Boom!
The sound rolled across the river valley — like thunder crashing through the mountains, or mighty waves battering cliffs in a storm.
Upon the western bank of the Anduin, a hundred heavy cavalry charged in perfect formation, hooves pounding like war drums. Behind them, a thousand mounted archers followed at full gallop, bows drawn, releasing volley after volley into the ranks of orcs concealed along the river's edge.
"For courage and for glory!"
"For the Kingdom of Eowenría!"
The riders roared as they stormed the riverbank.
The orcish ambush was shattered. Wherever the riders passed, terror followed. Orcs were flung into the air, crushed beneath hooves, or skewered on long lances before they could scream. Their crude formation dissolved into chaos.
Once the heavy cavalry had broken through, the light horsemen swept in like a scythe through wheat, cutting down the stragglers with ruthless efficiency.
The western bank was cleared.
….
Meanwhile, on the eastern shore, the great bear was lost in a frenzy.
With every mighty swipe of its paw, it sent orcs flying like rag dolls. Arrows bounced harmlessly off its fur — nothing short of siege weapons could pierce that hide.
"Aim!"
"Loose!"
On the ships, Elladan issued commands. Elven archers turned their bows to aid the beast. Their silver-tipped arrows struck true, felling the orcs who dared surround the bear.
Soon, the immediate threat had passed.
The great bear reared back and roared. It turned its massive head toward the human riders on the far bank and the five Elven vessels gliding down the Anduin. Then, without a sound, it turned and lumbered back into the wilderness, vanishing like a dream.
….
From the west bank, a voice rang out over the water:
"I am Sigilion, commander of the Royal Heavy Cavalry of Eowenríel, by the order of King Kaen, come to escort the fleet of Lothlórien!"
"It's Kaen's army!" Elrohir's eyes lit up.
Elladan stepped forward and called out in return:
"We are grateful for your timely arrival. By the command of Queen Galadriel, we bring warriors from Lothlórien to aid the northern war and follow the leadership of Lord Kaen."
Sigilion nodded across the river.
"You're still on a day's journey . I shall escort your ships to the city with riders to guard your flanks."
"On behalf of the Elves," Elladan said, bowing his head, "we offer our sincerest thanks."
Thus, with identities confirmed and kinship acknowledged, the ships moved forward under cavalry escort, passing the deadly Old Ford unscathed and continuing upriver toward Kâr-Ran.
….
Evening fell.
The Elven fleet finally reached Carrock.
The ships pulled into the newly constructed docks, and five hundred Lothlórien warriors, led by the Elven princes Elladan and Elrohir, disembarked in glittering order.
Kaen was already waiting, standing with his captains and hosts — even the Dwarves, who had long been wary of Elves, had come to bear witness. There was no enmity in their eyes this day, only solemn respect. For the Elves had come not in rivalry, but in fellowship — to fight for the same dream, to reclaim lost homes.
Elladan and Elrohir approached with courteous smiles. They bowed respectfully before Kaen and Thorin, son of Thrain.
"You must be His Majesty Kaen Eowenríel, and Prince Thorin Oakenshield of the Dwarves. It is an honor."
"We are the sons of Lord Elrond. I am Elladan, and this is my brother Elrohir. By the command of Queen Galadriel, we have come to join the Dragon-slaying Campaign, bringing with us five hundred Elven warriors."
Kaen, seeing the sons of his mentor, offered a warm smile.
"You are most welcome. Given my bond with your father, I should call you 'elder brothers,' though we have never met."
Thorin stepped forward.
"Long ago, our races swore an ancient pact. Today, seeing your arrival, my heart is glad. I thank Rivendell and Lothlórien both, from the depths of my soul."
Despite their youthful appearances, Elladan and Elrohir were born in the early Third Age, and had lived nearly three thousand years. They bore the blood of the Noldor royal line, and the Half-elven heritage of Elrond. In power, they stood nearly equal to Kaen himself.
The warriors they brought were no less mighty — veterans clad in heavy armor, survivors of the Last Alliance who had endured the long years in the enchanted city of Caras Galadhon. They radiated a primal connection to nature and magic, more deeply attuned even than the knights of Rivendell.
Their arrival marked a turning point for the expedition. The host was no longer merely formidable — it was a force fit to carve legends into stone.
…
Night came.
To celebrate the union of the armies, Kaen hosted a great bonfire feast, a celebration to cleanse the dust of travel and kindle new brotherhood.
As wine was poured and stories exchanged, Elladan raised a curious topic:
"Lord Kaen, the bear we saw today — so mighty, so fierce — reminded me of tales from the Misty Mountains. Of the Beornings — a people long thought lost."
Kaen grew thoughtful.
"You guessed true," he said at last. "That bear was a skin-changer, and a tragic soul."
The crowd leaned in.
Kaen began to tell the tale.
"Among the ancient Woodmen of the Vales, there was a lineage said to hold a secret of the old world. Dwelling for generations on the eastern slopes of the Misty Mountains, the men of this line were rumored to possess the power to take the shape of great bears. The origin of this ability is lost to memory, but for it, they were known as skin-changers."
"They lived in deep harmony with the wild, raising bees for honey and keeping company with the beasts of the forest. But fate is seldom kind in the wilderlands."
"Long ago, the shadow from the mountains fell upon them. Orcs, driven by a hatred for all living things, waged a long war against their clans. Though mighty in single combat, the skin-changers and their kin were few, and their enemies were many. They were hunted and tormented until their homes were broken and their people scattered."
"Now, few of that ancient line remain. They live solitary lives, hidden in the deep woods, trusting no one. They are but a whisper in the wind — a half-remembered legend of the Men who could walk as bears."
Kaen's voice grew somber.
"The bear we saw is Beorn — once the mightiest among them. After losing his kin to orcs, he left the Misty Mountains and came to the eastern wilds, settling between Mirkwood and the Old Ford."
"He lives alone now. A shadow of his people. A memory made flesh."
The hall fell silent.
Even Thorin, proud heir of Erebor, and the Elven princes, and Captain Thaliondir of the Noldorin cavalry — all were moved.
They knew this grief.
For the Dwarves, for the Elves… their people too had once blazed like stars. Now, their brilliance had dimmed.
Still noble. Still strong.
But no longer triumphant.
Kaen rose, cup in hand, and broke the melancholy with firm, ringing words:
"Glory begets ruin. And ruin begets new heights. This is the law of the world — none may escape it."
"But we need not mourn endlessly. We shall climb again — higher than ever before."
"Middle-earth does not belong to Men. Nor to Elves. Nor Dwarves. It belongs to all who live, who fight, who dream."
"And I say to you now: we shall write a new history. One brighter than the elder days!"
He raised his goblet high.
"To a glorious future! To our war against the dragon! May each one here become a true Dragonslayer!"
"Hear, hear!"
The feast erupted into cheers.