Chapter 358: A Quiet Council
"In the worst case, we fight another War of the Last Alliance."
In the little council of three, Levi laid out his final, fallback plan.
"At this point, none of the powers that fought that war could muster even a third of their old strength," Elrond said at once, shaking his head.
Then he caught the look on Levi's face and checked himself.
Ah, yes. Things were no longer what they had been.
Since the end of the Second Age, Elves had been sailing West in shipload after shipload, leaving few behind. The kingdoms of Men had fallen into division and decay, each fighting its own battles and mostly losing them.
The Dwarves had fared no better. Their halls were lost, their fortunes ruined. They had crept ever deeper underground, turning their backs on the world above.
That was how the world had looked a hundred years ago.
But now…
Now there were the Free Cities, and the lord who ruled them. If one thought only of attacking strength and not defence, Levi alone could set in the field numbers to match those ancient hosts.
It could be done. There truly could be another war on that scale.
"But that is only a reserve measure," Levi went on.
"Speaking for myself, I do not want to take that road unless there is no other choice."
A war of that size was no jest. Once it began, both sides would throw everything they had into it. Even with the gear and training of the Free Cities, the losses would be bitter.
Mordor's hardened legions were not like the remnants of Angmar, ground down by ten years of campaigning, nor like the rabble of the Misty Mountains, leaderless and poorly armed.
Against those, with Levi at their head, the Free Cities had seemed an axe through rotted wood.
Against Mordor, nothing could be taken for granted.
Under the weight of that dark will, such a war could only be fought head-on, blow for blow.
Even if every ally took the field, it would be a brutal struggle. A harder nut to crack, by far, than Angmar at its height. Closer to a march through the very pits of torment.
Not impossible.
Simply… costly.
In this, Levi had always been stubbornly conservative.
Gandalf listened and shook his head. Elrond said nothing.
To fight or not to fight: that choice rested with Levi alone. Until things had gone very far indeed, neither of them had the standing to press him to open such a war. The turmoil it would unleash was not something they could bear, nor could they answer for it.
Even so, his words eased them a little.
At least, there was now a power in the world that could meet the Enemy in the open, without every misstep leading straight into ruin.
Letting that subject drop for now, Levi thought back to the faces he had seen on his way in.
"I saw Legolas just now," he said. "And the Grey Havens have sent a messenger as well, though Círdan himself has not come."
"It matters not," Elrond said.
"Galdor can speak in Círdan's name."
Galdor, Círdan's messenger, had come chiefly to confirm the tales of the Ring's reappearance. As for Círdan himself…
"He is watching the Sea in the Havens, in case some Enemy comes out of it," Elrond said.
"Oh, that reminds me," Levi said, clapping his hands once.
"The Water-city should be sending ships to watch the Sea as well. Let me think… perhaps station a single Praxis-class warship in the gulf between Minhiriath and Enedwaith."
Gandalf nodded.
"Sound thinking. With a vessel of that class, a single ship would be enough to overawe any hostile fleet," he said.
"And if need be, it can always sail away…"
The talk on the terrace went on.
Beyond Rivendell's borders, the messengers of many lands were drawing near.
Elves. Dwarves. Men. Hobbits.
Some came chasing the answer to dreams and riddling visions. Some came to learn tidings. Some had simply been brought there by chance.
And some had been there all along.
"By the way, where is Aragorn?" Levi asked when their private council broke up.
The question did nothing to improve Elrond's mood.
"He…" Elrond only shook his head.
Levi understood at once.
Ah, yes. Arwen was in Rivendell at this time as well.
With a rare spell of leisure before them, the two of them would hardly waste it.
…
The night before the council.
Aragorn stood before the shards of Narsil, deep in thought.
The sound of footsteps behind him broke his reverie.
Boromir.
Following some wordless prompting in his heart, Gondor's foremost captain had wandered there, step by step.
He took in the mural of the War of the Last Alliance, the black-armoured figure on it with the Ring upon his hand, and then the broken sword.
For a long moment, he was silent.
"Welcome to the North," Aragorn said at last.
He was honestly surprised to see Boromir here, but he spoke first, and Boromir at last realised he was not alone.
The old ranger's knack for going unseen was as keen as ever.
Boromir turned and gave him a small nod.
"You are?" he asked.
"A ranger, and a friend to Gandalf and Levi," Aragorn said.
"Oh? Then it seems we have both come here seeking 'friends'," Boromir said.
He shook his head, then looked back at the shards of Narsil. He reached out, lifted one piece, and turned it in his hands, muttering.
"The shards of Narsil. This is the sword that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand," he said.
"Even after all these years, it still shines sharp."
Tss—
As his fingers slid along the edge, the broken blade suddenly sliced his skin.
Staring at the blood welling on his fingertip, Boromir remembered a lesser-known tale.
They said that Narsil had a will of its own. It would only serve the master worthy to wield it. Any other hand that touched it would be hurt.
And when that rightful wielder was near, it would grow keener.
Plainly, that man was not Boromir.
He whipped his head round to stare at Aragorn.
Aragorn met his gaze in silence.
"Nothing but a broken relic," Boromir snapped.
He dropped the sword-shard and strode away without looking back.
He could not bring himself to accept that this stranger, this wanderer he had never met before tonight, was the king he was meant to swear to.
To follow a man he had never laid eyes on? Absurd.
Or so he thought.
He did not know that his own father and Aragorn knew one another very well indeed, and that the deeds Aragorn had done in Gondor's service outshone even Denethor's, praised by many tongues.
Denethor had never told his sons any of it.
There were many tangled reasons for that.
He knew the truth well enough. He simply refused to admit it, or to face it.
Rustle…
Once Boromir had gone, another figure slipped quietly into the chamber.
Her steps made no sound. Only the faint whisper of cloth on cloth marked her passing.
Aragorn turned and smiled.
Yes. This had been his true purpose in lingering here. Boromir's arrival had been pure chance.
"Arwen," he said.
He spoke her name aloud.
They talked and laughed together, savouring that brief spell of peace.
But Aragorn had misjudged one thing.
Sleepless, Frodo had wandered out to walk off his restlessness, and by chance came on them there.
Seeing the two of them leaning close together, Frodo remembered the tale Aragorn had once told him, of the love between an Elf and a Man.
"How romantic," he murmured.
Fortunately, the young Hobbit had some sense of courtesy.
He watched from afar for a little while, then quietly withdrew, leaving them undisturbed.
Only then did Aragorn and Arwen have a moment of true, private quiet.
But peaceful hours never last long.