The sun had scarcely crested the hills when Edwen rode from Edoras, the hooves of his steed beating a steady rhythm upon the winding road. Rohan stretched wide before him, its open plains gilded under the morning light. The wind tugged gently at his cloak, as though urging him forward, whispering of mountains, dwarves, dragons, and old debts yet unpaid.
Behind him, Meduseld gleamed upon its hill golden, proud, and peaceful.
He looked back only once.
On the balcony stood Arwen, a figure of silver and blue, their child held close against her heart. She did not call to him, nor raise her hand. She simply watched, calm and resolute, her gaze a silent blessing carried across the wind.
Edwen felt it settle around him like armor.
He pressed on.
He rode swiftly, but not urgently, for Gandalf's message held no command, only a request. Still, the air itself felt restless, as though Middle-earth had begun to inhale before a great storm.
By the second evening, he had crossed the Snowbourn and passed into the wilder grasslands of the Eastfold. The land rolled gently, dotted with old stones and lone trees bent by time and wind.
At night, he camped beneath the stars, listening to the quiet crackle of firewood. His thoughts drifted to home to Arwen's laughter, to the small hands of his child gripping his tunic, to the peace he had left behind.
He wondered if he had been a fool to go.
But each time doubt stirred, the wind answered him with the faintest echo of destiny.
You are not done.
Not yet.
Far away in Edoras, Arwen walked the inner gardens of Meduseld with their son held gently in her arms. The infant cooed softly, blinking up at the fluttering banners overhead.
But Arwen's gaze wandered east, where the horizon met the distant mountains.
"He carries the weight of many worlds," she whispered to her child. "And though his heart finds peace here, fate has never been kind enough to let him rest for long."
Her son reached toward her face, brushing her cheek with tiny fingers, as though sensing the tension woven in her voice.
Arwen smiled, though the worry did not fade.
"He will return," she said softly. "But this road he walks… it feels different. Deeper. Older."
And she felt, as all Elves do, that the world had shifted ever so slightly toward something vast.
On the morning of the fourth day, Edwen reached a lonely crossroads where a single stone marker stood, ancient runes half-worn by time. Ravens perched upon it, watching him with dark, intelligent eyes.
Then a voice drifted from behind him, dry, amused, familiar.
"I see the ravens are keeping better track of you than I am."
Edwen turned, a smile breaking across his face.
Gandalf the Grey approached on foot, leaning lightly on his staff, his weathered hat tilted at a jaunty angle. His cloak billowed in the wind like smoke caught in sunlight.
"You do choose inconvenient meeting places," Edwen called.
"So that only the right people bother to find them," Gandalf replied, eyes twinkling.
Edwen dismounted, clasping arms with the wizard. "Your message was brief."
"Brevity is an art, my boy. And besides," he gestured to the east, "we have much to discuss that doesn't do well on parchment."
They sat upon a fallen log, the wind whispering through the grass around them.
Gandalf took a long breath, pipe smoke curling upward."I will speak plainly. Thorin Oakenshield seeks to reclaim Erebor."
Edwen raised a brow. "From Smaug."
"Just so." Gandalf tapped his pipe thoughtfully. "He grows restless, Edwen. Too restless. The death of the Dragon is not merely a hope for him; it is an obsession. And obsessions, as you well know, have toppled greater men."
Edwen leaned back, arms folded. "And you want me to join him."
"Eventually," Gandalf admitted. "For now, I need you to understand what is coming. Middle-earth is changing. Darkness stirs where it should not. The dwarves' quest will ripple far beyond the Lonely Mountain."
Edwen's gaze hardened. "You fear a greater enemy."
Gandalf smiled faintly. "You always were quick."
The wind shifted, colder now.
"There are whispers," Gandalf continued. "Shadow returning to old strongholds. Creatures stirring that should be long dead. And though you have built a kingdom of peace… the world outside it roils."
Edwen looked eastward, the distant mountains looming like giants asleep.
"And Thorin?" Edwen asked.
"He will need strength beside him," Gandalf said gravely. "He will need someone who can temper his pride… and survive his stubbornness."
Edwen snorted. "You flatter me."
"I merely speak truth." Gandalf stood, brushing dust from his cloak. "Your path leads east, my friend. Not today, but soon. I only hope, when the time comes, you will choose to follow it."
Edwen rose as well. "I will never walk away from a fight that must be fought."
"Good," Gandalf said, eyes warm with approval. "For this one will shake the bones of mountains."
Gandalf began to turn away, but paused.
"Oh, and Edwen?"
"Yes?"
"Keep your wits sharp. And keep your heart steady." His voice softened. "For the road ahead will test both."
Edwen nodded. "Tell Thorin I'll hear him out when the time is right."
Gandalf chuckled. "Oh, he'll be thrilled or infuriated. Hard to say which."
The wizard strode off, humming softly, vanishing into the tall grass as though swallowed by the world itself.
Edwen mounted his horse, looking toward Rohan toward home.
He sighed deeply.
Then he turned his gaze once more to the horizon.
The Lonely Mountain waited.And fate waited with it.
He could feel it now, a slow, gathering pull.The beginning of a tale older than any of them.
But for this moment, he rode home back to Arwen, to his child, to the peace he had yet to leave.
A peace he knew would not last forever.