Denethor, startled by that roar of anger, dropped his gaze and saw only a stocky, compact figure wrapped in mail, short yet solid, fists clenched, glaring up at him. Before he could even react, something strong hooked about his ankle. Gimli the Dwarf, using the lower center of gravity of his stout frame, twisted sharply and hurled himself like a spiked boulder into Denethor's shin.
"Ah!"
The son of the Steward of Gondor was caught unawares. His balance vanished in an instant and he crashed backward onto the flagstones. Loose gravel bit into his spine and a numb jolt shot up his back.
He had not yet managed to push himself up when Gimli sprang upon him like an enraged little beast. Beads of sweat hidden in the Dwarf's long beard flew into Denethor's face, carrying the tang of ore and hammered iron.
"That is for looking down on Dwarves! That is for pretending you could not see me!" Gimli's fists drummed like hail on Denethor's shoulder-guards, the clear ring of mail upon mail echoing around the courtyard.
Denethor was shocked and angry in equal measure. He had grown up in the high towers of Minas Tirith; never in his life had he been so handled. He drew up his knee and drove the heel of his boot into Gimli's belly, using the recoil to roll and throw his weight upon the Dwarf. "Insolence! I am the son of the Steward of Gondor, and you…"
He got no further, for Gimli's brow cracked up beneath his chin with a sharp, upward blow. Denethor saw darkness spark at the edge of his vision and tasted blood at the corner of his mouth. Rage for a moment drowned his sense. He grabbed blindly for that thick, russet beard and yanked hard.
Gimli howled, eyes blazing with pain, wrenching one hand free to pry at Denethor's grip while his other fist slammed, solid and precise, into the man's ribs.
The two of them rolled together on the ground, cloaks, mail and boots all tangled. Dust rose around them in a grey cloud, full of curses, grunts and furious shouts.
Off to the side, Legolas and Aragorn had at first found the scuffle oddly amusing. They had not imagined that this journey would include a Dwarf as one of their company, and the sight was something new.
Yet as they saw the blows grow more serious and tempers catch fire, both moved swiftly to intervene.
The Elven prince flickered forward, light as drifting willow-seed. In a blur he stepped between the combatants, long fingers closing on the back of Denethor's collar with one hand and the straps of Gimli's breastplate with the other. With scarcely any seeming effort he tore them apart.
Denethor staggered back three paces, clutching his aching jaw and glaring at the Dwarf.
Gimli, held aloft as if he weighed nothing, dangled from Legolas's hand with both feet off the ground, his short legs kicking in empty air. A few torn threads still clung stubbornly to his beard.
Aragorn stepped forward, one hand settling on Denethor's shoulder, the other reaching out toward Gimli. "Enough. To brawl on the soil of Isengard, do you mean to give the folk here something to laugh at?"
His voice was not loud, yet it carried a quiet authority that was hard to resist.
Denethor drew a deep breath. Seeing the warning in Aragorn's eyes, he slowly unclenched his fists, snorted once and turned his face away from the Dwarf.
Aragorn set Gimli gently back upon the ground. The Dwarf tugged at his rumpled beard and muttered, "He mocked me first."
"I did not mean to," Denethor said, rubbing at his sore ribs. His tone had softened. "It is only that in Gondor I have never seen a warrior quite so… compact as you."
"Compact?" Gimli's eyes grew round again. His beard bristled as he glared. "You mean to say I am short?"
"All right, that is enough," Legolas cut in with a laugh, smoothing the quarrel. He lowered Gimli to his feet and crouched to brush the dust from his mail. "What he meant is that you are built solid, like the iron ore of Moria. And that trip you gave him just now was quicker than many Elves of the Woodland Realm could manage."
Long years at Kaen Eowenríel's side had taught Legolas how to deal with the proud and sharp-tongued folk of the Dwarves.
His easy praise took most of the heat out of Gimli's anger. The Dwarf straightened his back, puffed out his chest and gave a gruff little snort, but said no more.
Denethor turned his head away in embarrassment, which in its own way counted as acceptance of peace.
...
At that moment, a heavy grinding of stone sounded behind them.
The great doors of Orthanc, forged of obsidian and black iron, began to open inward. The turning of the hinges was like the breathing of some ancient beast, and a gust of air laden with the scent of cold stone and deep, worked magic rolled out to meet them.
From the shadow beyond came an old yet commanding voice, echoing about the open court. "Noisy young ones, come in."
It was the voice of Saruman. It seemed to carry all the winds of Isengard in it, the hardness of rock and the chill of tempered steel.
The four companions glanced at one another. In an instant the quarrel of moments before fell away, replaced by a sober stillness. Together they stepped through the doorway.
Within the tower it was far dimmer than without. Only star-etched stones set in the walls shed a pale, bluish radiance, gleaming enough to light the spiral stair that wound upward.
The steps were carved from single blocks of granite, each tread inscribed with tight ranks of Elvish runes and Númenórean spells. As they climbed, they could feel a faint tremor underfoot, as if the tower itself were breathing.
"Upwards," Saruman's voice guided them from ahead, though his figure could not yet be seen. "Come to the top of the tower."
They mounted the stair, their footfalls ringing and echoing in the hollow shaft.
Gimli could not resist running one hand along the wall. The stone beneath his fingers was very cold. Where he touched, the runes flickered for a heartbeat with a dim golden light. "This stone… was it brought from Númenor?" he murmured, remembering the tales his father had told him of that lost splendour beneath the sea.
"It is a relic of the Second Age," Denethor answered. "I have read records in the archives of Gondor. The Tower of Orthanc was raised by the hands of Númenórean Exiles, fashioned from black stone unbreakable by any art of Middle-earth."
Legolas tilted his head, listening, as if to the air itself. "There is the presence of a Maia worked into these walls," he said softly. "Very like the power in Lord Gandalf's staff, yet heavier somehow, more weighty."
Aragorn said nothing, his keen gaze sweeping their surroundings. He could feel the power hidden in the stone, ancient and perilous, like some great creature sleeping with one eye half open.
After they had climbed near a hundred steps, a tall door of pale silvery wood appeared before them, leading out to the top.
When they pushed open the light yet unyielding door, a keen wind rushed in at once, carrying the damp scent of the River Isen and the far sweetness of the grasslands beyond.
The summit of the tower was a wide, round platform ringed with carved balustrades. Gemstones set along the rail caught the sun and scattered it in seven-coloured sparks.
Kaen Eowenríel, Arwen Dawnglow, Gandalf and Saruman stood together at the center. The afternoon light stretched their shadows long across the great star-map inlaid upon the floor.
Kaen wore a robe of silver-grey, and on his breast the emblem of the Golden Sacred Tree shone bright. As he looked at the four newcomers, a gentle smile touched his lips. "So, it seems you have already been introduced."
Arwen stood at his side in a gown of white that stirred in the wind like rising moonlight, her presence calm and radiant beside him.
Gandalf leaned upon his oaken staff, his grey cloak snapping in the breeze. Smoke curled lazily from his pipe, and his weathered face wore a kindly smile. "Young folk need a little collision now and then," he said, "so that they may learn the measure of one another."
Saruman, still in his white robes, as solemn and unmoving as a carved figure.
He lifted a hand, beckoning them closer. As they approached, the floor at the center of the platform began to glow. The map that had been carved there quickened suddenly into motion. Countless points of light flowed along its lines, weaving together to form a shining outline of Middle-earth.
There they could clearly see the forests of Minhiriath, the mountains and wilds of Enedhwaith, and the rivers and the woods of Eregion.
"Look here," Kaen said, pointing to three green points pulsing softly upon the map. "Doriath, Laurenandë and Nargothrond. Three months ago the Elves of Aman set down their roots in those places, yet they still lack the most vital protection."
Arwen stepped forward, bearing a crystal tray in both hands. Velvet lined the dish, and upon it lay three seeds, each the size of a dove's egg.
The seeds were a pale, translucent blue, their surfaces veined with shifting patterns like liquid starlight. When one leaned close, a cool breath seemed to flow from them, as if one held a shard of moonlight itself.
"These are the seeds of the New Starborn Sacred Trees," she said. Her voice was soft, yet it carried clearly on the wind. "They were formed when the life of many trees was purified and gathered into one, and they have received the blessing of my lord and of me. Once planted, they will drink the power of the moon and grow into Sacred Trees that can cleanse the darkness. So long as such a tree stands, Sauron's shadow cannot wholly devour that land, and the children of the Elves shall remain children of the Light."
Gandalf came forward and lifted one of the seeds from the tray, holding it up before his eyes.
It glowed faintly in his palm, and its light lay across his weathered face, making his expression more solemn still. "The birth of these Sacred Trees has already drawn the gaze of the Shadow," he said. "The darkness is hunting these seeds. A war that cannot be avoided is slowly on its way."
"From Isengard to those three new kingdoms, the roads are watched on every side by Sauron's eyes," he went on. "Camps of Orcs, fallen tribes of Men, and perhaps even the Nazgûl themselves may be wandering abroad."
"Therefore," Kaen said, and his gaze sharpened as it rested on the four companions, "you must bear these seeds and see them safely delivered into the hands of the three Elven kings."
At his words Aragorn, Legolas, Denethor and Gimli looked at one another. Then, as one, they dropped to a knee.
Aragorn raised his head to Kaen Eowenríel. "Even at the cost of our lives," he said gravely, "we will carry these three seeds to where they must go, and we will not allow the darkness to seize them."
...
Far away in Mordor, upon the high tower of Barad-dûr, the Eye of Sauron flared suddenly to full fire. Crimson light speared through the cloud-layer, fixing itself upon the far-off Westlands.
The mountains barred his sight, but they could not shut out the power that had begun to shine there. That radiance stirred Sauron's spirit unwillingly, for he knew that aura too well. It was the same that had risen when the five Sacred Trees were first born.
He understood that the strength of the Free Peoples had once more grown, and that he must take measures.
His disembodied voice rolled across the black lands. "Go. Move hidden in the shadow. Seize for me the very source of that light…"
Even as his words faded, a dark host of a hundred riders formed. Under the command of five Nazgûl they spurred their wargs and war-horses and thundered forth, racing toward the western continent and the newborn light that Sauron feared.
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