The moment Eric mounted the 14-speed steed, he could tell the difference immediately.
The scenery on both sides blurred past much faster, and the wind against his face had picked up, tugging at his cloak with surprising force.
He could feel the thrill—this was speed you could taste.
Eric was beginning to look forward to what a fully sprinting horse could really do.
With the reins in hand and the map in front, Eric rode on.
First stop: Bree.
The distance from Roadside Fortress to Bree was about the same as to Rivendell, but with far better roads. And this time, he was riding a fine, handpicked horse. Barring any inconvenient troll ambushes or dramatic side quests, he'd arrive before sunset.
The journey was uneventful.
With daylight still high, Eric passed through a nameless outpost. Just off the road stood a modest little inn with a crooked wooden sign creaking in the breeze.
"The Forgotten Inn."
It looked familiar.
After a moment's hesitation, Eric dismounted and walked in.
The inn was quiet, with only a few scattered patrons chewing through tough bread and stew.
And there—at a table near the back—sat a familiar face.
Without a word, Eric walked over and sat across from the cloaked figure.
The man looked up, still gnawing on a piece of rustic bread, eyes sharp beneath his hood.
"Eric?" he said, lowering the bread and taking a sip of water.
It was Farodan.
"What are you doing here? Need a favor?" he asked, voice calm but curious.
He hadn't forgotten his promise—that silver coin he gave Eric, along with the words "If you ever need anything, wait for me at the Forgotten Inn."
Well, what do you know—turns out fate decided to save them both the wait.
"No big favor," Eric said with a shrug. "I just figured you might be here. Thought I'd drop in and say hello."
"You made it back from the valley?"
"Been back for a while, actually. I'm already halfway into my second journey."
"…It's been less than a month since you left."
"I've been back for over two weeks," Eric replied casually.
Farodan stared at him in silence for a moment.
That was fast.
Then his expression grew serious.
"My people told me that about two weeks ago, a squad of orc cavalry moved west from the wildlands. Their path pointed directly toward your route. I came here planning to warn you."
Eric leaned back with a grin.
"Too late. That squad's already been wiped out."
By his iron golems, technically. But still his victory. No one's writing footnotes in the annals of history.
Farodan blinked.
"…I've been operating in the north lately. Guess I missed the news. Still—I'm glad you're alright."
"So where are you headed this time?"
"The Blue Mountains."
"You just left Elven lands and now you're off to visit the dwarves?"
"I've got business there."
"You always have business," Falodan sighed.
Middle-earth's busiest adventurer.
They chatted a little more, but neither had much else to say. Falodan finished his bread and stood up, brushing crumbs from his cloak.
"I'll walk you out."
Something about his movements seemed… off. A little stiff.
Eric narrowed his eyes.
"You're hurt."
Farodan flinched, just slightly. "…How could you tell?"
"Nothing serious. Just scrapes from combat. A bit of rest and I'll be good as new."
Eric frowned. "Doesn't look like 'scrapes' to me."
His eyes flicked to Falodan's health bar.
[12 / 25]
Dude was literally running on half a life bar. And he was still walking around like it was fine?
And—plop—another tiny sliver dropped off.
"Dude," Eric said. "Don't bleed out on me right now."
With a sigh, Eric pulled out a golden apple, glowing faintly with warm, magical energy, and handed it to Falodan.
"Here. It's full of vitality. Might even fix you."
Farodan hesitated, eyeing it. "This… This looks like it's made of actual gold."
"Don't argue. Just take it. I'm not going to watch you die standing up."
Eric shoved the apple into his hands.
Caught red-handed, Farodan stopped pretending. The tough guy routine evaporated. His posture slumped; the exhaustion he'd been hiding seeped through his frame like a popped balloon.
"Eat it," Eric insisted.
Farodan gave the shimmering fruit one more skeptical look, then took a cautious bite.
Juice burst across his tongue—sweet and rich. In an instant, his eyes widened as the magic surged through his body. Every cut, every bruise, even the hidden poison wounds he hadn't mentioned—all gone.
A golden aura shimmered around him for a moment like a second skin.
Bonus shield: acquired.
He finished the apple. And his health bar?
[25/25]
Farodan stared at the apple core in awe.
"…That was priceless, wasn't it?"
"Probably," Eric said, not caring. "Let's call us even."
"No. I owe you a life-debt now. If you need anything—anything at all—just say the word."
Eric was about to brush it off again, then paused.
Actually…
"…You wouldn't happen to know of any gold mines, would you?"
Farodan blinked. "The dwarves have some, of course. And the southern kingdoms of men—places like Gondor—"
"No, no. I'm not looking to steal. I mean unclaimed mines. Abandoned. Orc-occupied. Even ones in Mordor. You get what I'm saying?"
Farodan's expression shifted as he caught on. "Got it. I've heard rumors. I'll need some time to confirm."
"No rush," Eric said, grinning. "I'll wait."
Falodan nodded seriously, clearly treating this like a top priority now.
With their goodbyes said, Eric continued westward. He passed through Bree, then made a brief stop at the Barrow-downs.
It was night by the time he arrived.
He loitered for a bit, purposely making noise and flashing some light around—just in case any wights or spirits felt like coming out to play.
Nothing.
"Cowards," he muttered, giving up.
---
By daylight, Eric crossed into the Shire. He followed the well-kept road lined with hedges and wildflowers, the landscape soft and peaceful until finally, at noon, he stopped at a familiar Hobbit-hole.
He dismounted, walked to the door, and gave it a gentle knock.
"Just a moment! I've got to get this steak out of the pot!"
Clanking noises, followed by shuffling footsteps, echoed from inside.
The door creaked open—
Bilbo squinted against the sun, then blinked up.
"…Eric?!"
The ever-hospitable Hobbit flung the door wide and threw his arms open.
"Welcome, welcome! It's been, oh, several months at least! Come in, come in! You must stay for lunch—I've got fine food and finer drink, and we must catch up properly…"
Eric stepped inside, the cozy scent of herbs and fresh bread hitting him instantly.
Nothing had changed.
Bilbo was still Bilbo. Bag End was still as tidy and peaceful as ever. Even the guest room Eric had once used looked untouched, the bed made, the linens crisp.
"I swear," Bilbo said as he brought over a tray of cheese and cold meats, "you feel… different. Like you've been through something. Something big. I can't quite put my finger on it, but—yes, you've changed."
Eric smiled faintly.
Yeah. You could say that.
The road wasn't over yet—but for now, lunch with a Hobbit sounded like just the right kind of pause.