The Battle of the Five Armies was done. Joy of victory was a brief, bright thing; the grief of the fallen hung over all, a long, dark shadow that would not soon be swept away.
Of the three thousand Elves Thranduil had brought, fewer than nine hundred remained. Bard of the Dale had come with a thousand men—now fewer than a hundred lived. Dáin's three thousand Ironfoot warriors were thinned to barely a thousand. Kaen had marched with a guard of a hundred; only ten of those remained alive. The reinforcements that had come to aid them had themselves been bled: two thousand bowmen, two hundred horse-archers, two hundred heavy-infantry, and a hundred heavy cavalry lay gone to the earth.
Such is war: the ground drinks deep, and no triumph is wholly clean. Yet, as some say, peace is a gaudy flower nourished by the blood of warriors. This victory, hard-won as it was, might yet lay the foundations for many decades of peace in the Northeast of the continent.
For days the living laboured. The field was cleared; the wounded tended and the dead honoured. Against the slopes of the Lonely Mountain, pyres were built and smoke rose in great black pillars, as men and Dwarves and Elves prayed that the spirits of the fallen might find rest. On the banks of the running river the three peoples together raised a triple memorial: three great stones, three faces hewn skyward, each a hundred cubits tall. These were no mere gravestones; they were a witness to the fellowship between the three races.
The folk of Long Lake, under Bard's counsel, were brought within the walls of Dale. With the aid of Dwarves and Elves they set themselves to rebuild hearth and home. When music rose again from Dale and from the Mountain, Thorin chose beneath the triple monument to take up his crown. He donned the vestments of a king; he mounted the stone steps that were veined with ore, and with measured tread he climbed to the dais. Before all eyes Kaen placed the crown upon him.
"Thorin Oakenshield," Kaen said, voice steady and grave, "thou hast fulfilled thine oath to recover the realm of old. Through trial and sorrow thou hast taken back the Mountain. Thy honour now bears the weight of the crown. Henceforth be thou King under the Mountain, King of Durin's folk."
So it was. Kaen set upon Thorin a coronet carved of black basalt, plain and strong—Thorin's own choice, for as once he bore an oak-shield to remind himself of humility, so would a simple stone crown remind him of what a king ought not to be tempted by. A high song rose, and men and Elves and Dwarves stooped their heads in homage to the restorer of the kingdom.
Crowned, Thorin bowed before Kaen and before the throng, and in words that rang with old courage he spoke, pledges and thanks mingled. Thus the Lonely Mountain was reclaimed; the kingdom of Durin stood again upon the Northeastern lands.
With the rites completed, the matter of treasure remained to be settled. Thorin had once promised that the hoard within the Mountain would be shared with the Company that had undertaken the quest. But war had altered many reckonings. Great losses had been suffered; the Dwarves had borne the sickness of the dragon and had closed their gates; and in the contest of recent days the role of the Company seemed but a pale thing beside the sacrifice of many. Therefore, upon counsel and by accord, the hoard would be divided anew.
The vast wealth of the Mountain was portioned into ten shares. Thranduil took back his white-stone necklace.Bard and the people of Dale were granted a tenth of the treasure. Dáin of the Iron Hills took a tenth. Rivendell and Lothlórien, who had sent fewer hosts, shared a tenth between them.
Kaen, for his burdens as organizer and commander, for the protection he had offered the Dwarven host and for the guidance he had given Thorin upon the road, was awarded two tenths. His service and friendship had been of a sort not repayable by mere coin; the gift was given in acknowledgment. The remaining shares were set apart for division among the Dwarven Company.
Thorin looked not with stinginess upon the giving. He had, in truth, more than could be spent; the Mountain's deep veins of gold and stone were yet enough to make kings and realms anew. So he was willing to let that which was shared go, for he knew the riches beneath his feet would replenish what had been given.
Then, before everyone assembled, Thorin brought out the Arkenstone. He spoke, and the crowd listened with a silence that seemed to hold back the wind itself.
"Kaen," he said, "when you first asked if I would give you this jewel as your reward, I refused." He paused, and his next words were simple and noble. "You have taught me that a true king gives authority to the symbols of his office; he isn't controlled by them. Now I understand what it truly means to be a king—though I can't claim to have your level of understanding—and my heart is no longer captivated by material things. This stone has the power to corrupt, but a spirit like yours is its natural antidote. Therefore, today, I am giving it to you as a token: so that our bond of friendship can be sealed, beyond all things of this world."
A murmur of astonishment went through the host. No one had expected the heirloom of Durin's House to be offered so freely just as a sign of companionship.
Kaen did not refuse. He took the Arkenstone, and with a look of quiet contentment said, "I accept this gift, and in return, I pledge that you will be my friend in all things. Our fellowship will outlast all earthly treasures."
Thereafter Kaen, Thorin, Dáin, Bard, and Thranduil—these five kings—stood before the peoples and renewed, by oaths, a compact of mutual succour. Each pledged on the fate of his realm that if ever a sign of need were raised, aid would be sent with all speed and with all that lay within their power. Thus the north was settled for the time: the great matters of war and alliance bound anew.
Winter pressed in. Snow and bitter cold laid a hold upon the land, and armies lingered. In these days gold and coin were loaded upon wains in readiness to be borne away when the thaw would come. At length, upon a bright winter morning, a host took the road home. Among them were Kaen's men, whose journey would be the longest. They rode with the Greenwood host through the falling snow toward the Woodland Realm. Their stores had been wasted by the march and by the campaigns, and here, in Thranduil's halls, they stayed for a little while to rest and to be fed.
Thranduil, in his courtesy, set aside ground within his borders for Kaen's troops, that they might make their camp. During that time the tales of their deeds were carried through the Woodland Realm and made light of by the bards. Many of the woodfolk came to behold Kaen and Artemis: they came to see the gleam of his light and to be healed, for the folk of the woods are of quick feeling. Elves do not die by slow wasting or by age as Men do, yet they may be worn by grief and by the gnawing ache of bitter memories. Those who had fought at Dale and before the Mountain were brave—yet even the valiant shall need time to mend the hurts that war sets in the heart.
Kaen's double-brightness—the mingled gold and silver—mended more than flesh; it set ease into troubled souls, and many came in groups to gaze upon him and to be healed by what they might see and touch. Thranduil and Legolas and Tauriel themselves sometimes came to visit, to witness the light. Kaen welcomed them; he led feasts in the forest, walked with Cathril and Ameliah among the trees, and shared fellowship with the folk of the Greenwood, letting his radiance fall upon that ancient realm.
After a month of rest and the filling of their stores, Kaen took leave of Thranduil and set his face toward Tusgar in the Anduin River Valley, where he would spend the winter; come spring he would cross the Misty Mountains once more.
It was then—at the very moment when he should have felt the warmth of repose—that something unforeseen occurred, and Kaen was struck with a bewilderment so deep it arrested his breath.