Under Garrett’s persuasion, Bain did not hesitate for long. Before much time had passed, he chose to step down from his position as Steward of Rhovanion and the Dale region, beginning a peaceful and leisurely retirement.

The one who succeeded him was Brand, who had already earned both achievements and prestige of his own.

At his inauguration, he drew the Dragonflame Boneblood Sword, a relic passed down from his father Bain, and placed it before him.

He then made his oath of office:

“In the name of the Lord of the Free Cities, the leader of the Northmen, the Lord of the North, Garrett, I swear to govern this land with all my heart, until the day I lose my strength, or until the Supreme Leader or the people deem me unfit to bear this duty.”

The oath was recognized, and the leader gave his approval.

From that day onward, every Steward would take an oath upon assuming office.

At the same time, a new family was officially founded. It took Bard as its founder, and his name as its own. People called it the Steward’s Family, or simply the House of Bard.

This family carried the bloodline of the old city of Dale, and this lineage granted them the peculiar gift of understanding the speech of thrushes.

Even Dwarves who had experience taming thrushes could not do that. If they wanted to learn anything from a thrush, they still needed a talking raven to translate for them.

That was the only real peculiarity of the old Dale bloodline. Somewhat special, but not too much. Still, not entirely useless, either.

As for Brand’s actions, Bain showed little reaction. He only nodded slightly, remaining calm and composed.

Brand had grown to the point where he could shoulder the future of a family and manage the affairs of such a vast territory with competence. Just as he had sworn, he would devote himself to governing this land until he lost his strength, or his virtue no longer matched his station.

But Garrett could not help feeling deeply moved as he looked upon this family.

To other races, Men always seemed fickle, for their generations turned over too quickly. Yet in this lineage, from Bard to Bain to Brand, each generation had produced remarkable people, talented in both mind and body. To see such upright character carried on for several generations, now that was rare indeed. And it was easy to imagine that, raised in such a family, surrounded by so many elders’ guidance and example, young Bard too would find it hard to stray from the path.

Time passed swiftly.

Ever since Brand took over the regional affairs, Garrett’s visits to Dale had become noticeably more frequent. Perhaps thinking he was under some kind of examination, Brand handled everything so flawlessly that not a single fault could be found.

But clearly, Garrett had no intention of testing him. He simply wanted to visit Bain, to see this younger companion of his own generation a few more times, nothing more. To see once more the one who was always a step ahead of him on the path all mortals must walk.

“I too will soon greet my own nightfall.”

Life.

One night, Garrett came once again to that familiar little house.

Bain was sitting on the steps at the doorway. The old man could not help but lift his head, gazing up at the tangled sea of stars, at the brightest one among them, the Star of High Hope.

After a long while, he turned, went inside, and looked at Garrett, then at the empty chair opposite him, long untouched.

That was all he wished to do before reaching his journey’s end.

From that day on, there was one more empty chair in that little house. And it always remained empty.

Brand was often occupied with affairs of governance. He never understood what was so special about that small cottage that drew his grandfather and father there, time and again, forsaking the grand palace to sit in that humble place and drink tea. He only knew, so it was said, that back when the palace atop Dale’s highest hill still lay in ruins and had yet to be rebuilt, his grandfather Bard had lived in that little house. His father, too, had stayed there for a time.

Perhaps it was nostalgia that drew them back so often.

They simply liked returning there. But that sense of nostalgia only lasted one generation. By the time it reached Brand, it was much fainter. Still, if one day Brand were suddenly seized by a whim and decided to visit that small house, he might find a faint, solitary figure sitting by the window, quietly brewing tea for himself. Across from him, on the other side of the table, were two empty chairs.

In the year 3007, Bain passed away.

The memories of his old friend lingered quietly in Garrett’s mind, sinking deep into his heart. He was commemorating it all in his own way, remembering forever, and never forgetting. Sometimes, he could not help but think of Elrond. When that Elf had watched, time and again, as those he had cared for and their descendants departed from the world, had he felt the same way?

Garrett shook his head and let out a long sigh. The sound echoed sharply in the empty house.

The following year, the great figure that was always seen brooding upon the rocks near Carrock vanished as well. The solid, smooth stone now felt strangely bare. Beorn was gone, too. By the townsfolk’s choice, his son Grimbeorn, also a skin-changer, succeeded him as the new mayor of Carrock and the new chieftain of the Beornings.

Garrett knew the young man fairly well. He had attended the feast Beorn held to celebrate his son’s birth, and had even held the child once in his arms. But that was, of course, no longer possible. Thanks to their inherited bloodline, Beorn’s direct descendants were all remarkably tall, veritable giants among Men.

Beorn himself, in his human form, had stood over eight feet tall. As a bear, that size increased dramatically. His son was a little shorter, around seven feet, but still towering by human standards.

It could be foreseen that as generations passed and the bloodline grew thinner, these numbers would steadily decline, and the skin-changers’ power would fade. Perhaps one day, after long ages of intermarriage and dilution, the family would lose the gift of transformation entirely, becoming an ordinary human lineage, though still taller and stronger than most.

“We have found some solid leads.”

In the year 3008, Gandalf once again passed through Wayfort, bringing word of his new discovery.

For years, there had been little progress in gathering intelligence about Gollum, and after Garrett had shown him traces of an ancient evil lurking in the frozen wastes north of Angmar, Gandalf had pushed the search for Gollum further down his list of priorities.

A few years earlier, he had merely instructed Aragorn to keep watch for any related news, while he himself turned his focus to the mysteries of the Northern Waste. But clearly, this time he had come for something else.

“What kind of leads?” Garrett asked.

“Gollum has been moving around near Mordor lately,” Gandalf said. “He goes in and out, and each time he comes out, he carries something back in.”

“It is strange. But at least one thing is certain. He is still free. No one has caught him, and he has not fallen into the Enemy’s hands.”

Gandalf frowned thoughtfully.

“But his situation is far too dangerous. Wandering so close to Mordor every day, it is only a matter of time before something happens. Given that, we have decided to resume the search for him.”

At those words, Garrett glanced sidelong at him. He almost wanted to laugh, as if Gollum would be safe anywhere else. Wherever he went, someone was bound to be after him. Still, being caught by the Rangers was far preferable to being taken by Mordor. At least the former would not torture him, only imprison him, feed him, and occasionally question him for information.

“I know a few things about Gollum myself,” Garrett said after a pause. “I shall come along this time.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep