Gandalf jogged a few steps to catch up with Lord Elrond.
He pleaded earnestly,
"Don't be like this, Elrond. You know it—Thorin Oakenshield will take up the throne of Durin's folk."
Elrond let out a long sigh.
"Have you forgotten? His grandfather was driven mad by gold. His father descended into madness and died. Can you guarantee Thorin Oakenshield will not follow the same path?"
He paused for a moment before continuing, voice heavy with meaning.
"Gandalf, it is not our place to decide such things. The balance of power in Middle-earth is not ours to redraw."
Gandalf knew then—no matter what he said, Elrond would not be swayed. So he gave up the effort and shrugged in defeat.
"Whether we help them or not," he said plainly, "these Dwarves will march to Erebor. Their resolve to reclaim their home is firm and unshakable."
"And Thorin Oakenshield believes he owes nothing to anyone. He merely seeks to reclaim his homeland. Frankly, I agree."
As they spoke, the three of them came to a stop before a tall pavilion—the highest point among Rivendell's many halls and terraces.
Elrond halted and said to Gandalf,
"You, of course, owe me no explanation."
Then his gaze turned forward.
Following his eyes, Gandalf and Kaen looked toward the pavilion.
There, standing still under the light of the moon, was a figure of radiant beauty, bathed in a soft and pure glow.
Her light was more subdued than Glorfindel's, yet somehow brighter—brighter even than Elrond himself.
She turned slowly, and in the moonlight revealed a face of ethereal grace, framed by golden hair more beautiful than any woman Kaen had ever seen. Her eyes shimmered like starlight.
"Lady Galadriel…" Gandalf breathed, astonished.
To the world, she was known as Galadriel.
Princess of the Noldor, one of the few Elves in Middle-earth who still bore the Light of Valinor. Bearer of Nenya, the Ring of Water, one of the Three Elven Rings of Power.
Her husband was Celeborn, a royal of the Sindar from the First Age. Together, they ruled the Golden Wood—Lothlórien, nestled east of the Misty Mountains. Though husband and wife, they governed separately, each a monarch in their own right.
And through her daughter, who married Lord Elrond, Galadriel was also Elrond's mother-in-law.
"It has been long, Mithrandir," Galadriel said, calling Gandalf by his Elvish name.
"Time may have aged me, my lady," Gandalf replied with a courteous bow, "but it has not dimmed your radiance."
His words of flattery drew a gentle, gracious smile from Galadriel—dignified and beautiful.
Gandalf whispered under his breath,
"I didn't think Elrond would summon her."
A voice answered from the shadows, calm and resonant:
"He did not. I did."
Out of the dim stepped a figure in white robes, stern-faced and stately—a staff in hand, just like Gandalf's.
It was Saruman the White.
The moment Gandalf heard his voice, he cast a sideways glance at Elrond—a look that clearly said: You invited him, too?
Elrond simply shrugged.
Both wizards gave each other polite bows.
"Saruman," Gandalf greeted.
At this time, Saruman held the chair of the White Council and was still considered its most honored and respected member. Though his methods often left Gandalf frustrated, none could deny he fulfilled the role of a wizard with diligence and authority.
Saruman arched a brow and gave a slight smirk.
"You've been busy lately, haven't you, my friend?"
"Just a few little matters," Gandalf replied awkwardly.
With all eyes now turning toward him, Gandalf suddenly noticed Kaen smirking at him from the side. Not wanting the attention to remain on himself, he quickly smiled and gestured.
"Allow me to introduce someone. This is Kaen Eowenríel, King of Men, favored pupil of Lord Elrond, and a wielder of magic."
A human king who commands magic?
At these words, both Galadriel and Saruman turned their attention at once toward the young man standing at the pavilion's entrance.
Kaen silently cursed Gandalf for throwing him to the wolves—but on the surface, he remained every bit the noble monarch.
He stepped forward.
His tall, poised figure emerged fully from the shadows, faint traces of elemental light glimmering around him. His handsome features were composed, respectful.
He bowed with grace and solemnity.
"I greet you, Lady Galadriel, and you, great sage—Master Saruman."
As members of the White Council, Galadriel and Saruman were always well-informed. They had both heard of Kaen. More than that, as Elrond's pupil and king of a rising human realm, he had earned their interest and attention.
The prosperity of Eowenría had not gone unnoticed. A young and capable human king who stood firmly against the Shadow—how could they not look upon him favorably?
Especially Saruman, who was ever fond of flattery.
Hearing Kaen refer to him as both "great sage" and "master," his opinion of the young king soared on the spot.
Still, Kaen was a monarch, and thus, in status, an equal.
So both Galadriel and Saruman offered him a slight bow in return.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, young King of Men," Saruman said with a faint smile. "We have heard much of your deeds. You are a remarkable soul."
Galadriel, however, looked upon Kaen with a wistful expression. A trace of sorrow flickered in her eyes.
"…In you," she said softly, "I glimpse the shadow of my elder brother as he once was—young, proud, and radiant. The most beautiful of all the Noldorin kings."
She spoke of Finrod Felagund, the founder of Nargothrond in the First Age—a friend of Men, the first Elf to forge bonds with humankind. Much of the early language and lore of Men had been nurtured under his guidance.
But Finrod met a tragic end—slain by a werewolf of Sauron's making after a contest of sorcery, defending his mortal companion Beren.
His spirit returned to Aman and was eventually re-embodied, but he never set foot in Middle-earth again.
The first impressions were warm—Kaen had earned their regard.
Yet this was not a mere meeting of minds. This was a council, and weighty matters lay ahead.
Once all were seated, the discussion turned serious.
Saruman was the first to speak. His eyes gleamed with a strange amusement as he looked toward Gandalf.
"Tell me, Gandalf," he said slowly. "Did you truly believe your little schemes would go unnoticed by us?"
Gandalf gave a tight smile and deflected,
"No, dear Saruman. I am only doing what I believe to be right."
He had hoped to dodge the question. His current position was… precarious.
But Galadriel spoke next, calmly and clearly.
"You are still troubled by that dragon."
So she had seen through him completely.
Gandalf sighed in resignation.
"You are right, my lady. Smaug serves no master. If he should fall into the hands of our Enemy, the consequences would be disastrous."
"Enemy?" Saruman scoffed, tilting his head. "What enemy? The Dark Lord has been defeated. Sauron has lost his body—he is but a phantom, wandering the East. He no longer has the strength to rise."
Gandalf's eyes narrowed.
"And if the Dwarves hold the last piece of power that Sauron seeks—would you still not be concerned?"