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LOTR: TMCP Ch. 317
🕑 Added 2025-10-27 03:40:03 +0000 UTCA bottle of dragon's blood was poured out.
Whoosh.
As the dragon bones were drenched in the blood of a fire dragon, they burst into flames. The dragonbone sword underwent a blazing transformation and became a new weapon, the Dragonflame Boneblood Sword.
This sword was a vivid orange-red, its fiery glow visible to the naked eye. The terrifying heat radiating from it was second only to that of the Dragonflame Steel Sword.
At the same time, under the mysterious influence of the fire dragon's blood, the blade grew heavier. Every foe struck by it would feel as though they had been hit by a massive force, knocked violently backward.
Pouring fire dragon blood onto a dragonbone sword to turn it into the Dragonflame Boneblood Sword, such a thing was extravagantly wasteful.
Dragon's blood was an extremely scarce resource.
Whether the dragon was anemic or not, no one knew, but from Smaug, a dragon so massive, the amount of blood collected was barely enough for Garrett's own use.
There had been plenty of dragon scales, flesh, and bones to harvest, but the blood... there was so little of it.
Or perhaps it should be said, only a small portion of the blood contained the magical essence necessary for forging Dragonflame Steel.
In fact, even the non-elemental dragon's blood, which could be used to make ordinary dragonsteel, was gathered in pitiful amounts. Rare, that was the only word for it.
Truth be told, the Dragonflame Boneblood Sword wasn't the most cost-effective weapon. Though its appearance was impressive, even earning it the title of a "legendary weapon," its base damage was only 9.5 points. Its true strength lay in its built-in flame enchantment and knockback effect.
As for his reason for making it...
"I'm afraid I can't handle this sword very well."
Bain swung Garrett's Dragonflame Steel Sword a few times with effort before admitting so.
A greatsword nearly the size of a grown man, not everyone could wield it comfortably.
So...
"Then take this one, Bain."
Retrieving his own Dragonflame Steel Sword, he drew out the Dragonflame Boneblood Sword and handed it to Bain.
Bain's eyes widened as he received the wondrous weapon, forged from dragonbone and tempered with fire dragon's blood.
The moment he gripped it, he couldn't resist showing it off, flicking his wrist and sending fiery trails dancing through the air.
Watching the sturdy young man before him, Garrett nodded in approval, though a hint of regret crossed his face.
"I really should've made this sooner. Bard might've liked it."
Bain's heart trembled. He was about to say something comforting, but when he looked into Garrett's eyes, he saw there not sorrow, but nostalgia, and a tangle of other, quieter emotions.
Not like before, when grief and loneliness had nearly consumed him.
In that moment, Bain felt that Garrett truly stood before him. There was color to him again, a real, tangible presence. The barrier between legend and reality, past and present, was thinning.
He saw his own reflection clearly in Garrett's pupils. At last, Garrett was truly seeing the person in front of him.
"Yes," Bain said with a gentle smile. "Father would definitely have liked it."
Still, he looked a bit troubled.
"But... this weapon doesn't seem easy to keep."
The sword's flames burned so fiercely it could roast a man alive, not something one could just carry around without thought.
"I anticipated that," Garrett said, producing a scabbard.
"Forged from dragonsteel by the wisest smiths of Wayfort, with help from both Elves and Dwarves."
"It can contain the sword's flames. Once sheathed, the fire withdraws. Draw it again, and the flames surge back to life."
Whoosh.
Bain accepted the scabbard and slid the Dragonflame Boneblood Sword inside. Just as Garrett had said, the flames were subdued. The sheath grew warm to the touch, but not painfully so. Perfectly balanced.
"Your father entrusted you with his most precious gift," Garrett said quietly. "And I give you this sword, as witness to it all."
Bain looked at Garrett and bowed deeply, silent and solemn.
Garrett smiled warmly, patting him on the shoulder without another word.
A fine young man.
The Dragonflame Boneblood Sword was fully enhanced, as was Garrett's custom.
Whether as a symbol or as a weapon, it was an exceptional blade.
As for the Dragonsteel Sword, stronger in raw numbers, that would depend on one's own effort.
Having distributed the weapons, Garrett turned back along the Sky Road toward Carrock to personally oversee the aftermath in Dáin I's great hall.
That year was a particularly eventful one.
With the approval of the Lord of the North, Garrett, the settlements of the Vales of Anduin continued expanding northward. Along the way, many abandoned villages and settlements were rebuilt, all the way to Framsburg, where the ruins were restored into a strong and fortified city.
However, when explorers pressed further north and reached the Dwarves' former colonies, they found them in utter ruin, the structures within almost completely destroyed.
And not only that. Several wingless cold-drakes had taken up residence there, along with hordes of orcs.
Thus, the lord set out to battle alone, and returned carrying the carcasses of three great dragons.
After confirming that no more dragons remained within Dáin I's hall or anywhere else in the Grey Mountains, a team of engineers, escorted by a company of Rangers, departed from Framsburg to begin restoration. They repaired the collapsed pillars and floors, rekindled the ancient lamps, and reopened the passages for future travelers.
As the builders worked, the Dwarves soon arrived, having heard the news.
Thorin gazed upon the shattered hall, once a proud colony of his ancestors, now almost unrecognizable, and countless memories of dwarven history surfaced in his mind.
He sighed.
"So this is where my forefathers once lived. I have never been here before."
"It is good," he added after a pause, "that the Grey Mountains are now free of evil dragons at last."
"There's something else good, too," Garrett said with a faint smile, pointing at the ground. "When I slew those three dragons, I found they'd hoarded a great treasure, most likely mined by your ancestors."
"What do you think of that?"
"What do I think?"
Thorin's eyes trembled. He ran his hand over the cracked and broken gates, lost in thought for a long time.
At last, he smiled faintly and shook his head.
"That treasure no longer belongs to us."
"My forefathers once quarreled with the Éothéod over gold and jewels... and my grandfather fell out with the Elves out of greed."
"But I am not them."
Thorin's smile deepened slightly.
Garrett smiled back.
This time, the Dwarves did not claim the treasure.
The King Under the Mountain showed generosity and peace of heart, a rare virtue among Dwarves... and a remarkable one at that.
Once again, Dwarves and men joined hands in friendship. Dáin I's hall was rebuilt, becoming a place shared by both races, Dwarves and humans alike.
Thus the affairs of Carrock and the Grey Mountains came to a close.
Meanwhile, unnoticed by most, in distant Gondor, the newly appointed Steward, Denethor II, took up the palantír of Anor and engaged in a battle of wills with the great enemy of all Free Peoples, Sauron, and emerged victorious.
Yet when he descended from the tower that housed the seeing-stone, people were startled to find that the young Steward suddenly looked older, as though years had passed overnight.
Indeed, he had won that contest of wills, and from then on, he continued to use the stone to spy upon Sauron's movements and gather intelligence.
But at the same time, Denethor grew more and more silent. His words became few. He seemed to care only for his secret struggle against the Dark Lord.
Though the contest took a heavy toll on his spirit and body, he endured it all. So long as victory could be maintained, so long as Gondor could hold its advantage, so long as losses could be minimized, he would remain steadfast, until death claimed him.
But fate, as always, delights in cruel irony.
Death did not come for Denethor. It came first for his wife.
The year was Third Age 2988.
Finduilas often woke in the middle of the night, staring at the sky where the shadows of Mordor hung thick in the east, or gazing silently upon the wide river.
Perhaps it was the faint trace of elvish blood in her veins. She longed for the sea, and for her distant homeland. Each time she looked upon the flowing water or the open sky, an unnameable sorrow welled up within her.
And with that same elven blood came a terrible sensitivity to darkness and evil. Mordor, that vast, brooding land of shadow lying just across from the White City, pressed upon her heart like a mountain, day after day, until she could scarcely breathe.
Such wounds of the spirit are the most helpless kind.
Under the weight of fear and sorrow, she faded away, passing from the world at only thirty-eight years of age.
Denethor stood before her grave.
He remained there all night, silent and unmoving. When dawn came, he sighed deeply, turned, and walked away.
From that day on, he seemed to have aged several more years, and became even sterner, quieter, more withdrawn than before.
