-General-
Outside, the wind whistled furiously over the Rangers' camp.
The dense gray clouds foretold that a violent storm was about to strike with all its might, and the glare of lightning, followed by thunder, drowned out any other sound.
Out in the open, the men ran hurriedly, securing provisions and sheltering anything that could be ruined under the rain.
However, the chaos of the camp was of no concern to those gathered inside the largest greenish tent.
There, Aragorn, Tauriel, Kíli, Fíli, Bilbo, and Helga were grouped together.
The two Dwarves, arms crossed, flanked the entrance. Closer to the center, the timid, elderly Hobbit rubbed his hands with obvious nervousness, only comforted when his wife placed a reassuring hand over his.
Tauriel, seated on a small wooden stool, caressed her swollen belly with deep maternal affection.
"Are you telling me that the One Ring itself has been in Bilbo's possession for all these years?" asked the Ranger in disbelief.
"Yes. Aldril discovered it during the birthday party," Tauriel replied, looking up to fix her eyes on him. "That is why my husband stayed behind to cover our retreat. We could not risk the Ring accidentally falling into the hands of Sauron's servants."
Aragorn frowned severely and began to pace back and forth across the tent.
From time to time, he stole furtive glances at Bilbo, trying to imagine how the hell it was possible that such a small, fragile body had managed to withstand the monstrous and corrupting influence of the Ring for decades. It seemed simply unreal.
But then, a slight spark of understanding ignited in his mind.
It was no wonder Gandalf felt such deep affection for the Hobbits. In fact, Aragorn remembered that the old wizard had once mentioned to him that Halflings were creatures from whom one could always expect a great surprise; tiny beings, but possessors of a great heart.
Shaking his head to clear the memory, the heir of Isildur stopped and looked at those present.
"First thing tomorrow morning, my men and I will escort you to Rivendell."
Aragorn fell silent for a few moments, observing how everyone in the tent nodded in agreement with his decision to accompany them.
However, a doubt suddenly arose in his mind. Turning to the Elven warrior, he asked her directly:
"Lady Tauriel... you bear a Silmaril. Would it not be a thousand times better for you to carry the One Ring? I fully trust your judgment in leaving it in Bilbo's hands, but I feel it would be much safer if you carried it with you."
And the Ranger's doubt was completely valid.
The Silmaril was famous in all the legends for its light and its absolute purity. Furthermore, it was by its own right due to the decree that the stellar deity, the Valië Varda, implanted in the gem: any person or object with a shred of malice in their being would be incinerated upon coming into contact with it.
Proof of its power was that Morgoth himself burned parts of his hands when holding the jewels when Ungoliant wanted to devour them.
It was logical to assume that an object of light so overwhelmingly powerful would be stronger than the dark trinket Sauron had forged.
"You are mistaken, Aragorn," replied the Elf-woman, shaking her head slowly. "It is too risky. Aldril already attempted to carry them both together... and the experiment did not end well at all."
Aragorn raised an eyebrow, wrinkling his forehead in deep bewilderment.
Before the Ranger could ask what exactly happened, Kíli, always the most talkative Dwarf, interrupted him with a loud snort.
"That absolute idiot..." he said in a mocking tone, though a slight hint of worry still filtered through his voice. "Any other poor wretch besides him would have been blown to pieces by now. It turns out those two cursed things repel each other, creating a brutal explosion. Poor Bilbo's house was almost reduced to ruins."
"Only the back part, let's be clear..." whispered the elderly Hobbit from his corner, adding to the Lord of Moria's story.
"Alright, let's call an end to the chatter once and for all. I'm dying of sleep, and tomorrow we must leave early," said Fíli.
The Dwarf let out a long yawn and, right before turning around to leave, raised both eyebrows in an exaggeratedly suggestive manner toward the elderly Hobbit.
"And remember to try to get some sleep, Bilbo... Don't let Helga keep you up all night."
A silence fell over the tent, broken only by a heavy and long sigh of exasperation from the Hobbit.
"Fíli... sometimes you are a hopeless idiot."
...
Aldril, for his part, rode under the cloak of night. It was not that the darkness bothered him in the slightest, but his instinct as a man demanded he reach his family as soon as possible. So, after forcing himself to stop to let the horse rest, he prepared to resume the march at dawn.
The dense and heavy nocturnal silence, broken only by the rhythmic croaking of crickets, the rustle of the wind slipping through the leaves, and the occasional echo of thunder in the distance, kept him strange company.
Any other ordinary person would surely be scared to death in the solitude of the night. But unlike common travelers, Aldril did not feel the slightest worry about whether some predator in the area, be it a bear or a pack of wolves, might try to attack him.
He was simply too strong and lethal to worry about such trifles; in fact, wild beasts avoided him at all costs, for his draconic presence was the apex to any small creature.
Humming an old melody, he lost himself contemplating the vast starry firmament. His peculiar magical blessing made him feel at home every time he looked up at the starry sky.
It was then that he saw it. A shooting star tore across the sky. It was different, possessing an emerald glow quite unlike any other he had witnessed over the years.
That light brought with it a strangely familiar energy. For a fraction of a second, the Half-elf felt exactly the same warm presence that had visited him during the time he was unconscious. But why?
Furthermore, his sharp eyes caught a detail: that shooting star was not falling, but rising, just behind the imposing Misty Mountains.
Aldril frowned, bewildered.
Then, a gentle gust of wind caressed his face, bringing with it an echo, a warm and familiar feminine voice:
"Thank you for everything, Lord Aldril."
Turning his head from side to side, the Half-elf searched for where the sound came from. However, something very deep inside him gave him the answer immediately.
With resignation, he lowered his gaze. A sad smile drew on his lips, and his eyes clouded with tears.
Once again, someone dear to him was departing this world.
Looking up again at the ascending star, his deep connection with the children of Varda allowed him to perceive who that voice of farewell belonged to.
"Rest in peace, little Sigrid..." he whispered to the night. "And do not worry about Legolas or your children. I promise you that I will take care of them too."
**
Hello filthy orcs!!
Did you miss me? Because I sure did. Fortunately, my life is getting better little by little.
Enjoy the chapter.