In the heart of a golden wheat field, three companies met at the crossroads where the wind carried the scent of harvest.
"Oh, Kaen! By Durin's beard, we've long awaited your return!"
Thorin Oakenshield dismounted from his sturdy mountain pony, his braids gleaming in the sunlight, his laughter rumbling deep as stone. He strode forward with genuine joy lighting his face and gave a respectful bow.
Bard too stepped up, smiling with that steady warmth of the North. "When word came that you were coming, my friend, we were overjoyed. We've made all preparations to welcome you."
Kaen inclined his head, returning their greeting with quiet dignity. "And I am no less glad to see you both again—my brothers, my comrades-in-arms."
Then he turned, gesturing toward his companions. "You know the great wizard—Saruman the White. He once fought beside us upon these very fields."
"And this," he said, his voice softening as he turned to the maiden beside him, "is the Lady Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Lord Elrond—Princess of the Morning Star."
The kings and their retinues bowed with reverence. Arwen returned the gesture with a serene smile that seemed to bring light even to the weary earth beneath their feet. Together, they dismounted and walked through the rippling fields of gold, the same plains that had once known the thunder of war.
...
"The North grows prosperous," said Bard, his eyes scanning the horizon where villages rose along the River Running. "We trade with every tribe and settlement along its banks. Our merchants reach even unto Dorwinion now."
Thorin nodded, his deep voice echoing like a hammer upon an anvil. "My cousin Dáin has been of great aid to us. The forges of the Iron Hills send us iron and steel of the finest kind. Within Erebor we've opened new veins, rich with silver and gems. Our coffers are swelling once more."
Kaen breathed deeply, gazing over the ripened wheat, the laughter of distant farmers floating upon the wind. "To see this land reborn fills my heart with pride. Once it was a field of death, and now, life sings here again. If the fallen could see this peace, they would rest easy."
Before entering Dale, they first came to the monument upon the River Running, a stone of three crowns, carved in honor of Elves, Dwarves, and Men who had fallen together in the war. Standing before it, Kaen and the others bowed solemnly.
"May peace ever dwell here," Kaen intoned. "May the darkness be banished forever. May the souls of the fallen find rest, and may the living walk in the light."
The prayer carried upon the wind, heavy with meaning. Every soul present knew that war, in time, always returns, but still they chose to believe in hope. For hope was the might of free peoples, and the flame that defied the shadow.
...
When they entered the city of Dale, music rose to meet them. Sweet, ringing voices filled the streets as the townsfolk sang the Song of Kaen.
"He is the sun that melts the frost,
He ended the rule of the dark,
He crowned the kings of the new realm,
And raised again their banners bright,
Kaen Eowenríel, the great king of the North!"
Bard smiled, pride glimmering in his eyes. "This song was written three years ago, by the people of Dale, to honor you and the day you freed them."
As they approached the royal palace, Bard's daughter, Sigrid, awaited them. At her side stood her daughter Tilda, graceful and fair.
The queen led her children forward. Together they bore wreaths woven from golden wheat stalks, each one gilded and shining in the afternoon sun.
"Great King Kaen," said Princess Sigrid, her voice clear as a bell, "and Lady Arwen of Lothlórien, and Master Saruman the Wise, we present to you these wreaths, symbols of peace and hope eternal."
Kaen and his companions bowed, accepting the honor. The golden wreaths gleamed like sunlight captured in form, wrought from the finest grain chosen from the vast fields of Dale. To receive them was to receive the highest grace of Bard's realm.
As the wreaths were placed upon their heads, the crowd erupted in cheers. The ever-blooming flowers of Wingum, white petals that did not fade even in frost, were cast high into the air, drifting down like snow.
It was a day of triumph, of joy—and of remembrance.
For this very day marked not only Kaen's arrival, but also the anniversary of Bard's coronation. Thus was born the Golden Sheaf Festival, Dale's greatest celebration.
...
Kaen, Arwen, and Saruman remained in Dale for a month. They took part in the harvest, walked among the people, and feasted beneath starlit skies. Before their departure, they presented to the kingdom a wondrous gift—one that would forever bless the valley.
A crystal of purest clarity, born from the weaving of three great powers. They called it the Heart of Winterlight.
It was wrought through half a month's labor by the combined craft of Kaen, Arwen, and Saruman. Within its depths swirled ancient magic—it could purify corruption, draw forth elemental energy, and bless the soil with abundance.
It was placed atop the high tower where Kaen once fought in the dragon's shadow, now rebuilt in splendor. From that day forth, the Heart of Winterlight shone over the city, protecting Dale and ensuring that its people would never again know famine or fear.
When the time came to part, the people wept openly. Yet Kaen only smiled, his eyes warm. "Peace must live by movement," he said softly. "Let it flow, as the river flows."
...
The company journeyed next toward the Lonely Mountain.
At the first echo of their arrival, the deep, resonant horns of the Dwarves rolled across the valley like thunder. From the gates of Erebor poured ranks of heavy-armored soldiers, their polished helms and axes glittering under the morning light. A carpet of red and gold had been laid across the road that led to the mountain's heart.
Among those who came forth were the heroes of the old campaign—those who had once journeyed with Thorin to reclaim Erebor. Save for Balin, who had long since sailed westward to the Blue Mountains, all others were there.
Thorin himself stepped forward, his beard braided with silver, his eyes proud. "Kaen, my truest brother!" he cried. "Welcome to my kingdom."
At his sides stood Fíli and Kíli, the twin princes of Durin's line, who bowed low.
Kaen smiled. "I look forward to seeing what marvel you have wrought within these halls, old friend."
"Then allow me to be your guide," said Thorin with a grin. "Let me show you the glory of Erebor restored."
...
They entered the great gates of the Lonely Mountain.
Unlike the woodland halls of the Elves, the Dwarves' realm was no mere palace, it was a city beneath the earth, vast and alive with the hum of craft and fire.
The gates themselves rose higher than any tower of Men—two colossal doors of burnished bronze, carved with the sigil of Durin's House. When touched by the rightful bloodline, the carvings glowed red like living flame, and the gates opened to reveal the wonders within.
Inside lay three successive passageways, their walls inlaid with luminous fluorite that changed color with the seasons—warm orange in winter, cool blue in summer. These served as both light and warning, a beauty with purpose.
At their end stood the Hall of Echoes, where every whisper was magnified tenfold by runic enchantment. Here, dwarven sentinels stood ever watchful; even the scurry of a mouse could not go unnoticed.
Beyond the hall lay seven paths—six false, ending in traps of rolling stone, and one true, marked by the Rune of Durin's Hammer. This single path led to the heart of the mountain: the Golden Dome Hall.
The hall soared fifty fathoms high. Its domed ceiling was hewn from obsidian and set with tens of thousands of gems, forming the constellations of the northern sky.
At the center stood a vast chandelier, blazing with crystals of living fire. Its light projected a shifting map of the surrounding mountains—rivers, mines, and settlements all etched in flame.
Beneath it rose a statue twenty fathoms tall: Durin the First, King of the Dwarves, hammer in hand, its head turned toward the door. Around the statue's base stood twelve great tables, each carved with the sigil of a noble house. These were the Twelve companions of Thorin—the very people that had once followed Thorin on his quest.
They passed the forges, the treasure vaults, the living quarters—an entire kingdom hewn from stone and lit by fire. It was so vast that even days of walking would not show all its splendor.
The dwarves had channeled the underground river that birthed the River Running, crafting canals and vessels to carry goods through the depths. Their ingenuity was boundless.
Kaen marveled at every turn. "It is magnificent," he said in awe.
Thorin's eyes gleamed with pride. "Our numbers are fewer than fifty thousand now," he said. "But when Balin returns from the Blue Mountains with our kin, Erebor shall once again shine as it did in the days of Durin."
But even as he spoke, the ground trembled faintly beneath their feet. A moment later, a dwarf soldier came running into the hall, breathless.
"My king! A collapse—one of the new mines has fallen in!"
Thorin's face hardened. "By the Forge…"
He turned to Kaen swiftly. "Forgive me, brother, I must see to this at once. Fíli, Kíli—guide our guests through the mountain. Show them all that remains to be seen."
Without another word, Thorin strode away, his cloak sweeping like a storm behind him.
Kaen watched him go, then turned to the two princes. "I take it you both know more of this matter?"
Fíli sighed, glancing at his brother. "Aye... it's the new vein," he said quietly. "It runs deep, too deep perhaps. Let us tell you how it came to be…"
And as they began to speak, the echo of their voices mingled with the deep rumble of the mountain—ancient, restless, and alive.