Ryan's words had struck like a blade—sharp, unrelenting, impossible to ignore.
Both Elrond and Gandalf felt the weight of them, that sting of truth only the bold dared to speak aloud.
Yet for all their long years, neither the Lord of Rivendell nor the Grey Wizard was given to anger.
They had lived too many lifetimes, seen too many kingdoms rise and crumble to dust, to let pride rule their tempers.
So when the silence settled, Gandalf merely inclined his head and smiled faintly.
"Forgive my earlier words," he said gently. "An old man's tongue sometimes wanders before his wisdom follows.
I've lived through too many ages—and often my thoughts remain in the past. If my questions offended you, my lord, consider this my apology."
Elrond, who until now had watched quietly, added in his calm, ageless voice,
"Do not mistake our intent, child."
The change in tone was deliberate—he spoke not as an equal now, but as one might to a younger kinsman, with the warmth of a mentor.
"We did not come to doubt your deeds. But you must understand: upon this land still dwell the remnants of Arnor—the Dúnedain who raised you.
Many among them hold to the faith of old, that the blood of Elendil shall return one day to lead them into glory again.
Have you thought of what you will do when they stand before you? When they say that only Elendil's blood may rule this soil?"
Ryan smiled faintly and replied with a phrase from a world long lost to him.
"Those whose paths differ cannot walk the same road."
He leaned back slightly, his voice even, but edged with quiet steel.
"Everyone must choose their own cause.
I cannot compel men to follow me, nor will I beg them to die for a dream that has long since turned to dust.
Those who stand with me—I will bear their hopes upon my shoulders.
As for the rest… so long as they do not stand against me, I will not make them my concern."
Elrond studied him a long moment, then nodded with the faintest trace of a smile.
"You have already thought it through."
Gandalf's eyes glimmered beneath his brim.
"Then tell me, Ryan," he said. "What do you think of this world?"
Ryan's answer was simple—and strange.
"It's beautiful," he said softly. "And real."
The last word hung oddly in the air, foreign and heavy with meaning neither Elf nor Maia could decipher.
Gandalf raised a brow.
"And why, my lord, do you call it beautiful?"
Ryan's smile deepened, quiet but sincere.
"Because men strive. They chase their dreams even knowing they may never reach them. They fight, they suffer, and still they rise again.
When a man can look death in the eye and still hold fast to his purpose—then even his fall is worthy of song."
Gandalf frowned slightly.
"That is not always a good thing. Death is not a gift to be praised."
Elrond nodded in agreement.
"Death for mortals is an ending, a departure from this world. All that one builds or loves is left behind."
Ryan turned to them both, his voice calm yet piercing.
"And if a man cannot die—would he still be a man?"
The question silenced them.
In the stillness that followed, something ancient stirred in their minds.
They both knew the truth of what he said.
For in the beginning, when Eru Ilúvatar shaped the world, He had given two gifts:
To the Elves, immortality—perfect and enduring, bound to Arda until its ending.
To Men, mortality—freedom from the world's doom, and the power to seek what even the Valar could not touch.
Death itself was the secret gift of Eru—envied even by the gods.
For beyond the circles of this world lay a fate unknown, and perhaps a peace that the immortal could never find.
Gandalf's voice softened with quiet wonder.
"That, my friend, is a wise truth indeed."
Elrond inclined his head, his expression thoughtful, almost proud.
"You see the world clearly, Ryan Eowenríel. More clearly, perhaps, than many far older than you."
Their eyes, once sharp with appraisal, now shone with quiet approval.
The truth was that both had come not to challenge Ryan, but to judge him—to see what manner of man he truly was.
And now, they had their answer.
Ryan Eowenríel was not merely strong.
He was awake—in a way many of the long-lived had forgotten how to be.
The questions of kingship, of bloodlines and law—those had only been a test.
Neither Gandalf nor Elrond truly cared for such things, not anymore.
Especially Elrond.
For after the fall of Arnor, every heir of its line had passed through his care—
bright-eyed children who dreamed of crowns and legacies,
and old men who came to Rivendell to die with their regrets.
He had seen too many rise and fall, too many promise glory only to fade into history's dust.
He bore no illusions now.
Even the House of Elendil was not sacred.
He knew better than anyone that this land had once been unclaimed wilderness—no one's by right, only by courage.
And courage was what he saw before him now.
The world was darkening. The shadows of the East grew restless once more.
If Ryan Eowenríel's star could burn even for a while in that darkness, it would strengthen all Free Peoples.
That was all that mattered.
Elrond drew a slow breath and looked to Ryan.
"Then one final question," he said quietly. "Tell me—what does peace mean to you?"
Ryan did not hesitate.
"It means war."
The words fell like iron, plain and absolute.
Gandalf blinked, surprised. Elrond's brows rose slightly.
Ryan continued:
"Peace is a blossom watered with blood. Its beauty deceives, for beneath its petals lies the soil of death.
Darkness cannot be destroyed. War cannot end. So long as men hold desire in their hearts—so long as they care—there will be conflict.
Peace is only the pause between storms—a time to prepare for the next one."
For a long while, neither Elf nor Wizard spoke.
The fire cracked in the silence, and Ryan's face was lit in its golden light—serene, resolute, unflinching.
Gandalf's eyes grew distant. Elrond's hands folded before him.
They did not wish to admit it—but they knew it was true.
History itself had carved the truth upon Middle-earth.
In the First Age, the Elves believed peace would come when Morgoth fell.
But the War of Wrath shattered Beleriand, and from its ashes rose Sauron.
In the Second Age, Elves and Númenóreans united to defeat Sauron—and believed again that peace had come.
But Númenor sank beneath the sea, betrayed by its own pride, and war returned.
In the Third Age, Angmar's Witch-king rose in the North, destroying Arnor;
Gondor faltered beneath the weight of endless war;
and the Elves, weary and heartbroken, began to flee the world altogether.
Peace had never lasted.
It never would.
At last, Gandalf broke the silence.
"Then tell me, Ryan—what should we do?"
Ryan's answer came like the strike of a hammer.
"Seize the initiative. Strike first. Break the enemy before they can reach us."
Elrond frowned.
"That would cost many lives."
Ryan met his gaze evenly.
"War always costs lives."
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then Gandalf let out a long breath, the faintest glimmer of a smile tugging at his lips.
"You speak like one who has already seen the ending," he said.
Ryan's eyes gleamed faintly in the firelight.
"Perhaps I have."
And in that moment, even Elrond—who had looked upon the faces of gods—saw something in him that felt older than his years:
a man forged by storms, standing unshaken in a world that had long since forgotten how to stand.