Chapter 39: The Return Road
The journey home felt different.
Not shorter—the miles remained the same, the terrain as challenging as before. But something had shifted in the party's dynamics. An energy that hadn't been there on the outward journey.
Halbarad noticed first.
"You two are walking closer," he observed on the third day, his weathered face carefully neutral.
"Are we?"
"By about a foot. Yesterday it was two feet. Tomorrow, I suspect you'll be holding hands."
I coughed. "That's—"
"Not my business. Just an observation." His eyes crinkled with suppressed amusement. "Though I will say: it's about time. That tension was getting exhausting."
Maeglin was less subtle.
"An elf and a man?" The scout's confusion was genuine. "Is that... done?"
"Rarely." Tauriel answered before I could. "But it has happened. Lúthien and Beren. Idril and Tuor. The great loves of the First Age."
"Did those end well?"
"They ended." Her voice carried something complex. "All loves end, one way or another. The question is whether they're worth having while they last."
Maeglin subsided, clearly overwhelmed by philosophy beyond his expertise.
[TROLLSHAW BORDERS — DAY FIVE]
The bandits attacked near the Trollshaw border.
Five of them—ragged, desperate, armed with weapons that had seen better decades. They emerged from the undergrowth with the confidence of people who'd never faced real opposition.
"Your valuables," the leader demanded, blade pointed at our group. "Quickly now, no one gets hurt."
Tauriel moved before he finished speaking.
Three arrows in perhaps two seconds. Three bandits collapsed, expressions frozen in surprise. The remaining two had barely registered their companions' deaths before Maeglin and Marcus brought them down.
The whole thing lasted maybe fifteen seconds.
"You're too slow," Tauriel said to me, sliding her bow across her back with fluid grace. "Your sword wasn't even drawn."
"I didn't realize we were being attacked."
"That's exactly the problem." But there was warmth in her voice—teasing, almost playful. "We'll need to work on your reaction time."
"Is that an offer to train me?"
"It's a promise to try. Whether you're trainable remains to be seen."
Halbarad coughed in a way that suggested suppressed laughter. I ignored him.
We stepped over the bodies and continued westward.
[WEATHER HILLS — DAY EIGHT]
Home appeared on the eighth day.
Amon Hen-dîr rose from the hills like something out of a painting—walls higher than I'd left them, new construction visible even from miles away, smoke rising from chimneys that spoke of healthy fires and active life.
I stopped walking.
"It's bigger," Maeglin said, studying the distant settlement with professional assessment. "That section near the eastern wall—those buildings weren't there before."
"Gorlim's been busy." Halbarad's voice carried approval. "I'd say he's proven himself."
He had. In my absence, the settlement hadn't just survived—it had grown. Whatever resources Gorlim had found, whatever decisions he'd made, the results were visible from miles away.
This is what you wanted. People building something on their own. Not dependent on you for every decision.
"Race you to the gates?" Maeglin asked, grinning.
"You'll win."
"Obviously. But it'll be fun watching you try."
I ran. Maeglin was right—he won easily, his scout's conditioning far exceeding my own. But crossing the final distance at a sprint, legs burning, lungs straining, felt right somehow. Felt like coming home.
The gates opened as we approached. Cheers rose from the walls—guards who'd spotted our party, spreading word of the lord's return.
By the time I reached the entrance, a crowd had gathered.
[AMON HEN-DÎR — EVENING]
Gorlim met me at the gate.
"Lord Aldric." His voice was formal, but his expression carried something like relief. "Welcome home."
"Report."
"Later. First—did it work? Did Elrond confirm you?"
I produced the confirmation documents, the ancient map, the ring that now carried official recognition. Gorlim studied them with the intensity of a soldier assessing tactical intelligence.
"This changes things."
"It changes everything." I looked past him at the settlement—the new buildings, the expanded walls, the people gathering in the central square. "But first, tell me what you've built in my absence."
The report took an hour.
Gorlim had done more than maintain—he'd innovated. New construction techniques learned from the dwarven traders. Expanded training programs for the militia. Trade agreements negotiated with passing merchants. Population up by twelve souls—refugees who'd arrived during winter's end, drawn by the settlement's growing reputation.
"You did all this in three weeks?" I asked when he finished.
"I did what needed doing." Something flickered in his expression. "You trusted me. I didn't want to prove that trust misplaced."
"You didn't."
We stood in the planning corner—the same space where I'd first gathered my makeshift war council, nearly a year ago. So much had changed. So much had grown.
"There's one more thing," Gorlim said. "Someone arrived yesterday. A traveler. He's been asking questions about you specifically."
My stomach tightened. The stranger in grey. The one Maeglin had reported from Bree.
"Where is he?"
"I put him in guest quarters. Didn't seem hostile, but I kept guards nearby just in case."
"Description?"
"Old. Long grey beard. Robes and a hat that needed washing. Carried a staff." Gorlim's voice carried professional wariness. "Called himself Mithrandir."
Mithrandir.
The Elvish name for Gandalf the Grey.
[SETTLEMENT CENTER — LATER]
I found Tauriel helping unload the travel supplies—an unnecessary task for someone of her skills, but she'd never been comfortable simply being served.
"There's someone I need to meet," I said. "A traveler who arrived yesterday."
"The wizard."
"You know?"
"I can feel him. His presence is... distinctive." She set down the pack she'd been carrying. "Do you want company?"
"I think this is something I need to do alone."
"Then I'll wait." Her hand touched mine—briefly, carefully, aware of watching eyes. "But don't keep me waiting too long."
I walked toward the guest quarters, mind racing through everything I knew about Gandalf the Grey.
Friend of hobbits. Manipulator of kings. Slayer of Balrogs, though that wouldn't happen for decades yet. The wizard who would set in motion the events that would save Middle-earth—or doom it.
And now he was here, in my settlement, asking questions about me.
The guest quarters' door was plain wood, unremarkable. I knocked.
"Come in," called a voice that carried unexpected warmth. "I've been expecting you."
I opened the door.
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