The Third Age came to rest in the year 2945.
And with its passing, Middle-earth drew its first breath of a dawning age.
For the birth of the Elven Sacred Trees and the Rune Cores had rekindled hope in both Elves and Dwarves—hope that had not glimmered since the elder days.
And now, word had spread across the lands: the final Sacred Tree, the Golden Tree, Auricálen, was soon to be awakened.
From every corner of the world, lords, kings, and emissaries journeyed through snow and storm, answering the invitation sent from Eowenríel.
They came not merely to pay homage, but to witness a miracle.
...
It was a gathering like none since the Elder Days.
Men, Elves, and Dwarves assembled beneath one sky, the greatest of their kind united in peace.
From the race of Men:
Hundreds of western lords crossed the seas and plains; King Bard of Dale himself rode from the East; from the South came the diplomat Cenric of Rohan; and from mighty Gondor, Steward Turgon sent his son, Ecthelion, bright-eyed and sharp of mind—to stand in his stead,with his young 15 year old son Denethor.
From the Elves:
There came Galadriel of Lothlórien, Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, and Lord Elrond of Rivendell. Even Círdan the Shipwright, who seldom left the harbors of Lindon, set aside his ancient duties to behold the birth of the final Tree.
From the Dwarves:
Of the Seven Clans, four kings arrived in person, while others sent their heirs bearing gifts and vows of loyalty.
And thus all the free peoples of Middle-earth converged upon Eowenríel before the first day of spring—braving the last gales of the northern winter to behold the dawn of a new era.
…
The visitors were astonished by what they saw.
Under Kaen's light, the winds and snow of the North had softened. The air itself seemed gentler, as though blessed by unseen grace.
The lands were rich, the towns prosperous. No beggar starved in the streets. No smoke of war darkened the sky. Pain and hunger seemed like foreign dreams here.
To all who beheld it, Eowenríal was no mere kingdom—it was a living paradise.
And within its heart dwelled the Caladhîn Elves, now ascended to a high order among their kind. Their hair shone with pale golden light, their eyes bright with Kaen's blessing. Their very spirits resonated like the music of the Valar.
The people of Eowenría, too, had changed. Their gaze clear and proud, their stature tall and noble. Yet their skin bore the golden hue of harvest fields—sun-warmed, alive, radiant.
When young Denethor saw them, he was astonished.
Though but a youth, he possessed the insight that would one day mark him among men.
Through whispered questions, he learned the truth: that Kaen's divine radiance had transformed his people, elevating them from mortal men into a race of strength and grace akin to the ancient Númenóreans.
It was a revelation that left him both awed and fearful.
What kind of power could reshape humanity itself,and yet leave it pure, uncorrupted?
...
Kaen received his guests with courtesy, hosting grand feasts and celebrations. Yet he himself appeared rarely. Most matters were handled by his ministers—Old Jack among them—while Kaen remained veiled in quiet majesty.
His absence only deepened the sense of wonder.
Whispers spread through every hall: Who was this King of Light, this mortal who bore the blessing of the Valar?
...
Then came the day destined to mark the end of the Third Age—Spring of 2945.
The obsidian gates of the royal city swung wide. Tens of thousands of soldiers and citizens streamed into Elarothiel's valley, their ranks flawless, their hearts bright with expectation.
The avenues and rooftops overflowed with people. The chosen envoys of every nation took their seats upon the dais of the Royal Throne, from which they could witness history unfold.
The music began,deep and sonorous, echoing through the marble corridors like the song of creation itself.
And then Kaen appeared.
He emerged from the Palace of King, clad in white robes embroidered with golden sigils. Upon his brow gleamed the mithril crown. In his hand he bore the long sword that had followed him through every war—a blade that shone with both courage and memory.
The sunlight struck him, and gold and silver radiance flowed outward from his form.
He seemed more than mortal—something holy, something beyond the reckoning of years.
Those who knew him bowed their heads in reverent silence.
Those who had never beheld him before could only stare, struck dumb by awe.
Ascending the mountain, Kaen spoke, his voice carrying far and clear.
"This day marks not only the coming of spring, nor merely the turning of a year. This day begins an age.
The darkness has retreated. The North stands at peace. The Sacred Trees have descended, and through them the Elves shall endure."
His words swept over the multitude like a tide. The cheers that followed shook the valley itself, a roar of joy unending.
...
When his speech was done, Gandalf approached, bearing upon a silver tray a single seed—the seed of the Golden Tree.
And beside Kaen came Arwen, dressed in white as the Evenstar, her hair shining like midnight frost. Together they stood before the gathered world.
As Kaen and Arwen placed the seed within the soil of the Throne's garden, they spoke words in the ancient tongue.
The seed stirred.
A tremor of light ran through the ground.
Then, before the eyes of all, it sprouted.
Roots gripped the earth. The trunk rose. Branches spread like rays of the sun.
In moments, a tree stood nine meters tall—its bark pure gold, its leaves bright as beaten sunlight.
The Golden Sacred Tree—Auricálen—had been born.
Its leaves rang like chimes when touched by the wind, a soft, rhythmic melody of metal and life.
Warmth and serenity radiated outward in waves of golden light. The aura spread from the Palace garden, flowing over city and valley, sky and soil alike.
Those who closed their eyes and whispered its name, Auricálen, saw within their hearts the vision of the tree—its glow shielding them from darkness, gifting them courage and peace.
Every soul bathed in its brilliance felt renewed.
The people of Eowenríal glowed with inner strength; the Caladhîn Elves shone like living stars.
All who had come to witness were blessed. The sick were healed, the weary restored. The crowds fell to their knees, tears on their faces, voices lifted in reverence.
For three days and nights, the ceremony continued. None wished to depart.
And at last, on the third night, when the tree's radiance softened into a tranquil golden hue, the celebration came to its gentle close.
...
At the great feast that followed, Kaen himself attended, speaking warmly with lords and envoys from every land.
Several of the western nobles voiced their wish to join Eowenríel's dominion outright, pledging their banners to Kaen.
He did not refuse—but neither did he promise. "In time," he said simply, "we shall speak again."
The young Denethor along with Ecthelion of Gondor approached and bowed low before him. The blessing of the Tree had changed him,his gaze was brighter, his mind sharper, his spirit stronger than any mortal youth.
Kaen looked upon him with quiet understanding. He knew this boy's fate,knew the madness that would one day consume him. And yet, perhaps in this new age, destiny itself could be rewritten.
"Stand tall, son of Gondor," Kaen said. "Your fire will be needed in the days to come."
For even as he smiled, Kaen's mind was turning.
He had seen the darkness stirring far in the East.
He knew the next war was coming, and when it did, Gondor's flame would be one of his greatest allies.
...
Thus was the final Sacred Tree born.
And with its awakening, the Third Age came at last to its end.
The next spring would mark the dawn of a new epoch,an age that the peoples of Middle-earth named in one voice:
The Age of the Sacred Trees.