Seeing the Elven captain ride forward, Denethor stepped上 ahead and said,
"I am Denethor, son of the Steward of Gondor. This is proof of my identity. We travel under the banner of the Lord of Eowenría, as envoys of the Free Alliance of Middle-earth, bound for the Grey Havens. On the road we…"
He briefly recounted everything that had happened at the tower, then drew out a badge.
On its face was engraved the sigil of the Steward's house of Gondor—a token only direct heirs were permitted to wear.
Legolas and the others likewise produced their own emblems, each bearing the marks of their noble blood and realm.
The Elven captain studied them one by one.
At last, convinced, he let out a slow breath. His wariness eased, and he signaled his riders to lower their weapons. Then he bowed slightly and said,
"On behalf of Lindon, I welcome you. We are the wardens of the border of Lindon. When we saw Elostirion's signal for aid, we rode here at once. May I ask what has befallen this place?"
"This is a sorrowful tale," Denethor answered softly.
He raised a hand, pointing toward the fresh graves on the hillside.
"The darkness struck here. All the Elves who guarded this tower have fallen. We slew every Orc we could find."
The Elven captain's gaze followed his gesture.
When his eyes found the new-raised mounds, his fist clenched so hard the knuckles creaked.
Around him, the Lindon Elves' eyes flared with anger. Fingers tightened on spear-shafts and sword-hilts, trembling with barely restrained fury.
"Cursed Orcs…" someone hissed between their teeth.
Just then, on the eastern plain, a new line of riders appeared, galloping hard.
"It's His Majesty," Aragorn called.
All the young nobles turned as one and bowed their heads. The Lindon Elves, seeing who rode at the forefront, instinctively fell back half a step.
Kaen of Eowenría was a name more familiar in Lindon than any other mortal king.
Of the sacred Trees he had raised, the White Tree on the western heights of the Blue Mountains shone down upon Lindon's shores, bathing the Grey Havens in holy light and softening, at last, the old ache of the Sea-longing.
In carved friezes and painted halls, Lindon had long ago set down his likeness.
But seeing him in the flesh, astride a warhorse and approaching the tower, even with his radiance drawn tight about him, they could feel it: that vast, quiet power pressing on the air.
The embassy reined in beneath the hill.
Kaen drew his horse to a halt, his gaze first passing over the Elven riders before resting a heartbeat on their captain.
"You are Elves of Lindon?"
"Before the great Lord of Eowenría, we pay our respects!" the Elves cried, bowing.
The captain straightened and added,
"We greet you as well, Lady Galadriel, Arwen Dawnglow, the Grey Pilgrim Mithrandir, and the Guardian Artemis. We are wardens of the borders of Lindon."
There were small nods of acknowledgment all around.
Kaen swung down from the saddle; the others followed suit.
"I felt a taint of darkness here," he said. "Tell us everything that has occurred."
Aragorn stepped forward with a nod.
He recounted the events in full, how they had answered the distress-signal, the battle in the tower, the slain elves, and finally produced the twisted scrap of parchment.
"Your Majesty," he said, face grave, "this was taken from the Orcs' leader."
Kaen unrolled the hide and read the jagged, blood-dark script.
His brows knit at once.
He handed it in turn to Galadriel and Gandalf; when they had read it, their expressions hardened in the same way.
Galadriel drew forth a cup of water and, before them all, began to chant.
Silvery water darkened, then cleared again.
On the surface of the water arose the image of Fornost:
A wilderness of broken spears thrust from the earth like a forest of bone; ruins steeped in the red of a sickly sunset; black shapes writhing in cracks between toppled stones.
"Beneath Fornost," Galadriel said quietly, "lie the bones of a hundred thousand slain in Arnor's civil wars. If they are roused by sorcery, they will become foes more troublesome than the Ringwraiths themselves."
Gandalf's voice sank like a stone.
"He would turn that place into a second Angmar. His intent needs no further explanation."
—to use it against Eowenría.
Everyone felt their hearts jolt.
North of Eowenría already loomed the dark realm of Angmar, ruled by the Witch-king himself, long kept in check only by Kaen's presence and power.
If in the west there rose another nest of shadow at Fornost, then Eowenría would be caught between hammer and anvil.
However mighty Kaen might be, he could not be in two places at once.
And if the north and west both burned, what of the south, where Gondor faced Mordor? Would that front not be forced into retreat?
"It will not be so simple," Kaen said at last, breaking the silence.
In his eyes there flickered a deeper light, the light of cold thought.
In his judgment, if Sauron's aim were merely to trouble Eowenría, this lone move could never truly shake the kingdom as it now stood. Mordor's master must be reaching for something greater.
His mind turned, almost of its own accord, back to the seeing-stone.
A possibility struck him then—still only a conjecture, but chilling enough to set his blood running colder.
"The darkness may not be seeking to destroy Eowenría at all," he said slowly, "but to bind Eowenría, hold us down. The Dark Lord's true target may well be… Gondor."
Gasps broke from several throats.
Denethor blurted,
"Your Majesty, Gondor's strength has been greatly restored these past years. We are not at our height of old, but among the realms of Men we stand second in arms only to Eowenría. And we have Rohan as an ally, ready to ride to our aid at any time…"
Plainly, he could not….would not….believe Sauron could easily assail Gondor.
The other young Dúnedain looked equally unwilling to accept it.
All eyes turned to Kaen, waiting for his answer.
He met their gaze one by one and said quietly,
"Gondor holds three hundred thousand in its standing host, with Rohan's riders to come to its call. But you are all overlooking one simple truth: Mordor has been sleeping with open eyes for many years."
"No one among us truly knows what horrors breed in that black land now, nor how strong they have grown under the reforged malice.
"In the far East, the dark tribes of Men are also regaining their strength. The Southrons of Harad have long stayed out of the great wars; who can say what numbers they command today?"
He lifted a hand, sketching lines in empty air as he spoke.
"If the northern realms— Eowenría and it's allies—are entangled, held fast by some threat we dare not turn our backs on… and then Mordor sends forth five hundred thousand from its gates, marching in concert with Harad's hosts—"
He looked straight at Denethor.
"Do you truly think Gondor could hold? Would the riders of Rohan reach you in time?"
He did not raise his voice, yet each word seemed to strike like a mailed fist.
"Sauron covets the seeing-stone not only to sever Middle-earth's bond with Aman," Kaen went on, "but also to cut the line between Lindon and Gondor.
"Outside the northern kingdoms, only Lindon's ships can swiftly reach Gondor's southern havens."
At that, even the most headstrong among them fell silent, faces drained of colour.
If all this were true, the future battle-lines would be almost unthinkable.
Galadriel drew in a slow, deep breath.
"If so," she said, "Gondor will fight utterly alone, until it is turned to dust."
"What should we do, then?" Aragorn asked.
There was no panic in his tone, only the hard steadiness of a man used to harsh news. This was already far beyond the scope of what these younger warriors could decide; instinctively, he turned to Kaen.
Gandalf added,
"Do we send scouts to Fornost? That is an ill-fated place. Dúnedain blood has soaked every stone. Darkness breeds easily there."
"No," Kaen said at once, shaking his head.
He turned his gaze eastward, where the land rolled away toward unseen Mordor.
"For now it is still conjecture. If my reading is right, the enemy is not ready to move yet. They will not waste their plans with a premature strike.
"Send riders to Gondor and to Rohan. Let them at least have warning in their hearts, so an ambush will not find them wholly unprepared."
The tension in the air eased a fraction as he added,
"As for us, our task now is to deal with the Elves crossing from Aman. That is the greater matter, the one that may well change the fate of all Middle-earth."
Kaen's way of cutting through a problem was razor-sharp.
Every angle he named was a possibility others had not even considered, and for each danger he pointed to, he also laid down the first lines of a counter.
Once more, they were reminded why this man of the North sat, unquestioned, among the greatest of kings.
Messengers were chosen and sent east and south with all haste.
For double surety, Kaen asked Artemis to call her white birds. Under her hand, pale wings flashed upward into the high air, bearing letters toward his own kingdom, with orders that Gondor be warned through a second road.
Only when that was done did the tautness in their shoulders finally slacken.
They took leave of the Lindon patrol, exchanging last words over the graves on the hill.
Then the great embassy turned once more toward the west, hooves thundering lightly over the grass, banners streaming, bound for the Grey Havens and the ships—and the high, proud Elves sailing out of the Undying West.