THE LORD OF THE RINGS – A CHRONICLE OF THE FOURTH AGE.

 

I

Reader, much has changed in Middle Earth since the departure of the Ring-bearers from the Grey Havens.

 

Indeed, as Gandalf observed, it is the Age of Men. Rich men. Greedy men. Fat men.

 

Eleven rulers have now ascended the Throne of Anarion since the death of King Elessar I (Aragorn). Most of them had long reigns. Little troubled them.

 

Minas Tirth was rebuilt after the Battle of the Pelennor Field. Dwarves from the Lonely Mountain replaced its broken gate with Mithril. Its population thrived and grew. Soon the City became full; outside the gates, markets, suburbs and shanty-towns sprung up and stretched to the Pelargir. Unless one was a citizen, entrance into Minas Tirith was banned. Papers were checked at the gate. A stock-exchange was established. To the east, Ithilien was industrialised under the guardianship of the former Stewards of Gondor. Its blue skies became grey from so much smoke and chimneys

 

As punishment for their alliance with Sauron, King Elessar (Aragorn) levied a tribute on the Southrons and Easterlings, the funds of which were used to rebuild Osgiliath and its Citadel of the Stars. By the end of Eldarion’s reign (the son of Aragorn), they had been restored to their former glory.  Over many years, Minas Ithil was progressively cleaned of its defilement from Orc occupation, resuming its place as the Third City of Gondor. Nearby, the bones of Shelob were found in a tunnel at Cirith Ungol; no descendants were presumed. Her bones were burnt into dust and scattered to the winds.

 

The scholars of Gondor studied Saruman’s machines which had survived the Entish onslaught at Isengard. Shortly thereafter, the first steam-powered railway was built between Gondor and Rohan, thereby ending the need for the Beacon. Electricity was undiscovered and put to use.  A few years later, the internal combustion engine was invented and pressed into service. As things evolved, the Riders of Rohan swapped their horses for motorised equivalents. Vast herds of cattle now roamed across the grasslands of Rohan, most of which was destined for the tables of Gondor. Firearms replaced the weaponry of yesteryear. Given their interest in technology, the Dwarves kept apace with these discoveries and added to the pace of their evolution. The Sea of Rhûn was soon covered with platforms that pumped oil from the enormous deposits under its sea-bed.

 

As the population of Gondor exploded, the cities of Annúminas and Fornost Erain in Arnor were refounded and repopulated. Here, given the need for headcount, Metics become citizens if they moved northwards to either location and stayed in place for a set-number of years. King Elessar had spent much of this time governing his realm from either city. This practice was maintained by his son and grandson before being discontinued, whereupon the King largely resided at Minas Tirith for most of the year and heads north to avoid the travails of summer. The road between Gondor and Arnor was remade and upgraded. Rivendell, denuded of occupants, fell into disrepair and memory.

 

King Elessar’s grandson, King Eldar-Ramases, unleashed a campaign to exterminate the Orcs of the Misty Mountains. This was achieved; the Orcs were decimated whereas Gondor’s casualties were minimal. No mercy was shown to their womenfolk or children: whatever their age or sex, Orcs were put to the sword. To ensure annihilation, toxic fumes was pumped into their tunnels. Soon they were no more. The Wargs of the wild were poisoned out of existence. The abandoned fortress of Angmar – the former haunt of the Witch-King – was levelled by the legions of Gondor. Following these victories, the spiders of Mirkwood were obliterated. Not one of them escaped the butchery. Subsequent to that, a highway replaced the track which had run through the Forest. Furthermore it was manned by a garrison at interval points. Dol Gulder remained a place of foreboding. Rife with bats, it was left to its memories. In the reign of King Elessar II, the Wild Men of Dunland were subjugated and then conscripted into the legions of Gondor. A regiment of them served as the Praetorian Guard of the King – they were loyal to him alone.

 

As decreed by King Elessar, the Shire was strictly cordoned off from the world.  The only interactions between Hobbits and other occupants of Middle Earth occurred at Bree and even then, anything beyond a round of ales was frowned upon by authorities. Down the years, this prohibition was observed by all and sundry. The hobbits themselves continued to live life as they always had – homely and affable. The Tooks aside, nothing enticed them beyond the borders of the Shire.

 

Following the departure of Galadriel, Celeborn and the High Elves, a large bush-fire burnt Lothlorien to the ground. Nothing survived the inferno. Upon the death of King Elessar, who had so mourned its loss, its land was cleared for farming. The Marsh of the Battle Plain was likewise drained to become arable farmland. Its ghosts were never seen again.

 

Whilst they retained their independence in a nominal sense, the city of Dale and Lake-town fell under the influence of Gondor whose coinage became the currency of their realms. The nearby Kingdom of the Sindar Elves retained autonomy. That said, it was marginal in the scheme of things: given the abysmal birth-rate, the Elves struggled to replace the headcount they had lost in the War against Sauron. As per usual, the Elves kept to themselves and restricted most of their trade to Dale, Lake-town and the Lonely Mountain.

 

Having been freed of servitude by King Elessar, the former slaves of Mordor formed a republic of their own, situated on the banks of the Sea of Núrnen. Over time, the Land of Mordor flowered to become the granary of Middle Earth. No longer agitated by Sauron’s sorcery, Mount Doom became dormant; no smoke poured from her cone.  Mighty in desolation, the ruins of Barad-dûr were cordoned off: entry was forbidden to all and sundry. The Black Gate and Towers of the Teeth were carted off and burnt for their lime. Soon, they too were but a memory.

 

Late in the reign of King Eldarion, a rumour came to the Ents that their Wives had been spotted to the east of the Iron Hills, on the very edge of the known world. Banking on hope, the Ents bade farewell to the Legate of the King at Isengard and disappeared from history. They were never seen again. In their absence, Isengard became a city in its own right, famous for its learning and view of the stars.

 

Unlike the Elves, the Dwarves prospered in Middle Earth during the Fourth Age. Following the death of the Balrog, a Dwarf army from the Lonely Mountain captured Moria and drove its orc-regiments into the abyss – yes, at the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. While the Lonely Mountain remained the centre of their realm, Moria was restored to its former glory. The Endless Stair was rebuilt. A concerted effort was made – unsuccessful to date - by the Dwarves to find the tomb of Durin the Deathless – its location had eluded the Orcs too. Closer to home, the Watcher of the Lake was poisoned; the lake itself was drained, the Western Door repaired and thrown open to the world. Soon, both Moria and the Lonely Mountain had electrical grids of their own. An Iron Horse ran between the Lonely Mountain and Lake-Town.

 

As riches flowed into Minas Tirith, its populace became accustomed to luxury and indolence. One was either a citizen or one was not. Members of the latter class were called Metics. Those of Dúnedain ancestry considered themselves elite and demanded right-of-way as they bestrode the streets of the city. The Academy of Minas Tirith was famous throughout Middle Earth: one new discovery followed another. Street-lights now lit up the night. Aqueducts brought water to the city from the upper-Anduin.  Following the erratic rule of King Elrond III – the great great grandson of Elessar - a constitutional monarchy was promulgated where the Constitution of Minas Tirth – as interpreted by the Council - became the law of the land; in practice, the polity was controlled by the leading families of Minas Tirith; Depending upon his force of character, the King served as a figurehead or lord of the realm. With little to trouble them, the citizens of Minas Tirith became complacent as they feasted on the fat of the land. Non-citizens now fought campaigns on their behalf or grew their food, poured their drinks or taught their children. The War of the Ring became a dim memory. Corruption took root. As the citizens of Minas Tirith gathered at sunset on the walls of their city and looked eastwards to see Osgiliath and Minas Ithil in glory, they doubted that things had ever been different as alleged by historians. Nothing was beyond them, or so they thought. Why have need of Wizards or Rings? Were they not fairy-tales? In the East, however, destiny says otherwise.  Yes. Change is coming.

 

II

Rukk was a fisherman who plied his trade in the waters of the Eastern Ocean. It borders the extremities of Middle Earth as far as a compass can bend. His parents were nobodies of lowly birth with a heritage that stretched back to the City of Brand at best. He was in his late-Forties. No children – as far as he knew.  Long ago, his family had followed the trail of money by relocating to Lake-town. He never heard from them again. The ancestral home – a glorified shack – became his by default. He married a local girl. It did not work out; she left him too. That was the big romance of his life. With nothing else better to do, he plies his trade when conditions are right. The Eastern Ocean is vast and uncharted; what lies on its other side is anyone’s guess – if indeed, it does not terminate in the edge of the world itself. Bad weather comes from the north; only the unwise venture out in such conditions. In yesteryear, many had attempted to circumnavigate it; none had returned with testimony or conviction. Every so often Rukk would catch some very strange fish indeed; they stoked chatter that the Eastern Ocean, as it ran eastwards was the haunt of monsters. With that in mind and more, Rukk never sails beyond the sight of land. He lives in a small settlement by the sea that was beyond the reach and jurisdiction of Gondor. Being inundated with moonshine and drugs, the settlement – known as New Town - was governed by the law of the knife. Disputes were settled in blood. Rukk’s community was a polygot affair; it boasted men such as himself, Dark Elves, renegade Dwarves and the occasional half-orc. Each kept to his own. No-one asked questions. Even womenfolk held their tongues. Main-Street was lit up by a large lantern which did little to repel shadows. If there is a land’s-end to the world, that is it. To the west, eight hundred miles away, was the Sea of Rhun. The big tribes of Easterlings which occasionally warred with Gondor were found between these two points; Easterlings have no love of the Ocean and yet put distance between their settlements and the resurgent power of Gondor. They were Rukk’s best customers, all via a wholesaler and markets, of course. There was also a mining settlement close to his abode. Strip-mining was in use. Coking coal was its output which eventually made its way to the furnaces of the Lonely Mountain and beyond.

 

On the night in question, Rukk was returning to his jetty. It was low-tide. A full moon kept him company. The fish had eluded him; nets were empty. At such times, he wondered if the effluence of the near-by mine was poisoning the fish of the district – but how was he to prove it, let alone prompt a change in their operations without getting his throat slit? No answer came to mind. Another lean night beckoned. Cursing to himself, he leaped onto the jetty and strode towards landfall. There was sand on either side of the jetty – a beach, in fact. Then he saw it: a jewel, glittering in the moonlight, nested into the sand and stationed just beyond the reach of the waves. Or was it a jewel? Even in the semi-dark, it gave off a light of its own. Without hesitation, Rukk jumped from the jetty and onto the sand. He picked it up and examined it in the moonlight. Where did it come from, he asked himself? It must have been cast up on the sand by high-tide, was the reply. It fitted his hand perfectly. Even in such meagre light, Rukk could tell that it was the handiwork of the highest order. Lest someone else take a liking to it, he scampered inside. Back in his abode, he closed all the curtains before having a closer inspection. What was it? It was not a diamond, nor a ruby, nor a sapphire or something rarer, even if it could have been mistaken for any one of these gemstones or rather, he mused, because it contained elements of their filigree. The gemstone was the size of a small egg in diameter. Rukk was surprised by how much it sparkled away in the lamplight. Then he realised that it had a light of its own - it did not need mere candlelight to blaze as it did. Much to his credit, not once did Rukk estimate its monetary value. It had grown on him. It was a talisman already; he would not part with it, even if the throne of Gondor were on offer. In way of a clean, Rukk rubbed it gingerly against his tunic. Then it happened: for one hundredth of a second, the gemstone shone with the light of a thousand suns. Rukk should have been blinded but something preserved him from this fate. Rather, he was borne aloft in the euphoria of it all. Light is revelation, the gemstone trumpeted. It was over just as soon as it started. The spectacle was not localised to his humble abode; nearby shanties that housed friends and enemies alike were also inundated in this extravaganza of light at its holiest. Those who regained their composure first ran out into the street in amazement, seeking its source and an explanation thereof. Rukk hurriedly pocketed the artefact and then joined in his neighbours in their puzzlement. The secret was his – for the moment.

 

III

As these events were unfolding, Eärnil III sat on the throne as the King of Gondor. He was a direct descendant of Elessar, eleven generations downstream. Young and handsome, he had come to the throne unexpectedly upon the death of his older brother, Crown-Prince Narmacil. Truth be told, kingship bored him. Hale and hearty, he delegated administrative and taxation decisions to the Council while he found new ways to amuse himself and whoever was his fling at the time. Deer-hunts in Dunland with his fellow royals from the House of Eorl were a regular occurrence; the never-ending trinkets from the workshops of the Dwarves were a distraction too. His royal duties coincided with an urge to travel, hence his peregrinations to the four corners of his realm.  From the Ice Bays of Forochel to the quays of Harad, he good-naturedly flew the flag, handing out medals to adoring audiences and assuring them of Gondor’s good-will and openness to trade. Wherever Eärnil III went, he was protected by his Praetorian Guard whose rank and file were just as photogenic as their master. It was an easy gig, they acknowledged to one another, better than serving with the legions in the outer provinces. At the time of writing, King Eärnil had escaped Minas Tirith to spend summer in Annúminas whose proximity to Lake Evendim brought relief from the heat. Every morning, a dossier would be placed at his breakfast table. Emblazoned with the Seal of the Great Council of Gondor, it summarised the events of the day, plans for the week ahead, changes to his itinerary and any communiques from foreign powers or allies. Eärnil was sufficiently conscientious to read it each day, even if anything more than a couple of pages received short shrift from him. On this morning, the monarch was half-way through his breakfast when a valet placed it on the table and made good his escape. The poached eggs demanded to be eaten first. That done, the King turned his attention to the document. Standing nearby was Kwintus, his major-domo. If arrangements were to be made on the back of this daily memo, it was Kwintus’s job to get them actioned.

 

“What have they got for me today?” the King wondered jovially to his trusty adviser. “A trade delegation from the Dwarves? A marriage proposal from the Southrons? A remission of tribute from the Easterlings?” He motioned to a servant to pour him another coffee. “We have not heard from Hobbiton for a while – and its Mayor, no less. How these midgets managed to evade incorporation into the Kingdom of Gondor is a mystery unto itself. They could always find a job as teddy-bears or circus-acts!” Kwintus smiled wanly at this attempted witticism. He then began to read out the communique.

 

“Your Serene Highness, here is your daily update. There is one item that commands your attention. As you know, there are two Palantiri in the possession of Gondor - the one that was originally stationed at Isengard, whereas the other specimen comes from Minas Tirith.”

 

This is a different start to the day, Earnil told himself. He put down his cup of tea.

 

“For reasons that you know,” Kwintus continued, “the latter palantir is mostly unusable. The former, now also located at Minas Tirith, was once watched day and night for the security of the realm. Rather than relying upon our Pony Express of bygone years, this Palantir enabled the King and his Assistants to understand events in the far reaches of Gondor and act on them swiftly. Given the decades of peace, the practice of the Palantir being watched day and night was  gradually discontinued. It was placed in the Museum. Two nights ago, it came to life with a vast outpouring of light – like a gigantic spotlight that punctured the night-sky. It lasted about a minute or so. Nothing was hurt by it. It awoke much of the city. Citizens are demanding answers. As it takes years of training to control the Palantir with one’s mind, no-one in the Museum at the time was able to interrogate the significance of this event – or indeed, its location. Your Highness, we seek your counsel. What are we to do? How are we to reply to your people? This is not going away.”

 

Kwintus paused.

 

“I haven’t looked into the Palantir for many a year,” King  Eärnil confessed to himself. “And even when I did, I could not control it.” He paused and then looked up at his advisor who was reading his straightforward mind.

 

“Your Highness, there are many things in the world that cannot be explained. This could be one of them. Shooting stars are common enough; it could be one of them. Or alternatively, could we not suggest that it was the test of a new weapons-system where under the circumstances, no more detail will be forthcoming? If no-one was watching the Palantir at the time, we have no means of interrogating this event and what it means. It’s probably nothing. We saw nothing in Arnor – and that night, as you might recall, Your Highness, was clear of cloud-cover. With your permission, I’ll leak a story to the press that a new weapons-system is being installed in the Weathertop and a box of magnesium flares were accidently ignited during testing.”

 

The King half-heard this. Trusting his adviser as he did, he shrugged in assent and then turned his attention to the remainder of breakfast. Victory would be his.  

 

 

IV

At the conclusion of the War of the Rings, Barad-dûr collapsed into a massive slag-heap. In its ruination, it resembled a mountain. The foundation of its power and projection had always been the One Ring. Upon the destruction of the latter, it could not sustain the weight of its evil – hence its fate. In its downfall, thousands perished, many of whom were prisoners of Sauron. While the Fortress had been destroyed and rebuilt in the past, this time its fall was beyond redemption. King Elessar banned anyone from visiting its ruins and fenced it off accordingly. Over time, this order was progressively ignored by the nearby inhabitants who mined its ruins for steel, iron and anything with a monetary value. At one point or another, a vault of gold coins was found; emblazoned with the Eye of Sauron, it had been used to fund wars and alliances. This discovery intensified the exhumation. Over time, the enormous slag-heap had been reduced significantly. On any given day, up to one hundred itinerant miners try their luck on the Heap (as they so called it). If bones were found, they’re assumed to belong to Sauron’s prisoners and buried with respect. Orc bodies – and worse – are immolated on a central pyre. Week in, week out, new shafts are sunk to sift valuables from the detritus. It is dangerous work. Not a few of the miners perish in such unsafe conditions where shafts readily collapsed and mini-avalanches are common. Still, the occupation pays better than being a farmer with an allotment of Mordor-grade dust. Deeper and deeper the miners delved into the Heap until one day, one of them – history does not record his name - found something rare, whatever it really was. It was a ball, a glass ball, with a scorch-mark on it that refused to come off, no matter how many times it was scrubbed or plied with cleaner. It was scratched as well on its other sides. In recognition that it might be worth something, the miner placed it beside his water bottle and lunch-box. He resumed his efforts. When he looked backwards, the sphere was gone.