When the reinforcements appeared, especially the one leading them, the outcome of the battle was already decided. The orcs immediately fell into chaos, unable to organize even the slightest effective counterattack. Their chieftain was the first to be beheaded, collapsing stiffly to the ground, his corpse burned on the spot.
As for the deputy leader and the few squad captains with some degree of authority, the moment they saw the enemy who was legendary even among their own ranks, they were terrified and could not bring themselves to take command.
They all knew that if they so much as shouted an order, it would mean certain death.
Even if they were not afraid to die, it would not have mattered. The troops were far beyond control. The formation had collapsed too completely, splitting into several scattered groups in mere moments. The situation reversed too quickly for anyone to react.
By dusk, the orc corpses were gathered into piles and burned.
Thanks to the timely support of Garrett and his companions, Éomund survived.
After dealing with the bodies, a grand victory feast was held at Aldburg.
"I truly do not know how to express my gratitude," Éomund said, raising his cup.
"Once again, I thank you, Lord of the North, Garrett, Gandalf the Grey, and Aragorn. Those orcs were far craftier than expected. Without the information you brought, I would surely have died in those hills today. Even though I know that if I had died, Théoden would have looked after my children and family, not being able to see them grow with my own eyes would have filled me with regret. Fortunately, none of that came to pass."
"Since you survived, then live well," Garrett said, patting him on the shoulder encouragingly.
After encouraging Éomund, he continued with a gentle rebuke. "And in the future, be more cautious. Do not act so recklessly. Otherwise, it will not just be you. Your men will suffer for your rash decisions."
"I shall remember that," Éomund nodded in agreement.
The lively night passed in high spirits.
It had been a long time since Gandalf and Aragorn had a chance to relax. For the past two years, their nerves had been stretched too tightly.
But for seasoned warriors and wizards, tension had long become the norm. Garrett, too, was used to it. An occasional moment of ease was more than enough.
Or even without relaxation, one could still find small joys amid busyness, like Garrett's love for cooking.
After the Eastmark campaign ended, the three stayed one night in Aldburg, joined the banquet briefly, and then departed.
With little else pressing, Garrett returned to Dale, greeting Bain, Brand, and Brand's son, Bard II.
"Time really does fly," Garrett murmured, looking at the family, a faint feeling of melancholy stirring within him.
Bain had grown old, just as Bard had before him.
"Bard," Garrett said softly, smiling as he spoke the name.
Bard II instinctively turned toward him, uncertain why Garrett had called him.
"It is nothing. Go on, child."
Garrett patted Bard's head and waved him off to keep playing.
He had more or less gotten used to the local naming customs.
Just as there had been Turgon II and Ecthelion II, or Denethor II, their names were taken from famous figures in history.
One could not quite say whether it was in remembrance or simply to borrow some fame.
Still, everyone understood the meaning, and so they always added "the Second" to show they were not the original bearer of the name.
Looking at Bard II, he could not help but wonder: Somewhere unknown, had someone already named their child "Garrett the Second"?
That kind of fame-chasing was not something he could approve of. He was not even dead yet.
The thought amused him, and he chuckled to himself.
"I hope this child inherits his great-grandfather's courage and will, not just his name," he said quietly.
Inside the room, Bain, sitting by the table, also looked up at Bard II and murmured, "I will do all I can to pass on what is good."
By now, Bain was over seventy years old.
He had grown old, just as Bard had before him.
Outside, the laughter of children echoed through the air. Brand, returning home victorious from his campaigns, was reunited with his family, spending a year of peace and togetherness.
That same year, Bilbo crossed mountains and rivers, arriving first at Bree and then at Rivendell, where he accepted Elrond's invitation to settle down and spend his remaining years.
The following year, surrounded by Elves, Bilbo's mind became active once more. With their help, he began compiling the Translations from the Elvish.
To meet the Elves, that had always been Bilbo's dream, a dream first realized during the Quest of Erebor.
And sixty years later, that dream had been fulfilled beyond all expectation.
Now, he lived among the Elves, seeing them every day.
Year 3004 of the Third Age, at Bree.
Gandalf ambled slowly up to the gates of a stronghold and knocked. But even after a long wait, there was no response.
"Well then, it seems he is away again."
Clearly, Gandalf had grown accustomed to Garrett's frequent absences. It had always been this way. Most of the time, Garrett simply was not home. To catch him actually in residence was a rare stroke of luck.
"Wormi..."
Standing beneath a mallorn tree, he called out, but after quite a while, there was still no movement from above.
"Asleep?"
Just as he was turning to leave, a signboard fell from the branches behind him.
On it was written, in neat and rather large letters:
"Weymir, Keeper of Books."
"Weymir?"
Gandalf stroked his beard, deep in thought.
"Is that your new name for yourself?"
He looked rather bemused.
"Well then, my dear Weymir, can you tell me where Garrett has gone?"
After the change in address, the tree finally responded.
"North, to the outpost of Angmar."
"Angmar?"
Gandalf frowned slightly.
"What business would he have there?"
Without delay, he mounted his horse and set off northward.
---
Several days later, in the old capital of Angmar, now part of the Free Cities' outposts at Carn Dûm, Gandalf met the stationed sentinels.
"Please wait a moment," one of them said. "The lord crossed the mountains a few days ago, heading deep into the Northern Waste. He has not returned yet."
"What is he doing there?" Gandalf asked.
The sentinel only shook his head. He had no clear answer to give.
Driven by curiosity, Gandalf decided to wait there, and nearly a week passed. His patience was finally rewarded.
At dawn one day, movement stirred high in the snowy mountains. A massive corpse came tumbling down from the peak, rolling and crashing until it reached the foot of the slope.
Yet, strangely, it remained intact, its body unmarred despite the fall.
There were deep sword wounds across it, and burns as well. There was no need to ask who had caused them.
"What in the name of the Valar is this?"
He hurried forward, frowning deeply as he examined the body.
Such an evil aura.
Whoosh.
Following the corpse, a lone figure slid down the snow-covered slope, landing lightly on his feet.
"Gandalf? What are you doing here?" Garrett asked.
"Just passing through. But where have you been, and what is this thing?"
Gandalf tapped the creature's body twice with his staff. The corpse was covered in white fur.
"You might not recognize it," Garrett replied, flipping the troll over. "But this thing really is a troll, some kind of mutated variety. For now, I am calling it a Snow Troll."
Gandalf looked at its fanged mouth and twisted face.
"I was about to ask you the same thing," Garrett said. "Do you know what it is?"