Within the gleaming halls of Golden Iris City, Kaen Eowenríel's residence stood quiet, its whitewood doors half open to the soft light of dusk. The air carried the scent of marsh lilies and rain. Then, with a sound like thunder muffled by earth, a shadow fell across the doorway vast, broad-shouldered, and wild.
A man entered though to call him "man" was scarcely enough. He stood over two meters tall, his chest bare, his body thickly covered in coarse brown hair that caught the light like fur. His braids were as thick as rope, his beard tangled like gnarled roots. Beneath heavy brows burned eyes of deep amber, sharp and fierce, like fire glimmering beneath still water. His arms were corded with muscle, his skin bronzed and weathered by wind and storm, and every line of his frame spoke of raw strength tempered by patience, like the mountains themselves.
Before the gathered King's Guard, he stopped, bowed low, and said in a deep rumbling voice that seemed born of the wilderness:
"I am Beorn, chieftain of the Skin-changers. Today, I come on behalf of all my kind who dwell along the river valleys, to pay respect to the great Northern King."
"Rise," Kaen said, his tone calm but commanding, a light kindling in his eyes. "Your coming does not surprise me, Beorn of the Vale. Truth be told, I expected you sooner."
…
The Skin-changers, Kaen had long known of their kind, though he had never yet met their chieftain. They were a remnant of ancient men, gifted by the divine in ages past with the power to take the shape of bears. Fierce lovers of the untamed wild, they loathed the clangor of dwarven forges and the smoke of cities, calling themselves keepers of the old forests.
They had been hunted to near extinction by the Orcs of the Misty Mountains, and only a handful survived. Beorn, mightiest among them, had once fought in the Battle of Five Armies, then vanished from the affairs of Men. In the long years since, he had gathered his scattered kin and other men who chose to follow him,forging them into a small but proud people — the Beornings, who dwelt near the Old Ford beside the Brown Wizard Radagast, living in peace beside the Anduin.
Kaen's triumphs had reached even their hidden valleys: the cleansing of Gundabad, the fall of Dol Guldur's shadow, the planting of the Five Sacred Trees. Light had returned to the North, and the Skin-changers had prospered beneath it. Their numbers, once few, had grown again to fifty or more,still small, but strong and thriving, living simply and freely in the northern wilds.
By right, Beorn might have come to Kaen when the King first claimed the northern Anduin Valley for Eowenría. But Kaen's wars with Angmar and the endless duties of kingship had delayed such meetings. The Beornings, reclusive by nature, seldom ventured beyond their forests. Thus it was only after a year of Kaen's residence in the East that word reached Beorn and now, at last, he had come.
Because his heart was pure and his purpose true, the wards of Golden Iris had not turned him away. The marsh paths opened for him, bearing his weight as though the waters themselves honored his tread.
Beorn knelt upon one knee. "Your Majesty," he said, "though we Skin-changers have not sworn you fealty, we have long lived beneath your light. Your deeds have given us peace, your fire has driven shadow from our lands. We remember this kindness. I come now to pledge that my people will stand ever beside Eowenría and fight in the name of the just."
Kaen studied him for a moment, the raw strength, the wilderness in his spirit. Then he smiled faintly. "You owe no oaths to me, Beorn. I will not bind your kind by crown or chain. You may dwell freely in your forests and live as nature wills. But hear this, should darkness rise again and threaten the North, you will rise with us. Together, we will keep the light."
Beorn's golden eyes gleamed. He pressed his great hand to the ground and bowed his head. "Then I swear by the spirit of the earth and the rivers that shape it — we, the Beornings, shall stand with Eowenría. We will guard the valleys, fight beside your armies, and give our strength to the light."
Kaen placed a hand on his shoulder, an unspoken acceptance between two kings. They spoke long thereafter, sharing tales of battle and wilderness, until at last Kaen offered him rest within the city. But Beorn declined.
"Your Majesty," he said, his tone grave, "it is not that I would refuse your hospitality. But as I came through the southern marshes, I felt something… wrong. A great malice stirs in the southwest, something vast and old, filled with fire and hatred. It gazes upon this land even now. I could feel it clawing at my spirit."
Kaen's eyes hardened, his hand falling slowly to the hilt of his sword. "The southwest, you say?"
Beorn nodded. "Yes. Deep in the mountains. Its presence is darker than any Orc or Troll. A thing of dread — as though the earth itself burns."
Kaen's gaze drifted toward the distant peaks, where the Misty Mountains rose in gray majesty. He knew what lay there. "I understand," he said quietly. "Speak of this to no one. I will see to it myself."
Beorn inclined his head deeply. "As you command, my King."
When at last Beorn's boat departed across the misted waters, Kaen remained upon the pier, his cloak stirring in the wind. His eyes were fixed upon the shadowed line of mountains far to the southwest — toward the forgotten halls of Khazad-dûm, the ancient dwarven realm.
Beorn's kind were attuned to the pulse of nature; they could sense wrongness in the earth as others sense breath. If he felt fear, it was no small matter.
And in that place, Kaen knew, slept an ancient terror.
Durin's Bane.
A Balrog of Morgoth — a fallen Maia of fire and ruin. It had slain two dwarven kings and driven the Khazâd into exile. The Dwarves had called it the Bane of Durin, and in the original tale, it perished alongside the Grey Wizard Gandalf, cast into the abyss.
Kaen's eyes grew cold as steel. "If you had stayed in the deep, you might have endured for an age," he murmured. "But if you crawl from your pit, I will see your flame extinguished forever."
A Balrog was no mere beast, it was a battle-born Maia, forged in the fires of the First Age. Yet Kaen had faced gods before. He could summon Artemis and Glorfindel, heroes of immortal legend. With their strength or his alone, he would strike down even this ancient terror.
…
But as fate often weaves its threads in twine, darkness rarely walks alone.
No sooner had Beorn departed than a black-winged raven descended upon the city. It bore a silver seal, marked with the runes of Erebor. Kaen broke it, and his eyes fell upon the words penned by his old brother-in-arms, Thorin Oakenshield.
...
To my brother Kaen, Lord of the North,
Word comes from the far East, from the black-haired dwarves beyond the Mountains of Rhûn. The Easterlings are stirring once more. Their warlords have gathered tribes beneath dark banners, and they wield a power unlike any seen before, totems wrought with foul enchantment, gifts of the Shadow. Their strength grows swiftly.
Brother, I fear their purpose is war. Their eyes are turned west, toward your eastern realms, perhaps even Rohan or Gondor beyond. Know that if you call, Dáin and I shall march, and Bard of Dale will join us. The Free Peoples will not stand idle while the shadow rises anew.
— Thorin, King under the Mountain.
...
Kaen read the letter in silence. His jaw tightened, his gaze distant. The candlelight flickered against the letter's edge, its shadows long and deep.
From behind, a soft voice broke the stillness. "Kaen?" Arwen stepped from the archway, her dark hair falling over her shoulders like twilight. "What troubles you?"
Kaen turned the letter in his hands, then passed it to her with a sigh.
"War," he said quietly, "is coming."
And beyond the golden horizon, thunder rumbled faintly in the west.
…