The Grey Company prepares to depart on its desperate errand, for in two nights they shall leave the Hidden Valley and strike south, following in the footsteps of the Nine Walkers. With the company of the Dunedain ride the sons of Elrond, who are desirous to go to the war. As the Company prepares, Seregrían also readies herself to accompany them at the behest of Arwen and Elrond her father, with whom the Elf-scholar now holds a heated council in the sanctum of his library.
“Many lives of Men have passed by, like falling leaves in the wood, and still your tongue masters your mind”, Elrond says to his one-time protégé. “Think not that you alone are burdened with cares beyond your strength – for I know your strength, and it is great, greater than you imagine. You must master your passions, Seregrían, for just as the forge’s fire melts and tempers the metal into steel, so also does the slag pool and be purged away – that must be your anger’s end.”
“You speak of lofty things, Elrond, for so have I called you”, Seregrían snaps, “especially when I deem you wrong! You have put your trust and hope, indeed the hope of all the Free Peoples, in the hands of these short-lived usurpers. Dwarves, halflings, and yes, Men – irrespective of the one who leads them now, the blood of Numenor all but spent, standing like vinegar when set next to the wine of the Eldar!”
“Even if that blood is my own kin, separated by threescore lives of Men? And you wonder at why I never took you into my confidence until now, your own voice diminishes you in my eyes, your wisdom shriveled like the grapes of that same wine of which you claim heritage.” Seregrían finds herself cowed into silence; a whisper from Elrond is more final than anyone else’s scream.
“Almost, you make me regret my decision to allow Arwen to persuade you to join the Grey Company, and my own sons, on this errand. But events are in motion that cannot be slowed or stopped. Even more so with the fall of Mithrandir, wisest of counselors and more noble than many. There are powers that may stand against the East, here in Imladris, and in Lothlorien – but that power is needed elsewhere and must be free to walk abroad. Mithrandir was to be that one, but he is lost; but there remains one other.” His pregnant pause now has Seregrían riveted.
“Then one of the others of the White Council must – but there isn’t – master, no, you cannot mean –“
“Yes, you, for there are no others. Examine these truths: you have forged friendship anew with the Dwarves. You have faced down the minions of the Dark Lord, despite the ugly truth you have learned of your mother’s fate. You have brought out of the darkness beneath the mountains lore and powers beyond the reach of others more learned than yourself. And you are fearless, Seregrían – your rage becomes a potent tool when you use it with intent. And that tool needs one thing more. Do you not recall I bade you surrender your staff upon your arrival?”
“Yes, and what has become of it? Shall I not have it for when I ride with the Grey Company, and your sons?”
“No, and yes. You recall that the last of the Jewel-smiths, the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, dwell in this valley. They looked upon your staff as a marvel, a mighty though inelegant tool in your hands. And just as they reforged Narsil into Anduril, so they took your staff and made it a thing of glamorous might, thus!”
And Elrond shows forth Seregrían’s staff, but it has been transformed by Elven craftsmen: a shaft of oak inlaid with holly, cunningly blended, bound with fine leather and topped with a head wrought of ithildin, in the shape of a lunar moth. The gemstones which Seregrían had carefully set in the old staff were now cut, polished and set in new and intricate patterns, channeling might in new ways beyond her thought.
“Take this now, Seregrían, and know this: the bearer of this staff shall be recognized by both friend and foe alike, as a wielder of the Flame of Anor. This staff marks you as a servant of the Secret Fire. You already know how to use its power; may you quickly learn its wisdom, as well. Take this staff, though not of the Istari but in their service, which bears this name: Dondangol!”
The Deep Magic’s Fist, Seregrían thinks. Holding the new staff, she can feel its thrum of might even more keenly than before, the staff ablaze with inner fire. She thrusts it skyward, reveling in the wash of power.
“Dondangol. Will you walk with me into the fire? Will you dance with me in the storm? We shall be a guiding star to our friends, and a burning brand to our foes!”
