Grey Havens.
Since Kaen, Galadriel and Círdan had rowed out to the great fleet, a full day had passed. More than a fifty thousand Elves had already gathered in the port, all of them craning their necks to stare at the distant forest of masts.
At last, toward evening, they saw a small boat peel away from that white forest of sails and glide alone toward the shore.
"They're back!"
Legolas spoke first. His keen elven eyes had already picked out the three figures in the boat long before anyone else could.
The crowd hurried down to the pier to greet them.
When the skiff slid in alongside the stone quay, Thorin stepped forward immediately.
"Kaen," he demanded, "how did it go? What did those Elves say?"
"They didn't want to pay any price at all," Kaen replied flatly as he stepped ashore. "They wanted to take land like ungrateful bandits. I refused, and I condemned them for it."
He told them, simply and clearly, what had transpired aboard the flagship.
Gandalf sighed when he heard it.
"So the Elves of Aman are still as impossibly proud as ever," he said. "But… this time, they've run into someone prouder…and stronger…than they are."
"Those bastards!"
Thorin's beard bristled with fury.
"I'll send riders to the Blue Mountains at once," he growled. "The Firebeards and Broadbeams must be warned. If it comes to war, they are to march at once to our aid."
Denethor's eyes had gone cold as steel.
"If such be their intent," he said, "then never shall Gondor yield Enedwaith to these self-styled High Elves."
"We northern Dúnedain as well," Aragorn added, voice low. "Our fathers' realm may have fallen, but we still guard these lands. The old soil of Cardolan will not be parceled out to some haughty host from Aman."
One after another, the representatives of the great powers stated their stance.
Círdan inclined his head.
"Lindon's lord, King Gil-galad, will come ashore two days from now with two hundred thousand Elves," he said. "We will not meddle in disputes over other lands—but we will stand with the Free Folk of Middle-earth."
Kaen nodded.
Galadriel took Arwen's hand gently and said in a low voice:
"Celebrían is among them. She comes back with my nephew and niece, your uncle Anrod and your aunt Anariel, the son and daughter of Finrod Felagund of old Nargothrond. They've promised that whatever happens, they'll see her safely ashore."
A soft light of hope bloomed in Arwen's eyes. She stared out over the sea, lost in thought, as if she could already see her mother's ship cutting the waves.
It was, for now, the only good news the negotiations had brought back.
Meanwhile, aboard the great ship.
After Kaen and the other two had departed, the council chamber had fallen into a heavy silence. Every face was taut; no one spoke.
The Elves held themselves rigid, but Kaen's words still seemed to echo under the arched ceiling like hammer blows, smashing the bright shell of self-regard they had worn for generations.
Only when a gust of sea wind whistled through the high slit windows and set the candles flickering wildly did someone finally move.
"This is an outrage, an unspeakable humiliation!"
Ingwion burst out, fingers clenching hard enough on the armrest to leave five pale dents in the wood. His voice was hoarse with fury.
"The Vanyar have never bowed their heads to any creature!"
His golden hair lifted without wind, and the pressure rolling off him snuffed out half the candles at once. Only a few silver lamps near the round table stayed lit, casting a wavering glow that made every face look strangely hollowed.
Anariel bit her lower lip. Tiny points of light glittered on her lashes, tears that pride still refused to let fall.
"How dare he question our honor?" she hissed. "Our father gave up his life to stand against Morgoth! Is that not proof enough of the Noldor's resolve?"
Anrod laid a gentle hand on his sister's shoulder. The tremor beneath his fingertips drew a quiet sigh from him.
"Kaen was not speaking of our father," he said. His gaze swept around the table, lingering on each face in turn. "He was speaking of us—
Of those of us who basked in centuries of peace in Aman, and chose silence when Middle-earth was at its darkest."
That sentence made every face grow uglier still.
Because it did what Kaen's words had already begun to do: it dragged them down from their proud pedestal as "High Elves of the Light" and showed them, plain as day, as people who had feared loss and clung to comfort.
At that moment, a chair scraped softly.
Gil-galad rose to his feet.
"My friends," he said quietly. His voice was not loud, but it cut through the hush like a clear bell and reached every ear.
"The bond between Lindon and Middle-earth was forged in the ancient years. King Kaen's conditions do not concern me—for they do not concern Lindon.
"The two hundred thousand Elves of Lindon will land at Grey Havens at dawn the day after tomorrow, and take their place upon the line of Eriador's defense. As for your decisions… that is no longer my affair."
This was the king who had fallen in the Last Alliance, side by side with Elendil and Isildur, fighting Sauron to the death. Now, he turned his back on the council table and walked toward the door. Dozens of elven lords stood and followed him out.
The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving a roomful of silence in their wake.
Ingwion stared at that closed door for a heartbeat, then gave a short, cold laugh.
"It seems there is one among us," he said, "who better understands how to wag his tail for Men."
"Prince Ingwion!"
Anrod was on his feet in an instant, the silver cuff at his wrist flashing in the lamplight.
"Take back those words. Gil-galad died for Middle-earth while we were still singing of the stars on the grasslands of Valinor."
He took a steadying breath and went on, more tightly:
"This is not the time to argue about who has more honor. We need to face reality.
King Kaen holds the voice of Middle-earth in his hands. He himself is as mighty as any of the Highest of Elves, and behind him stand thousands upon thousands who have fought and bled for freedom."
Elurín suddenly raised his hand. His fingertip traced a bright silver arc in the air.
The dome of the council chamber shimmered, and turned into a sky full of stars.
Uncounted points of light glittered overhead like scattered diamonds. Among them, three brightest stars shifted slowly westward together.
"This is the sign of Varda," Elurín said solemnly. "The way of the stars tells us we must put our pride aside."
Eluréd spoke next.
"When we were children," he said, "our father Dior told us that the glory of Doriath lay not in blood but in its guardianship.
"Kaen's words have woken us from a very long sleep."
The grey-haired brothers stood shoulder to shoulder. They were Peredhil—Half-elven. Elrond's mother Elwing had been their sister. By blood, they were Elrond's uncles.
Their father was Dior; Dior's mother was Lúthien, whose song had moved Ilúvatar Himself. And Lúthien was the daughter of Thingol, great king of the Sindar. So the blood that flowed in their veins was half divine, half elven, half of the Firstborn of Men.
Their great-grandfather Thingol had died because of his own selfish pride. The twins not only knew powerful arts, but also learned to hold their pride in check.
"Brother and I will go to Minhiriath," said Elurín, "and there raise Doriath anew."
"Of course," Eluréd added, "we will compensate the Dúnedain. Their forefathers once dwelt under the beech-boughs of Doriath as well. That forest is as much theirs as it is ours."
They bowed once, turned, and strode from the hall. A great many Elven lords rose to follow them—Sindar and Falmari both, though by blood there was little difference between them.
In the wake of the twins' decision, the council chamber grew emptier, quieter.
In the end, only Ingwion, and Anrod and Anariel, remained seated at the round table—
Forced, after all their inner struggle, to make a choice of their own…