Because Nilmandra and The Karenator asked to know the true story of the Guardian…and how Celebrían got to know it.  

Chapter 2. …For They Are Subtle…

Imladris, year 271 of the Third Age.                                                   

“…You have no right!”

“Have I not, now? Look around you, Elrond! Do you expect me to believe that this is natural? That this calmness, this beauty, this peace, this feeling of being out of the grasp of time and change are the result of a particular blessing expressly bestowed upon you by the grace of Manwë?”

“Ada, look what Gildor gave to me! He says they are sea-things…”

“I am busy now, sweetheart. Go to your naneth.” The lord of the house turned again to his recently arrived guest, a cold tinge on his pleasant voice. “And what, if it is not?”

“You surprise me, son of Eärendil! After two wars fought for the possession of thatwhich you keep --wars that laid waste almost all that remained of the elven realms in Middle-earth and that cost more lives than you or I are willing to recall- you still pretend that you are not misusing what was entrusted to you? You are employing the enemy’s own weapons to build yourself a safe haven…”

“Ada, are they fishes? Where are their mouths?”

“Not now, Arwen! Go to your naneth!” With an offended sigh, the little girl threw her nose up and stomped from the quiet garden in hurt dignity. Elrond turned an angry face to his friend. “We do not talk of such things openly!”

“What a pity… I was sure that you, of all people, would remember how bitterly Ereinion fought against Annatar’s tempting offers, and would not fail where he so valiantly succeeded.”

“Sauron never touched those rings, Gildor! You were there with me when Celebrimbor surrendered them to Glorfindel, and he confirmed that they were not corrupted.”

“Yet Celebrimbor used Sauron’s ideas and inspiration to create those Time-arresting devices…”

“But not for a purpose of dominion! These rings were wrought to bring healing to the wounds of the world!”

“It is not our lot, Elrond, to usurp the healing powers of the Valar and recreate the bliss of Valinor in the shores of Hither!”

“Says one who forsook the Blessed Realm in pursuit of vain glory and bright jewels!”

“Dearly have I paid for my folly, Peredhel, but at least I can now recognize it in others.”

“Ereinion named me his regent…”

“And he handed down one of those accursed rings to you, so you would keep it hidden from the Enemy!  I much doubt that he ever meant for you to wield it in such a selfish, foolish carelessness!”

“So you would have me destroy all that we have built here? Sauron’s been defeated and the One is lost… what should I do, according to you?”

Gildor shook his head. “Wise you may be, Elrond,” he began with undisguised annoyance. “But sometimes even the wise are blinded by their own knowledge… The One is lost, you say, but how do we know that it will not be retrieved? What, then, of the Wielders of the Three? Would you allow yourselves to be enslaved, and let all those that rely on you perish under the scorching wrath of the Dark Lord or his successor?” Elrond shook his head and released a heavy sigh, visibly exasperated. He opened his mouth to retort angrily, but Gildor was not yet done. “What is it that you have built here, Peredhel, which you are so proud of? Nothing but a mock, fake rendition of Valinor that only suits your pride and your foolish attempts at preserving what cannot be preserved! You know well what you should have done long ago…”

“We did not carry the rings to Mordor…that would have been sheer foolishness!”

“But you have not forgotten the road there, have you? I have been there several times, and I have seen that the foundations of the Dark Tower still stand! The fires in Orodruin burn with malevolent glee, and the air is tarnished with a brooding, expectant feeling of malice ready to arise anew… and still you and Galadriel blind yourselves to the fact that our time here is coming to an end, and that it is not for us to enjoy the peace of Valinor in Middle-earth…you are betraying your king’s trust, Elrond!”

“And you are overstepping the boundaries of friendship. I will not tolerate your insults any longer, Gildor,” Elrond growled, for once losing his temper. He made as if to walk away from his friend, then turned and cast him an angry look. “Ereinion entrusted me with the well-being of his people…”

“But you refused to step up as his successor, the responsibility and the pain of being king of a dwindling people... Instead you remained in hiding in your peaceful, secret valley, building a comfortable refuge for yourself and your new family, blocking out the grief and fading of the outer world and pretending that it does not exist and that it cannot reach you here!”

“I have built a refuge for those ailing and yet unwilling to depart the lands of Hither. Refusing to bring even a short span of healing to the lands for fear of something that might –or might not- come to happen would have been cowardice!" Elrond retorted heatedly. "And I doubt that Ereinion would have ever grudged me my finally marrying and settling down, as you seem to imply,” he added in a lowered, wounded voice, barely managing to keep his anger under control. “But you are not forced to share our bliss, Gildor, although you will always be welcome here, no matter what you think of me or of my House…”

“Ah, here you are!” Celebrían’s silvery voice interrupted the argument opportunely. With forced smiles that could not hide the tension between them, both lords turned to the lady of the house. “Arwen said that you were fighting, and I thought I would find you in the training grounds…But I see that it is a different kind of fencing…What is it about now?” she asked with a playful smile, passing Elrond’s rigid arm over her shoulders and looking up to the fair yet worried face of her kinsman.

“The same old issue. Gildor is accusing me of betraying my king’s legacy and corrupting myself –and those around me- with the enemy’s weapons…”

“I wonder that you can still stand our presence, Gildor,” Celebrían said dryly, casting worried looks from one to another and perceiving that, this time, the argument was serious indeed. “But you are tired from your journeys, I deem. Why don’t you postpone such serious conversations until you are rested? Cook is willing to feed you, and he has been working hard since he got wind of your arrival,” she smiled enticingly, taking one of Gildor’s long, calloused hands between hers and pressing it comfortingly. “We can talk after dinner, under the stars. What do you say?”

“Talking will not conceal the fact that you are hiding from reality, Celebrían…and shutting the grief of the world beyond the limits of your valley in a way that is unnatural,” he answered harshly, freeing his hand from her grasp brusquely. “I worry for you, my lady, for what will become of you when pain and sorrow reach you even here, as it is wont to happen one day or the other, no matter how confident your lord husband is in the power that he is so foolishly wielding?”

“Worry not, for I am no stranger to suffering, Gildor. I was not raised as Lúthien, unaware of the evil of the world…But I have learned to embrace happiness when it is at hand,” she retorted in a cold voice that held all of Galadriel’s cutting, sharp edge.  At his hoarse, bitter laugh she stiffened in her husband’s embrace.

“What do you know of grief and pain, child?” Gildor wondered scathingly. “You have seen your people die and lose their land, it is true, and your compassionate heart goes to those who suffer, but you know not yourself what suffering is… nor do your children. Can’t you see that this happiness is faked?” he continued almost pleadingly. “It is supported by forgery and heedless of the darkness and decay of the world, Celebrían, and it is as false as was that of Doriath or Gondolin! I fear that you will all have to pay one day dearly for this blind blessedness that you are enjoying now.”

“We will stand up together in pain as we do in happiness with or without your dark warnings, which are no longer welcome here,” she shot back angrily. “You are not bound to our service or to Middle-earth, Gildor, and you are free to sail away if you so much despise the lands of Hither…or our company!”

A deep silence followed her harsh words, and even the trees stilled their voices. Then the golden-haired elf exhaled deeply and cast his friends an intense, serious glance.

“It is not for you, my lady, to grant me leave on such matter or release me from my duty, yet I will follow your advice in what is indeed your privilege,” he pronounced softly. Sketching a brief bow, he turned his back on his friends and disappeared towards the house.

Arwen was the last to see Gildor before he left Imladris that same day. She followed him into the stables and watched worriedly as he coaxed his tired mare out of her comfortable stall.

“Can you help me?”

He turned back to see the big eyes looking up quizzically at him. She was holding the bracelet of red coral that he had brought for her from Edhellond between her pale fingers. With a sad, soft smile, he crouched beside her.

“Here,” he said, turning it twice around the slender wrist. “It will fit you better when you grow a bit....”

“Are you sailing away, Gildor?” He let escape a deep sigh and pulled her into a tight embrace.

“I will not sail away without telling you, Arwen, I promise,” he offered seriously, holding her steady, dark gaze. Placing a soft kiss on her head, he mounted and rode away.

~*~*~*~  

West of the Weather Hills. Winter, 1411. Third Age. 

“Had I known that this war would be fought in winter, I would have not insisted on coming….”

The man let escape a soft, dry chuckle as he trudged laboriously across the muddy, slanting terrain after the light-footed elf. “I thought that you Elves were not disturbed by cold or damp weather?” he grunted.

“Say rather that it takes longer for us to freeze to death, or die of starvation, or of wounds to the flesh,” the elf explained good-naturedly, not really aware of his companion’s difficulties. “But that does not mean that I would not give half of my possessions, and even more, to be now sitting in my father’s Hall of Fire sipping his best wine, even if it meant listening to Lindir’s most boring ballad for the tenth time, rather than climbing up and down these damp, bleak hills full of mud pools and marshes,” the young elf assured in a wistful voice as he marched on with the easy grace of his race.

A loud grunt and a blood-freezing curse made him stop and turn to offer a hand to the man, who had floundered in a treacherous mud pool he had not spotted in time in that clouded, moonless night. “We could do with a brief rest,” the elf suggested tactfully after helping the angry, muck covered man to his feet, guiding him to take seat on a dry place under a dead tree by the side of the trail. “Here, drink this, take my cloak. We Elves are not bothered by cold or damp weather,” he offered with a mischievous glint in his deep, starlit eyes. The man sighed and accepted the helping hand, the dry cloak and the heart-warming cordial gladly, too tired to try to strangle the infuriating elf.

“At times I find it hard to believe that you are a thousand years old and more, Lord Elladan,” he grunted after a short while, once he regained his breathing and a steady grip on his temper. “When Lord Glorfindel suggested that we could use your sense of diplomacy I thought that you had at least the barest hint of what that meant,” he complained harshly.

“Oh, don’t you know the saying? Do not go to the Elves for counsel? For your comfort, my friend, Glorfindel knew exactly what he was doing…”

“Telling the self-appointed king of Cardolan that his strategies are childish and that he better surrendered Amon Sûl now and submitted to King Araphor’s rule is what you elves understand by diplomacy?” The man now sounded honestly puzzled.

“That is what Glorfindel meant by using my sense of diplomacy,” Elladan explained patiently to the tired, bedraggled captain of the Dúnedain of Arthedain. “Not that it was of much help,” he admitted softly. “But at least we got to know the disposition of their waning forces and the source of their stubborn defence of the mounds of Tyrn Gorthad. It will be of great help, when they are all buried there by Angmar’s minions,” he added sadly, drinking in turn and packing the leather bound flask with a shake of his head.

“But we have forced Angmar back, with your help and that of Lindon…”

“But at what cost,” Elladan observed evenly. “Araphor is too young and his position has been weakened by this war…Arthedain’s claim over Cardolan will not be accepted… not until the last foolhardy Dúnadan there dies defending their hallowed mounds and the land becomes a barren battlefield for wraiths and houseless spirits…We can help you keep your frontier along the Weather Hills, but that will not last too long. Angmar will attack again.”

“You survived a long siege and emerged victorious. Angmar can no longer keep two fronts at the same time,” the man argued, accepting the strong hand that pulled him back up on his feet.

“We had to call out to our kin beyond the Mountains, Herion. I will encourage King Araphor to retreat from the Weather Hills and to keep an alert eye on the north. Neither Lindon nor Imladris can hold his land forever…”

“Forever is a long way from now,” the man observed philosophically. “But you are right, I think. Let us get to our camp and send word to the king. If Arnor is to fall under this darkness, at least Gondor will remain, to keep the flame of the West…”

“It is too soon to say that the line of Elendil has failed in the North, Herion. Do not give up hope yet…”

“Not while the line of Elrond, brother of Tar-Minyatur still fights with us,” the man agreed with renewed strength, starting again after the tall elf, who now walked in alert, tense silence. A sudden, cold breeze had awoken and whispered unsettlingly among the needled branches of a patch of spruce that stretched to their left.  

“You heard that?” the elf whispered after a while, forcing them to a stop. The man shook his head and waited. “There is a strange feeling in the air,” Elladan added, casting worried looks around. The trees lined the trail as it narrowed ahead, up the hillside.  “As if someone...or something were watching us…” With a brief scowl he unsheathed his long sword and motioned for the man to do the same. “Better to be ready…”

They fell upon the travellers in the unruly, inordinate manner of their kin, emerging all at once from behind some boulders that had been dislodged from the hillside by a recent landslide. But a band of eight desperate orcs could prove a few orcs too many for the two solitary scouts, who fought bravely back to back, keeping their attackers at a distance while looking frantically for a way out. After two reckless attempts at breaking man and elf’s fierce guard, two orcs lay dead and one more was seriously wounded, and the remaining five surrounded them warily, taunting them with their curved swords, but not really daring to attack them.

“They will wait until we wear ourselves out,” the man warned in a worried whisper, circling his sword protectively before him and keeping the snarling creatures at bay…for now.

“We can do the same,” Elladan grunted with dry humour, “and see who tires out first.”

“Forgive me if I do not place bets on myself…” Despite the forced lightness of his tone, the man could not entirely hide his worry. Elladan sighed.

 “I am open to a different course of action,” he offered, trusting the man to choose the tactic that would suit best his waning strength. Not that they had a wide choice, he observed wryly, studying the movements of the remaining orcs.

“I think those three to your right look like easy prey,” Herion suggested in a soft voice. Having reached the same conclusion a moment ago, Elladan nodded warily.

“While you deal with the remaining two, you most generous Dúnadan? At the count of three. One…”

It seemed that everyone had had the same idea. Before Elladan could hit two, one of the orcs surged forward and fell face first under a large, silvery shape that clung to his neck. Chaos exploded then out of the spruce. Taking advantage of the confusion, Elladan hewed and hacked at the massive orcs that were being attacked, it seemed, by their natural associates a pack of wargs -or at least a couple of very furious ones. Amidst the growls and howls and grunts, he barely heard Herion’s warning call.

“Behind you!”

He turned around quickly to find himself faced with one last orc ready to cleave his skull with a big axe. Raising his sword instinctively to deflect the blow that was unnaturally slow to fall, Elladan caught the glint of something silvery protruding from the orc’s chest. As the creature crumbled down, Elladan had a brief glimpse of a dark silhouette standing behind the falling orc, and a pair of unbearably bright eyes in a pale face under a hood. With a smooth, almost effortless pull, the dark shape wrenched his sword free from the dead orc’s body and disappeared swiftly towards the trees in a billow of dark clothes that revealed for a short moment a loose strand of golden hair, as the stranger jumped onto the lower branches of the closest spruce tree. Following a soft whistle, the silvery creatures Elladan had taken for wargs abandoned their well–earned, grim spoils and shot past him towards the thicket in which the stranger had disappeared.

“What on Arda was that?”

They stood panting in the suddenly silent clearing, surrounded by corpses. The waning moon chose that moment to peek from behind a shredded cloud and its pale light glistened briefly in the dark pools of orc blood.

“Where did he come from?” Elladan could not shake away that eerie feeling. That orc should have split his head open… But there he was, unscathed except for a handful of scratches that did not bear mentioning and surrounded by the severely damaged corpses of eight orcs. He tried to blink away the image of the bright, blazing eyes that had so briefly met his. He would have sworn that they belonged to a Firstborn…except for the depths of darkness that he had glimpsed in them. He shivered at the memory.

“Elladan…”

The man’s tone jolted the elf from his troubled musings. Herion had been searching the area and pointed now behind the big boulders with a puzzled expression on his face. In a few long strides, Elladan reached his side and exchanged an equally confused look with his companion. Four more orcs lay dead there, their throats cut open.

“Fangs and knife,” Herion determined after a brief inspection. “They thought that eight of them would be enough to finish us off…and if they were not… well, these four would have surely proved our ruin,” he added in a low, ominous voice. “It seems that we owe our lives to the wolf lord…”

“The wolf lord?”

“Have you not heard the tales? The Dúnedain of Cardolan have long sung of a wild pack that fights along their numbers…guided by a dangerous lead wolf that at times takes human shape…Although he had never before been spotted this north.”

“I should pay more attention to men’s tales,” Elladan acknowledged dryly while squatting to check the damp ground. “One never knows when a legend might emerge out of songs to save your life…”

“Some say that it is the spirit of a powerful warrior…but you elves do not believe in spirits, it is told,” the man added, taking seat on one of the boulders to avoid disturbing what tracks might still remain. Elladan cast him a curious glance.

“We are not afraid of them, which is different.” He opened his mouth to add something and then shut it, still shaken by the darkness in that stranger’s eyes and the eerie feeling that he had felt short before the attack. He turned his attention back to the ground and after a short while he shook his head. “How many wolves did you count, Herion?”

“I was quite busy, but I am sure that I saw two…”

“So did I. Yet I count at least five more different trails here… leading nowhere. Apparently they should be still around…Unless they jumped to the tree tops, as their human companion did…”

“You are joking…” the man cast a quick, nervous glance around.

“Come and see for yourself…Well, your Wolf Lord walks like a man and takes to the trees like no wolf could…but he hunts with a pack with the rare ability of vanishing out into thin air…”

Following an unspoken agreement, they talked no more of the strange pack and set themselves to dispose of the bodies after despoiling them of their weapons. Arien was tingeing the eastern sky when Elladan stopped picking up an armful of firewood and straightened up, looking west intently. A moment after a slow smile distended his stern features.

“Breakfast is coming,” he grinned to his companion, and dropping his load he sat on one of the boulders and motioned for his companion to do the same. Half an hour later they heard the soft call of a wren, which was quickly answered by Herion. Shortly after that, a rhythmic clop-clop announced the arrival of a mounted patrol.

“Well-met, Hadron!” Herion greeted his second gleefully as his men emerged from the western road. “You are in time to earn your breakfast!” 

“I am glad to see you two alive,” the other smiled, signalling briefly to his men. With silent efficiency, the Dúnedain took up the grim task. “When we heard of a band of orcs that had come from beyond the hills and got word that you had not yet been sighted we decided to take maters into our hands,” Herion’s second explained, dismounting and casting an appreciative look at the battlefied. “We finished them off yesterday, but then we heard the wargs cry and feared that some had escaped our net, so we started after them,” he continued as he emptied his pack and managed to present a passable breakfast. “What happened to your horses?” he asked then with undisguised curiosity, after making sure that neither his captain nor the elf-lord’s scratches needed immediate attention.

“You do not want to know,” Elladan grunted after exchanging a warning look with Herion. “But we saw no wargs…”

The expression on Hadron’s face was definitely puzzled after Herion finished explaining their adventure between mouthfuls.

“The Wolf Lord?” he wondered incredulously. “Did you know that some say he is the ghost of Elendil, Lord Elladan?”

“Well, we family have always looked after one another,” Elladan shot back with forced lightness, making those closer to them laugh heartily. “That would explain a number of things…except for the tracks that this pretended spirit left on the ground. Now, my lords, if we are done with pleasantries and children’s tales, we still have a message to deliver to King Araphor…”

Leaving behind a patrol on foot, the Dunedain and the Elf-lord rode away to the camp in Fornost, where the king awaited their report on the situation along the borders. It was late in the evening before Elladan could finally find time to try and put his thoughts in order as he took care of his weapons while listening to Elrohir and Erestor’s conversation.

“I think that Angmar has been subdued for now, although I agree with you, Elladan, that this is only a temporary respite,” Erestor observed tiredly. They were sitting on their cots in the tent that they shared, resting after a long day of meetings and discussions. Cardolan was as good as lost, barren and deserted, yet the threat of Angmar had been stemmed for the time being. “As soon as Glorfindel returns from Annúminas I think that we can go back home safely,” the counsellor added with a wide, wistful smile.

“You are no longer used to the harsh conditions of camp life, Erestor?” Elrohir chuckled provokingly. “I heard that you and Herion lost two horses and had an interesting encounter last night, brother, what was all that about?” he asked then in curiosity. Shrugging briefly, Elladan embarked on a sceptic account of last night’s incident.

“Elendil’s ghost? That would be news indeed,” Elrohir laughed. “What do you make of that, Erestor?” The stern counsellor looked thoughtful.

“These lands have always been strange,” he finally admitted. “Many of our kin strayed here during the Long March, and others came back from over the Ered Luin after the first battle under the stars, to dwindle and fade here, long before your ancestors forged their infamous jewels and their no less infamous quarrels,” he added with a twisted grin. Elrond’s twin sons rolled their eyes and groaned in pretended exasperation as they did every time that they were reminded of how old their former tutor was and how much he had seen and gone through.

“And the mounds of Tyrn Gorthad?” Elladan inquired. “The Dúnedain hold them sacred, but I deem that they already were before the Men of the West returned to Middle-earth…”

“They were, indeed,” Erestor acknowledged with a smile. Battles and battlefields were the only subjects that had ever fuelled Elladan’s interest towards history. “They were hallowed tombs even before we returned here after the drowning of Beleriand. As darkness began to stir in the first half of the past age strange, angry things awoke in those forests around the mounds. I even remember that one of our patrols was once attacked by a whole marching forest and almost cast into the marshes,” he chuckled, briefly lost in fond memories. “They had to fight their way back with torches! These lands have seen many people and strange things, not all of them evil, not all of them friendly to the Firstborn…but I had never heard about something like that tale that you bring…”

“It must have been a stray warrior, or one of the few faithful Hillmen intent on taking revenge on the orcs…they have inflicted much damage in their villages,” Elrohir suggested. Elladan desperately tried to convince himself of that.

“Sure,” he acknowledged with a forced smile. “Whatever it was, it was timely indeed!”

Late that night, Elladan awoke to the distant, forlorn howl of a lone wolf. Picking up his cloak, he slipped silently outside the tent and stood in the clouded night, listening.

“The wolf lord is calling, my brother?”

Elladan groaned at his not too subtle twin.

“It is not a matter for jokes, Elrohir,” he sighed, after returning a friendly punch on his nosy brother’s forearm. “There was an eerie, dangerous feeling around them…and his eyes…”

“You do not think that he was a man?”

“I doubt it. His eyes blazed like Glorfindel’s….”

“An Elf, then? But not one of the Avari, not if his eyes blazed…”

“I do not know. There was a deep darkness… a bottomless void there that frightened me. I… perhaps this is folly, but I was reminded of the houseless…”

“You have never seen one,” Elrohir stated flatly. “And what’s more, this one had a body, and he left a clear trail, you said…”

“He did,” Elladan admitted, not mentioning the wolves on purpose. “I know not what to think, Elrohir, but it haunts my dreams, and yet not with fear but with despair…”

The wolf cried out again, but this time he got an answer. Soon the wild beauty of a whole pack readying for the hunt filled the night.

“Well, he has found his pack, it seems,” Elrohir smiled as the song faded away. “You need your rest, Elladan. As soon as we are back home I will raid the library and emerge an expert on houseless spirits and all kinds of wraiths,” he offered with a mischievous grin. Elladan sighed. His brother had always turned to their father’s library when problems aroused. He wanted other type of answers.

“And I will question Glorfindel. I bet it will be faster…”

“You may be right,” Elrohir admitted. “If there is one who knows everything about being dead that is him, brother, although he has never been known to engage in open conversation on the subject, I wish you good luck on that!”

Tower Hills. Spring, 1415 Third Age.

The wanderer shook his cloak and smiled as a cloud of sparrows fought for the crumbles of his meal. Bending stiffly, he picked up his battered hat, his pack and his wooden staff and bowed courteously to a wren that studied him seriously from a nearby bush.

“I think I can see my way now, my friend, you need not go with me in there.” The bird tilted its head, listening intently and then flew away in a frantic, feathered blur. With a deep sigh, the wanderer put his hat on his head and made ready to face the last part of his trip.

For long years, even before the evil creatures from Angmar began to slip into the land he had heard strange tales that he had dismissed as legends forged out of ignorance. He had travelled far south as well, and had been away from those lands for too long. But now, after his sojourn in Mithlond and his long conversations with the Shipwright about the evil that spread from the north, and the extraordinary tales that the men repeated along the roads and in every inn from Bree to Fornost, Mithrandir was ready to explore for himself the mysteries of the Tower Hills.

A dark, menacing fence of twisted trees stood before him. A mass of mingled branches and viciously sharpened hawthorns that grew everywhere barred the entrance and discouraged visitors.

That forest had grown almost out of nothing, as tales went, and had thickened and deepened so quickly in a few years that nobody now remembered that within it rose a string of naked hills and that on their bare crowns, hidden from sight by the dense canopy, stood the white towers that the last elven king had raised for his friend, the tall king of Men who had come out of the Sea under the wings of mighty winds. Those were children and old crones’ tales, and nobody ever listened to them, or wanted to remember. That suited the forest, it seemed.  

With a sad sigh and a soft word, the wanderer lifted his staff and a dim glow shone briefly on its top. As if burnt by a sudden flame, the thorny vines and the twisted branches opened a wide passage, keeping a cautious distance from the apparently harmless stranger, who bowed with unfailing courtesy before the tense, expectant forest, and entered it with sure foot. Even the warped, ill-intentioned roots that from time to time emerged from the ground and trapped animals or occasional wanderers remained hidden at the stranger’s passing.

“Well, well, well,” the wizard wondered, stopping after a long climb to regain his breathing and take a calculating look around. The forest trembled in barely contained wrath and tension, and he could feel the rotten spirits of certain trees and other, more powerful presences that withdrew in anger before him.

“Show me,” he whispered, casting a look up and around. The forest was unnaturally dark and silent, and no ray of sun ever got through the dense roof of black-hearted trees. Patiently, he waited in silence until a soft murmur began to stir ominously, coming from the distant heart of the forest and gaining in intensity as it climbed upwards.  Suddenly, the branches shook and trembled, though no wind was felt, as a cold, invisible stream drifted through the forest and surrounded the stranger, who stood calmly amidst that whirlwind of leaves, sticks and other, more dangerous things.

“Show me!” he commanded then in a powerful voice that spoke words that had not been heard for long ages in those lands, raising his staff over his head. As sudden as it had formed, the whirlwind died at the wizard’s feet and a wide tunnel opened slowly before him, showing a green sward and the base of stone tower at the other end. Casting a wary look behind, the wizard lowered his staff and followed the path until he emerged from the dangerous, teeming forest into the peaceful, quiet landscape.

Before him stood the White Towers as he had seen them in a book in Círdan’s old library. The strange forest surrounded the wide sward before them in a wide angle, and then took a bend following the crown of the hills, descending abruptly behind the tallest of the Towers. Beyond there extended a mass of trees and a strange mist that clouded the spring sun and the distant glistening of the Sea. Impressed by the silence and the feeling of agelessness that pervaded the place the wizard walked quietly towards the closest tower and pushed its battered door open.

The shabby, abandoned inside belied the magnificent architecture. A coat of dust covered the scarce furniture and the floor in the main chamber, and the hearth looked as if it had not been used for a long time. The wizard paced the chamber in vain search of any signal of its dweller’s identity. Everything there spoke of decay and despair. Leaning forth he picked up a frayed cloak and left it on a bed that barely deserved that name –a pile of dry and withered brambles covered by a tattered, grimy blanket. It was clear that someone, if only from time to time, spent some time there. Idly, he opened a wooden box forgotten on a table that barely stood on three legs and could not hold back a loud sneeze at the cloud of dust that emerged from it. A gentle, almost too polite noise made him tense as he wiped his nose. He turned around slowly, suddenly aware that he was not alone.

“Good day, my friend,” the wizard offered in his polite, calm manner. “I was not aware that you were around…”

The pair of amber, intelligent eyes followed him impassively. The wolf was massive, and not a muscle tensed in his powerful body as he watched the intruder intently, standing on the threshold of a side chamber that the wizard had not yet explored. Cautiously, Mithrandir took an uncertain step towards it. A soft, warning rumble made him stop.

“You do not want me to enter there, I see…Perhaps in the other towers?” he asked softly.

The wolf turned his ears briefly and took two slow, almost lazy paces towards the wizard, and then two more, slowly but surely shepherding him towards the main door. With a brief glance at the sharp fangs that the creature let show almost carelessly in an ostentatious yawn, Mithrandir decided that he was willing to obey.

A sudden, cold fear grabbed him as soon as he walked again into the open air, and he could see that the wolf now snarled warningly, though not at him. Coming out of the forest, or perhaps from the other towers, a pack of black, fiery-eyed wolves was slowly surrounding them. But those were no common wolves, the wizard understood, almost breathless by a sudden wave of threat and malice that seeped from their darkened souls and that stirred a deeply buried memory in him.

The wolf at his side growled menacingly, and the other creatures stopped in their advance but sat to watch them intently. The wise creature fixed Mithrandir in a keen, amber gaze and for a brief moment the wizard felt a familiar presence in his mind. With a curt nod, he raised his staff and began to walk slowly but firmly towards the tunnel that still gaped open amidst the menacing trees, feeling the eyes of those malevolent creatures fixed on him. Before he entered the forest again he risked a quick glance back. The dark creatures had narrowed the circle around the wolf in a clearly menacing manner. The wolf stood amidst them with his fur on edge, looking almost twice his size, snapping occasionally when one of the creatures approached him tauntingly.

As the forest began to close in against him, hindering the view, Mithrandir could have sworn that the wolf was shinning with a bright light that was soon supported by another, clearer one seeping from a taller silhouette that had come out from the Tower to stand on two legs beside the wolf. The distinctive –if worryingly weakened- song of an elven soul reached the wizard like a blow of a sweet-scented breeze, as the newcomer joined the wolf and with a wide gesture of his long arm swept the dark creatures away.

Following an irresistible impulse, the wizard tried to retrace his steps, eager to meet that Firstborn who lived in those strange surroundings. As if sensing his presence, the mysterious elf raised his arm towards the forest and it was as if a sudden storm had been released. The tunnel closed down quickly before him and the trees turned their wrath against the stranger. 

Wielding his staff before him and protecting his face as best as he could from the branches that slashed and whipped madly at him, the wizard broke into a wild race, desperately aiming for a way out. Tripping and stumbling downhill and covered in scratches, he finally staggered out of the dark forest and dropped himself on a welcoming patch of soft grass, breathing raggedly 

A short while later, his composure mostly regained, he rested his back against a sun-warmed boulder, brought his pipe from a pouch in his belt and lit it methodically, drawing pensively at it for a time and puffing out its calming, comforting mists. Finally, he shook his head and raised his bushy brows towards the wren, who watched him expectantly from top of the rock.

“A very strange place indeed, my friend,” he mused.

TBC