“Welcome, welcome!”

At the stronghold gate, a guest arrived fashionably late.

“I can’t believe it, Garrett. In the past, I never would have traveled after dark. But now, not only do I journey at night, I can even rest right beside the roadside, and sometimes when I wake the next morning, I find someone’s even covered me with an extra blanket.”

“So lively! Has it already begun?”

Muttering to himself, Bilbo entered through a small side gate. The dazzling night scene and bustling celebration before him instantly left him wide-eyed.

“It started long ago, you’re the last one to arrive.”

Garrett welcomed him in, gesturing toward the plaza beside the stronghold. “They’re all over there, go take a look.”

“Oh, right then.”

Bilbo looked toward the Elves and Dwarves in the distance, feeling a moment of disbelief.

“It appears they’ve made peace.”

“Perhaps.”

Garrett sighed. “People always used to tell me that Thorin was the most calm and reasonable among Dwarves. But judging from our expedition, many of his actions could hardly be called rational, reason had little to do with him.”

“I suppose his longing to reclaim his homeland, along with the burden of hatred and pressure carried for a hundred years, nearly drove him mad.”

“Now, though, he’s becoming more and more like a true king.”

“Yes, and also a dear friend.”

“I agree,” Bilbo nodded approvingly.

“Ho there! Thorin, Bofur, Bifur, Bombur…!”

As soon as their conversation ended, Bilbo was already calling out as he hurried toward the banquet tables.

Meanwhile, Garrett closed the side gate and began climbing the nearby stairway.

“Not going to find a spot to relax for a while?” he asked a figure in the shadows.

“Am I not relaxing already?”

Halbarad stretched lazily, rising from his chair.

“It’s too bright over there, I cannot see the stars properly.”

“The stars… fair enough.”

Garrett’s gaze swept over the battlements, noticing several others also silently looking upward.

They were Rangers.

They had no homeland to call their own.

A single glance at the prosperity behind them was enough; what they truly fixed their eyes upon was the darkness before them, and the stubborn struggle that had stretched on from the last Age until now.

“How much they resemble Gil-Estel, Elendil’s Star, the treasured symbol of the Dúnedain… A pity it’s been lost for thousands of years, just like our kingdom.”

“You mean the Elendilmir.”

Garrett spoke up.

If he remembered correctly, that symbol of Arnor’s kingship, a gem that shone like a pure star, resembling the lights of the sky, was now kept in Saruman’s tower of Orthanc.

When Saruman picked it up thousands of years ago, he hadn’t returned it, but kept it for his own purposes. Who knew what use he had for it?

That White Wizard was more than a little possessive of ancient treasures.

Garrett thought he ought to have a serious conversation with him someday about that.

“I’ve occasionally heard a few clues about it. Maybe I can help you search.”

“Then I would be most grateful.” Halbarad nodded with a weary smile.

But from his expression, it was clear he held little hope.

A life without homeland, without belonging, and with even their ancient symbols long since lost, most had already grown accustomed to such emptiness.

Even if the Dúnedain lived for many centuries, thousands of years had passed. Time might not erase the pain of history, but it could temper emotions, helping people focus on what must be done in the present.

Garrett handed over a tankard of chilled mead.

“Have some?”

Halbarad hesitated for a moment, then accepted it and began drinking slowly.

So much of the world lay in ruins, but thankfully, there were always those who worked to mend it.

And some who continued building anew upon the foundations.

“There you are.”

A quiet voice from behind made both of them turn.

“Elves do have this troublesome habit, walking without sound, without announcing their presence.”

Recognizing the newcomer, Halbarad relaxed with visible relief.

Had this not been Wayfort, he might have cast aside his drink and drawn steel.

“Erestor, your timing is perfect.”

Garrett waved. “We were just stargazing. Tonight’s sky is especially clear, a perfect time to look up.”

“Would you join us for a drink?”

“Gladly.”

Erestor raised the goblet of wine in his hand and nodded to both of them.

A Dúnedain Ranger, an Elf of Rivendell, and one of uncertain origin, just like that, the three of them quietly enjoyed the glittering stars while savoring their drinks.

Compared to their tranquil atmosphere, the banquet tables near the stronghold were anything but peaceful.

“Another round!”

With a loud thud, Glóin slammed down a large tankard of ale, breathing heavily as he declared, “Mark me well, once you drink, you’re not allowed to spill a drop.”

“Naturally. I value good drink far too much to waste it.”

Across from him, the Woodland Realm’s captain calmly raised his cup, his bearing elegant as he gestured courteously.

“Shall we continue then?”

“Cursed Elf! Soon you’ll be face-down on this table!”

Glug, glug, glug…

Cup after cup went down, empty tankards piling high upon the wooden surface.

Clang!

At last, when yet another empty barrel was rolled aside, Glóin’s head lolled sideways, and he collapsed onto the table with a thump.

“You… hic… why are you lying down already?”

Those were the final words he managed to slur at the Woodland captain.

The captain raised his chin with satisfaction, casually tossing a grape into his mouth.

“Dwarves are nothing special after all.”

The mocking words rang out clearly.

The other Dwarves grew furious.

“I hadn’t planned on interfering.”

Nearby, Dwalin drained a massive tankard of ale with a roar.

“But since you said that, don’t blame me for what comes next.”

“I wouldn’t mind another contest,” the captain said smoothly, running a finger along his goblet’s rim, his face steady and unflushed.

Jest? Impossible. As Thranduil’s most capable aide, and longtime drinking companion, how could he not possess great tolerance for alcohol?

The Dwarves gathered around, but the captain showed no concern.

“Dwarves of Erebor, then, let’s see what mettle you truly possess…”

“It wouldn’t be right, standing by while a kinsman fights alone.”

At that moment, several of Elrond’s guards from Rivendell approached as well, taking positions behind the Woodland captain.

That caught him completely off guard.

Though all were Elves, relations between their two realms were far from cordial.

Back in the War of the Last Alliance, the first King of the Woodland Realm had perished precisely because the Silvan Elves under his command refused to accept orders from the High King of the Noldor.

They had broken ranks early, charging the Black Gate ahead of the main army, only to be slaughtered.

The Dead Marshes came to be that way: the countless fallen Elves lying there were once the Woodland Realm’s finest warriors.

“As you wish.”

And so, Elves and Dwarves began a fresh competition.

Once the drinking party had moved elsewhere, the table was left with only Elrond and Thorin. Whatever Elrond was thinking remained unreadable, but Thorin, at least, appeared somewhat uncomfortable.

Two great lords, sitting side by side, yet with little to discuss.

Fortunately, someone else arrived just then.

“Bilbo, how have you been of late?” Elrond was the first to ask.

“Thank you for asking. As you can see, quite well indeed,” Bilbo replied cheerfully.

Elrond nodded approvingly.

“That gladdens my heart. You are always welcome in Rivendell.”

“And the halls of Erebor remain ever open to you.” Thorin drew Bilbo closer to his side.

Though the atmosphere remained slightly strained, at least conversation had resumed.

Passing by with more wine in hand, Gandalf glanced at the three of them.

Ah well, no matter, time for another drink.

“Ha! Fireworks, now there’s my specialty! Allow me to handle them!”

He downed his cup, waving enthusiastically toward the townsfolk in the distance.

—

Crunch, crunch.

Elsewhere, Beorn munched on greens and berries.

Crunch, crunch.

At his side, Wormi mimicked him perfectly, chewing thoughtfully on a few bites of vegetables.

Beorn continued his meal.

Wormi watched him intently, and kept chewing as well.

Beorn paused, mouth half-open.

Wormi froze likewise, mouth agape.

Skin-changer and dragon remained locked in an awkward standoff.

Beorn narrowed his eyes slightly in amusement.

A moment later…

“What? We’re running short on vegetables and fruit?”

One of the townsfolk called out in dismay.

“That will not do! If visitors see that, they’ll think Wayfort cannot provide for its own people!”

“Bring forth everything from the storehouses! A full crate for each guest, everyone shall have abundance!”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep