While the Expedition of the Sacred Trees was braving peril and at last placing the first Starborn Tree's seed into the hands of the Vanyar, Kaen Eowenríel had only just returned to Elarothiel when two troubling tidings came before him.
The first was of Angmar. After years of uneasy silence, that evil kingdom of the North was mustering great hosts. War in the northern lands was about to rise again.
The second came from the Dúnedain of the North. The darkness at Fornost had already taken shape. Their riders had come to beg for aid, reporting that in the Dead-men's Dike they had seen the shadow of the Nazgûl and an uncounted host of wights and wandering dead.
Beneath the boughs of the Golden Sacred Tree, Kaen stood with the foremost captains and ministers of his realm, and after long counsel they came to a grim resolve.
Reyzeth and Caden, the war-leaders, would command one Heavy Composite Legion and three Light Composite Legions, in all twenty thousand warriors of Eowenría. They would march west and there hold the heights against the dark creatures of Fornost, and ride also in support of the hard-pressed Dúnedain.
Sigilion would lead four Heavy Composite Legions and six Light Composite Legions, fifty thousand warriors in all, to the northern Rimwinter line of fortresses, to lay a steel weight upon Angmar and stay its advance.
Kaen himself would remain in Elarothiel, holding the heart of the realm. He and Artemis, two powers of mythic strength, would be ready to ride to either front when the need grew dire.
At the same time Kaen sent messengers to Elrond in Rivendell, warning him to strengthen the defenses at the High Pass, lest the Orcs of the Misty Mountains pour down in raids.
Before the assembled officers and ministers, Kaen lifted his gaze to the shining branches of the Golden Tree and spoke, his voice calm and deep.
"This is an age when light blossoms," he said, "and also an age when shadow spreads. An age when glory is forged".
"Countless lives will be spent in the strife that is coming, and with their broken bodies they will build an immortal memorial. We cannot yield before the darkness. For now Eowenría stands not only for our own people of the light, but as a pillar for all the Free Peoples of Middle-earth."
He looked to each of them in turn. "Go and do what must be done. Gather stores of grain as you can, hammer out more weapons, raise walls higher, keep order in every province.
"From this day on, and for a long time yet, we wage a drawn-out war against the dark, until the final battle comes."
The officers of Eowenría heard him in solemn silence. Then, as one, they bowed deeply and cried, "All for Eowenría."
...
The expedition remained in Laurenandë for three days. It was the calmest time they had known since their journey began.
Within the shelter of the great dome of light, the valley was always filled with a faint fragrance of flowers and a breath of starlight.
At dawn the Vanyar went out with woven baskets to gather silver leaves still beaded with dew. In the sunlight those leaves bled clear sap, and the Elves said that, when distilled, it could heal wounds touched by the Shadow.
At noon, sunlight poured through the blue dome and broke into small bright flecks upon the ground, as if a handful of tiny diamonds had been scattered over the stone.
At sunset, the Sacred Tree turned its leaves toward the West, like a living thing bidding farewell to the sinking sun, and the whole valley was washed in a warm, golden glow.
Gimli had fallen in love with the Elven forges on the very first day. The Vanyar were not famed for smithcraft as the Noldor were, yet their weapons always bore gems that glowed with their own light, and there was something in their workmanship that charmed even a Dwarf.
He found one silver axe whose blade was set with star-blue sapphires. When he swung it experimentally, it gave out a keen sound like a falling meteor.
"Will this split an Orc's skull?" he asked the Elven smith, hefting the axe.
The smith, a young Elf with pale-golden hair cropped short, only smiled and shook his head. "It is better suited to cutting down trees that have been tainted by the dark. But if it is an Orc-splitter you want, I can forge one for you out of iron we brought from Aman."
Gimli's eyes lit up at once. He spent the entire morning squatting in the corner of the smithy, watching as the Elf smelted the sword.
The black ore, when laid in the white heart of the furnace, melted into silver liquid, and when it cooled and was struck with a hammer, the sound that rang out was as clear as a mountain stream leaping from the rocks.
Legolas passed his days among the Vanyar hunters.
They led him into the deep woods at the far end of the valley, where some of the trees glowed faintly at night, and natural star constellation maps seemed to lie traced upon their trunks.
They taught him to judge direction by the angle of starlight, to loose a silver-tipped arrow into a running stag and bring it down cleanly without marring the hide.
"Your archery," Legolas said as he wiped down his bowstring after one hunt, "leans more upon the stars than that of the hunters of the Woodland Realm."
Their leader, a young Elf named Laion, was cutting the carcass open with a silver knife, his movements neat and smooth like a sculptor patiently carving a statue.
At Legolas's words he smiled faintly. "Our forefathers of the Vanyar lived under the stars long before ever they saw the Sun. Trust in the stars is written in our blood. On nights when no sun will rise, it is the hosts of the sky that guide us home."
Legolas lifted his eyes to the outline of the valley, held safe beneath the shining dome, and his thoughts turned suddenly to his father Thranduil.
The Elves of the Woodland Realm trusted in the shelter of the forests, while the Vanyar conversed with the sky. Perhaps that was simply the fate of the different kindreds of the Eldar.
Denethor spent most of his time in the library of the Vanyar.
Its walls set with countless shelves laden with scrolls wrapped in gilded leather. Within those scrolls were written the history of the Second Age: the rise and doom of Númenor, the alliances of Elves and Men, and even tales of Sauron's early guises and deceits.
Aragorn, for his part, liked best to climb alone to the hilltop where the Sacred Tree stood at sunset.
There he would sit upon the milky-white stone and watch the leaves of the tree stir in the wind, listening to the far-off murmur that came now and then from beyond the dome.
Sometimes Gandalf joined him, and in that quiet hour the Maia shared what wisdom he could with the last heir of Isildur.
"Whom do you think Sauron will send to cut off the path of the remaining seeds?" Aragorn asked at last on the third evening.
Gandalf blew out a slow breath of smoke. The ring on his hand drifted upward and thinned against the underside of the light-dome. "The Nazgûl," he said. "Of the Nine, the Witch-king holds Angmar in his grip, and now that Fornost has risen again in darkness you may be sure they move there as well.
"In all the western lands, save for Eowenría in the West and Lindon by the Sea, the Shadow lies thick. At least five of the Ringwraiths will turn their eyes toward us."
"I have seen the Black Breath of the Nazgûl," Aragorn said quietly. "Upon the Ettenmoors in the North, I watched Kaen Eowenríel contest it. It is powerful. Grass and flowers wither beneath it, and the hearts of warriors grow cold."
"But they too have a weakness," Gandalf replied, tapping his pipe so that a scatter of sparks flashed in the evening air. "They feed upon fear, and therefore they fear true courage."
Aragorn drew in a long breath and looked toward the west where the sun was sinking. Then he rose. "Master," he said, "when do we depart?"
"Tomorrow," Gandalf answered, putting away his pipe and gazing at the dying light. "First we go to Minhiriath. There the Telerii are raising Doriath anew. We will deliver the second seed to Elurín and Eluréd . Remember, Aragorn, that they are uncles to Elrond, and so your kinsmen too. In the days to come they will be among your greatest allies."
"I know," Aragorn said. "King Kaen has told me something of those ancient days already."
...
On the third night Ingwion held a farewell feast for the company of the Sacred Trees.
The banquet was laid upon the hilltop court where the Tree stood. Elves set stone tables with many dishes: rabbits roasted and wrapped in silver leaves, berries dusted with star-powder, and honey-sweet wine brewed from the flowers of the valley. The light of the Sacred Tree fell gently upon the food until each plate gleamed with a faint halo.
"This wine is sweeter than any malt beer in Gondor," Gimli said, cheeks already flushed as he cradled his cup.
Before him the bones of many rabbits were piled in a small hill. The Vanyar who watched his eating wore only amused and kindly smiles.
"It is fermented from the flowers' morning nectar," Ingwion said, handing him a fresh cup. "It will ease the weariness of the road, and it may even make your beard more lustrous."
Instinctively Gimli's hand went up to pat his beard, which drew a soft ripple of laughter from the Elves nearby.
Denethor smiled as well. Raising his cup to Ingwion he said, "To Laurenandë, and to the alliance between Gondor and the Vanyar."
"To the alliance," Ingwion replied, touching his cup lightly to Denethor's. The clear ring of crystal filled the court.
Legolas was speaking quietly with Laion, the two of them trading thoughts on archery.
Laion presented him with three silver arrows whose heads were tipped with star-blue sapphires. "If you meet creatures of the dark," he said, "aim for their mounts. These arrowheads can pierce the shadow about them and freeze the bones of Wargs and other beasts they ride."
Legolas took the arrows with care and slid them into his quiver. "My thanks, my friend," he said. As the feast neared its end, Ingwion rose, holding in both hands an item wrapped in star-embroidered cloth.
"This is my gift to you," he said.
He placed it in Aragorn's hands. "It is a silver horn, tempered in the very first light of the Sacred Tree. When you sound it, the eagles of the Vanyar will follow the call and guide you along safe paths."
Aragorn took the horn. It was cold to the touch, and its surface was engraved with star-patterns like those on the tree's leaves.
He raised it to his lips and blew. The note that rang out was clear and far-carrying, lingering as it passed through the light-dome and out into the night above the valley.
Not long after, sharp cries of eagles answered from afar. Looking up, they saw dark shapes circling beyond the dome, their wide wings catching and reflecting the starlight.
"Thank you," Aragorn replied, bowing slightly. "This will mean much to us."
...
At the chill hour before dawn on the next day, the company packed their gear and made ready to depart.
The Elves of Laurenandë came bearing crystal lamps to light their way to the valley's edge. There the dome of light drew a sharp line before them, with warmth and soft blue radiance on the inner side and deep, heavy night beyond.
"The river Gwathló's sound will help to hide your passing, yet beware the marshes along its banks. When our people came here we found water-beasts there that had been corrupted by the dark. They will attack whatever living thing strays too near."
"We will take heed," Aragorn answered. "Pray for us, my lord. We will see that the other two seeds also find their rightful soil."
Ingwion lifted his hand in farewell, and once more the song of the Elves rose behind them, this time a parting lay, like starlight whispering in their ears.
Gimli glanced back one last time at the Sacred Tree upon the hill. Its blue glow burned in the darkness like a beacon, and in that instant he felt that no matter how perilous the road before them might become, so long as such a light shone behind him, he would never wholly lose his way.