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LOTR: TMCP Ch. 217
🕑 Added 2025-08-22 01:15:21 +0000 UTCThe Steward's invitation was certainly important, but before setting off for Gondor again, Garrett still pulled out a pen and signed his name for that young Ranger.
"If writing my name can provide some kind of protection or good fortune, then I'd gladly write until the ink runs dry."
Patting the young Ranger on the shoulder, he offered encouragement.
"May this cloak serve you well, helping you stay hidden in the wild lands."
"My heartfelt thanks!"
The young Ranger looked at Garrett with shining eyes, grinning so widely his face seemed about to split.
Off to the side, the veteran Ranger who had dutifully carried the Steward's message looked hesitant, his hands fidgeting, then reaching up now and again to rub his stubbled chin.
Perhaps... I should ask for an autograph as well?
---
Hoooonnnn.
The horns of Gondor sounded, and the city gates swung open to welcome their guest.
Whooosh.
A great shower of flower petals scattered into the air, drifting down like gentle snow.
Citizens on both sides of the streets waved toward the black-armored warrior entering the city. For a moment, the whole place erupted with excitement. Every balcony and terrace that overlooked the gates was packed with onlookers.
But in the center of the crowd, Garrett was left stunned.
"Is today some kind of festival?" he asked the Ranger beside him.
The older Ranger considered for a moment before answering: "It could be said so."
Garrett nodded slowly. "Then I am quite lucky."
"You would find such luck whenever you came."
"Is that so?"
Garrett glanced left and right, feeling the weight of countless gazes upon him, the fervor of which seemed hot enough to burn through even netherite armor.
At last, the young Ranger, unable to endure the pair's exchange, blurted out directly:
"Today is no festival of Gondor. The people came out because of you. Word has already spread through every corner of Minas Tirith that you avenged Gondor's ancient shame at the hands of the Witch-king, a disgrace we have borne for a thousand years."
Something clicked in Garrett's mind.
Ah.
He drew in a sharp breath, recalling the history carefully.
Right… there was something like that.
Gondor had entered the era of rule by the Stewards precisely because their last king had been slain by the Witch-king. That king, as it happened, had been obsessed with martial prowess, spending his days training with sword and shield, and died without ever producing an heir.
"Ah, yes... I see. I was merely surprised by the passion of Gondor's people."
Garrett smiled in acknowledgment, waving to the citizens lined along the streets and those watching from above, acting as though he had known all along.
Inwardly, however, he was deeply shaken.
If I told them I just got annoyed at the Witch-king for dumping poison into my territory and wanted to lure him out for a fight... who would believe that?
It feels like I just killed some random monster and somehow triggered an important quest.
"Let us cheer for the defender of the North, Gondor's ally, the hero, Garrett!"
"HOORAY!"
---
When Turgon heard the roar of cheers rising into the sky, he instantly knew who had arrived.
He hurriedly rose from his seat, walking all the way to the Court of the Fountain, and stood at the edge of the White City's highest tier to look down.
"Why has such a crowd gathered...?"
Though he had no objection to the people celebrating a hero's deeds, was this not a bit... excessive?
This scale of welcome, he had last witnessed it when the army returned after reclaiming a fortress on the front lines.
"Our people deserve a chance to celebrate, Father."
At that moment, Ecthelion approached from behind. Standing beside his aging father, he looked down with him and said, "Since the return of the Dark Lord, and with our enemies in the South growing restless, whether it be you, the soldiers, or the common folk, everyone's nerves have been stretched taut, even until now."
"These past years, all have feared that our long peace might vanish at any moment."
"Let Gondor rejoice this time. This news will lift the spirits of all the soldiers still fighting on the borders."
"Even the finest bowstring cannot remain drawn forever."
Sigh.
"...Very well. Let it be as you say."
Turgon exhaled heavily and waved his hand.
"I grow old, and my eyes no longer see as clearly as they once did. Some matters should long ago have been left to you to handle."
"Hah."
Saying so, he chuckled softly. He slowly raised his head and gazed toward the eastern horizon.
"If that Dark Lord had returned a few decades earlier, he would have found me waiting for him on the battlefield."
Ecthelion lowered his head, studying his father's slightly stooped shoulders, but said nothing.
Neither he nor his father were of pure Númenórean blood; a hundred years of life was their utmost span, and now his father had already passed ninety...
The noise of the crowd drew closer, halting only at the steps that led to the Citadel at the city's highest level.
The Steward and his son stepped forward to the stair's edge, waiting in dignified silence.
"Welcome."
As Garrett's figure ascended at last to the uppermost tier, Turgon smiled warmly.
"Today, Gondor's gates stand open in your honor."
Hmm?
Garrett blinked, momentarily unprepared for this suddenly warmer side of Turgon.
"Thank you. If chance allows, the gates of Wayfort may also rise for you."
The two clasped hands and exchanged genuine smiles.
Whatever small unpleasantness had lingered between them was set aside with that.
Watching from behind, Ecthelion could not help but smile as well.
At this moment, Gondor's prestige rose once again, now rivaling that of the distant Woodland Realm, able, if necessary, to rally armies to its cause.
In theory, if Garrett wished, he could now summon an elite army of dwarves, Men, and Elves drawn from many realms, gaining the support of multiple powers at once.
"By now, I no longer know how to repay your service to Gondor."
Turgon spoke, then gestured. A member of the Guard stepped forward, carrying an ornate chest.
The chest was opened, revealing a finely crafted short sword. Its hilt gleamed with gold, with gemstones set on either side, and its blade caught the sunlight with a brilliant edge.
Garrett lifted the sword, and immediately a description appeared:
[Steward's Blade: Attack Power +6, Attack Speed +50%]
What a sharp blade!
He examined it closely and noticed an empty heraldic space upon the hilt, blank, bearing no device.
"That is our house's emblem."
Ecthelion stepped closer, speaking quietly: "The Steward may only govern in the absence of a king. He cannot bear royal arms, those symbols of sovereign authority."
"So it remains blank, and must always remain blank. In time, that emptiness itself became our house's mark."
"By contrast, the Dark Lord bears a pitch-black sigil. We swore to oppose all darkness."
"These old tales can wait."
Turgon interrupted his son's explanation, stepped nearer, and looked into Garrett's eyes.
"I wish for this gift to commemorate our friendship. That empty crest represents me and my house. When needed, simply show it, any who know Gondor will understand its meaning."
"I know this may be of little practical use to you, but I ask you to accept it nonetheless."
Meeting the elder's solemn, sincere gaze, Garrett's expression grew serious as well.
"Then, on behalf of myself and the people of my lands, I will accept this token of Gondor's friendship."
The ceremony was completed beneath the withered White Tree, at the highest point of Gondor, witnessed by the entire city.
Applause erupted like thunder.
