In the vast lands of Middle-earth, the eastern wilds stretched beyond sight, from the green vales of Rhovanion to the far reaches of Rhûn.. There the Anduin rose in the west, winding through misted vales and greenwood shadows, while beyond lay the Redwater and Running rivers, whose meeting marked the boundary between the two realms, the edge where light began to fade into the ancient east.
Upon those endless plains and hills, both Men and Elves had their distant beginnings. In the elder years, the Eldar first awoke in the far eastern lands and, guided by the Valar, began their long march westward, leaving scattered kindreds behind, the farther they went, the fairer and wiser their kindred became. Later came the awakening of Men, who met with the Avari, the Elves who had refused the great journey, and followed in their footsteps westward through the long ages until at last they reached Beleriand in the First Age.
There, three great Houses of Men entered the histories of the Eldar: the Houses of Hador, Bëor, and Haladin. These were called the Edain, and they fought beside the Elves in those distant days, even intermarrying among them. Their descendants became the Númenóreans, and from their line the Dúnedain were born, the noble exiles who later ruled in Gondor and Arnor.
Yet those who fell to darkness were of the same blood.
For among the Men there were some who, in the great Battle of Unnumbered Tears, betrayed the Union of Maedhros, lured by the lies of Morgoth.Eventually, when the war of wrath ended in ruin and the lands of Beleriand sank beneath the sea, these traitors fled eastward, back into the wild lands of Rhûn. There they multiplied, and their descendants became the dark tribes of the East — the Easterlings, the Wainriders, the Balchoth, and the Variags of Khand, all the scattered peoples whom the West would come to name "the Men of Shadow."
From them sprang the endless wars that haunted the Second and Third Ages. The might of Gondor was spent not on Orcs, but on these dark-hearted men who followed the whispers of Sauron. Even the royal line of Gondor was broken in such wars. Long ago, before Rohan rode the plains, their forefathers ruled as kings of Rhovanion, a vast northern realm east of Mirkwood, until the Wainriders came and trampled their glory into dust.
Thus, when tidings reached Kaen Eowenríel that the East was stirring again, he knew the danger was grave indeed.
Without delay, he sent swift-winged messengers,Caladhîn Elves riding light and unseen,southward to Rohan and Gondor, bearing warnings to their kings. Then, when all was arranged, he dismissed his guards and kept only Arwen Undómiel beside him.
From a carved chest of dark oak, Kaen drew out a smooth crystal sphere — cold, luminous, and ancient. It seemed to hum faintly, like the breath of the stars.
"The Palantír," he said quietly. "The Seeing-stone. Forged in the Elder Days by your forebear, Fëanor, uncle to Queen Galadriel, your own ancestor of distant kin."
Arwen's eyes glimmered like moonlight.
"It shows the things that dwell in the heart of the watcher," Kaen continued. "But it can also link with others of its kind and that is the danger. One of these stones lies now in the grasp of Sauron himself. To gaze through this is to open a door that he may also look through. Yet we cannot wait. not now, with Rhûn on the march. I must see what gathers in the East. I will need you beside me, beloved, if he perceives my presence, lend me your strength."
Arwen placed her hand over his. "I will stand with you," she said softly. "Always."
…
The chamber grew still.
Kaen sat cross-legged upon the floor, the Palantír resting in his hands. Its depth shimmered, dim at first, then brightening like dawn beneath clear water. He let his mind sink into its depths.
At once his vision blurred, then expanded beyond all mortal sight. A flood of images struck him: barren plains, firelight flickering upon endless encampments, banners whipping in dry winds.
He saw Rhûn, desolate, grey, and grim. Across its horizon stretched an ocean of tents, spears like forests, and warhorses stamping in dust. Columns of men marched beneath blackened standards.
"The Easterlings," Kaen murmured, his voice echoing faintly in his trance. "And the Variags…"
His mind swept over them, warriors with scarred faces and iron helms, priests cloaked in crimson and shadow. He heard their chants, the name they whispered with fervor and fear alike: Tumlakí — the "Black God," their word for Sauron, bringer of conquest.
These were not zealots, Kaen realized, but pragmatists of darkness. The East was blighted by sauron, its soil cruel and dry. War was their harvest, and Sauron their plough. He fed them weapons, promises, and false dreams, the bounty of the West if only they would bleed for him.
Then Kaen's gaze fixed upon a wide clearing among the tents. There three dark priests knelt beside a pit that smoked with foul vapors. From the chasm below, a black radiance pulsed, Morgoth's power, old and poisonous. The priests drew it forth, weaving it into living men who screamed as the corruption took hold.
Black totems burned upon their skin, brands of evil power. Their muscles swelled, eyes glowing with purple fire. A new army, neither man nor beast, but vessels of darkness.
So this is the totem power Thorin spoke of… Kaen thought grimly.
But even as he leaned closer in thought, the vision wavered and a sudden pressure struck his mind like a hammer. A vast and terrible presence met his own, cold and burning all at once.
"Kaen Eowenríel…"
The voice coiled within his skull, deep as iron and smooth as poison.
"Welcome to my dominion. Do you behold my hosts? Does fear take you, oh King of the North?"
The words were Sauron's,the Dark Lord himself, reaching through the Palantír. For an instant Kaen's sight blurred; the image before him swelled and multiplied, the enemy's ranks seeming to stretch without end, black banners blotting out the horizon. Despair sought to crush his spirit.
But Kaen only snarled, his will igniting like a sword drawn from flame. "A feeble trick!"
Power surged from him, a tide of pure light striking through the vision. The two minds clashed, and the chamber trembled though no wind stirred.
Sauron reeled. The connection shuddered. For Kaen was no mortal man to be cowed; he was a hero of myth, his spirit forged in the light of the Valar and tempered in battle against dragons and wraiths. His mental strength rivaled his sword-arm and now it struck back with the force of a storm.
Arwen, standing nearby, saw the Palantír flare, half white, half black, their light spiraling in a storm of opposition. Realizing the peril, she pressed her hand upon the sphere beside Kaen's.
Her essence flowed into the vision — cool, bright, and pure. She, too, possessed the blood of the Ainur; her spirit shone with a clarity that could not be corrupted. Together their minds joined, intertwining, light and grace uniting into a radiant fire.
Kaen's voice, steady and cold, rang through the dark storm.
"Without the One Ring, you are nothing, Sauron. A broken shadow clinging to a fallen tower. A mongrel hound of Morgoth, fat on his scraps."
The light burst outward from the Palantír like dawn breaking upon the sea.
"Did you think to scare me with visions?" Kaen thundered. "I am not your prey. I am the flame that cleanses shadow and I command you to fall back into your pit. Begone!"
The darkness screamed…..and shattered.
The room was filled with blinding white light as the Palantír's surface cracked like ice under strain. Then silence.
Kaen exhaled, his hand trembling slightly. Arwen still held his arm, her eyes glowing faintly in the fading brilliance.
Beyond the windows, thunder rolled across the distant plains, as if Rhûn itself had heard his defiance.
And in the depths of Mordor, far beyond mortal reach, a voice of wrath echoed through the dark halls of Barad-dûr, awakening the slumbering shadows once more.
…