Kaen and the others swung down from their horses. Their boots struck the pale flagstones of the Grey Havens with a steady, echoing thud.
These stones had been worn smooth by sea-wind for thousands of years; old salt still clung in the cracks. Now, under the rain of petals the Elves had scattered, those grey slabs were dusted with flecks of gold and white.
Kaen and the delegates of each realm stepped forward to exchange bows and greetings with Lindon's nobles.
Aside from the Dwarves and Men, almost all the ancient Elves here knew one another by face or name. Many had seen the First Age; the deference they showed Lady Galadriel was even deeper than that they gave Kaen.
Along the seaside road they passed into the city, walking through a lane of petals and song, and so came to Círdan's hall, where a feast of sea-fruit and rare dishes awaited them.
During the banquet, Kaen told Círdan of what had happened upon the Tower Hills, and of the scheme he believed Sauron was weaving.
He then nodded to Aragorn. The Dúnadan stepped forward with the wrapped palantír. Kaen took it in his own hands and placed it solemnly into Círdan's.
"Elostirion is no longer a safe resting place for this stone," he said quietly. "To be certain, I chose to bring it here myself. Remember this, Círdan: a seeing-stone is a tool between realms and thrones, not some idol to be shut away and worshipped."
Círdan's expression grew grave. He closed his fingers around the palantír and bowed his head.
"I give you my oath," he replied, "that this stone will henceforth be used rightly. When Lindon's lord returns, he shall wield it as a bridge between Middle-earth and Aman."
At that, Kaen asked:
"In the last White Council, you hinted that Lindon would not always remain under your hand. The words stirred many questions in my heart, and now an answer seems to be taking shape. But I would hear it from you."
"Your insight does you honour," Círdan said with a brief smile. Then, before them all, he spoke a tidings that struck the hall like thunder.
"The High King of the Elves of old—Gil-galad—has, for his great deeds in the Second Age, been permitted, like Lord Glorfindel, to be rehoused by the Valar. He has been granted leave, in this Age, to return to Middle-earth and take up again the rule of Lindon."
For a heartbeat there was utter silence. Then everyone began speaking at once, eyes wide with disbelief.
Galadriel was on her feet almost before Círdan had finished. Her gaze locked on him, sharp as a drawn blade.
"Though you would never jest in such a matter," she said, "I must still hear it confirmed."
"This I learned first from Ossë, who bore the word of the Lord of Waters," Círdan answered. "And I have since sought Ulmo's confirmation myself."
His certainty left no room for doubt, and the shock in the room deepened.
Kaen spoke next:
"The Lord of Waters once came to me and Arwen as well, yet his words then were few. Now it seems you have been told more than we. I would ask you, then, to share everything you know about this westward-host—the Elves coming from Aman."
"If you had arrived five days earlier," Círdan said with a soft sigh, "my answer would have been a short one, for I knew little more than what I have just told you."
His tone shifted.
"But now, I can answer you more fully."
And so, before them all, Círdan began to tell what news had reached the Grey Havens.
Two months earlier, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower had come to Lindon.
He had stayed in the realm for over a month, then taken ship in a white-sailed vessel and vanished west over the waves. No one in Mithlond had seen him since—
Until five days ago, when the sea-birds brought his message back.
Glorfindel had found the fleet of the West, the eastbound Elven host upon the ocean, and had already made first contact with them.
In his tidings he set out the strength and factions of this host.
In all, about five hundred thousand Elves were crossing the Sea, divided into four main kindreds.
The first host: Lindon's own people, those who in long ages past had sailed West and dwelt in Aman. They now returned under their reborn High King, numbering some two hundred thousand.
The second host: Noldor who had gone back to Aman at the end of the First Age—roughly fifty thousand in number. They were led by a son and daughter of Finrod Felagund, once King of Nargothrond.
(Author's note: In the canon tales, Finrod had no children in Middle-earth. After his death he was rehoused in Aman, where he wed a Vanyarin poetess. The son and daughter mentioned here are original to this story.)
The third host: Sindarin Elves who had likewise returned West at the end of the First Age—around a hundred and fifty thousand. Their leaders were the last royal sons of Doriath, Dior's twin boys: Elurín and Eluréd.
(Author's note: In the original legendarium, these twins were abandoned in the woods during the Second Kinslaying and vanished from the tales. Here, their fate is extended and remade.)
The fourth host: the Vanyar—about a hundred thousand in number. They were led by Ingwion, son of Ingwë, High King of all the Vanyar in Aman, together with his wife, their son and their daughter, and a chosen few of their people who had grown weary of the unchanging bliss of the West and desired a new road in Middle-earth.
According to Glorfindel's report, this fleet of roughly five hundred thousand Elves had launched with five thousand great ships, and would sight these shores in five days' time.
When Galadriel heard that among them were the children of her brother, her face could not help but light with hope.
Since the end of the First Age, and again since the end of the Second, she had been the only remnant of the royal Noldorin line left in Middle-earth.
She had longed for news of her father Finarfin, of her brothers, of all the kin she had left behind in Aman.
Now she learned that some of that blood, her own brother's children, were sailing east to meet her.
How could she not rejoice? How could she not wait in trembling anticipation?
Arwen slipped her hand into her grandmother's, her own eyes bright with the same mix of hope and anxiety.
She did not know whether her mother, Celebrían, would be among those returning. The thought alone made her heart beat faster.
Gandalf chuckled, his eyes crinkling.
"With such a host of Calaquendi," he said, "They will bring with them a force stout enough to scour dark strongholds from the map."
The young nobles around the table could not hide their smiles.
Thorin said gruffly, "However this plays out, this new strength must stand with us, not against us. At the very least, they must not be our foes."
Kaen, however, had drawn his brows together; a faint shadow crossed his face.
In his mind he weighed each leader's name in turn—Gil-galad aside—their bloodlines, the ages they had lived through, the likely tempers of Noldor, Sindar, and Vanyar who had dwelt long in the Blessed Realm.
He considered how best to open talks, how to win their goodwill, and how to guard against any sudden peril.
As High Lord of the Free Alliance, he could not think like a single king alone.
He bore, upon his shoulders, the hopes and interests of all the free peoples of Middle-earth.
His gaze grew distant and keen by turns, then slowly settled, becoming calm and deep as a still pool.
At that moment Artemis reached over and clasped his hand, offering him a gentle smile,
The smile of a wife and a guardian, quietly pledging her strength to the man who stood at the centre of it all.