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Middle-earth Adventure Journal! - 33
🕑 Added 2025-09-30 05:26:02 +0000 UTCChapter 33: Farewell
After Glóin finished taking measurements, Aedric produced five gold coins as a deposit, and both parties signed a hastily drafted contract. The transaction was complete.
Regarding the light armor, the dwarves promised to forge a lightweight chainmail designed to fit snugly beneath normal clothes without restricting movement. When needed, it could also be worn under plate armor to enhance protection. The price was modest—three gold coins.
For the javelins, the Blue Mountains dwarves already had some ready-made. On their next delivery, which would likely arrive in late autumn, they would bring samples of varying weights for Aedric to test and choose from.
"Custom-made means fast delivery is impossible," Glóin explained as he patted his chest reassuringly. "But you can be certain—dwarf craftsmanship is worth the wait."
With arrangements settled, Aedric requested to depart with the caravan. After all, he could not remain in Thornfield Village indefinitely; a life of purposeless eating and drinking would dull his spirit. Moreover, the village could hardly offer any stories worthy of the journal anymore. He had pressing business in Bree—to complete his fifth journal entry.
Glóin pondered for some time but, seeing Aedric was a major customer, reluctantly agreed. He then unfolded a map and briefly explained the caravan’s route.
A note: The map is for reference only; distances are approximate.
Aedric’s destination was Bree. The dwarves’ itinerary took a considerable detour, but coincidentally passed through Tookland—where Aedric intended to visit Took as a guest and seek his assistance.
In the original tales, the villagers of Bree were generally friendly; Frodo had experienced their warmth firsthand. Travelers and caravans received hearty greetings, but settling long-term was different. One needed to buy or rent a home. Constantly staying in inns was costly, and for Luna, who disliked being among strangers, it was inconvenient.
Hence, Aedric wondered if he could secure a letter of introduction from old Took to prevent troubles upon arrival in Bree.
A delay of ten or even eight days was acceptable for such formalities.
Once preparations concluded, the group’s mood lightened with excitement. Luna had recovered fully; her injuries had healed.
Christina had mended completely as well. It was time to return home to face both praise and punishment. Praise was due—she had found valuable herbs, and Granny Anna had prepared medicines specially for Took’s use. But she was also to be reprimanded for abandoning her post without word, leaving only a note. In the Took family, one cannot cancel praise with punishment.
Bilbo, too, had completed his part of the journey. Ready at last to return to Bag End and rest, he looked forward to the quiet life.
Adventures were a matter for those who sought them; the weak and hapless hobbit preferred peace. He hoped to be left alone from now on.
If traveling with two was troublesome, four was hardly easier. Glóin agreed to free space in the caravan’s carts, but companions had to provide their own provisions.
For Aedric, this posed no issue. Two skilled cooks accompanied him, and he could purchase fresh supplies from villagers at each stop.
News soon spread of their impending departure.
As twilight descended, the courtyard Aedric had temporarily inhabited filled with villagers hesitant to say farewell. They brought gifts: fruit wines, sausages, dried mushrooms, bread, nuts, cured ham, and various fruits and vegetables preserved for travel, along with medicines and bandages.
Though simple, these tokens brimmed with heartfelt sincerity and considerable worth—especially the basket of dried mushrooms from the young shepherd, gathered painstakingly over the summer, every piece whole and flawless. Perfect fare for a hobbit’s soup or stew.
Aunt Mina had taken time to sew new clothes for Aedric and Morgan—simple, comfortable garments of traditional Hobbit style, though less tailored than Aedric’s own patched outfit.
They had planned to wait for shoes to be completed and delivered together, but shoe-making would not finish in time, so hastily, Mina mended what she could.
Seeing familiar faces, Aedric’s eyes glistened with tears. He exchanged warm farewells and promises to return often.
One by one, the villagers departed, leaving the courtyard empty and silent.
Following Hobbit tradition, Aedric prepared to send back gifts as thanks. That night, he and Bilbo entered the dwarves’ camp, despite Glóin’s grumbles, to select presents.
Earlier that day, Bilbo had surveyed the crowd quietly, noting their preferences and desires without purchasing anything.
For unknown tastes, he chose practical gifts—pots, pans, bowls, knives, forks, and jars.
Hobbits loved tinkering with food; these gifts were sure to delight.
Spending about a gold coin, they purchased everything needed, mindful not to overspend.
Bilbo arranged for the gifts to be sent overnight to Village Chief Hareth, with instructions to distribute them during Morgan’s feast.
Morgan, departing with the caravan the next morning, entrusted the chief with his remaining funds to host the festivity.
Sadly, Morgan never tasted Aunt Mina’s mutton stew; his next return would be a long way off.
As dawn broke, a milky light lifted from the eastern forest. The dark sky slowly gave way to pale, fish-belly white. Stars faded one after another while layered wisps of cloud drifted overhead like gauze spread across the heavens.
The dwarves’ camp was deserted; smoldering fires flickered as they faded to ash.
Glóin had coordinated with the village chief to preserve the spot for future use.
Who could have caused the closure of the Golden Wheat Sheaf Inn?
Aedric stood atop the wagon, waving goodbye to the gathered villagers. He settled back against the stacked goods, lost in thought as he watched the sky overhead.
“Seems you’re quite respected,” observed Gimli, who sat nearby, reins in hand.
A warm smile brightened Aedric’s face. “I did what I could. Mostly, it’s just good people remembering kindness.”
“So it’s true, then?” Gimli pressed.
“What are you referring to?” Aedric asked.
Gimli reached into his breast pocket for his pipe, using friction to spark it alive. The glow startled Aedric; could it be—did dwarves have something like a Ring of Fire?
“My father says you’re a bounty hunter,” Gimli began, blowing a perfect smoke ring, “but not your ordinary one.”
“Getting paid for the Barrow-downs—that’s normal. But handling the bandits at the Golden Wheat Sheaf Inn without taking a single coin… well, that’s unusual.”
“What’s unusual about it?” Aedric replied, stretching his legs and drawing his own pipe.
“I see myself as more of an adventurer, sometimes an explorer. If folks pay, I’m happy to help. But at times, I act without fee—for causes worth fighting for.”
“Go ahead, light me up,” he said, offering his pipe to Gimli.
The dwarf’s rough fingers sparked the pipe to life again.
“If something like the inn happens, I don’t hesitate to act,” Aedric said with a casual puff of smoke. “I abhor those who bully others for selfish ends. I wasn’t powerful enough before—I couldn’t stop them.”
“Now,” he tapped his sword, “I mean to make them regret it.”
Gimli’s eyes shone with interest. “Heard you’ve taught many lessons?”
“Not that many. Enough to count—around a few dozen.”
“‘Dozen’ meaning twelve, right? That’s how folks count in Common Speech—but for orcs, same difference.”
“Then you’d better tell those tales properly.”
“I will.”
The caravan pressed onward, mule teams pulling wagons with wheels leaving furrowed tracks in muddy soil.
They passed through the peaceful, lush Shire countryside: gentle hills, green fields, orchards heavy with fruit.
Travelers smiled as they ambled by, humming songs so sweet even without understanding the words, smiles shone from their faces.
Aedric marveled at how well-off the Hobbits were—eating seven meals a day, basking in simple comforts.
The secret, he realized, lay in the peace they enjoyed, free from greed and exploitation.
Even the high-spirited Took family, rulers in name only, ensured land and produce belonged to the people.
No greedy lords to extort; no fear of tyranny.
Without the watchful protection of the northern Dúnedain, the Hobbits’ tranquil idyll would have long been shattered by darkness and destruction.
Aedric’s thoughts were interrupted by the crushing halt of the caravan.
“Arrived at Tookland!” Glóin announced. “We rest here tonight and will press for Michel Delving on the morrow.”
Aedric leapt from the cart, sword in hand.
Suddenly, shouts rang out: “Stop, you filthy thieves! Wretched scum!”
Hobbits armed with pitchforks poured from the village gate, opposing fleeing orcs that scurried like vermin.
Silently, Aedric and Gimli gave chase, cutting down a pair of orcs.
From her perch in the trees, Luna waved toward him, unwilling to mingle with the noisy company.
Nearby, a portly Hobbit called out breathlessly, “Thank you for your aid! I’m Lester, captain of Tookland’s militia.”
