[500 powerstones bonus chapter]
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The road home was long, and though the way was known to them now, it was no swifter for that.
Kaen's company retraced the path they had come, through Erebor's shadowed halls, the bustling markets of Dale, the silver-lit groves of Thranduil's realm, lingering briefly in each.
Three full months passed before the towers of Tusgar rose before them once more.
The northern lands of the Continent had changed beyond recognition. Prosperity had spread like sunrise across the mountains and plains. Darkness, long driven into the cracks of the world, lay quiet beneath the weight of peace.
...
In Tusgar, Saruman came to Kaen with a look both wistful and resolute. "Once," said the White Wizard, "I believed only power—true, terrible power—could stand against the dark. But you have shown me something greater: that it is strength of peoples, not might of sorcery, that defies the shadow."
He smiled faintly. "I once took pride in my knowledge, in being wiser than those around me. Yet journeying beside you, I have learned that wisdom unshared is no wisdom at all. Knowledge serves only when it uplifts the living."
He paused, looking toward the horizon. "Farewell, young and noble King of the North. Perhaps one day I shall leave Isengard's tower behind and come to dwell within your realm….if, when that day comes, you will not scorn me for it."
Kaen inclined his head in a deep bow, smiling softly. "Lord Saruman, wisdom is a circle. The more of it one gathers, the more one perceives its vastness—and feels small, uncertain, and lost within it. Pride breeds blindness. Only learning, only doing, can lead us to truth. Knowledge without deed is shadow."
Their bond was a strange one, neither master nor student, not quite equals, but two mirrors reflecting one another's strength and flaws. They never sought to surpass one another, only to understand. And through that understanding, both grew.
Kaen watched as Saruman departed down the long white road, his cloak trailing like a shred of mist in the dawn.
...
He remained in Tusgar for several days before setting forth again with Arwen beside him.
The High Pass had been rebuilt—its stone road widened, its battlements restored. Beneath the silver light of the Sacred Tree, snow and wind glittered like falling stars. High upon the cliffs, the Great Eagles had made their nests once more. Where orcs once raised their foul strongholds, Rivendell's Noldor warriors now kept watch.
When Kaen and Arwen arrived, the elves saluted them with reverence. To them, Kaen was not merely a king of men, but a hero of their kind—a bridge between ages. They tarried three days there, climbing the peaks to meet Glorfindel, guardian of the Silver Tree. Beneath its shining boughs, they spoke at length before parting.
Ten days later, they crossed the Misty Mountains and came again to Rivendell.
...
The valley shimmered with new life. Under the light of the Silver Tree, the gardens glowed as though spring itself dwelled there forever. The Elves of Imladris, blessed by its radiance, seemed fairer and brighter than before.
Lord Elrond greeted Kaen warmly and shared news that brought light to his eyes: that hundreds of elven children had been born in recent months. The long decline of their race had slowed—the Eldar were awakening again.
And across Middle-earth, the same was true. Four Trees now stood rooted in the world:
The Blue Tree in Lothlórien, the Silver Tree atop the High Pass, the Green Tree in Mirkwood's heart, and the White Tree in Lindon by the sea—all thriving, all bearing hope.
Only the Golden Tree remained, yet slumbering—awaiting Kaen to awaken it when Gandalf returned with its seed to Elarothiel.
...
Arwen chose to remain in Rivendell beside her father, while Kaen, after taking leave of Elrond, journeyed onward with his guard.
A year and more had passed since he had left his homeland. Through battles and journeys, through creation and counsel, his legend had grown.
When at last he returned to his kingdom, there were no flowers, no festivals, no parades. He had sent word in advance that there would be none. He wanted peace, not pomp.
...
The first thing he did upon his return was convene the Royal Council. From population to army, from economy to governance and diplomacy, he sought to know the pulse of his realm.
Population: over eight hundred thousand souls now called Eowenríel home.
Administration: the structure of the kingdom was sound, its laws just, its officials seasoned and efficient. Talent thrived everywhere.
Military:Their numbers had swelled in all this time, four composite legions, two heavy armored war divisions, and one elite infantry regiment, supported by five thousand royal guards and ten thousand Caladhîn elves—forty thousand trained soldiers in all, each drilled to perfection. Beyond them, reserve levies could swell the host if need arose.
Economy: trade flourished. Eowenríel exported crafts, metalwork, enchanted goods, and fine grain to the western lands. The royal treasury overflowed, its gold counted not by chests, but by vaults.
Diplomacy: the ministry's efforts had borne fruit. The lords of the western continent had established embassies; Rohan and Gondor themselves had sent envoys; even Lindon, far to the west beyond the Blue Mountains, had dispatched elven delegates to form bonds of friendship.
...
Thus, Eowenríel stood proudly as the foremost realm of the North—spanning east to west, uniting men, elves, and dwarves under a single banner. No kingdom dared dismiss it now, for the name Kaen Eowenríel had become a living legend.
He was hailed as the Savior of the North, the Elf-king among Men, the Teacher of Dwarven Kings—titles granted to him by the free peoples themselves.
For half a month, Kaen reviewed the workings of his kingdom, and when all was in order, he set the date for a great event: the Awakening of the Golden Tree.
He instructed his minister of foreign affairs, Will, to send invitations to every ally and realm across Middle-earth. On that day, the Kingdom of Eowenríel would hold a grand ceremony—its formal emergence as a great power upon the northern stage.
...
Yet far to the East, beneath blackened skies, another power stirred.
Atop the obsidian spire of Barad-dûr, the Eye of Sauron blazed—its crimson flame casting dread over the plain of Gorgoroth.
Before it knelt Khamûl, the Ringwraith of the East. His voice was low and fearful. "The Elves, my lord, with aid from the wizards and the king of Eowenríel, have forged sacred trees. Their light devours shadow. The power of the Three Rings wanes, for they no longer need them—their strength now grows on its own."
From the tower's heights came a voice, hoarse and cold as iron scraping stone. "And the North?"
"Not well, my master," Khamûl answered. "The Witch-king only just returned to Gundabad, his armies broken by the assault of Eowenríel. The cold-drakes of the Grey Mountains refuse our call. The orc-kingdoms of the Ettenmoors and northern Misty Mountains believe our cause lost—they grow defiant."
Silence reigned. Then, with a slow groan of stone and fire, the gates of Barad-dûr swung open.
From the black halls emerged five figures—hooded in ash-grey robes, their faces hidden, their presence heavy with corruption.
"These," said Sauron, "are my dark priests. They shall awaken the power of Morgoth beneath the earth and breed soldiers stronger than any born since the First Age."
The Eye flared like a sun of ruin.
"Take them north," commanded the Dark Lord. "Go to the Witch-king. My will is this—
Rebuild the Kingdom of Darkness.
And burn Eowenríel to the ground."