As for Thorin Oakenshield and Dáin Ironfoot's resolve to march upon Moria, Kaen Eowenríel gave his approval.
By now Thorin was already two hundred and fourteen years of age, and Dáin Ironfoot one hundred and ninety-three. The average span of a Dwarf was near three hundred years; they had stepped into the full strength of their prime. If they could not rise to mythic rank in the furnace of battle, then they would remain all their lives at the summit of legendary might.
Since they now had heirs to follow them and strength enough to dare it, they were bound, as kings and as sons of Durin, to set an example and strive to win back the lost kingdom of Khazad-dûm.
For the Dwarves are a people who cherish honor above comfort, who revere tradition and the ancient glory of their forefathers. They will not willingly suffer the halls of their ancestors to lie in the talons of vile creatures. When at last they have the strength, they will gather an expedition and march, laying life and death aside, to reclaim the ancestral halls.
So it had been with Thorin in the old tale, and with Balin as well. Neither of them, in that first story, ever ceased from longing to restore the honor of their fathers' house.
Kaen told Balin then the legend of Glorfindel.
"Lord of the Golden Flower," he said, "is at present the mightiest warrior among all the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. He once hewed down a Balrog with his own hand, yet in that battle he fell from a fathomless cliff and was slain.
"But the Valar restored him and sent him back to Middle-earth, and he has watched over peace and hope in silence ever since. Now he dwells high upon the snowy peak, guardian of the Silver Sacred Tree, Eleneldo.
"If the Dwarves would march to Moria, they must go to him in reverence and learn from him the weaknesses of the Balrog.
"So only thus, when you stand before Durin's Bane, will there be even a narrow hope of victory."
When Kaen had finished, Balin lifted his gaze to the far line of the Misty Mountains and sighed. "I did not know that in this world there yet lived such a mighty one, guarding peace unseen."
"Your Majesty Kaen," he said soberly, "this matter is of the utmost weight for us. I must return and tell Thorin and Dáin all you have said. I believe they will heed your counsel."
Kaen inclined his head and said no more.
Balin rose, bowed once again, then turned and departed, his boots striking the stone steps as he went down from the presence of the king.
Kaen watched his friend's figure fade into the distance, thinking for a while. At length he spoke.
"Send word to Caden, Reyzeth, and Zakri. Let them lead the heavy infantry legions south and hold the Doors of Khazad-dûm.
"Send word to Andric and Yenagath. They are to take their armies and seal the Dimrill Dale, but let the Dwarven expeditionary host pass through.
"Gather a war-band of the King's Guard. In a little while I shall lead you on a campaign of our own."
"Yes, my king."
The two members of the King's Guard bowed, then turned and left to carry out his commands.
...
Three months later.
At the high pass of the Misty Mountains, a small Dwarven party of a dozen or so wound its way along a narrow road clinging to the cliff-side, until they came before the fortress that barred the way to the snowy summit.
These were Thorin and Dáin themselves, accompanied by several of their finest Dwarven champion-warriors.
They lifted their eyes to the stronghold ahead, held by the Noldorin Elves of Rivendell, and one of them called out,
"I am Thorin Oakenshield, and this is Dáin Ironfoot. We have come from the northern East-lands and would go to the summit of the mountain, to pay our respects to Lord Glorfindel."
The great gate of the fortress swung slowly open.
Out from within stepped an Elven lord, who held this pass in the name of Rivendell. He bowed courteously to the Dwarves, then said,
"Concerning your coming, His Majesty Kaen has already sent word beforehand. The two Dwarf-kings may ascend to the mountain-top. As for your companions, they must remain in the fortress and await your return."
Hearing that this was by Kaen's decree, Thorin and Dáin nodded. They led their followers within the walls.
The stronghold, built in a narrow cleft, had after so many years become a resting-place for travelers crossing the Misty Mountains. Three hundred Elven soldiers were stationed there permanently, under the care and command of Rivendell.
Leaving their retinue behind, Thorin and Dáin followed a stairway hewn into the rock of the cliff, a hidden stone stair little known to other folk, and began to climb toward the heights.
After about half an hour of hard ascent they reached the summit of the snow-crowned mountain and beheld the Silver Sacred Tree, Eleneldo.
Its bark shimmered with moon-silver tracery, and its leaves were like ice-crystals delicately carved. Its roots were sunk deep into the bones of the mountain, and its silver radiance was akin to the light that ever shone about Kaen, a little less pure perhaps, yet fed by the gathered power of all the free elements of nature so that its strength was inexhaustible.
Under the Tree's grace, the raging storm and snow below the peak seemed gentled, and the winds that had howled became but a soft sigh.
Beneath its boughs two holy figures sat facing one another.
One was Glorfindel, in white Elven robes, his bearing proud and serene, every movement marked with the noble grace of the Firstborn of creation.
The other was Kaen, likewise clad in white, with the image of the Sacred Tree embroidered upon his robe in gold thread and mithril. Light circled him on every side, and he seemed as a god among Men.
When he saw Thorin and Dáin approach, Kaen smiled. "It has been a long time, Thorin, and you too, Dáin."
At the sight of him, both Dwarves startled, then joy broke across their faces.
Dáin strode forward with a great laugh. "Thorin and I had meant, when all this was settled, to go to Elarothiel and pay you a visit. I did not think we would find you here ahead of us."
Thorin followed, his eyes fixed on Kaen with a warm, unfeigned smile. " My Brother, it has been too long," he said.
Kaen nodded slightly, then gestured toward Glorfindel.
"This is the one you have come in search of, the mightiest warrior now in Middle-earth, the hero who once slew a Balrog, and one of the great guardians of this world."
At these words Thorin and Dáin bowed deeply to Glorfindel in solemn respect.
Glorfindel's face softened into a gentle smile, and his voice was clear and smooth as polished stone. "There is no need for such ceremony. Sit, and let us speak together of what you intend to do."
Thorin and Dáin took their seats and began to lay out the plan of their expedition to Moria.
Dáin spoke first. "That place is the fairest city that ever belonged to Durin's Folk, and indeed to all our race. It was wrought by our forefather Durin, and is the fruit of our people's wisdom and toil. We must take it back out of the grasp of the dark."
Thorin said, "Our ancestors of old were no weaker than we are, yet they died in the Balrog's flames. It is called Durin's Bane and has become the nightmare of our people.
"This time Dáin and I go to war with the certainty of death in our hearts. Even if we fall upon the field, we mean to wound that demon grievously, to show our folk that it is not invincible, that it too can bleed and pay with its own life.
"So long as the demon bleeds, the terror that has weighed on our people for a thousand years will blow away like smoke. Even if we die, our descendants will come after us in unending ranks, until at last the monster is thrown down and the halls are free again."
It was plain to see that this time the two of them had truly set aside all thought of their own lives.
Kaen nodded slowly.
At that moment Glorfindel spoke. "I honor your courage," he said. "In one thing you have spoken truly. A Balrog is not a foe that cannot be overcome..."