It wouldn't be long now before Thorin left for the world of men, probably heading toward one of their towns or trading outposts. But not yet.
At this point in his life, Thorin Oakenshield had only one obsession, taking back Erebor. Ever since he'd inherited the title of King under the Mountain, the longing to reclaim his homeland gnawed at him constantly. It haunted his dreams and woke him in cold sweats.
Still, aside from that brooding intensity, Thorin was... well, pretty normal—for a king. He carried himself with the authority of one born to rule, and he had the skills to back it up.
As for the dragon?
Still far away.
They'd crossed paths once, but there hadn't been much to say, this encounter had been brief, and frankly, anticlimactic.
Eric, meanwhile, had returned to the inn and spent a few more days enjoying dwarven culture, visiting the markets, sampling the ales, and doing a little light souvenir shopping.
He bought a lot of lapis lazuli.
Apparently, the dwarves did mine it, but considered it more of a decorative stone. They used it to tile floors and walls, and didn't charge much for it. Eric scooped up as much as he could carry. It sparkled nicely and looked good in potion stands. Win-win.
Eventually, though, his silver coins began to dwindle. It was time to head home.
His journey through the Blue Mountains was drawing to a close.
"Oh, what a shame! Our drinking champion is leaving us." The innkeeper walked with him for a few steps. "You're the best human drinker I've ever met. At least tell me your name."
This particular dwarf had a way of being perfectly polite when needed, and outrageously loud and merry when the moment called for it. Eric respected that flexibility.
"Eric," he replied simply.
"Eric, eh? I'll remember that. You're welcome back anytime. Next time, we'll share a proper barrel or two!"
Next time. Who knew when that would be?
Without too much sentiment, Eric mounted his horse and headed down the road out of the mountains.
The moment he left the dwarf-patrolled safe zone, he suited up in full armor. Silver and steel gleamed in the forest shadows. He looked like someone not to be trifled with.
Any bandits or wandering orcs thinking of an easy target would probably think twice.
Eric wasn't the same green adventurer who'd stumbled out of the Shire months ago. He'd seen things. Fought things. Bleeding and burning things. And he had no patience left for brigands lurking behind trees.
If there was danger ahead, he'd rather meet it head-on in full gear than try to look stylish while bleeding out. (Not that the armor looked bad, anyway.)
The journey home went smoothly.
A breeze drifted through the trees, carrying the crisp scent of approaching autumn.
By the Shuen River, Eric crouched and dipped a finger in the water.
"Getting cold," he muttered.
Autumn was here.
Far away, in the cozy green hills of the Shire, Bilbo Baggins was thinking the exact same thing.
Wrapped in a thick robe, he sat by his window, puffing thoughtfully on his pipeweed and gazing at the stars twinkling above his garden.
"Not bad at all," Bilbo murmured. "Stars up there, flowers down here. Grass, a river, a well-behaved compost pile…"
And a warm fireplace beside him. Even if winter came early, he'd be just fine.
He smiled. "What more could I possibly want?"
He wondered how Eric was doing. Hopefully, his journey was going well. It had been a while since the human had left, but the stories he'd told still echoed in Bilbo's memory. The Blue Mountains sounded majestic, even a little terrifying.
Bilbo's thoughts drifted and his eyes grew heavy. He soon shuffled off to bed.
The Next Morning
Knock knock knock.
Someone was at the door.
"One moment! Hang on—I need to flip this egg—gracious, who shows up this early?"
Creak.
Bilbo opened the door with a sizzling frying pan still in hand.
Hearing the flustered monologue, Eric couldn't help but chuckle. He made a mental note to avoid showing up at mealtimes.
"Eric! You're back already! Come in, come in! I've just started breakfast. Care to join me?"
"Wouldn't say no to that." Eric smiled and stepped inside like he owned the place—which, given how often he visited, wasn't far off.
Bilbo handed him the spatula without hesitation, beaming like a Hobbit who'd just found a second dessert.
Before long, they were at the table, and Bilbo was making appreciative noises as he stuffed his face.
Every time Eric came by, Bilbo's waistband seemed to tighten a little more.
Eric didn't stay long.
After breakfast, and second breakfast and lunch, he got up to leave again.
Bilbo looked genuinely disappointed.
Before he left, Eric handed him a burlap sack that hit the floor with a heavy thump.
"A little something from the Blue Mountains. A thank-you, for always feeding me."
Bilbo blinked. "A little…?"
He looked at the oversized sack, then at Eric, who just shrugged.
"I don't know what to say," Bilbo stammered. "You really didn't have to. Just having you over is enough for me."
But even as he said that, he was already peeking into the bag.
"…Is this a sword?"
He pulled out a dwarven steel blade. The moment he unsheathed it, the glint of the metal reflected back a very startled Hobbit face.
It glowed faintly with a silvery light. Not enchanted—just really, really well made.
"I… I'm not sure what I'd use this for. Cutting cheese, maybe?"
"Knock yourself out," Eric said. "Honestly, I just thought it looked nice."
Bilbo placed it on a shelf. "It does have a nice shine to it."
Back to rummaging.
Next, he pulled out a rock-solid loaf of bread.
"…And this?"
"Cram. Dwarven hardtack. Apparently imported from Dale. I figured you'd be curious, so I bought a bunch."
'Middle-earth's answer to Minecraft bread', Eric thought to himself.
"They last forever," he added. "You can nibble on it for weeks."
Bilbo took a tentative bite.
"Dense… definitely salty. It's got a real chew to it. You know, I kind of like it."
Eric smiled. "Glad to hear it."
To Bilbo, Eric always seemed to arrive suddenly and leave just as fast, like some armored spirit on horseback. Blink and he was gone.
Bilbo watched him ride off, then looked back at the enormous bag of bread.
"Wait… did he ever say how long they last?"
He chewed thoughtfully, then shrugged.
Eric didn't go straight home. He stopped briefly in Bree, picked up a cartload of books, and bought two sheep from a local farmer.
He wasn't picky—male or female, wool-producing or just good company. He figured with enough wheat, they'd get productive eventually.
"Home sweet home…"
The gate creaked open, and Eric stepped onto his land.
He stabled the sheep, then made a round of his holdings. Everything looked about the same, except the crops had ripened in his absence.
Now, it was time to roll up his sleeves and get back to work.