"Burp~"
On the night of Bilbo's birthday, at the dining table, he let out a satisfied burp. Looking at the table again, he saw that more than half the food still remained.
"It was so delicious, but I really can't eat another bite... hmm, but maybe I can still have a little more wine."
He looked at Garrett and asked, "And you?"
"Pour me a glass too."
Garrett leaned back in his chair, not wanting to move either. His appetite was much smaller than Bilbo's. Most of the food that had disappeared from the table was thanks to Bilbo's impressive Hobbit stomach. But even the greatest of eaters couldn't finish an entire table's worth of roasts and enormous cakes.
This time, it was the Hobbit who had been defeated.
Clink.
The wine was brought out. Garrett took a small sip and realized it wasn't from the local Bree vineyards.
It had a different flavor, but was just as good.
That made it something special.
"Really nice..."
Night deepened.
Garrett sat in a chair in the front yard of Bag End, sipping wine and gazing up at the flourishing sky of stars.
Among them, one star stood out, bright and striking.
The Star of High Hope, or rather, the Star of Eärendil.
Strictly speaking, it wasn't a star at all. Its radiant light shone from a Silmaril that Eärendil wore upon his brow.
Beyond the Door of Night, in the vast sky, Eärendil sailed endlessly in a ship hailed as the fairest ever made: Vingilot, circling the world in watchful patrol.
Eärendil, he was also Elrond's father.
Age after age, Elrond had silently watched as his mortal twin brother, who had chosen the fate of Men, and his brother's descendants aged and died, one generation after another, whether by time or accident.
Who could say what Elrond felt, on clear nights when he happened to lift his eyes to that star in the sky?
Elrond... his life was filled with tragedy and partings, full of pain.
Yet he remained steadfast and kind.
Garrett's gaze followed the nearly imperceptible movement of Eärendil's star across the sky, and countless stories rose in his heart.
The Lord of Rivendell bore in his veins the mingled blood of the three great Elven houses, the three great houses of the Edain, and even a trace of Maia.
His father was the mariner Eärendil, who left him when he was only a babe. His mother, Elwing, forced to leap into the sea during an attack by the Sons of Fëanor, was transformed and flew away when he was but six years old. He and his twin brother were then taken in by the very ones who had driven their mother to that desperate act.
Yet those enemy kinslayers did not mistreat them. Instead, Maglor and Maedhros cared for them tenderly, and some bond grew between them.
But later, fate punished these last Sons of Fëanor. Tormented by the fire of the Silmarils they could no longer bear to touch, one cast himself into a fiery chasm, the other wandered the shores in lamentation, never to return.
No one knows Maglor's ultimate fate.
What is certain is that with their deaths and disappearances, Elrond once again lost those he had come to love as family.
His whole life was marked by solitude and sorrow, and by the endless parting from those he loved, never to meet again.
"His story really is tragic," Garrett muttered, shaking his head. With a sigh to that star, he slowly closed his eyes.
Unknowingly, he drifted off to sleep there in the chair.
---
Creak.
A faint sound startled him awake.
The sun was just rising.
When Garrett opened his eyes, he found a blanket draped over him. Out in the yard, a postman was carefully sliding a letter into Bilbo's mailbox.
Noticing that his noise had woken Garrett, the postman looked a little embarrassed.
"Sorry, please forgive me. I didn't mean to wake you. I was already trying to be as quiet as possible."
"It's fine, I shouldn't have fallen asleep out here."
Garrett waved his hand dismissively.
The postman's voice was indeed very soft, and, well, no surprise, he was a Hobbit. When they didn't want to make a sound, even someone like Garrett hadn't noticed him until he was standing right there.
And Garrett had spent most of recent years in the thick of battle, where fighting never ceased.
Even if few things could truly threaten him, he still maintained basic vigilance. Any unusual sound or movement would normally catch his attention immediately.
But this...
"Excuse me, are you Garrett?"
After sliding the letter into the mailbox, the postman asked the question carefully.
"I am," Garrett nodded.
"It really is you! I've heard so many stories about you!"
The postman suddenly grew excited, almost jumping in place. He fumbled about his body, left and right, until he pulled out a small notebook he carried with him.
"Um, would you... could I ask you for an autograph? My children love hearing those stories. If they could see this... Oh, I know this request might be rude, and if I've offended you, please just pretend you didn't hear..."
As he spoke, he grew more and more embarrassed, lowering his head and slowly pulling his hand back.
Just then, Garrett stood up and took the little notebook from him.
"Shall I sign here?"
"Yes!"
So Garrett wrote his name.
When he handed the notebook back, he slipped in a few small pastries as well.
"Take these for your children, some special treats from Dale."
"Thank you!" The postman clutched the notebook and the wrapped pastries, bowing excitedly.
"My home is in Overhill, north of Hobbiton. If you ever happen to pass by, I would be honored to host you."
"Alright," Garrett smiled and nodded, bidding the postman farewell.
After leaving Bag End, the postman opened his notebook, looking at the signature. He jotted down some words beside it:
"The Lord of Wayfort, the legendary Garrett, who strikes fear into the forces of evil, is truly a very kind man. When I asked for his autograph, he agreed at once, and even gave me some pastries to bring home to my children."
"They'll be so happy tonight."
After calming down a bit, he added another thought, "One thing makes me curious, though. What exactly is his relationship with Bilbo? I've heard Bilbo once went on an adventure decades ago. Perhaps that's when they met..."
In the Shire, "Bilbo of Bag End, with his endless wealth," was already a figure shrouded in mystery.
And now, yet another mystery had been added to him, making him seem all the more enigmatic.
The postman pondered for a moment, shook his head, and put away his notebook to return to his work.
Looking at the little gifts from Garrett, he felt that today was full of hope.
More hopeful than most days.
"Bilbo, your letter!"
In the yard, Garrett opened the door and called into the house.
"Just a moment!"
Bilbo set the freshly made breakfast onto a plate, put down the pan, and walked quickly over.
"Let me see... hm?"
"Drogo Baggins," Garrett read aloud the name on the letter.
"From Buckland, Brandy Hall."
"Oh?" Bilbo's face brightened with interest as he read further.
After a short while, he nodded.
"They're still as hospitable and generous as ever."
"What is it, Bilbo?" Garrett asked, curious about the letter.
"An invitation to a feast, from a cousin of mine I get along with. Just yesterday, his child was born. By coincidence, the child shares the same birthday as mine."
Bilbo's expression grew a little thoughtful.
"They plan to host a grand banquet at Brandy Hall, following in the tradition of Gorbadoc Brandybuck, to celebrate the child's healthy birth."
"Let me see... ah, the child already has a name. It's written here: Frodo. Frodo Baggins."
"That really is a fine name."
---
---
Completed at Chapter 405!
Visit my profile page for more information.