Dark_Peace
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Chapter 56: Quiet Matters in the Hidden Valley
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 16:21:59 +0000 UTCEarly Morning.
Eric had barely left his room when he spotted Bilbo wandering the terrace walkways with his hands clasped behind his back, ambling without any real destination. The hobbit seemed to be enjoying the peaceful scenery, taking in the silver-leaved trees and crystal-clear fountains of the Elven valley.
"So this is where Elves live..." Bilbo murmured with awe, as if trying to breathe in every detail.
Just as Gandalf had once told him, there had been a time in his youth when Bilbo had run off into the woods alone, hoping to find the fabled Elves of legend. He'd returned long after nightfall with scratches on his knees and his feet caked in moss and gravel. That restless desire for adventure—it had started then.
And now? He was here. Standing in a real Elven stronghold. Dream fulfilled.
As he walked, lost in nostalgia, something glinting in the morning sun caught his eye. A shattered sword, mounted in a frame, hanging beside an intricately carved mural.
Curious, Bilbo tiptoed closer for a better look.
On the wall opposite the broken blade was a vivid relief carving: a towering figure in menacing black armor, a cruel iron helmet hiding his face, wielding a massive flanged mace. But what stood out most was the golden ring on the figure's hand. Its dull glint almost seemed to glow on the stone.
"Huh... a bit like Eric," Bilbo mused aloud, squinting. "Though this one's definitely grumpier. And, well, Eric's armor looks better."
With that passing remark, Bilbo left the mural behind. His curiosity, though momentarily sparked, faded quickly as he stepped out onto another balcony to admire the morning mist curling along the valley floor.
Tap-tap.
Footsteps, light, but precise—sounded behind him, followed by a calm, reassuring voice that always seemed to carry the weight of centuries.
"Not with your companions?"
Bilbo turned and offered a sheepish smile to Lord Elrond.
"Oh, no. They won't miss me. Truthfully, they think I never should have come on this trip."
Elrond regarded him with a thoughtful expression. "I've heard Hobbits are quite... adaptable."
"Really?"
"Mmm. Though I also heard they prefer the comforts of home."
Bilbo eyed him suspiciously. "I've heard Elves give the kind of advice that's both yes and no."
Elrond paused, lips parting as if to answer—then closed again. Silence.
It was a trap, of course. Any "yes" or "no" would prove Bilbo's point.
A moment passed before Elrond realized it was a jest. A sly grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, but what he said next was no joke:
"You're welcome to remain here, Bilbo. If you should ever wish it."
As the master of Rivendell, Elrond, like the wizards—could sense the subtle currents of fate. He knew this small creature would one day carry burdens far greater than he deserved, not for glory, but because of his courage, kindness, and mercy.
And what he endured might very well determine the fate of their world.
Elrond gave him a final nod and quietly stepped away, leaving Bilbo alone in the serenity of morning light.
Meanwhile...
"Elrond, sir! Our kitchen staff are in crisis, and the wine cellars are nearly dry. How long do you suppose our guests will be staying?"
Lindir burst into step beside the departing Elven lord, a clipboard of inventory clutched tightly.
It had been two weeks since the Dwarves had arrived in Rivendell, and the once-efficient Elven household was now, frankly, exhausted. Hospitality, it turned out, had limits.
Elrond sighed. "Keep accommodating them, for now. We'll worry about supplies later."
A saint's patience, that one had. Any other host might have locked the larder and called it a day.
He didn't even flinch when, turning a corner—he came face-to-face with a group of Dwarves bathing in one of the sacred fountains, splashing about like it was a public bathhouse.
Elrond inhaled slowly, mentally carving out space in his mind for a "No Bathing in the Fountain" sign to be installed. Soon.
He had lived thousands of years. He'd seen a lot. But this was a first.
Compared to them, Eric was practically royalty.
Back in his quarters, Elrond sat down with a deep exhale and reached into his robe, pulling forth a golden apple.
Eric's gift.
Not just exquisite in craftsmanship, though it certainly was—but imbued with a powerful life essence. It was the kind of artifact that could heal wounds, stave off death, maybe even restore fading vitality. A genuine treasure.
And now... Elrond had no idea how to repay such a thing.
Still, the apple had already made its mark. Rivendell's prestige had quietly risen thanks to this gift alone.
That wasn't all Eric had done.
On the very day they'd arrived, Eric had paid a visit to an old acquaintance—the Elf Aglanir.
Aglar hadn't changed a bit. For the Elves, time was a gentle breeze. When he saw Eric, his first words were:
"Oh! You're back already?"
To him, Eric's months-long journey had probably felt like a weekend stroll.
"Er, yes. I'm back," Eric replied, playing along with the timeless illusion.
"I've heard stories," Aglar said with a knowing smile. "They say someone's been stirring up trouble in the eastern Anduin valleys. A man so fearsome, even the Orcs fled from him."
"It's nothing," Eric muttered.
"Well," Aglanir continued, "while others speak in whispers about this mysterious man, I can say I knew him."
Eric laughed awkwardly. Elves always had a way with words.
Then, Eric reached into his satchel and carefully produced another golden apple.
"I brought you something. For your hospitality before—consider this a small gift."
"In the right moment, it might just save your life."
Aglanir blinked, then shook his head. "It's too valuable. I only did what anyone should."
"You Elves are way too modest," Eric sighed, pressing the apple into his hand. "Think of it as... a token of friendship."
"Friendship, hm..." Aglanir turned the apple in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship. Elves were known to prefer silver and starlight, but something about this gift genuinely pleased him.
"If I were a she-Elf," he joked, "I might just fall in love with you for this."
Eric coughed violently. "Please no. You're welcome to give it back, if that's where this is headed—"
"Ha! Only teasing," Aglanir said, though his expression softened. "Still, this is no trinket. Should you ever find yourself in need... don't hesitate to call on me. I'll remember this."
For just a second, Eric thought he caught a flicker of sorrow in the Elf's voice.
Elf and Man.
The difference was always there.
Elves lived on and on, immune to age, while humans were a passing breeze. Any friendship between the two would eventually fade into memory... or grief.
For the Elves, emotion wasn't just heartfelt—it was eternal. Some died not from wounds, but from sorrow.
But Eric... well, his future wasn't written in the same ink as other men.
Still, that was a mystery for another day.
"Eh, no need to get gloomy," Eric said, patting Aglanir on the shoulder. "Everything's fine now, isn't it?"
And for now, at least, he was right.
The golden apples? They made wonderful gifts for Elves.
Useful, beautiful, magical... and very well received.
