The Undecided Title Of Sara Miller *Hobbit Fanfiction* (Thorin/OC)

Chapter 21: Council and Escape

"Does it not worry you that the last of the dwarf rings should simply vanish, along with its barer," asserted Gandalf. "We know what happened to all save one, but the fate of the last dwarf ring remains unknown. The ring that was worn by Thrain."

Saruman shook his head. "Without the ring of power, the seven are of no value to the enemy. To control the other rings he needs the One Ring, and that was lost long ago."

"But lost things can be found," said Sara.

"Must you interrupt so?" asked Saruman, scowling at her. "Keep quiet if you must remain. What wisdom could you have that this council does not." It was silent as Sara sat back in her chair, arms folded protectively over her chest.

"Let her speak as she will," said Galadriel softly. "She may know more than you think."

"Gandalf, for over four hundred years we have lived in peace. A hard-won watchful peace," said Elrond, striving to move the conversation away from Sara.

"Are we? Are we at peace?" countered Gandalf. "Trolls have come down from the mountains and are raiding villages and farms. Orcs have attacked us on the road."

"Hardly a prelude to war."

"Always you must meddle so," chided Saruman. "Looking for trouble where none exists."

"I would say that getting captured and almost eaten by trolls and hunted by Orcs is plenty of trouble. The farmers and villages they killed and ate would hardly call it peace. Would you?" asked Sara. She was uncomfortable with the way that Saruman strove to undo all of Gandalf's concerns. Concerns that to her were beyond valid.

"There's something at work beyond the evil of Smaug; something far more powerful," said Gandalf, lacing his fingers together and surveying the others before continuing. "We can remain blind to it but it will not be ignoring us, that I promise you. A sickness lies over the Greenwood. The woodsman who live there now call it Mirkwood and they say..." But Gandalf paused.

"Well?" pressed Saruman, goading him. "Don't stop now. Tell us, what do the woodsman say?"

"They speak of a necromancer living in Dol Guldur; a sorcerer who can summon the dead."

"That's absurd," scoffed Saruman. "No such power exists in Middle Earth. This necromancer is nothing more than a mortal man, a conjurer dabbling in black magic."

"Sounds like pretty black magic," said Sara. "And whose is to say that power does not exist? Do you know the full extent of Sauron's power for yourself? Can you say for sure he does not possess that strength, now or ever?" Gandalf reached out and patted her hand to stay her.

"I also suspected that at first but Radagast has seen..."

"Radagast!" snapped the white wizard. "Do not speak to me of Radagast the Brown. He is a foolish fellow. Why Lady Yavanna insisted I bring him I will never understand. He is witless and consumes far too many mushrooms" Gandalf and Lady Galadriel shared a look and Gandalf pulled the same wrapped blade which Radigast had given him from his robes. He placed it on the table as a chill breeze wafted past sending a shiver down Sara's spine.

"What is that?" questioned Elrond coming closer to examine it, his hand outstretched.

"A relic," said Galadriel sharply. "Of Mordor!" Elrond pulled his hand away slightly but then reached forward and uncovered the dark blade. Saruman frowned at the object on the table.

"A Morgul blade," breathed Elrond in dark reverence.

"Made for the Witch King of Angmar," said Galadriel, stepping closer. "And buried with him," she added hesitantly. Sara recalled the witch-king from the Lord of the Rings. His death at the hands of Eowyn had been one of her favorite parts of the stories. What was his blade doing here? The same type of blade that would someday stab Frodo.