Ding.

A silver coin flipped into the air and was caught by Garrett. Then he tossed it into the air again.

This action drew sidelong glances from some road-weary travelers.

But when many people turned their gaze toward the figure clad in dark armor and draped in a travel-worn cloak, their breath unconsciously slowed. They furrowed their brows, searching their memories, yet couldn’t place why that figure felt so familiar.

Only when the man had walked far away did someone suddenly come to a realization.

He drew a sharp breath and said, “That was… That fellow with all the titles. He just walked past!”

“Who?”

“Him.”

—

Inside the rough and weathered “Forsaken Inn,” as soon as Garrett sat down, it was as if a stone had dropped into still water, silencing all the scattered conversations around him.

This made the already quiet inn feel even more hushed.

Only the innkeeper remained behind the counter, casually wiping tankards and making soft clinking sounds.

“I’ll have an ale. And a serving of roasted meat.”

Garrett placed his order.

“Right away, sir.”

The innkeeper immediately set down what he was doing and headed to the kitchen.

Just then, another voice interjected: “I’ll take some bread. No drink for me…”

Garrett turned his head and saw a familiar figure.

The man greeted the innkeeper, then settled down across from Garrett with a weary sigh.

He said, “Long time no see.”

“It really has been.”

Garrett took the ale handed over by the innkeeper and took a sip.

“Aren’t you having a drink?”

“No, for certain reasons, I’m rather short on coin lately.”

“Alright, but that’s easy to fix. I’ve made a bit of money recently, I’ll cover this meal.”

“A bit of money?”

The man across from him went quiet. “If that counts as just a bit, then there’s probably nothing in the world that could be called great riches.”

“It was quite a lot. I honestly lost count.”

Garrett shrugged.

“…I get the feeling you’re showing off.”

“But it really is impressive. I didn’t expect that in just over two years, you’d accomplish so much. When I first heard about it, I thought someone was spinning tales. Anyway, it seems like you’ve been faring well lately.”

“More or less. But enough about me, what about you, Halbarad? You’ve been missing for years. Where did you go?”

Garrett ordered two more ales and another plate of roasted meat, and said, “I was starting to think maybe you quietly died in some forgotten corner.”

Hearing that, Halbarad rolled his eyes.

“Even if I did die, I’d make sure you got word. Though, I suppose you don’t really need it anymore.”

“What word?”

Clink.

Two ales were brought over and placed before them.

Halbarad took a satisfying draught.

He answered, “The gold deposits you were seeking. And news from distant lands.”

“After hearing your request, I headed east, crossed Ithilien, then south from the Anduin crossing, and successfully infiltrated Far Harad.”

“It’s not a welcoming place, full of spies for the Dark Lord. They worship the being within Barad-dûr and have formed cults around him.”

“I searched the contested lands between Gondor and the Southrons for a long time. Eventually, I found some mines to the west of Umbar that seemed to yield precious minerals. But before I could learn more, I was discovered. The Haradrim there realized I was from the north and spoke of burning me to ash.”

“I fled for days before I made it back to the border regions, and with help from some Gondorian Rangers, I escaped.”

“Honestly, I don’t think seeking your materials in Harad is feasible, so after resting briefly, I explored north of Mordor.”

“That would be Dorwinion or Rhûn. You went to the lands of the Easterlings?”

“Aye.”

Two plates of roasted meat were brought over, one with an extra piece of bread. Garrett took the plate without bread and began eating. But Halbarad didn’t seem to have much appetite. He stared into his ale as he spoke, recalling the memories:

“I thought Rhûn might prove better. But just after venturing deeper, I was shocked.”

“There’s massive unrest happening there. Farther east, a rebellion is fighting against the established Easterling kingdoms.”

“During my time in Rhûn, the fighting escalated. And then, beyond Men, there were orcs, wargs, and a new breed of troll, Olog-hai, larger and immune to sunlight.”

“The wargs were blacker and more sinister than those in the northern mountains, reminded me of the wolves from the Elder Days. They’re aiding the Easterlings in assaults on certain rebel factions.”

As he listened, Garrett frowned.

That much chaos in Rhûn?

No wonder the borders were sealed. Even trade caravans from Dorwinion couldn’t get through.

But… a resistance movement?

He swallowed the last bite of roast meat and was just about to ask when Halbarad suddenly spoke, “Before the border roads were completely blocked, an agile old man in a blue robe found me and helped me escape. Before we parted, he said something to me. And to this day, I still haven’t deciphered what he meant.”

“What did he say?”

Garrett perked up.

“He said, he might never make it back.”

Some grieve because they cannot return.

Others worry over things they cannot send away.

—

In Rivendell, under the star-filled sky, Elrond sat at his desk, gently lifted his quill, and wrote a line on a sheet of parchment.

[To Garrett:

Long time no see, my friend. How have you been lately?

It has been two years since we last parted. I’ve heard many tales of your deeds, and I am filled with joy for all that you’ve accomplished.

But… have you forgotten that you still have a very swift horse here?]

At this point, he sighed.

That horse had been giving the stablemaster quite a challenge. Although Garrett had once said it didn’t need feeding, whenever the stablemaster passed by with a handful of oats, the horse would stare at him intently, not as carefree as it had been before.

Sensing something was amiss, the stablemaster offered the oats to the horse. Sure enough, it devoured them in one bite.

Then it started acting restless, rubbing against the stall one moment, trying to break free the next.

Thinking the horse might be pent up, the stablemaster took it outside to the meadow. Once on the grass, the horse seemed much happier, occasionally lowering its head to nibble the grass.

The stablemaster suddenly realized he might have misjudged the creature. Just because Garrett said it didn’t need food, he had treated it like some mystical beast, keeping it confined to the stall.

The elven stablemaster immediately felt remorse. From that day forward, he took much better care of the horse, not only taking it out for regular exercise and fresh air, but also trying to introduce it to the rest of the herd in Rivendell.

Now, the horses of Rivendell were all well-bred and well-trained, swift, steady, and calm. They didn’t reject the newcomer, even though it seemed a little… simple-minded. Instead, they welcomed it.

Everything seemed to be progressing well, until one day, the stablemaster fed the horse a handful of oats in the pasture.

The horse immediately grew restless again. It darted toward the other grazing horses and, regardless of whether they were stallions or mares, just…

To prevent the poor beast from getting kicked to death, the stablemaster had no choice but to confine it back to its stall.

This incident deeply troubled the elf. He believed it was his failure to properly care for the horse that led to such unusual behavior.

Because the horse had been entrusted to them by an ally, Elrond would occasionally, about once a year, check on how it was doing.

And so he noticed the stablemaster’s growing distress.

As he thought about this, he was already nearing the end of the letter.

Although the main purpose of the letter was to ask Garrett when he planned to come collect the horse, that part only took up a line or two.

Most of the letter was filled with care and concern, praise for Garrett’s recent accomplishments, warm expressions of friendship, and an open invitation to visit Rivendell anytime, promising a hearty and generous welcome.

At the end, Elrond signed:

“Your friend, Elrond.”

After sealing the letter, he waited for a moment, letting the night breeze dry the ink.

Just then, footsteps approached.

Elrond turned and saw a young boy. He smiled warmly.

“Estel.”

Estel, meaning “hope” in Sindarin, was the name the Elves used for Aragorn.

The boy was indeed Aragorn.

Ever since the fall of the Kingdom of Arnor, Elrond had been sheltering and raising the chieftains of the Dúnedain during their youth.

It wasn’t just for education and care, it was also a way to protect the royal bloodline.

At this moment, Aragorn gave a slight bow from a short distance as a greeting, then approached with curiosity and asked, “Are you writing a letter to a friend?”

Although he had lived in Rivendell for quite some time, he had never seen his foster father write a personal letter before. His curiosity was instantly piqued.

Elrond didn’t hide it. He nodded and said, “He’s a very… unique person.”

By now, the ink on the letter had dried. As he sealed the letter, he began telling Aragorn stories about the Lord of Wayfort and the legends of the wilds.

He spoke for quite a while, until Aragorn’s mother came looking for him. Only then did he pause and walk the two of them back.

Whoosh.

As they walked, Elrond suddenly stopped, turning sharply to gaze westward, toward the night sky.

The mother and son noticed something was unusual and also looked in the same direction.

But they saw nothing.

“What is it?” Aragorn asked, puzzled.

Elrond rested a hand on his shoulder and said, “Somewhere beyond what our eyes can perceive, a pillar of white light is splitting the night sky in two.”

“I’m guessing… it’s Wayfort.”

He smiled and resumed walking them back.

But Aragorn couldn’t shake the feeling. Even after his mother tucked him into bed, he lay there, wide-eyed and unable to sleep.

He stared up at the ceiling, unmoving, his mind spinning with the legends he’d just heard.

“Wayfort…”

“Garrett…”

In the darkness, he lay against his soft pillow, blinking his large eyes again and again, utterly unwilling to close them.

—

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