LOTR: The Mincraft Player

"Let us honor our hero!"

The dwarves were always the first to cheer, especially Dáin, who tended to be rowdy in less formal settings. As a lord, he rather enjoyed making a grand spectacle.

Close behind the dwarves came the Men of Lake-town. Bard, whose brow had been creased with worry for days, finally smiled warmly.

But before he could speak, someone else leaped forward and shouted loudly, "Welcome back, our great champion! I could tell from our very first meeting that this lord was noble and extraordinary! Listen to me, let's all shout together: Long live Garrett! Long live our great hero!"

Bard's newly relaxed expression immediately darkened.

"Alfrid—"

Thud!

A townsperson couldn't restrain himself and kicked the groveling man over.

"What are you doing? I'm celebrating our hero!"

Alfrid protested indignantly from the ground.

Thud! Slap!

A group of townsfolk immediately surrounded him and began kicking and punching him, with someone even taking the opportunity to slap him twice. Before long, the beating rendered him unconscious, and he was dragged away by the very people he claimed to represent.

Garrettshook his head helplessly.

He truly couldn't bear to watch that man's display.

The small episode passed quickly.

Whoosh.

Suddenly, the elves, who had remained silent throughout the entire proceeding, turned in perfect unison and saluted Garrett.

Thranduil himself stepped forward to greet him directly.

"Welcome back, Garrett."

"We have all been awaiting your return."

Thorin glanced at Thranduil, then at the elven host, and paused for a moment.

Then he, too, stepped forward and addressed Garrett:

"Tonight there shall be a great feast to celebrate this victory. I hope you will join us at our table."

"As I promised at your stronghold, if the day ever came that you arrived in the dwarven realm, we would give you the warmest of welcomes."

"Now, allow me to say this formally: Welcome to Erebor, the Lonely Mountain."

As the two leaders spoke, everyone else respectfully remained silent. Gandalf and his companions, as well as the various lords, simply looked on with approval.

Under the gaze of the assembled crowd, Garrett adjusted his travel-worn cloak and responded formally, "Garrett, at your service."

"Baruk Khazâd!"

The crowd erupted in thunderous cheers.

After this battle, the factions of Erebor, the Iron Hills, the Woodland Realm, and Dale all regarded Garrett as a trusted ally, his status equal to that of a lord, second only to kings themselves.

Of course, it wasn't only in these lands that his reputation was growing. In the days to come, his influence would grow stronger and spread farther, eventually reaching every corner of Middle-earth.

Even Mordor.

[Mordor Reputation: -5000 (Arch-Enemy)]

---

November, Third Age 2941.

On this day, the gates of the Lonely Mountain were opened wide. Dwarves, Elves, and Men walked together within its halls.

Inside, great hearths blazed brightly. The tables were piled high with roasted meat and strong drink.

A grand feast had begun.

In a rare gesture of hospitality, the dwarves, as hosts, even catered to elven tastes, offering abundant fruits, vegetables, and lighter fare alongside their traditional heavy dishes.

"Getting them to gather together in peace like this is no small achievement."

Gandalf observed as he plucked a grape from a nearby platter.

Not bad, quite sweet.

"Well, it's not entirely peaceful."

Garrett gestured toward a large table.

At that table, a dwarf and an elf were engaged in a serious drinking contest. A large crowd had gathered around them, cheering and placing wagers.

The dwarves favored strong ale, lower in alcohol content perhaps, but they consumed impressive quantities.

The elves, by contrast, preferred potent spirits and fine wines. They might not match the dwarves in volume, but their beverages packed quite the punch.

As for who could hold their liquor better, that remained to be seen.

It was truly a battle of champions.

That said... when it came to drinking, Legolas definitely had talent.

But no matter where Garrett looked, he couldn't spot the prince anywhere.

After the great battle, Legolas and Tauriel had not returned with the others, they had departed immediately, and no one knew their current whereabouts.

It was clear the stubborn elf had no desire to face his father, who had come specifically to find him.

After sampling some fruit and briefly greeting Garrett, Gandalf had also slipped away on some private errand.

Seeing little else requiring his attention, Garrett found an empty table, sat down, and filled his stomach with several portions of dwarven-style roasted meat.

However, just as he was enjoying his meal, several dwarves suddenly approached and planted themselves in the seats across from him.

"Glóin, Óin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur... and Balin?"

Garrett recognized these dwarves, they were all members of Thorin's original company.

"Do you need something?"

"We heard that you once drank a champion dwarf under the table... and didn't even get drunk?"

"Oh, that did happen."

Garrett looked at the fierce expressions on their faces and smiled slightly.

"What? You want to win back your honor? I'll even allow a tag-team match."

"You underestimate us, Garrett,"

Glóin bristled. "I'll admit that in many ways, you surpass all of us combined. But when it comes to strong drink, making such boasts before dwarves is pure arrogance."

"So, you want to challenge me?"

"No..."

Glóin shook his head and pushed forward the largest dwarf in their group.

"Bombur, your moment has arrived!"

"Aha!" Bombur slapped his considerable belly and let out a battle cry worthy of the occasion.

Balin chuckled as he rolled over two massive barrels of potent spirits, filling cup after cup.

The other dwarves positioned themselves as witnesses, ready to observe this contest of champions.

---

While the feast continued in the halls of Erebor... At the foot of the great throne, Thorin stood silently, holding the Arkenstone in his hands, gazing into the distance.

Scenes from his youth played vividly in his mind.

In those days, his grandfather had sat upon this very throne, while he and his father stood at either side.

He could still clearly remember the moment his grandfather had claimed the white gems that belonged to the Elvenking, his eyes filled with suspicion and disbelief.

"I am not you, Grandfather."

He spoke softly, placing the Arkenstone down without another glance.

"Thorin."

A warm, familiar voice suddenly echoed from the hall's entrance.

Someone had been waiting there for quite some time.

"Gandalf."

"You look well."

Gandalf walked over with a rare smile on his face when speaking to Thorin.

"There is no better time than the present."

Thorin replied, "I feel like a Man who has wandered the wilderness for decades, burdened every moment by hatred and obsession. Today, they are finally lifted from my shoulders. And I... finally have a home once more."

"Good. That is very good indeed."

Gandalf nodded with genuine warmth.

Then he suddenly added, "There is something I never told you."

"What is it?"

"Something your father, Thráin, asked me to convey to you. He said... He always loved you, Thorin."

Thorin's breath caught. His throat tightened. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said in a slightly hoarse voice, "I understand. Thank you, Gandalf."