"It seems you are quite popular with the people," Gandalf said with a genial smile, smoke curling lazily from the corner of his mouth.
"Honestly, I'm not always sure why I've earned such respect," Eric replied, his tone carrying a hint of irony. "Maybe luck. Or maybe something else."
"If someone else were in your place, would the outcome be the same?"
"No, Eric," Gandalf answered at once, sharp and certain. "The same thing in different hands produces different results. The ending would not be the same."
He lifted his staff slightly as he continued, voice thoughtful. "Take a magical ring that can turn a person invisible. In the hands of a scoundrel, it would only make the world suffer another thief or assassin. But in the hands of a hobbit, such a thing might become a tool for good, even a source of comfort to others."
Gandalf's eyes grew serious as he added, "There are powers in this world that can make someone stronger… far stronger than the world can bear. But destruction for its own sake is neither useful nor amusing, don't you agree?"
Eric chuckled and inclined his head. "All right, point taken. Thank you."
"As long as you understand," Gandalf said warmly, relighting his pipe. Together they descended from the city walls and made their way toward the great gate of Erebor, cut deep into the mountain.
In Middle-earth, wizards possessed a curious right to attend important matters uninvited, and so robed figures often appeared in royal halls simply to listen, advise, or—on occasion—confuse. Today was no exception.
Hearing of Eric's arrival, Thorin did not wait stiffly in the throne room but instead came to the gate to welcome him.
"How have you been, Eric?" Thorin asked, his expression softening into a smile.
"Quite well, things have been running smoothly. And you?"
"Aside from a shortage of supplies, all is going well," Thorin answered. "Our people who once wandered homeless are returning. The mines echo with work again, the forges burn hot, the cable lifts are in use. Erebor is alive once more."
As he spoke, Thorin guided them to a side table, pouring tea that was far more refreshing than one might expect in a dwarven hall. He received them as friends, not as king and subjects.
"I heard you have been struggling," Eric said at last. "Is it a problem with ore?"
He had not forgotten that much of Erebor's treasure had been stripped bare in the defense of the city. A shortage of metals would hardly be surprising.
But Thorin shook his head. "Ore is not the problem. The mountain is full of it, and we have hands, tools, and gold enough to mine it. What troubles us most is food."
Eric raised his brows. "Food? That's the one thing this land should have in abundance."
Thorin looked faintly embarrassed. "Perhaps you do not realize, but our food production is pitiful. Living inside a mountain does not allow much sunlight for crops. Most of what we eat must be imported. At best, we manage a few glowing gem-lit farms in the deeps, mushrooms in tunnels, fish from underground rivers, and a handful of edible roots. Useful in emergencies, yes, but hardly enough to feed all our people."
"But you have Dale," Eric pointed out, gesturing toward the valley. "Their harvests are more than enough to feed ten times their population. Surely you needn't worry."
"Exactly," Thorin said. "It is thanks to trade with Dale that we survived the winter. Which is why I wish to establish a long-term agreement."
"So that was the true reason for this meeting," Eric muttered with a crooked smile.
"This should be simple," he continued aloud. "Go directly to Bard. I left the city's management in his hands."
"We have spoken," Thorin admitted, "but he insisted the final word must come from you, as lord of the land."
Eric sighed. "He has full authority, but clearly he hasn't grown comfortable with it yet. Very well, I agree."
"That is excellent news," Thorin said, relief evident. "We dare not ask for magical seeds. Stable trade will be enough. Our friendship will endure."
"Why not ask?" Eric said with a shrug. "If something can make life better for everyone, why be afraid? Take the seeds. Plant them. Just note, they can only be cultivated within my territory. But you may send workers to join in the labor."
Thorin blinked, stunned. "So easily? Without cost?"
"Of course there's a cost," Eric said, rapping his knuckles on the table. "Labor. Unless you believe seeds sprout themselves on tabletops. Unless, of course, your table has farmland hidden in it."
"No, I understand they must be planted," Thorin said quickly. "But you mean… no payment in gold, tools, or weapons? We could forge anything you require. Or we could pay tribute annually."
"None of that is needed," Eric waved him off.
Yet as he spoke, another thought stirred in his mind. For centuries, Erebor and Dale had been bound together in mutual need. Dwarves forged with unmatched skill, while men of the valley grew food in plenty. Each valued what the other produced, and through exchange, both prospered.
That same partnership could now be renewed, perhaps even deepened. After all, Dale's people needed trades to earn their livelihood, and many of the dwarves' crafts were worth studying. If their bond strengthened, the future would be far easier for both sides.
"Just like in the old days," Eric said at last.
Thorin considered, then nodded firmly. "Very well. We will regularly send our craftsmen to teach every skill we know, without holding back, so Dale's people may find employment. In return, we shall share in the use of your seeds."
"Then it is settled," Eric said.
And so, in a handful of words, a far-reaching partnership was born. There were no quarrels, no endless haggling, no suspicion of betrayal. Only one man saying, "That sounds good," and another replying, "Then let us do it."
It was less a bargain than a shared endeavor. Cooperative labor, plain and simple.
Work for work. Value for value. Each side lending strength to the other, not through coins or tribute, but through what truly mattered: skill, sustenance, and solidarity.
For once, gold was irrelevant. And everyone agreed that was the better way.
Thorin's Memory (Supplement)
"When my grandfather once again became King under the Mountain, men from the South respected him deeply," Thorin recalled of his youth, more than two centuries past. "They followed the Running River northward until they settled in the valley, where they built Dale, a merry little city."
"Kings often came to us seeking craftsmen. Even the humblest apprentice could earn rich rewards. Fathers begged us to take their sons as apprentices, offering much in return, especially grain. So we never needed to farm or hunt for food ourselves. Others always provided."