"No! We are not going to that cursed valley!"
"The Dwarves will never set foot on Elven land—it's full of deceitful, pointy-eared princesses!"
"We hate Elves!"
"..."
The moment Gandalf suggested traveling to Rivendell to seek out Lord Elrond, he was met with resounding opposition from every single Dwarf present.
Dwarves were simple in their thoughts, but infamously stubborn.
The Grey Wizard's beard practically quivered with frustration as he glared at them, his temper barely held in check.
"If you truly wish to decipher the hidden runes on this map," he declared, "then you must go to Rivendell. Only the wise Lord Elrond possesses the knowledge to read the Dwarvish moon-letters inscribed here."
At this, Thorin Oakenshield replied coldly, "We do not need the help of Elves. Nor would they offer it. They watched in silence as our kingdom fell into ruin."
"We have Kaen's army to aid us now—and the strength of the Iron Hills behind us. We will defeat the dragon without the help of the Elves."
"Dáin is my cousin, our blood runs deep. He will not abandon us!"
"Aye! Who needs the Elves?"
"We can face the dragon on our own!"
"This map is a Dwarvish secret! We will never show it to the Elves. Never!"
The Dwarves roared in defiance, voices thick with ancient grievances and distrust, shaking the walls of the hall with their bitter declarations.
Gandalf pressed his fingers to his temples in exasperation, sighing through his teeth.
He turned to Kaen, hoping for support, only to find the Orc-slayer standing aside, watching the scene unfold with quiet amusement.
"If you don't speak up now," Gandalf warned, "they're going to drag you straight into a suicidal brawl with a fire-breathing dragon."
Kaen cleared his throat. That got their attention.
He rose to his feet and spoke, calm yet commanding: "Peace, my Dwarven friends. Lend me your ears for just a moment."
The hall instantly fell silent.
Kaen met their gazes one by one before continuing. "You may not trust the Elves. That is your right. But I ask that you trust me. I give you my word—Lord Elrond has no desire for your treasures."
"He is my teacher. A Half-elf, born of both Elven and Mortal blood. He has lived since the First Age, and few in this world possess his wisdom—or his honor."
The Dwarves exchanged uncertain glances.
To those who placed great weight on blood and kinship, learning that Elrond bore human lineage softened their resentment considerably.
Thorin, however, remained unmoved.
"Even so," he said grimly, "I will not set foot on Elven land."
"You must learn to let go," Gandalf implored. "Old wounds serve no purpose on the road ahead."
"I cannot forget!" Thorin burst out. "Because the Elves turned their backs on us, we lost our home. We lost our king. You ask me to forgive the very ones who stood idle while our world burned?"
Gandalf's wisdom often stemmed from a place beyond mortality—divine in its scope, yet blind to the pain of mortal hearts.
The hatred Dwarves bore toward Elves ran too deep for words to unearth.
So when Thorin turned his gaze toward Kaen, seeking his counsel, Kaen stepped forward and answered:
"Thorin," he said quietly, "I do not ask you to forgive. But as a king-to-be, you must learn to choose wisely."
"You may cling to your pride and take our armies straight to Smaug. We might win… but at what cost?"
"Or you may set aside your grudge, just for a while, and seek counsel from my teacher. His knowledge could turn the tide—and save countless lives."
"Know this: at this moment, the fate of my warriors and your cousin Dáin's forces rests in your hands."
Thorin said nothing at first.
All eyes were on him, watching… waiting.
Would he cling to pride—or rise above it?
At last, he asked softly, "And if I chose pride, Kaen… what would you do?"
Kaen didn't hesitate. "I would still follow you. That is my vow."
Thorin drew in a long breath. Then, voice steady, he declared:
"Then let it be so. We go to Rivendell."
"Thank the Valar…" Gandalf exhaled, visibly relieved. "At last, someone's managed to talk sense into this iron-headed Dwarf prince."
In the original tale, Thorin had never agreed to go willingly—Gandalf had tricked him into it. But this time…
"No, Gandalf," Thorin shook his head and turned toward Kaen, eyes softened with respect. "He did not convince me. He gave me a choice. He made me feel respected—something I haven't felt in a very long time."
Kaen smiled. "In my realm, all are equals. Respect is earned—and freely returned. The choice was always yours."
"Oh, spare me the sentimentality," Gandalf muttered, rolling his eyes. The old wizard had rarely felt so irrelevant.
In the Second Age, he had been honored in every hall across Middle-earth—his words heeded even by mortal kings.
Now? Among Dwarves, he was nothing more than a glorified chaperone—forever smoothing ruffled beards and managing tantrums.
But with Kaen here… at least he wouldn't have to carry that burden alone.
…..
All preparations were made.
The time had come.
Outside Aurienel, thousands of citizens and soldiers stood in formation, bidding farewell to their king.
Petals drifted down from above like snow. Maidens sang songs of valor and longing, their voices pure and echoing, blessing the path ahead with hope for a triumphant return.
Kaen sat atop Blaze, his great warhorse.
He wore silver-gilded armor, trimmed with gold, and his gaze was fixed firmly eastward.
Behind him stood Gandalf and Thorin. Further back followed Bilbo Baggins and twelve Dwarven heroes—each a seasoned warrior.
A hundred elite guards, clad in golden plate and mounted upon powerful steeds, flanked the host in a shining formation.
Kaen raised his arm and cried aloud:
"Victory shall be ours! Glory shall be ours! For Eowenria!"
The crowd erupted with cheers, their eyes wild with pride and devotion as they watched their king begin his march.
The soldiers, hearts ablaze with courage, thundered their response:
"For Eowenria!"
Even the Dwarves, stirred by the moment, kicked their stout ponies into motion and joined the cry, swinging their weapons with fierce determination.
Thorin, watching Kaen bask in the love of his people, clenched his fists.
One day, he vowed silently, when I am King Under the Mountain, I too shall be so loved.
….
Rivendell.
The last haven of the Elves east of the sea.
It had been nearly a year since Kaen first passed through its sacred borders.
Now, accompanied by one hundred royal guards and a company of Dwarves, he rode again into the upper reaches of the Bruinen River.
It wasn't long before they were met by Elven riders on patrol.
"Halt! Name yourselves," came the call. "You ride near the borders of Rivendell."
Kaen answered clearly and without pause:
"I am Kaen Eowenríel, King of the Northern Realm. I come to seek audience with my teacher—your lord, Elrond of Rivendell."