"You really ought to take better care of your appearance, Gandalf."
Saruman's voice carried across the vaulted hall of Orthanc as Gandalf stepped through the tall doors.
"Look at you," the White Wizard continued, tone flat but disdainful. "Dusty cloak, ash-stained beard… you look more like a wandering beggar than one of the Istari."
Gandalf sighed quietly around the stem of his pipe. Of course Saruman would greet him like this.
Still, he had come here for a reason. He gave a courteous bow and said, "Saruman, I am here to seek your aid. I wish to consult the books in your tower library."
No reply came. Silence stretched through the stone chamber.
Saruman simply stood on the dais, eyes fixed on the faint smoke curling above Gandalf's head, as though he were pondering whether the haze itself was worth studying. Finally, when Gandalf was on the verge of speaking again, Saruman gave a small nod.
"Very well, my friend. You may read as long as you like."
Relief flickered across Gandalf's face, but Saruman was not finished.
"However," he added with a curl of his lip, "put away that ridiculous pipe of yours. I will not have my books reeking of Shire weed. Foolish habit. One wonders if it has dulled your mind already."
"Thank you," Gandalf said dryly. He managed a faint smile. "The leaf is from the Shire, actually. If you wish, I could bring you some next time—"
"Who in their right mind would want such nonsense?" Saruman snapped, flicking his robes behind him as he turned away. "Mind your own affairs, Gandalf."
With that, he swept out of the hall without so much as a glance back.
Gandalf exhaled, relieved the audience had not gone worse. He quickly tamped out his pipe and made for the library.
Yet not long after he had locked himself in among the tomes, a servant was summoned to the top of the tower. From that day on, merchants across the Shire spoke of a mysterious buyer paying handsomely for pipe-weed in bulk.
"Now this is excellent," Bilbo Baggins declared, leaning back in his chair at a feast in Roadside Keep. He raised a cup of golden apple cider to his lips and gave a satisfied sigh.
"This cider is the best I have ever tasted. Sweet, crisp, just the right bite of fruit. Why, after this I feel I could manage another roast haunch of venison and perhaps… yes, an entire cake for dessert!"
Across the table, Eric watched the hobbit's already round belly with a doubtful expression.
Really? You're sure there's still room in there?
Bilbo, of course, noticed nothing and continued happily.
"A shame Thorin and the others could not come. Gandalf too, always vanishing without a word. Seems I alone from the old company made it to this festival."
Eric smiled. "The company may be scattered, but you are not the only friend who has visited. Legolas has been here as well."
Bilbo blinked in surprise. "The Woodland King's son?"
"That's right. Prince of Mirkwood."
Bilbo nodded slowly, memory dawning. "Oh, yes, I recall him now. We met more than once in those dark woods. Nearly captured me once, too, would you believe."
"That does sound perilous."
"Quite! But… I suppose I needn't fear that anymore, eh?"
"No," Eric said with a chuckle. "They count you as friend now."
"Good, good." Bilbo nodded, thoughtful. "Truth be told, their halls were not so bad. Different from Rivendell, of course, but still charming in their own way."
The feast roared on for days, laughter and music echoing through the keep until, at last, on the afternoon of March seventh, the townsfolk began clearing the tables.
Life had to resume its steady rhythm. Bilbo bid farewell and returned to the Shire, and the settlement settled back into order.
"Lord Eric, I've done it!"
On the first workday after the festivities, old Ved, the former village elder, approached Eric with something clutched in his hands.
It was a leather tunic, well-stitched and sturdy.
"You never told me you had this craft," Eric remarked, running his hand across the smooth surface.
Ved grinned with pride. "Before I was village head, I was a hunter in the woods. I learned tanning and leatherwork. Many a villager's boots or hunter's jerkin were made by my hands."
Eric nodded. "Impressive. Then you are no longer merely a capable fighter but a proper craftsman too. You will be of great service to the folk here."
"That is exactly my wish, my lord," Ved said with genuine satisfaction.
March proved a busy month indeed. Not only did Ved's skills enrich the settlement, but another great milestone was reached: the mining tunnel from the keep to the distant iron veins was finally complete.
Eric immediately set about fitting gears and rails, spacing them carefully along the track. Tests showed the minecarts ran smoothly, carrying a passenger from keep to mine in under an hour.
For Eric, the journey was tedious: nothing but walls of rock and the same torch-lit tunnel, minute after minute.
But to the townsfolk, it was a marvel. Few had ridden in anything beyond a jostling cart. Now here was a smooth, self-moving cart of iron that glided at speed through the earth. They lined up in droves just for the novelty of the ride, some barely caring about the mining at all.
And since Eric had declared that time spent riding to the mine counted as work, half the keep rushed to try it. Soon every cart was full.
"Oi! Leave a few folk for the other jobs!" Ved bellowed on Eric's behalf.
"Yes, yes, we hear you!" came the laughing reply, though the line hardly grew shorter.
Perhaps in time the carts would lose their charm, but for now the mine swarmed with eager workers and the stores of ore grew swiftly.
Meanwhile, Eric returned to his other great project. With chilled hands and patience, he laid ice block after ice block through the Nether, extending the frozen highway ever further.
By the time he reached the end of the path again, spring in the world above had ripened toward summer.
The Nether Gate shimmered, then released Eric into a small wooden house in Dale.
"Been a while," he murmured, pushing open the door.
Creak.
The moment the door swung wide, sound and light flooded in. The bustle of merchants, the laughter of children darting through the streets, the crisp breeze bearing the scent of fresh bread and tilled earth.
Before him stretched a thriving town, new-built homes standing proud beside lively markets. This was prosperity made real.
"Lord Eric!"
Someone spotted him, and soon many heads turned. Townsfolk bowed briefly in greeting, hand to chest, then returned to their tasks with cheerful energy.
Eric gave a nod in return to each salute.