Hollin, in the Second Age, had once been the realm of the Noldorin kingdom of Eregion, so named for the holly trees that grew there beyond counting.
In the year 750 of the Second Age, the Noldor who had survived the War of Wrath moved eastward to the feet of the Misty Mountains. There, close to the Dwarf-kingdom of Khazad-dûm in Moria, where mithril was mined from the deep roots of the world, they settled and began anew.
The Elves of Eregion became famed for their mastery of metal and craft. Under Celebrimbor, grandson of Fëanor, the guild of jewel-smiths known as the Gwaith-i-Mírdain wrought many marvels, among them the inscriptions upon the West-gate of Khazad-dûm itself. They forged a rare friendship with the Dwarves of Durin, trading lore and skill as well as goods and ore, so that both peoples prospered together.
In the year 1200 of that same Age, Sauron the Dark Lord came in fair disguise, taking the guise of a messenger of the Valar and the name of Annatar, Lord of Gifts. In Eregion he offered to teach the Elves higher arts of craft, and under that veil he lured them to forge nineteen Rings of Power.
To lull their suspicion, Sauron first guided them in the making of 19 rings. Yet in the year 1590 Celebrimbor in secret wrought three fair Rings of his own, Vilya, Narya and Nenya, beyond Sauron's direct dominion.
When, in the year 1600, Sauron completed the One Ring, the Elves of Eregion felt the treachery behind that gift and hid the Three from him. In 1693 Sauron loosed war upon them, and in 1697 Eregion fell. Before the Hall of Jewels Celebrimbor stood alone in desperate defense, until at last he was taken. Even under cruel torment he would not reveal the hidden places of the Three; so he was slain, and his body, pierced with Orc-arrows, was borne upon a pole as a banner of war.
After the ruin of Eregion, the entire region sank into wilderness. In this age, until the coming of Kaen Eowenríel, only broken Elven-roads remained, and withered holly standing like dead sentinels over the empty land.
When the fifty thousand Noldor set foot upon that soil, it was a sign that the ancient Elven kingdom would be raised again upon its old foundations. Nargothrond, once founded in the First Age by Finrod Felagund, was, after more than six thousand years, to be rebuilt by his children Anrod and Anariel.
The Noldor Elves flowed across the desolate ground like a river of star-glow.
The craftsmen set to work first. With silver mattocks they cleared the rubble, lifting rusted tools of olden smiths from beneath the dust. Upon the buried foundations of ancient halls they raised temporary forges, and when the first furnace fires leapt up, it was as if the children of knowledge had lit new stars, heralding the wonders they would yet make.
The Noldor divided themselves into a hundred companies, going out along the broken Elven-roads to plant new holly where the old had withered, sowing green life along paths once choked with ruins.
Anariel stood upon the bank of the Glanduin. Calling upon the old tales that said the power of the Three Rings had once flowed here in secret, she began to sing a spell of summoning water. Slowly the dry riverbed stirred, and ripples like the first breath of rain-wind spread across the cracked stone.
When the first holly-sapling put forth pale green leaves, aid from Eownería and Khazad-dûm arrived.
Kaen Eowenríel sent five thousand of his own craftsmen, while the Dwarves brought carts of ore and many rare materials. Three peoples worked together upon that ancient soil, and with the advanced lore that the Elves had brought back from Aman they raised buildings that might well be named wonders of the age.
Three months later, with winter drawing near, the land had already been clothed in a new face.
It was there that the embassy led by Kaen Eowenríel was formally dissolved. Thorin Oakenshield led the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm back through the western gate of Moria to their home beneath the mountains. Legolas and Aragorn, with the envoys of the Woodland Realm, went with them, passing under the dark vaults of Khazad-dûm and out across the Misty Mountains.
Queen Galadriel led Celebrían eastward to Rivendell, that mother, daughter and son-in-law might be reunited once more.
Théoden and the young nobles of Rohan turned south along the great North-South Road, riding back toward the green plains of their own kingdom.
Kaen did not hasten home. Instead he sent Artemis back to rule in his stead, while he himself, with Arwen and Gandalf beside him, journeyed south to Isengard in search of Saruman the White. For they must bring into being Sacred Trees that could shelter and safeguard the three new realms of the Elves of Light.
...
It was the twentieth year of the Age of the Sacred Trees, corresponding to the year 2965 of the Third Age in the old reckoning.
In the dark of night a single shaft of radiance blossomed above Isengard, answering the innumerable stars of the sky.
Within Orthanc Tower, Kaen Eowenríel and Arwen stood hand in hand. Before them, three seeds hung suspended in the air, each turning slowly, their surfaces traced with mysterious runes, gleaming with a cold, starlit fire.
These three seeds held within them the power of the heavens. They could draw in the light of moon and star, and send forth a radiance that drove back evil, not unlike the might of the five Sacred Trees that already grew in the world.
After twenty years, the Sacred Trees were to be born again, and the stir and shining of that event could be seen from hundreds of miles away.
Gandalf's face was grave. "The dark creatures of the Misty Mountains will surely have taken note," he said. "Though they have been greatly reduced since the battle in Moria, they are not yet a thing forgotten, and in the end tidings of this will reach the ears of Sauron."
Saruman added, "Nor is that all. The return of the Calaquendi can hardly be concealed any longer. When the survivors of Númenor came to Middle-earth and founded their kingdoms, it led in the end to the War of the Last Alliance. Now it is the Elves of Light who gather. Sauron will not sit idle, waiting for doom to come to him."
"We must move before he does," Arwen said. "Before the darkness falls, these three seeds must take root and sprout in Doriath, in Laurenandë, and in Nargothrond."
Kaen nodded, thought for a moment, and said, "I have already summoned a band of young folk. They will bear the seeds on their journey. Yet they will need a guide."
He turned his eyes to Gandalf. "I can think of no one more fitting than you."
Gandalf bowed. "I will not refuse such a charge," he replied.
...
Three months later, figures from many lands converged upon Isengard.
They were:
Gimli son of Glóin. A young Dwarven noble, stout of heart and swift to anger, whose courage had already brought him near to his father's renown. Fate marked him as the future king of the Glittering Caves in the White Mountains, a hero of near-legendary might.
Aragorn, last blood of Elendil's line, foster-son of Elrond of Rivendell, known to many only as Estel. He had once commanded the King's Guard for Kaen Eowenríel and now wandered abroad in the wild as a Ranger, his strength already that of a legendary hero.
Legolas, son of Thranduil, prince of the Woodland Realm, Aragorn's closest friend and long-time comrade in war. Years of battle at Aragorn's side had tempered him until his skill too stood at the very height of Elven warriors.
Denethor, son of the Steward of Gondor, a noble of the Dúnedain. He had once been blessed by the Golden Sacred Tree and later had bathed as well in the light of the other Sacred Trees, so that his power had likewise risen to the stature of legend.
These four were the chosen company who would bear and guard the Sacred Tree seeds.
Scarcely had they met when Aragorn, Legolas and Denethor fell at once into lively conversation, speaking as old companions do.
This greatly displeased Gimli. The three of them were clad in the manner of Rangers, leading tall horses, each with a sword at the hip, a bow at the shoulder and a well-filled quiver at the back. Wrapped in travel-stained cloaks and leather harness, they looked like a fellowship already forged. Only Gimli, in his bright mail shirt and sturdy boots, seemed wholly out of place, and the Dwarf felt keenly that he was being forgotten.
He shouted in a booming voice, "Hey, you three big cloak-wearers! It is plain you all know one another, and I am the only stranger here. You cannot treat a great Dwarven warrior as if he were a sack of coal in the corner!"
"Hm?"
The three heard the voice and glanced around, puzzled. Denethor frowned slightly. "Where is there anyone speaking?" he asked in confusion.
"Ah!"
Suddenly he leapt where he stood. Looking down, he saw at last the bearded Dwarf youth glaring up at him in fury.
"You scoundrel," Gimli roared, "you dare to mock the height of a Dwarf. I will knock you flat on your back and teach you respect!"