Thud, thud, thud.
With a gulp of milk down his throat, Garrett's vision gradually cleared up.
"You're awake."
A face loomed right above him.
"Gandalf? What are you doing here?"
Inside the room just off the main hall, Garrett stood up, rubbing his head. He shook it a few times, trying to dispel the last traces of drunkenness.
"Phew. That was close. I almost passed out for real."
Being drunk, well, technically it was a buff he could dispel, but when the stacks got too high, even he couldn't stop the dizziness. It was a bit much, even for him.
Honestly, halfway through the drinking, he had already started losing balance and could barely stay upright in his chair.
After that, his body just acted on instinct. Pouring, drinking, repeating. He couldn't remember a word of what Legolas or anyone else had said after that.
"I didn't expect you to be so... unrestrained."
Gandalf rolled his eyes.
"See, I never overindulge. When it comes to drinking, one must always know when to stop."
"If others heard you say that, they'd probably think you're a killjoy."
"Killjoy? Hardly. I'm not stopping them from drinking, am I?"
"Well, that's true."
"You feeling better now?"
"Much better."
"Good. Then remember to come to the hall later. We have to discuss our next move."
Leaving that reminder, Gandalf turned and left ahead of him.
Inside the room, Garrett stretched lazily. For once, he actually felt rather refreshed.
Scenes like last night's, boisterous and festive, happened maybe once or twice a year at Wayfort, but in other places, it was a first. You could almost call it a group outing.
The banquet was long over now. Most people were resting or asleep.
But there were always a few who couldn't sleep.
"Boromir?"
By a small hillock nearby, Garrett looked up and saw a lone figure sitting there, shoulders heavy with gloom.
Judging by the cloak's pattern, there wasn't a second person in Rohan dressed quite like that.
"What's wrong? You don't look too happy."
Garrett walked up behind him.
Boromir lifted his head, eyes full of exhaustion and lingering dread.
"I had a dream. In it, Gondor was burning... fire everywhere, darkness covering the land, the walls crumbling, the White Tree broken..."
"That dream gave me a terrible sense of foreboding."
Garrett patted Boromir's shoulder and said, "You've worked hard all these years."
"Come on."
"Where to?"
"To the hall. We have some things to discuss, and I have some news to share."
---
"The armies gathering within Mordor are moving south. They've crossed Ithilien. Their target is Minas Tirith."
A moment later, in the great hall, Garrett relayed the information he had received to the assembled group.
"Furthermore, Pelargir is facing great danger. A massive fleet is sailing toward it. Their plan is to capture Pelargir first, then march straight on Minas Tirith to join the siege."
The situation had turned dire in an instant.
Hearing this, Boromir bowed his head, restless, itching to take flight immediately.
"I can't stay here any longer."
He stood up and said, "Gondor needs me. I must return to the front lines. Not a moment can be wasted."
"My apologies, but I have to take my leave of all of you here."
"Wait, Boromir."
Just as he turned to go, Aragorn stepped forward to block his path.
"Hold on. I'll go with you."
"Gondor will not fall."
The words were few and softly spoken, but carried a firm conviction, powerful and reassuring.
For a moment, the two men locked eyes. Then, seeing the determination in Aragorn's gaze, Boromir finally managed to suppress his restlessness and returned to his seat.
Seeing Boromir calm down, Gandalf stepped forward and continued where Garrett had left off.
"The defeat at Helm's Deep made our enemy realize something, that mankind is not as fragile as he once believed. Even when cornered, they still have the courage and strength to fight back. He grows agitated, and desperate. Gondor's plight proves it. He will throw everything he has into razing Minas Tirith to the ground, breaking Gondor completely, before he loses the upper hand. Our time is short. We must warn Gondor, so they can prepare in advance."
"I'll go."
Boromir stood again. "I must return to defend my homeland."
"Going alone would be meaningless."
Aragorn, who had been deep in thought since earlier, stepped forward once more to stop him. "There's something else we can do."
Boromir, already anxious, turned sharply toward him. His voice was low but tense. "What are you hiding, Aragorn? I can tell. Ever since the meeting began, you've been brooding, hard to read. Tell me, what exactly are you planning?"
"I intend to gather an army."
"What army? Rohan's? The Free Cities?"
"No. Neither of those."
Aragorn shook his head and stepped aside.
At that moment, two figures appeared in the doorway of the hall. Elves, tall and graceful.
Elladan and Elrohir, the twin sons of Elrond.
"Our father has sent us with a message," said one.
"Time is short. If you wish to ride swiftly, forget not the Paths of the Dead."
"The Paths of the Dead..."
Boromir murmured the name, mind racing to recall what he knew.
"I've heard of that place. They say that road is haunted by restless spirits, men of the mountains who broke their oath, cursed by the King of old to never find peace. Don't tell me the army you mean to summon is..."
Aragorn nodded.
Boromir immediately made up his mind. "That road is too dangerous. I'll go with you."
"And us as well," said Gimli and Legolas, stepping forward together.
When it came to their companions, they never hesitated to face danger side by side, to live and die together.
Aragorn smiled, saying nothing more. Everything was understood without words.
"What about Gondor...?" Boromir turned his head.
"Leave Gondor to me," Gandalf replied.
"I will warn your father and see that preparations are made, though it may not be easy."
The council did not last long. Time was short, and there was no room for delay. Everyone moved quickly to their appointed tasks.
But before Aragorn's party set out, there were still a few matters to attend to.
Those who had come to support him were not only Elrond's two sons. Accompanying them was a small company of Rangers known as the Grey Company, thirty in total, sent to aid Aragorn on his journey.
Their leader was...
"Halbarad?"
Passing by the gathered group, Garrett stopped and called out the name of the man at the front.
"You came too?"
Halbarad lifted his hood, revealing a weathered, timeworn face. "I learned of the situation here from Rivendell," he said. "So my kinsmen and I came to lend our strength to our Chieftain."
"You're as humble as ever."
"Just another day," Halbarad replied evenly.
As the two spoke, Aragorn himself walked over.
Halbarad stepped forward at once. "By Lady Arwen's command from Rivendell, we have brought something for you."
He carefully produced an item he had been safeguarding, a banner.
A royal banner, hand-stitched by Arwen herself, symbol of the High Kingship of Isildur, proof of Aragorn's true lineage.
Aragorn gently ran his fingers across the banner, the work of his beloved's own hands, and smiled.
"Please," he said to Halbarad, "keep it safe for me."
By now, the two of them knew each other well.
Halbarad held a special place in Aragorn's heart, not only through Garrett's influence, but also from the six decades of journeys and trials they had shared, side by side in countless ventures and long talks.
Through Halbarad, Aragorn had learned much of Garrett's deeds, and much else besides.
To Aragorn, Halbarad was more than a trusted kinsman. He was a loyal comrade and a wise elder he could rely on without question.
And for that reason, he entrusted Halbarad with the honor of bearing his banner.