LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

When Thorin and Gandalf returned to the feast hall, the atmosphere had reached a fever pitch.

Dwarves and elves lay sprawled everywhere, thoroughly pickled. Some slumped face-first onto tables, utterly senseless. Others snored on the flagstones, tankards still clutched in their hands. And yet, the contest raged on.

The two factions had never truly buried the hatchet. Those still upright continued their liquid warfare, fueled by mutual stubbornness. The Men of Dale, caught up in the raucous energy, cheered them on. A few even produced pipes and flutes, weaving a lively, if somewhat repetitive, tune. Others pounded the tables or stomped their feet, adding a thunderous rhythm to the impromptu celebration. The hall thrummed with chaotic merriment.

But Thorin and Gandalf's attention was immediately snagged by a large central table.

"Hic!"

"This one... ta our victory!" slurred Glóin, raising his mug for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Fifth time you've toasted 'our victory' this hour, Glóin," Eric remarked dryly. He clinked his own enormous tankard against Glóin's and downed the contents in one long, impressive gulp.

Glóin, however, stared mournfully into his mug. He lifted it, took a breath, hesitated, and lowered it again, unable to muster the fortitude.

Eric fixed him with a look. "Planning to raise trout in that mug, Master Glóin? Leave much more, and the poor things will likely drown."

"You... you... that's an insult!" Glóin spluttered, indignant. With a final burst of dwarven pride, he tilted his head back and poured the ale down his throat.

Thud.

His eyes rolled back, and he slid bonelessly beneath the table, a trickle of ale escaping the corner of his mouth.

"Your turn, Balin," Eric declared, refilling his mug with unnerving steadiness and pointing it at the last dwarf standing. The others had long succumbed to the tabletop or the floor, their earlier boasts about 'no ganging up' utterly forgotten in the haze of defeat.

"Nay, nay, nay! I yield! Important matters! Elsewhere!" Balin stammered, backing away with hands raised in surrender. He finally understood the despair Orcs must have felt facing Eric – an immovable, bottomless force.

"Ha! Seems you've been enjoying yourselves," Gandalf chuckled, settling onto a bench. He picked up a fresh mug, clinked it against Eric's, and drained it smoothly.

Thorin thumped down beside him, grabbing another. "Rumour spoke true," he grunted, admiration warring with disbelief. "Your capacity for drink rivals your strength – equally fathomless." He matched Eric, draining his own mug.

Eric simply shrugged, finishing his refill. "Fair enough. Though they seem ready for a nap." He nodded towards Balin.

Balin managed a weak, strained smile. "Aye... aye, quite... splendid." He silently prayed the others wouldn't hear Eric's assessment of their state; it might crush their spirits for weeks.

As the last of the hardiest dwarves succumbed, a subtle notification flashed in Eric's awareness:

[Dwarves of Durin's Folk Reputation +100.]

He barely registered it. At his current standing, a hundred points was a drop in the ocean. He could likely ask Thorin for a lordship over a chunk of the Lonely Mountain right then, and none present, not even the elves, would raise an objection. As for Dale, or rather, its rebuilding husk... Eric was already its acknowledged Lord. The singers weaving songs near the hearth were already including his deeds. His reputation there was unquestioned.

Outside the roaring hall, it was quieter. The Great Eagles, too large for the interior spaces, clustered near the gates, tearing into generous portions of venison. Radagast and Beorn kept them company, Beorn picking at berries and bread – a skin-changer who preferred honey and roots to meat, his home devoid of game. After the battle, the Lord of the Eagles had intended to depart immediately, but Thorin had prevailed upon him to stay a few days. With food provided and no pressing duties, the Eagles had agreed. Beorn, similarly persuaded, lingered.

"Guessing he wants to properly thank you," Radagast mumbled around a mouthful of bread.

"Peace is thanks enough," Beorn rumbled, echoing a sentiment shared by many that night.

---

In the cold quiet of Dale's ruined upper levels, Legolas stood alone on a broken section of wall, gazing out over the scarred battlefield, lost in thought. He turned to descend the stairs and found his path blocked.

Thranduil.

Seeing his son whole and unharmed seemed to lift an invisible weight from the Elvenking. His eyes, usually so guarded, held a flicker of relief. Father and son regarded each other silently for a long moment.

"I cannot return," Legolas stated, his voice firm. He had chosen exile.

"Where will you go?"

"I know not."

"West," Thranduil murmured, his voice taking on the distant quality of foresight. "Cross the Misty Mountains. Further west lies a stronghold... Eric's domain." He paused, the veil of prophecy thinning. "Change brews there. You should see it." The vision sharpened. "After... seek out the Dúnedain in the North. Learn of their ways. Wait... until their Chieftain returns."

Legolas absorbed his father's words, then gave a curt nod and turned to leave.

He had taken only a few steps when Thranduil called out, an uncharacteristic hesitance in his voice. "Legolas."

Legolas halted but did not turn.

Thranduil spoke to his son's back, his voice thick. "Your mother... loved you." He paused, the words heavy. "Beyond all others. Beyond life itself."

'As do I.'

The unspoken words hung in the air, their meaning clear despite the silence.

Legolas dipped his head. He placed a hand over his heart, then extended it slightly towards Thranduil – the elven gesture for an embrace.

Thranduil mirrored the gesture, his own hand pressed to his chest.

Legolas walked away, disappearing into the pre-dawn gloom. Thranduil closed his eyes, taking a long moment to master himself. For too long, he had fixated on the jewels stolen by the dwarves, forgetting the far greater treasure his wife had left him – their son.

As he moved to leave, his gaze snagged on a distant section of the wall. A solitary elf and a dwarf sat side-by-side, silhouetted against the stars. Thranduil's expression instantly soured. He abruptly changed direction, seeking solitude far from that particular view.

The night passed, a tapestry woven from quiet farewells and raucous celebration.

---

The next morning dawned clear. Dwarves clad in polished mail, weapons gleaming, gathered in the vast audience chamber of Erebor. Thorin Oakenshield stood upon the high dais, resplendent in robes of state, the ancient crown of the King Under the Mountain resting upon his brow.

The coronation had begun.

Eric, the surviving members of the Company, the leaders of the allied forces, the two wizards, and the skin-changer occupied a place of honour to the side. Thorin caught Eric's eye and gave a solemn nod.

Balin stepped forward, raising his sword high. "Long live the King!" His voice echoed in the stone vault.

"LONG LIVE THE KING!" The thunderous response shook the very mountain.

Thorin bowed deeply.

The ceremony concluded swiftly. Thorin then presented Gwaihir, Lord of the Eagles, with a magnificent circlet of gold, swearing an oath of eternal alliance between Dwarves and Eagles. Beorn, too, received rich gifts and the profound gratitude of the Dwarves, softening his long-held prejudices. The wizards, save perhaps Saruman, disdained such worldly rewards; the peace of the Free Peoples was their only desired recompense.

Finally, before the Arkenstone-adorned throne, Thorin met with Thranduil. He gestured to Kíli, who brought forth a small, intricately carved chest. Opening it revealed a soft, starlike radiance – the White Gems of Lasgalen.

This time, no hand snatched them away.

Thranduil gazed upon his wife's necklace, the starlight captured within the gems finally returned after centuries. An old wound, if not fully healed, was finally salved. The ancient grudge between Elf and Dwarf was laid to rest, for now.

---

Elsewhere, in the deeper halls near the repaired treasury, Eric stretched, exploring the restored passages. He'd spent the morning helping dwarven masons reshape stone damaged by dragonfire and battle, clearing debris to restore Erebor's grandeur. Rounding a corner, he found a familiar figure perched on a stone step, staring contemplatively at a glittering mound of reclaimed gold.

"So much... I haven't the foggiest what to do with it all," Bilbo sighed, scratching his head.

"Complaints like that tend to induce severe jealousy in others, Master Baggins," Eric remarked, joining him and surveying the hoard. He, too, pondered his own share – a fifteenth part. Even that fraction was staggering, more gold than a hundred backpacks could hold. He was, effectively, temporarily gold-rich.

"It'd fill Bag End ten times over! I've no desire to live in a hobbit-hole made of ingots," Bilbo declared.

"Ah! Eric!" His eyes lit up. "You must have uses for gold, surely? Those remarkable golden apples you conjure... they require it, don't they? You'd put it to far better purpose."

"You're not wrong," Eric conceded. "Gold is... instrumental for many things I do. Hard to avoid needing it."

"Well then, it's settled!" Bilbo announced airily. "I'll take just enough for a comfortable retirement – a very comfortable one, mind you – and you take the rest. It serves a better purpose with you." The hobbit waved a hand, casually gifting away wealth capable of purchasing the entire Shire.

Eric smiled, genuinely touched. "Then I accept gratefully, Bilbo. Bag End's door might be round, but the gates of the Roadside keep are always open to you." He reached into his seemingly bottomless pack. "And take these. Feeling poorly? Have a nibble." He produced a large sack bulging with dozens of perfectly formed, gleaming Golden Apples.

Bilbo's jaw dropped slightly. He closed it, then opened it again, words failing him. They were mass-producible? The sheer volume was impractical for his journey, so Eric agreed to store the apples for him until Bilbo could collect them later.

With farewells exchanged and obligations fulfilled, the company dispersed. Thranduil led his host back into the shadowed eaves of Mirkwood. Gwaihir bore Radagast and Beorn skyward towards the High Pass and Rhosgobel. Gandalf and Bilbo lingered, waiting to travel west with Eric.

Eric, however, felt a familiar weight settle on his shoulders as he stood on the fractured walls of Dale, looking down at the expectant faces of its people. The sheer scale of reconstruction was daunting.

Below, the gathered townsfolk watched him, waiting. Bard climbed the steps to stand beside him.