The Lords sat in a ring around a circular table, with hundreds of elven nobles standing silently at the edges like a living wall of silver and white.
Before all those watching eyes, Kaen spoke plainly of what the Elves would have to do if they wished to set foot upon the lands of Middle-earth and claim them as their own.
First, he laid out what the Free Peoples were willing to offer.
The lands prepared for the Elves were three in number:
> Minhiriath — the old realm of Cardolan after the sundering of Arnor.
> Enedwaith — once a Númenórean colonial region west of Gondor's White Mountains. It has long been lawless, home only to scattered clans of Dunlendings and fisher-folk who owe allegiance to no king.Enedwaith has long been shielded from the enemy by the vigilance of the Rohirrim and the endurance of Gondor.
> The Holly Realm, Hollin/Eregion —once the Noldorin craft-kingdom founded by Galadriel and others in the Second Age. Though the realm was destroyed, its ruins endure still, lying near the western gate of Khazad-dûm at Moria, and a few years ago it was formally placed under Eowenría's rule. Because of its remoteness, few have settled there.
Each of these tracts was fit to be the heart of a kingdom: rich in resources, broad and fertile in soil.
Were it not that Middle-earth had been gnawed and scarred by evil on every side, forever depleting the numbers of Elves, Men, Dwarves and others, huddling together for warmth in a world of orcs and shadow, these lands would never have been free to offer to anyone—not even to the High Elves.
Therefore, Kaen named the price for each gift.
For these three regions, he set three conditions:
First:
Those who wished to claim the lands of old Cardolan and found a realm there must compensate the Northern Dúnedain, and help them to re-establish their own kingdom.
For though Arnor has lain fallen for a thousand years, the Dúnedain Rangers of the North have guarded the plains of Eriador generation after generation.
They—not any new-come folk from across the Sea—are the true masters of that land.
Second:
Those who wished to take Enedwaith must provide Gondor with the advanced arts and craft of Aman, for though no one dwells there now, the only reason it has not been swallowed by darkness is that Gondor has watched and warded those empty leagues in silence.
Third:
Those who wished to occupy Hollin and the old realm of Eregion must share the craft and lore of Aman with Eowenría, for that land was taken back from the Orcs of the Misty Mountains by Eowenría's own strength, and its claim has been acknowledged by Galadriel and the other lords of the West.
When Kaen had finished setting forth these terms, all the elven leaders and princes present could no longer keep their composure.
"Impossible!"
An elven lord could not hold his tongue.
"We return to Middle-earth to reclaim our ancient homes. Why should we have to pay so much for what is already ours?"
"Your Majesty Kaen, with respect—this is absurd," another said coldly. "We are the High Elves. We came to aid you against the Darkness. We ought not be required to give anything at all."
"Indeed. We utterly refuse to 'share' our craft," a third added, eyes flashing. "What we bear from Aman is ours and ours alone!"
Where one voice rose, another followed, until a wave of murmurs swept the hall. Their courage grew in the press of their own kind, and more and more of them began to forget awe, and to remember only pride.
Kaen paid no heed to the murmuring nobles.
His gaze, clear and sharp as a blade, passed over each of the elven leaders in turn. The pressure of a top-rank mythic hero's presence filled the hall, leaving no doubt that his words were not a suggestion, but a line drawn in stone.
The Lords of Aman were strong, none could deny that. In the Blessed Realm there had been no shortage of mighty lords: heroes of high legend, and even those who might match the greatest of myth.
But such might had been tempered in peace.
Kaen's, by contrast, was hammered out blow by blow in blood and fire, through a road of unending war. In his eyes, these untested "gods of their own quiet garden" were not yet enough to overawe him.
Faced with that unyielding stance, one of the twin Sindarin princes spoke—the elder, Elurín.
"Your Majesty," he began, keeping his tone respectful, "we honor your great deeds. Yet my brother and I were born upon this continent as well. We, too, have our roots in these lands. Now that we bring our people home… why must we bind ourselves with such terms?"
"Yes. I also cannot help but question this."
Finrod's daughter, Anariel, lifted her chin slightly.
"We are prepared to aid the Free Peoples here, to stand with you against the Darkness, that enemy we share in common. We can even agree to some exchange of craft. But we cannot accept such naked demands. It will only teach those lower races to forget gratitude."
"Anariel!"
Her brother Anrod rebuked her at once. He knew all too well how ill-chosen those words were, and had already seen Kaen's eyes narrow, just a fraction.
"Check your pride," Anrod said quietly. "This is not Aman."
Wisdom and fairness ran strong in him; in this he was very much his father Finrod's son. Galadriel's gaze softened for a moment, her niece and nephew had inherited more than blood; they had also inherited grace.
The Vanyar, first among the three clans of the Eldar, were known as the purest of heart and closest to the Valar.
Yet even in them, pride ran deep.
As prince of the Vanyar, Ingwion at last found Kaen's unvarnished demands, and the unbending manner in which he delivered them, too galling to bear.
He raised his head and met Kaen's eyes directly, refusing to look away.
"Your Majesty Kaen," Ingwion said, voice steady and unyielding, "grant me one question:
Why, exactly, should we do as you say?"
At that, every gaze in the hall swung toward Kaen.
Without quite noticing, the lords of Aman had all drifted into the same line, shoulder to shoulder against the lone mortal king before them. The air itself seemed to press in, as if they meant to bear down upon him by the sheer weight of their presence.
Galadriel saw this and drew breath to speak—but she caught the faint upward curve at the corner of Kaen's mouth, and swallowed her words again.
She knew that look.
He had already decided what he would say.
Instead, she lifted her cup, took a slow sip of tea, and set it down with a softy upon the table, the sound crisp in the tense silence. Without a word she made her stance plain: whatever came next, she would stand at Kaen's side.
Círdan, too, remained calm. He glanced once at Gil-galad and saw the High King give the slightest nod. In that instant, he understood that this reborn lord of Lindon was not of one mind with the more hot-blooded princes.
So the Shipwright chose to watch, and wait.
Looking at the ring of set jaws and bright, indignant eyes, Kaen did not rush to answer.
Instead, he locked his gaze with Ingwion's, and simply looked at him.
In those calm eyes something vast and unfathomable stirred—wisdom that did not belong on the face of one so young. It was the gaze of a judge weighing a soul, or a sage measuring a man's heart.
For all his age and lineage, Ingwion felt a chill run down his spine. It was as if those eyes peered straight through rank and body, into the deepest places of his mind.
That feeling he had known only once before in all his long life—before the throne of Manwë, King of the Valar.
How could a Man, whose entire span of years would not equal a fraction of his, bear such a gaze?
That simple, tranquil look made him avert his eyes, just slightly.
The hall fell utterly still.
Though they were many and he but one, the weight in the air pressed on their chests. Each heartbeat seemed to stretch, slow and heavy, until time itself felt thick.
"…heh."
At last Kaen chuckled softly, breaking the tight-wound silence as one might lance a taut cord.
In that heartbeat, the Elves in the chamber all let out breaths they had not known they were holding.
Especially Ingwion. In that brief instant under Kaen's eyes, it had seemed to him that an entire Age had passed him by, that every thought he had ever nursed had been turned over and laid bare.
Only before Manwë Súlimo himself had he felt so utterly seen.
He could not understand it. How could a mortal, one who had not even lived long enough to count as the beginning of his own youth, possess such a gaze?
Those calm, measuring eyes were enough to make the mighty Vanyarin prince, a top-tier mythic hero, break contact first.
Yet he still pressed the point, almost stubbornly, as if to reclaim some scrap of ground.
"Your Majesty," Ingwion said hoarsely, "you still have not answered me. Why must we listen to you?"
Kaen's smile faded. At last, he spoke.
"Because," he said softly, "with the exception of High King Gil-galad…
none of you has the right to speak of 'returning home'."