A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Ten~

Truth be told, Caranthir wasn't sure if he was supposed to leave when the others came. So he decided to be courteous, and mysteriously vanish a good five minutes before the first few filed in.

No, he was not being 'antisocial.'

Clearly it was more polite to leave the people who hated his very guts alone.

Not to mention the fact they'd be singing the whole night. It was remarkable, how the only thing anyone ever made music about was Eärendil (like they had the cheek to sing of him in Elrond's very house), and Beren and Lúthien with their stolen Jewel. What part did those hypocrites not understand about birthrights? No, they had to keep it for themselves and selfishly lead their various realms to their own destruction. Don't blame the villains for keeping the oaths they swore on Illúvatar, no. It's not like the happiness of two lovers was worth the deaths of thousands.

~~~

Elrond's council was to be called in the morning, an occasion Caranthir, despite his various misgivings, could not miss. Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, naturally, had been invited, yet their companions had been refused this . . . honor. Yet there were some others present: Glóin and his son Gimli, the ranger Aragorn (still clad in his old ratted clothes), and a stranger. The man had arrived in the gray hour of dawn, and seemed unable to break the habit of staring at everyone present in obvious wonder. Clothed as if for a lengthy ride, there was a fine white horn resting on his lap. He held himself with a pride, a respectable trait while sitting among elf lords.

Elrond, however, quickly introduced him. "Here is Boromir, a man from the South," he murmured in his clear tone. "He seeks answers to a dream, and counsel."

Samwise Gamgee, despite lack of invitation, had hidden himself quite cleverly behind a potted plant. Caranthir was not sure what to think of this.

Elrond stood up, breaking the silence smoothly. With a cough, he began. "Welcome, friends of old, strangers, allies." His cool stare encircled the seated council. "Whether you have journeyed with a message, or fled for counsel, now is time to answer to the One Ring, which after an age has been found."

A flurry of whispers spread through the seated council. Elrond, still standing, said nothing. Instead he looked to the famous Frodo Baggins, who twitched anxiously in his seat. He said nothing to him, however, as if waiting for something, an action that never arrived.

Silence sat heavy upon the council, like a gray thundercloud. Caranthir sucked in a breath.

"This Ring," came the dark voice of Olórin, "was found by Bilbo Baggins deep in the Misty Mountains. It is Sauron's own, and the last piece of his power. Here, we must choose what to do with it."

"No," said Elrond. "We must first tell it's story, for not all of us here know." His gaze flicked from person to person, never favoring one in particular, thank Eru. Caranthir didn't exactly feel like explaining to everyone about his time in the Halls.

So Elrond recited, slow but strong, the tale of the Second Age of Arda, never omitting a detail, in fact giving Caranthir even more knowledge than what he read in the history texts. It was almost impressive.

He spoke of the might and fall of Númenor, and Caranthir was reminded of his own people: lied to and manipulated, until it became their downfall. Except he had been his own downfall.

"I remember their great ships and banners," said the elf lord slowly, in thought. "They remind me, to this day, of the hosts and princes of Beleriand, before the fall of the first, Great Enemy." His eyes were closed.

Caranthir snorted in his seat. "Funny, as most of us were dead before you were even born."

Olórin put his hand over his face.