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"Welcome to our city, Kaen Eowenríel. You and your companions are the first mortals in nearly a thousand years to set foot within these halls."
When Lady Galadriel spoke these words, Kaen did not doubt her.
Caras Galadhon, the City of a Thousand Trees, was not of the mortal world—it was a dream, a memory of Valinor preserved by song and will. Even Aragorn himself, in the original tale, had required the Lady's blessing to enter here.
Yet Kaen was no mortal wanderer. He was the High King of Eowenría, a ruler whose light now rivaled the Maiar themselves.
For him, the laws of Elvendom bent in reverence, not in pride.
Smiling, Kaen replied, "The journey through your woods was a wonder in itself. Your people are kind, your land sacred, and the air here feels as though it remembers the dawn of the world."
Celeborn inclined his silver head. "It pleases us that the Lord of the North finds beauty in our realm. As honored guests of Lothlórien, we have prepared a feast for you. Come—let us ascend to the high palace among the branches."
Kaen nodded with grace. "My thanks, Lord Celeborn. After long days of travel, I would indeed welcome fine food and fair company."
For the five hundred of the Golden Armored Guards, lodgings had already been arranged by the wardens of the Wood. But Kaen, Cathril, Artemis, and Gandalf were led upward with their hosts.
They ascended the winding paths that coiled around the mighty mallorn trees. Galadriel and Celeborn themselves walked beside Kaen, their voices soft as flowing water as they described the city's wonders.
To preserve the sanctity of the forest, no trees were felled here. Roads and bridges hung suspended in the air, woven of living wood and vine. Each mallorn bore its own platform—crafted with artistry that bound beauty to strength. Upon them were tables and chairs of delicate carving, embroidered silks, and silver lamps that glowed like captured moonlight.
Among the heights were aerial gardens, markets floating between boughs, and hidden terraces where scholars, weavers, and singers plied their trades.
Step by step they rose, until at last they reached the summit—the crown of the greatest tree in all Caras Galadhon. There the branches stretched wide, cradling a grand hall built of living wood and light.
This was the dwelling of Galadriel and Celeborn, the very heart of Lothlórien, from which one could behold the golden forest stretching like a sea of light.
Kaen felt a strange familiarity—as though this place mirrored his own White Palace in Eowenría, where he, too, could gaze upon the lands of his people.
For all kings of Middle-earth, whether mortal or immortal, their thrones stood high—between earth and sky, where solitude meets eternity.
Before the palace lay a table adorned with crystal vessels, silver flagons, and fruits of shimmering hue. Half the dishes, Kaen noted, were made in the manner of Men—seasoned, spiced, and warm—prepared with thoughtful care for their human guests.
As they took their seats, fair Elven maidens moved among them with harps in hand, weaving music like starlight into the air.
The feast began.
Kaen and the Elven rulers spoke freely, shedding for a while the burdens of crown and title. They conversed as kindred spirits, not as monarchs—teacher and student, elder and youth, friends across the ages. Even Gandalf's laughter, deep and warm, joined the melody of their talk.
Cathril sat close by Kaen's side, and when Galadriel's keen gaze turned upon her, the Lady smiled faintly. "So," she said, voice soft but piercing, "it seems the High King of the North is not untouched by the charms of love."
Kaen did not flinch. He clasped Cathril's hand openly, his tone calm and clear.
"If one woman loves me, and I her, then I shall cherish her all my life. But if many hearts turn toward me, and I cannot wound one to soothe another, then I will strive to honor them all. I claim no perfection—I am no sainted king. Yet I believe love should not divide the soul, but multiply its grace."
The words fell gently into silence, and even Galadriel's bright eyes softened. Celeborn smiled faintly. Gandalf chuckled under his breath.
Kaen's candor was his strength; he never veiled his nature. Unlike the kings of Men who hid behind virtue while drowning in hypocrisy, Kaen's truth shone unclouded—human, flawed, but radiant.
The feast waned. Golden platters were cleared, replaced with fine crystal cups and fragrant tea. Sunlight poured through the canopy above, broken by the whispering of the wind among leaves.
Peace lay over them like a blessing.
Then, at last, Galadriel spoke again.
"Kaen," she said softly, "know that your welcome here was sincere. Yet you must have guessed—our invitation was not for mere hospitality."
Kaen's eyes met hers, golden and steady. "I had suspected as much."
She inclined her head. "Then let me speak plainly, for time and twilight wait for no one. Kaen Eowenríel, King of Eowenría, High King of the Caladhîn Elves—young, yet already mighty beyond measure—we would ask of you a thing no mortal or immortal has done since the First Age."
Her voice lowered, echoing faintly through the leaves.
"We ask you to join us… in saving the Elves of Middle-earth."
The words fell like a stone into still water.
Even Gandalf and Artemis looked up sharply. Cathril froze, disbelief shadowing her face.
Arwen and her brothers exchanged glances, silent with wonder.
Kaen had half expected Galadriel might request a fragment of his light, as Thranduil once had. That, he would have gladly granted. But this—
"To save the Elves?" Kaen repeated slowly. "You mean… me?"
"Yes," said Galadriel.
At last Elrond, who had sat silent until now, spoke. His deep voice carried the weariness of ages.
"Before you rose to power, Kaen, I sensed a radiance about you—something I had only ever read of in the oldest scrolls. It is not merely holy—it is antithetical to evil. It consumes shadow as the dawn consumes the night."
He folded his hands. "I searched our lore and found record of such light only in the Elder Days—in the Two Trees of Valinor, Telperion and Laurelin. Their mingled glow once gave life to all that was fair and good. From their light came even the Sun and Moon, but those are but echoes, reflections of what was lost."
Galadriel's eyes gleamed with that same light. "Those Trees are gone forever. Their radiance was sundered from the world. But when you appeared, Kaen, bearing both silver and gold in your soul, we felt the echo of the Trees reborn."
She leaned forward, her voice trembling with rare emotion. "Your light may yet restore what has been fading since the First Age. You may be the last hope for our kind."
A long silence fell.
Kaen's brow furrowed. "Then tell me—what is it that truly ails the Elves of Middle-earth?"
Galadriel closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, sorrow lay behind their timeless glow.
"It is not the Elves themselves, but the Elves who remain," she said. "Those bound to Middle-earth have begun to wither. The light of Aman no longer reaches us here. The Sea calls louder each year, and soon none of our kind will endure upon these shores…"
And thus, beneath the golden boughs of Caras Galadhon, the Lady of Light began to reveal a secret long veiled—a truth that might yet decide the fate of all Elves who had not yet sailed into the West.
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