- - -
Before the watching eyes of the company, the figure of Artemis—still wrapped in Kaen's embrace—began to dissolve into a pure, shimmering radiance.
High above, the light gathered into the shape of a great white bird. It gave a single, ringing cry, then wheeled away toward the west, with a host of white-winged followers trailing in its wake.
Kaen heard her voice in his mind, as clear as if she whispered beside his ear:
"I shall carry these countless birds to your realm. If ever you need me, speak my name in thought, and I shall come."
He allowed himself a faint smile.
With Glorfindel before, and now Artemis, he had earned the favour of two beings of the demi-divine.
In Middle-earth, that was as good as having an unassailable fortress of influence.
Even Sauron himself, were he to harbour malice, would have to weigh carefully whether he could endure the wrath of two such powers.
For though the Dark Lord was a high Maia—near the pinnacle of that rank—he was now bodiless, his might greatly diminished, little more than a shadow stronger than an ordinary Maia.
…
Upon the winding road that led from the Misty Mountains down toward the vale of the Anduin, Kaen told the company the tale of Artemis.
It left them wide-eyed.
"So, Your Majesty Kaen, you are under the protection of a god? And that towering woman of at least two and a half metres—she was a Maia?"
"Aye," Kaen nodded. "Her name is Artemis. She is now the guardian of Eowenría l… and my guardian as well."
"By Durin's beard!" one dwarf exclaimed. "To be a mortal under the shelter of a Maia!"
Thorin spoke gravely:
"In our people's lore, the Maiar are the servants and children of the Great Valar. Some are mighty beyond reckoning, others are deep in wisdom—like Aulë the Maker, lord of craft and earth. His Maiar are gifted in skill and art beyond compare."
Kaen smiled politely at this, though inwardly he could not help but think:
Aulë, the most unfortunate of the Valar.
The disciples he raised were each and every one a master of trouble.
Sauron? Aulë's Maia.
Saruman the White? Another of Aulë's.
Even Fëanor—maker of the Silmarils whose forging had set the First Age aflame—owed his craft, in no small part, to Aulë's teaching.
The Dwarves themselves, whom Aulë had shaped, spent their days gaining wealth or losing it—to Balrogs, to cold-drakes, to fire-drakes… the cycle never ceased.
Yes, Aulë was revered as the Smith, Lord of the Earth, the unsurpassed Master of Craft—
—but those who inherited the very pinnacle of his skill were all too often driven into obsession, and from obsession into ruin.
Such was the philosophy of Middle-earth: if you cannot master knowledge and desire, you will be mastered by them.
…
The Great River Anduin—northward from the lands of the Éothéod, southward to the Bay of Belfalas in Gondor.
To its west in the upper reaches rose the Misty Mountains; to its east lay the darkened Greenwood.
Its middle course passed the Golden Wood and the Riddermark.
In the south it flowed past Gondor and the shadow of Mordor, before emptying into the Sea.
Four Hundred leagues from source to mouth, it was the longest and most bountiful river in all the lands.
Its upper valley was lined with forests, vales, and broad plains. The soil was rich; the game was plentiful.
Long ago, before the Eldar sailed west to Aman, some of them—daunted by the high walls of the Misty Mountains—remained here, becoming the Nandor.
They mingled with the Avari who refused the Westward journey, and in time their descendants were known as the Silvan Elves.
Durin the Deathless himself had come down from Gundabad in the north to found Khazad-dûm further south along the river's course.
Even the Hobbits had once settled here, in the marshes of the Gladden Fields—where Isildur, King of the Dúnedain, had met his death.
There, the One Ring had been lost… until a hobbit named Sméagol found it, and became Gollum.
Now, the vale was home to over a hundred thousand—hillfolk, Avari, Silvan Elves, and Beornings, those skin-changers who could take the shape of mighty bears.
None owed fealty to any great realm; they lived in tribes, sustained by hunting, gathering, and simple farming.
….
Two days' march brought the company from the mountains to the river's edge.
Thorin, consulting his map, said:
"We should press on, cross that ridge ahead, and reach the Old Ford—it is the only crossing in the upper river."
"No," Kaen corrected, pointing at the map. "The bridge there is long gone. When we crest that ridge, we head upstream another day to Carrock. It is autumn—the snows at the river's source have lessened, the waters run lower. We can cross there, and take on supplies from the hillfolk."
Thorin blinked.
"You seem to know this land well."
"I do," Kaen said. "Before I founded my kingdom, I hunted trolls and orcs here. I forged strong ties with both the hillfolk and the elves of this vale."
The company murmured in understanding.
As they went, Kaen told them of his past—how he had come to the valley, grown in strength, and become guardian of the monster-hunting grounds in its upper reaches.
Bilbo listened as though spellbound.
"Your Majesty Kaen, I shall write your tale—along with this journey of ours—and see it told across the Shire!"
Kaen smirked.
"Then I wish you swift success as a hobbit scholar. Just remember to send me a share of the royalties."
….
They crossed the high ridge and saw the Anduin spread before them—broad and gleaming, its autumn banks heavy with colour.
Unlike the mist-bound mountains behind them, this place seemed another world: forests, golden groves, valleys, plains… and in the trees, fruit hung ripe for the taking.
From the summit they could see, far to the north-east, beyond the vale's border, a vast forest—and beyond it, a solitary peak.
"Erebor," someone breathed.
Durin's folk stared at the Lonely Mountain, tears bright in their eyes.
Thorin's nephews, Fíli and Kíli, gazed upon it with longing—they had never seen the kingdom, only heard of it in their elders' tales.
Following Kaen's route, they came to the site of the Old Ford—once built in the Second Age by the armies of the Last Alliance. But the bridge had been gone for decades, washed away by the floodwaters.
Here the river was narrow, but heavy autumn rains made it swift and perilous. Crossing was impossible.
So they turned north along the bank, the land opening wide, the current slowing as the channel broadened.
A day later they reached their goal: Carrock.
It rose from the middle of the river, a stone hill that split the waters and gentled the flow.
Upon it stood several figures. One hailed them:
"Strangers! If you seek boats to cross, give us your names!"
Kaen stepped forward, voice ringing over the water:
"I am Kaen Eowenríel—once guardian of this vale, hunter of monsters!"