Clink—
A silver coin spun through the air, flashing under the afternoon sun before landing neatly in Eric's palm.
Then he tossed it up again.
A few passersby, dusty from travel, gave him curious looks. It wasn't every day one saw a man in black armor draped with a plain linen cloak idly flipping a coin in the middle of Bree's streets. Yet when their eyes met his, the onlookers suddenly froze, a strange sense of recognition creeping over them.
They frowned, searching their memories, but the feeling slipped away like smoke.
Only after Eric had already walked off down the road did one of them finally snap his fingers in sudden realization.
"Wait—that was him! The one with all the titles! He just walked by!"
"Who?"
"Him!"
---
At the edge of Bree stood the Forgotten Inn, a small, run-down establishment that looked as if even spiders had given up weaving webs there.
When Eric sat down at a corner table, the entire room went quiet, as though someone had dropped a boulder into still water. Conversations died instantly.
The only sound that remained was the clinking of glass as the innkeeper fussed with cups behind the counter.
"I'll have an ale," Eric said, "and some roast meat."
"Right away, sir."
The innkeeper set down his rag and hurried off to the kitchen.
Just then, another voice spoke up behind Eric. "Make that a loaf of bread for me. No drink."
Eric turned, and his eyes widened slightly in surprise.
The man who'd spoken had already waved to the innkeeper and now slid into the chair opposite him with a long sigh.
"It's been a while," the man said.
"It has," Eric replied, accepting his mug of ale and taking a hearty swallow. "You sure you don't want one?"
The man shook his head. "No. I'm short on coin these days."
Eric chuckled. "Well, that's easily fixed. I've made a bit of money lately. I'll cover this meal."
"A bit of money?"
The man raised an eyebrow. "If what I've heard is true, then 'a bit' might be the understatement of the century."
Eric grinned. "Possibly. I stopped counting after a while."
"I knew it," the man groaned. "You're showing off again."
He leaned back, half exasperated, half amused. "Still, I didn't expect it. Barely two years, and you've already turned half the continent upside down. When I first heard the stories, I thought people were joking."
Eric shrugged. "I try to stay productive."
His friend smirked. "You're impossible. Anyway, it's good to see you're still alive."
"Alive and busy," Eric said. "But enough about me. Where in the world have you been, Farodan? You vanished for years. I was beginning to think you'd quietly died in some forsaken ruin."
Farodan made a face. "Please. Even if I'd died, I'd have found a way to send word. Though I suppose you don't need my messages much these days."
Eric raised an eyebrow. "What messages?"
Two mugs of ale were placed before them with a soft thud. Farodan took a long drink before answering.
"The ones about your gold mine," he said, "and a few other matters from the far lands."
He set down the mug and began recounting his journey.
"After I took your commission, I headed east through Ithilien, then crossed the Poros River into Umbar. Not exactly a pleasant place. The city crawls with spies loyal to the Nameless One. They worship the being in the Black Tower and call themselves the Cult of the Eye."
"I scouted the region between Gondor and Umbar for months. Eventually, I found mining pits west of Umbar that could yield the ores you're after. But before I could learn more, the locals discovered I wasn't one of them. A mob of Haradrim started shouting that I should be burned alive for being a northerner."
"I ran for days," he continued dryly, "until I stumbled into Gondor's patrols. Some rangers helped me escape the border."
Eric chuckled into his ale. "Sounds like your usual kind of luck."
"Don't remind me," Farodan groaned. "Anyway, I decided looking for your minerals in Harad wasn't realistic. After resting, I headed north of Mordor instead."
"That would be… Rhûn and Dorwinion?"
"Exactly."
The waiter returned with two plates of roast meat, one of them accompanied by a chunk of bread. Eric immediately took the plain one and dug in. Falodan, however, didn't touch his food. He stared into his mug as he spoke.
"At first, I thought Rhûn would be safer. But I was wrong. The place is in chaos. Massive uprisings are spreading, and further east, a rebellion has formed against the Easterling clans."
"The fighting kept growing worse while I was there. It wasn't just men anymore. Orcs joined the battles—Wargs too, and even larger creatures. Troll-blooded brutes that could walk under sunlight without turning to stone."
"Trolls that don't fear sunlight?" Eric frowned.
Farodan nodded. "Ologs, they call them. The wargs were pitch-black, darker than anything from the northern mountains. They reminded me of the ancient tales—the Demon Wolves from the First Age."
"They've allied with the Easterlings, striking at forces I couldn't identify."
Eric paused his meal, brow furrowed. So the Rhûn region was that unstable? No wonder the border was sealed and Dorwinion's merchants couldn't get through.
"But a rebellion?" he asked. "Who's behind it?"
Farodan shook his head. "I didn't find out. Before the roads closed, I was discovered again. Someone found me—but this time, it wasn't an enemy."
Eric tilted his head. "Who?"
Farodan's eyes turned distant. "An old man in a blue robe. He moved like a shadow and got me safely across the border. Before we parted, he said something I've never quite understood."
"What did he say?"
Farodan hesitated, then replied softly, "He said… 'I may never return.'"
Eric didn't speak for a long while.
Some men grieve because they cannot go home. Others grieve because something—or someone—they sent away will not return.
---
Rivendell
Under the starlit sky, Elrond sat at his writing desk. A single candle burned beside him, its flame flickering gently as he dipped his quill in ink.
"To Eric," he wrote.
"My dear friend, it has been long since we last met. I have heard much of your deeds in distant lands and take joy in your triumphs."
He paused, smiling faintly before continuing.
"However, you may have forgotten something—you still have a rather fast horse here."
Elrond sighed. That horse had been a source of great distress to its caretaker. Eric had claimed it required no food, but whenever the stable hand walked by with a handful of oats, the animal would stare at him with mournful, accusing eyes until the poor elf gave in.
The moment it swallowed the oats, it became restless—pacing, scraping its hooves against the wall, trying to bolt through the door.
The stable hand, thinking the beast was simply bored, began taking it outside more often. To his surprise, the horse brightened immediately, nibbling grass and behaving almost like a normal steed.
Feeling guilty, the elf began giving it better care—long walks, regular grooming, even letting it mingle with the valley's herd. The other horses, well-bred and calm, accepted the strange new companion easily enough.
Everything was going wonderfully—until one day the caretaker, out of habit, offered the horse a single handful of oats.
The creature ate them, then promptly tried to mount three different horses in succession, regardless of gender.
In the ensuing chaos, the poor stable hand had to drag it back to its stall for everyone's safety.
He'd been guilt-ridden ever since, convinced he'd done something terribly wrong in its care.
Elrond occasionally checked in on the situation and quickly noticed the elf's haunted expression each time the horse was mentioned.
Shaking his head, he finished the letter with a few more lines of warm words, most of them polite concern and admiration, though his true intent—to ask Eric to please reclaim his horse—was delicately hidden near the end.
He signed, "Your friend, Elrond."
As he waited for the ink to dry, soft footsteps approached. Turning, Elrond smiled at the boy who entered.
"Estel," he greeted.
In the Elvish tongue, Estel meant Hope. The child before him was none other than young Aragorn.
Since the fall of Arnor, Elrond had sheltered and educated the heirs of its royal line, raising each generation in secret to preserve the blood of kings.
The boy bowed politely, curiosity shining in his eyes. "Were you writing a letter, my lord?"
Elrond nodded. "To a very unusual man."
By the time the ink had dried, he was already telling Aragorn tales of the northern wilds and the lord who ruled a fortress called Roadside Keep. The stories went on late into the night until the boy's mother came searching for him.
As Elrond escorted them back through the moonlit gardens, a sudden shiver ran through the air.
The elf-lord stopped mid-step, eyes narrowing toward the western sky.
"What is it?" Aragorn's mother asked softly.
Elrond did not answer right away. His gaze turned distant, ancient.
"There," he murmured at last, "beyond our sight, a white pillar of light divides the night sky in two."
He smiled faintly. "If I am not mistaken, it came from the Roadside Keep."
And with that, he continued walking, shepherding the confused mother and her curious son home.
But long after he was tucked into bed, Aragorn couldn't sleep. His wide eyes stared up at the ceiling, his mind still echoing with two names.
"Roadside Keep…" he whispered.
"Eric."
The stars glimmered faintly outside his window, as if listening.