Grey Havens Within the council hall built of white stone, a tall figure clad in a rough grey wizard’s robe stood speaking with Círdan the Shipwright.
Beside him, leaning against a chair, rested a staff tipped with a glittering jewel.
The lord of the Havens knew the Grey Wizard well.
As the far-travelled Istar delivered his warning, Círdan listened with a grave countenance, his head bowed low so that his long beard bobbed gently against his chest.
“Honoured Círdan,” Gandalf began, “the strange event of the fireball that fell from the sky a fortnight ago was visible even to me in the distant southern wilds, and the talk among the peoples grows ever more troubled.
Some fear it is a clarion call announcing the return of evil.
The shadow in the East deepens: voices whisper that far within the Ash Mountains and the Mountains of Shadow the Black Speech of Mordor is heard once more, and the dark minions who were defeated by the great host of the Free Peoples now stir again.
Some have seen a company of well-armed, fell Orcs riding Wargs, travelling by night and hiding by day, making their way north!
They crossed the Dead Marshes, skirted the grim boughs of Mirkwood, forded the Anduin, and entered the trackless Misty Mountains, vanishing into the folds of those high peaks…” The Grey Wizard Gandalf, whom the Elves name Mithrandir, lifted his head, and his weathered face filled with care.
“This troubles me greatly,” he said.
“For at the same time, my watchers south of the Misty Mountains report that from the depths of Khazad-dûm, that which we call the Mines of Moria, there have come evil sounds.
Vicious, cunning dark minions creep about the gates of Moria, some riding wolves, some brandishing axes, disguised as brigands.
They threaten the wide lands south of the East Road and west of the Baranduin, as though weaving some wicked design…” The kindly wizard drew out an old pipe, his brow furrowed, and from a pouch he fished out two pinches of fine pipe-weed from the Southfarthing of the Shire, pressing the leaf into the bowl.
He gestured amiably toward the lord of the Havens.
Círdan, knowing his fondness, simply shook his head, bidding him enjoy it alone.
So Gandalf struck a tiny spark between his fingers and quickly kindled the pipe-weed.
He drew a deep breath, and the mellow white smoke curled through his throat and nose, emerging as a series of wondrous smoke-rings that rose, expanding layer upon layer without breaking, until they drifted past the high rafters of the hall and slowly faded away.
“This is the new leaf from the Southfarthing, this spring’s crop.
Ah, it smokes quite unlike any other.
Honoured Lord Círdan, will you not take a puff?” Círdan, the foresighted Elf who had been the first to perceive the true nature of the Wizards and had entrusted the Ring of Fire, Narya, to this very Istar, knew his temperament all too well.
The lord of the Grey Havens sighed and drew the Wizard’s wandering mind back to the matter at hand.
“Gandalf, the business!
speak to the business!” he said.
The Wizard gave a start, a sheepish look passing over his face.
He tapped out the spent ashes from his pipe, then, with a conjuror’s flourish, stowed it away inside his voluminous robes and feigned a dignified air.
“Yes, yes.
Where was I…” Círdan sighed a second time.
“Ah, I recall now!” The whimsical, or perhaps one might say unreliable, old Wizard tapped his unkempt white hair, his grimy beard quivering like a squirrel’s tail.
He glanced at the lord of the Havens, and sorrow crept back into his ancient features.
“The Orcs of the north and the south seem to have joined together,” he said.
“In places hidden from our sight, a new dark realm swiftly grows in power.
Furthermore, the Men of Dunland, stirred by some unseen hand, grow ever more restive; their greedy eyes roam ceaselessly over the peaceful folk about them.
The ultimate aim of these dark forces may very well be the elven stronghold in the North: great and free Mithlond!
“When I perceived this, I mounted a swift horse and rode without rest for ten days and ten nights, arriving at the Grey Havens before the dark talons could reach the Gulf of Lune, to warn the lord of this place: the great Shipwright, the rightful successor of the Northern Elves, Lord Círdan!” At that, the Grey Wizard rose and made a solemn bow.
His aged face could not conceal the wizard’s eyes, which gleamed like stars.
Círdan, wearing a beautiful headdress strung with tiny sapphires and a fine brown silken robe, sat upon the high seat carved of birch at the centre of the hall.
He frowned, and said nothing.
“Honoured Lord Círdan!” The Grey Wizard’s voice rose with urgency.
The lord of the Havens sighed for the third time, helpless.
He knit his brows and asked, “Then, Mithrandir, what would you have me do?” The Grey Wizard’s spirit kindled.
He spoke swiftly: “Honoured Lord Círdan, I would have you send out riders to patrol the West-lands as far as the River Baranduin, to prevent Orc wolf-riders from the East from breaking into the North!
Further, I would have you muster your forces and see to the repair of arms and armour!” The Wizard swept his arms wide like a general marshalling a great host, pouring forth his words before the lord of the Havens.
“For from the moment I reached the Grey Havens, I found the vigilance of the Northern Elves alarmingly low, the guards did not even mark a stranger in the hall until I had already walked through the door.
It is, I must say, most disappointing… How many years have passed since the battle of Fornost, and the Northern Elves have fallen so far?
Honoured Shipwright, I do not wish to comment upon your governance, but have you not grown too slack these thousand years?
The age of the Elves is not yet over.
Though the Light of Valinor is holy and eternal, this land, here and now, is still the home of the Elves…” The lord of the Grey Havens kept his face composed and said nothing.
It was not that he disbelieved the Wizard, but… From around the thousandth year of the Third Age, when Saruman the White, later the head of the White Council, first set foot upon the shores of Middle-earth, the Istari had begun to appear ever more frequently in the chronicles of the age.
Some among them were masters of communing with bird and beast and growing thing, some wielded the enchantment of persuasive speech, and others took up sword and blade.
None knew whence they came or whither they went; it was known only that throughout history these Wizards had guided the peoples of Middle-earth in their struggle against the darkness.
Some had even ventured deep into the East, waging bitter war against the dark powers there, though in the end they were overcome.
In the annals, only the names of three Wizards remained.
One, of course, was Saruman the White, who dwelt long at Isengard in the Gap of Rohan, watching the East lest the dark servants rise again.
The mysterious Radagast the Brown, on the other hand, preferred the company of birds and beasts, flowers, forests, and streams; his ways were strange and his speech often wild, so that Men shunned his company.
Thus he remained ever without a fixed abode, coming and going without trace.
The third, and the best known among the Free Peoples, as well as the most eager to meddle in the affairs of Elves and Men, was the Grey Wizard who now stood before the lord of the Havens.
His true name was Olórin, the wisest of the Maiar, sent to Middle-earth at the command of Manwë as one of the Istari to aid the people of that land against Sauron.
Yet after Manwë besought Eru to cast down the rebellious Númenórean king Ar-Pharazôn and his great invading fleet, and the isle of Númenor was swallowed, Valinor was removed from the circles of Arda and set beyond the Outer Sea.
From that time, the Blessed Realm was utterly sundered from Middle-earth in a physical sense.
Elves might now reach the Undying Lands only by the Straight Road, leaving the mortal world behind to inherit the peace of Valinor.
Similarly, if the Valar and Maiar wished to walk in Middle-earth, they too had to submit to the constraints of the mortal world, lest the land suffer another cataclysm.
It was for this reason that Maiar such as Saruman and Gandalf were obliged to take the shapes of the Istari, their native power greatly diminished.
Olórin, under the name Gandalf, wandered far and wide throughout Middle-earth, befriending many of the Free Peoples and earning a renown that became legend.
Yet, in the long years, the Grey Pilgrim had also picked up certain… unsavoury habits.
Pipe-weed, ale, and… (well, no, that last one never took).
Perhaps it was because Men were too complex, Dwarves too stubborn, and Elves too proud that the Wizards, in order to achieve their ends, were given to embroidering the truth somewhat in order to frighten those they sought to persuade, a common failing of their order.
Long-winded, mystifying, vexing.
Once or twice might be tolerated, but after many times, the pride of the kings and lords of Middle-earth had been pricked, and so, while they still held the Wizards’ power in awe, they had also begun to meet their blustering with disdain and contempt.
Even Círdan had heard tell of this.
Thus the lord of the Grey Havens could not help wondering inwardly how much of the Wizard’s words was truth, and how much was breath.
As though sensing Círdan’s wariness and disregard for his counsel, a sharp light gleamed in the Wizard’s eyes, and he laid his last card upon the table.
“And one more thing!” he said.
“I wish to meet the one who fell from the sky.” At that very moment, Dragonborn entered the hall.
“Lord Círdan.” The tall youth who called himself Dragonborn, bowed with a deep, rumbling voice to the lord of the Havens upon his high seat.
“Good day.” Círdan, who had been so thoroughly vexed by the Grey Wizard, broke into a delighted smile.
“Good day, Ochriamm,” he said in Sindarin.
Gandalf stared in astonishment at the giant, who stood scarcely shorter than a troll, his own bright, piercing eyes fixing keenly upon the uncanny golden vertical pupils of Dragonborn.