In the autumn of the year 2943 of the Third Age, a year steeped in legend and shadow, many great deeds were wrought.
Kaen, in his contest of wits against Sauron, gained a mighty victory in strategy and design. The dark power's northern kingdom was sorely struck, the High Pass,gateway linking north and south,was reclaimed for the Free Peoples.
Two Elven-kings.
Two kings of Men.
Two Dwarf-lords.
Together they forged a host nearing one hundred thousand and marched upon Dol Guldur.
A host drawn from every strong people. Their purpose was one: to tear out Sauron's hidden fortress in the southern reaches of Mirkwood—Dol Guldur—and cleanse the forest of its Shadow.
The host stretched for miles, glittering with arms and armor, arrayed in ordered formations, each regiment bristling with strength. So terrible was their advance that many foul things, spying them from afar, fled gibbering into the wastes.
For more than half a month they marched along the Anduin, until they came before the forests around Dol Guldur.
There rose that fortress, in the southwestern corner of Mirkwood, upon a barren stone hill, bare of trees, wreathed ever in black cloud. Around its slopes lay ruined halls and broken towers, and below spread the black fir-wood, its trees twisted in strife, their branches rotting and tangled.
Long ago it had been the Woodland Elves' capital, built by Oropher, father of Thranduil, and named Amon Lanc. After the Silvan folk moved north it was left to ruin, then seized by Sauron and made into a citadel of evil.
Between Dol Guldur and Lothlórien ran the Anduin and a wide plain. There, upon that plain, the hundred-thousand host made camp.
Even as they prepared to hold council and plan their assault, a new company arrived: the King's counselor, the Grey Wizard Gandalf, with Celeborn and Galadriel of Lothlórien. And they brought not themselves alone, but ten thousand Silvan, two thousand Noldor,three thousand Sindar.
Thus they came together. Gandalf was the first to speak, stepping forth with a weary smile:
"My king, forgive me that I could not ride north to Tusgar's defense. The time you gave me was… less than accurate, and I had no chance to depart."
Already he had learned from the Elves who had gone north what had befallen. It was not unwillingness but circumstance—Kaen had been caught unready. The Orc-horde had moved sooner than he could have reckoned, forcing him to hold fast in Lothlórien with Galadriel, and to bind Dol Guldur's armies within their walls.
When Tusgar's war was ended, he had thought to march north, but the returning Elves told him Kaen himself was coming south to strike Dol Guldur. So Gandalf remained a month in Lórien.
Seeing the Wizard's half-wounded expression, Kaen inclined his head. "Forgive me, my counselor. The storm fell too swiftly for me to send word. Yet your deed was of no small worth,you held Dol Guldur's armies in check."
"Well," Gandalf sniffed, with mock pride, "then I forgive you." He turned, gesturing to the two lords at his side. "And more thanks are due here. These sovereigns, hearing the tidings, sent forth their host and hemmed Dol Guldur in, compelling the Orc-hordes to fall back."
Now eight rulers stood together. They bowed to one another with all the courtesies of kingship.
Galadriel spoke, her voice like a still lake beneath starlight.
"Kaen. Since we parted at the Council of Rivendell, two years have flown. Now I see you again, and you stand a king of great renown."
Kaen bent low. "Your Grace, I thank you. Before you I hold no pride, only the reverence of one younger to one far older."
For here was she who had lived from the Years of the Trees, through the First Age, through the Second, and now to the waning Third. A living witness of history itself. And beyond that, she was—save Glorfindel—the last of the Calaquendi to yet walk Middle-earth. A true being of myth, whose might, with Nenya and the light of Eärendil, could match the very spirit of Sauron.
Galadriel studied the radiance about Kaen and said:
"I have heard much of your light—that it heals wounds of flesh and spirit, that it deepens wisdom. Now I see it myself, and I feel within it a breath I once knew only beneath the Two Trees."
"Your Majesty," Gandalf said with a sly grin, "Kaen is sheltered by the Highest, and guarded by a Maia. He is a gift to Middle-earth."
Galadriel's gaze deepened. "If that is so, then you may carry a burdened fate."
Kaen nodded. "If so, then I will not turn aside."
In truth, as one chosen by Eru to walk this world, he bore but one command: not to break Middle-earth.
Celeborn now spoke. "When this war is ended, we would have you come to Lothlórien. You would be welcome in Caras Galadhon."
Celeborn, prince of Doriath, nephew of Elu Thingol, a supreme hero of war and wisdom, stood beside his queen as equal ruler of Lórien. Kaen bowed in assent.
"It would be my honor. I have long wished to behold that golden wood and the mallorn trees raised by your hands."
Also among the host came Elrohir and Elladan, twin sons of Elrond. Father and sons embraced in reunion.
Because Lórien's fifteen thousand needed housing, the war council was delayed until nightfall.
That evening, beneath the canvas of stars, eight kings gathered:
Elrond, Thranduil, Galadriel, Celeborn.
Kaen and Bard.
Thorin and Dáin.
Elves, Men, and Dwarves.
Three races, eight rulers, sitting together to plot the fall of Dol Guldur.
It was a sight destined for the chronicles of ages, a moment forever linked to the great battle soon to come. A tale writ in the language of epic.