Malphegor
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LOTR: TMCP Ch. 322
🕑 Added 2025-10-31 03:30:51 +0000 UTCLately, the number of Rangers around Wayfort and the City of Waters has risen sharply, so much that together, the two places now host over a hundred of them staying long-term.
Of course, these Rangers aren't there for leisure or relaxation. Some have taken up posts as instructors, others as lecturers, and judging by the situation, they don't appear to be short-term arrangements either. It seems they won't be departing until they've trained several cohorts of students.
In addition, there are now more Rangers at the frontlines, both young and old. Some offer counsel to the young recruits at Wayfort, while others have joined the seasoned warrior companies, charging into battle alongside them.
Clearly, the Rangers have received some definite news, and they're responding to it in their own way.
Among them, the most notable is a man who's recently gained considerable renown.
He's known among the Men and Hobbits of Bree as Strider, a nickname that's fairly neutral, neither praise nor insult.
It's said that this fellow often appears around Bree, mysterious and elusive.
The name Strider comes from his exceptional height and his long legs. He takes such large strides that with one step he can cover a remarkable distance. His physique is so striking that not only Hobbits but even the Men of the whole town must look up when speaking to him.
"When he takes one step, I have to run several just to keep pace," said one Hobbit.
"Keep a close watch on him," Saruman ordered his subordinates.
But most of the time, when Aragorn doesn't wish to be seen, those spies and trackers can't even catch a glimpse of his cloak, not even a corner of it.
Instead, the Rangers often trace the spies back to their employers.
"He's been engaging in such activities for a long time now," said Garrett when he heard Aragorn's report, unsurprised.
Neither of them bothered to discuss Saruman at length. That old wizard was perpetually suspicious of everyone.
But in a sense, one could say Saruman was also an extremely cautious wizard. He believed everyone else was just like him, wary of others, trusting no one but themselves, and so he prepared countless contingency plans.
And the result? In the end, he was the only one constantly preparing for conflict, hoarding enough forces to rival a powerful nation all by himself.
A pity, really. Such a brilliant mind, wasted on the wrong path. Just like his predecessor, Sauron.
"I just returned from the Isen River crossing. Nothing unusual there. Defenses are as formidable as ever. Difficult place to infiltrate."
"How do you usually gain entry?" Aragorn asked curiously.
Garrett shrugged.
"I simply walk in. Every time I visit, someone opens the gate for me."
"That's all?"
"That's all."
"Well, that's... surprisingly proper of Saruman."
"Indeed."
Garrett nodded.
He didn't mention that sometimes Saruman chose not to open the gate. In those cases, he simply forced the gate open and entered to have a pointed discussion with him.
Lessons, after all, are best taught promptly.
And Saruman was always a quick learner.
"Fair enough."
Aragorn wasn't particularly surprised by Garrett's answer. On the surface at least, it seemed that the White Wizard still respected him.
But...
At the window, Aragorn looked up at the sky, at the faintly glowing Star of Eärendil visible in the dusk, his thoughts drifting far away.
Restoring the kingdom... He had discussed the restoration of Arnor with Garrett before.
When Garrett broached the subject, Aragorn knew it was decided. No outside force would stand in the way. From then on, how far things progressed depended only on himself and his people.
That same year, an elder of the Dúnedain had a premonition and uttered this prophecy:
"When the King of Gondor returns, Arnor shall be restored."
With nothing left to worry about behind him, Aragorn and his kin continued their tireless work for the Free Settlements, year after year, without rest. And during that time, things also began to change in the Shire.
In the year 2994 of the Third Age, Drogo passed away at the age of eighty-six.
His grave was covered with flowers, and people said he had been a decent and respectable Hobbit, aside from that one incident where he nearly drowned, he had never done anything that could draw criticism.
After Drogo's death, Primula became dispirited and spent many years in grief.
Eventually, she chose to return to her family home and live among her kin.
The original house was left to Frodo alone. He was twenty-six that year. Though he still carried the innocence characteristic of Hobbits, he was no longer a child. He understood much about life.
Living by himself, Frodo often wandered the Shire alone, exploring places unmarked on any map, roaming through the wilds, climbing hills, and gazing across rivers.
Those journeys healed his sorrow, but they also left him lonely. Even though he frequently visited his mother, the feeling of solitude never quite departed. And so, his thoughts turned to Bilbo.
"It's unfortunate, Frodo," Bilbo said gently, in Bag End, Hobbiton. "But everyone reaches the end of their days sooner or later. What we must do is live on, carrying the good wishes of those we love."
"I know. I will."
"Good lad."
Bilbo patted Frodo on the shoulder, nodding approvingly. He'd come to think more and more highly of this nephew who so often came to visit him. Still, whenever Bilbo contemplated his cousin's death, a shadow of unease stirred in his heart.
He was growing old himself.
There were some matters that could no longer be delayed, things he had to accomplish soon, or he might never finish them before his time came.
After seeing Frodo off, he once again settled at his desk, picked up his pen, and stared at the blank pages before him and at the palm-sized dragon scale pressed between them. He fell deep into thought.
This was what he wanted to do: write a book.
To record his story, the tales of those who had passed, and those who still lived.
To write it as someone who had been there.
And, if possible, he still dreamed of taking one more journey before the end of his days. He didn't expect the kind of thrilling adventures he'd had in his youth. His old bones wouldn't bear it anymore; such exertions could easily leave him in pieces.
"Then it's settled."
A plan for another long journey took shape in his mind.
But...
Looking around his large, comfortable home, the entirety of Bag End, Bilbo couldn't help but sigh.
Lately, the Sackville-Bagginses had become active again.
After that one fright Garrett had given Otho and his wife, they had behaved themselves for quite a while, not attempting to bother Bilbo again. But as time passed, their scheming had begun to stir once more.
The reason was simple: Bilbo still lived alone. He was truly getting on in years, and had no heir. Once old Bilbo passed away, Bag End and all his possessions would legally fall to them.
He could only feel helpless about it.
Who would have thought they'd possess such persistence, coveting Bag End for over fifty years?
"What to do about Bag End..."
The question of what to do with his home had become like a thorn lodged in Bilbo's heart, preventing him from taking the first step toward his journey.
He'd been contemplating it for years.
He wanted to depart, to leave the Shire and travel again, to see the world beyond while he still could. But if he did that, the very next day the Sackville-Bagginses would move right in.
While Bilbo was still present, they wouldn't venture to cross him, but if he left of his own accord, well, then it would all be perfectly legal. And Bilbo had no intention of leaving Bag End to that insufferable family.
They were intolerable, never a kind word, always causing trouble. When he went to the Lonely Mountain, they'd even spread rumors that he'd died on the road. Infuriating lot.
Quietly, Bilbo made up his mind.
"I'll never leave that dreadful family a single thing."
