"Look closely," Rowan said, his voice carrying across Doriath as magic amplified every word. "Even the Queen's Girdle is not absolute. Have you already forgotten the bloodshed when Morgoth's forces first pushed into these lands? Forgotten the kin who fell to orc blades?"
The forest lay silent.
"Let me be blunt," he continued. "Doriath's peace rests partly on the Girdle, yes. But the greater reason is the northern defense line built by the Noldor. That line kept Morgoth and his armies locked in Angband. It bought all of Middle-earth its fragile calm. Now that line is broken."
His gaze swept across the gathered elves.
"If Doriath refuses to aid the Noldor and humankind today, what happens tomorrow? When every other people is crushed, do you truly believe Morgoth will spare you?"
No one answered.
The Grey Elves were not fools. Elves might rival humans in wit, but they far surpassed them in lived wisdom. Every one of them understood his meaning. Understanding was not the problem. Courage was.
"Morgoth's goal is dominion over all Middle-earth," Rowan pressed on. "No elf will be spared. You will be slain or twisted into slaves. If even I, a human, find that fate unbearable, how much worse must it be for you?"
His voice hardened.
"Elves, dwarves, humans. We stand or fall together. When the whole collapses, no single part survives. Comfort today will not save you from disaster tomorrow."
And he did not stop there.
For two full hours, Rowan spoke.
He told stories shaped to elven ears. He traced the balance of power, the slow tightening of the noose, the cost of hesitation. He warned of peace rotting into complacency, of safety becoming a cage. Sometimes he challenged their pride. Sometimes he appealed to their honor. Sometimes he praised them, lifting them higher so retreat would shame them.
When at last he fell silent, the Grey Elves stood stunned.
Even Melian watched him with open astonishment.
The weight of his words took time to settle. Only after long moments did the crowd truly grasp everything he had laid bare.
"Rowan," Thingol said at last, admiration unmistakable in his voice, "you are a human of extraordinary wisdom."
He nodded slowly.
"You are right. Fëanor's line may bear guilt, but not all elves do. Nor do the peoples of Middle-earth. We cannot hide forever behind the Girdle."
He turned to the assembled nobles. "What say you?"
This decision bound the fate of the entire realm. Even a king could not decree it alone.
"I agree."
"So do I."
"I agree as well."
One by one, voices rose.
In the end, fifteen elders voted to commit forces. Five hesitated. Two refused outright.
It was enough.
"Then it is decided," Thingol declared. "From this day forward, Doriath prepares for war. Summon the dwarves of the Blue Mountains. We will need arms and armor in great number."
Rowan exhaled, a quiet smile breaking through at last.
So it worked.
Not entirely by chance. He had earned their respect with power before he ever opened his mouth. Without strength, even truth sounded hollow. With it, words carried weight.
And this world was still young. It lacked the layers of cynicism and manipulation that later ages would know. His arguments, refined by countless histories and hard lessons from another life, struck deeper here than they ever could have back home.
"Our academy already hosts dwarves," Rowan added. "They're working with the Noldor on armor designed to resist fire. The Grey Elves should join that effort. It will matter when facing the Balrogs."
Thingol smiled broadly now. "Sending our people to your academy was a wise choice."
Light magic to scour darkness. Giant magic to shatter strength. Dwarven craft, elven skill, human ingenuity.
For the first time, the thought surfaced clearly.
Morgoth's end might not be a dream.
"If Morgoth falls," Thingol said quietly, "Melian will no longer need to sustain the Girdle. My people will walk freely again. That… would be true peace."
His eyes lingered on Rowan, thoughtful.
"A pity," the elven king added softly, "that you are not one of us."
...
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