Five days later.
The morning mist over the Grey Havens had just been torn open by the sea-wind when, at the very edge of sight, a wall of white sails appeared.
Vast ships carpeted the sea from horizon to horizon. One glance could not take them all in. Each vessel was wrapped in a radiance brought out of Valinor itself—holy, like a fleet of the gods.
They had sailed from Aman, from the Telerin harbour of Alqualondë, and after a voyage of many long years across the measureless ocean, they had at last come again to the shores of Middle-earth.
A deep horn-call rolled in from the mouth of the Gulf of Lhûn, a note that roused every corner of Lindon.
Along the quays of the Grey Havens, ships that had been on the point of departure were hastily recalled. Tens of thousands of Elven warriors and nobles surged up onto the sea-walls, weapons in hand, forming ranks and watching the seaward horizon with taut, wary faces.
Had this been a host from among the Elves of Middle-earth, such vigilance would not have been needed.
But a host out of Aman… no one dared treat that lightly.
In the First Age, too many kinslayings had been wrought by the Calaquendi sailing from the West. Those old griefs had never wholly faded. The Elves of Middle-earth did not look kindly upon the Eldar of Aman, least of all the Sindar toward the Noldor.
Kaen and the others stood upon the walls, watching as the distant haze slowly resolved into ships upon ships, until the whole line of the sea seemed to move. None of them could quite keep the awe from their faces.
Arwen gripped Galadriel's hand; the Queen's fingertips were trembling. In the folds of her silver-white gown, a few petals from last night's garlands still clung; the wind lifted them away and sent them spinning out over the water.
"These are swan-ships," said Círdan quietly. "All crafted by the Teleri, my own kin far away in Aman. Each one can ride the storms and defy the wrath of the sea. Outside of Númenor's ancient, matchless armadas, there has never been a fleet to compare with them, present company of Mithlond excepted, of course."
"More magnificent than I imagined," Thorin rumbled, his voice rough with that familiar Dwarvish grit. Standing beside Kaen he added, "It is a pity Dwarves loathe the sea. Otherwise we'd prove we could build such ships ourselves."
Kaen did not answer at once. His gaze was fixed on the water.
The ships did not come on in a neat line, one after another; rather, they rolled forward like a single continent borne up on the waves.
The foremost sails were so tall they could have covered half the sun, dazzling white; on them, emblems flickered in the morning light—Gil-galad's white stars on a field of blue, the golden harp of Finrod Felagund of ancient Nargothrond, the silver moon of Sindar, and the radiant sun-mark of the Vanyar.
Pressed close together, the sails left only narrow seams where you could glimpse pale hulls below. From the walls, it did not look like a flock of swans, but like a range of silver dragons lying low upon the heaving sea.
At the mouth of the Gulf of Lhûn, the great fleet slowed and came to a halt. It did not yet draw nearer.
Seeing this, Círdan approached.
The old shipwright had changed into a deep-blue robe, sea-waves embroidered at the collar. Bowing his head to Kaen and Queen Galadriel, he said,
"The boat is ready. It's not large, but it will bear the three of us well enough."
Galadriel drew a long breath, then turned to Arwen. Her gaze lingered on the silver ornament braided into the younger Elf's hair, Celebrían's last keepsake.
"Wait for me here," she said softly, with a grandmother's tenderness and warmth.
Arwen nodded, her fingernails digging into her palm. She kept her silence.
Kaen bent to kiss Arwen's brow, then looked to Artemis.
The Maia—three metres tall in her embodied form—stepped forward first, and to everyone's surprise she stooped and kissed his forehead, her voice low and sure:
"We will await your return, My king."
Under the reverent gaze of all assembled, Kaen, Galadriel, and Círdan descended from the walls. Among the many ships moored at the quays, they chose a single, finely-wrought Elven skiff.
In quieter days, the Falathrim used such light boats to drift along the coast for pleasure. Today, this little craft was about to carry the will of all the free peoples of Middle-earth.
Círdan leapt aboard first. The hull rocked once under his weight and settled. He bent to loose the mooring rope, then took up the oar and spun it in his hands with the old ease of long practice.
Since taking up the rule of Lindon, this great mariner had not set foot on a ship in a thousand years.
Now he would personally ferry the Lord of Eowenría and the Noldorin Queen to parley with the West. The boat was small, but the honour of this crossing was beyond measure.
Kaen steadied the skiff and helped Galadriel aboard. Her gown brushed the planks with a whisper, carrying a few grains of sand from the shore.
The oar dipped into the water and drew up a chain of tiny, shining droplets.
The skiff drifted away from the quay. Behind them, the Grey Havens receded; the throng of figures upon the walls shrank to little black points.
Five thousand great ships sat out upon the bay like frozen waves, so still it was almost eerie. Only on the prows of the foremost vessels could one see the faint shapes of watchers, as if they too were peering back.
The contrast was almost absurd—
They rode a frail sliver of wood into a forest of masts; a single leaf blown toward a dense woodland.
Galadriel's voice came very low to Kaen's ear.
"Child," she said, "my kin who have dwelt long in Aman, whatever their hearts may truly be, all carry pride upon their brows. If we are to speak with them plainly and as equals… you must show them your strength. I will stand with you."
A sound like a plucked string shivered through the air.
An unseen force burst outward from the little boat, and in an instant the air for many miles around seemed to tremble.
Radiance poured from Kaen, at first a blaze of gold—then, on closer gaze, three interwoven hues: gold, silver, and white, mingling tightly, yet each one clear and distinct.
For a thousand miles around, the elements stirred in answer. The very air seemed to kindle with a faint glow, threads of light lacing together until the whole Gulf of Lhûn was illuminated, as though a road of stars had been laid upon the water to meet the oncoming host.
In Lindon, tens of thousands of Elves looked up to see the White Tree upon the summit of the Blue Mountains flare. A single solid shaft of white light sprang from it and fell like a blessing upon the small skiff.
Every Elf who beheld this felt their blood burn hot. One after another they cried out Kaen's Elven title, until the name shook the streets like thunder—
"Aran-Erain! Aran-Erain!"
Such splendour rolling out across the sea drew murmurs of astonishment from the figures standing upon the foremost decks.
Gil-galad, High King of Lindon, watched and whispered to himself,
"So pure… so holy. I doubt even a Maia could surpass that."
"A Maia would not match it," came a calm reply.
The speaker was a stern, battle-hardened Elf of ancient ages: Ingwion, son of Ingwë the High King of the Vanyar, prince of the Vanyar themselves.
His father served beside Manwë in Valinor; none knew the flavour of the Valar's light better than he.
"In sheer might," Ingwion said, "he cannot rival the Valar. But in purity… he stands only a little beneath them."
Gasps rippled along the rail. Many turned at once to Glorfindel.
"Prince," one Elven lord called, "who is he, this great one of Middle-earth?"
Glorfindel smiled, gentle and proud.
"He is the first among the kings of Middle-earth," he said, "the deliverer of Elves, Aran-Erain, King of Kings—Kaen of Eowenría."