That night Nargothrond held a grand feast in honour of the company.
Rune-cut gemstones glowed on every side, so that the groves around the city shone like day. The Noldor sang joyous songs beneath their light.
The tables were heavy with fare in the fashion of their people. There was honey spirit brewed from the slopes of old volcanic hills, roasted mountain antelope charred crisp without and tender within, and loaves of "stone-bread," kneaded with powdered minerals said to lend strength to the limbs.
Gimli wrapped both hands around a jug of the fierce liquor, eyes gone wide. "This brew is stronger than any Dwarf-ale I have ever tasted," he coughed.
Anrod laughed. "It was brewed by Anariel herself. She says only a drink fierce enough to burn the throat is worthy of the Noldor who have walked through fire and risen again."
Anariel shot her brother a sidelong look, then turned to Corthalion. "How fares the Sacred Tree in Doriath?" she asked.
"Your Highness," Corthalion answered with a bow, "Sindarin earth-lore has bound the Tree to the land. I am certain it will not be long before all Minhiriath recovers the vitality of the First Age."
Gandalf and Anrod spoke together of the north: of Angmar, of Fornost's rising shadow, and of the Nazgûl that hunted them. When the wizard spoke of the Ringwraiths' pursuit, a steel light flashed in Anrod's eyes.
"So those wraiths, raised up by Sauron, think they may trample the world beneath darkness," he said. "One day we shall break them and scatter their shadows for good."
Aragorn drank in silence, gazing out over the hall at the laughing faces of the Elves. His thoughts were far away with those who had fallen on the road.
He knew now how dearly this peace had been bought. Each song, each bright cup raised beneath the lamps of Nargothrond, rested upon the memory of dead heroes. Their sacrifice pressed upon his heart, not as a weight to crush him, but as the very stone on which he must set his feet to climb higher.
His heart was changing. The fallen were no longer only companions of the road, but the reason he must grow stronger. He could not betray the hope they had placed upon him.
Denethor came to him with a cup of wine and handed it over. "When do you mean to return to Gondor?" he asked quietly.
They drank together. Aragorn lowered the cup and his voice was firm. "When you have taken your father's place as the new Steward," he said, "and when I have gathered the remnant of the northern Dúnedain. Then we will stand together to guard our people."
...
On the following evening, as the light failed in the West and the first stars pricked the sky, the rite of theTree was held in the great square at the heart of Nargothrond.
In the centre of the square rose a strange altar. It was a vast furnace of black metal, its lip ringed about with glittering star-gems, its body engraved from base to rim with sacred runes.
When the last ray of the sun sank beyond the far edge of the world and the hosts of heaven kindled, Anrod climbed the steps with the Sacred Tree seed cradled in both hands.
All about the square the Elves of Nargothrond stood in ordered ranks. They wore white robes, sign of high honour, and their faces were solemn, filled with earnest devotion.
Anrod set the seed within the hollow of the great furnace, then spread his arms wide and spoke.
"In the name of the Noldor, and by the guiding of the stars, let this seed of light take root here, and let the shadows of darkness find no refuge."
As his words fell, the furnace gave a deep, trembling hum. The gems set around its mouth flared at once, and a pillar of blue light leapt upward into the high dark.
The ground beneath their feet shivered. The runes inlaid in the paving of the square woke to life, glowing lines that crawled like living fire up the sides of the furnace, weaving themselves into a great ring of symbols around its rim.
"Draw down the stars," Anariel cried.
Tens of thousands of Noldor raised their voices in song.
The clouds above were torn apart by the blue column, and beyond them the vast, unbounded sky shone clear. Starlight poured down like water, gathering above the square and running along the beam into the heart of the furnace.
As countless rays of light wove together within, they formed a many-hued arc, a rainbow of stars, and in that radiant shelter the Staborn Sacred Tree seed began to stir.
Unlike the Trees of Laurenandë and Doriath, this sapling's first emerging shoot gleamed faintly with gold, like a bud tempered in flame.
Its growth was swift. Before their watching eyes the slender stem thickened, bark swelling and darkening as flowing runes of fire appeared upon it. The leaves that unfurled were silver-blue like starlight, and along every vein there danced fine threads of golden flame.
The expanding trunk shattered the furnace as a dragon breaks its shell. Star-light burst from within, flooding the whole square with day-bright brilliance.
In less than an hour the Tree stood as high as a three-storey hall, its trunk as thick as a great barrel, its crown like a vast opened canopy, spreading gold and blue light over all who stood beneath.
When the blaze gentled at last, the leaves began to tremble softly. With each breath of wind, tiny motes of golden fire drifted down. Wherever they touched the stones they kindled into glowing runes that flowed outward along the streets, creeping toward the farthest walls of the city.
"It is done," Anrod said. A rare smile lit his face as he looked up at the Tree. "This Starborn Tree binds heavenly light and flame together. It will not only cleanse away the dark, it will pour strength into all our runes. The walls and wards of Nargothrond will be thrice as strong."
The Elves broke into a cheer and began to dance their ancient war-dance around the Tree. Silver armour sparkled in the mingled gold and blue radiance like a river of falling stars.
At the edge of the square the company watched in silence, each held by his own thoughts as they gazed at this Tree unlike the others.
"We have done it," Denethor whispered at last. His voice trembled. "All three seeds have taken root in safety."
Gimli clapped him so hard on the back that he staggered. "This is only the beginning," the Dwarf laughed. "Once these Trees are grown, Sauron's petty tricks will be worth less than slag from a broken forge."
In Gandalf's eyes there was also a quiet joy, the look of one who sets down at last a heavy burden long borne. The task that Kaen Eowenríel had laid upon him was fulfilled.
...