Brown Lands, a forsaken expanse east of the Anduin's midstream, facing the green plains of Rohan across the river's shimmering breadth.
This land was known for its desolation beyond compare. The earth lay bare, stripped of every living green, not even a fallen branch or stone fragment remaining to whisper of life. It was a place that seemed once scoured by fire, the very bones of the world left dry and silent.
In elder days, this had been the homeland of the Entwives.
They were of the same ancient kindred as the Ents of Fangorn, yet unlike their tree-lord kin, they had crossed the Anduin to the east, tending gardens and fields under sunlit skies. The Entwives brought forth gardens of such beauty and abundance that mortals called it the Flowering Realm. Their crops fed both themselves and many of humankind; it was even said that the Hobbits first learned the art of tilling from them.
Once, this was a realm of bloom and bounty, until the Last Alliance rose against Sauron at the end of the Second Age.
To hinder the march of the Alliance and deny them supply as they came down the Anduin, Sauron unleashed his wrath upon the Entwives' domain. His legions scoured the land, uprooting every tree, burning every field until only ashes and dust remained. Thus were the Brown Lands born, and the Entwives vanished, never seen again.
For over three millennia, the Ents of Fangorn searched for them, crossing the river time and again, but found nothing. Their disappearance became one of the enduring mysteries of Middle-earth.
Even in the waning years of the Third Age, the land remained as lifeless as when it was first burned. The slopes, brown and cracked, stretched toward the far horizon, without a single blade of living grass. To the west, the reeds of the Anduin still swayed green and tall, but to the east, only death remained.
It was here that Kaen Eowenríel chose to gather his hosts. For this was the last place Sauron would ever suspect.
The Brown Lands were a natural barrier, no water, no shade, no pasture. Any army trapped here would wither without battle; for even the mightiest host cannot drink dust nor feed its horses on ash. And so Kaen saw in this wasteland the perfect screen for his designs.
Sauron might notice the movement of the Rohirrim or Gondorian cavalry, yet he would never imagine they would unite in this death-stricken plain. For such a meeting seemed nothing short of madness….or genius.
…
Spring waned and the first heat of summer rose.
Across the Anduin came ten thousand riders of Rohan under the command of Marshal Wudred.
He was a broad-shouldered man of middle years, weathered by the winds of the Riddermark. His gaze was deep and steady, carrying the calm of a warrior who had seen too many battles and outlived them all.
A legend among the horse-lords, Wudred led the Riders of the Mark — veterans who had survived countless wars, the pride of Rohan's eastern host.
Not long after, the banners of Gondor appeared on the horizon. Ten thousand riders marched under the command of Denethor, son of Ecthelion II.
Years had passed since the day he helped plant the Golden Tree of the North. The boy of fifteen had grown into a noble man — tall, keen-eyed, his Dúnedain blood and the blessing of the Golden Tree lending him strength and wisdom beyond mortal measure.
His cavalry was splendidly equipped, disciplined, and proud. A third of his riders were of Dúnedain heritage, each a warrior of rare skill.
When the hosts of Gondor and Rohan met amid the empty plains, they saluted one another with respect.
Marshal Wudred inclined his head. "To behold the future steward of Gondor gladdens my heart. You carry yourself as one born to command."
Denethor smiled in return. "And I see in you the steadfast courage of Rohan's finest. Your riders' skill in the saddle gives me hope that this eastern campaign will blaze bright indeed."
Wudred did not preen under praise. Between the two realms there had always been an unspoken understanding — allies, brothers in arms. Each knew the other's strength well.
He gazed northward and said, his voice low and grave, "You and I both know, this war's fate will not be decided by our swords, nor by the number of our men. It lies in the hands of that King above all others."
Denethor's eyes softened with remembrance. "I once stood in his hall," he murmured. "I felt the radiance of his presence. In my eyes, King Kaen has risen to a height no mortal should reach, perhaps beyond even the kings of old."
"You hold him in such esteem?" Wudred asked, a trace of surprise in his tone.
Denethor shook his head slowly. "Esteem is too small a word. I am not fit to judge him. To me, he is the perfect king."
Wudred fell silent, awe mingling with curiosity.
He had heard tales, from his own king, from Rohan's court — of Kaen Eowenríel, Lord of Eowenría. Every word painted the same image: noble, wise, and terrible in power. Now hearing Denethor speak with such reverence, the marshal felt his heart stir with anticipation.
He longed to see the Northern King with his own eyes.
…
Kaen did not keep them waiting long.
Three days later, the riders of Eowenría came thundering down from the North and into the Brown Lands like a tide of steel and sunlight.
Their array was magnificent, a vision of war made divine.
Three thousand of the King's Guard, each towering over two meters tall, clad in rune-etched golden armor, their faces hidden behind fearsome beast-masks. Long spears and round shields hung across their backs, their very presence shaking the air.
Behind them came seven thousand heavy riders, clad in argent steel. Every man armored from head to heel, every mount caparisoned — a living wall of silver and gold.
The sun caught their armor, and the whole host shone like twin rivers of metal — gold and silver, gleaming with the light of destiny.
At their head rode Kaen Eowenríel. His armor was silver, laced with gold and engraved with the Golden Tree's sigil. His long black hair streamed in the wind; his face was proud and fair, radiant with quiet majesty. A faint aura of light surrounded him, neither blinding nor dim but eternal.
To his left rode Aragorn, clad in the golden armor of the King's Guard, a rune-blade across his back. His bearing was that of ancient kings reborn.
To his right, Caden, his massive form armored in darkened steel, a great war axe upon his back, his presence fierce as flame. The commander of Eowenría's armies, Caden was Kaen's most loyal general — a warrior forged by countless wars against the darkness, now standing at the very threshold of legend.
When the hosts of Rohan and Gondor beheld this army, their hearts trembled with awe.
They were the finest soldiers of their realms, yet beside the warriors of the North, their strength seemed mortal indeed. The Eowenrían riders had faced the horrors of Angmar in unending war; they were men who had slain and survived, their very gaze steeped in battle's shadow.
The air around them pulsed with power and dread.
Wudred drew a sharp breath, his heart thundering in his chest. "By Béma…" he whispered. "He is like a god descended from the heavens."
For Béma was the name that the Rohirrim used for Oromë, the Vala who loved horses and hunted in the world,and they loved him the best of all the gods, as they called him.
Denethor's eyes gleamed with the same wonder, but he only smiled. "And that," he said softly, "is precisely what we hoped to see."
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