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Lotr: Playing Minecraft in Middle-earth - 323
🕑 Added 2025-11-15 23:40:24 +0000 UTCChapter 323: Prophecy
Recently, the number of wanderers in Roadside Keep and the City of Water had grown high—so high that, combined, there were over a hundred wanderers living there.
Of course, these wanderers were not here to idle or relax. Many took up posts as instructors or lecturers, and it did not seem like a short-term arrangement. By the look of things, they would not leave until several batches of students had passed through.
Moreover, the number of wanderers on the front lines had increased as well. There were young ones and old ones, offering advice to Roadside Keep’s fledgling recruits or joining seasoned blade units to carry out charges and raids.
Clearly, the wanderers had heard some definite news, and they were responding in their own way.
The most notable among them was a man who had recently gained some fame.
The people of Bree, both Men and Hobbits, called him “Strider.” The nickname was neutral, neither good nor bad.
It was said he often appeared near Bree, mysterious and elusive.
He was called Strider because he was tall—1.98 meters—with long legs and a stride that covered great distances.
His build was so striking that, when speaking to him, not a single Hobbit or even any of the town’s Men could avoid looking up.
“He takes one step, and I have to run several to keep up,” said one Hobbit.
“Keep a close watch on him,” Saruman told his agents.
But most of the time, when Aragorn did not wish to be seen, his watchers and trackers could not find him, not even a glimpse of his cloak.
Instead, their sources and employers were often traced back by the rangers.
“He’s been doing this for a while,” Levi said, hearing the news Aragorn brought. He was not surprised.
Neither he nor Aragorn bothered to say more about Saruman’s actions. The old wizard was always suspicious.
In a way, Saruman could be called a cautious wizard.
He assumed everyone else was just as wary, trusting only himself, and always prepared a host of contingencies.
In the end, only he was constantly preparing for war, hoarding enough strength to overwhelm a nation not weak by any measure.
A pity such a clever mind was not put to good use.
He was just like his brother Sauron.
“I just came back from the Ford of Isen. Nothing unusual there, just the usual strict guard. It’s hard to sneak in.”
“How do you usually get in?” Aragorn asked, curious.
Levi shrugged.
“I just walked in. Every time I go, someone opens the door for me.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“In that case, Saruman at least has a decent attitude.”
“Yes,” Levi nodded.
He did not mention that sometimes Saruman refused to open the door.
The result was always the same: Levi broke it down and then beat him up.
Experience was a fast teacher.
And Saruman was always eager to learn.
“Alright.”
Aragorn was not surprised by Levi’s answer. On the surface, at least, the White Wizard seemed to respect his uncle.
But…
At the window, Aragorn looked up at the sky, at the star faintly visible in the twilight—the Star of Eärendil. His thoughts were many.
Restoration…
Levi and he had spoken of Arnor’s revival.
When Levi brought it up, Aragorn knew it was settled. No outside force could stop it now. How far it would go depended only on his own and his people’s efforts.
That year, an elder Dúnedain felt a premonition and gave a prophecy:
“When the King of Gondor returns, Arnor shall be restored.”
With nothing left to fear behind, only the present remained.
Aragorn and his people continued to serve the Free Cities’ lands, year after year.
During this time, events also unfolded in the Shire.
In 2994, Frodo’s father, Drogo Baggins, passed away at the age of eighty-six.
His grave was covered with flowers. People said he was upright and respected, and aside from nearly drowning once, he had done nothing to earn reproach in his life.
After Drogo’s death, his wife Primula was long without spirit, living in sorrow.
Later, she chose to return to her family home and live with her kin.
The house was left to Frodo, who was now twenty-six. Though he still held the innocence of a Hobbit, he was no longer a child. He understood many things.
Living alone, Frodo often wandered to places on the Shire map that were not yet revealed, roaming the wilds, climbing hills, and gazing at rivers.
It eased his grief, but left him feeling lonely. Even frequent visits to his mother did not lessen the feeling.
So he thought of his uncle, Bilbo.
“It is unfortunate, Frodo, but everyone must reach the end of their life. What we must do is live on with the good wishes of those we love.”
In Bag End, Hobbiton, Bilbo comforted his nephew.
“I know, Uncle. I will.”
“Good lad.”
Bilbo patted Frodo’s shoulder, nodding. He grew more fond of this nephew, who visited him often.
But when he thought of his cousin’s passing, he began to feel a sense of unease.
He was no longer young.
Some things could not be delayed. He must act now, or risk never finishing them.
After seeing Frodo off, Bilbo sat at his desk once more, pen in hand, staring at the blank page and the palm-sized dragon scale tucked inside the book.
This was what he wanted to do—write a book, his own story, the legends of those gone and those still living.
—As a participant in the tale.
And, if possible, Bilbo hoped to go on one more journey in his lifetime.
He could not expect the thrilling adventures of his youth. His old bones could not take the strain, and he might fall apart.
“Then it’s decided.”
A plan for a journey took shape in his mind.
But…
Looking at his large house, his whole Bag End, Bilbo sighed.
Recently, the Sackville-Baggins family seemed to be stirring again.
Otho and his wife, after being frightened by Levi, had stayed quiet for a long time, never bothering Bilbo again.
But as time passed, their scheming had returned.
Bilbo still lived alone, was very old, and had no heir. If Bilbo passed away, Bag End and his possessions would naturally go to them.
Bilbo was helpless about this.
Who could have imagined they would be so persistent, coveting Bag End for over fifty years?
“How to settle Bag End.”
The question of Bag End’s inheritance had become a thorn in Bilbo’s heart, keeping him from moving.
For years, Bilbo had thought about it.
He longed to leave, to travel far, to see the world’s sights once more in his lifetime. But if he did, Otho’s family would surely seize Bag End the next day.
While Bilbo was there, they dared not oppose him. But if Bilbo left of his own accord, it would be easy for them to claim it legally.
Yet Bilbo did not want to leave the place to Otho’s family.
They were too disagreeable. They never did him any good, only trouble, and even spread rumours that he had died on his journey to the Lonely Mountain. It was all very tiresome.
Quietly, Bilbo made a decision.
“I will not leave a single thing to that bothersome family.”
