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LOTR: TMCP Ch. 46
🕑 Added 2025-07-12 16:02:00 +0000 UTC"Haah."
In the marshlands, Garrett stretched lazily after eliminating another small outpost. He brushed at the blood-stained, tattered linen cloak covering his armor.
As his sword pierced through the orc's throat beneath his feet, the brilliant blue radiance along the blade gradually faded.
Flames rose from the corpse, dispersing some of the early morning mist. He extended his hands toward the fire, seeking a trace of warmth.
The air was growing ever colder.
A long time had passed since he and Gandalf had separated to pursue their missions independently. Initially, he kept count of sunrises and moonsets, trying to calculate the date and how many days had passed. But as the fog on his map slowly dissipated, as the path he traveled grew ever longer, and as the number of orcs his blade had felled increased, he gradually grew numb to it all.
Every day was spent either traveling to uncover more territory or searching for traces of orcs and refugees, day after day, with no variation.
He vaguely recalled that about a month ago, he could still come across scattered refugees, exchange brief words with them, and guide them to safety. But perhaps the people of this region had finally all evacuated, or for some other reason, it had been ages since he had come across any survivors.
Even wildlife had become rare.
The only things moving or making noise in this area seemed to be orcs, and wargs. Of course, none of them were moving anymore.
He sat there spacing out for a while. Then, after consuming two pieces of bread, he opened his map to study the topography of the region.
At this point, most of the fog covering the region known as the Vales of Anduin had been cleared, and the terrain had been recorded onto his map.
As for the orcs stationed here, he had slain every single one he could locate.
Those still alive had either fled too swiftly or had gathered into hundreds, forming tightly-packed forces in more open areas. With numbers like that, he couldn't handle them yet. Large-scale formations brought tactical complications, and if he became surrounded, escape would be nearly impossible.
He shook his head.
The remaining orc forces had been forced to huddle together by his relentless campaign, they were the difficult opponents now.
It was probably time to withdraw for a while.
Even for him, supplies were becoming problematic after being out this long. His ready-to-eat provisions had long been depleted. For quite some time, he'd been surviving off several packages of dried bread stored in his inventory.
And now, even those were nearly exhausted.
He stood up, planning to search for any wild game. Just then, a familiar voice called out from the distance:
"Finally found you, Garrett, whew, that truly wasn't easy."
A grey-robed old man came striding over, stepping through grass and avoiding marshy ground, quickly arriving at Garrett's side.
"I've been searching for you for nearly a fortnight. If I hadn't seen the charred remains of orcs and wargs along the way, I would have thought you'd already returned home."
"There are still orcs in this area. How could I possibly leave so soon?" Garrett shook his head.
Hearing this, Gandalf drew in a sharp breath and quickly said, "By the Valar, that's sufficient. You've accomplished more than enough. In the past fortnight, I haven't encountered a single living orc. Honestly, it's even cleaner than a dwarven purge. I'm beginning to wonder if you have some kind of blood feud with these creatures."
"Blood feud?"
Garrett glanced at his reputation display:
[Misty Mountains Orcs: -1523 (Nemesis)]
"Yeah, I guess you could say that now."
At this point, he figured the orcs in this region probably despised him as much as they did the dwarven royal line. To put it in perspective: if Garrett and Thorin were both being pursued by orcs and they separated, the orcs might prioritize Garrett first, assuming they believed they could actually defeat him.
"Well, whatever the case, our objective has been achieved. The Men of the valley have begun migrating and gathering to the north. Once they truly unite, the orc raids will no longer threaten them. Perhaps they'll even form a new tribe. Without your assistance, they would have suffered far greater losses."
Gandalf found a fallen log to sit upon, withdrew his pipe, and kindled a flame. As a smoke ring drifted skyward, the tension in his expression visibly eased.
He quietly smoked his pipe, and Garrett said nothing, seemingly lost in thought.
The marshlands around them were utterly silent, only a solitary wisp of smoke curled upward into the sky.
Gandalf glanced at the silent Garrett several times, appearing thoughtful.
After a while, perhaps feeling sufficiently rested, he suddenly slapped his knee and exclaimed, "Oh, look at me, I nearly forgot..."
"What?"
"Yule!"
"Yule?"
Garrett looked somewhat puzzled. What was Yule?
"Indeed, it's nearly the beginning of a new year. I once promised the children in the Shire that I'd bring fireworks when Yule arrived."
"Ah, it's been that long already...?"
Garrett felt somewhat disoriented. This had definitely been his longest expedition, longer even than his journey to the Nether.
"It's time to conclude this adventure."
Gandalf gave Garrett a firm pat on the shoulder, signaling the end of their campaign.
A chill wind swept past.
Small white flakes landed on Garrett's face, cold and slightly damp.
Snow had begun to fall.
"The orcs have ceased their activity for now. For some reason, they've withdrawn near the mountains and stopped expanding outward."
As they walked, Gandalf shared the intelligence he had gathered.
When he said "for some reason," he cast a meaningful glance at Garrett.
"To be honest, this is one of the rare occasions I've felt things proceeded smoothly. Most of our past adventures were fraught with obstacles."
There was only so much one person could accomplish, not everyone could break stone with their bare hands like Garrett.
"Garrett?" Gandalf suddenly called out.
"Ah, I'm here."
"You've been lost in thought this entire time."
"No, I just feel somewhat, hmm..."
"Weary?"
"No. You should know, I don't get tired."
"Well, I believe you are weary."
Gandalf, with the tone of someone who had seen much, said slowly, "You know, Elves as a people possess endless lifespans. They're born attuned to nature and magic, healthy, never aging or falling to illness. But they can still perish from sorrow. The spirit is the greatest nourishment for life and soul. You must remember that, Garrett. Whether it's you, me, or anyone else, we all require rest. When it's time to sleep, I never remain wakeful. For people like us, the body isn't the most crucial thing. But the soul, that always needs tending."
That was as directly as he could express it, there was no purpose in delving deeper.
Garrett listened silently and nodded.
Was that truly the case?
Reflecting, he realized he actually hadn't slept in months. Because he never felt tired, his body simply didn't experience exhaustion.
Perhaps Gandalf was correct.
Perhaps the soul truly did require maintenance once in a while. After all, it wasn't like you could repair it by grinding for experience points.
---
Time passed again. Days went by as the two retraced their steps, leaving the Misty Mountains behind.
The journey back went surprisingly smoothly. They barely witnessed any sign of orcs, even when passing through narrow mountain passes, there was no harassment.
Once they descended into the wilderness, Gandalf turned to inquire, "As I mentioned earlier, I plan to visit the Shire. What of you?"
"Me?"
Garrett gently raised his hand and caught a snowflake.
"I won't go. There are still some things I need to take care of, while it's still winter."
