𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐬 ➵︎ [ 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘧 ]

2| the council

The atmosphere at the council of Elrond was a unique one to say the least. Light-hearted conversation drifted across the people of many realms as they awaited the commencement of the meeting, and yet, beneath it all was an undercurrent of tension and apprehension at the true purpose of the meeting. It was something I could sense was eating away at the hearts of everyone there.

I leant back against my chair, quietly observing all the people sitting around me. To my left sat Aragorn, who seemed to be doing the same. Beside him was Elrond, the elf who had taken me in with open arms when I first sought shelter centuries ago. He had suggested I attend the council, and I immediately agreed. I wanted a part in this story. After everything I had brought upon my own kingdom, this was the least I could offer.

My gaze drifted to those seated opposite me: the golden-haired, fair-skinned elves of the Mirkwood realm. Their mere presence exuded elegance, but there was also an air of pride surrounding them, the same pride I had seen in Thranduil, their king, back in Esgaroth. My eyes met the gaze of one of the elves. He tilted his head slightly with an inquisitive smile in response. I just glanced away.

Beside them sat the dwarves, short and stubby with long scruffy beards, but making up for the lack of height with their strong will and tenacity.

I watched them grumble to each other about something in Khuzdul, the language of the dwarves. I was almost certain it had something to do with their seating position beside the Mirkwood elves, who were almost renowned for their distaste for dwarves. In fact, I had seen it with my own eyes in the feud between Thranduil and the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain some decades ago.

I shook my head at the memory.

Today, the animosity still remained, the tension between the two groups almost palpable.

Shifting my glance, my gaze fell upon the men of Gondor, surely sent by Denethor to get a piece of the action. I had no love for the steward who refused to cede his throne, not when the real King of Gondor sat beside me. I recognised one of the men as Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor, arrogance shining from his eyes.

My eyes then fell upon Mithrandir. A warm smile graced his old but wise complexion when our eyes met, and I reciprocated the smile. Gandalf was one of my most revered mentors and a friend throughout the years of my life. And one of the only ones who understood my origin.

Then I saw Frodo. The ring-bearer. The brave little halfling who has travelled so far.

And here we all were. All of us, united under one roof to possibly decide the fate of Middle-earth.

Crossing my arms, I watched as the remaining members invited to the secret council filtered in.

In my hand, I fiddled with my hairpiece, my fingers running over the intricate engravings on the smooth gold.

A singular red opal was embedded onto the surface, at the tip of the hairpin, with a gold ring situated at the end. I admired the opal. It was almost as if the sunset heavens itself had been captured in this very stone.