The height of summer bathed Rivendell in splendor. The valley teemed with life—lush green trees crowned the hills, and a myriad of blossoms carpeted the meadows. Everywhere, beauty reigned supreme.
Elves, graceful and serene, wandered by the riverbanks, through the forest glades, and across the soft grasslands. Some plucked harmonious melodies from silver-stringed harps, while others sang in lilting voices that echoed like sunlight on water.
Gandalf let out a wistful sigh. "No matter how many times I've laid eyes on it," he murmured, "this place never fails to take my breath away."
Kaen nodded in agreement.
"The homes of the Elves are always steeped in poetry and wonder," he said. "Like realms torn from dreams—ethereal, untouched. No race reveres beauty as the Elves do."
Led by a host of elven riders, their company proceeded deeper into the valley, toward the palace of Lord Elrond.
Before long, Elrond himself came into view.
He stood at the foot of the marble steps that led to his halls—tall, noble, and radiating an air of quiet majesty. Yet, despite his grandeur, there was warmth in his bearing, a scholarly gentleness that set him apart from kings of men.
Kaen and the others dismounted, stepping forward to offer respectful bows.
Gandalf smiled. "It has been too long, old friend, but I see time has only deepened your kingly grace."
Kaen followed, his voice earnest. "In letters past, I called you 'master' with pen and ink. But only spoken words can convey the full measure of my respect."
Elrond returned their gesture with a refined bow and a smile.
"Your arrival brings me joy," he said. "Especially yours, Kaen. Just as you've said—words penned from afar can never rival the truth that flows from the heart."
"You are the only disciple I have ever taken under my wing. And your accomplishments thus far fill me with pride. I believe your journey has only just begun."
Elrond's gaze lingered on Kaen. He could sense the elemental energy pulsing gently around the young man—an aura that surpassed even most high-born Elves. In truth, not since the days of the Calaquendi, the Elves of Light from the elder ages, had he seen such mastery.
Kaen's power now stood just below Elrond's own.
A similar comparison could be drawn to Gandalf. When his divine power as a Maia was bound and sealed, it was with the aid of Narya, the Ring of Fire, that he summoned the Flame of Arnor to challenge the Balrog in a battle to the death.
Though the Balrog was not the equal of the mightiest Maiar, it remained a true being of divine origin—a corrupted demigod. For Gandalf, in his sealed state, to match such a creature spoke volumes.
From that precedent, one might infer that Elrond, if pressed, could achieve a similar feat… though it would cost him dearly—his very life.
Kaen, humbled, replied, "It is only through your tireless teaching that I've come this far. I owe everything to your wisdom."
"And yet," Elrond said, eyes gleaming, "it was your diligence that turned knowledge into strength. That is no small thing."
He meant every word. Kaen was not just a student—he was the student. Elrond had never taught another in the ways of Elven magic. But Elrond, being a Half-elven, bore an uncommon fondness not only for his own kin but for the race of Men as well.
As the three conversed warmly, Thorin Oakenshield felt himself pointedly ignored. With a disgruntled huff, he cleared his throat in protest.
Elrond, of course, had noticed him all along. He had simply chosen not to acknowledge the Dwarf prince—wanting to see what kind of character this son of Durin possessed.
And now, he had his answer: prideful, yes, and perhaps a bit quick-tempered—but not without the makings of a king.
Elrond raised a brow in feigned surprise.
"Oh? I seem to recall you've brought… some Dwarves with you?" He turned and smiled knowingly. "Let me see now—"
"Thorin Oakenshield, prince of the Line of Durin, leader of the Durinfolk of the Blue Mountains.
"Balin, son of Fundin, once a captain of Erebor…"
He went on, naming each dwarf with uncanny accuracy.
Thorin's face darkened. "Have you been spying on us?"
The rest of the Dwarves tensed, hands inching toward weapon belts. Already wary of Elves, this apparent intrusion deepened their mistrust.
Elrond sighed and shook his head.
"When your ancestors still dwelt in Khazad-dûm, I held deep friendships with them. After they abandoned Moria, that bond was gradually lost in time."
"With the Misty Mountains lying between us, word from the south seldom reached Rivendell. By the time I learned the kingdom under the mountain had fallen, your people had vanished like smoke."
"I have been searching ever since… until, not long ago, this came into my hands."
From within his robes, Elrond produced several sheets of parchment and handed them to the Dwarves.
Their expressions darkened as they read.
It was a wanted notice—a bounty issued by dark forces, listing Thorin and his twelve companions.
"Your quest," Elrond said gravely, "which you thought hidden, is known to many. I might have let it pass in silence… but my disciple Kaen, and Gandalf, brought you here."
As he spoke, his eyes drifted deliberately toward Gandalf.
The wizard let out an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his head. He had believed his orchestration of the Dwarves' journey was subtle, yet now it was clear the entire White Council had been watching from the shadows.
Later that evening, Elrond hosted a feast in the great hall. The Elves served delicate fare, prepared with refinement and grace. The Dwarves, however, were less than impressed—finding the Elven food too bland for their liking.
They built a small fire pit outside and roasted meat to their own taste, all while listening to Elven harps sing through the air. Occasionally, they even bathed in the grand fountain before the palace—unaware that such fountains bore ceremonial significance to the Elves.
Elrond's eyelids twitched at the sight.
But he said nothing.
He knew why they had come. Kaen and Gandalf had already revealed the heart of the matter.
These Dwarves were the descendants of Elrond's old friends. Now fallen from former glory, they had come to him in need. And Elrond would not turn them away.
At last, Thorin produced the map.
But before handing it over, he said solemnly, "This is a sacred relic of the Dwarves. If I am to share it, you must vow—none of this leaves this room."
Elrond nodded. "I swear it. No one beyond those present here shall know of it."
Only then did Thorin relinquish the map.
Elrond received it with care, eyes narrowing slightly as he examined it. His brow furrowed in concentration.
"Well?" Gandalf asked. "Can you read it?"
Elrond nodded slowly.
"It's written in the ancient Dwarvish tongue—long lost to time. But you're fortunate… I once studied many Dwarven arts."
He turned to the group and began to explain.
This map was far more than it appeared.
Etched into its surface, hidden beyond mortal sight, were moon-runes—secret characters visible only under moonlight identical to that of the night they were inscribed.
And as fate would have it, that very moon… would shine tonight.