4. The White Council
T. A. 2463, Lothlorien
Celeborn considered the makeup of the Council. Two Maiar, three Ringbearers, the reborn Glorfindel - and himself. There were to be eight Members, with five votes needed to decide policies, so one had yet to be added. The nomination of the final member was his to make, but the others could reject it.
Of those who both had the lineage necessary to sit on the Council and were worth considering, the only ones whose whereabouts were certain were Thranduil and Erestor. There were a few others like Gildor who had the lineage, but to put it kindly, Eru had not favored them with the greatest of mental faculties.
"You would not consider Thranduil? He is, after all, the only King among us," the silver-haired lord proposed.
All except Cirdan shook their heads. This was to be a council of the Wise, and the implicit vote on whether Thranduil was wise was five to two against him.
With the current seven, in matters where the interests of the Quendi of Ennor conflicted with 'the greater good', Celeborn knew well that he would on occasion have as many as six votes against him. The Istari would not favor the Elves. Glorfindel seemed practically a Maia, and one could never be sure where his mind truly rested. Elrond had strange ideas based on some unpronounceable, foreign word, self-abne-something, and no longer resembled Gil-galad's herald. Cirdan would usually side with Celeborn, but in matters of great import, might be too easily swayed by Ulmo and Ossë. And his own wife, alas, would cast away all for the chance to return to Valinor.
Though Celeborn had hated Erestor for two Ages, at least the latter could be counted on to favor the Quendi, so at the worst, he would have one ally. Associating that word with the heart-son of Curufin was a strange irony, but as his beloved was wont to say, the world was changing.
So, the words came evenly. "Then I nominate Erestor." Heads nodded, and it was done.
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