Rivendell was vast, but the palace complex was relatively concentrated.
Keith, in his nimble squirrel form, spent nearly an hour eavesdropping and darting through balconies until he located the private gardens of the princess, Arwen.
The Evenstar was there, as serene and cold as moonlight, tending to her flowers with a quiet focus. Keith scrambled onto a rosebush and scurried right in front of her. Arwen offered a small, gentle smile but did not drive him away.
Keith stared at her for a long moment, his little black eyes unblinking. She's a beauty, certainly, he thought, but she lacks the fire of Galadriel. There's a "keep away" vibe to her that I don't much care for. "Are you hungry?" Arwen asked, noticing the squirrel's intense stare.
Keith shook his head—a very human gesture—and bolted before she could process what she was seeing.
"Did he... understand me?" Arwen stood paralyzed for a moment, watching the squirrel vanish into the brush with a look of genuine bewilderment.
Elsewhere in the valley, the thirteen Dwarves were "enjoying" a feast prepared by Elrond. "Enjoying" was a generous term; the table was laden with fresh greens, fruits, and lembas bread. There was no meat to be found.
Several of the Dwarves expressed their vocal disgust for the "rabbit food," their complaints echoing loudly off the marble walls. Elrond's stoicism was legendary; he maintained a polite smile as if he were deaf to their insults, continuing his conversation with Gandalf.
Thorin, however, found Elrond's very presence intolerable. Every minute spent in the Elven sanctuary felt like a betrayal of his ancestors. He stood abruptly and stalked away from the table.
Gandalf watched him go, but didn't follow. "My apologies, Lord Elrond," he whispered.
"I have lived for millennia, Gandalf," Elrond replied softly. "I am well acquainted with the stubbornness of Dwarves."
Once the meal concluded, Gandalf turned to his host with a grave expression. "I need to speak with you in private."
They moved to a secluded terrace overlooking the waterfalls. "Gandalf, why so much mystery?" Elrond asked, his curiosity finally piqued.
"Have you ever heard of a sorcery that allows for fluid, multiple shapeshifting?" Gandalf asked, his eyes scanning the shadows for a raven or a squirrel.
"Fluid? I know of dark charms that can warp a form, but to shift between many shapes at will?" Elrond shook his head. "I have heard of no such thing. Not in this Age."
Gandalf recounted everything—the Eagle, the Troll, the Raven. Elrond's expression grew increasingly grim. "Could it be a powerful Druid? Or perhaps an ancient evil from the First Age?"
"A Druid who commands Trolls? Unlikely," Gandalf sighed. "The creature is here, in Rivendell. It may be a squirrel now, or a bird, or the very wind itself. We must seek the aid of the Lady of Light."
"I shall contact her," Elrond promised. "But there is more in your eyes, Gandalf."
Gandalf spoke then of Dol Guldur and the Necromancer. "A sorcerer who summons the dead has taken root in the old fortress. It is a blight that cannot be ignored."
Elrond's head spun. Uninvited Dwarves, a shapeshifting phantom, and now a Necromancer? "Gandalf, you never bring me a simple greeting. Only catastrophes."
Four days passed. The peace of Rivendell was shattered by the Dwarves' boisterous drinking, their loud songs, and their unfortunate habit of using the ornamental fountains as communal bathtubs. The Elven guards were at their wits' end, but Elrond's command was absolute: they were guests.
On the fourth night, the moon reached the correct phase. Elrond led Gandalf and Thorin to the stone altar and deciphered the map: "Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks..."
His mission accomplished, Thorin turned to Gandalf. "We leave at dawn. I hope your business is finished."
"It is not," Gandalf replied. "Galadriel has not yet arrived."
"Then you stay!" Thorin snapped. "We leave tomorrow, with or without you!"
He turned to walk away, but a small squirrel darted onto the stone railing, blocking his path.
"I'm not finished either," the squirrel spoke.
Gandalf's focus locked onto the tiny creature instantly. Thorin, reacting with typical Dwarven arrogance, sneered at the beast. "What are you? You think a rodent tells a King when to move?"
"Hmph," Keith's voice rang out, cold and mocking. "I find you singularly tiresome, 'King.' So let me be clear: if you thirteen Dwarves leave this valley tomorrow, I will kill the other twelve, one by one, before you reach the first mountain pass."
The air went cold. Thorin's hand flew to his sword, and he lunged at the squirrel.
"Too slow, fool," Keith mocked, vanishing into the trees with a flicker of grey fur.
Thorin turned to Gandalf, his face red with fury. "What was that? What devilry is haunting us?"
"A question I am desperate to answer," Gandalf replied, his voice heavy. "But whatever it is, believe its threat. You stay until I know who is watching us."
The following morning, the sun had barely crested the peaks when Elrond escorted Gandalf to the high council terrace. Saruman the White was already seated at the stone table, his expression one of bored superiority.
"Gandalf," Saruman remarked dryly. "Still rushing about the world, playing the meddler."
Gandalf bowed respectfully. "Saruman. It has been too long."
A few moments later, Lady Galadriel appeared. She walked onto the terrace alone, her presence so luminous and ancient that even the stone seemed to glow in her wake. Elrond, Gandalf, and Saruman rose as one to show their respect.
She was the Queen of the Eldar, the Lady of the Wood, and for the first time since Keith had arrived in this world, he felt a genuine chill of apprehension. The game was no longer with "Trolls" and "Dwarves." He was now in the presence of the true powers of Middle-earth.