The many territories of the Vales remained as they always were, unchanged in the slightest. By day, they bustled with life and noise. By night, the warm glow of lamps ensured that no one had to walk in darkness.
A banner bearing the emblem of the Sword and Bow hung over the city gate of Dale, proclaiming its history to all who came from afar. It seemed it had always been this way, yet somehow, this year, it carried a different kind of meaning.
The older folk, when they looked upon it, would always feel a touch of nostalgia.
In the year 2978 of the Third Age, Théoden sent a letter to Garrett, a letter of gratitude and joy.
That year, Théoden's son, Théodred, was born. But his wife had nearly died in childbirth.
At that time, a patrol of Rangers from Wayfort happened to be passing near Edoras, the capital of Rohan. Hearing the news, they rushed to assist and helped save her life.
With the aid of healing potions, both mother and child came through safely.
"Théoden's settled down, has he?"
Reading the letter, Garrett realized this for the first time.
That fellow hadn't mentioned getting married, let alone having a child. No, wait, perhaps he had mentioned it, only Garrett hadn't been in the proper frame of mind to pay attention back then.
Thinking about it, he tidied himself up somewhat and set out once more, taking a leisurely journey, first to Rohan, then to Gondor.
And to his pleasant surprise, there was another happy discovery waiting.
That same year, Denethor's first child was also born.
"Boromir."
---
In the Steward's chambers of Minas Tirith, Garrett looked at Denethor's child and couldn't help but smile.
Unaware of Garrett's private amusement, Denethor's face was lit with barely suppressed joy as he cradled his son.
That usually stern, tense expression had softened into one of cautious tenderness. His large, calloused hands held the baby with comical care, like a man carrying the most delicate treasure.
His wife scolded him for his awkwardness and enlisted Garrett, the older and wiser friend, to teach him properly how to hold a child.
When Finduilas finally left the room carrying Boromir, Denethor was drenched in sweat.
He turned to Garrett and said, "You saw him, didn't you? That's my son, Boromir. My first child."
"My child..."
He gazed absently toward the doorway where his wife had disappeared, murmuring softly, "He'll grow up, learn to walk, to speak... from a baby into a boy, and then keep growing, until he's stronger than I am. By then, perhaps I'll already have to stoop a little when I walk, my shoulders sagging, my steps no longer as swift as they are now..."
"But as long as I can still open my eyes, as long as there's still strength left in these hands, I'll keep watching him. Watching him walk ahead of me, watching him turn and wave back... And I'll wave back to him."
That was a father's love for his child.
The prouder and stronger a man is, the more utterly he will break when that love is torn away.
If such a father were suddenly to hear terrible news of his child, while also bearing the crushing weight of a realm's downfall, how could he not fall into despair?
Inside the room, Garrett patted Denethor's shoulder, perhaps in encouragement, perhaps in comfort.
Denethor warmly welcomed Garrett's visit and even allowed him near his son.
But he was not so welcoming to others.
Not long after Garrett's departure, a grey-cloaked old man came strolling leisurely up to the residence.
Gandalf smiled warmly and said, "I've come to offer my congratulations, Denethor, son of Ecthelion II. Your child will surely grow strong and well."
"Thank you," Denethor replied politely, but his expression betrayed little warmth.
He did not let the wizard see his child.
Thanks to Ecthelion's influence, most of Gondor currently welcomed Gandalf with open arms. Each of his visits was met with hospitality, and Ecthelion himself often heeded the wizard's counsel in important matters.
Even so, things did not always proceed smoothly.
For various reasons, such as his knowledge of Aragorn's true identity and his awareness of Gandalf's real purpose in bringing him to Gondor, Denethor harbored little fondness for the two who had, in the past, caused him considerable discomfort.
He had no particular desire to see them.
----
"Ah..."
Outside the house, Gandalf sighed softly and walked away.
He had long been aware of Denethor's attitude, but there was little he could do about it. Certain matters simply had to move forward regardless. If people disliked him, so be it. It wasn't as though it cost him anything. He was accustomed to it by now. Misunderstood, exiled, cursed, hadn't he endured all that more times than he could count?
Shaking his head, the wizard departed Gondor and continued his travels elsewhere.
At the same time, in other corners of Middle-earth, some adventures were drawing to their close.
In the year 2980, a travel-worn figure waved farewell to Alatar at the borders of Dorwinion. After passing through a Rhovanion outpost, he proceeded straight toward Lothlórien.
At the border of the Golden Wood, facing the drawn bows of the border guards, Aragorn removed his hood, revealing his weathered face.
He began speaking to the sentries in fluent Sindarin.
Once they confirmed that he was a friend and not a foe, the elves lowered their weapons and welcomed him within their realm.
In the heart of Lothlórien, upon Cerin Amroth, the ancient hill, Aragorn met Arwen once more.
She was dressed in a flowing gown of silver-white, her dark hair adorned with mithril ornaments. She seemed like a star that had descended to earth.
Aragorn was utterly entranced by her beauty.
On that hill of ancient grace and quiet majesty, Aragorn removed the Ring of Barahir and gave it to Arwen. There, beneath the golden mallorn trees, the two pledged themselves to one another, to be bound for life, never to part.
From the time they first met until now, decades had passed, and at last their bond had deepened into true commitment.
Though they had long been apart, their hearts were closer than ever before.
The Golden Wood remained as serene and tranquil as always.
---
Elsewhere, in the shadows far from such beauty, a small, wretched creature scurried away from a band of Rangers and fled eastward.
"Cursed... all these filthy Rangers with their sharp blades, gollum..."
"We can't stay here anymore. They saw us, they must have seen us. But they despise us, yes, they don't care about us at all. Gollum. That's good, precious, that's good..."
Muttering to himself, Gollum scrambled over a low hill, then followed the Anduin southward under cover of darkness.
His movements were not particularly stealthy. Over the years, many Rangers had caught glimpses of him roaming the wilds, but none had taken serious action.
To them, this strange, twisted little creature was merely a curiosity, perhaps some new breed of corrupted thing.
They didn't consider him a threat. To be blunt, they saw him as nothing more than an ugly, pathetic creature, and one that couldn't even be eaten besides.
There were plenty of odd things in Middle-earth. One more made little difference.
If anyone truly wanted to see something peculiar, they could visit the settlement of Carrock, where every night a massive bear was said to perch on a great stone to gaze at the moon.
As for Gollum, out of a basic respect for life, the Rangers chose to leave him be, letting him wander the wilderness as he pleased. They watched him fish, catch coneys, or steal bird eggs only to be pecked for his trouble...
He became something like a curiosity, a strange presence people occasionally mentioned in passing.
"He seems to be searching for something," said those with sharper intuition.
That year, perhaps weary of the unseen eyes watching him from the shadows, or perhaps sensing some distant call, Gollum traveled south along the Brown Lands, past the borders of the Free Settlements, until he reached Ithilien.
Then, following a deeper, darker pull, he turned east toward a range of black mountains shrouded in shadow.
"Mordor... gollum... where can we get in safely, precious?"
After searching for some time, fortune favored him at last. South of Minas Morgul, where the Witch-king ruled, Gollum discovered a hidden cleft in the Mountains of Shadow.
Through it, one could slip directly into Mordor's interior.
Just as he was rejoicing in his discovery, a vast, dark shape crept up behind him in the tunnel.
Shelob.
In that moment, Gollum finally understood why Sauron had stationed no guards at this pass.
Because no one could ever pass through alive.
That day, Gollum's terrified screams echoed through the darkness.
"No! Don't eat us! We're all bones, precious, all bones! We can find you more food, yes, lots more food!"
The mention of "more food" caught Shelob's hungry interest.
Thus began their unholy alliance, the great spider and the pitiful Gollum. The latter began luring unfortunate orcs toward her lair, one after another.
And so, finding the little creature oddly useful as bait, Shelob spared him for the time being. The two coexisted in uneasy symbiosis.
All of this took place in the shadows, unknown to the Free Peoples.
Meanwhile, under the sunlit skies, people went on living their peaceful lives.
Gollum had no idea that the treasure he so desperately sought lay safe within that same light and peace.
Beneath Bag End in Hobbiton ran a row of hobbit-holes, lined along a path called Bagshot Row, named after and beginning from Bilbo's own home.
The address was: The Shire, Hobbiton, Number 1 Bagshot Row.
And two doors down, at Number 3 Bagshot Row, lived Bilbo's neighbors, the Gamgee family.
They were skilled gardeners, known throughout Hobbiton for tending beautiful flowers and plants. In fact, the gardens of Bag End were maintained by the head of that family, Hamfast Gamgee, often called "the Gaffer."
But today, the diligent gardener had taken the day away from his work.
Because his son had just been born.
Hearing the joyful news, Bilbo immediately donned his best waistcoat and set out to visit his neighbor, to offer his congratulations and blessings to the newborn.
Ah, yes.
That gardener's son was named Sam, Samwise Gamgee.