestimate the power of the Istari. If the Blue Wizards have indeed become corrupted, they may not see the world of Valinor or Middle-earth as we do, or how they used to...’
Elrohir asked, ‘Would they see us as their foe, Mithrandir? I, I mean Gandalf, apologies.’ The younger Elf sounded perplexed and nervous in his stance against his father’s position.
Gandalf allowed a faint smile to cross his face and placed a hand on Elrohir’s shoulder. ‘Nothing is certain until we know what is true, and more importantly, what is not.’
Elrond interjected, ‘And how do we find this out, Gandalf? Our contact with Middle Earth no longer exists and for good reason. There are next to no boats left; even the ones which still exist are far from basic seaworthiness let alone long voyages.’
Gandalf grinned. ‘There is one. And it is ready to sail at the rock harbour of Alqualondë. A famed swanship with a golden beak and eyes of jet is moored there. It’s the one which brought Samwise Gamgee to these undying lands more than half a century ago. The Vingilótë.’
Elrond looked surprised. ‘The Vingilótë?’ The ship my father and Círdan built in the 1st Age.’
Elrohir looked up smiling and murmured a song, ’Eärendil was a mariner, tarried in Arvernien...’
‘Enough,’ snapped Elrond, his eyebrows lowering. ‘As well you know, my father Eärendil the Mariner sailed the Vingilótë into the night sky. Never will it return.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said an exasperated Gandalf, ‘He did, and with the brightest of the three Silmarils upon his brow, sailed Vingilótë into the sky where the jewel shines forever as the morning star,’ Gandalf’s jaw trembled as he angered slightly once more, ‘It is the second ship bearing the same name I’m referring to.’
Elrond roared, ‘The Vingilótë II is far too old to be sailing across the Belegaer Ocean! It’s called the Sundering Sea for an excellent reason!’
Elrohir’s smiling face turned ashen at the Wizard’s admonishment. He had not heard his father raise his voice so loud in over two hundred years.
Gandalf nodded as he spoke, remembering not to enrage Elrond over the tragic memories of his father’s demise. ‘Normally this would be true. But there is a certain young Elf who has looked after it well and kept its seaworthiness intact. You know of him; Nardír.’
Elrond’s eyes flickered as he tried to recollect the name. His face brightened as he remembered. ‘Ah yes, I recall the name of the youngest son of my old friend Círdan.’ Elrond’s smile disappeared as quick as it came. ‘Nevertheless, I have made my decision Gandalf. The return of the Star of Elendil, whose power has faded into darkness forever, means there is nothing left in Middle-earth for the Elves. I will not allow a fruitless search of Middle-earth just on the words of Meneldor the eagle, or to satisfy your perverse curiosity.’ He turned and walked away, signalling the conversation was over.
Elrohir lowered his voice as he said to Gandalf, ‘My father says there is nothing for the Elves because Arwen is gone, and he knows my brother Elladan will return to these shores by his command. But Gandalf, we cannot abandon the people of Middle-earth. They are innocent and don’t deserve to to suffer any evil.’
Gandalf whispered, ‘Your father is strong, wise, and noble, but he’s also loving and kind. Don’t let his grief cloud your judgement, Elrohir. He will come to his senses in the days to come—I hope. You are correct in knowing the strength of the old alliance. It stays resilient and we must protect it. Now, I have important people with whom I must hold council. Meet me at the harbour of Alqualondë in six days at sunset - and tell no-one of this.’
Elrohir appeared uneasy and paused in thought briefly. His shoulders slumped before he nodded with a reluctant acknowledgement.

Gandalf strode towards the southern woods to hold his council. One hour later, he stood at the entrance to the southern woods, and saw five familiar small hillocks rise into the air. Upon those hillocks were built three small and unusual homesteads which looked out of place in the elven world of mountains, trees and sleeping boughs. Gandalf smiled at the homesteads which he’d frequented before.
The first one, like the others, had a round front door, painted green, with a brass knob in the middle. Gandalf knew the door opened onto a long narrow hall: a comfortable tunnel with wood panel walls, floors tiled here and there with a scattering of picturesque rugs. Wooden chairs would sit in the main entrance hall, with ornate pegs for hats and coats—the owner was always fond of visitors.
The frontages of each homestead looked very homely, for these were the only ones to have windows. Deep-set round windows which overlooked the small well tended gardens. Behind them, tall Oak and Beech trees sloped down to a slow-moving stream.
Gandalf used his staff to knock gently on the door to the first house. No answer came. He knocked again, twice as long and twice as hard. But no answer came.
‘I’m sorry, but Bilbo Baggins died a few years ago,’ came a voice Gandalf knew well, ‘can I help you at all?’
‘I’m sorry too Frodo; old habits. I still expect him to answer.’
As Gandalf turned to face the famous hobbit, the moment of recognition came quick.
‘Gandalf? Gandalf! Gracious me! Sam, Sam, it’s Gandalf!’ he shouted.
Gandalf dropped to one knee and with outstretched arms laughed aloud, saying,
‘Frodo Baggins, my dear, dear friend.’
Frodo ran towards his old companion and jumped into his arms. Seconds later, Sam came running out, yelling, ‘Mr Gandalf! Mr Gandalf!’ He too rushed into the welcoming arms of the White Wizard . Together they embraced, laughing, and crying as the emotion of the unexpected arrival overtook them.
Frodo then stood back, arms folded, and said, ‘You’re early, exceedingly early.’
Gandalf frowned and replied sternly, ‘A Wizard , Master Frodo, is never exceedingly early, nor is he ever exceedingly late. He arrives precisely when he means to.’ A few seconds passed before they both burst out laughing at the familiar scolding.
Sam looked bemused and thought, ‘I’ll never understand those two. Could it be I’m never meant to?’ As a pause overtook the happy welcoming, Sam asked, ‘Who’d like a cup of tea then?’, as a strange look arose between Gandalf and Frodo.

‘What’s wrong, Gandalf? Why are you here? Why have you returned so early?’ asked Frodo, his concerned look and soulful eyes begging for an answer.
Gandalf felt his heart sink deep in his chest and sighed.
‘Mr Gandalf? What is it?’ asked Sam, looking worried. He’d seen this kind of look before, and he didn’t like it.
‘When was the last time either of you spoke to Lord Elrond?’ enquired Gandalf.
Sam piped up, ‘Last week, while we was taking some leeks, carrots, and taters to the celebration of the new Harvest Day, withstanding my honour as Master Gardner of Yavanna’s Plantation.’ looking proud as only a hobbit could.
Gandalf said, ‘I think I’ll take your offer of tea Master Gardner. We have a lot to talk about.’

When Bilbo died, Sam built a remembrance garden next to Bilbo’s house and carved three beautiful oak seats. Gandalf, Frodo, and Sam now sat on these same seats. However, there was no barrow mound as was the custom for hobbits.
At Bilbo’s request, the Elves laid him to rest in a cave halfway up the tallest of the Pelóri Mountains called Taniquetil. It overlooked a deep cleft in the middle of the Pelóri range known as the Pass of Light. The cave was Bilbo’s favourite spot to pen his poems and songs. Sometimes he would sit for hours just imagining the original light of the Two Trees pass through the cleft and into the city of Tirion.
Frodo sat on the middle seat which bore a simple inscription on the backrest.
‘Bilbo Baggins. Celebrating 137 years of life and a friend beyond measure.’
After the three friends supped and finished their tea, Gandalf began to speak. Twenty long and difficult minutes passed as he told them everything. The news of Aragorn’s and Arwen’s passing hit the Hobbits hard. Both were crying and holding each other for comfort, as Gandalf spoke the last of his news on the threat of the Blue Wizards.

‘So, there we have it, my friends. The safety of Middle-earth with everything, and everyone we have ever known, could be in mortal danger if we don’t find the truth. Frodo, we must find Radagast the Brown and hope he can help us; if he still lives.’ Gandalf finished speaking and waited for the hobbits’ reactions.
Frodo spoke first. ‘I am in no doubt we must help. We must find out if the Blue Wizards are malicious and corrupted, or merely exercising these newfound powers for a greater purpose.’
Gandalf looked at Sam and said, ‘Samwise. I know it would be customary for you to go with Frodo, but for this quest I must ask you stay behind.’
Sam wiped his tears away before saying, ‘There is nought in this world, or the next, can stop me Mr Gandalf. You will have to kill me before I let Frodo step one foot toward home without me.’
Gandalf’s face softened and a single tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek.
‘Samwise Gamgee. You are most stubborn in your ways, but I will not stop your path. Now listen both of you. Thanks to the power of the one ring, and your blessed gift from Eru to age slowly in Valinor with long life, you would see many more days than you ever hoped. But know this, when you leave these hallowed shores these gifts will diminish, and you will return to growing old again as normal hobbits.’ Gandalf looked at the expert gardener then asked, ‘Have you thought about Elanor and your kin? They think you have passed from this world. What do you plan to say to them on your return?’
Sam as usual hadn’t thought that far ahead, but quipped, ‘I don’t know rightly, I don’t. But what I do know Mr Gandalf Sir, is I will be returning to Hobbiton with you and Mr Frodo, make no mistake.’
Frodo smiled at Sam and grasped him close. He spoke with a determined look toward the White Wizard and with words Gandalf knew well.
‘Gandalf, my old friend, I think we’re ready for another adventure.’

End of Chapter One

Mod note: Any discussion should be posted here:

https://thetolkien.forum/threads/elrond-and-the-blue-wizards-discussion-thread.31104/#post-575436

 

[Kiredor]

121st year of the 4th Age on the shores of Tirion of East Valinor

To the sea, to the sea! The white gulls are crying, the wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying. West, west away, the round sun is falling. Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling?

Chapter 2 - The perilous voyage of the Vingilótë II

121st year of the 4th Age–the last day of summer

Three days later, as cooling night air descended around the silent dockside in Alqualondë, three hidden shapes waited behind a large granite rock: out of sight from the principal thoroughfare to the waiting ship.
Gandalf had arranged with Nardír the shipwright to meet them there, and to sail at a moment’s notice. Although Nardír was hesitant in defying Elrond’s wish that no one was to leave the shores of Valinor, he had both kin and friends on the eastern shores and was not prepared to leave them to their fate.
Frodo tugged at Gandalf’s sleeve, “Elrohir should have been here by now.”
As Gandalf nodded, Sam whispered, “Ee’s an Elf, they’re all the same. Ee’l have told Elrond, you pay attention Mr Gandalf; ee’l betray us.”
A low whistle greeted the trio as Nardír joined them at the rock. “Everything is ready to go Mithrandir,” whispered Nardír, “there are no guards here, but we still have to be quiet.” Nardír then led them forward down a grassy slope towards the Mallorn wooded planks of the harbourside. They spotted the white Birchwood of the silhouetted swan ship against the clear night sky, as the intrepid trio and their guide moved toward it with stealth.
As they approached, rapid movement rose from within the boat itself, as eight elf bowmen stood up with bows strung, pointing their arrows at the stunned foursome.
“Heading somewhere?” Asked a voice from behind.
They twirled round to see Elrond and Elrohir, sat on two majestic black horses standing on a tree-covered hill above them. The elvish trained horses hadn’t made a sound.
In the dim light of the half-moon, Frodo and Sam could make out the bitless decorative red and green headstalls and soft saddles of the family line of the Peredhil – Half-Elves.
“I told you ee’d betray us, didn’t I, didn’t I!” scolded Sam to Gandalf.
Elrond did not smile or veil his contempt for their egregious defiant act.
“As a guest of Valinor, you really must try to accommodate our requests, Gandalf.”
Gandalf stood tall and stamped his staff into the ground. “I’m sorry old friend, but you left us no choice. We are leaving for Middle-earth, and there is no law you possess that can deny us that.” Gandalf’s staff began to glow a warm white colour as he delivered his final words on the matter, “The pursuit of truth is paramount my Lord Elrond, and we must see it through, even if you are blind to its merit.”
Elrond’s head sank to his chest, then slowly rose with a grin on his face.
“I can recall the historic days when Mithrandir, Gandalf the Grey wizard, had nothing but the utmost respect for our rules. But since your interminable days with the hobbits, dwarves, and men, you have grown accustomed to recklessness, and the old farthing pipe-weed.”
It was Gandalf’s turn to smile as he replied, “You are right, my Lord Elrond. Sometimes, with regret, I have been remiss of Elvish ways, but know this, it is always with good intentions and cogent reasoning.”
Elrond replied, “You cannot leave…”
Gandalf shouted, “Lord Elrond. Do not say another word, we…”
Opening an open hand quickly, Elrond held up an open hand and said,
“Please Gandalf, let me finish,” Elrond asked as he waited for Gandalf’s consent. When Gandalf responded with a quick nod, Elrond continued, “You cannot leave—without a gift.”
The wizard looked stunned as he fumbled his words, “A gift? Oh, well. Erm, well. Oh, all right then, but really, I do not need any gift fr…” Gandalf struggled to think or say anymore.
Elrond’s smile broadened as he continued, “I will help you in your search for the truth. My honour guard have not seen the eastern shores, nor the wonders of Middle-earth. They are your personal guard for the duration, please use them at your discretion. I will also allow Elrohir to go with you on this quest.” Elrond, although, added a bitter pill, “One year, Gandalf the White. I will give you one year, then you must return my guard and both my sons to Valinor.”
On the morning of the fifth day of Autumn, the Vingilótë II bobbed gently in the harbour and floated about six tons laden. The passengers it carried were Gandalf, Frodo, and Sam, 44 Elven warriors led by Elrohir, besides the expert sailor Nardír, and his son, a small crew of three expert sailing Elves also came aboard, numbering fifty-two altogether. There was no large cargo of food, except for leafy knapsacks of Lembas bread, as were fit for the three-week trip to the Grey Havens; one minor bite of the elven way-bread being enough to fill the stomach of an adult. Elvish forged knives, swords, shields, Mithril vests, bows & many quivers containing thousands of arrows, and hatchets were the main cargo; Gandalf hoped that they would never need them.
That same day, they all arrived and boarded. Soon the Vingilótë II sailed away from the dock.
Elrond watched and waved them off, “May the prayers of my ancestors bring you luck, my friends. You might need it,” he said, but none could hear over the sound of the stiffening eastern sea breeze. Elrond’s mind felt forlorn. 'I hope you Mithrandir the wise are mistaken. I yearn for all of us that you’re wrong.'

Experienced by centuries of life on the sea, Nardír skilfully steered the ship northward up the coastline, with the design to turn at the eighth Enchanted Isle and sail straight for the Gulf of Lune in the east. The gulf was a sea-arm, in the rough shape of an arrowhead, that broke through the range of the Ered Luin hills into Eriador. Their destination, at the eastern end of the Gulf, sat the Grey Havens harbour.
The voyage from Valinor began in dark cloudy weather, but felt excessively warm, as a strengthening wind all the way along the North coast brought with it, a tempest. Nardír thought is best to sail under the storm by way of the island of Tol Eressëa to the south. All aboard well knew and admired the skill of the nautical elf, but looking across the sea at the heightening waves, even he had an inkling that they might not escape the storm’s wrath. He needed to reach the island’s main harbour and city of Avallónë, and quickly.
Avallónë, the principal city and seaport on the eastern shore of Tol Eressëa. Its name alone, known as a welcome respite from many storms. Being the port nearest to Valinor, and the location of the White Tower of Avallónë, was the first sight that mariners from the east beheld as they approached the Undying Lands. The city, carved from granite, had stood for centuries with its easily viewed white-shining towers, and with a great harbour and lamplit quays.
Night had fallen by the time the storm approached, it brought intense winds and heavy rain, wilder than any found on the isles of Valinor. Nardír steered the ship further off to open sea and lost sight of land. He navigated as if bound for the Tol Eressëa, holding the course S.E. by S, and leaving Valinor to the west.
As the roar of the waves hammered the bows of the ship, and the fierce wind threatened to rip the sails, Gandalf shouted, “You may be captain of this ship, but if you don’t turn back to land, the storm will destroy us!”
Nardír, whose face was spattered hard by the driving rain, laughed loudly as he shouted back, “If the highest purpose of a captain were to preserve his ship over a fine quest such as this, he would keep it in dock for eternity!”
Gandalf shook his head in despair at the brazen elf’s confidence. He grabbed one of the guide ropes and sidled to below deck. He looked across to the starboard side, and felt panic rise in his chest, as a huge wave descended on the elven ship. He was about to shout the alarm when he felt himself thrown towards the main-mast. As he looked towards the ship’s wheelhouse Nardír was already turning the ship hard to face the prow head-on into the wave. Yells of annoyance were heard from the lower deck, as the rapid swing of the ship threw all of them like rag dolls to the floor.
Elrohir managed to grab both Frodo and Sam as they tumbled towards heavy barrels of fresh water. He turned with both hobbits in his grasp and placed them on a pile of sacking and spare clothes, shouting above the noise, “Tie the wall ropes around yourselves, it’s going to get worse!”
Frodo and Sam didn’t stop to argue and kept their mouths firmly shut. They tied some ropes hanging down from the top of the wall around their waists and held on tight to each other. Hobbits, as it turns out, have a severe distaste of salty seawater. The splashing tidal water flew around the lower cabin making the Hobbits even close their eyes, less it stung.
Gandalf, now in the lower deck, shouted to Elrohir, “This is madness! We’ll be sunk! Shipwrecked before we even start our real quest.” Grabbing one of the wall ropes, he saw the size of the wave through a porthole.
The dark grey interior of the wave was so large, it was the only thing any of them could see.
As it loomed above them, Nardír bellowed. “HOLD ON!”
The giant wave swelled as the shape of the prow lifted, higher and higher. The angle of the ship grew sharper with great speed as they held onto the ropes. Ropes which now swung them at a severe slant, slamming them hard against the bulkhead. Heavy spray filled the air, making it almost impossible to breathe, before disappearing quickly, only to be filled once more with the next splash of brine.
The filthy taste of sea water left the Hobbits gasping for air, and their stomachs heaved as every breath also filled their mouths with the nauseous fluid. Their faces, withdrawn and wan, showed their abject fear of death, as the wave lifted the ship to its highest peak.
The prow levelled rapidly, and the ship’s passengers were once more thrown to their original positions. It didn’t last long, as the front of the ship gave way to gravity and dropped over the crest, the hobbits were thrown in the opposite direction.
Still the famous sailor stood on the deck, steering his stricken ship.
Down below, Frodo and Sam were coming off the worst. Their smaller frames smashed into the fresh-water barrels with such force, two barrels splintered and broke. Fresh water sprayed everywhere into the air, and were lost to the sea forever. Only the Hobbits had the foresight to open their mouths wide and allow the freshwater spray to quench their thirst, whilst diluting the salty water in their stomachs at the same time; the relief superseding the pain from their bruised ribs and now bleeding cuts.
It felt like hours had passed as another deep wave splashed over them, followed by another, then another. The ship was holding well, Nardír made sure of it as he aimed for lesser waves. As they hit the last of the larger swells, the mizzen mast fractured with a violent crack and careered downwards into the deck. It pierced the deck and into the deck below, where the passengers were. Another wave struck, pulling the mast sideways into the bulkhead. Frodo screamed at Sam, “Get down!” As Sam watched helplessly at the splintered mast heading towards him, something else hit him, and blackness took over his vision.
Nardír locked the steering and rushed to see the damage. He had to know what happened down there. He had to know how to save them. He grabbed the guide ropes and heaved himself along the deck, as another massive wave threatened to sink them. He hollered through the storm, “Gandalf? Gandalf? Elrohir?” No answer came. He kept heaving along the ropes until he reached the stairwell. Another wave crashed over the Vingilótë. Its heavy watery contents disappearing rapidly through the deck and down the stairwell where his passengers would be. The speed of the disappearing water sucked the hope out of, “Oh no! We’re holed!” He let go of the rope and grabbed the handrail as he jumped onto the deck below. Water covered his legs up to his knees, as forty or more terrified faces stared back at him. The Elven warriors were there, stony faced and scared, but where was Elrohir?
Another angry wave dumped itself over the ship, but it was not as strong as the others. Its water poured into the lower deck, only for Nardír to watch it leave his ship via a six-foot-wide hole. In front of him from nowhere, a shape appeared to splash out from underneath the water; it held a long glowing staff!
“Nardír, Nardír,” Gandalf bellowed, “you must get us out of here, lest we are doomed to this watery grave!”
Nardír looked around the deck, anxious to see if he could block the hole.

In his distress, Nardír, besides the terror of the storm, watched one of the elven soldiers die from a gaping stomach wound, and suspected the hobbits were sucked overboard. About an hour later, the weather abating, Nardír made an observation as well as he could, and found that he was in about eleven degrees north latitude, but that he was twenty-two degrees of longitude difference west from Tol Eressëa; so that he found he was near upon the coast of Guina, a small island part of Tol Eressëa, and began to consult with himself, murmuring and mumbling, looking at sea charts to what course he should take, for the ship was leaked, and very much disabled, and the wind was drifting them directly back to the coast of Valinor.
Nardír was positively against that; and looking over the charts of the sea-coast of Guina with Gandalf, they concluded there was no chance of surviving without some aid, both to the ship and themselves.
With this design they changed course and steered away N.W. by W. to reach Guina where he hoped for relief. But the voyage was otherwise determined. For being in the latitude of twelve degrees eighteen minutes, a second storm came upon them, which carried the ship away with the same impetuosity westward and drove them out of the way of their intended route.
The clouds broke and allowed the early morning sun to shine on their predicament. In this angst, the wind still blowing very hard, one of the Elven guards cried out, “Land!” and they had no sooner run out onto the deck to look out, in hopes of seeing whereabouts in the world they were, when the ship struck upon sand, and in that moment her motion suddenly stopped, the sea broke over her in such a manner that they expected to have perished immediately; and were immediately driven into the decking by the foam and spray of the high waves.
It is not easy for anyone who has not sailed in the Sundering Seas to know or conceive the consternation of these men and elves in such circumstances. They knew nothing of where they were, or upon what land they founded—whether an island or the main port, whether inhabited or not. As the rage of the wind was still blowing hard, though less than at first, they did not have much hope to have the ship to hold for too long without breaking into pieces, unless the winds, by a kind of miracle, should at once cease. Scared and exhausted, they sat looking upon one another, and expecting their deaths at every moment, for there was little or nothing more for them to do in this. But still the ship did not break, and they welcomed the news when Nardír said the wind was beginning to abate.

Now, though they sensed the wind did lessen, and the ship having struck the sand, sticking too fast for them to expect her to escape, their bodies and minds were in a dreadful condition indeed, and had nothing to do but to think of saving their lives as well as they could. However, there was no time to debate, for they still thought the ship would break in pieces any minute, and she was looking broken already.

In this distress they committed themselves, being fewer in number, to Ilúvatar’s mercy and the wild sea; for though the storm abated the sea still ran high upon the shore.
And now their case was very dismal. Indeed, for they all saw plainly that the sea went so high that the boat could not last, and that they would inevitably drown. As men going to execution, they all knew when they neared the shore, the Vingilótë II would be dashed to pieces by the breach of the sea. However, they committed their plan in the most earnest manner, and jumped overboard.
What the shore was, whether rock or sand, whether steep or shoal, they could not tell. The only hope that could rationally give them some faint hope was they might find some bay or gulf, or some river mouth, and make smoother water.
Now, as the waves were not so high and being nearer land, they swam and swam as best they could, where, to their great relief, they clambered upon a sandy shore and fell upon it, free from danger and out of the reach of the water.
Gandalf had been the last to heave his bedraggled body upon the soft sand. Minutes later as he regained his breath, one of the Elven warriors limped over. “Mithrandir, I have counted four fewer of my kin, the Hobbits went overboard, and the three sailors are missing.
Gandalf’s heart sank. Frodo and Sam, the best known and bravest of Hobbits, were lost to the sea. Gandalf began shaking in grief as Nardír approached.
Nardír seemed angry. This was an emotion Gandalf had never seen in the elf. The usually stoic but humorous captain of the sea looked enraged as he said, “All is lost Mithrandir. Everything that once was good is now gone; and it’s my fault.”
Gandalf could not hold his emotions as he let fly his own anger, “Yes Nardír, yes! It is your fault. The folly in your unerring belief you could outwit the storm has ruined us!”
Nardír’s first anger at himself, and being furiously supported by Gandalf’s response, left the Elf’s esteem in tatters. He sank to his knees, held his face in his hands, and wept.
The pragmatic wizard quickly set aside his outburst and his heart softened. He stood up gingerly and tried to control his balance as well as his emotions. He weakly stumbled to the weeping form of Nardír and placed a hand on the elf’s shaking shoulders.
“Now is not the time for this. We must make for the nearest help and rest. Once we have more information we can act appropriately.
The conversation was interrupted by a shout from further down the shoreline.
The other elf helped Gandalf towards the yells, leaving Nardír to wallow in his own pity.
As they neared the group of wet and dishevelled Elvish warriors, they saw numerous forms lying on the ground.
In amongst the injured Elvish warriors, Elrohir lay unconscious, and like the other elves lying on the shore, was bleeding from several wounds but alive. Their bodies, which being thrown against some jagged rocks, looked broken.
Will this sorrow never end? thought Gandalf.
“Mithrandir! Look…” said Firoth the elf who had helped him to his feet earlier.
As Gandalf and the rest of the survivors looked to where Firoth was pointing, in the distance from the top of the rise, a horde of dark clad figures were running towards them.
“I’m sorry Mithrandir,” said Firoth, “we cannot protect you. Our weapons are still on the ship!”

To be continued...

 

[Kiredor]

Chapter 3: Marooned​

The horizon darkened, with a vast grey-blue cloud stretching across the sky, as a horde of dark-clad figures swept across the beach, their movements swift and soundless. Beneath the survivors' feet, the coarse sand mingled with sharp rocks and jagged gravel, biting into their weary soles with each step. Waves crashed in the distance, their foamy edges licking the shore, but the relentless sea offered no escape. The figures moved closer, their black cloaks fluttering in the rising wind, faces obscured by shadows and weathered hoods.
The survivors, backs pressed against parts of their shipwreck, had no choice but to stand firm on the unforgiving ground, the weight of exhaustion dragging at their limbs. As the figures approached, the dull scrape of gravel underfoot marked their arrival. From the mass of shadowed forms, their leader stepped forward. His tall frame loomed over the others, his presence like a storm cloud, menacing and still. His boots crunched over the ground, a harsh sound that echoed in the air, cutting through the roar of the ocean.
With eyes like cold steel, he fixed his gaze on Gandalf, the air between them thick with tension. “Who are you, and what brings you to our forsaken shores?” His voice was low, like the distant rumble of a storm gathering at sea.
Gandalf, his grey robes brushing against the gravel-strewn sand, stood unyielding. The air smelt strong of salt and damp brown Kelp and green Sea lettuce, the tang of it sharp in his throat as he spoke of their journey, and of the rising threat looming over Middle-Earth. The wind tugged at his beard, carrying his words to the ears of the silent elves who watched with unreadable expressions.
Their leader listened, his face shadowed, only the faintest flicker of curiosity in his eyes. When Gandalf finished, a heavy silence hung over the beach, broken only by the endless shush of the waves.
"We sympathise with your cause," the leader finally said, his voice edged with sorrow. "But we are stranded here, exiled and forgotten by our kin. We have no ships nor sea-going provisions to give to your aid. Our fate is bound to this island." His gaze swept across the survivors, standing barefoot and bloodied on the treacherous shore.
The weight of his words fell like stones into a silent well, sinking deep into the stillness. Behind Gandalf, the others slumped to their knees, the sharp rocks digging into their skin, exhaustion pressing down on them like a heavy cloak. Only Gandalf remained upright, his brow furrowed as he gazed at the dark leader. “We are exhausted, and my friends need care. I beseech you…”
The elf straightened, his cloak rustling like dry leaves. “I am Lythar Rathion, son of Bythar,” he said, his voice softened by the wind. Gandalf searched his memory for the name but found nothing—a shadow of a lineage long forgotten.
Lythar spoke again, his voice melancholic, “We are all that is left of the Teleri. Amroth is probably the only name any of you will remember of our family.”
Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows momentarily in recognition, but still unsure of Lythar and his kin, said nothing. He glanced along the shoreline to see Nardír sitting alone staring out to sea and decided he would tell him of Lythar’s words later.
The crew of the Vingilótë, surrounded by jagged rocks, shipwrecked flotsam, and the vast, indifferent ocean, stared bleakly at their captors [or saviours]; these elves, remnants of a lost tribe, seemed resigned to their isolation, their faces worn by years of hardship.
Lythar’s voice, firm but not without compassion, broke through the survivors’ silence. “You are welcome to share our fate,” he offered, motioning towards the towering cliffs. “We will give you food and shelter, but you must understand—there is no leaving this place. We will teach you to fish in these treacherous waters, show you where to find fruit in the forests, and how to draw water from the high cliffs.” He gestured towards a thin waterfall, its distant trickle barely visible in the fading light. “This is your life now. You best get used to it.”
The elves moved in, their feet sure on the wet ground, lifting the wounded with care. The scent of crushed seaweed and damp earth rose as the healers knelt by the injured, applying salves and binding wounds. The survivors winced as they were carried across the uneven shore, the strong fingers of their rescuers pressing against their skin. Two long days passed before all were brought into the tribe’s stone dwellings, carved into the cliffs high above the crashing waves. By the dawn of the third day, they lost three more warriors to their severe injuries, their bodies laid out in funeral mounds.
Gandalf stood apart, watching as the elves began their songs—low, haunting dirges that rose and fell with the wind. The sound carried over the beach, mingling with the distant cries of seabirds and the endless rhythm of the surf. Gandalf, after allowing Nardír to wallow in his self-pity for these past few days, walked to sleeping boughs the next morning to meet with Nardír and found him eating heartily on fried fish.
“Nardír, my good friend, are you rested from our ordeal?” said Gandalf with a hopeful expression.
The Elf smiled at the white wizard and said, “Yes, in both body and spirit Mithrandir, thank you for giving me the time to heal.”
Gandalf told Nardír of Lythar’s revelation about belonging to the line of Amroth and the Teleri.
Nardír’s face lit up at once, “This is incredible news. I haven’t conversed with any of them since we arrived, as they seemed distant and aloof in their manners.”
They debated trusting Lythar and his people, weighing whether to reveal Nardír’s secret, and if Amroth would have known both his father and grandfather.
Nardír said, “Well, Círdan ruled over the Grey Havens, while Amroth’s realm of Lothlórien was inland. Despite the distance, Elven communities are interconnected, and important figures like Amroth and Círdan would have known of each other through alliances and events concerning Middle-earth, such as battles against Sauron.”
Gandalf sighed happily as he said, “Right then, let Lythar know of your lineage and see what happens.”
“What do you mean, see what happens? What do you think will happen?” asked Nardír.
Gandalf shrugged and smiled, “A brighter future perhaps!”
On the fourth night, beneath a sky strewn with shimmering stars, the distant sound of splintering wood echoed across the quiet shore. The elves, whose silver eyes glinted like the sea, patrolled the gravel-strewn beach with their silent steps, and it was there they found the source—a barrel, weathered and battered by the relentless tides. Its sides were cracked, and seaweed clung to it like a shadow of the ocean’s fury. When the elves pried it open, their voices faltered, for within the wooden remnants lay a sight to stir the heart.
Curled together like leaves against the winter’s chill, shivering and pallid, were Frodo and Sam. The hobbits, their garments torn and soaked through, lay on the brink of death, their breath shallow, their faces pale as the waning moon. It appeared the sea itself, cruel and merciless, had taken pity and delivered them to the harsh shores of this forgotten isle.
Word of the discovery spread like wildfire through the camp. Gandalf, his usual stride measured and thoughtful, now hastened over the sharp gravel and sand, his grey cloak billowing in the salty breeze. His heart, too long burdened by the trials of Middle-earth, quickened as he neared the battered figures. The elves of the Lost Tribe, whose ways had long been indifferent to the comings and goings of strangers, now stood in silent wonder at the resilience of these small, fragile-looking creatures.
Frodo and Sam were barely clinging to life, but Gandalf’s hands moved swiftly, steeped in knowledge both ancient and profound. The scent of herbs and salt filled the night air as he worked, his voice murmuring quiet incantations. Time passed, and in the days that followed, the hobbits stirred from their fevered dreams. Slowly, the colour returned to their cheeks, their breaths deepened, and the shadow of death seemed to lift.
It was upon one such dawn, as the pale light filtered through the elven tents, that Frodo awoke. His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the soft glow around him, and he found himself not in the wilds of the sea, but in a quiet chamber. Beside him, Sam still slept, his face peaceful, the strain of their ordeal slowly washing away. And there, by their beds, sat Gandalf, his eyes kind yet filled with ancient wisdom.
Frodo stirred. “Gandalf...?”
The wizard smiled, a gentle light in his eyes. “You’re awake at last, Frodo. And just in time, too. You’ve both been through a great ordeal.”
Sam groaned softly and blinked awake, his gaze landing first on Frodo, then on Gandalf. “Mr. Frodo! We made it, didn’t we? Though I feel like I’ve been chewed up and spat out by a dragon…”
“You survived, Master Gardener,” Gandalf said warmly. “Though not without the sea having its way with you first.”
Frodo frowned, his mind still foggy from exhaustion. “I remember the storm... the ship... and then... nothing. How did we survive, Gandalf? The last I recall, the waves took us.”
Gandalf leaned forward, his face serious yet laced with admiration. “The sea cast you both from the boat’s hull when the storm struck its fiercest blow. But the winds that sought to drown you also bore you here. You and Sam were cast into the waves, but it was your spirit, your will to endure, that kept you afloat. The sea’s anger gave way, and you were delivered upon this shore, though by what force I cannot say.”
Sam’s brow furrowed. “A barrel, Gandalf. We were found in a barrel.”
The wizard nodded gravely. “Yes, Sam. It seems the storm’s fury shattered parts of the ship, and in its chaos, you were swept into that empty cask. The very thing that might’ve been your doom became your salvation.”
Frodo sat up slowly, his hand resting on Sam’s arm. “But how... How did we not drown? Surely the sea would have—”
“The Valar watch over the hearts of the brave,” Gandalf interrupted gently, his voice carrying the weight of ages. “Though you were not meant for this place, nor for such a fate, some power beyond even my knowledge ensured that you would endure. Your bond with each other, your unwavering courage, is what kept you alive. And now, by some grace, you have been found.”
Sam let out a long breath, his eyes wide with wonder. “So, it wasn’t just luck then? Something... or someone was watching over us?”
“I believe so, Samwise,” Gandalf said, his gaze softening. “Though it is not often the ways of the world bend so kindly, there are moments where hope, even in the darkest of times, is rewarded.”
Frodo looked out the tent’s opening, where the distant sea shimmered under the light of the morning sun. “We survived,” he whispered, more to himself than to anyone. “After all of it, we’re still here.”
“Aye,” Sam added, his voice resolute despite his weariness. “And we’ll keep going, Mr. Frodo. No matter what’s thrown at us.”
Gandalf smiled again, a light of joy flickering in his ancient eyes. “You both have shown a strength few possess. Your journey is far from over but know this: you’ve been tempered by the sea, and now, nothing—neither storm nor shadow—shall ever break you.”
And so, they sat, beneath the shelter of the elves, speaking quietly as the dawn broke over the island. The hobbits, once near death, now breathed deeply the fresh air of hope, knowing that whatever lay ahead, they would face it together, with courage born from the depths of the sea.
One month later, with the island’s natural beauty in full bloom—sunlight filtering through thick canopies of pine, elm, and chestnut—a new alliance was born. The exiled tribe, once resigned to their fate, gathered under the open sky. The waves lapped gently at the shore as Lythar Rathion and Gandalf stood side by side, the revelation of the hobbits’ recovery kindling a spark of hope in every heart. The tribe, embracing the chance for a new beginning, pledged to stand with Gandalf and his companions.
When Lythar learned that Nardír was the grandson of Círdan the Shipwright—one of the highest and most noble of the Sindar and Teleri, the legendary lord who had crafted the strongest ships of Middle-earth—he regarded it as nothing less than a blessing from Eru Ilúvatar himself. This revelation swelled through the tribe like a spring tide, renewing their spirits.
One misty morning, Lythar summoned Gandalf and Nardír to a secluded woodland, where towering pines, elms, and chestnuts stretched as far as the eye could see. The ground was soft with fallen needles, and the air smelled of damp earth and resin. “Gandalf,” Lythar began, his voice solemn, “it is no mere chance that Nardír was with you on this journey. It is the will of Ilúvatar that you were all shipwrecked here.”
Gandalf, brow furrowed, gave Lythar a long, measured look, the faintest hint of curiosity glinting in his eyes. He glanced at Nardír, who stood impassive, as was his nature—an attitude that Gandalf had often found infuriating among the elves, with their stoic patience.
Lythar continued, his voice taking on a note of quiet awe. “For years, we have wondered why Eru provided us with such bounty on this island—food, water, shelter in endless supply. And then there’s the wood,” he said, pausing to let the words sink in. “Especially the Birchwood.”
Nardír’s composure shattered. He surged forward, clasping Lythar’s arm, his eyes wide with sudden excitement. “Birchwood?” he exclaimed, breathless. “You have Birchwood?”
Lythar smiled, nodding. “Yes, Nardír. A day’s journey to the west, there are three forests full of it. Our shipwrights stayed in the Grey Havens and we are only blessed with warriors and farmers, so we had no use for Birchwood, except in the making of huts and furniture.”
Nardír clapped both Lythar and Gandalf on their shoulders, his laughter ringing through the trees. “Do you realise what this means? We are blessed by the will of Eru! We can build. We can build ships—a fleet—enough to sail us all to Middle-earth!”
From that moment, preparations began in earnest. Elves, with a little help from the Hobbits, worked side by side, their hands guided by the knowledge of Nardír, and the skills passed down from his great ancestor, Círdan. They built two score of magnificent swan-prow vessels, each one a testament to their newfound unity. Supplies were gathered, provisions stored, and the once desolate island echoed with the sound of construction and laughter.
The final ship to be completed was Nardír’s pride and joy—a perfect replica of the famed Vingilótë, floating proudly next to the dock. As Nardír, Gandalf, Lythar, and the hobbits stood admiring the vessel, Sam looked up with wide eyes and asked, “What are you going to call it?”
Nardír grinned, placing a hand on the warm, polished wood of the mast. “The Vingilótë is no more,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of both loss and hope. “Its Elvish name ended in that fateful storm. I’ve renamed her in honour of the people we’re sailing to help. She will be known as Foam-Flower.”
Gandalf’s eyes twinkled with quiet amusement, for he knew—as did Nardír—that Foam-Flower was simply the translation of Vingilótë into the common tongue of Middle-earth.
At last, the makeshift fleet set sail, their swan-prow ships gliding gracefully through the gentle waves. As they looked back one final time, the island—a place once steeped in isolation and despair—faded into the horizon, the towering cliffs and dense forests swallowed by the sea. Ahead lay the vast expanse of the Sundering Seas, an open canvas of endless possibility stretching toward the unknown shores of Middle-earth.
The fleet sailed onward, cutting through the open sea beneath an endless stretch of sky. The wind filled the sails of the Foam-Flower as it led the makeshift flotilla, its hull slicing through the waves. Gandalf stood steady at the helm, his grey cloak rippling behind him. His sharp gaze scanned the horizon, ever watchful for the first glimpse of Middle-earth, but also attuned to the dangers lurking in the vast expanse of the ocean.
Beneath the ship’s deck, the sound of work never ceased. Elves, men, and hobbits laboured side by side, united by their shared goal. Frodo and Sam, though still recovering, moved about the deck with quiet determination. Sam, now feeling the strength returning to his limbs, took to the rigging, his hands calloused from the ropes. Frodo, thoughtful and calm, spent hours with Nardír, learning the way of ships and stars. The two hobbits, once fragile and broken, had become symbols of resilience—a constant reminder to the others that hope could be restored.
The Valinor women, once cloaked in sorrow, now moved with purpose, their hands skilled in mending sails and preparing provisions. They sang softly as they worked, their voices mingling with the rhythmic slap of the waves. Children, too young to remember their exile clearly, played on the decks, laughing as they ran between the feet of the crew, their laughter an unexpected brightness in the midst of their long journey.
Weeks passed, and the sea grew more treacherous. Storms came suddenly, dark clouds rolling in from distant shores. The fleet battled fierce winds that howled like banshees, waves towering high enough to block out the sky. The ships groaned under the pressure, their wooden frames shuddering with each blow from the tempestuous sea. At times, it seemed as if the ocean itself sought to drag them into its depths, but Gandalf’s voice remained a steady beacon in the storm. His orders rang clear, his wisdom guiding the crew through the worst of the tempests.
One night, as the storm raged around them, Gandalf stood firm on the deck, drenched in saltwater and rain, his staff glowing faintly with a light that defied the darkness. Lythar stood beside him, clutching the rail with white knuckles, his face grim.
“Tell me,” Lythar said, his voice barely audible over the roar of the wind, “what awaits us in Middle-earth? What kind of darkness can be worse than this?”
Gandalf turned, his eyes reflecting the storm’s fury, yet his voice was calm, like the eye of the hurricane. “Middle-earth is threatened by a power far greater than any storm, Lythar. The Shadow grows, and if we fail, all lands—this sea, these skies—will be devoured by it.”
Lythar’s jaw tightened. “Then we must not fail.”
They weathered the storm, and as the skies cleared and the sea calmed once more, the bond between the crew deepened. The men and women of the lost tribe once resigned to their fate on the island, now looked ahead with determination. They had survived the wrath of the sea, and in doing so, found the strength to face whatever awaited them.
As they sailed under clearer skies, Lythar sought out Gandalf in quiet moments, their conversations growing more frequent and intense. They spoke of the world beyond the sea—of the looming war, of the forces that were gathering in Middle-earth. Lythar, who had once clung to his isolation, now felt the weight of responsibility settle upon him. His people were no longer just exiles; they were part of something far greater, their fate tied to the destiny of Middle-earth itself.
Nardír, meanwhile, kept his eyes on the stars each night, guiding the fleet as it traversed the seemingly endless ocean. He spent long hours alone at the bow, speaking quietly to the winds and the waves, as though seeking counsel from the ancient forces that ruled the seas. Gandalf often found him there, gazing out at the horizon with an expression that was both serene and deeply burdened.
“We are close now,” Nardír said one evening, as the sun dipped low in the sky, painting the water with gold. “I can feel it. The land of our forefathers calls to us.”
Gandalf nodded, his thoughts turning to the trials that lay ahead. The shores of Middle-earth were near, but so too were the forces of darkness that threatened it. He glanced back at the ships following in their wake—at the elves and men, at Frodo and Sam, whose courage had brought them this far. They had crossed the Sundering Seas, but their greatest challenge still awaited them.
As they sailed on, the nights grew colder, the sea taking on a darker hue. The stars shone brighter now, guiding them towards their destination. But with each passing day, the weight of their task grew heavier, for they knew that what awaited them in Middle-earth was more than just land—it was a battle for the very soul of the world.
And yet, the sea, once an unforgiving expanse of isolation and danger, had become a place of unity, a space where hope and purpose had been rebuilt. The Foam-Flower sailed on, not just towards Middle-earth, but towards the fate that awaited them all—where the trials of the ocean would pale in comparison to the fight for the future of their world.
As the days turned into weeks, the sea that had once seemed so vast and threatening now felt like a cradle carrying them towards destiny. The fleet moved in harmony, the ships gliding over gentle waves under a wide expanse of sky. The lost tribe, elves, men, hobbits, and Valinor women worked together with a shared sense of purpose, a fellowship that had grown from the depths of hardship into something strong and unbreakable.
Frodo and Sam, though small in stature, walked among the crew with a quiet strength. Their humility, combined with the courage they had shown in the face of danger, became a source of inspiration to all. They often sat with the elves in the evening, listening to their songs and stories, or walked among the warriors, speaking to them of their hopes and fears. The hobbits’ simple presence was a reminder that even the smallest of individuals could bear the greatest of burdens.
One evening, as the sun dipped into the horizon, casting the sky in hues of soft amber and rose, Lythar approached Gandalf at the helm of the Foam-Flower. His eyes reflected the glowing sky as he spoke.
“Wise one,” Lythar said, his voice low and reverent, “we have long been forgotten by the world, but we are not without skill. My people have charted these waters for centuries, even when we had nowhere to sail. Our warriors, though few, possess knowledge of the lands we are nearing. The terrain, the winds, the hidden dangers—they are known to us.”
Gandalf turned to Lythar, his keen eyes taking in the weight of the elf’s words. “Your knowledge will guide us through what lies ahead, my friend. The seas and the lands we approach are as treacherous as they are mysterious, and it will take every skill, every strength we possess, to overcome the challenges.”
Lythar, heartened by Gandalf’s respect, nodded. “We will not fail you.”
That night, Lythar gathered his kin, and together they brought their skills to the table. The tribe’s navigators, weathered by years of exile yet sharp as ever, pored over old sea charts with the crew. Their fingers traced the outlines of forgotten islands, hidden currents, and unseen dangers beneath the waves. In hushed tones, they shared tales of storms that had swallowed entire fleets and of mythical lands said to be beyond the reach of mortals.
Meanwhile, on the decks, the tribe’s warriors, though diminished in number, began training side by side with the elven warriors. Their movements, swift and precise, blended the ancient techniques of the lost tribe with the ethereal grace of the elves. Men and hobbits watched in awe as spears clashed and blades flashed beneath the setting sun. There, on those decks, a unity was forged—not just of ships and people, but of skills and strength, of cultures long separated now brought together by a common purpose.
Through the nights, under the stars, Gandalf moved from ship to ship, his presence a quiet but powerful force. He spoke to all who would listen, kindling hope in the hearts of even the most uncertain. Frodo and Sam were often at his side, offering words of encouragement to the weary and sharing their own stories of survival. The fellowship of this strange fleet grew stronger with each day, an unspoken bond uniting them as they sailed towards Middle-earth.
As they neared the end of their voyage, the sea—once a place of fear—became an ally. The wind filled their sails with gentle persistence, guiding them onwards as if the very elements had been charmed by Gandalf’s presence. The once-forgotten tribe, who had believed themselves condemned to isolation, now stood proud upon the decks, their eyes fixed on the horizon, where the shadowed shores of Middle-earth would soon rise.
Lythar, standing with Gandalf at the bow, glanced out at the endless stretch of water before them. “We may have been lost once,” he murmured, “but we have found ourselves again.”
Gandalf smiled, his eyes twinkling beneath his grey brows. “The journey has only just begun, my friend.”
And so, with Frodo and Sam restored to health, the lost tribe reborn in hope and standing strong with their elvish kin, they sailed ever closer to Middle-earth. The sea whispered around them, no longer a threat but a companion, carrying them towards a future they could now face with courage. As the coastline of Middle-earth slowly came into view, the fellowship stood ready for whatever lay ahead, bound by more than circumstance—bound by the belief that they had all found their place and with it, a chance for a new beginning.

 

[Kiredor]

Chapter 4: Shadows Over the Shire

The fleet, led by the proud Foam-Flower, sailed ever onward toward the Grey Havens, the fabled refuge on the westernmost shores of Middle-earth. The gentle winds, laden with the salt of ancient seas, stirred the sails, carrying whispers of anticipation that danced on the breeze. As the vessel sliced through the shimmering waves, the distant land began to materialise, slowly emerging from the grey veil of mist that clung to the horizon. A solemn hush fell over the crew, their eyes fixed on the beckoning shore, where the Grey Havens awaited—long sought yet scarcely believed in by most, now at last within their grasp.

“Land ahead!” Nardír bellowed, his voice echoing with the joy of discovery. Relief washed over the crew like a tide, their hearts buoyed by the promise of sanctuary.

As the ships glided into the calm harbour, the beauty of the Grey Havens unfolded before them like a long-lost dream. Beneath the soft twilight, towers of white stone rose gracefully, slender and tall, standing sentinel-like guardians of a forgotten age. The quays shimmered in the dim light of the evening sun, lined with unlit lanterns whose warm glow had once danced upon the tranquil waters, now stilled in welcome. The serenity of this haven stood in stark contrast to the turbulent seas that had borne them here, a final peace after their long and arduous journey.

Gandalf, standing tall upon the deck, cast his gaze over the familiar haven. His bright eyes, tempered by the wisdom of ages, reflected both relief and contemplation. The long road was behind them, yet the end of their journey was still far off. By his side, elves, men, and hobbits stood, their faces etched with the weariness of the sea but alight with the quiet joy of reaching a sanctuary long dreamed of. Together, they breathed deep the cool, clean air, grateful to have set foot once more upon the firm shores of Middle-earth.

The ships came to rest, their timbers creaking softly as the last ripple of their arrival died upon the harbour walls. The now seasoned crews moved swiftly to secure the vessels, their practised motions reflecting the unity forged by the perils of the Sundering Seas. Among them, Lythar—once a lord in exile, now a part of this newfound fellowship—moved among the elven sailors with natural ease, directing the work with the grace of one who had finally found his place in the world once more. The bonds they had formed during the long voyage were strong, a testament to the fellowship that had grown from adversity.

As the sun dipped lower, its golden rays bathed the Grey Havens in a final soft amber glow, casting long shadows across the harbour. The evening chill began to settle over the land, gentle and refreshing after the heat of the day. One by one, the crew disembarked, their feet finding the firm earth again after these long weeks at sea. Gandalf, his grey cloak stirring in the evening breeze, stood upon the shore and addressed the gathered company.

“Here we stand,” he began, his voice deep and steady, reverberating like a calming bell. “We stand on the threshold of Middle-earth. Though our journey is far from finished, let us take this moment to rest and reflect. We have braved the storms of the sea and found allies where none were expected. The road ahead may be long, but for now, this haven is ours.”

Lythar stepped forward, his eyes, once clouded with the sorrow of exile, now gleaming with renewed purpose. Speaking with a voice that resonated with hard-won wisdom, he met Gandalf’s gaze. “Wise one, we have been lost and found again on this journey. The Grey Havens stand not only as a refuge but as a testament to the resilience of those who seek peace amidst hardship. We are no longer adrift in the world.”

Gandalf inclined his head, his thoughts deep as he regarded the fellowship before him. “Indeed,” he replied. “Let us make camp here for the night. We shall rest, tend to the wounded, and gather our strength. Tomorrow, we set forth once more—into familiar lands, yet toward unknown perils. But fear not, for we travel together.”

Under the deepening dusk, the fellowship worked in harmony to set up camp near the haven. Fires flickered to life, their warm glow contrasting with the encroaching shadows, while simple shelters rose amidst the sounds of laughter and camaraderie. As the last light of day surrendered to the night, the burdens they carried felt lighter, the warmth of the flames spreading like a balm. The enticing aroma of cooking wafted through the air—a simple joy, yet a welcome one after their long and tumultuous voyage.
Frodo and Sam busied themselves pitching a couple of hammocks close to the makeshift kitchens, exchanging knowing smiles as their bellies rumbled in unison, a promise of satisfaction to come. The bond between them deepened with the shared anticipation, a reminder of the comforts of home that they longed for.
Later, as the first stars glittered above in the darkening sky, the fellowship gathered around the fire, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows on their faces. Lythar, now embraced as an equal among the leaders, spoke earnestly of the lost tribe, his voice weaving tales of their long wanderings and profound yearning for a place to call home—a sanctuary to rebuild what had been taken from them. His words, tinged with sorrow yet vibrant with hope, illuminated not just past losses but the new beginnings they now dared to envision.
Gandalf, in turn, shared his thoughts on Middle-earth—its vast, untamed lands, its myriad trials and triumphs, and the indomitable spirit of its people, who persevered against all odds. The fellowship listened intently, their hearts swelling with a quiet courage that blossomed from the knowledge that they were not alone in this struggle.
As the first stars shimmered overhead, Gandalf rose once more, his face aglow with the firelight, casting a warm radiance on those gathered. “Rest well, my friends,” he said softly, his voice rich with assurance. “Tomorrow, we begin anew—toward the Shire, toward home. The road ahead will be long, and the trials many, but with each step we take, we reclaim the hope that was lost.” His words hung in the cool night air, a quiet promise echoing the aspirations they dared to hold.
Under the vast canopy of night, the fellowship found solace in one another’s company. Though the trials ahead would surely be daunting, for now, they were united—no longer lost but bound by a shared purpose. And as the fires crackled and the stars bore silent witness, they knew that whatever lay beyond the horizon, they would face it together.
As the fellowship continued to share their stories, the night air grew thick with the mingling scents of the sea and the woodsmoke rising from the campfire, each inhalation a reminder of their journey’s weight and warmth. The elves, their voices lilting and melodic, spoke of ancient battles fought in the Undying Lands, weaving tales of valor, loss, and eternal hope. Frodo and Sam, seated close to the fire, listened with wide eyes, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow. The worlds the elves described seemed beyond the reach of mortal comprehension—realms where the stars burned with greater brilliance, and time flowed like a slow river beneath the silvered light of Telperion, the legendary Tree of Valinor.
Now came the time for the women of Valinor, those ethereal beings of serene grace, to share their poignant memories of a homeland steeped in the everlasting twilight of Aman. In that sacred realm, where the forests unfurled like verdant tapestries and silver-leafed trees whispered ancient melodies to the gentle breeze, they wove tales of beauty so profound that even in their tender recollections, the fragrant breath of pine and jasmine seemed to waft through the air.

Yet amid their memories lay a heavy sorrow—the haunting echoes of loss from the many battles waged against the dark forces of Melkor, Ungoliant, and the loathsome orcs. Their voices, soft as the rustling leaves, spoke of a self-imposed exile from Aman, a solemn choice made to cleanse their hearts of grief and guilt for not standing alongside their kin during those fateful times.

The trials and tribulations they endured pierced the hearts of all who gathered to listen, for it was not only the deaths of noble Elven warriors they mourned but also the anguish of countless Elven women of Valinor, who, too, had been cast adrift upon the stormy seas of sorrow, their tears mingling with the restless waves as they sought solace in the embrace of the distant horizon.

Yet, despite the longing in their voices, they spoke not with despair but with the hope that springs from new beginnings. For though they had left behind the blessed shores of Valinor, they had found in the fellowship a new family and, with it, a chance to rebuild their lives. It was on the same fateful island that the women of Valinor had once resided, where Lythar and his people's ships had been torn asunder by a malevolent storm.

Meanwhile, the songs of Lythar’s people echoed through the night, their deep voices rising and falling like the waves that had once imprisoned them upon their forsaken island. These were songs woven from both lament and hope, their haunting melodies carrying the weight of isolation yet tempered by the resilience they had gained. The cool breeze carried the harmonies across the camp, intertwining with the distant cries of gulls and the briny scent of the salt-laden sea.

As the stories and songs melded into a tapestry of sound, Gandalf sat apart, his gaze fixed upon the twinkling stars in the vast heavens above. His expression was thoughtful, his mind wandering through both memory and foresight. "We are but small specks in the vastness of this cosmos," he mused, his voice low yet resonant, cutting through the stillness of the night. "Yet each of us bears a tale, and that tale, in turn, weaves into the greater story of Middle-earth. Our fates are now entwined with this land and with each other."
The fire crackled softly, its embers glowing like tiny stars against the night, as Gandalf’s wise eyes reflected the warmth. "Tomorrow," he began, his voice steady and reassuring, "we set forth not toward the lands of the West, but to the Shire—a place untouched by the great upheavals that have swept through the rest of Middle-earth. The road may be fraught with peril, its path uncertain, yet together, we shall face it, as we have faced all that has come before."
Lythar, his face illuminated by the flickering flames, spoke up, his voice imbued with newfound resolve. "Gandalf, you have guided us through the storms and shadows of the Sundering Seas. Lead us now to the Shire, where we may find rest and renewal. We are yours to command, and we follow without fear."

The gathered fellowship, once weary under the weight of their journey, now stirred with quiet hope. Gandalf, a small smile of reassurance playing at the corners of his mouth, rose from his seat, the scent of his pipe lingering in the night air as he took a final puff and gently tapped out the embers. "Rest now," he said softly, "for the road ahead is long, and the dawn will bring with it new adventures."

As the fire began to die down, the fellowship gradually dispersed to their tents, the rustling of canvas and soft murmurs of goodnight filling the air. Above them, the stars shimmered like jewels set in the black velvet sky, casting a gentle, watchful glow over the camp. The sea, once a wild and merciless adversary, now lapped softly against the shore, its rhythmic song a lullaby for those who had endured so much. In the stillness, the fellowship found peace, their dreams untroubled by the storms of the past.

In the shadows near the hobbits' hammocks, a rhythmic chewing echoed, punctuated by the squelch of swallowed fruit wine. Two old friends, their cheeks stuffed like chipmunks, erupted into giggles as one of them attempted to discreetly wipe away a trickle of juice that threatened to escape down his chin. “Is this a feast or the ingredients for a food fight?” Frodo chuckled, while Sam snorted, nearly choking on a piece of dried meat.

When the first light of dawn broke over the Grey Havens, the camp stirred to life. A soft pink hue spread across the horizon, and the air was crisp with the freshness of a new day. The scent of dew on grass mingled with the familiar tang of salt, as the fellowship prepared to leave, their packs loaded, their hearts steeled for the journey eastward.

Lythar, walking alongside Gandalf, glanced back one final time at the tall white towers of the Grey Havens, now receding into the distance. "Our ships were few, our warriors fewer still," he remarked quietly, "yet our spirits remain unbroken. Middle-earth calls to us, and we shall answer, no matter what trials may come."

Gandalf grimaced slightly before breaking into a friendly smile. “These trials may be harder than we think. We must be ready for anything, Lythar. Whatever we face, we must be prepared.”

Lythar nodded, his gaze resolute. “We will be my friend.”

For two days, the fellowship journeyed through the rolling hills of Middle-earth, the landscape unfolding before them in vibrant shades of green and gold. The sun rose and set over their path, casting long shadows as they made their way eastward toward the Shire. The elf-wives, having left the Undying Lands, walked in pairs, their quiet laughter drifting like music on the wind. Meanwhile, the hobbits, ever cheerful, kept pace alongside the elven warriors, their spirits buoyed by the company of their newfound friends.

Frodo and Sam, once so small in the grand tale of Middle-earth, now walked with newfound confidence beside their companions. They marvelled at how much they had changed—how the sea, the fellowship, and the shared stories had forged them into something stronger, something bound by a unity far greater than they had ever imagined.

One thing puzzled Frodo as he observed their new companions. “Sam…” he said quietly, “have you noticed that there are no newborns or young elves in this group?”

Sam scratched his head, his brow furrowing. “Nope, Frodo, can’t say I have. But now that you mention it… it does look a bit odd.”

Just then, one of the Valinor women, Lillya, smiled as she overheard their exchange. Quickening her pace, she soon caught up with them. “You are right to notice, young Frodo; we are childless,” she said, her voice soft yet resonant. “My name is Lillya, and if there is anything you wish to know, please, do not hesitate to ask.”

Frodo felt a blush rise to his cheeks at being called “young.” It had been many years since anyone had addressed him that way and learning that the women were childless filled him with an unexpected sadness. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Lillya, sensing his discomfort, gently interjected. “Please, don’t feel sorrow for us. We are childless by choice. Our husbands died fighting the enemy before they could give us newborns; this is our penance.”

“Oh, right,” Sam said thoughtlessly, his mind racing ahead. “Maybe one day then, eh?”

Lillya raised her eyebrows at Sam, a mixture of surprise and amusement flickering across her face, before glancing back at Frodo with a playful grin.

Frodo’s mortification was lost on his Hobbit friend, who looked bemused and shrugged. “What?” he said innocently.

Lillya broke the tension with a warm smile. “Maybe one day, Master Gardener. Perhaps one day.”

Frodo slipped an arm around Sam’s broad shoulders, his smile genuine. “Even after all these years, you still manage to surprise me, Sam.”

“That’s my job, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied, grinning. “To keep you on the straight and narrow. I saw the way you were looking at her—she’s a fine-looking girl, isn’t she?”

Frodo let out a hearty roar of laughter, the sound echoing through the camp and drawing curious glances from those nearby. He felt a surge of happiness, a rare feeling he hadn’t experienced in many years. Maybe I should never have left the Shire, he thought, instinctively rubbing his Morgul scar, but felt nothing beneath his fingertips.

The march of elves, men, and women continued with good cheer and plenty of idle chatter. Yet, amid the camaraderie, an uneasy feeling began to stir within the group. As the forest around them grew denser, its thick canopy whispered secrets to the breeze, and an unseen presence lingered at the edge of their awareness. Shadows danced among the trees, and the air hung heavy as if something—or someone—was watching.

Gandalf, ever vigilant, cast wary glances over his shoulder, his senses finely attuned to the subtle shifts in the atmosphere. The forest, rich with the earthy scents of damp soil and pine, pulsed with a life of its own—not just with woodland creatures but with something darker, something hidden.

Lythar, walking close to Gandalf, noticed the wizard’s tension and lowered his voice. “Do you feel it too, Gandalf?” he asked, concern etched across his features.

Gandalf's eyes narrowed as he scanned the shadows lurking between the trees. “Indeed, Lythar,” he replied softly. “Something watches us from the dark. We must remain ever watchful, for the road ahead may not be as safe as we’d hoped.”

The fellowship pressed on, the trees gradually thinning as they neared the Shire. The rolling hills and charming thatched roofs of Hobbiton came into view, promising respite and relief after their long journey. The sight of the village, nestled comfortably in the folds of the landscape, offered a sense of familiarity and calm, though an undercurrent of tension still clung to the group. Sensing the unease, Gandalf led them away from the village toward the Brandywine River, guiding them to a suitable campsite just beyond the settlement, where they could rest before delving deeper into hobbit territory.

They set up camp near the riverbank, the gentle sound of water murmuring over smooth stones blending with the rustling leaves. The air was sweet with the scent of fresh grass and blooming wildflowers—a sharp contrast to the wariness lingering in the hearts of the fellowship. As night fell, a serene stillness enveloped the camp, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire and the whisper of the river’s flow under the starry sky.

Gandalf remained outside his tent, his keen eyes scanning the shadows beyond the camp. The night was cool, with the faint smell of woodsmoke drifting through the air, but the unease he felt was unmistakable. Something was out there, watching.

Lythar, his brow furrowed with concern, approached the wizard. “I suggest we double the guard tonight,” he whispered, tension thick in his voice. “I can feel it too—something in the air.”

Gandalf nodded in agreement. “Yes, we must take no chances. The night is too still, and I sense a presence that has followed us since the woods. Place the sentries at the main approaches to the camp.”

With a wave of his hand, Gandalf outlined the defensive positions, instructing the elves to set tripwires and shallow traps hidden beneath the underbrush. They moved swiftly and silently, their skills honed by centuries of practice, ensuring the camp was secured by the time the evening meal was ready. Supper was eaten in quiet, the usual camaraderie of the group subdued by the weight of the unseen threat.

The night passed slowly, every sound magnified in the stillness. The trees surrounding the camp swayed ominously in the light breeze, and shadows stretched long, their shapes shifting and morphing in the firelight. The guards stood vigilant, their eyes scanning the forest, but nothing stirred beyond the camp. Yet, the sense of being watched lingered—a subtle and constant pressure at the edge of their awareness.

At dawn, the camp began to stir. The first light of the sun cast a soft, golden glow over the river, and the morning air was crisp and clear. The guards, though weary, had remained alert through the night. Gandalf inspected the traps and found them undisturbed, though the feeling of an unseen presence still lingered. He could not shake the sense that they were being followed, watched by eyes hidden deep in the shadows.

The group packed their belongings and prepared to leave, the forest seemed to hold its breath. The trees stood silent, their branches swaying gently in the morning breeze. The group set off toward the Shire, moving cautiously, their senses attuned to the slightest sound. The path ahead was clear, but the tension that clung to the air could not be dismissed.

Later that day, they arrived at the familiar village of Hobbiton. Life in the Shire went on as usual, unaffected by the larger troubles of the world beyond. Hobbits, clad in simple clothing, tended to their gardens, sold goods at market stalls, and chatted animatedly with neighbours. The aroma of fresh bread and the sight of blooming flowers painted a picture of idyllic peace, a scene Frodo and Sam had longed to return to.

Gandalf walked with quiet purpose through the lanes of Hobbiton, his gaze sharp and sweeping. Birds chirped from hedges and the air carried the smell of earth and flowers, blending with the faint clink of tools from distant gardens. The scene should have been restful, but tension crept alongside them, taut as a bowstring. Hobbiton’s vibrant rhythm—the hum of neighbours chatting, children laughing, ovens puffing warmth—pulsed around them, untouched by the weight their group bore.

Lythar’s people, eyes wide and voices hushed, glanced in awe at round doors nestled in gentle hills, at gardens overflowing with pumpkins and marigolds. The air here seemed content, a world of colour and life. Yet the quiet prickle of unseen eyes lingered, making each step heavier. As they neared Bag End, a deeper foreboding laced the air. Gandalf slowed, his hand brushing the top of his staff as he turned to them, gathering the council of Lythar, Nardír, and the Hobbits into a tight circle beneath a shading oak.

“There’s a shadow trailing us,” Gandalf murmured, his voice barely rising above a whisper. The others leaned in, listening intently as he continued, “We are watched, though by whom I cannot say. The Shire’s peace is no longer certain.”

Lythar and his folk shared uneasy glances, the innocence of the hobbit village suddenly feeling paper-thin. This place of simple joys—the chirp of sparrows, the scent of fresh loaves cooling on sills—felt changed, charged with an undercurrent of something darker. One by one, they nodded and drifted into the village’s narrow paths, watchful and silent.

Frodo’s hand traced the familiar gate of Bag End as they reached it, the faint creak grounding him in memories. The scent of rich, damp soil and blooming roses mingled with the distant aroma of bread baking, bringing a flicker of calm. Yet unease gnawed at him. Something unseen loomed, just out of reach.

On a nearby yellow bench, an old hobbit puffed his pipe with serene dedication, his feet propped on a small stool. He watched the smoke curl and float, its sweet smell merging with the morning’s dewy freshness. Gandalf lingered, eyes narrowing as he watched the smoke rings rise. All around them, the Shire lay undisturbed, but Frodo could feel it—the peace was too perfect, too fragile, like a leaf before a coming storm.

“Good morning!” Frodo called out, his voice bright and warm as he approached Bag End, nostalgia bubbling in his chest.

A dozing hobbit blinked awake, taking a moment to gather himself before a smile blossomed on his round face, filling his eyes with soft kindness. “Well, well, if it isn’t my old cousin Frodo Baggins! Come in, come in…” He stood, movements slow yet inviting, shuffling toward the gate.

With a flourish, he swung the gate wide and beckoned Frodo in. “Come on, Frodo! I’ll put the kettle on for a nice cup of tea and some freshly baked muffins. I bet you’ve got a heap of tales to share since we last met. It’s been years, hasn’t it?”

Frodo smiled back, warmth swelling in his heart, a happiness long absent. The rich aroma of muffins wafted from within, mingling with the earthy scent of the garden. “Well, Sancho, I’ve got a couple of things to tell you, but that can wait until we’ve had our tea.”

As Frodo stepped into the cosy hobbit hole, familiar scents enveloped him—tea leaves, cinnamon, and the warm, inviting scent of cedarwood from the polished furniture wrapped around him like a cherished embrace. Time seemed to dissolve, leaving nothing but comfort.

Meanwhile, a few hundred yards away, Sam stood behind a hay cart, heart racing in his chest as he peered toward his old home. He longed to see his family, yet as the moment drew closer, uncertainty tightened in his gut. What do I say? How will they react? What if they don’t believe it’s me? Doubts swirled, clouding his thoughts like fog.

Just as he turned to retreat, Sam collided with a hobbit woman balancing a basket of freshly washed clothes. The basket tipped, sending linens fluttering like startled birds. Sam’s eyes widened as he hurried to gather the fallen garments. The woman, her grey hair neatly tied back, looked up in surprise.

Recognition flickered across her face, morphing shock into disbelief. “Da? Da, is that you?” she whispered, voice trembling with astonishment.

Sam, heart pounding, stepped closer, extending a hand to help her. Tears glistened in her eyes as her expression softened. “Eleanor?” he choked out, emotion thick in his throat.

“Yes, it’s me, Da! Oh, my dear, dear Da!” Eleanor exclaimed, her voice a mixture of joy and disbelief. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, and Sam, overwhelmed, returned the embrace. In that moment, the weight of years apart vanished.

“I can’t believe it, Da. I just can’t,” Eleanor said, wiping her eyes as she pulled back to gaze at him. “Why are you back? Has something happened?”

Sam’s smile radiated reassurance, speaking volumes in silence. He had returned, and that was all that mattered. The world felt right again as they stood there, wrapped in the familiar sights and scents of home, an embrace of nostalgia grounding them both.

With the joyous news of their return, the air buzzed with anticipation. Preparations for a grand homecoming party sprang into action. Invitations flew out to every Gardener family, and young Elfstan, Sam’s wide-eyed grandson, took it upon himself to spread the news. He jumped on his horse and galloped across the Shire, his excitement palpable, ensuring that every hobbit knew of the celebration to come.

Hobbiton had not seen such a gathering since the days following the Scouring of the Shire and the triumph at the Battle of Bywater. Those had been sombre times, marked by grief and loss, as the Shire mourned dearly departed friends. But now, two of the four heroes had returned, and it was time for a celebration unlike any other.

As preparations unfolded, laughter and music danced through the air, filling the village with a vibrant energy. Children raced through the streets, their giggles harmonising with the gentle strumming of instruments.

Yet, beyond the edges of this joyful scene, three pairs of dark eyes watched from the shadows, concealed among the towering Mallorn trees that surrounded the banquet area. The Mallorns, their silvery bark glistening in the fading light, swayed gently, yet the watchers remained motionless, their cold, calculating gazes fixed on the festivities below.

A low hiss slithered through the trees, and the watchers exchanged quick, silent signals. Without uttering a sound, they descended from their perches, gliding through the undergrowth with the grace of predators. The darkness of the woods enveloped them as they vanished, leaving only the faint rustle of leaves behind and the unsettling sensation of unseen eyes lingering in the air.

Oblivious to the lurking threat, the hobbits continued their joyful preparations. Laughter and merriment crescendoed, ringing louder with each passing hour, an echo of happiness filling the Shire. Yet, the sense of unease that had trailed Frodo and Sam from their journey still clung to them. Though they were home, a shadow loomed over the Shire, whispering of a greater darkness waiting just beyond their view.

As night settled, the celebration continued in full swing. Lanterns glowed softly in the trees, casting a warm, inviting light over the gathering. The melodies of fiddles and pipes accompanied by the laughter of friends intertwined, spilled out across the hills.

But just beyond the circle of light, the darkness remained, watching, and waiting; a silent promise of what was yet to come.

 

[Kiredor]

Chapter 5: Shadows of the South

The celebration in the Shire was a vibrant tapestry of joy, woven with laughter, song, and the warm hum of community. Lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze, their golden light mingling with the starry sky above. The rich aroma of roasted meats and spiced pies filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of freshly turned soil and the faint sweetness of blooming flowers. Hobbits danced in merry circles, their feet pounding rhythms into the soft grass, while children darted between tables laden with steaming dishes and foaming mugs of ale. Amid this harmonious cacophony, the notes of a fiddle rose, weaving through the laughter and chatter to bind the scene in a melody that spoke of home and hearth.
Lanterns hung from every branch of the great Mallorn trees, casting soft halos over the merry faces of hobbits. Tables groaned under the weight of steaming pies, roasted meats, and freshly baked breads. Frodo and Sam sat near the heart of the gathering, surrounded by family and friends. Yet, despite the cheer, a shadow lingered over Frodo’s heart.
He glanced towards the edge of the party, where the light of the lanterns dissolved into the inky darkness of the surrounding woods. A faint rustling reached his ears—the wind, or so he told himself. But an unease pricked at his senses, a shadow he could not quite name.
Beside him, Sam was radiant. Eleanor had not left his side since their reunion, and his grandchildren darted about with youthful exuberance. Sam watched them with a broad smile, his weathered face glowing with contentment. Frodo did not want to burden his old friend with his worries, but the sensation of being watched had grown too strong to ignore. His heart beat a little faster as he replayed the faint rustling, he’d heard earlier. Was it just the wind?
He rubbed his hands together, the slight tremor in his fingers betraying his unease. Questions tumbled through his mind—what could it mean? Was it simply his imagination, or did the peace of the Shire conceal a threat lurking just beyond the glow of the lanterns? He glanced at Sam, whose warm laughter seemed to anchor him for a moment, but even that reassurance felt tenuous. Frodo shifted in his seat, the shadow of his doubt darkening his thoughts.
“Sam,” Frodo said quietly, leaning closer so only he could hear. “Have you noticed anything strange?”
Sam looked at him, his brow furrowing. “Strange, Mister Frodo? No, I’d say it’s all as it should be. What’s troubling you?”
Frodo hesitated, unsure how to explain his unease. “It’s probably nothing,” he said finally. “Just my imagination.”
But Frodo’s gaze drifted back to the woods, where the faint glint of something—a reflection? a pair of eyes?—flashed for a moment before vanishing.
In the shadows beyond the reach of the lanterns, three Haradrim scouts crouched among the roots of a towering Mallorn. Their dark cloaks blended seamlessly with the undergrowth, their movements as silent as the shifting wind. The leader, Karesho, signalled to his companions with a subtle hand gesture. They had seen enough of the Shire’s defences—or lack thereof.
“These halflings have no idea what lies beyond their borders,” one of the scouts murmured, his voice barely audible.
Karesho ’s sharp eyes swept over the scene. “They are simple folk, but do not underestimate them,” he said. “Remember the stories of their resilience during the War of the Ring. Sauron himself fell, in part, because of them.”
“And now they feast as if the world is at peace,” the second scout said with a sneer. “They will be easy prey.”
Karesho shook his head. “We are not here to attack. Not yet. Our task is to gather information. The Chieftain must know what strength remains in the North.”
The scouts turned their attention back to the festivities. Though the Shire appeared vulnerable, Karesho could not shake the feeling that something unseen was protecting this land. He had heard whispers of the Wizards’ interference in the North. Their mission, he knew, was more perilous than it seemed.
With unusual stealth to his gait, Radagast arrived unnoticed, his brown robes blending with the earth as he moved unseen among the hobbits. He observed the celebration with a wistful smile but kept his senses attuned to the woods. The shadows there felt heavier than they should have as if a malevolent presence lingered just beyond sight.
He approached Frodo and Sam, his staff tapping lightly against the ground. Frodo looked up, startled, but relaxed when he saw the familiar figure.
“Radagast,” Frodo said, standing to greet him. “What brings you here?”
Radagast’s eyes were sharp and alert, a stark contrast to his usual distracted demeanour. “Sit down quick!” without question, Frodo dropped back into his seat. “A shadow stirs in the South, Frodo,” Radagast said gravely. “And it reaches even here.”
Sam’s smile faded as he looked around nervously. “A shadow? What sort of shadow?”
Radagast’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “The Haradrim are on the move. Their new chieftain, Zahir son of Zahirion, whom I have never met, seeks to unite the scattered Southron tribes under a single banner. He has sent scouts to the North and West to gather information. And they are not alone.”
Frodo’s heart sank. “Not alone?”
“I fear it is the Blue Wizards, our kindred once thought long gone” Radagast said, his tone heavy with regret. “Their influence has spread far in the South. Once sent to oppose Sauron, they have now become embroiled in their own designs. I fear they may be guiding the Haradrim.”
Frodo’s fists clenched. “And what do we do about it? We can’t let them bring trouble here, not to the Shire.”
Radagast nodded. “We must act swiftly. But first, we must confirm the presence of these scouts. If they are here, they will report back to Zahir, and the Shire will no longer remain hidden or safe.” Radagast added, “I will keep you no longer from your festivities. Enjoy yourselves, and I will speak to you later. As of yet, you must tell no one of my presence.”
With that, Radagast disappeared into the darkness.
Karesho and his companions moved deeper into the woods, their path lit only by the faint moonlight filtering through the Mallorns. They reached a small clearing, where they paused to confer.
“We’ve seen enough,” Karesho whispered. “We’ll return to Zahir with the information.”
Before they could move, a faint rustling reached their ears. The scouts froze, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. From the shadows emerged a figure cloaked in brown, his staff glowing faintly.
“You are far from home, interlopers,” Radagast said, his voice calm but firm. “Why have you come to the Shire?”
Karesho stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his curved blade. “We mean no harm, old man. We are merely travellers.”
Radagast’s eyes narrowed. “Do not lie to me. I know who you serve, and I know your purpose here.”
Karesho ’s expression hardened. “Then you know we cannot allow you to interfere.”
The clearing erupted into motion as the scouts lunged at Radagast, their blades flashing in the moonlight. The first blade whistled through the air, aiming for the wizard’s heart, but Radagast twisted aside with surprising agility. His staff swung upward, catching the attacker’s arm, and forcing the blade off course.
The second scout darted in, his curved dagger slicing downward in a lethal arc. Radagast countered with a burst of light from his staff, blinding the assailant momentarily and sending him staggering back. The wizard’s movements were fluid yet purposeful as if the natural world itself guided his hand.
Karesho circled the fray, his sharp eyes analysing Radagast’s defences. He lunged with precise strikes, each one aimed to exploit an opening. Radagast blocked a downward slash with the stout wood of his staff, the collision reverberating through the clearing. With a flick of his wrist, he released a wave of force that sent Karesho skidding backwards, his boots carving furrows in the earth.
“Your skill is evident,” Karesho admitted, his voice low and steady. “But you are alone, wizard. Even your power has its limits.”
Radagast didn’t respond, his focus unbroken. The forest around them seemed to come alive, the wind carrying whispers of ancient power. Vines writhed at the edges of the clearing, and roots began to creep toward the scouts as if answering their protector’s unspoken command.
One scout cried out as his foot was ensnared, the sudden pull toppling him to the ground. Radagast used the distraction to unleash another spell, a cascade of golden light that illuminated the glade. The remaining attackers shielded their eyes, but Karesho, undeterred, charged once more.
Steel met wood in a flurry of strikes and parries, each blow echoing in the quiet night. Despite his age, Radagast moved with a speed that belied his years, his staff spinning like a living extension of his will. But even as he fought valiantly, the scouts pressed their advantage, their coordination tightening like a noose.
The battle teetered on the edge of desperation, the wizard’s breaths coming faster as he struggled to maintain his ground. Yet, in his gaze, there was no fear—only a fierce determination to protect the land he loved. Radagast’s staff swung in a wide arc, releasing a burst of light that sent the scouts reeling. But Karesho recovered quickly, his blade slashing through the air towards the wizard.
Radagast parried with his staff, the clash echoing through the woods. “You will not harm these lands,” he said, his voice resonating with power.
Karesho smirked. “You cannot stop what is coming, wizard. The South rises, and the North will fall.”
The fight continued, the sounds of clashing steel and bursts of magic filling the night. Despite Radagast’s strength, the scouts’ coordination and skill began to overwhelm him. Just as it seemed he might falter, a piercing cry rang out.
A shadowy figure leapt from the trees, its blade slicing through the air with lethal precision. Radagast barely managed to deflect the blow, but the force sent him stumbling back. The new arrival, taller and more imposing than the scouts, stepped into the light.
His dark armour gleamed, adorned with the sigils of an ancient Harad tribe, and his eyes burned with a cold fury. “The wizard is mine,” he declared, his voice echoing with authority.
Radagast steadied himself, his grip tightening on his staff. “And who are you to claim me?”
The figure’s lips curled into a grim smile. “I am Zahir,” he said, drawing a scimitar that seemed to shimmer with darkness. “And your end.”
Radagast’s heart pounded as he prepared to face this new foe, the weight of the Shire’s safety pressing heavily on his shoulders.
“STOP!” a voice yelled, breaking the air with authority.
A large warrior, sitting on a white stallion with green livery, held aloft a large, curved scimitar. His shield bore an emblem of a black serpent on a scarlet background.
Behind him, were thirty or more warriors dressed like Zahir and Karesho, all holding their weapons aloft. Five of them were archers with thick black bows, their arrows nocked and ready.
Zahir froze instantly as he recognised the sigils of other Haradrim. “This cannot be. You are dead!”
The warrior grinned, “You were easily fooled Zahir, as were your men and your spies.” He turned to the wizard, “Radagast the Brown, I’m glad to see you safe.”
Radagast studied the warriors' features before saying, “You have the advantage of my name, but I don’t recognise you!”
“I recognise him Radagast, and you do know his name.” Gandalf accompanied by Lythar, Nardír, and many elvish soldiers, marched up to the front where the Haradrim spies now stood helpless. “This fine fellow is none other than the little thief you and I met at the port city of Umbar many years ago.”
Radagast’s brow furrowed for a second, and then his eyes lit up, “No! This is not young Khaldor son of Khaldoon of Harandor; is it?”
The warrior let out a huge laugh and grinned, “The same, wizard of the broken staff, the same.”
“My staff was not broken, you stole it and replaced it with an inferior useless stick!” cried Radagast, “and I still haven’t forgiven you for that dastardly deed young pup!”
“My dear Radagast the Brown, wise wizard and dare I say friend, it’s good to see you once more.” Khaldor beamed with joy, sheathed his sword, and grabbed the wizard by the shoulders. “Come, tell me about all your adventures since.”
“What about them?” Radagast asked, lifting his chin in the direction of Zahir, Karesho and the other two spies.
Khaldor’s face and shoulders slumped, and then he pursed his lips in thought. “I’ll deal with them later.”
Gandalf, who remained unusually quiet, interjected, “I insist we deal with them now Khaldor. I do not trust them anywhere near enough to give them the time of day.”
Khaldor nodded, “Fine. Guards, take them to that outbuilding yonder and secure them.” He glared at Zahir and menaced, “Your days are over, as are your accomplices unless you tell me everything I want to know.”
Zahir, Karesho and the other two men went ashen. They knew the pain that was to come.

 

[Kiredor]

Chapter 5: Shadows of the South

The celebration in the Shire was a vibrant tapestry of joy, woven with laughter, song, and the warm hum of community. Lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze, their golden light mingling with the starry sky above. The rich aroma of roasted meats and spiced pies filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of freshly turned soil and the faint sweetness of blooming flowers. Hobbits danced in merry circles, their feet pounding rhythms into the soft grass, while children darted between tables laden with steaming dishes and foaming mugs of ale. Amid this harmonious cacophony, the notes of a fiddle rose, weaving through the laughter and chatter to bind the scene in a melody that spoke of home and hearth.
Lanterns hung from every branch of the great Mallorn trees, casting soft halos over the merry faces of hobbits. Tables groaned under the weight of steaming pies, roasted meats, and freshly baked breads. Frodo and Sam sat near the heart of the gathering, surrounded by family and friends. Yet, despite the cheer, a shadow lingered over Frodo’s heart.
He glanced towards the edge of the party, where the light of the lanterns dissolved into the inky darkness of the surrounding woods. A faint rustling reached his ears—the wind, or so he told himself. But an unease pricked at his senses, a shadow he could not quite name.
Beside him, Sam was radiant. Eleanor had not left his side since their reunion, and his grandchildren darted about with youthful exuberance. Sam watched them with a broad smile, his weathered face glowing with contentment. Frodo did not want to burden his old friend with his worries, but the sensation of being watched had grown too strong to ignore. His heart beat a little faster as he replayed the faint rustling, he’d heard earlier. Was it just the wind?
He rubbed his hands together, the slight tremor in his fingers betraying his unease. Questions tumbled through his mind—what could it mean? Was it simply his imagination, or did the peace of the Shire conceal a threat lurking just beyond the glow of the lanterns? He glanced at Sam, whose warm laughter seemed to anchor him for a moment, but even that reassurance felt tenuous. Frodo shifted in his seat, the shadow of his doubt darkening his thoughts.
“Sam,” Frodo said quietly, leaning closer so only he could hear. “Have you noticed anything strange?”
Sam looked at him, his brow furrowing. “Strange, Mister Frodo? No, I’d say it’s all as it should be. What’s troubling you?”
Frodo hesitated, unsure how to explain his unease. “It’s probably nothing,” he said finally. “Just my imagination.”
But Frodo’s gaze drifted back to the woods, where the faint glint of something—a reflection? a pair of eyes?—flashed for a moment before vanishing.
In the shadows beyond the reach of the lanterns, three Haradrim scouts crouched among the roots of a towering Mallorn. Their dark cloaks blended seamlessly with the undergrowth, their movements as silent as the shifting wind. The leader, Karesho, signalled to his companions with a subtle hand gesture. They had seen enough of the Shire’s defences—or lack thereof.
“These halflings have no idea what lies beyond their borders,” one of the scouts murmured, his voice barely audible.
Karesho ’s sharp eyes swept over the scene. “They are simple folk, but do not underestimate them,” he said. “Remember the stories of their resilience during the War of the Ring. Sauron himself fell, in part, because of them.”
“And now they feast as if the world is at peace,” the second scout said with a sneer. “They will be easy prey.”
Karesho shook his head. “We are not here to attack. Not yet. Our task is to gather information. The Chieftain must know what strength remains in the North.”
The scouts turned their attention back to the festivities. Though the Shire appeared vulnerable, Karesho could not shake the feeling that something unseen was protecting this land. He had heard whispers of the Wizards’ interference in the North. Their mission, he knew, was more perilous than it seemed.
With unusual stealth to his gait, Radagast arrived unnoticed, his brown robes blending with the earth as he moved unseen among the hobbits. He observed the celebration with a wistful smile but kept his senses attuned to the woods. The shadows there felt heavier than they should have as if a malevolent presence lingered just beyond sight.
He approached Frodo and Sam, his staff tapping lightly against the ground. Frodo looked up, startled, but relaxed when he saw the familiar figure.
“Radagast,” Frodo said, standing to greet him. “What brings you here?”
Radagast’s eyes were sharp and alert, a stark contrast to his usual distracted demeanour. “Sit down quick!” without question, Frodo dropped back into his seat. “A shadow stirs in the South, Frodo,” Radagast said gravely. “And it reaches even here.”
Sam’s smile faded as he looked around nervously. “A shadow? What sort of shadow?”
Radagast’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “The Haradrim are on the move. Their new chieftain, Zahir son of Zahirion, whom I have never met, seeks to unite the scattered Southron tribes under a single banner. He has sent scouts to the North and West to gather information. And they are not alone.”
Frodo’s heart sank. “Not alone?”
“I fear it is the Blue Wizards, our kindred once thought long gone” Radagast said, his tone heavy with regret. “Their influence has spread far in the South. Once sent to oppose Sauron, they have now become embroiled in their own designs. I fear they may be guiding the Haradrim.”
Frodo’s fists clenched. “And what do we do about it? We can’t let them bring trouble here, not to the Shire.”
Radagast nodded. “We must act swiftly. But first, we must confirm the presence of these scouts. If they are here, they will report back to Zahir, and the Shire will no longer remain hidden or safe.” Radagast added, “I will keep you no longer from your festivities. Enjoy yourselves, and I will speak to you later. As of yet, you must tell no one of my presence.”
With that, Radagast disappeared into the darkness.
Karesho and his companions moved deeper into the woods, their path lit only by the faint moonlight filtering through the Mallorns. They reached a small clearing, where they paused to confer.
“We’ve seen enough,” Karesho whispered. “We’ll return to Zahir with the information.”
Before they could move, a faint rustling reached their ears. The scouts froze, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. From the shadows emerged a figure cloaked in brown, his staff glowing faintly.
“You are far from home, interlopers,” Radagast said, his voice calm but firm. “Why have you come to the Shire?”
Karesho stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his curved blade. “We mean no harm, old man. We are merely travellers.”
Radagast’s eyes narrowed. “Do not lie to me. I know who you serve, and I know your purpose here.”
Karesho ’s expression hardened. “Then you know we cannot allow you to interfere.”
The clearing erupted into motion as the scouts lunged at Radagast, their blades flashing in the moonlight. The first blade whistled through the air, aiming for the wizard’s heart, but Radagast twisted aside with surprising agility. His staff swung upward, catching the attacker’s arm, and forcing the blade off course.
The second scout darted in, his curved dagger slicing downward in a lethal arc. Radagast countered with a burst of light from his staff, blinding the assailant momentarily and sending him staggering back. The wizard’s movements were fluid yet purposeful as if the natural world itself guided his hand.
Karesho circled the fray, his sharp eyes analysing Radagast’s defences. He lunged with precise strikes, each one aimed to exploit an opening. Radagast blocked a downward slash with the stout wood of his staff, the collision reverberating through the clearing. With a flick of his wrist, he released a wave of force that sent Karesho skidding backwards, his boots carving furrows in the earth.
“Your skill is evident,” Karesho admitted, his voice low and steady. “But you are alone, wizard. Even your power has its limits.”
Radagast didn’t respond, his focus unbroken. The forest around them seemed to come alive, the wind carrying whispers of ancient power. Vines writhed at the edges of the clearing, and roots began to creep toward the scouts as if answering their protector’s unspoken command.
One scout cried out as his foot was ensnared, the sudden pull toppling him to the ground. Radagast used the distraction to unleash another spell, a cascade of golden light that illuminated the glade. The remaining attackers shielded their eyes, but Karesho, undeterred, charged once more.
Steel met wood in a flurry of strikes and parries, each blow echoing in the quiet night. Despite his age, Radagast moved with a speed that belied his years, his staff spinning like a living extension of his will. But even as he fought valiantly, the scouts pressed their advantage, their coordination tightening like a noose.
The battle teetered on the edge of desperation, the wizard’s breaths coming faster as he struggled to maintain his ground. Yet, in his gaze, there was no fear—only a fierce determination to protect the land he loved. Radagast’s staff swung in a wide arc, releasing a burst of light that sent the scouts reeling. But Karesho recovered quickly, his blade slashing through the air towards the wizard.
Radagast parried with his staff, the clash echoing through the woods. “You will not harm these lands,” he said, his voice resonating with power.
Karesho smirked. “You cannot stop what is coming, wizard. The South rises, and the North will fall.”
The fight continued, the sounds of clashing steel and bursts of magic filling the night. Despite Radagast’s strength, the scouts’ coordination and skill began to overwhelm him. Just as it seemed he might falter, a piercing cry rang out.
A shadowy figure leapt from the trees, its blade slicing through the air with lethal precision. Radagast barely managed to deflect the blow, but the force sent him stumbling back. The new arrival, taller and more imposing than the scouts, stepped into the light.
His dark armour gleamed, adorned with the sigils of an ancient Harad tribe, and his eyes burned with a cold fury. “The wizard is mine,” he declared, his voice echoing with authority.
Radagast steadied himself, his grip tightening on his staff. “And who are you to claim me?”
The figure’s lips curled into a grim smile. “I am Zahir,” he said, drawing a scimitar that seemed to shimmer with darkness. “And your end.”
Radagast’s heart pounded as he prepared to face this new foe, the weight of the Shire’s safety pressing heavily on his shoulders.
“STOP!” a voice yelled, breaking the air with authority.
A large warrior, sitting on a white stallion with green livery, held aloft a large, curved scimitar. His shield bore an emblem of a black serpent on a scarlet background.
Behind him, were thirty or more warriors dressed like Zahir and Karesho, all holding their weapons aloft. Five of them were archers with thick black bows, their arrows nocked and ready.
Zahir froze instantly as he recognised the sigils of other Haradrim. “This cannot be. You are dead!”
The warrior grinned, “You were easily fooled Zahir, as were your men and your spies.” He turned to the wizard, “Radagast the Brown, I’m glad to see you safe.”
Radagast studied the warriors' features before saying, “You have the advantage of my name, but I don’t recognise you!”
“I recognise him Radagast, and you do know his name.” Gandalf accompanied by Lythar, Nardír, and many elvish soldiers, marched up to the front where the Haradrim spies now stood helpless. “This fine fellow is none other than the little thief you and I met at the port city of Umbar many years ago.”
Radagast’s brow furrowed for a second, and then his eyes lit up, “No! This is not young Khaldor son of Khaldoon of Harandor; is it?”
The warrior let out a huge laugh and grinned, “The same, wizard of the broken staff, the same.”
“My staff was not broken, you stole it and replaced it with an inferior useless stick!” cried Radagast, “and I still haven’t forgiven you for that dastardly deed young pup!”
“My dear Radagast the Brown, wise wizard and dare I say friend, it’s good to see you once more.” Khaldor beamed with joy, sheathed his sword, and grabbed the wizard by the shoulders. “Come, tell me about all your adventures since.”
“What about them?” Radagast asked, lifting his chin in the direction of Zahir, Karesho and the other two spies.
Khaldor’s face and shoulders slumped, and then he pursed his lips in thought. “I’ll deal with them later.”
Gandalf, who remained unusually quiet, interjected, “I insist we deal with them now Khaldor. I do not trust them anywhere near enough to give them the time of day.”
Khaldor nodded, “Fine. Guards, take them to that outbuilding yonder and secure them.” He glared at Zahir and menaced, “Your days are over, as are your accomplices unless you tell me everything I want to know.”
Zahir, Karesho and the other two men went ashen. They knew the pain that was to come.

Chapter 6: Breaking Points

The morning after Radagast’s warning dawned cold and grey, casting a shadow over the Shire that felt unnatural. Frodo sat at the kitchen table in Bag End, the familiar warmth of the hearth no longer comforting. Sam, bustling around with breakfast preparations, seemed oblivious to the growing tension between them, humming a soft tune under his breath.
Frodo stared into his mug of tea, the silence between them stretching longer than it ever had before. He had never expected this—to feel so distant from Sam after all they had been through. Yet now, the divide seemed insurmountable, and no number of gentle words could bridge the gap.
"Sam," Frodo began, his voice tight, "do you really think everything can stay the same?"
Sam, turning with a steaming plate of eggs and bacon, gave Frodo a warm smile. "Of course it can, Mister Frodo. Why wouldn’t it? We’re back home. Safe. With our families."
Frodo’s eyes narrowed slightly. "You’re content, aren’t you? After everything we’ve faced... you’re just going to stay here, carry on like nothing’s changed?"
Sam’s smile faltered. He set the plate down and took a step toward Frodo. "What’s got into you, Frodo? Nothing’s wrong. The Shire is peaceful. We’ve earned our rest. You should see how happy Eleanor is, and my children—"
"I know," Frodo cut him off sharply, his impatience flaring. "I see how content you are, Sam. You’ve settled, surrounded by your family, and yet I’m left feeling like I’m still carrying the weight of the world."
Sam’s face tightened. "I didn’t ask for any of that, Frodo. I did what I had to for you—"
"Don’t talk to me like that!" Frodo snapped, his hands trembling as he stood abruptly from the table, knocking over his mug. "I didn’t ask for your charity, Sam! I didn’t ask for you to carry me every step of the way!"
Sam took a step back, a hurt look in his eyes. "I never said it was charity, Frodo. I thought we were friends. More than that... we’re family."
Frodo’s breath came in sharp bursts. "You don’t understand. I need more than this quiet life, Sam. I need to make a difference again. There’s something stirring in the South, something dark—and I can feel it. I can’t sit here and pretend everything is normal when I know that something—someone—is out there."
Sam crossed his arms over his chest, his brow furrowing. "You’re not thinking straight, Frodo. You’ve been through a lot, and I think you’re letting it get to you. We’ve all earned this peace, even you. You deserve it."
Frodo’s eyes flashed with anger. "And you think I deserve it? I’ve carried the Ring, Sam. I’ve seen what it does to people, to worlds. How can you stand there and tell me to be content with this... this life of ease?"
"Because it’s all we have left," Sam said, his voice low and steady. "And you’re not the only one who’s suffered, Frodo. We all have our scars, even if they’re not as visible as yours."
Frodo’s anger flared, and before he could stop himself, he spat, "Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m the only one who truly understands what it means to be broken. And you—" His voice cracked as he tried to find the words. "You’re so wrapped up in your perfect little family, you don’t even see it."
Sam’s face went pale, his lips trembling. "That’s not fair, Frodo. I’ve always been here for you. Always. But if you want to push me away—if that’s what you want—I can’t stop you."
Frodo’s heart twisted at the rawness in Sam’s voice, but the anger wouldn’t subside. "Maybe it’s better this way," Frodo said coldly. "Maybe I need to face whatever’s coming on my own."
Sam recoiled, the hurt in his eyes unmistakable. "You... you’re telling me to leave?"
Frodo’s voice wavered, the weight of his own words sinking in, but he hardened his heart. "I don’t know what I’m telling you anymore, Sam. But I’m not going to sit around here pretending everything’s fine when it’s not."
Sam stood there for a long moment, staring at Frodo. His hands clenched and unclenched, and his lips parted as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t. Finally, without another word, he turned and left the kitchen, the door swinging shut with a finality that echoed through the quiet house.
Frodo stood in the silence, his breath ragged as he tried to steady himself. His heart ached, but he couldn’t deny the truth—there was a part of him that felt liberated by the confrontation. Yet, as the weight of his words sank in, he found himself doubting everything. He had pushed Sam away, and for what?
Outside, the first rays of sunlight broke through the clouds, casting long shadows over the Shire. Frodo stepped outside, his gaze distant, his mind swirling with the confusion of it all.
He had pushed away the one person who truly understood him. But the question still lingered—had he done it because he truly wanted to be alone, or because he was too afraid to let anyone close again?
The day after their quarrel the sun hung low in the sky as Frodo, Gandalf, Radagast, and the rest of the party prepared to leave Bag End. The weight of the moment was heavy on Frodo’s chest, but the cold resolve he had found earlier still clung to him. He was determined to follow the path he felt had been laid out before him, though the cost was greater than he had anticipated.
Sam stood at the threshold of Bag End, his face pale as he watched the figures gather their belongings. Gandalf, cloaked and tall, seemed at ease in his purpose. Radagast adjusted his staff, his usual serenity tinged with concern. But Frodo, his eyes distant, could not look at Sam without a pang of guilt.
"I’ll leave a note for Elfstan before I head off home," Sam murmured, his voice soft but firm. "He’ll look after things here."
Frodo nodded, though the bitterness in his throat was sharp. He did not want to drag Sam into this any further. But Sam’s concern for the prisoners was evident in the way his hands trembled as he addressed the matter of the outbuilding.
"I don’t like leaving them here," Sam said, voice low, his gaze flickering toward the shackled men. "They’re Haradrim, Frodo. Dangerous."
Frodo turned to face him, eyes narrowed, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. "They’re staying here, Sam. We don’t have time for your doubts." His voice was clipped, the edge of finality unmistakable.
"But… they need to be guarded, Frodo," Sam insisted, stepping closer. His eyes were filled with worry. "You know what they’re capable of. What if they escape?"
Gandalf, sensing the rising tension, placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder. "Sam’s right to be concerned, but we have made arrangements. Elfstan will stay behind to keep watch."
Sam froze, a frown knitting his brow. "Elfstan? But he’s just a lad. What could he do?"
"More than you think," Radagast said, his voice tinged with an unfamiliar gravity. "The lad has a talent for handling situations most would find… uncomfortable."
Sam’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. "What do you mean by that?"
Frodo gave a half-hearted shrug, his mind already distant. "We don’t have time for explanations, Sam. We’re leaving."
The weight of the decision settled between them like a fog. Sam’s gaze lingered on the prisoners, his unease palpable. His gaze fell upon Elfstan, standing just inside the door, watching them silently. The boy had always been a quiet, thoughtful lad. But there was something about him, a shadow in his eyes that Sam could never quite understand. He had always thought it a strange thing for a boy so young to carry himself with such maturity, especially in times like these.
"You’ll be safe here," Frodo said firmly, though his voice held an edge of guilt. "We’ll return as soon as we can."
Sam could only nod, his mouth dry as he turned to look at the prisoners again. "I just hope you’re right, Frodo."
The group made their final preparations. Gandalf helped the still-injured Radagast mount his horse, and the rest of the companions gathered their things, ready to depart. But Sam stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the outbuilding, where the prisoners sat shackled and silent.
Finally, with a sigh, Sam turned to Elfstan. "Are you sure you can handle them?"
Elfstan met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "I can handle it, Granddad."
Sam swallowed, discomfort creeping into his chest. There was something about the boy’s calmness and demeanour that unsettled him. He couldn’t place it, but it was there, like a weight hanging over him.
"Good lad," Sam said, though the words felt hollow.
Without another word, Frodo mounted his horse, and Gandalf and Radagast followed suit. The group began to leave Bag End, the familiar landscape of the Shire stretching before them, yet somehow feeling foreign, distant, and cold.
As the small party of adventurers made their way down the road, Sam stood in the doorway of Bag End, watching them disappear into the distance. A heavy silence fell over him. He longed for the days when it had all been simpler—when he had been content, surrounded by his family, and the world had seemed safe. Now, it felt as though that safety had been torn away, and Sam was left standing on the edge of something unknown.
A sharp sound from behind him broke the stillness. Sam turned quickly to find Elfstan standing at the threshold of the outbuilding, his hands clasped behind his back. His young face was pale, and his eyes glimmered in a way that Sam couldn’t quite explain.
"What’s wrong? What have you done?" Sam asked, his voice strained.
Elfstan nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving the prisoners. "They’re taken care of."
Sam’s heart skipped a beat. He had expected to find the prisoners still shackled, perhaps in fear or confusion, awaiting some sort of mercy. But the silence that greeted him now felt wrong. He stepped toward the entrance of the outbuilding, but Elfstan moved to stop him.
"You don’t need to go in there, Granddad," Elfstan said quietly. "It’s better if you don’t see."
Sam froze, his eyes narrowing. "What have you done? And why do you keep calling me Granddad? It used to be Grandpa, you know, the way I liked to be called."
Elfstan looked back over his shoulder at the prisoners, their forms twisted and unnatural, as though something had been done to them that no one could comprehend. "I’ve handled it," he said again, a strange, cold satisfaction in his voice. "They won’t be a problem anymore."
Sam felt a chill creep down his spine as he looked at his grandson. "What did you mean by that, Elfstan?"
The boy didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked back into the shadows of the outbuilding, his footsteps slow and deliberate, as though nothing in the world could shake his calm.
Sam stood there, frozen in place, as the gravity of the situation dawned on him. He had trusted his grandson, but now… now he was unsure of everything. Something was wrong. Something darker than he could understand had taken root in the boy, and it left a sickening feeling in Sam’s gut.
As the sun sank lower, casting long shadows over the land, Sam turned away and walked back to the house, the weight of his thoughts heavy on his heart. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been set in motion, something that would change the Shire forever.
The road beyond Bag End was quiet, but the peace it once promised now felt like a distant memory. As Sam stood in the doorway of his beloved home, watching the last of the adventurers disappear into the distance, an unsettling sensation gnawed at his insides. His thoughts were heavy, clouded by the eerie silence of the outbuilding and the strange, almost unnatural composure of Elfstan.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the Shire in a twilight haze, Sam’s mind turned again to the prisoners. He could not shake the image of them—what Elfstan had done to them. It wasn’t the calm resolve of a lad taking charge. There was something more to it, something darker. Sam’s hands clenched into fists as he felt a cold stir deep within him, a fear mingled with growing suspicion.
He turned away from the door, his feet carrying him to the small study where he had always found solace. The shadows of the room seemed longer tonight, and the walls, once filled with the laughter of family, now felt oppressive. Sam sat down heavily at the desk, his mind racing.
“Dark magic,” he muttered under his breath. “There’s no other explanation.”
The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room as he thought of Elfstan. The boy had changed over the past few years—Sam could feel it, though he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it had begun. The old innocence was gone, replaced by something else. Something colder. And it wasn’t just Elfstan. It was the atmosphere in the house itself, the way the rooms seemed to breathe with a life of their own, a quiet, suffocating presence that hadn’t been there before.
Sam shook his head, trying to clear the dark thoughts. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t ignore them any longer. He needed to find out what had happened, even if it meant confronting things that he wasn’t sure he was ready for.
Rising from the desk, Sam made his way toward the kitchen. His eyes darted around the familiar room, but everything felt different—wrong. The pots hung a little too still, the kettle’s whistling too soft. As his gaze shifted to the cupboard where he had stored his supplies, something caught his eye. A small vial, hidden behind a stack of unused parchment. Sam reached for it instinctively, his fingers trembling as they grasped the cool glass.
He twisted the cork and inhaled deeply. The smell was faint, but unmistakable: the sharp tang of something otherworldly, something foul. His stomach churned, and he nearly dropped the vial in shock.
“What in the name of the Shire…?”
The scent—strange and bitter—clung to the air, sending a wave of unease crashing through Sam. His mind flashed back to the prisoners. Had they been subjected to this? And if so, what had Elfstan done to them? The thought made him sick, but Sam knew one thing for certain now: there was dark magic at work in Bag End. And it had taken hold of those he loved, even if they didn’t know it.
His heart raced. He had to find the source. He had to put an end to it, before it could spread any further. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that discovering the truth might not be enough.
“What if I have to… do something to stop it?” Sam whispered to the empty room. His voice shook with a mixture of fear and determination.
The idea of harm—of truly hurting anyone—was alien to him. He had always been the one who patched things up, who soothed fears and healed wounds. But now, standing in the quiet of Bag End, with the weight of a dark secret pressing down on him, he couldn’t help but wonder if the time had come for him to do something he would never have imagined.
Sam’s gaze shifted once more toward the outbuilding. His mind raced with possibilities. Could the source of this magic be tied to the prisoners? Were they mere pawns in some larger game, or had they been the ones to bring this curse into the Shire?
His hand brushed against the edge of the desk, and an old knife caught his attention. It had been a gift from his father, a sturdy thing, worn from years of use. Sam’s fingers tightened around the handle, a grim resolution setting in.
“I’ll find the truth,” he muttered, his voice low but fierce. “By hook or by crook. And if it means… if it means hurting them…” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’ll do it. For the good of the Shire.”
Sam stood still for a long moment, staring at the knife in his hand, before finally slipping it into his pocket. He was no longer the hopeful hobbit who had once believed that no evil could touch the heart of the Shire. No, he was someone else now—someone who would stop at nothing to rid the land of the creeping darkness, even if it meant losing himself in the process.
With one final glance toward the outbuilding, Sam set out into the night, his mind fixed on a single goal: to uncover the source of the evil that had taken root in Bag End—and to destroy it, no matter the cost.

 

[Kiredor]

Note: This chapter is unedited, but I thought I would post it as I won't be able to continue or edit it before summer - June/July 2025.

I will probably post chapters 7 (edited) thru 10 by the end of Aug.

Chapter 7 – A Family Ordeal
Samwise Gamgee stood in the shadowed corner of Bag-End, the familiar smell of old wood and hearth fire barely cutting through the bitter chill that had taken root in his bones. The once-comforting space now felt like a cage. He looked down at the small, worn piece of parchment in his hand, its edges frayed from being clutched so tightly. The letter was a silent accusation, written in a scrawl he knew far too well: Elfstan’s handwriting.
"Grandad, I’m sorry... I have done what I must. They won’t leave me be."
Elfstan, his flesh and blood. The young hobbit he had loved and raised as best he could. Sam’s heart ached as he read the words again. But the silence that followed made his resolve grow harder. He knew, as painful as it was, there was no turning back. Elfstan had fallen—trapped by dark forces he didn’t fully understand. Forces Sam couldn’t simply hope would go away.
He stepped forward, his boots muffled on the thick carpet and glanced once more at the oak door to the study, where he had last seen Elfstan, pale and withdrawn, his eyes haunted by the whispers he had claimed to hear. The young hobbit had denied it—denied the strange markings that had begun to appear on his skin, the dark runes he scratched into his own flesh as though to make them part of him. But Sam could see it all too clearly now: the madness, the taint of something ancient and evil creeping into the young hobbit’s soul.
But this... this is not Elfstan, Sam reminded himself. The Elfstan he had known would never harm another, much less betray those who had loved him.
The sounds of clattering outside pulled Sam from his reverie, the sharp jangle of chains. His own hands shook as he grasped the rusted key to the cellar door. There was no more time. He had to act, or risk losing whatever remained of his grandson to the abyss. He couldn’t let Elfstan hurt anyone—least of all himself.
He turned the key, and the door creaked open with an ominous groan.
Inside, the room was dark, save for the faint, flickering light of moonlight passing the branches of an Elm through the window. The air was musty, filled with the scent of damp earth and mildew. He crossed the room and lit a single lantern. Sam’s heart pounded in his chest as he approached the stone slab, now etched with runes in Black Speech, dark symbols that glowed faintly with malevolent energy. He remembered the tales of the ancient ones, those who had whispered in shadows, speaking of things best left forgotten.
The door to the outhouse stood ajar. Sam swallowed hard, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like an anvil. He had to chain Elfstan there. It was the only way to ensure that the darkness inside him wouldn’t spread. He couldn’t trust the young hobbit anymore, not with the lives of those they held dear. Sam closed his eyes, steeling himself against the torrent of guilt that surged within him. He had no choice.
Inside the small, grim space, Elfstan stood in the corner, his back to the door. His clothes were dishevelled, his hair unkempt. Sam could hear the ragged breaths as the young hobbit seemed to sense his presence before he spoke.
“Grandad…” Elfstan’s voice cracked like brittle parchment. “Please, don’t do this. I—I didn’t want any of this.”
Sam felt his resolve falter for a fleeting moment, but he quickly quashed it. Elfstan’s voice, once full of youthful energy and promise, was now a hollow whisper, drenched in something darker.
“You’ve been touched by something, lad. Something that’s taken hold of your heart and your mind,” Sam said, his voice rough with sorrow. “I don’t know what it is, but I won’t let it destroy you. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if it means this.”
The young hobbit turned slowly, and Sam caught a glimpse of the raw terror in Elfstan’s eyes. “I’m not dangerous, Grandad. It’s… it’s the voices. They won’t stop. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
The pleading tone tore at Sam’s heart, but he knew better. The darkness inside Elfstan had already begun to manifest. Sam could see it in the way his grandson’s eyes seemed to flicker with an unnatural glow, in the tremble of his hands as he reached out to Sam, desperate.
“I’m sorry, lad,” Sam murmured, as he grabbed the chains, his hands steady now. He had to do this. He had to protect the others.
As Sam moved to restrain him, Elfstan recoiled, his breath quickening, panicked. “Don’t make me—please, Grandad!”
But Sam wasn’t listening to the young hobbit’s pleas. The voice that had once been his grandson was now clouded by something darker. There were only two choices before him: bind him or watch him destroy himself, and perhaps others. Sam pressed the chains around Elfstan’s limbs, securing him with a finality that made his stomach twist.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Elfstan’s face crumpled as he slumped to the ground, his chest heaving, eyes wide with a fear that mirrored Sam’s own. “You can’t leave me here… Please…”
Sam felt his heartbreak. He wanted to hold him, comfort him as he had so many times before. But that young hobbit was no longer the one he had raised.
“I’ll be back soon, lad. I promise.” The words felt empty as he spoke to them, but they were the only ones he had left.
He turned away, forcing himself to leave. But just as his hand grasped the door, there came a sound from beneath—the faintest stir of movement, like something stirring from a deep sleep. A low, guttural groan filled the air, followed by a terrible, hollow cry.
Sam froze, every muscle in his body tensing. He turned, just in time to see Elfstan’s body arch against the chains, his eyes wide with horror as his mouth parted to scream.
The sound of distant footsteps made Sam pause. Someone was coming.
But as he glanced back, the door creaked open again showing nobody there, and the foul scent of death seemed to flood the room. Something was wrong.
Later, Sam sat in the quiet of the study, the weight of what he had just done pressing on his shoulders like a mountain. The flickering fire before him did little to ease the cold that had seeped into his bones, nor did the quiet tick of the old clock on the mantelpiece offer him any comfort. The room, once a sanctuary of warmth and familiarity, now seemed hollow and far too silent.
His hands, still trembling from the chains he had bound around Elfstan, rested on the edge of the table, gripping the parchment tightly. The letter had haunted him for hours now, its words eating at his thoughts: “They won’t leave me be.”
Who were they? The voices had been growing, Sam knew that much. He’d seen the signs. But how had it come to this? Where had the innocent young hobbit gone, the lad who had once run through the gardens of Bag-End with a smile as bright as any summer day?
As he sat there, his mind raced with questions, all leading to the same dreadful conclusion. Whatever had taken hold of Elfstan wasn’t something that could be easily undone. Sam had always believed in the strength of family, in the power of love to overcome any darkness, but this? This was different.
A sharp knock at the door cut through his thoughts, and Sam’s heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t ready to face anyone, not yet. Not after what he had just done.
“Da?” A familiar voice called through the door, steady and calm. “It’s me, Eleanor. I need to speak with you.”
Sam breathed out slowly, his fingers loosening their grip on the letter. He knew the voice. Eleanor was Sam’s daughter, and like him, she carried a heavy heart. She raised Elfstan when he was an innocent young hobbit, and now she was the one who would surely question him. She was always fiercely protective of Elfstan, but Sam wasn’t sure if she would understand the truth of what had transpired.
He stood slowly, his legs aching from the tension of the evening. With a deep sigh, he crossed the room and opened the door.
Eleanor stood there, her face drawn, her eyes filled with concern and confusion. She was still the same girl Sam had known all his life—tall, with dark, thoughtful eyes and a calm presence. But something in the way she held herself now told Sam she was bracing for something far worse than a simple conversation.
“Da, I—” she began, but Sam cut her off before she could say anything more.
“I had to do it, Eleanor,” he said, his voice rough and hoarse, his eyes not meeting hers. “I had no choice. He’s lost to us. I couldn’t let him hurt anyone. I couldn’t... I couldn’t let him hurt himself.”
Eleanor’s face faltered, and for a moment, she didn’t speak. The silence between them stretched long and heavy, like the air before a thunderstorm. She stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her.
“You’re saying... you chained him up?” she asked, her voice low, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“I had no choice. You saw the signs. You heard the whispers, the way he started to change. He’s not the same Elfstan, Eleanor. He’s... he’s been touched by something terrible. Something I can’t fight on my own.”
Eleanor’s eyes flickered with a mixture of disbelief and sorrow. “You think he’s beyond saving?”
Sam’s internal stoicism softened, and he sank into the armchair by the fire. “I don’t know, Eleanor. But I couldn’t let him go free—not like that. Not with whatever’s inside him.”
Eleanor’s lips pressed together as she crossed the room, taking a seat beside him. “I don’t want to believe that Da. I don’t want to believe my Elfstan, the one I raised, is gone.”
Sam swallowed, the lump in his throat painful and thick. “I didn’t want to believe it either. But I’ve seen it in his eyes—the way he’s become more... disconnected. It’s like he’s not even there anymore, like he’s being dragged somewhere else. Somewhere dark.”
The fire crackled in the hearth, sending dancing shadows across the room. The flicker of the flames was the only sound for a moment as Sam let the weight of his words settle into the space between them. Eleanor didn’t say anything at first, just sat there, lost in thought, her brow furrowed. Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
“There’s something more to this, Sam. It isn’t just Elfstan. You know that don’t you? It’s... it’s like there’s a pull, something outside of him that’s influencing him. Something more powerful.”
Sam stiffened, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at her. “What are you saying?”
Eleanor hesitated, clearly unsure of herself. She’d always been the practical one, the sceptic, but now there was something new in her voice—a quiet sense of dread. “I’m saying... I think this might be connected to something older. Something that’s been stirring for a long time.”
Sam didn’t speak. The air between them grew thick again, a terrible realisation dawning on him. He had known, deep down, that this wasn’t just a passing phase. But hearing Eleanor say it aloud made it all too real.
“What do you mean, older?” Sam asked, his voice low and strained. “What could be so dark that it could take hold of a strong hobbit like Elfstan?”
Eleanor looked away for a moment, as though she were searching for the right words. When she spoke again, her voice trembled slightly.
“I don’t know for certain. But there have been rumours, Da. Strange things. Old folk tales that speak of an evil that can crawl into the hearts of the young, especially those with... sensitive souls. And I’ve heard whispers in the village. Whispers about things happening, things that shouldn’t be.”
The room seemed to grow colder, and Sam felt a shiver run down his spine. “What kind of whispers?” he asked, barely above a murmur.
Eleanor hesitated. “The kind that says there’s a power—dark, ancient—that’s been trying to resurface. A force that’s been lying in wait. And now... now I think it’s begun to reach out.”
Sam’s heart sank, and for a long moment, there was nothing but the crackling of the fire and the slow tick of the clock. He couldn’t help but think of the things he’d seen in Elfstan’s eyes, the strange markings on his skin that he tried to hide, but Sam saw them and said nothing. It all made sense now, but it also made everything more dangerous.
“What do we do?” Sam asked quietly, his voice heavy with the burden of what had to be done next.
Eleanor’s expression darkened. “We need to find out what’s behind this—before it spreads. And we need to find a way to stop it.”
The night felt endless, stretching out like an immovable shadow over the small cottage. Sam’s mind churned with all that had transpired—Elfstan locked away in the outhouse, his future uncertain, and the terrifying new reality that loomed. The fire had burned low in the hearth, and the wind howled outside, its mournful wail seeming to echo the unease in Sam’s heart.
Eleanor sat in silence across from him, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her cup as she stared into the flames, her face set in grim thought. Sam knew she was struggling with the same questions that had been haunting him for hours. Was Elfstan utterly lost? Was there a way to save him, or had something darker taken root in his soul?
“I don’t like this, Da,” Eleanor murmured, her voice soft but laced with a sharp edge of concern. “I don’t like what you’ve done.”
Sam’s gaze flickered up to meet hers, but there was no anger in his eyes, only the weight of decision. “I didn’t want to do it, Eleanor. But I had no choice. He wasn’t... he wasn’t the same. You saw him too. Those eyes. There was something in them.”
Eleanor’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I know. But locking him away like that? Chaining him...”
“It was the only way to protect him. Protect everyone,” Sam replied, his voice rough with regret. “He wasn’t simply confused or troubled. He has become dangerous. I couldn’t let him hurt anyone else.”
The tension in the room was palpable, thick as the smoke from the dying fire. Sam’s hands clenched into fists as he spoke, the weight of his choices pressing down on him. There was no easy answer here, no comfort to be found. Only the truth is they were standing on the edge of something far more dangerous than they had yet understood.
Outside, the wind picked up again, rattling the windows as if in protest to the silence that hung over the room. Sam heard the distant sound of the dogs barking at something in the dark, but it was far away—too far to be of any concern.
Eleanor stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor with a harsh screech. “I need to see him.”
Sam blinked in surprise. “Eleanor, no. He’s not—”
“I need to see him for myself, Da.” Her voice was firm, her jaw set. “You don’t know what it’s like to stand on the other side of this. He’s, my son. I can’t just turn my back on him, not without knowing—”
“I know, but...” Sam’s words faltered, his mind scrambling for a reason to stop her. But he didn’t have one. Not truly. If anyone had the right to see Elfstan now, it was Eleanor. She had been the one to raise him, the one who had held him when he was little, when he was innocent.
Eleanor’s hand trembled slightly as she reached for the door. “I won’t be long,” she said softly, her voice softer now, tinged with something that Sam couldn’t quite place.
Sam stood up, his voice low. “If you must, then I’ll come with you.”
But Eleanor shook her head. “No. Stay here. I need to do this alone.”
Before Sam could protest, she was gone, the door creaking as it shut behind her. He stood in the silence she left behind, his heart heavy, his thoughts spiralling again. What had happened to the world they had known? The world where families stayed together, where love and loyalty were enough to shield them from the darker forces of the world?
He moved to the window, looking out into the night, but all he could see was the endless stretch of darkness, broken only by the distant lights of the village. He should have gone with her. He should have insisted. But something held him back—something that told him he needed to stay, to wait, to see what would unfold next.
Eleanor made her way through the cold, the chill of the night air biting at her skin. She was determined, yes, but the further she walked, the more she found herself questioning her own resolve. Was this the right thing to do? Could she really face her son in the state he was in?
As she reached the outhouse, the heavy silence of the night wrapped around her, oppressive and thick. The air smelled of damp earth, of decay. She could feel the weight of the place, the sense of something gone wrong hanging in the air. The door to the outhouse was cracked slightly as if it had been disturbed.
Eleanor pushed the door open slowly, her breath caught in her throat. Inside, Elfstan lay curled on the floor, his body thin and trembling, his eyes wide and wild as he stared at the wall. His skin, pale and clammy, seemed to glow in the dim light, and his hands were bound by the chains Sam had placed around him earlier. But it wasn’t the chains that caught Eleanor’s attention—it was the way Elfstan’s eyes shimmered with an unnatural, feverish gleam, the strange aura of madness that clung to him like a dark fog.
“Elfstan,” Eleanor whispered, her voice soft, almost afraid. She stepped closer, her heart breaking at the sight of the young hobbit she had once known, now reduced to this.
Elfstan’s head jerked toward her, his eyes locking onto hers with a sharp, unnatural focus. There was no recognition in them, only a strange, hollow stare like he was seeing her but not truly seeing her.
“Eleanor... why?” His voice was a rasp, strained and broken. “They... they won’t leave me alone. I can’t... I can’t make them stop.”
Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat. The words were not the words of the Elfstan she remembered. They were the words of someone—or something—else.
“Who, Elfstan?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Who won’t leave you alone?”
He shook his head frantically, his body jerking as though trying to escape the chains that held him. “They’re in my head. They’re in my skin. I can’t... I can’t stop them. They’re everywhere!”
Eleanor’s chest tightened. This was no longer just a young hobbit with a dark mood or a strange fit of behaviour. Something deeper, darker, more insidious had taken root inside him. The reality of what they were facing hit her like a blow to the chest. Whatever had touched Elfstan, it was not of this world.
“We’ll get you help, Elfstan,” she said softly, but the words felt hollow in the face of the overwhelming terror in his eyes. “We’ll fix this.”
But deep down, she didn’t know if anything could fix this. The very air around them seemed charged, as though the darkness itself was whispering to them, pulling at their very souls.
As Eleanor made her way back to the cottage, her mind was numb, her steps slow and heavy. She had seen enough. There was no doubt in her heart now. This wasn’t just her son who had gone astray. This was something far more sinister, something beyond their understanding, beyond their ability to stop. They were no longer dealing with just Elfstan. They were facing something far older, far darker.
She closed the door behind her quietly, her face pale and drawn. Sam was still sitting by the window, his hands clasped together in silent thought.
“I saw him,” Eleanor said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I saw what’s inside him.”
Sam’s eyes flickered with the question, but he didn’t ask it aloud. He already knew.
“I don’t know if we can save him, Da,” Eleanor said, her voice breaking. “Not from this.”
The finality in her words settled over them both like a weight. There was no turning back. What had begun could not be undone. Eleanor returned to the family home to be with her other children and grandchildren. Things needed doing, sorting, cooking, cleaning. Things she needed to do to feel a sense of normality.
The fire in Bag-End had long since burned out, and the cottage was submerged in a suffocating stillness. Sam sat by the hearth, staring at the cold embers, his mind a tangled web of regret, fear, and helplessness. Outside, the wind howled like an ancient beast, clawing at the stone walls, but inside, the silence was even louder. It pressed against him, thick and unyielding.
Eleanor had not returned. It had been hours. Each minute stretched into an eternity as he waited, knowing that with every passing moment, the possibility of things getting worse grew stronger. The night was deep now, and yet, in the pit of his stomach, a gnawing feeling told him that there was no such thing as a peaceful end to this.
At last, the door creaked open, and Eleanor stepped inside, her face pale, her expression unreadable. The moment she crossed the threshold, Sam’s breath caught in his throat. Her presence was heavy with something he could not place, a subtle shift in the air, a change in the way she moved. She was no longer the hobbit who had left the house hours ago; something had altered her.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Eleanor stood there, her eyes fixed on the floor, her hands clenched at her sides. Sam rose slowly, his body stiff with the weight of the moment.
“Eleanor?” His voice was tentative, barely a whisper, as if he feared that if he spoke too loudly, he would shatter whatever fragile calm was left.
She lifted her head, her eyes meeting his with a clarity that felt almost unsettling. The light in them was different now—haunted, distant, as though something deep within her had broken free.
“He’s gone, Da,” she said, her voice hollow, as if she were speaking from the farthest reaches of her mind. “Elfstan is gone.”
Sam took a step forward, his heart racing in his chest. “What do you mean gone? Where is he?”
Eleanor didn’t answer immediately. She took a slow, deliberate step into the room, her stare still fixed on him. The silence stretched, and Sam felt his pulse quicken with anxiety. She was not the same mother who had left to see her son. The dread in her eyes, the tightness in her voice—it was more than he had ever seen from her.
“He’s not the Elfstan you knew, Da. Not anymore,” Eleanor finally said, her voice strained. “I saw him, and he wasn’t... he wasn’t even human anymore. There was something in his eyes, something that had taken hold of him, something old and dark.”
Sam’s stomach turned, and a chill crawled up his spine. He wanted to believe it was a nightmare, that the truth wasn’t as terrible as it sounded, but deep inside, he knew it was all too real.
“I tried,” Eleanor continued, her voice thick with emotion, “I tried to talk to him, to make him see reason. But the words didn’t reach him. The chains... the chains couldn’t hold him. Something was feeding on him, twisting him. It wasn’t just madness, Da. It was possession. He—he called out for help, but it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the Elfstan I remembered.”
Her breath caught, and for the first time since she entered, her eyes filled with tears. Sam reached out, his hand trembling as he touched her arm, but she pulled away as if his touch was too much to bear.
“We couldn’t help him,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I couldn’t.”
Sam’s heart squeezed painfully. He wanted to say something comforting, something to take away the raw grief that radiated from her. But no words came. Nothing could undo what had happened. Nothing could undo the horror that had taken root inside Elfstan.
For a long time, they both stood there in silence, the weight of their failure hanging over them like a storm cloud, dark and oppressive. Sam tried to speak, but his throat was dry, his mind unable to form the words.
Finally, Eleanor broke the silence, her voice barely audible. “We need to stop this, Da. Whatever this is, it’s not finished. It’s still out there, still... feeding on his soul.”
Sam looked at her, his eyes searching for the little hobbit he had known for so long, but all he found was the reflection of a fear he recognised as his own. They had ventured into something far more dangerous than they had understood, and now, they were both bound to it—just like Elfstan.
“We need to warn the others,” Sam said, his voice hoarse. “Before it spreads. Before it’s too late.”
Eleanor nodded, the resolve returning to her features, though her expression remained strained. “We can’t let this continue. We have to stop it, whatever it takes.”
Sam knew she was right. The darkness that had touched Elfstan was far from over. It was only beginning. And with each passing moment, it was growing stronger.
The two of them stood there for a long while, not speaking, as if the very act of speaking would set something into motion they were not yet prepared for. But the quiet between them wasn’t one of peace. It was the quiet before a storm.
Finally, Sam spoke, his words heavy with the weight of everything that had come before and everything that would come after.
“We’ll face it together, daughter. Whatever happens.”
She nodded again, her gaze unwavering. But Sam saw the flicker of doubt in her eyes—the same doubt that gnawed at him too. They had no way of knowing what would come next, no way of preparing for the consequences of their actions. But they were in it now. There was no turning back. The fire had gone out. The room was cold. And yet, neither of them felt the chill as they both turned toward the door, stepping into the unknown.