Before the royal dwelling of the king, beneath the boughs of Auricálen, Kaen Eowenríel sat at ease, robed in white, sipping tea in the golden shade.
A soft radiance veiled his form, and to any who beheld him he seemed as a god made manifest among Men, both holy and high.
Guided by the King's Guard, the Dwarf Balin came to that place. He bowed low and said, "Balin pays his respects to Your Majesty Kaen."
"Rise, my friend."
Kaen smiled a little and pointed to the seat opposite. "Sit and rest. It has been years since last we met."
"Indeed" Balin sighed. "So many years have passed, yet your face is still as young as it was then. Even time itself seems unwilling to mar your noble bearing."
Kaen shook his head with a quiet laugh. "All Men grow old in the end. Outward seeming means little. Think of Lord Thranduil. If a man did not know his kingship, who would guess he has walked this world for more than five thousand years?"
"It is not the same with you, my lord," Balin replied. "Your visage is forever carved into the hearts of the free folk of the North, and your undying deeds will be sung with it through all ages to come."
Kaen sighed softly. For all his easy manner, his station had risen so high that even comrades who had once adventured beside him could no longer treat him as they did in those far wandering days.
He shook his head and murmured, half to himself, "I still miss those times."
The old Dwarf, wise in heart, fell silent at that. He wished to speak, yet Kaen forestalled him with a raised hand.
"I do not know what tidings Thorin has sent with you this time," Kaen said. "I only hope it is not some ill news of dark armies mustering."
"No, Your Majesty."
Balin shook his head, then went on, "This time it is not the dark coming to trouble us. It is we who mean to trouble the dark."
So he laid out the purpose of his visit, telling Kaen everything.
It seemed that in these years Erebor and the Iron Hills had grown ever stronger. The Dwarves of Durin's line had at last recovered their numbers; their people flourished again.
In their hosts, more and more epic warriors had arisen.
Thorin Oakenshield and Dáin Ironfoot had themselves, in these years, ascended to the peak of legendary strength, surpassing even the might of their fathers.
So the two of them had conceived a great design: a new long march to fulfill the work left undone by their forebears, to reclaim the lost kingdom of Khazad-dûm, the Mines of Moria.
In truth, this was a venture that should have begun many years ago, but the two Dwarf-kings of Durin's line had long lacked heirs fit to bear their crowns, and so they delayed it again and again until now.
Not long ago, Thorin Oakenshield himself had stood as witness at the weddings of his two nephews, Fíli and Kíli, and there he proclaimed Fíli the crown prince of the Kingdom of Erebor and Kíli a prince of the royal line.
Dáin likewise declared that, should he fall upon the road of this campaign, his son Thorin, named after Oakenshield would succeed him as King in the Iron Hills.
Having settled these matters, the two kings of Durin's folk joined the strength of both their realms and mustered a Dwarven expeditionary host of three thousand.
Every warrior among them was seasoned in battle. They were, to a Dwarf, of epic rank, the finest that Durin's people could presently field.
With this host they meant to march and reclaim the greatest of all Dwarven cities, Khazad-dûm, and stand face to face with the terror that was named the Durin's Bane, that dreadful Balrog of fire.
If they triumphed, they would there sit upon their thrones.
If they failed, they would die beneath the mountains, the first pioneers whose blood would water the road for their descendants to reclaim their ancient home.
Balin sighed. "The two kings have already steeled their hearts and made ready. They do not intend to tell anyone of this, for they deem it a matter for Durin's folk alone. So I did not come here by any king's command. I came because I wished to hear your counsel, and to know your thoughts on this second great expedition."
When Balin had finished, Kaen gazed into the distance, his brows drawing together in thought.
Ancient Khazad-dûm, now called Moria, was the ruin of a mighty kingdom, a vast underworld beneath stone. From west to east, it ran beneath the roots of the Misty Mountains, and its halls, in their prime, had been many times the size of Erebor.
Since the Dwarves had abandoned it, the creatures of the Misty Mountains had poured in and taken it for their lair. By the lowest reckoning, the monsters beneath that dark roof numbered in thousands.
To Kaen, this had always been a hidden peril.
Moria had two great gates, an entrance and an exit, one being the western Doors of Khazad-dûm, upon the Westlands, the other was the Dimrill Gate upon the eastern side of the mountains.
By ill fortune, the Doors of Khazad-dûm lay just south of WestEowenría, near to the borders of his realm.
The Dimrill Gate opened upon the upper Vale of Anduin, at the foot of the mountains to the northwest of Lothlórien, and to the southwest of Golden Iris City.
If the darkness stirred in earnest and the evil hosts of Moria surged out from those doors, the harm that would fall uponEowenría would be beyond all measure.
And that was to say nothing of the Balrog that still slept within, a being of fire and shadow, mighty and terrible.
If not for the fact that only a true heir of Durin could open the great doors and pass within, and because Kaen himself knew little of what lay in those depths, he had long refrained from striking there.
In the original tale, it was Balin who led an expedition to Moria in the year 2989, nineteen years hence.
Though that venture ended in ruin and death, Kaen had once planned to wait until that time and then move against Moria, in order to change Balin's fate.
Who would have thought that now the Dwarves would bring forward their expedition by nineteen years, and that leading it would be not Balin but the Dwarf-kings themselves, Thorin and Dáin.
For a moment Kaen could only marvel. His presence in this world had altered too much. The knowledge he possessed of the old timeline of Middle-earth was growing less and less certain with every passing year.
At a thought, the familiar system of his status appeared before his eyes.
Level: 6 (322 / 700).
Ever since his lightning campaign at the Inland Sea of Rhûn, that progress bar had not moved at all.
Considering that in about five years the Elves of Aman would return, Kaen resolved first to reach level seven, to ascend to the highest rank of mythic hero, so that he might better keep in order those who came out of Aman in the days to come.
With that in mind, from the standpoint of his alliance, his realm and his own heart, Kaen could see only one course. In this war he must take part. At the very least he must ensure that his two dearest friends did not fall in Khazad-dûm.
After a long silence in thought, he spoke at last. "Thorin and Dáin are already prepared to die. Against such resolve, whatever I think means little."
At these words Balin's eyes dimmed, and he let out a deep breath.
In that single sentence Kaen had laid bare a cruel truth. By the strength of Thorin and Dáin alone, Moria could not be reclaimed.
"Though I cannot undo the resolve they have taken," Kaen went on, "for it is, in the end, a matter of your own people...
"Yet..." his tone shifted, and a new firmness entered it. " the Doors of Khazad-dûm lie hard against my own borders. If war breaks out and the monsters within burst forth, it will be a calamity for my people who have done nothing to merit such doom."
At that, Balin's expression changed. He leaned forward and asked quickly, "Then, Your Majesty Kaen, what is your will?"
Kaen smiled, a glint of light in his eyes. "I know of a mighty Elf," he said slowly, "one who has slain a Balrog in days past, the very creature you name Durin's Bane..."