---Gilan's Point of View---
We arrived in front of the cave with Gandalf. From inside, I could hear the deep rumble of snores mixed with heavy breaths. I glanced at Gandalf—he was calmly stroking his beard, gazing into the cave with a thoughtful look.
"What are you thinking?" I asked.
Gandalf gave me a relaxed smile.
"Nothing important. Give me two minutes."
As he walked toward the entrance, I watched his straight back. Just as he was about to step inside, he stopped.
"Ah! Almost forgot—stay out here. Don't go inside… you wouldn't want to go blind, would you? Hahaha…"
I stared at his back in silence, confused by what he meant. Gandalf walked inside at an easy pace. Honestly, I felt disappointed that I couldn't go in… I had never seen Gandalf—or any wizard for that matter—actively fight before. This would have been a new experience. During our struggle with the Blood Knights, I was separated from the main group. Other than the stories I'd heard from the Dwarves, I'd never witnessed a real encounter.
Soon after Gandalf went in, voices echoed from the cave. The first one was deep and rough.
"WHAT'S GOING ON?"
"Ah… forgive me,"
Gandalf's voice replied, sounding helpless and frail.
"I'm just a lost old man. I entered this cave to rest. I didn't know it was already occupied."
My eyebrow twitched. If I hadn't known better, I might have believed him. Then I heard another voice, thinner, childish.
"-Sniff- Can we eat him?"
A third voice followed, polite and oddly refined.
"Let's catch him and roast him! I haven't eaten properly in days!"
Then Gandalf's helpless-yet-relaxed voice came again.
"Oh! You're going to eat? May I join you? Surely you wouldn't turn away a poor old man who hasn't had a meal in days?"
I rolled my eyes. Igris was right—this old man really did know how to toy with people.
The first, deep voice boomed again.
"You are the meal."
"Ah, such a pity,"
Gandalf sighed.
"I'm far too old, just skin and bones. I wouldn't satisfy you."
…Not all wizards are like this, are they?
The refined voice spoke again.
"No matter. We can make soup out of you. My mother's special recipe."
The childish voice chimed in eagerly.
"-Sniff- Yes! Mother's bone soup is delicious! -sniff- Let's catch him!"
Then Gandalf spoke once more, in an overly dramatic tone.
"What a shame… there were still things I had to see… grandchildren I would have loved dearly…"
The childish voice perked up.
"Let's eat them too! -sniff- Where did you hide them?"
Gandalf chuckled.
"Ah! I can take you to them, but first… let me show you something."
The deep voice rumbled suspiciously.
"WHAT IS IT?"
Gandalf laughed cheerfully, kindly.
"Magic!"
Suddenly, an overwhelming light blazed out from the cave. My eyes burned and I immediately shut them. The trolls' screams echoed.
"AAAAHHHHHHH!"
"THE SUN! AAAAAAAHHH!"
"HHHHHHIIIIIIYYYYAAAAAAAAVVVVVVVVVVVVV!"
I spun around, shielding my eyes—the brilliance was so intense I didn't dare open them. Only then did I understand what Gandalf meant about blindness. After a few seconds, the sounds stopped. Hesitantly, I lowered my arm and cracked one eye open. Once I was sure the light had faded, I opened both eyes and looked toward the cave entrance.
"Gandalf? Is everything alright?" I called.
For a moment, there was no reply, and I felt a pang of worry. Then Gandalf's calm voice answered.
"Do not fret, dear friend. I am well. Just give me a moment!"
Loud noises thundered from inside.
BANG!
CRASH!
BOOM!
I was about to rush in when Gandalf's voice drifted out, humming a tune. He emerged with his pipe at his lips, drawing in smoke leisurely. His robes were dusted with dirt, yet he was smiling, clearly in good spirits.
"Ah, sunlight magic! And a new record too—five seconds! It only took me five seconds to chant and cast the spell. Last time it was thirteen! Hahaha…"
Sunlight magic… which meant the trolls must have turned to stone. But then, what were those loud crashes I heard inside?
"What happened in there? I heard a lot of noise."
Gandalf chuckled and turned back toward the cave.
"Come, let's have a look. Trolls always stash anything shiny they find in their lairs!"
Curious, I followed him in. The darkness swallowed us, and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. The walls and ceiling were draped in thick spiderwebs. Gandalf's staff glowed faintly, lighting the path ahead. Haaah… magic really was convenient.
After a short walk, we reached three heaps of crushed brush, surrounded by chests, gold, diamonds, rubies, and weapons. I whistled low.
"There's a small fortune here! Enough to buy a whole town!"
I glanced at Gandalf. He was surveying the surroundings carefully. I asked curiously,
"Where are the trolls?"
Gandalf pointed with his staff toward a rock. I looked closer and flinched slightly. On the surface of the stone were closed eyelids, a gaping mouth with jagged teeth, nostril-like holes, and ear-shaped protrusions on each side. Though cracked and damaged, it was unmistakably a head turned to stone. I glanced around and saw fingers, legs, arms, a torso, half a head, even a shattered skull, all frozen as stone. I swallowed hard. Our gentle Gandalf, when necessary, could be utterly merciless. Now I understood why Igris always warned me never to anger Gandalf—or any wizard—unless absolutely necessary.
Gandalf brushed spiderwebs from a sword with the tip of his staff, drew it from its sheath, and examined it with surprise. My breath caught when I looked at it. As a swordsman, I had never seen such a magnificent blade in my life. Gandalf spoke softly, still astonished.
"You're mistaken, Gilan. There's treasure here worth far more than just a town."
"Who forged that sword? I've never seen anything like it."
"It would be strange if you had,"
Gandalf replied.
"Blades like this haven't been seen outside the Elven cities in ages. This one was forged by the High Elves in Gondolin. Few finer blades exist in Middle-earth."
My curiosity burned.
"Where is Gondolin? Could I have a sword made for myself there?"
Gandalf sighed.
"Since the others haven't arrived yet, I suppose I can give you a little history lesson."
He sat down atop a stony troll's head and gestured for me to sit opposite him. I did so eagerly; learning something new was always exciting.
"Gondolin was founded some 6,500 years ago in the north of Beleriand, within the Echoriath—the Encircling Mountains—in a hidden valley called Tumladen. The city was the work of Turgon, one of the Noldorin Elves. While living in Nevrast, the land of exile, Turgon grew restless. Morgoth's shadow pressed heavier each year, and the yearning for hidden, safe havens deepened.
Through a dream sent by Ulmo, Lord of Waters, Turgon beheld a vision: a secret valley, ringed by mountains, with entrances concealed, guarded only by nature and water. This dream became his guide. Leaving Nevrast behind, Turgon's journey was long, filled with both inner and outer trials, until at last he discovered Tumladen.
The valley had once been a great lakebed. At its center rose a hill, Amon Gwareth, the Hill of Watch. Streams had drained the lake long ago, leaving stone-paved flats and clear pools behind. The entrance was hidden: a dry riverbed that led to a narrow cleft, the Orfalch Echor, the only secret path into the valley.
There, at the foot of the hill and across the plain, Turgon chose to build a city—high and fair, concealed from all the world. Years passed before the work was complete, and during that time his people shaped themselves with the hopes and fears they had long carried within.
To all appearances, Gondolin was hidden from everyone—men, orcs, even Morgoth himself. The mountains, the crimson twilight shadows of the valley, the mists, and Ulmo's protective hand shielded it. Its architecture gleamed: bright fountains, winding gardens, clean marble streets, white stone towers, melodious birdsong in the air. Palaces rose as graceful spires, the king's being tallest of all."
Gandalf paused to drink. My eyebrows twitched madly. All I'd asked was if I could have a sword made there, yet Gandalf had launched into a full-blown history! I had expected a few sentences at most. Truly, old men—or wizards—do love to talk…
He continued, and out of respect, I listened.
"Years passed. Gondolin endured throughout them all—shielded from Morgoth's assaults, spared from discord, resisting both inward and outward threats. But danger never truly ceased. From beyond the mountains came whispers of envy, greed, and betrayal…
Betrayal came through Maeglin. Maeglin, nephew of Turgon, driven by his burning desire for Idril and the pressures from without, was persuaded to reveal the hidden location of Gondolin to Morgoth. Thus Morgoth discovered Gondolin, set his dark hosts into motion—wild dragons unbound by the Dragon King, orcs, Balrogs… The city fought desperately, but defense was not enough. The proud towers fell; palaces, gardens, and fountains were reduced to ruins. Turgon vanished into the heart of the city, never to be seen again.
Yet Gondolin's end was not absolute. A handful escaped. Thanks to a secret passage prepared by Idril, some managed to survive. They reached the River Sirion, found refuge along the coasts, and began a life of exile. The Gondolindrim carried their city in their memories; though the stones had fallen, the tale lived on."
"…Gandalf… all I asked was whether I could have a sword forged, and instead you gave me a whole lecture in history! I don't even know half the names you just mentioned!"
"Ah! My apologies, that was my fault. I must have rambled on. I thought you had a thirst for new knowledge."
"I do—but what use is this to me? This is Elven history! And from six and a half thousand years ago!"
Gandalf smiled knowingly.
"Did you not take any lesson from the story?"
My eyebrow twitched.
"Gandalf, I may look like I'm in my twenties, but I'm actually eighty-nine years old! I've lived through more than you think!"
Gandalf blinked in astonishment.
"You're that old? You don't look it in the slightest. Wait—Halt is your master. How old is he then?"
I paused, considering. How old was Halt? The old goat never gave his true age!
"Probably over a hundred, but I can't say for sure. He never tells the truth about his age."
Gandalf sank into thought.
"The more I get to know you, the more surprises you throw at me. I can only wonder what else lies ahead."
I shrugged and stood up. The company would arrive soon, but I wanted to scout a bit more—who knows, perhaps I'd find something worthwhile.
"I'll take another look around."
Gandalf nodded, still examining the swords. I looked about; though the blades were fine, they rightly belonged to Gandalf. In truth, everything here was his by right—he had slain the trolls, while I had merely pointed the way. I had no claim. My gaze wandered to the barrels where other blades lay, rusted and useless, worse than the one at my hip. Then my eye caught something—shorter than Gandalf's sword but broader, heavier, sharper on a single edge. Its blade was thick, faintly curved, notched, yet wrought with the flawless craft of Elves. The tip tapered like a predatory claw. Its grip was bound in black leather, encircled by silver filigree streaked with veins of gold. The pommel resembled an eagle's talon, the crossguard more angular, sterner. Along the edges glimmered Elven runes, and its sides gleamed like the edge of an axe. It was no sword for me—I was a duelist, swift and precise. This weapon was born of brute strength.
"Gandalf!"
He turned to me.
"Yes?"
I sheathed the sword and tossed it to him. He caught it, startled.
"There's another one here, but it's not for me!"
Curiosity sparked in his eyes as he drew the blade and studied it, only to return it to its place. Just then, voices echoed from outside the cave—the company had arrived. Gandalf and I turned to see Thorin, Fili, Kili, Gloin, and Dwalin stride in, weapons in hand. Thorin scanned the cavern.
"Where are the trolls?"
I chuckled and pointed toward the severed troll's head. Thorin and the others stared, dumbfounded. Halt, Bamsi, Fin, and Altay followed in, blades drawn. At first they didn't understand what I meant, but upon closer look, realization dawned and shock spread across their faces. I ignored them—something else had caught my eye. A carved shaft lay half-hidden in the brush. Kneeling, I brushed aside the leaves—and froze.
"Hello, beauty…"
It was a bow—the finest I had ever seen. Long, with a gentle recurve; strung and elegant, its limbs curved outward like the lines of a lyre. Its deep green-brown surface shimmered faintly with veins of gold, catching pearly hues in the light. Shadowy motifs were etched along the edges. The grip was wrapped not in leather but in darkly braided silk, a hollow inset fitted neatly for the palm, and within it a small gem. I lifted it, strung the cord—it was far heavier than my own bow. I turned to Gandalf.
"Gandalf?"
All eyes were on me now. Gandalf answered,
"Yes?"
I raised the bow in my hands.
"Would it be a problem if I kept this?"
He came over, took it, and studied it closely. His voice brimmed with wonder.
"Remarkable. I never imagined I would find four High Elven weapons in such a decrepit troll cave! Hahahaha! Keep it, Gilan—it is yours by right. Besides, it would serve me no use. I prefer my staff."
He handed the bow back to me. I ran my fingers over its surface.
"Gandalf, do these weapons have names?"
"Most likely, but I cannot say. We'll ask Lord Elrond."
Thorin and Halt came near. Halt eyed the bow. I passed it to him. He examined it and returned it to me with a curt nod.
"Not bad."
My eyebrow twitched—praise from my old master was a rare treasure indeed. Thorin cut in.
"Hurry. Bifur and Nori are unconscious, their wounds have opened again."
Gandalf nodded, then glanced once more at the sword in his hand. With sudden decision, he tossed it to Thorin, who caught it in surprise.
"This may be one of the finest blades in all Middle-earth, forged by the High Elves in Gondolin. You will not find better."
Thorin hesitated, then drew the blade, scowled with distaste, and sheathed it again with a heavy sigh before striding out.
"Do not linger!"
I exhaled, while Gandalf pulled out his pouch and filled it with the trove of coins from the cave.
"Worry not, my dear friends. Gold means little to me. I'll only take the Elven blades—one already given to our leader, the bow entrusted to Gilan. I'll keep this sword and the dagger for myself. The rest we'll divide when the quest is done."
The company murmured approval. Gandalf had earned their respect after holding back the vampire lady with his own strength. He spoke again.
"Now, let us—"
"GANDALF!"
The wizard was cut off as Dogan burst in, breathless, eyes wide. Instantly, everyone grew tense. Altay asked,
"What is it, brother? An enemy attack?"
But Dogan's expression was strange as he replied,
"No… an old man arrived. He said he wanted to speak with Gandalf. He looked frightened—terribly shaken."
Bamsi groaned.
"Then why alarm us like that? I thought we were under attack!"
Dogan ignored him, his face unchanging. Gandalf leaned forward with interest.
"What did he look like?"
Dogan answered,
"Odd fellow… came with a sled."
Halt blinked.
"A dogsled? In this season?"
Dogan shook his head.
"No, Halt… stranger still. The sled was pulled by rabbits."
Save for Gandalf and the dwarves, we all froze in disbelief. Bamsi rubbed his ears.
"Brother, I must have misheard. Did you say rabbits pulling a sled?"
I too was stunned. Rabbits? Those small, fluffy creatures we roasted for dinner—pulling a sled? Gandalf furrowed his brows.
"Radagast! The Brown wizard of Radagast… but what is he doing here?"
Muttering, he strode out, and we followed. Outside, tethered to a sled, stood a team of rabbits, and beside it a short, bearded figure in a ragged brown robe, covered head to toe in leaves and moss. I even saw a squirrel peeking from his tangled beard, and something like bird droppings—or perhaps a mushroom—clinging to his hair. He was in a panic, but the moment he saw Gandalf, he rushed forward. Gandalf smiled warmly.
"Radagast! My dear friend, I did not expect to find you here!"
Radagast's voice trembled.
"Gandalf! Something terrible has happened!"
Gandalf held his smile.
"Calm yourself, old friend. Tell me—what matter has driven you all the way from Mirkwood?"
Radagast drew a heavy breath, lifted a finger, opened his mouth—then stopped, frowning as though he had forgotten. Again he raised a finger, again he faltered.
"Blast it! It was right there—it was terribly important!"
He paced in agitation, muttering,
"It was on the tip of my tongue!"
Suddenly he stopped, shoved a hand into his mouth, and pulled out a beetle. I recoiled with a shiver. Radagast chuckled.
"Ah, so it really was on the tip of my tongue! Hahaha!"
Gandalf sighed, tamped down his pipe, lit it, and offered it to him.
"Take a puff, old friend. Calm yourself."
Radagast drew deep, exhaled, smoke billowing from his mouth, nose, even ears. I wondered why these wizards adored that foul-smelling herb so much. Igris had warned me sternly never to touch it—it rotted the lungs, brought shortness of breath, and worse. Yet as Radagast steadied himself, the first words he spoke chilled us all.
"Gandalf! In Dol Guldur—there is a Necromancer!"