Far on the other side of the Misty Mountains, Gandalf gave his nose a weary rub and pulled his weathered cloak tighter against the chill.
He was hunched on a half-rotten log beside a tiny campfire, coaxing warmth into his bones.
"The air grows warmer. Spring must be on its way," he murmured, "and yet… the Ring is still nowhere to be found."
He stared into the flames, smoke curling into the damp air.
"Perhaps… it truly isn't here at all."
This place had already yielded every scrap of rumor and clue he could find. There was little point in staying.
Rising, Gandalf cast his gaze east toward the dark, endless forest, then southward to the jagged mountains beyond. Dol Guldur had fallen not long ago, and the ruins lay silent now, without so much as a whisper of foul magic.
"…Perhaps it's time I pay Isengard a visit," he muttered.
The thought instantly curled his lip. The last person he wanted to see was that sharp-tongued, smugly superior White Wizard. And yet… the greatest library of magical lore in the land lay within Orthanc's black tower. Avoiding him wasn't an option.
With a sigh like a man accepting a particularly unpleasant chore, Gandalf adjusted his staff, tamped his pipe, and began the long march south.
While Gandalf was changing course, something unexpected was happening at Eric's bustling fortress settlement.
A visitor had arrived.
Eric's voice carried an edge of surprise as he spotted the elf at the gate.
Legolas inclined his head with a graceful bow. "Greetings, my friend. How fares your world these days?"
"Can't complain," Eric replied with a grin. "Though I'll admit, you catching me here is a surprise."
"My father guided me to this place," Legolas said with a wistful note in his voice. The elf prince was clearly thinking back to other times. The Battle of Erebor had forged more than victory, it had forged legends. And Eric, much to his own embarrassment, was the subject of more than a few.
Stone-Builder. Orcslayer. The Great Foe. Walking Army. Iron Golem Summoner.
Too many ridiculous titles, Eric thought. He had half a mind to start handing out novelty badges.
"Ah… your father, yes." Eric smirked. "Well then, come in. You've got good timing, we're about to begin a seven-day celebration for the founding of Free Cities."
Legolas's eyes lit with curiosity. "A feast? I would be honored."
As they walked along the bustling streets, Legolas looked skyward, as though remembering something. "Such occasions always bring to mind the Starfall Banquets of my home. People think elves never cook over flame, but that's utter nonsense. We roast plenty of things at our feasts, and over great roaring fires."
"Next time there's a Starfall Banquet," he added, "I hope you will attend. Though… I may not be present myself."
"I'll certainly come if I can," Eric said warmly.
By the time they reached the Great Hall, the smells of roasting meats and fresh bread were wafting through the air. Eric, knowing the lighter tastes of elven folk, served up milder dishes alongside bowls of fresh fruit and vegetables.
The very first bite left Legolas frozen - as if the flavor had stunned him into stillness.
"This is… better than any of its kind I have tasted before," he said at last.
Coming from an elf, that was worth its weight in mithril.
"Well then, eat your fill," Eric chuckled, wondering absently whether elves could even get fat. He'd never seen one out of shape, even after centuries.
After dinner, the elf prince sat quietly at the table, gaze distant.
"What is it? Something not to your liking?" Eric asked, retrieving a cask of rich Dorwinion wine and pouring a deep goblet for Legolas.
"No," the prince said, shaking his head. "I could not find the smallest fault."
Unlike his wine-loving father, Legolas rarely drank. But the aroma was so enticing and this was, after all, a gesture from a friend - that he raised the goblet and sipped. The wine slid over his tongue like warm sunlight and vanished far too quickly.
Eric refilled it before the elf could even ask.
And with the wine came words.
"I… don't know what I'm meant to be," Legolas said quietly. "I do not understand love… or family… or friendship, not truly. I have searched for answers - in Gundabad, in Erebor, in Lake Town, in Dale - but my hands return empty."
Eric poured himself a drink, clinked glasses with the elf, and leaned forward. Follow current novels on 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵·𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖·𝙣𝙚𝙩
"I'm no sage of the heart," he said, "but I've learned a thing or two. Love - all of it, friendship, kinship - isn't a place you can travel to, and it isn't some thing that just sits waiting for you to stumble across it."
"It starts in here," he tapped his chest, "and grows outward. It isn't something you wake up one day and suddenly 'get.' It's more like… say you've got an opaque mug. You can't see if it's full. You pour a little, then a little more, and still it looks the same. But one day, it spills over, and only then do you realize: Ah. So that's what it was."
"I think it's something you build up - until it changes you."
Legolas mulled this over, then nodded faintly. "Is that truly so?"
"Probably," Eric admitted with an awkward shrug. "But whether I'm right or wrong - you won't discover it sitting alone in a tower. Live among people. Talk to them. Listen. Feel. Let it… grow."
"I understand," Legolas said, setting down his goblet. "Then please - give me a task. Let me work."
Eric tilted his head. "I'm not sure what would suit you best. Tell you what — go and find the community steward, Ved. He knows how to set newcomers to work."
Legolas didn't waste a heartbeat. The moment Eric finished speaking, the elf was out the door, asking the first passerby where this 'Ved' might be found.
He discovered the man soon enough - in the back garden of a modest stone cottage, sleeves rolled up, planting carrots.
So much for an aloof administrator.
"Greetings," Legolas said politely.
"Well, greetings to you, young… ah, no, scratch that," Ved chuckled, glancing at the elf's ageless features. "You're likely older than I am by a few centuries. What can I do for you?"
"Eric sent me. He said you could assign me some tasks."
"Ah… I see." Ved put down his trowel thoughtfully. Judging by the way the elf spoke of their lord, his standing was high indeed. Giving him something too light felt almost insulting. Then again, nothing in Roadside Keep was particularly backbreaking - pickaxes, hoes, and hammers were all used with more enthusiasm than misery.
"Very well. Follow me," Ved said at last. His tone was practical - clearly a man who just did his job, no matter the grandeur of his company.
After all, Eric's instructions were always direct, without riddles or hidden meanings. So, Ved reasoned, he'd do just as he always had.