Ryan Eowenríel had lived in Middle-earth for nearly eleven years.
He had seen storms, wars, hunger, and men at their worst—and best.
So when he sat before Elrond Half-elven and Gandalf the Grey, he did not feel the awe that might have overcome another man.
Instead, the meal was a quiet, almost cordial affair.
They spoke lightly—of travels, of lands, of distant songs. It was a conversation of courtesy, each man feeling out the depths of the others' hearts.
The Elves moved with their usual grace. Even the act of lifting a cup seemed like poetry—an elegance that came not from effort, but from eternity.
When the dishes were cleared, Ryan gestured for the servants to withdraw. The air in the council hall changed; the flickering firelight danced across the walls like whispers of an older age.
It was then that Elrond spoke first.
"Rivendell stands apart from the world," he said softly, his voice low and measured. "I have long dwelt there, guarding my people and the memory of ages past.
Since the day you and your followers stepped upon the ruins of Rhudaur, I have watched. I know all that you have done.
I did not expect you to go to war with the hillfolk—and win so decisively."
He paused, his clear eyes studying Ryan's face.
"Forgive me for not aiding you. The hillfolk are men, after all.
And Elves do not take sides in the quarrels of Men. We have no right to march our swords into human wars."
Ryan nodded calmly.
"I never asked for help," he said. "This was our struggle.
I came here to build a kingdom—and from the beginning, I knew it would not be an easy path. The hillfolk were the first test. There will be others yet to come."
Elrond frowned slightly at the word kingdom. He exchanged a brief glance with Gandalf, whose brows lifted, curiosity kindling in his eyes.
"A kingdom?" the Elf-lord repeated quietly.
Gandalf leaned forward.
"Forgive my frankness, Lord Ryan," he said, "but… are you of the royal blood of the Dúnedain?"
Ryan smiled faintly and shook his head.
"No. Or at least, I do not know.
I never knew my parents. The Dúnedain took me in when I was ten.
You can see for yourselves—I bear their stature, their features—but my bloodline is unknown to me."
The wizard's brows knit tighter.
"Then forgive my persistence, my lord," Gandalf said, "but if you are not of the royal line, then by what right do you claim a crown?
These lands were once the realm of Arnor—a kingdom whose sovereignty still rests with the heirs of Elendil. Even after a thousand years, the right of rule remains theirs."
Ryan's lips twitched. It wasn't quite a smile.
"A right?" he said slowly, his tone almost mocking.
Then he looked up—and saw through them both.
They were testing him.
He knew well enough what they represented.
The whole of Eriador, this wide northern wilderness, was once the realm of Arnor, the northern kingdom of Men.
It had fallen a millennium ago, torn by division and war, yet among the wise—especially among the long-lived Elves—its claim had never died.
For to the Elves, the line of Elendil still held the divine right to the North.
So long as even a drop of that blood endured, they would acknowledge no other lord.
And Ryan knew what that meant.
Aragorn son of Arathorn, last of Elendil's true line—was a child of nine, living under Elrond's roof in Rivendell, hidden under the name Estel, "Hope."
Ryan finally understood.
They had not come merely to greet a neighbor.
They had come to weigh him—to see whether he was a threat to the fate they were preserving in secret.
He let out a quiet breath. Then, slowly, the warmth faded from his eyes.
"I don't care about legal rights of rule," he said evenly. "Arnor has been dust for more than a thousand years.
Arathorn II fell ten years ago on the cold plains of the Ettenmoors. His wife, Gilraen, fled with their son into hiding.
The Dúnedain wander leaderless. The North lies drowned in shadow. Orcs roam free, burning and killing. Trolls eat men in their own homes.
And the Dúnedain—the so-called heirs of kings—grow weaker by the year. Their numbers fade. Their hope fades."
He leaned forward, his voice quiet but cutting as a blade.
"Now I stand here, fighting in the wilds, raising walls from ruin, bringing order where there was none.
I build not for power—but for hope. For those who still draw breath beneath this blackened sky."
His eyes locked on Gandalf's, calm yet searing.
"So tell me, Grey Wizard—tell me truly—who is my enemy?
Is it the Orcs and the darkness that devour the North?
Or is it the heir you guard in your valley, who has done nothing but hide?"
The words were not shouted, yet they struck like thunder.
Gandalf felt them like hammer blows—not in pride, but in conscience.
It was not defiance alone—it was conviction.
Ryan's voice carried the weight of something both dangerous and pure: a vision vast enough to make even a Maia hesitate.
He was asking the question that no one ever dared:
What matters more—the blood of kings, or the salvation of their people?
The silence stretched. Gandalf looked away first, stroking his beard.
"I would say…" he murmured, "that your enemies are the Orcs, my lord. And perhaps the darkness that feeds them."
Ryan inclined his head slightly. The tension eased, but his eyes did not soften.
Elrond, sensing the storm, raised his voice gently.
"No one shall stand against you, Ryan Eowenríel—so long as you do not fall to shadow."
Ryan smiled faintly, though his gaze still burned with quiet fire.
"Then I have misunderstood your intentions, my lord."
He paused, then added, with a touch of bitter humor:
"Some men boast of their noble blood, yet each generation shrinks from the deeds of their ancestors.
The Elves retreat into their shrouded valleys; Gondor's kingship lies dead, ruled by stewards; the Dwarves bury themselves in stone.
But the North is dying, and someone must raise the banner again."
His voice deepened, steady and cold.
"And if someone comes to me, clutching their ancient scrolls, and says, 'You cannot be king, for you are not Elendil's son'—
then I would ask them this:
Is Elendil's blood gold or silver, that you treasure it so while the people starve?"
"You praise the memory of a thousand years, yet do nothing while men perish."
The hall fell utterly silent.
Even Gandalf's eyes dimmed with thought, his hand tightening on his staff.
Elrond's noble brow furrowed, his ancient heart stirred by a truth he could not easily dismiss.
Ryan's words were like steel—they cut, but they were true.
The world was fading. The Elves withdrew, the Dwarves hid, the realms of Men splintered.
And still, the darkness crept forward.
Ryan's voice softened at last, calm and resolute.
"If you came to test my blood, you have your answer. I am not of Elendil's line.
I am no king by birth. I am only a man who has seen the dark—and chosen to fight for the light."
"You cannot bind me with your laws, nor stop me with your doubts. Not even the Valar themselves could halt my steps."
"I have harmed no one. I seek only to build, to shield, to give my people a dawn worth dying for."
His tone was steady—but every word carried a blade's edge.
He had welcomed their visit, but their questions had kindled a fire he could no longer mask.
Each sentence drove deeper, exposing the unspoken truth:
that the "wise" had watched the world wither, and done too little to stop it.
For all their greatness, they had become caretakers of memory, not saviors of men.
And Ryan—
Ryan Eowenríel, a man of no known bloodline—
had dared to remind them what will could accomplish when faith had failed.