"The fruit of Laurelin shall rise in the east. The flower of Telperion fades in the west. At this time, the path guiding the door will appear at Amon Sûl. Only the descendants of Elros can find and open the door."
Luna set down the map. "That's roughly what the Quenya text means." She glanced at Aedric. Without the story from a few days ago, she wouldn't have known what Laurelin's fruit and Telperion's flower represented. This wasn't a riddle—it was a test of knowledge and wisdom. Without understanding what the words represented, one could never decipher the prophecy or find the corresponding location.
But how did Aedric know? Did his homeland preserve stories from such ancient times? Luna suppressed her curiosity and continued. "Based on the story I heard the other day, the true meaning should be this: on the morning when the sun and moon appear together in the sky, the door will reveal itself here."
She pointed toward the Weather Hills east of Bree, settling on the southern end—Weathertop. "I've been there. The summit is full of abandoned ruins. Countless travelers have rested there over the years—if there were any obvious door or path, someone would have found it by now. It must be that at a specific time, a hidden path appears. But only those with Númenórean royal blood can see it. In Eriador, I don't know if such people still exist."
Aedric's face showed deep thought. Everything else aside, Númenórean royal blood was extremely rare. His own bloodline was merely ordinary. At this time, the only known human in Eriador bearing Númenórean royal blood was Aragorn. Apart from unrecorded Black Númenóreans now dwelling in the south, he might be the only one remaining in all of Middle-earth.
He should be eight years old this year, living in Rivendell under the name Estel. Very few people knew this, as Elrond feared Aragorn might suffer the same fate as his father and grandfather—hunted by Sauron's servants and killed before reaching adulthood. Therefore, Elrond ordered all who knew of Aragorn's true identity to guard this secret strictly.
Judging by Luna's reaction, even she probably didn't know the details. Approaching Aragorn directly was clearly out of the question. Did he have to wait until 2951, when Aragorn turned twenty and formally left Rivendell, before exploring this treasure map? By then, wouldn't the opportunity be long gone?
Forget it. Just wait for another chance.
Aedric sighed, folding the map and tucking it into his breast. "We'll deal with it later. Besides, Big Bill has been selling this map for ten years. Even if there really is treasure, who knows if it's still there? Things being as they are, let's fill our stomachs first."
They hadn't eaten properly this morning and had fought ruffians in the afternoon. He was starving. Since arriving in Middle-earth, his appetite had increased considerably. He wondered if it was due to Celorn.
"Let's go," Morgan responded enthusiastically.
"I won't go. Have a server bring food to my room." Luna moved a chair to sit in the corner by the window. From there, she could see the entire room, and by tilting her head, she could observe the street outside. "I want mead and the number three meal."
"No problem," Morgan said, jumping down from the human-sized chair. "Vegetable stew, buttered biscuits, and ham with eggs, right?"
"Yes."
"Wait here, my lady. Someone will bring it right away." Morgan couldn't wait to leave the room. Three missed meals—he was the hungriest person here!
Aedric nodded to Luna. Entering the common room, he found a table by the window. But his mind pondered how to let elves move freely in human settlements. Here in Eriador, under Lord Elrond and Lord Círdan's management, the elves were far too reclusive, staying within their territories with little communication with humans. Any appearance caused a sensation and drew crowds.
The situation in Mirkwood was much better. Thranduil's subjects often went to Lake-town, and the humans there were long accustomed to it. Finding ways to get elves to venture out more was necessary.
"Hey, friend!" A loud call pulled Aedric's thoughts back to the tavern. Derry the gatekeeper, sitting at the bar, shouted, "Well done! I've long been fed up with them!" He referred to Aedric's beating of the ruffians in the marketplace. "Betsy! This friend's and Morgan's drinks are on my tab!"
"No problem." The waitress, carrying beer in one hand and food in the other, wove through the hall, calling, "Make way, make way." She delivered items to a weathered, burly guest whose left shoulder cloak was fastened with a silver star-shaped brooch. Then she quickly approached Aedric. "Gentlemen, what would you like?"
"Thanks, mate." Morgan waved at Derry, then turned back. "Mead and a number three meal to my companion's room. I'll have a number two meal and beer."
"Same for me, also beer." After ordering, Aedric's gaze swept the entire hall. The tavern's layout and atmosphere were almost identical to what he remembered. To the left after entering was the bar, behind which stood a sturdy man with light brown hair and beard, busy wiping glasses and preparing beer for thirsty customers. He was the owner, Old Butterbur.
Further in were benches, a fireplace, and tables forming the common room. At midday, though not crowded, it was quite lively. Humans, dwarves, and hobbits—all walks of life—chatted enthusiastically together, often erupting in hearty laughter. Some curiously watched Aedric and Morgan, who'd just arrived today. When eyes met, there was no awkwardness—they friendly raised glasses in acknowledgment. Aedric nodded back to each.
His gaze continued moving, then his expression darkened. In the opposite corner sat two ill-intentioned fellows staring intently at them. One was a bald, fierce-looking thug with a faint scar on his left eye. Any deeper and the eye would have been ruined. It should be Big Bill.
The other looked sinister with cold eyes. His height and coloring didn't seem local to Bree. Rather resembled that fellow from the Golden Wheat Sheaf.
Seeing Aedric notice him, the bald thug grinned, revealing uneven, yellowed and blackened teeth. He provocatively raised his right hand, slowly clenching it. The sinister man said nothing, eyes fixed on the elven longsword leaning against the table, contemplating something.
Aedric frowned slightly, feeling vaguely irritated and uneasy. Big Bill wasn't much trouble. But he hadn't forgotten—when cleaning out the Golden Wheat Sheaf, Barbara had escaped. Could her accomplices have recognized him? Appearance might be hard to describe, but Mithreleth was very distinctive. One look was all it took.
Should he have Morgan do some counter-tracking to investigate their background? Thinking this, his expression grew darker.
[Begin Recording]
[Seventh Log: Bree Town Ruffians]
[Time: Third Age 2939, Forelithe, Location: Eriador, Bree]
[At the Prancing Pony, you believe you've seen accomplices of criminals from your past. They've colluded with local ruffians and are hostile toward you. If you want to stay, this will be a threat that cannot be ignored.]
[You plan to...]
At that moment, Betsy brought two number two meals, and another server brought beer. The plates held freshly baked pork pie with flaky crust, fried bacon still sizzling and filling the air with its enticing aroma, and hot oatcakes giving off a rich, milky fragrance. A large bowl of steaming meat stew, thick with ingredients, completed the hearty meal. It was perfect fare for customers with large appetites who loved meat—though more expensive than simpler offerings. All paid for by Mr. Harry Honeysuckle's generosity.
Watching the Hobbit eat heartily, Aedric suddenly asked, "Morgan, do you have other friends in Bree?"
"Yes." Morgan looked up. "Though I left nearly ten years ago, I still have some friends. Like gatekeeper Derry, tobacco seller Ralph. Also blacksmith Bob and carpenter Ross. When we entered, even Old Butterbur remembered me."
"That's good." Aedric beckoned. "Come here. I need you to do something." After Morgan's head drew close, Aedric whispered in his ear.
"Boss, will this work?" Morgan's eyes widened in surprise. He even forgot the pork pie in hand, its fragrant juices dripping onto the table.
"Let's try." Aedric grabbed an oatcake and gently placed it in his mouth.
Deep into the night, silvery moonlight flickered through drifting clouds, bathing everything in pale radiance. Bree's streets had fallen silent. Even the Prancing Pony, the latest establishment to close, finally reached its closing hour. Customers stumbled out supporting each other, breaking the quiet with drunken laughter and song as they searched for their doors. Wives appeared in doorways, pulling their husbands inside with scolding or concerned words. One by one, lights were extinguished. Soon nearly the entire town lay dark beneath the moon.
On the far side of town near the South Gate, behind tall hedges, one house still showed light. Faint arguing voices drifted out.
"We can't act in the inn unless you want Harville to arrest you too." The voice was gloomy and dry, like dead branches scraping in cold wind.
"I pay him a gold coin every month. Isn't that enough for him to turn a blind eye?" The second voice was loud, full of fury.
"Keep your voice down! Maybe that used to work, but that newcomer walked out of the mayor's office and humiliated Harville without any consequences. Bill Ferny, use your brain—this matter isn't so simple."
"So what should we do?" Big Bill's anger remained undiminished. "Just take it?"
"Of course not," the gloomy voice replied. "If we could get them to leave town, it'd be easier. In the wild, we make the rules!"
"So what do we do?"
"Like this..." The voices suddenly dropped to whispers.
Morgan, hiding under the window, scratched his head. Cupping his hands against the wall and pressing his ear, he still couldn't hear clearly. He could only shake his head helplessly, rise, and vanish as a blurry shadow into the silent streets.
The next morning, the weather was poor. Gloomy dark clouds pressed low overhead, threatening rain at any moment. Despite this, the marketplace remained lively. Vendors hurried to sell their goods before the storm arrived, and townspeople emerged from their homes to make purchases. In those days before proper preservation methods, most people bought only one day's worth of fruits and vegetables at a time.
"Did you hear?" Tobacco seller Ralph turned to fruit seller Wright with a conspiratorial whisper. "That outsider who fought in the marketplace yesterday actually understood Harry's treasure map and is going treasure hunting!"
"Really?" Wright was skeptical but moved closer with curiosity. "That map is nearly ten years old. Can someone really understand it after all this time?"
"Maybe." Derry, heading to relieve the West Gate guard, happened to pass by and stopped to join the conversation. "Yesterday Morgan borrowed a pony from me, saying he had business at Weathertop. Everyone knows that broken place—nothing but stones and ruins. What's he going there for? Yesterday he said he'd open a restaurant in town. After one day he's leaving? Definitely suspicious."
"Maybe he's scared?" Butcher York emerged from his stall, leaning in to whisper. "Big Bill was furious yesterday, constantly talking about revenge. Everyone nearby heard him."
"Impossible." Derry shook his head firmly. "I have reliable information. That fighter's name is Aedric, and he's connected to Buckland's Brandybuck family and the Shire's Took family. The mayor values him so highly he even wants Aedric to become our new sheriff to deal with those ruffians properly. With such excellent fighting skills, Big Bill couldn't possibly scare him away."
Several passersby joined the growing crowd. "He's really going treasure hunting?"
"Should we follow and see?"
"Bree hasn't had such an interesting event in years!"
"Go where?" Derry scoffed. "Weathertop is far. Even riding horses on the main road takes about seven days. Do you have horses? Not harvesting your corn? Not selling your tobacco? Letting your fruit rot in baskets? And if you encounter wolves on the road, is that pig-slaughtering knife enough protection?"
Each question deflated the excited crowd's enthusiasm. "Just watch the excitement from here, then get back to business," Derry advised. Satisfied with having punctured their foolish enthusiasm, he headed toward the West Gate.
After only a few steps, commotion suddenly arose behind him. He turned around to see Morgan leading a pony loaded with large supply bags on its back. Behind him walked that "prospective sheriff" who'd dominated the marketplace yesterday.
"Master Aedric, Morgan—heading out already?"
"Yes." Aedric nodded politely. "Please open the gate. Thank you."
Leaving so soon? Was there really treasure at Weathertop? Derry hesitated briefly, then called out, "No problem!"