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Lotr: Playing Minecraft in Middle-earth - 318
🕑 Added 2025-11-11 16:10:49 +0000 UTCChapter 318: Change
A vial of dragon blood poured out.
With a hiss, fire-drake blood washed over dragonbone. The blade ignited, and the dragonbone sword shed its skin, becoming a new weapon—the Dragonflame Boneblood Sword.
The sword glowed orange-red, its fire visible to the naked eye. The heat it gave off was terrifying, second only to a Dragonflame Steel sword.
At the same time, touched by some arcane force within the fire-drake blood, the blade grew heavier. Any enemy struck by it would feel as if smashed by a hammer and be driven back a great distance.
Quenching a dragonbone sword in fire-drake blood to forge a Dragonflame Boneblood Sword was extravagant.
Dragon blood was scarce.
Whether the dragon was anemic or not, it was hard to say, but even Smaug—a dragon that size—yielded barely enough blood for Levi’s personal use.
Plenty of scales, meat, and bone fell. The blood did not.
Or rather, the portion infused with the magic needed to forge Dragonflame Steel was limited.
Even the non-elemental dragon blood suitable for ordinary Dragonsteel had been collected in meager amounts—rare was the word.
In truth, the Dragonflame Boneblood Sword was not a high-value craft in pure numbers. It looked striking and wore the “legendary weapon” name, but its base damage was only 9.5. It came effectively with Fire Aspect and Knockback.
As for Levi’s purpose in making it—
“I don’t think I can use this one well, Uncle.”
Bain tried a few cuts with Levi’s Dragonflame Steel sword, then admitted defeat.
A greatsword nearly the size of a grown man’s was not for everyone.
So—
“Take this instead, Bain.”
Levi drew back his Dragonflame Steel and handed over the Dragonflame Boneblood Sword.
Bain’s eyes widened as he accepted the strange weapon born of fire-drake blood and dragonbone.
He could not resist two trial sweeps, the blade flaring and casting fiery arcs.
Watching the still-sturdy “young old” warrior before him, Levi nodded—and felt a pang of regret.
“I should have made this earlier. Bard would have liked it.”
Bain flinched and moved to console him, but saw Levi’s eyes filled with remembrance and a more complex feeling.
Not as before, though—no longer choked entirely by grief and solitude.
In that moment, Bain felt his uncle standing truly before him.
Color had returned to the man. The membrane between legend and reality, past and present, thinned.
Bain’s reflection sharpened in Levi’s pupils.
He was looking at the person in front of him now.
“Yes. Father would have loved it.”
Bain smiled, though he faced a practical problem.
“This doesn’t seem easy to carry.”
It burned with a heat that could roast a man. Carrying it, even placing it anywhere, demanded thought.
“I accounted for that.”
Levi produced a scabbard.
“Forged by Roadside Keep’s cleverest smiths with help from Elves and Dwarves, made of Dragonsteel.”
“It can house the sword’s flame. Sheathe it, and the fire draws in; draw it, and the blaze flares.”
Whoom.
Bain fitted the sword into the scabbard. As Levi said, the flames calmed, warmth seeping into the sheath but not enough to burn.
Just right.
“Your father entrusted you with what he treasured most.”
“And I give you this blade, to witness it all.”
Bain bowed, silent and solemn.
Levi clapped his shoulder with a fond smile and said nothing more.
A good lad.
The Dragonflame Boneblood Sword, with 9.5 base damage and a bundle of effects, received full enchantments as usual.
In symbol and in use, it was an excellent sword.
As for the numerically stronger Dragonsteel sword—
That would depend on the wielder.
After the swords were allocated, Levi returned by the Sky Road to Carl Town to oversee the follow-up at Dáin I’s hall.
It was a noisy year.
With the Lord of the North, Levi, approving, the towns of the Anduin valley continued expanding north, restoring abandoned villages and hamlets all the way to Framsburg, where ruins rose into a strong city.
But as explorers pressed farther, reaching former dwarven colonies, they found them ravaged—interiors nearly entirely destroyed.
And not only that—wingless cold-drakes laired within, and Orcs in mass.
Thus, the lord rode alone and returned with three dragon corpses.
Once it was certain that no other dragons remained in Dáin I’s hall or across the Grey Mountains, work crews, shielded by ranger companies, set out from Framsburg to repair the collapsed pillars and floors—lighting the place for travel.
As the road crews worked, Dwarves arrived.
Thorin looked upon the hall—now hardly recognizable as a colony—and dwarven memory rose in him.
“This is where my forefathers lived. I have never come here,” he said.
“The Grey Mountains have no more dragons. That is good news.”
“There’s more.”
Levi pointed to the floor. “When I slew the three, I found their hoard—a heap of treasure, likely the work of your forebears.”
“What do you think?”
“What do I think?”
Thorin’s gaze trembled. He stroked the ruined gates and thought long.
At last, he smiled and shook his head. “Those treasures are no longer ours.”
“My ancestors quarreled with the Éothéod over treasure, and my grandsire quarreled with the Elves from greed…”
“But I am not them.”
Thorin smiled.
Levi smiled back.
This time, the Dwarves did not ask for the hoard.
The King under the Mountain showed generosity and release—rare in a Dwarf, rarer still.
Dwarves and Men joined hands again. Dáin I’s hall was rebuilt, a place for both to live and work.
So ended the matters of Carl Town and the Grey Mountains.
Elsewhere.
Unseen by most, Gondor’s new ruling Steward, Denethor II, took up the Anor-stone and crossed wills with Sauron, enemy of the Free Peoples—and won.
When he emerged from the high tower where the palantír was kept, people found the young Steward suddenly aged, as if seven or eight years had passed in a single night.
He had won and, after that, pressed Sauron down, gathering intelligence far and wide.
At the same time, he grew more silent. Spoke less.
He began to care only for his duel with Sauron.
Even as it weighed on his mind and wrecked his body, he told himself: so long as he held the advantage and reduced losses, he would endure until death came.
But fate has a cruel sense of humor.
His death did not come.
His wife did.
In the year 2988.
Finduilas woke in fright at night, sometimes staring east at the clouded skies over Mordor, sometimes watching the broad river.
Perhaps a touch of Elven blood in her made her yearn for the sea, for the West. When she saw the river, saw the sky, sorrow rose.
And that faint Elven blood, sensitive to evil, felt Mordor—the shadow opposite the White City—press upon her like a mountain. She could not breathe.
Such wounds of the spirit are the cruelest.
They cannot be hindered, reversed, or healed.
Under fear and sorrow both, Finduilas passed away in grief.
She was thirty-eight.
Denethor stood at her grave, wordless for a long time.
He kept vigil through the night and at dawn drew a long breath and walked away.
After that day, he seemed to age again.
He grew more silent. More severe.
