Summer, 2931 of the Third Age In the northwest of Middle-earth the sky that day was a flawless, cloudless blue, as if already laying bare the fate that awaited the good peoples and the other Free Races across the wide lands.
Suddenly a vast fireball, trailing a long mane of flame like a meteor, tore across the endless heavens and plunged into the northwestern corner of Middle-earth.
In Rivendell, the Elves of Imladris, that last sanctuary of the Eldar east of Belegaer; far beyond the Misty Mountains, the Silvan Elves of Lothlórien and Mirkwood; and even in the distant White City of Gondor, set upon the broad Pelennor Fields where the Anduin and the Erui mingle before flowing to the Sea, all beheld the portent with wonder.
The Lady of Lothlórien, Galadriel the mighty and good, said to her husband Celeborn, himself one of the greatest of the Sindar yet remaining in Middle-earth: “This strange thing that has happened troubles me greatly.” She meant the fireball that had streaked across the sky.
“I know not why, but my heart has whispered unceasingly that in this age of waxing evil a star has fallen from the firmament, and it will only add to the sorrows of a world already beset.
We must find this thing that has come from on high before the evil out of the East discovers it.” She paused, and in the ancient tongue of the Quendi she spoke the word for “him.” A silence.
Then she added, “…or her.” Clearly even the great Lady of Lothlórien could not perceive what this wonder might be, for it lay still within the unrevealed Music.
To pierce the mists of fate is the power of the Valar (the angelic Ainur) and indeed of Ilúvatar (the One, whom Men call God).
The Firstborn, though deeply beloved of the Valar and of Ilúvatar the All-Holy, know but little of their own doom.
Celeborn nodded gravely.
He was the son of Galadhon, grandson of Elmo, the Lord of Doriath and leader of those Teleri who remained in Middle-earth; a mighty Sinda, one of the Grey-elves.
From the First Age, when the Sindarin kingdom of Doriath was sacked by the Dwarves and later destroyed by the sons of Fëanor in the Second Kinslaying, Celeborn and his wife had fled with the remnant of the Sindar to the southwestern coasts of Beleriand.
After the War of Wrath, when the Dark Enemy Morgoth was overthrown and Beleriand sank beneath the Sea, ending the First Age, Celeborn and Galadriel dwelt with some of the Sindar in the land that is now Lindon.
But peace was brief.
Because the cataclysm had reshaped the world, early in the Second Age they journeyed eastward into Eriador and lived for a time beside Lake Nenuial.
There they stayed until about the seven hundredth year of the Second Age, when the Sindar moved eastward again and came to Eregion, the realm of the renowned Noldorin lord Celebrimbor.
When Eregion was later assailed by the Dark Lord Sauron, they passed over the Misty Mountains into Lothlórien; and after many changes, they came to rule over a people that included a handful of Noldor, some Sindar, and a great host of Silvan Elves, the Wood-elves, all Firstborn of Ilúvatar.
“You speak truly,” Celeborn said to his wife.
“When that blazing orb appeared in the sky, my heart, which has scarce altered in a thousand years, was seized with dread.
What this unsought thing fallen from the heavens may bring upon Middle-earth in these days of growing evil, I cannot guess.
Yet it seems to me that it fell not far from the lands of Círdan the Shipwright.
The Lord of the Grey Havens will doubtless find it and learn the truth of this strange matter sooner than we.” The Lady of Lothlórien, who carried the blood of all three ancient kindreds of the Elves; the Vanyar, the Noldor, and the Teleri, walked slowly through the quiet, cool, yet never-gloomy forest.
The lush trees and flowers seemed to draw aside before the holy and beautiful Noldorin princess, the mighty Lady of the Golden Wood, as if fearing to let their leaves brush against one so noble and renowned since the Elder Days.
“Let us hope so,” she said.
Then she turned to her husband.
“But be that as it may, we must send messengers to take counsel with Elrond of Rivendell.
I am certain his unease over this fallen thing is no less than ours.” Elrond of Imladris was the son-in-law of Galadriel and Celeborn.
Their daughter Celebrían had wed him in the year 109 of the Third Age and bore him twin sons, and later a daughter, Arwen.
Together with the bond forged through long years of shared battle, Rivendell west of the Misty Mountains and Lothlórien east of them were among the few Elven realms that still strove to shield all the good free peoples of Middle-earth.
Celeborn nodded in full agreement and added, “We had best summon a White Council.” The Lady of Lothlórien did not answer at once, for she harboured misgivings about calling the Council.
Of late the Lady of the Golden Wood had grown ever more troubled by the conduct of Saruman the White, the head of the White Council.
She sensed that the White Wizard had become too deeply absorbed in certain matters, obsessed even… The Elven lord and lady, renowned through two ages of the world, walked out of the dense Golden Wood and exchanged a look of foreboding.
They turned their eyes westward, but the towering peaks of the Misty Mountains blocked their sight of the distant realm of the Lord of the Grey Havens.
Soon the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien sent forth messengers.
Some made ready to cross the Misty Mountains to Rivendell, the great Elven refuge beyond, to bear tidings and share their alarm at the strange event of that summer of 2931.
Others set out to seek other kindly powers and hidden protectors who still laboured in secret for the safety of Middle-earth.
The swift scattering of Lothlórien’s riders from the deep Golden Wood did not escape the notice of keen-eyed watchers across the land.
Let us set aside for now the reactions of other lords and leaders who received word from the Noldorin princess and the Sinda prince.
Far to the east, beyond the Golden Wood and Mirkwood, beyond the horse-realm of Rohan where steeds and warriors abound, beyond Gondor, the White City and last hope of Men raised by the Númenóreans, the mightiest and most hallowed of mankind even unto the desolate, frozen Ash Mountains and the haunted Shadows of the Shadow Mountains, in the ancient Orc-holds of the Plateau of Gorgoroth, a hideous horn-blast sounded.
A chorus of bloodthirsty roars and dark whisperings arose, chilling to all good-hearted folk.
It was the evil Black Speech of Mordor, devised by the Dark Lord in the Elder Days.
Presently, bands of foul, misshapen Orcs crawled from their dank and stinking holes, mounted savage Wargs, and under the cover of night passed the Black Gate and vanished silently into the vast plain of Dagorlad.
Some saw them heading westward, hastening as if in pursuit of something.
Meanwhile, at the Gap of Rohan, south of Fangorn Forest, in Isengard, within the tower built to watch the evil of the East (so it was held), Saruman the White, head of the White Council, a mighty and ambitious Istar, paced restlessly in great disquiet.
The strange fireball fallen from the sky had naturally stirred his own schemes and reckonings.
Yet ever since he had taken upon himself this aged raiment (the powerful Wizard wore a robe of white, his face ancient and withered as a dry tree), his power had been greatly restrained; and something deep in his being whispered that this omen held only ill for him, and no good at all.
“Why should such a thing come now?” he muttered.
“Have the high powers in Valimar grown weary of the radiance of the Blessed Realm, and resolved to meddle once more in Middle-earth?
No!
It must not be!” The Wizard paced, agitated and restless, his black staff thumping against the stone floor in time with the envy that gnawed his heart.
Suddenly he halted, his face twisting, his aged eyes blazing with bitter resentment.
“For years uncounted I have delved and studied, hungering after all knowledge that may be learned.
Already the…” He mumbled a word then, a thing of ill omen that the good folk of Middle-earth would not speak aloud; yet the White Wizard uttered it, though softly.
“…is almost within my grasp!
I cannot let them ruin all!” So spoke the White Wizard, as if his mind were made up.
He departed hurriedly from the towering pinnacle of Orthanc and vanished from sight.
And so on that day, from Gondor in the south to Angmar in the north, from Lindon in the west to the Iron Hills in the east, Elves, Dwarves, Men, and even the foul things that lurk in darkness spoke in fevered whispers of what had come to pass in the high summer of 2931 of the Third Age.
On that same day, the heir of Isildur who cut the Ring from the Dark Lord’s hand, the descendant of the hero of Men, the future King, the sixteenth Chieftain of the Dúnedain, son of Arathorn, was born: Aragorn II; and on this summer day, as the infant slept.
On that day, a great fireball fell from the sky and plunged into the sea north of Lindon, a hundred leagues from the Grey Havens, the greatest of the Elven ports in Middle-earth.
And from that moment, the wheels of fate began to turn.