Frodo’s parents had been rescued, and he was spared the fate of becoming an orphan.

When Garrett heard the Rangers’ report, he leaned back in his chair.

A weight was lifted from his heart.

Yes, those two Rangers were the ones he had sent to patrol that region.

Of course, the Shire hadn’t just received Rangers this year. Many years ago, when the influence of Wayfort began to extend across the whole of Eriador, it was only natural that some Rangers began to be stationed there permanently.

On one hand, they were following the usual practice of observing nearby regions around their territory. On the other, they carried out counter-surveillance against Saruman’s spies to prevent them from causing trouble.

While doing these things, incidentally, or rather, out of instinctive duty, the Rangers had also been quietly safeguarding the Shire’s peace, unknown to its inhabitants.

It wasn’t because he had specifically ordered it that the Rangers rescued that hobbit couple. The Rangers had long been stationed secretly in the Shire. It was only because Garrett had casually mentioned something that they paid more attention to that river this year.

In fact, if it hadn’t been for Drogo and Primula’s accident in the water, most people in the Shire would never have known there were Rangers operating there at all.

In any case, the outcome was good.

One less tragedy in the world.

Life went on. People continued their days, following their own paths.

But for him, who had grown used to leisurely days, this year had not been a peaceful one.

Fengel could hold on no longer.

By the time Garrett arrived in Rohan, the man could barely open his eyes.

Facing Garrett, who looked as young as he had decades ago, Fengel’s expression was calm.

In the great hall, seated upon his throne, his eyes carried a trace of nostalgia.

“To this day, what I miss most is our journey together, especially the times we caused a commotion in the great hall. Hahahaha…”

Garrett looked at the frail old man laughing with all his remaining strength, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak.

He didn’t take out a golden apple or a healing potion this time.

Over the years, he had done that too many times already, and each time, Fengel had refused.

There were some things he simply could not change.

People said that this legendary lord possessed medicines that could cure any illness, that he had miraculous healing magic capable of bringing even a man with a broken neck back to life.

And it was true.

But that was all it could do.

Life itself… it wasn’t a disease or an injury. It couldn’t be mended.

As Fengel’s laughter echoed through the hall, Garrett sat down on the steps beside the throne and sighed.

“I miss those journeys too,” he said quietly.

The laughter gradually faded.

Fengel suddenly murmured, “I’d love to taste your cooking once more.”

“Actually, I know, Garrett…”

Before Garrett could respond, he continued with a faint smile, “I know my soup was terrible. I also know that day you secretly poured it out. It broke my heart a little, but it’s all right. I understand. Sometimes, some people are just not meant to be good at certain things. After that, I made soup many more times, but only my wife and I drank it.”

“Ah… Morwen… only she could put up with my stubbornness like that. I’ll be going before her, but thankfully, our children will be there for her. She won’t be alone.”

Garrett lowered his head, staring at the floor, silently listening, saying nothing.

The great hall fell quiet for a moment.

Then came a sharp, deliberate breath.

Garrett lifted his head and looked at that frail figure.

“…Actually,” Fengel said softly, “I’ve slightly improved the recipe. It might even be barely drinkable now. It’s just a pity I won’t get the chance to make it again…”

Whoosh.

With that, he let out a long breath.

At that moment, sounds came from outside the door.

“Théoden and Morwen, they’ve arrived.”

“Let me speak with them… one last time.”

So Garrett stood up and left the room, giving Fengel’s final moments to his family.

Just as he stepped through the doorway, a voice called after him.

“Farewell, my old friend.”

“…Farewell, old friend.”

Fengel’s wife and children brushed past Garrett as they entered the hall.

He didn’t know what they said to each other, nor did he hear it. But moments later, the sound of weeping drifted out. Only then did Garrett take a deep breath, step forward, and quietly walk away.

Silent and wordless.

In the year 2980 of the Third Age, Fengel, the fifteenth King of Rohan, passed away.

During his reign, Rohan prospered. Not a single enemy breached its borders.

Théoden succeeded him as the sixteenth King of Rohan.

“Please wait!”

Outside the Golden Hall in Edoras, just as Garrett was about to depart, a voice suddenly called out to him.

Turning around, he saw one of the royal guards hurrying over, holding a bowl of soup.

“This is from King Fengel,” the guard said. “He left it for you.”

Garrett stared blankly for a moment, then accepted the bowl. Steam still rose from it. He took a small sniff and suddenly smiled.

No strange smell.

It seemed Fengel really had tried to improve it.

So Garrett tilted his head back and drank it all in one gulp.

“Pffft!”

He’d been tricked.

—

Time flowed swiftly. Days and years slipped by.

Whenever Garrett looked up at the sky, he would stand there for a long while, overcome by a strange sense of unreality, as if in the blink of an eye, a year had passed. Then he’d share a meal with someone, and another year would be gone.

And if he happened to take a journey, when he returned, perhaps seven or eight years would have passed.

There is a saying: You always remember the first one best.

Long ago, Garrett had once wondered why elves, when meeting a dwarf or a man, always spoke first of that person’s ancestors, as though they knew only their forebears from many generations past, and not the person before them.

Even Gandalf was like that. His gaze always seemed to drift backward in time, rather than rest on the present.

Now, when Garrett thought of that question again, he finally understood.

When he looked at Théoden, he thought first of Fengel, and of Fengel’s father before him.

When he saw Denethor, he remembered Ecthelion, and even earlier, Turgon, whom he had known long ago.

When he met Bain and Brand, he thought of Bard.

Those of the earlier generation, or more precisely, those who had lived in the same age as Garrett, had left such deep impressions on him, shared so many experiences, that even after all these years, his memories of their entire lines were still centered on those first people.

The younger generations had their own stories to tell, but none of their stories included him in the same way.

His sense of time had long grown hazy. It felt as though, in but a moment, all his friends had gone.

Only their descendants stood before him now.

And all he could do, like Elrond when he first met Thorin, was look upon those familiar faces and say, “I knew your ancestor. You have his spirit.”

Perhaps these younger ones, too, would achieve great deeds, great enough to be remembered by history.

Even so, in his memory, the most familiar faces, the ones he had shared his life with, would always be those first companions.

The farther back in time, the earlier he had known them, the deeper the impression they left.

Even though they were long gone.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep