The sun had long begun its descent beyond the western ridges, and yet the discussion in the great council hall of Minas-Elion had not ceased.
From noon until the glow of dusk stained the windows crimson, Ryan Eowenríel, Elrond of Rivendell, and Gandalf the Grey spoke at length—of kingdoms and men, of hope and ruin, of the vast and fragile world that lay between them.
At first, Ryan had kept pace easily. His answers were quick, sharp, filled with conviction and clarity.
But as their conversation deepened—touching upon the ages of the world, the ebb and flow of history, and the subtle designs of the Valar themselves—his confidence began to falter.
For all his talent, he was still only twenty.
And before him sat two beings whose wisdom stretched across millennia.
Elrond—six thousand four hundred and thirty-nine years old, the last of the great Elf-lords of the Elder Days.
Gandalf—the Maia Olórin, older than the sun and stars themselves.
Ryan soon found himself falling silent, listening with a mixture of humility and awe.
He realized something important that day: that true strength was not born from defiance, but from knowing when to listen.
And as he listened, his earlier wariness faded, replaced by respect.
The change in him did not go unnoticed.
Both Elrond and Gandalf saw it—the way pride gave way to patience, the fire in his eyes tempered into something steadier, brighter.
They were pleased.
He was not arrogant, not reckless, and yet there was a quiet power in him—a fire of conviction like the rising sun of spring, fierce but full of promise.
….
Elrond spoke first, his voice as smooth as still water.
"On my way here," he said, "I saw the houses your men are building. They are too many for your current population. You are preparing for new settlers, are you not?"
Ryan nodded.
"Winter is close, my lord. When the snow falls, the orcs will prowl the wilds, and many wanderers will seek refuge.
I intend to gather them—turn the refugees and outcasts into the foundation of a new kingdom."
Elrond's lips curved into a faint smile.
"A wise intention."
But Gandalf, ever the realist, leaned forward, pipe forgotten in his hand.
"A noble plan, yes—but houses alone will not build a nation.
People are not as disciplined as soldiers. Bring too many together without law or structure, and you'll have chaos, not civilization."
Elrond nodded thoughtfully.
"You will need scholars, administrators—men who understand order and governance."
Ryan sighed, his expression weary.
"I know. But scholars are not so easily found.
We've been fighting war after war—against orcs, against hillfolk—and there's no time left to educate men for governance.
In Eriador, finding someone who can read is harder than finding an orc under the noonday sun."
The room fell into a contemplative hush.
It was true.
A thousand years had passed since the fall of Arnor.
Since then, no kingdom had risen in the West. The land was fractured, its culture and knowledge long decayed.
Unlike the South—where Gondor and Rohan still stood, their traditions unbroken—the North had become a wasteland of scattered tribes and fading memories.
Among Ryan's soldiers, one man in a hundred could read. And even then, what they read depended on which language they knew.
For the tongues of the North were a chaos of their own:
the Northern tongue, Sindarin, Quenya, Khuzdul, the hillfolk's speech, and even traces of the Black Speech in the ruins of Angmar.
The Northern tongue was most common, but it lacked a unified script.
It was a tower of Babel—a thousand voices and no shared understanding.
That was Ryan's headache.
He could not wait for a generation of scholars to arise. Winter was coming, and the people needed shelter now.
Deep in his heart, however, Ryan carried a secret plan.
A memory from another world.
He would take the language of his homeland—the rich, structured script of Anglian—and make it the written tongue of his realm.
A language clear and elegant enough to unite every tribe, every race under one symbol of civilization.
But that would have to wait.
For now, survival came first.
….
Elrond was silent for a long while, his eyes thoughtful.
Finally, he said:
"In Rivendell, there are many men of knowledge. Not Elves—men. Descendants of heroes, keepers of the old lore.
If you wish, I will ask among them. Perhaps some may choose to come and serve you."
Ryan's head shot up in surprise.
"Truly?"
Gandalf chuckled.
"The loremasters of Rivendell are the pride of Middle-earth.
If any agree to follow you, you'll be most fortunate indeed. With their wisdom, your burden will lighten greatly."
It was an unexpected gift—a lifeline offered when he needed it most.
Ryan rose from his seat, bowed deeply.
"If such a thing can be arranged, my lord, I will be eternally grateful."
Elrond stood as well, returning the gesture with the grace of ages.
"Then it shall be done. I look forward to the rise of your kingdom, Ryan Eowenríel.
May it stand as a bastion against the shadow."
Thus, on that quiet evening, an alliance was born—
the first bond between Minas-Elion and the House of Elrond.
Elrond made no promise that scholars would surely come; he would not force any to leave Rivendell.
But he did make another vow:
He would send elven craftsmen and artisans, along with supplies of elven-forged tools and armor, to help Ryan's people complete their homes before winter's wrath.
It was more than Ryan could have hoped for.
Among all the races of Middle-earth, none could rival the Noldorin Elves in skill.
They were the high-born of Aman—the "Children of Knowledge"—who had once studied under Aulë the Smith, the Vala of craft and creation.
Even the Dwarves, Aulë's own children, held the works of the Noldor in great esteem, and from them both came the greatest crafts of Middle-earth.
To receive their aid was a blessing beyond measure.
….
When all was said and done, Elrond did not stay the night.
He departed under the starlit sky, his escort of silver-clad riders moving silent as the wind, bound for the hidden valley of Rivendell.
Gandalf, however, remained.
"If you don't mind," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "I think I'll pass the winter here.
The road is long, and my bones prefer the warmth of a hearth to the chill of the mountains."
Ryan smiled.
"You are welcome to stay as long as you wish, Grey Wizard."
But in truth, his thoughts had already begun to race.
For he knew what year it was—the Third Age, 2940.
And he knew what was coming next spring.
In 2941, Gandalf would ride south to the Shire…
There, he would meet the wandering Dwarf prince Thorin Oakenshield.
Together, they would gather thirteen Dwarves and one unsuspecting Hobbit—and set forth on the legendary Quest of Erebor.
The quest to reclaim the Lonely Mountain.
And within it—the immeasurable hoard of Smaug the Golden.
Ryan remembered the sight from his past life's films:
mountains of gold and jewels gleaming beneath a dragon's firelight.
Fortunes enough to build a hundred kingdoms.
In the tales, Bard the Bowman had rebuilt an entire nation—Dale—with only a fraction of that wealth.
If Ryan could join that expedition…
If he could claim even a portion of the treasure…
Then the foundation of his kingdom would be unshakable.
A plan began to form—bold, dangerous, and utterly irresistible.
He would be ready when destiny came knocking.
The firelight flickered in his eyes, and his reflection in the wine's surface seemed to smile back at him—a man half warrior, half visionary.
For the first time since he arrived in this world, Ryan Eowenríel felt it—
that the great wheel of fate had begun to turn in his favor.