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LOTR: TMCP Ch. 311
🕑 Added 2025-10-25 03:23:32 +0000 UTC"Before the Balrog's movements become clear, it's best for them to stay put and not go seeking danger," Garrett advised.
"I'll go speak to them about it," Gandalf agreed, then added, "Also, I'll keep an eye out for any news on this matter. If there's any progress, I'll come to inform you right away."
"Tea's ready!" Bilbo's voice came from inside the house.
Thus, their private conversation came to an end.
"Coming," Garrett and Gandalf stood up and went inside, taking their seats.
The afternoon tea was quite pleasant. But peaceful moments never last long.
After tea, it was time to part ways.
Garrett and Gandalf walked together toward Bree.
Along the way, they chatted about many things: Garrett's recent feat of slaying a Balrog, which, from Gandalf's perspective, was indeed a recent event, Aragorn's return, and the new happenings in the East.
Gandalf recalled, "I heard from Aragorn about the two Blue Wizards. It seems their work is showing some progress."
"What news did he bring back?" Garrett asked.
It had been a long time since he'd heard anything from the East or South. After so many years, those regions must have changed quite a bit.
"News from Khand," Gandalf said. "The new king there refuses to submit to Mordor. Even though they still offer tribute each year, their situation is rather dire."
"That nomadic kingdom is surrounded by Mordor, the Easterlings, and Harad. They can do very little. No one can."
"Unless," Gandalf mused, "you abandon everything here and move there to stay long-term."
It was a helpless situation indeed. Garrett's territories were far away, while Mordor was right next door. Even if Khand's ruler wished to avoid the conflict, he couldn't. He either submitted, or perished.
If not for the tributes they still sent each year and their obedience to Sauron's commands, the Nazgûl would likely have already paid them a visit to "negotiate."
And when a Nazgûl wanted to negotiate, it usually meant they'd carve your heart out, literally.
If Khand wished to truly be independent, they would need new allies.
In the far East, Sauron still held a firm grip over the lands bordering Mordor, but some regions farther away, those not yet touched by darkness, remained untainted. Those were the places worth winning over.
That was precisely what the Blue Wizards were doing now.
The two spoke intermittently as they walked, and before long, they arrived at Bree.
Thanks to the influence of Wayfort, the small town was now far more prosperous than before. People's standard of living had visibly improved.
With Rangers frequently passing through, the ruffians who once lurked in dark corners had completely lost their foothold. They'd vanished from Bree altogether.
As soon as they arrived, Gandalf headed straight for The Prancing Pony. He seemed to know the innkeeper quite well.
Upon seeing Gandalf, the innkeeper greeted him enthusiastically, waving at once and personally coming over to serve him.
Gandalf, who never disappointed others' warmth, responded in kind, ordering two pints of ale to support the business.
The frothy, freshly poured ale was brought over by the innkeeper himself. He carried the two mugs to a corner table and handed one to Garrett, who was wearing a wide hood.
"Thanks," Garrett raised his mug and took a long pull. Half the ale gone in one go.
Seeing Garrett's broad hood, Gandalf teased, "So you've finally learned to keep a low profile."
"No choice," Garrett shrugged. "I never imagined I'd reach a point where just showing my face could throw local order into chaos."
"Being too famous isn't always a blessing," Gandalf chuckled.
Indeed, it was inconvenient.
Times had changed. Garrett was no longer just an adventurer. His presence and reputation had grown far too strong to be easily hidden.
Even with most of his face concealed, he could still feel faint glances cast his way from various corners, mostly from the Rangers resting in the inn.
They recognized him instantly, of course. But they didn't come over to bother him. When Garrett waved them off, they respectfully averted their eyes and went back to their own business.
Before long, both mugs were empty.
Perhaps Gandalf was indeed hungry, for after finishing his ale, he ordered a plate of roast meat, a loaf of bread, and some sweet-and-sour jam for dipping.
A fine combination.
Garrett watched him eat and began to feel hungry himself. He stopped a passing serving girl and gestured toward Gandalf. "I'll have the same as him."
"Alright then."
"And me too. I'll take the same."
Another voice joined in.
A tall, travel-worn figure had taken the seat beside Garrett, carrying the air of long journeys.
"Good afternoon, Garrett, and Gandalf."
"Aragorn," Gandalf said, calling him by name.
"What brings you here?" Garrett turned his head and asked.
"By Alatar's request," Aragorn replied. "He asked me to bring his regards to you, and to Halbarad."
Garrett nodded. "Seems you've been getting along quite well."
Aragorn's long journey had come to an end.
Over the course of a meal, Garrett and Gandalf learned of his plans.
In the year 2952, he had left Rivendell to travel across Middle-earth, leaving behind a trail of deeds and legends wherever he went.
Now, in 2981, this very year, after countless trials and innumerable battles, after seeing the best and worst of mankind, he finally returned to Eriador, and to his own people.
For a time, he would act together with his kin.
After parting ways in Bree, the three men went their separate paths, each continuing along their own course.
Gandalf continued his wandering. Aragorn headed north to the front lines. Garrett returned to Wayfort, resuming his usual routine of managing affairs large and small.
Thanks to the territory's well-structured system, there wasn't much that required his personal intervention. His workload was modest: reviewing reports, expediting minor issues, overseeing projects and occasionally lending a hand to speed things along.
And so, the days passed quietly and steadily.
Until 2982, when in Frodo's home, a hobbit child was born, Meriadoc Brandybuck. Frodo's mother visited her relatives to see the baby, and upon returning, told Drogo about it. Frodo thus learned of the existence of this cousin of his.
A year later, joyful news came from Gondor. Denethor's second son, Faramir, had been born. When the child reached his first month, Garrett traveled to Gondor to visit.
He even held the baby in his arms for a moment.
The newborn was healthy, and Denethor looked much the same as ever, spirited, but with a touch more silence and solemnity.
That silence, Garrett realized, was because of Ecthelion.
Now ninety-seven years old, Ecthelion often drifted into absent-mindedness. Even when Garrett approached, it would take him a moment to come back to himself.
The wise old steward murmured, "Time... it's strange how it came to be something one fears."
"Perhaps, it's when time begins to lose its meaning, " Garrett replied, pulling up a chair to sit across from him. "How have you been lately?"
"Everything's quite fine," the old man said slowly.
He looked at Garrett. "You seem well yourself."
"As always."
"That's good."
Ecthelion nodded, then said, "Lately I've had a foreboding feeling, as if a shadow were drawing near."
"Denethor will bear a heavy burden, but he is strong."
Garrett nodded in agreement. "That I believe. I've watched his growth all these years."
"Yes," Ecthelion sighed softly. "He will carry on."
That day, the two spoke for a long time, about Gondor, Mordor, and what the future might bring. Eventually, they rose and took a walk together, from the White City all the way to the fortress of Cair Andros on the Anduin River, and then back again.
It was, in its way, a pleasant stroll.
Spring turned to autumn, and soon the chill of winter crept close again.
The following spring, Garrett returned once more to Gondor, to visit his old friend.
And to bid him farewell.
In the Stewards' Tombs of Minas Tirith, a vast, arched chamber, Denethor stood silently before a marble bier, gazing at the carved likeness upon it. His eyes were distant.
Soft footsteps sounded behind him, pulling him back from his thoughts.
A single flower was laid upon the tomb.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder.
"You know," Garrett said quietly, "even after all these years, I can still remember that summer afternoon, the four of us riding across the plains of Rohan, drinking that awful mushroom soup, then feasting on freshly caught fish afterward."
"Those were good days. 'The past' and 'adventure,' those two words, when put together, always stir fond memories."
He patted Denethor's shoulder. "Your father always believed in you. He trusted that you could do everything required of you, and bear the future of this realm. And now, how will you answer that trust?"
"I will."
In 2984, Ecthelion II passed away at the age of ninety-eight. His son Denethor succeeded him as Steward of Gondor.
Thus, an era truly came to an end, and a new symphony quietly began.
