"Greetings, Eric Starfell of Roadside Keep, the famed wanderer and slayer of beasts."
When Eric returned to the clearing, a ranger was already waiting beneath a gnarled tree. He stepped forward the moment Eric appeared, saluting with a hand over his heart.
"Thank you for your aid, my lord."
Eric waved dismissively. "No need for formality. I didn't come here specifically to rescue anyone. Orcs are pests. When you see one, you swat it. That's all."
"For you, perhaps," the ranger replied with a dry chuckle. "For us, they tend to bite back. Still, you have our gratitude."
"The Dúnedain do not forget such deeds."
Eric smiled faintly. "Nor do I forget yours. Once, your people helped me when I was lost in the wild. Consider today my return favor."
"Then may friendship endure between us."
They shook hands, rough palm to rough palm.
"I heard from Farodan that you have wounded men?" Eric asked.
The ranger nodded. "Yes. They're below ground. Follow me."
He crouched beside a large root and lifted what appeared to be a patch of soil. Beneath it, a hidden trapdoor creaked open, revealing a narrow shaft leading down.
Eric raised his brows. "I'd have never found that. Unless someone started digging straight down, it'd stay hidden forever."
"Exactly the point," the ranger said, descending the wooden ladder first. Eric followed close behind.
As they climbed, the ranger spoke over his shoulder. "We have many such refuges. Not only us; Gondor's scouts use similar ones. If you look for them, you'll always find a tree with three local plants growing nearby, forming an isosceles triangle. That's our marker. Of course, we scatter other foliage to confuse the untrained eye."
A few moments later, they reached the bottom.
The refuge was cramped and dimly lit, about ten paces across in each direction. A few straw beds lined one wall, opposite a rack of cloaks and bows. Two wounded Dúnedain sat by a fire pit, grimacing as they tended to their cuts.
Including Farodan, there were five of them in total.
They were all older men, weathered like granite cliffs. Their faces carried a quiet gravity, the sort born from long years of hardship. Even their silence spoke of battlefields and narrow escapes.
Farodan stood when he saw Eric. "You're back. How did it go?"
"Some of the orcs ran, but not far. I doubt they'll try sneaking near here again anytime soon," Eric replied. From somewhere deep in the cave system, a faint orcish wail still echoed.
Farodan smirked. "Smooth work. I'll admit, I underestimated you."
"That's fine. You'll get used to being wrong."
Eric walked over to the wounded men and took two small glass bottles from his satchel. Inside, the liquid shimmered with a pinkish glow.
"Drink these," he said. "They'll mend your wounds faster than stitching ever could."
The men hesitated until Farodan added, "It's a wizard's draught. Rare stuff. Don't waste time thinking."
The two nodded, gulped the potions, and immediately made identical faces of confusion.
"Tastes… strange," one muttered, blinking.
"Yes," Eric said thoughtfully. "A bit like someone boiled strawberries, grass, and regret together."
The ranger nearly laughed, but before he could, both of the wounded men gasped as their cuts knit together, leaving not even a scar. Within seconds, they were whole again.
"Well," said Farodan, "that works."
Before long, Eric, Farodan, and the ranger who had led him down gathered by the fire.
"This is our captain, Ellard," Farodan said. "We used to operate near Mountains of the Wind. Now only a few remain there, gathering information."
"I've heard your people have been having a hard time lately," Eric said to Ellard.
Ellard nodded. "You could say that. The orcs are organizing into packs again, larger and smarter than before. It isn't the first time in a century, but the numbers are troublesome. If they had been only ten times our number, we could've handled them. Twenty or thirty times? Plus wargs? That's another matter."
Eric nodded. "Understandable."
He thought for a moment before speaking. "If you're wounded again, come to Roadside Keep. There's a protective enchantment over the place. Rest there and your wounds will heal faster."
He added with a grin, "It's not some forbidden wizard's fortress. More of a small town. Anyone is welcome."
"We'll remember that," said Ellard.
"And as I told Farodan before, you're welcome to use our supplies when needed. We share the same enemies, after all."
"You're generous," Ellard said. "Few even know we exist, and fewer still care. But make no mistake, the number of orcs and wargs that have fallen to Dúnedain blades and arrows is in the tens of thousands."
Eric had no trouble believing it.
Unlike hired mercenaries, the Dúnedain fought out of duty and blood debt. Their forebears had lost their kingdom to Sauron's shadow. They needed no coin to drive them, only purpose. Even without vengeance, they would still hunt the darkness, because that was simply what they were.
They were the silent guardians of the North.
As an old king once said, "When the last Dúnedain falls, not a single man in Eriador will dare walk outside after dark."
This wilderness, barren and unclaimed, was both a wasteland and their homeland. And knowing that men of near-royal skill watched over it brought Eric an odd sense of comfort.
Ellard noticed his expression and smiled faintly. "You need not concern yourself too much with us."
"Actually," Eric replied, "that gives me an idea."
He leaned forward slightly. "I know you've worked with Elrond of Rivendell before. He's spoken of your people. He and I are allies and, I'd like to think, friends. I hope we can build the same trust between us."
Before Ellard could respond, Eric continued. "This isn't charity. I'd like you to occasionally send some of your scouts to Roadside Keep to teach my townsfolk—especially the children—basic survival. How to track, how to move unseen, what to do if danger finds them. And perhaps, in a few years, I may ask you to take on certain missions, if you're willing. We could both benefit."
That caught their attention.
Farodan and Ellard exchanged a surprised glance. They hadn't heard of any such connection between Eric and Rivendell. Normally, they would have been cautious of a new lord offering sudden generosity. But an ally of Elrond was another matter entirely.
The Dúnedain and Elrond's household shared ancient blood. Long ago, Elrond and his twin brother Elros had been half-elven. Elros chose mortality and founded Númenor; Elrond chose immortality and became the guardian of Middle-earth's fading light. Though time had separated them, the bond of their blood remained unbroken.
Elrond had watched generation after generation of his brother's descendants live and die, including the line of kings that led to Aragorn himself. It was no wonder he cared for the Dúnedain as if they were his own kin.
"If that is the case," Ellard said slowly, "then perhaps our fates truly are intertwined."
He looked to Falodan, who nodded.
Ellard smiled, a rare expression softening his stern face. "On the path against darkness, we stand as one. I'll bring your proposal to our next council. Whatever happens, your help will not be forgotten."
-----
At this point.
Roadside Fort, Rivendell, and the Rangers.
These three forces are closely connected, encircling the vast Lonely Land.
"They are tall and strong, with a kingly bearing. Even the riders of Rohan seem like children beside them. Their faces are grave, weathered like stone, and their silence speaks of ages past."
— Gimli, describing the Dúnedain during the War of the Ring.