LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

"To our hero—raise your mugs!"

The dwarves, naturally, were the first to start the commotion. Especially Dáin. That rowdy lord thrived in boisterous, less-than-formal gatherings.

Trailing right behind the dwarves were the men of Lake-town. For the first time in days, Bard's furrowed brow finally eased, revealing a faint smile. But before he could speak, someone else leapt out and shouted—

"Welcome back, our great hero!"

"Ladies and gentlemen, from the very first time I met this noble lord, I knew he was destined for greatness!"

"Everyone with me now! Long live Eric! Long live the hero!"

Bard's smile twitched, then vanished as his frown returned with a vengeance.

"Alfrid, you—"

Thud!

A townsman, unable to restrain himself, kicked Alfrid straight to the ground.

"What are you doing?! I'm celebrating the hero!" Alfrid yelled indignantly from the dirt.

Thump. Slap!

A crowd of townsfolk promptly descended on him, fists and boots flying. Someone even managed a couple of resounding slaps. In under a minute, Alfrid was unconscious from the sheer volume of justice and was unceremoniously dragged off.

Eric shook his head with a sigh.

Not even worth looking at, that one.

Fortunately, the sideshow didn't last long.

Whoosh—

Suddenly, the Elves, who had been silent the entire time, turned in perfect unison and bowed toward Eric.

Thranduil himself stepped forward and greeted him with rare warmth.

"Welcome back, Eric. We've all been waiting."

Thorin glanced briefly at Thranduil, then at the ranks of Elves behind him, and hesitated for a moment.

Then, with heavy dignity, he stepped forward.

"Tonight, we will hold a feast in honor of this victory. I hope you'll join us."

"As I promised back at Ravenhill—if you ever set foot on Dwarven land, we would welcome you with all our heart."

"Now let me say it properly. Welcome to Erebor."

As the two leaders spoke, a hush fell over the hall. Even Gandalf and the other lords watched silently, their faces softened by smiles.

Under so many expectant eyes, Eric straightened his tunic and answered with a small bow.

"At your service, and your family's."

A thunderous cheer erupted from the crowd.

From this moment onward, Erebor, the Iron Hills, the Woodland Realm, and Dale all recognized Eric as a trusted ally. In status, he now stood just beneath the kings—equal to a lord in all but name.

And his fame didn't stop there. In the days and years to come, his deeds would echo further and further, his influence growing like ripples across a lake.

Even Mordor would take notice.

[Mordor: -5000 (Arch-Enemy)]

November, T.A. 2941.

The gates of Erebor swung wide. Dwarves, Elves, and Men mingled freely within.

Inside the grand hall, firelight danced across stone walls. Roasted meats and strong drink filled every table. It was a feast worthy of legend.

In a rare moment of hospitality, the Dwarves had even accounted for their Elven guests, offering fruits, vegetables, and a spread of lighter fare.

"Getting them to stand in the same room without a quarrel is a miracle," Gandalf commented as he popped a grape into his mouth.

Sweet. Very sweet.

"Not exactly harmonious," Eric replied, nodding toward a long table at the far end of the hall.

There, a Dwarf and an Elf were locked in a drinking contest, tankards slamming onto the table with increasing intensity.

A crowd had gathered around them, cheering wildly.

The Dwarves, naturally, favored malt ale. Lower in alcohol, sure—but they drank it in barrels.

The Elves preferred wine, particularly the potent sort brewed in Mirkwood. They didn't drink as much, but what they drank packed a punch.

Who could outdrink the other? Hard to say.

It was anyone's game tonight.

Still, when it came to drinking, Legolas definitely had a gift.

Though oddly enough, Eric couldn't spot him anywhere.

After the battle, Legolas and Tauriel hadn't returned with the others. They'd simply vanished, no explanation offered. It didn't take a wizard to guess the reason. That stubborn Elf clearly wasn't ready for a heart-to-heart with his overbearing father.

After nibbling on a few grapes and exchanging some parting words with Eric, Gandalf quietly slipped away. Where he went, only wizards knew.

With nothing urgent to do, Eric found an empty seat, grabbed a few chunks of Dwarf-roasted meat, and started chewing his way toward satisfaction.

He had just begun his second bite when several Dwarves plopped down around him with the thunder of falling anvils.

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

Eric raised a brow. These were the veterans of the Company of Thorin.

"Something I can help you with?"

"We heard you once drank a seasoned Dwarf under the table. And didn't even stagger!"

"Oh, that."

Eric smirked slightly.

"Looking to reclaim your honor?"

"You may even take me on one at a time. I don't mind."

"You're underestimating us, Eric," Glóin said, eyes narrowing. "I'll admit, in most matters, you've got us all beat. But drinking? In front of Dwarves? That's arrogance."

"So... you want to challenge me?"

"No."

Glóin stepped aside and shoved forward the widest Dwarf in the group.

"Bombur. Your time has come."

"Ha-HA!" Bombur bellowed, pounding his stomach like a war drum.

Balin chuckled as he rolled in two barrels of fiery liquor and began filling mugs until they lined the table like a row of soldiers.

The rest of the Dwarves backed off to watch, eager to witness the outcome of this legendary duel.

While the hall rang with laughter and cheer, in a quieter chamber beyond, Thorin stood alone before the throne.

He held the Arkenstone in his hand, staring at it for a long time.

In his mind's eye, he saw himself as a boy, standing beside his father and grandfather. He remembered the day Thrór had claimed the Arkenstone—the way his eyes gleamed as he swallowed the gem whole in front of stunned Elven envoys.

"I am not you, grandfather."

Thorin whispered, then gently set the gem down.

He did not look back.

At the far end of the hall, a familiar voice called out.

"Thorin."

It was warm and steady. Gandalf had returned, and he'd clearly been waiting.

"Gandalf."

"You seem well."

"For the first time... I truly am."

Thorin's voice was firm, clear.

"I feel like a wanderer who has walked the wilderness for a hundred years, burdened by grief and vengeance."

"But today, those weights are gone. And for the first time, I feel I've come home."

"Good. That's good."

Gandalf nodded thoughtfully, then paused.

"There's something I've never told you."

"Oh?"

"It's a message. From your father, Thráin."

Gandalf's voice softened.

"He wanted me to tell you something... if I ever found you again."

"He said—he always loved you, Thorin."

Thorin's breath caught. His throat tightened.

Eyes closed, he took a long breath and said, hoarsely,

"I know."

"Thank you, Gandalf."