Time flies swiftly.

That year, a stronghold north of Wayfort, near the Ettenmoors, was exposed. Rangers clashed endlessly with the nearby orcs, and in one battle, a troll descended from the mountains and caught the Rangers completely off guard.

At that critical moment, a trainee ranger named Thorongil stood up bravely, fought the troll head-on, and nearly brought it down single-handedly.

Later, his captain nominated him as an outstanding graduate, and the rest of the squad unanimously agreed.

Very few ever receive the Outstanding Ranger Graduate Medal from Wayfort. Take Captain Arje, who once led Aragorn, for example, he only earned the medal after countless battles against barrow-wights, rescuing villagers, taking part in numerous orc extermination campaigns, and escorting caravans all the way to Gondor, with the lord himself granting him additional merit.

This shows just how much weight the medal carries.

In every sense of the word. Though dull and gray on the outside, it is pure gold within.

It is highly discreet, unassuming to the eye, but of the greatest value.

In the year 2952, aside from trivialities hardly worth mentioning, the one significant event was Garrett’s discovery of the long-lost Elendilmir. Through him, this ancient symbol of Arnor’s kingship once again saw the light of day.

But for safety’s sake, both the Elendilmir and the Narsil were entrusted to Rivendell, to be guarded by the Elves.

After visiting Rivendell, Garrett remained quietly in his own lands. His people often saw him conversing with others, some retired workers, others the most skilled in their trades.

He spoke with them in workshops and smithies, learning from them.

Thus, his days passed slowly and steadily.

When the year 2953 began, news spread:

The infamous King Fengel of Rohan, worn down by illness and pain, finally breathed his last at home.

Rohan’s many marshals, nobles, and common folk all together urged Fengel’s only legitimate heir, Thengel, to return and take the throne. Though greatly reluctant, Thengel eventually returned with his family and was crowned the sixteenth King of Rohan.

He was forced to clean up the mess left behind by his troublesome father.

But that year, it was not only Fengel who could no longer endure.

—

“Ecthelion… Ecthelion…”

In the bedchamber of Gondor’s Steward, a weak voice spoke.

“Father, I am here.”

Ecthelion rushed to the bedside, holding Turgon’s hand.

Turgon turned his head to look at his still-vigorous son, memories flooding his mind.

“So soon…”

Ecthelion’s nose stung, he lowered his head, blinking rapidly, trying not to show weakness before his father.

“Lift your head, child. Let me see your face.”

“You… and Denethor… you both must live well, to witness Gondor’s prosperity.”

“I swear it, Father.”

As the words left him, Ecthelion could no longer hold back. A single tear fell, shattering his composure.

“What is Denethor doing?” Turgon asked, forcing his eyes open.

“He has just returned victorious from battle, Father.”

“Well done. Call him in a while, let me see his valor with my own eyes.”

“Yes.”

At the mention of Denethor, Ecthelion suddenly thought of something.

“Father, the golden apple is with Denethor. Perhaps it can…”

Turgon shook his head slightly.

“It’s no use, Ecthelion. You should understand, I am not ill. My time has simply come.”

Ecthelion fell silent.

“One last thing,” Turgon said. “I wish to see Garrett once more.”

“I’ll send for him at once.”

Thus, an urgent letter was dispatched to Wayfort.

On the very day it arrived, Garrett traveled through the Nether portal to Gondor’s stronghold, heading straight for the Steward’s chambers.

“Good afternoon.”

When he saw the Steward, frail and barely clinging to life, Garrett for a moment did not know what to say.

The sun sank in the west, its crimson light spilling into the room, yet it could add no warmth or color to the man’s face.

“Good afternoon, my friend.”

Turgon smiled faintly.

Gesturing behind Garrett, he said, “You two go out for now. I have some words to speak.”

Though reluctant, Ecthelion and the other spirited young man left the chamber.

“Well, my friend, do you feel how swiftly time passes?”

Turgon looked at the shut door, then turned to Garrett. “Denethor is already a valiant warrior. He just returned, having slain more than a dozen orcs with his own hand.”

“I must admit, that is indeed remarkable,” Garrett answered sincerely.

“He will be glad to hear you say that.”

Whoosh.

Turgon let out a long breath.

“A new age is beginning. We old men must make way for the young. But you are different. For more than ten years, you seem never to have changed at all…”

Garrett remained silent.

As though recalling something from the past, Turgon suddenly laughed.

“Imagine, I once even thought to make you bow to me. My mind must have been less clear then than it is now. Thanks to Ecthelion, he stopped me from that foolish obsession. He is a good child, isn’t he?”

“He is indeed a decent man,” Garrett replied with fairness.

Turgon nodded.

“I believe Gondor will prosper under his governance. Not only Ecthelion, but Denethor as well. For a thousand years, our family has guarded Gondor, never once harboring ambition beyond our station. The throne has always stood beside us, but our gaze has ever been fixed upon the people who sit beneath it.”

“I do not know what future awaits Gondor, nor what end this world will come to. I only know this: for us, nothing is eternal. Everything has its end, whether life, or prosperity, or anything else.”

Having spoken, he paused to catch his breath before continuing, “I wish to ask for your forgiveness.”

Garrett shook his head. “That was long ago. I never held it in my heart, by the next day, I had already forgotten.”

“No, that is not what I mean. What I ask is this: in the days to come, those who rule Gondor may, without intending it, do wrong. For that, I ask in advance for your forbearance.”

“Forbearance…”

Just forbearance, not even forgiveness.

“I promise you.”

Turgon gave a small smile. His body relaxed, as though all burdens had been lifted and he could finally rest.

Moments later, he spoke again, “My time has come to its end.”

“Then…”

“Good night… my friend.”

“Good night.”

“…My friend.”

The sun set.

Turgon closed his eyes.

In the year 2953 of the Third Age, Turgon, twenty-fourth Steward of Gondor, passed away at the age of ninety-eight.

During his rule, Gondor had known peace.

—

The tall mallorn trees swayed in the wind, their golden blossoms blooming among the branches. Spring had come at last to Wayfort. By the great golden tree, a new earthen mound had been raised.

Wormi lay lazily in the sunlight beside it.

Few knew what was buried within that small grave.

Only the cook who had always cared for Wormi placed a single dandelion upon it, letting it sway in the breeze.

The cook still carried out his duty, calling to Wormi each day, bringing its favorite food. But most of the time it only flicked its tail, sniffed at the plate, and lay unmoving again.

The once lively figure that had always loved to romp about was gone. Now it preferred to curl up somewhere, close its eyes, and pass the day in silence.

A hand rested upon its head, stroking the scales as hard as iron.

Wormi opened its eyes, nudged upward, and at last found the appetite to flick its tongue across the food the cook had brought.

Man and dragon sat together in the grass, keeping watch over the land.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep