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Lotr: Playing Minecraft in Middle-earth - 367
🕑 Added 2025-12-16 20:36:20 +0000 UTCChapter 367: Gandalf, Somewhat Irritable
It was a startling thing to say.
Left this world?
The Vale of Anduin commander, listening in, felt his mind catch for a moment. He simply could not process it straight away.
Did it mean what he thought it meant?
For Men, the phrase “left this world” was usually just a more polite, more presentable way of saying someone had died.
“What does that mean, exactly?” Thranduil asked, one brow lifting.
Sometimes it was not only Men and other peoples who were thrown by Elvish riddles. Even Elves could be left confused by their own kind’s loaded, roundabout way of speaking.
But someone was even more confused, and far more anxious, than Thranduil. The commander could not sit still any longer. Forgetting propriety, he stepped forward and pressed for an answer.
There was none to give, and there would not be any certain answer.
“That is beyond what I can do,” Lady Galadriel said, admitting the limits of her power.
Thranduil glanced at the commander and reminded him, “Do not guess at visions you cannot see. What matters most is what lies before us.”
“I trust my ally. Do you not trust your own leader?”
The commander nodded, forcing down the turmoil in his chest. “I will cooperate with this operation.”
Another regional war had begun.
Yet that was not all.
In a certain manor in Dorwinion, an utterly ordinary master of a vineyard sensed the unrest brewing among the Easterlings nearby. He clutched his head as a dull ache spread behind his eyes.
“It has only been how many years,” he muttered, “and they are marching again?”
So he saddled a horse, pulled up his cloak to hide his identity, and once more rode west. He took the Wine-road, recently repaired as a matter of course by craftsmen of the Free Cities, and he went alone, without a single attendant, travelling in his own name.
Trouble had come too often of late. Even if the last time had been decades ago, to an Elf that was not long at all.
Still, the changes in these years were truly great.
In the past, no one would have dared travel this road alone without guards, unless they were very confident in their own strength.
As for now, some bold human traders walked it without escorts at all.
It was… something to see.
…
“It truly is a headache.”
West of the Misty Mountains, on a stretch of wild highland, Gandalf lit his pipe and smoked as he thought.
Behind him came the clack and thump of blades. Boromir was teaching swordplay to Pippin and Merry, but the two of them were clearly not behaving themselves. With a little trick, they managed to trip Boromir and send him sprawling, a most unexpected “surprise”.
“For the Shire, bring him down!”
The two Hobbits pounced on Boromir and pinned him. He struggled, and for a moment he actually could not get back up.
“Hahahaha, you two little rascals…”
Soon even the thoughtful Captain of Gondor was dragged off course by them. He laughed and tussled with the pair, taking neither the ambush nor his hard fall to heart.
Aragorn watched them, especially Boromir, and found himself smiling too.
Boromir was not truly difficult to live with. Though he held high rank, he carried no airs. In essence he was kind and gentle, and surprisingly easygoing.
Only the weight on his shoulders was too heavy. Far too heavy.
With that thought, Aragorn rose.
For now the company’s mood was harmonious. All seemed well.
All, that is, except for Gandalf. Over the past few days his face had grown stern, as if he had learned something or felt something coming.
Best not to interrupt him while he was thinking.
“All right, you two, that will do.”
Aragorn walked over, intending to pull the Hobbits up and end the wrestling.
Instead, with one careless step, he was tripped as well. The two mischievous Hobbits immediately changed targets and “subdued” him too.
“Oh!”
Aragorn fell backwards with a groan, then lay there smiling in helpless amusement.
“We cannot go south.”
Gandalf’s single sentence ended the play at once.
“The Dunlendings’ allegiance is uncertain, and Saruman’s troops are unaccounted for. Either way, it is a great danger.”
Gimli offered, “Then why not take the Sky-road in the north?”
“Indeed. An excellent choice, Gimli. If you had not said so, it might truly have slipped my mind that there is a shortcut so obvious the whole world knows it. What timely counsel.”
Gandalf nodded as he spoke, his tone so pointed it was almost sharp. His eyes were full of meaning. He was talking to Gimli, yet his attention did not seem to be on Gimli at all, leaving the Dwarf blinking in confusion.
“What did I do to offend him?” Gimli muttered.
Yet to his surprise, Gandalf stood and went on, “All right. We will try it.”
“It is time to move, my friends. Let us go north.”
“If luck favours us, we can stay under the Free Cities’ protection the whole way, and enjoy fine scenery that never repeats itself on either side of the road.”
“And if it does not?” Pippin asked, proving he always knew exactly where to poke.
“If it does not, I will throw you off the road, so you learn what that ill-omened tongue of yours brings.”
Pippin fell silent at once.
“He seems to be in a foul mood,” Pippin and Merry grumbled under their breath after being snapped at.
“Who is not? Wizards are like that. Strange-tempered, changeable.”
“Just endure it. Perhaps he slept poorly last night. Once he has a midday nap and rests, he will be fine.”
“That makes sense.”
Pippin nodded solemnly and hurried after Gandalf, not caring about the small slight at all.
So the company went north, climbed up onto the high Sky-road, and made for the far side of the mountains with eyes wide open for the views.
“I have never been this high in my life!”
“Nor have I!”
The Hobbits leaned over the railing and looked down, feeling their hearts open with the height and air. They knew they would never forget the view.
Clank, clank…
As they walked, now and then they glimpsed iron golems patrolling along fixed routes by the roadside, and the sight only made everything feel newer still.
Once they were on the road, even Gandalf’s mood eased a little. He even had room to talk, explaining things as they went.
“Travelling this way is a pleasure. Since it was built, I have walked it no fewer than a hundred times. Most days, walking here is leisurely and restful…”
“Oh, here we are. Look ahead.”
When they came to the face of the Misty Mountains, Gandalf pointed forward with his staff, and the others followed his gaze.
In a vast, deep tunnel, countless warm yellow lights were burning, and people were moving about within, talking and passing to and fro.
“This is one of the Sky-road’s most important crossroads: Halfway Town,” Gandalf said.
“It used to be a Goblin-hole. Later, Levi led folk here and cleared the Goblins out completely. Then he carved and reshaped the stone until it was level and fit for building.”
“After that, Halfway Town was established. Every year great numbers of merchants and travellers pass through, so it has become lively and prosperous, and many choose to settle and live here.”
“Remarkable,” Frodo said, staring up at the enormous town built into the mountain. His eyes could barely take it all in.
“That is because you have never seen the Dwarves’ realms, Mr Baggins,” Gimli said, lips pursed.
“Whether Erebor, or the halls recently reclaimed in the Grey Mountains, their scale is far greater than this. The Kingdom Under the Mountain, that is what outsiders like to call our homes.”
“I have heard of it,” Frodo said, nodding. “Bilbo told me the tale of the Lonely Mountain, the great Dwarf-kingdom, Erebor…”
Gimli was clearly pleased. He nodded and said, “Your uncle Bilbo has good sense. I know it well. Long ago, he was granted the title ‘Friend of the Dwarves’. The elders of my house speak of him often, that brave Hobbit.”
“But…” Gimli paused, then went on, “In truth, even Erebor only represents part of the Dwarves’ glory.”
Frodo asked, curious, “Is there a Dwarven work greater than Erebor?”
“There is,” Gimli said slowly, and spoke a single name.
“Moria.”
