Dark_Peace
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Chapter 57: The White Council
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 16:22:30 +0000 UTCTwo weeks later, under the starlit sky.
A roaring bonfire blazed in the heart of the valley. Dwarves gathered around it, devouring skewers of roasted meat and vegetables from Eric's lands, the smell thick and savory in the crisp mountain air. Laughter rang out like clashing hammers, rowdy and heartfelt. In this usually somber vale, the cheer was a rare warmth—like a tavern flame on a winter night.
Elsewhere, inside one of the guest rooms arranged by the Elves, Eric had just laid down to rest when Gandalf dragged him back out into the moonlit courtyard.
"Walk with me, lad," said the old wizard, as if this were the most natural hour to take a stroll.
Eric wasn't particularly tired, so he humored him. Soon, Elrond joined them, and the three walked slowly across the courtyard, their steps echoing beneath the trees of Rivendell.
Of course, wizards never wander aimlessly. Before long, Elrond brought up the subject that had been gnawing at him.
"The dragon," he said flatly. "You knew and told me nothing."
"I was going to speak to you tonight," Gandalf replied hurriedly, "You must trust I know what I'm doing."
But clearly, the Lord of Rivendell had doubts. While they both sensed shadows stirring in the East, their visions of the future didn't quite align. Possibilities were slippery things—some hopeful, some dark.
"You say you know what you're doing, but that dragon has been asleep for sixty years. If your plan fails and it awakens, what then?"
"And what if it works?" Gandalf countered quickly. "If the Dwarves can retake Erebor…"
He began outlining the strategic benefits of reclaiming the Lonely Mountain. Trade routes, morale, the unity of Free Peoples—it all came down to that smoking ruin under the mountain.
"This move is dangerous," Elrond warned, eyes narrowed.
"Doing nothing is dangerous too," Gandalf shot back. "And if things go south, Eric and I will act."
He paused mid-step and looked to Eric, signaling him for support.
Eric, who had zero interest in arguing with a centuries-old wizard, simply nodded. "I've got no complaints."
Elrond considered him. "Eric… is powerful. I can feel it. Even in the height of the First Age, he would have been a force to reckon with. But against that dragon—no one can guarantee anything."
Elrond's concern was rooted in more than just fire and teeth. The Elves had waned for too long. If the dragon were loosed upon the world again, they might hold it off—but at a cost the Elves could not afford. It could tip them into ruin.
"And besides," Elrond added, his voice cooling, "Have you forgotten what lies in the hearts of Dwarves? Madness. The gold-madness runs through their bloodline. Thror succumbed. Thrain followed. What makes you think Thorin won't fall the same way?"
Gandalf sighed. "You speak as if we control all the pieces on the board. The Dwarves have already made their decision. They're going, whether we support them or not."
"And Thorin," he added dryly, "doesn't feel he owes anyone an explanation."
"That's not me you need to answer to," Elrond muttered.
Just then, they stopped at the base of a wide stone stairway. Above, a figure turned toward them, glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Lady Galadriel.
Eric caught her gaze for the briefest moment. And for that moment, his mind went blissfully blank.
Beautiful. Serene. Regal.
No words fit her better.
"Lady Galadriel," Gandalf said with uncharacteristic solemnity, bowing deeply. "Time may have changed me, but it has not touched the Lady of Lothlórien."
He turned to Elrond, lifting an eyebrow. "You didn't tell me she'd be here."
"She wasn't invited by me," Elrond replied.
A voice like polished ice cut in from behind.
"That would be my doing."
Gandalf's smile vanished like a puff of smoke. He turned, clearly reluctant, and bowed stiffly.
"Saruman."
"You've been busy, Mithrandir," said the white wizard, casting a glance at Eric. "Why is there a mortal here?"
"It's late. If this doesn't concern him, perhaps he should return to his bed. Our council is not for common ears."
He might as well have shoved Eric out with a broom.
"Eric is no ordinary man," Gandalf snapped. "Some parts of this plan rest squarely on his shoulders. His strength is… beyond what you can imagine."
"Is that so?" Saruman replied, tone skeptical but eyes narrowed with interest.
In truth, he'd felt it the moment he laid eyes on Eric. The man wasn't normal. But admitting that would mean agreeing with Gandalf—and Saruman wasn't about to hand him that satisfaction.
"This," Elrond interrupted, "is Eric, the Orc-Bane of the Misty Mountains."
[Title Gained: Enemy of Orcs]
The title had replaced "Orc-Slayer" some time ago, when the Orcs had begun retreating from their mountain strongholds. All present could, with a thought, recall his deeds.
At that point, even Saruman couldn't keep up the pretense. "Fine. He may stay."
Lady Galadriel nodded at Eric and offered a gentle smile of welcome. He returned the gesture as Gandalf had, bowing respectfully.
And so, a White Council was convened: the Lady of Lothlórien, the Lord of Rivendell, the White Wizard of Isengard, the Grey Wanderer, and Eric the Block Wizard.
"The dragon belongs to no side," Gandalf began, "but if it aligns itself with the enemy, it could spell doom for all of Middle-earth."
"The enemy?" Saruman cut in. "Sauron is gone. The Ring was lost to the sea. You're chasing shadows."
Eric, leaning against a nearby pillar, glanced at him with a bemused smile but said nothing. At this stage, Saruman was merely arrogant, not yet a traitor. Still on the side of the Free Peoples—for now.
"We've had peace for nearly four centuries," Elrond added, agreeing for once with Saruman. "Let's not risk that."
"Peace?" Gandalf barked. "Trolls are coming down from the hills, raiding farms and villages. Orcs roam the roads openly. Ask Eric how many he's killed just going for a walk!"
Elrond frowned. "That still doesn't mean war is upon us."
"You're always trying to start fires where there's none," Saruman sniffed.
"It's not just the dragon," Gandalf pressed. "There's something darker, more sinister, stirring. You may not see it yet—but it sees us."
As he spoke, Eric noticed Galadriel and Elrond had silently stepped to his side, standing behind Gandalf.
They were showing their support, quietly but unmistakably.
The stone table before them suddenly seemed skewed—four on one side, and Saruman alone on the other.
Saruman's jaw tightened.
"There is a necromancer," Gandalf continued, "in Dol Guldur. He commands the dead."
"A petty sorcerer dabbling in tricks," Saruman waved him off. "Hardly worth a council."
But Gandalf wasn't listening anymore. He seemed distracted—no, he was silent, listening with his mind.
The three Elven Ring-bearers—Galadriel, Elrond, and Gandalf—could communicate telepathically.
Galadriel had clearly noticed the item Gandalf carried.
Moments later, he laid it gently on the stone table.
A sword.
[Morgul Blade]
+7 Attack
Special Effect: Wither
A wound from this blade drags the soul toward darkness. It cannot be healed by normal means. Only magic or rare elixirs can soothe its decay.
---
The weapon of the Nazgûl.
"Coincidence," Saruman muttered, shaking his head. "It proves nothing."
"And yet here it is," Elrond said coolly.
Saruman launched into another of his trademark lectures, determined to prove everyone wrong using pure verbosity.
What he didn't realize was that Gandalf was stalling him deliberately.
By the time Lindir came hurrying up to report, it was already done.
"Elrond, the Dwarves have departed."
He tried to hide his grin, but his joy was almost audible.
Praise the Valar, they were gone.
The meeting ended soon after, with two resolutions:
Assist the Dwarves in reclaiming Erebor.
Investigate and, if necessary, assault Dol Guldur.
Just as the others were about to leave, Lady Galadriel turned to Eric and softly called his name.
She descended the steps toward him.
