On the other side, in the prison of the South Undeep, a small and thin figure was sneaking around, glancing left and right furtively.

Then he looked toward the guard at the prison gate.

“He’s asleep… gollum…”

Making a little noise on purpose to confirm the guard was indeed fast asleep, Gollum clawed at the iron bars and, with some effort, scraped a small stone from outside into his cell.

He checked the guard again. Still no movement. Then he took careful aim at the wall opposite the prison door, waited a moment, and flicked the stone through the iron bars.

Using the wall’s rebound, the stone bounced back and struck the button beside the iron gate.

Click.

The button was triggered.

Creak.

Just like that, the iron door of the prison opened.

Freedom!

He immediately darted out, memorizing the layout as he went, avoiding patrolling guards, and managed to escape the prison without much trouble.

Not long after he left, the guard at the door opened his eyes, stretched lazily, and replaced the button beside the iron gate with a lever.

That way, no thrown object could trigger it so easily again.

As for Gollum’s escape, no one cared.

Because… it was part of the plan.

“If he grows restless and desperately wants to leave, then let him go.”

“Perhaps he’ll be of some use to certain operations.”

The guards didn’t know what “operation” their lord had mentioned months ago, but they faithfully carried out his orders nonetheless.

And so, a few days later, following the longing in his heart and the call of the Ring, Gollum tracked down the two Hobbits.

After a dispute and confrontation, he joined their journey and, under Sam’s sword, swore to lead Frodo.

Bound by both oath and circumstance, Gollum indeed did much to help, leading them through rugged hills, evading orc patrols, cautiously crossing the Dead Marshes, and warning Frodo and Sam not to look at the ghostly faces in the water, or they would be dragged down themselves.

His efforts earned him a bit of trust from the two Hobbits, and for a while, the trio’s journey was almost harmonious.

Of course, differences in habits still led to occasional quarrels.

Like now.

“Hopeless.”

In the green lands of Ithilien near the Black Gate, Sam was cooking a pot of rich rabbit stew, sprinkling in some herbs.

“Rabbit should be eaten like this to bring out its true flavor. Pity there aren’t any potatoes. Then you’d know what real satisfaction of tongue and stomach feels like.”

“Bah!”

Across from him, Gollum stuck out his tongue twice in disgust.

“You’ve ruined good meat, gollum…”

“You just don’t understand.”

Sam shook his head.

“Golden fried potatoes, and a crispy fried fish… I’d wager even a creature like you couldn’t resist that taste. When all this is over, maybe I’ll cook you a proper meal. Then you’ll realize what miserable food you’ve been living on.”

“You’re the one living miserably, stupid, fat Hobbit who ruins food. We eat it raw, gollum…”

As the two bickered, Frodo frowned and glanced toward the trees.

“Quiet, Sam.”

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s an army.”

“Who are they?”

“Sauron’s forces.”

Gollum squinted and said, “Those dark Men, they’re from the South, from Harad. They’ve been summoned to Mordor. Soon they’ll invade these lands. The day isn’t far off… very soon…”

“What day?”

“The day Gondor and Rohan are dragged into darkness and ruin.”

Gollum explained intently, picturing the scene in his mind, so much so that he forgot his usual muttering, his signature “gollum.”

“We must go. We can’t stay here,” Frodo said quickly, standing up.

But the situation changed in an instant.

From the tall grass came a sudden twang of bowstrings. Countless arrows flew toward the Haradrim soldiers. Those hidden attackers struck swiftly and cleanly, wiping out everyone but two war elephants.

Even the two massive mûmakil didn’t last long. The riders atop them were shot down one by one, never seeing where the enemy was.

Thud.

A corpse fell beside Sam, making him freeze.

He looked down at the Haradrim’s body, eyes still open, life just gone, and a strange thought crossed his mind.

What was this man’s name? Where was he from? Was he truly evil inside? What lies or coercion drove him from his home to this place? Did he really not wish to live peacefully back there?

Such thoughts flickered through his mind only for an instant. Realizing how dangerous the place was, he quickly stood and followed Frodo and Gollum as they fled.

But their hope was short-lived.

The Rangers of Ithilien had already spotted the three sneaky travelers. Before long, they were captured, blindfolded, and escorted to a hidden stronghold for questioning.

To prevent any accidents, their weapons were confiscated.

When one of the Rangers picked up Sam’s short sword, however, he froze.

He immediately took it to his commander, the leader of the strike team.

That commander was none other than Boromir’s younger brother. Faramir drew the short sword and read the small inscription on it.

“Forged by Garrett, for the one who undertakes the great quest.”

Seeing that name, and the word quest, he realized the two Hobbits might be telling the truth.

“They bear a secret and vital mission. They’re allies. Untie them, return everything to them, and bring them to me. I have questions to ask.”

As his men went to carry out the order, Faramir pondered to himself.

A secret mission…

He recalled his and Boromir’s shared dream, and his brother’s last words before leaving. His suspicions deepened.

Moments later, Frodo and Sam were brought before him.

After exchanging only a few words, Frodo and Sam realized who stood before them.

He was Boromir’s younger brother.

Sensing something in the air, Faramir asked, “Tell me, Hobbits, does your mission have anything to do with Isildur’s Bane?”

“How did you…”

“Sam!” Frodo quickly tugged at Sam’s sleeve, signaling him to be silent.

But it was too late. Sam’s slip of the tongue had already given it away.

Frodo sighed inwardly. There was no hiding it now.

“My brother, Boromir,” Faramir said quietly, “he went north seeking that very thing.”

“Then what about you?” Frodo asked. “Do you want it as well?”

“No.”

Faramir shook his head firmly.

“Even if that thing lay by the roadside, I would not stoop to pick it up. Even if Minas Tirith were reduced to ruins, and I alone could save it, I would not use the weapon of the Dark Lord for such a purpose. Frodo, I do not wish for that kind of victory. I know well there are powers in this world no mortal should ever touch. The Grey Wizard and the Lord of the North have both spoken with me, taught me much. I still possess enough reason…”

Clink.

As he said this, by chance, the Ring slipped out, dangling from its chain, glinting before Frodo’s chest.

Faramir’s eyes were immediately drawn to it.

His trial had come.

“So… it’s here. You carry it…”

He stared straight at the Ring.

Frodo and Sam both held their breath.

There was nowhere to run. If he were like Boromir, then everything would be lost.

“Keep it well, Frodo.”

Faramir’s words broke the silence.

His eyes were clear.

“Do not let that Ring be seen so openly, neither before me, nor anyone else.”

He knelt down, gently taking Frodo’s hand, helping him close it around the Ring and hide it from view.

Sam said sincerely, “You’ve proven your quality, the very highest.”

Faramir smiled faintly, neither denying nor replying.

The tension in the air eased.

But the calm didn’t last long, because another creature had arrived.

Gollum.

He had been caught while catching fish at a pool.

“I’ve heard of this unpleasant creature,” Faramir said coldly. “Since he has trespassed into Gondor’s lands, I am bound to deal with him properly.”

And what counted as “proper”…

He drew his sword.

“Wait!”

Frodo hurried forward to explain.

“He was once the bearer of the Ring. Now he is my guide, to lead me into Mordor, to destroy it.”

Hearing this, Faramir sheathed his sharp blade.

Thus, Gollum narrowly escaped death, but even so, Faramir made him swear an oath, to stay true to his task.

He ordered that Gollum be allowed to move freely within Ithilien, but if any Ranger saw him stray from Frodo and Sam, or break his oath, he was to be executed on the spot.

A safeguard, of sorts, for the two Hobbits.

“Go now, Frodo. May fortune walk beside you.”

With that blessing, Faramir sent the three of them on their way, even providing them with supplies for the road.

It seemed their journey through Ithilien would go smoothly…

Or so it seemed.

A scout soon brought grim news.

“Osgiliath is under attack! They urgently need reinforcements. The enemy numbers in the tens of thousands, and the Nazgûl lead them.”

“Prepare to move out,” Faramir ordered at once. “We march to their aid.”

Thus he parted ways with Frodo and his companions.

And so, the small episode that began with a quarrel over raw versus cooked food came to an end, for now.

—

But elsewhere, others were also troubled by matters of food.

For their meal lay on the fine line between raw and cooked, neither one nor the other.

“I made some soup. Would you like some?”

On the road to reinforce Helm’s Deep, Éowyn lifted a pot of soup and asked Gimli.

“No, I’ll pass,” Gimli said hurriedly, striding ahead, missing out on the soup entirely.

But that was fine. After all, it wasn’t meant for him anyway.

Éowyn was heading straight for Aragorn.

“Would you like some soup? It’s not much, but it’ll warm you up.”

Aragorn glanced at the soup.

Having lived and traveled alone for many years, he was more than capable of cooking for himself, and he could tell at a glance that something was a bit off about the way this soup was made.

“This recipe,” Éowyn said proudly, “was passed down from my grandfather, King Fengel. They say he learned it from Garrett, the leader of the northern people. And now, it’s my turn to carry it on.”

“Oh, really?”

At those words, Aragorn’s interest was instantly piqued.

He had tasted Garrett’s cooking before, and there was nothing Garrett made that wasn’t delicious.

If this soup’s recipe truly came from Garrett, then it was certainly worth a try.

So he eagerly took a ladle and filled himself a large bowl.

Seeing how quickly he helped himself, Éowyn looked delighted. It was the first time anyone had been this enthusiastic.

Finally, someone appreciated her.

“Go ahead, drink up.”

“All right.”

Smiling, Aragorn lifted the spoon, raised the bowl to his lips, and took a big gulp of the soup.

…Wait.

Something wasn’t right.

His smile slowly faded.

“How is it? How does it taste?” Éowyn asked expectantly.

Aragorn nodded slightly and replied, “A bit… hot.”

As he spoke, the soup trickled down from the corner of his mouth.

Just as he was trying to figure out how to politely handle the princess’ enthusiasm, Gimli walked over. “A great warrior who’s felled hundreds of orcs on the battlefield, brought low by a bowl of hot soup? Aragorn, how did I never notice you were such a delicate man?”

Aragorn drew in a deep breath. He very nearly wanted to give Gimli a good smack just to shut him up. But then an idea came to him.

“I’ve heard Dwarves are unbothered by heat, that even if you touched a red-hot iron pot with your bare hands, you wouldn’t flinch. Why don’t you try some of this soup?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Even if you aren’t, I insist. Gimli, this recipe was passed down from Rohan’s late king Fengel, who learned it from Garrett himself, and now it’s prepared by Lady Éowyn. Opportunities like this are rare.”

“Oh, truly?”

Now Gimli was intrigued.

“Well then, that does sound worth a taste.”

He took another bowl from Éowyn and filled it to the brim.

Aragorn just watched silently, smiling faintly, as Gimli, eager to prove his tolerance for heat, took the bowl and drank straight from it in one go.

Not a word was spoken.

“Pffft!”

“Cough! Cough, cough!”

Gimli choked and sprayed the soup everywhere, soaking his beard.

“What’s wrong?”

“Aragorn, this soup…”

Aragorn gave a slow blink.

Gimli caught the look immediately.

Well, after living over a century, he knew how to read a situation.

“The soup is quite hot,” he said quickly, “but, you see, Dwarves are resistant to heat. Only, ah, our throats and stomach linings are a little more… delicate than our skin.”

As Gimli made excuses for himself, Legolas appeared silently behind him, speaking in his usual calm, slightly superior tone, “Dwarves are always like this, rash and impatient. They drink their ale in one gulp, and when they eat, they practically devour the whole plate in one bite, like oxen.”

“Oh? And Elves are supposed to be graceful?” Gimli shot back.

Legolas lifted his chin with a smug little expression.

“Graceful, refined, and dainty, like a little rabbit.”

“Then have some soup, my graceful friend,” Gimli said, handing him the bowl. “A recipe from Garrett. You wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?”

“Oh, really?”

Now Legolas was intrigued too.

“That certainly deserves a taste.”

He accepted the bowl with perfect poise, lifting the spoon so smoothly the soup didn’t ripple a bit. His every move exuded elegance.

Even drinking it, he brought a delicate spoonful to his lips and sipped.

Gulp.

Legolas took a deep breath, swallowing the soup with visible effort under the expectant stares of Gimli, Aragorn, and Éowyn.

Suddenly, the Elf looked… melancholy.

He missed home.

“Our Prince of Mirkwood seems a bit wistful,” came a teasing voice.

It was Boromir, walking toward them with an amused smile.

From afar, he’d seen the three companions and the lady of Rohan whispering together curiously, and had come over to see what was going on.

“Nothing much,” Legolas said, showing him the bowl. “We’re just eating.”

Boromir chuckled. “What, did that hot soup remind you of the warmth of home?”

“Perhaps,” Legolas murmured.

“Then pour me a bowl,” Boromir said. “I’m hungry and could use something warm. We’ve been traveling fast. I’ve not eaten a thing yet.”

“All yours,” Legolas said, immediately handing over the pot.

“Thank you.”

As Boromir lifted the pot, Legolas added with a nod, “This recipe was passed down from Garrett himself. You must try it.”

—

Achoo!

Out on the wild plains of Enedwaith, Garrett, leading his army southward, suddenly sneezed, jolting so hard his horse stumbled sideways.

“Are you all right, sir?” someone asked.

“I’m fine,” Garrett replied with a sigh.

“Just had the feeling that… one of my reputations has suffered irreparable damage.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep