Night descends upon Edoras as the sun dips beneath the edge of the world, watchfires and lamps beginning to shine in the gathering gloam. From the main gate of the city, a road runs straight between two rows of mounds, seven upon the left hand, nine upon the right: the Barrow Field, where sleep the kings of the Riddermark.
The watchmen on the walls and the towers can see approaching up this road a small troop of riders, and the word passes to the gate-wardens to mind their approach. The wardens stare in wonder at the coming of five riders, four clad in the green of the Mark and the fifth in scarlet, and a wolf stalking at the stirrup of the five. A horn blasts with a high, heroic note; a baying howl trills in reply; and a sudden flash of light illumines the company as they pass beneath the archway.
Thus comes Seregrían and the Riders Four to the courts of Meduseld at nightfall on the fifth day of March.
Burnoth and Seregrían speak with the captain of the watch and the door-wards of Meduseld, and they in turn learn of the great events of the past few days; for not only has Theoden King awoke from his dotage and led his Riders westward to meet the threat of Isengard – but it happened by the hand of Mithrandir, who had arrived mere days ago.
Seregrían is confused at this, for the word she had before setting out from Rivendell was that Gandalf had met his doom in Moria weeks before – no, months now. She listens to all that can be said of his coming, and especially his being clad now in white and showing forth great power. Though Burnoth and the others retire for rest, she remains awake and speaking with anyone who would talk to her.
Thus it was that, just before dawn begins to lighten the eastern sky, Seregrían sees a great white horse approaching from the west, gleaming in the gathering light. And there entering the gates rides the White Rider with a halfling in tow. Swiftly he enters the city, bearing news of victory at the Hornburg, the downfall of Isengard and the humbling of Saruman, and the word of Theoden that a great weapontake shall commence without delay. As he speaks, his eye lights upon Seregrían, and his demeanor changes to an appraising smile.
“See to the King’s commands, all of you. I must have a private council; I shall return shortly. Walk with me, scholar of Rivendell, and we shall speak – in your tongue, perhaps?” Seregrían follows Gandalf to an open space near the stables at the main gate, where she cannot contain her curious questions.
“The report to be had in both Imladris and Lothlorien was of doom regarding you,” she says in Elvish, “but it of course has been premature?”
“Whatever happened in the past, it is done,” Gandalf says, “and we shall not speak of it now. More pressing matters are at hand, and time is a coin we cannot squander. I, however, have had news of you, scholar. In my absence, Elrond sent you abroad bearing a power that you are ill-suited for, though you have acquitted yourself valiantly in its use. I have had counsel from both he and the Lady Galadriel, regarding both your tasks on behalf of the Wise – and that which pursues you from your past.
“Nay, do not argue how I know, just accept that I know! First, let us speak of the Enemy. The Nine have crossed the River once more, for you yourself have faced one of them in battle; and I was narrowly missed by another south of Isengard. The part you were asked to play has paid off well, indeed. The Enemy is in doubt, seeing power and defiance here and there across the lands, and thus is the Eye turning this way and that, looking at the fires blazing up but missing the tiny spark that creeps into his house even now.”
“Then you have had some news of the ‘hopeful folly’, as I have heard it called?”
A smile. “Hopeful folly, is it? Those words ring familiar, I think. Yes, I have had news of the errand, but that is not for here. For now, each of us must do what our gifts allow us to do, in support of that folly. Your instinct and intuition have served you well, Elf-scholar. Continue your path and use those gifts as need demands. Now we come to a deep matter. Show me this staff of yours, this ‘fist of deep magic’.”
Seregrían walks to the stable where her gear is laid beside Dagorlach’s tack and harness and finds Dondangol. Bringing her staff to Gandalf, she feels a sudden reluctance to let the wizard see it, reluctance or perhaps guilt. The wizard holds the staff at eye level, a penetrating and appraising glare in his eyes, muttering under his breath.
“Found in Moria, and tested by your hand,” he says. “Brought to Rivendell and recast into – what was the word – ‘glamorous might’, so Elrond told me. The Flame of Anor is a power that no Elf – no, not even Glorfindel or Galadriel herself – was ever meant to wield; yet wield it you have and worked it well enough. You have barely begun to feel its virtues, Seregrían; or its very real peril.”
“Master Elrond said much the same,” Seregrían says. “That the staff would reveal me to all who can see such things. The words the Nazgul spoke to me are true, then? ‘The child has learned to play a dangerous game?’”
“And you have done well with little more than ‘beginner’s luck’, as it is called,” Gandalf says as he hands the staff back to her. “Yes, both chance and cunning have served you well. And our cause in turn is served – for now there is not one light and fire crossing the lands, but two. And the Enemy cannot know which wielder is which, until they are found. Therefore doubt gnaws him, and he must await tidings as to who he faces and where before he moves; and that gives us a great advantage and freedom of action.”
“You spoke of that which ‘pursues me from my past’, and how it might affect our courses. Who have you spoken to of this, and though I don’t deserve it, I ask for your counsel.”
“And why should you not deserve it! For indeed, I have been told much of what it is that haunts your mind, young Elf. You were counseled not to let it interfere with the fight against the Shadow, but now that the fight is moving into the open, you will find yourself more free to act upon your past; and that is an opportunity to use, for it will keep doubt rising in the Enemy’s mind.
“But this counsel I shall offer you, and I bid you not forget it, not ever. The power you wield through your staff is ancient, far more ancient that even the first Elves who ever awoke. The Flame of Anor is a power of life, but not life itself. Through it, you cannot create or bring forth new things; but you can preserve and restore life within your reach and strength. You have already done so once, if tidings of you are true; and that is encouraging. But remember that, for lives may depend upon it, including your own: preserve and restore, and naught else.”
At that exact moment, a horrid rending scream fills the air, coming as it seems from a hundred throats bursting in terror. Looking up, a great black shape like a gigantic bird swoops from the East and passes over the gables of Meduseld, a terrible croaking followed by a piercing shrill shriek that causes men to cower and shrink with a blind horror. Seregrían has heard that cry once before, at Floodwend, and knows how she fought it. She thrusts Dondangol aloft, preparing to put forth power when she is stopped by Gandalf.
“Stay your hand, do not reveal yourself yet!” Neither does he raise his hand against the monster but watches as it passes swiftly westward, rising higher into the sky. Gandalf begins swiftly moving among the Rohirrim, calling and giving orders and sending men running about to prepare to move. And Seregrían rushes to find Burnoth and the others and take thought of their next labors.
