Chapter 52: Dispute

"Urp~"

With a loud burp, Bombur slumped sideways in his chair by the long banquet table and began to snore instantly, his plump face relaxed in blissful sleep.

"Oh, dear..." Gandalf shook his head wearily. "Can someone help carry him to a bed? I told him not to eat that much."

Old Balin chuckled, patting his own very round belly. "Forgive us, Gandalf. I've never eaten food this good. Everything here is delightful! Gorgeous landscape, delicious meals... if only there were ale."

He sighed wistfully. "Had I known we'd feast like kings tonight, I would've spent every last silver coin in that village on barrels of strong drink."

Around the table, the other dwarves were in similarly overstuffed states. Burps echoed like distant cannon fire. Even the more restrained among them looked ready to pop. The only one who managed to maintain any composure was Thorin, who, despite his steady chewing, hadn't once put his fork down.

Noticing Gandalf sneaking glances at him, Thorin cleared his throat, paused, and said in his usual grave tone, "I'll admit, these dishes are masterfully prepared. Some of the methods used—I've never seen the like. Innovative and oddly... refined."

Then he gave a curt nod toward Eric. "Thank you for your generous hospitality."

After seeing the fortress with their own eyes, the dwarves' perception of Eric had shifted completely. He wasn't just some wandering knight—he was the lord of this stone fortress, a stronghold unlike any they'd seen in decades.

Sure, the place seemed a bit empty—suspiciously empty, really. Not a soul outside of Eric had been seen. But the man had built all this himself, apparently wielding some measure of magic as well. If he ever decided to call for settlers, it was easy to imagine people lining up to live here.

When asked, Eric didn't deny his magical abilities either. Strictly speaking, much of what he'd built could reasonably be explained as "magic"—or at least, something very close.

The dwarves weren't fools. Brash, perhaps. But not stupid. And the moment they realized what kind of power Eric wielded, their tone shifted.

"Eat as much as you like," Eric declared, grinning. "Don't you dare hold back on my account."

Dwarves had legendary appetites—second only to hobbits. But even after stuffing themselves and packing extra food into their sacks, they barely made a dent in Eric's massive provisions. He'd been preparing stockpiles for months, and this feast was just a nibble off the top.

"This is just the dry rations," he said casually, gesturing toward piles of dried meats, fruits, and loaves.

The dwarves stared.

"You call this dry rations?" one asked, mouth still full of smoked venison.

Their own journey had been powered by cram—compact, tasteless travel bread. While nutritious and durable, cram had the culinary excitement of stale bark. Even the best-prepared versions made you miss hunger.

"I could eat this jerky every day for the rest of my life," one dwarf muttered dreamily.

Full and content, the dwarves eventually began wandering the halls of Eric's fortress. It was vast, with no shortage of empty rooms, so most simply picked a chamber and collapsed into bed.

That night passed peacefully.

Oddly so.

There was no howling in the woods, no rustling in the dark, no lingering sense of danger. Even in their dreams, the dwarves could sense how still everything was. Eric's land seemed untouched by the wild threats that plagued most of the world.

On the top floor of the fortress, Gandalf stood by the window, his pipe glowing softly as the fire from his enchanted ring ignited the tobacco. He stared out across the moonlit hills, lost in thought.

"The world's shape may be changing again," he muttered to himself.

Wizards, and certain powerful elves, had a vague sensitivity to the currents of time. They could sometimes feel when the future began to shift.

"You're not sleeping either, huh?" came a voice from behind.

Eric strolled into the chamber, took a seat, and bit into a crisp apple before tossing another to Gandalf.

The wizard caught it, wiped it with his sleeve, and took a bite.

"Sweet. Very sweet," he commented. "You might be right. Maybe I should get some rest. The beds here have this... magic about them. You lie down and it's morning before you know it."

He paused.

"What do you think about this quest?"

Eric leaned back. "I think it'll work. We'll make it."

Gandalf gave a thoughtful nod. "Let's hope so."

By dawn, the dwarves had woken, refreshed and ready. They packed up their things, filled their bags with more of Eric's "dry rations," and set out toward the east once more.

The feast had bonded them with Eric. Several dwarves came over on the road to chat.

"When you visit our halls, you'll see what true dwarven hospitality looks like," one promised. "Roaring fires, hearty stew, songs that echo off stone, and barrels upon barrels of strong drink! You'll be treated like kin."

"I'm looking forward to it," Eric replied with a smile. "I'll hold you to it."

As they marched on, they arrived at a familiar landmark: The Last Bridge.

The ancient structure dated back to the First Age. Though the kingdom that originally built and maintained it had long since crumbled into legend, Rivendell had since taken up the responsibility of keeping it in repair. Thanks to their watchful eye, the bridge was still solid and safe to cross.

"There used to be farms nearby," someone remarked.

And indeed, past the bridge, they found the remains of a hamlet—burned-out homes, blackened stone, and silence.

"Let's camp here for the night," Thorin ordered.

Eric pulled out his map and slapped his forehead. "No wonder I couldn't find this place before. Last time I came through the forest looking for treasure, I entered from the west and cut straight east."

This ruin, however, sat at the southern edge of the forest—completely outside his previous route.

"I say we keep moving," Gandalf said, frowning as he surveyed the ruined homes. "This place isn't right."

"What do you mean?" asked Eric.

"There's no sign of a battle. No bodies. Just... gone." Gandalf looked uneasy. "The people here vanished. That never bodes well."

"We should go to Rivendell," he added. "The elves can help—food, shelter, counsel. Like you have, Eric."

Thorin walked over slowly, his voice low but firm. "I told you before, I will not take one step toward that place."

"Why not?" Gandalf demanded. "They're not our enemies. They could—"

"They watched us fall. They let us fall," Thorin snapped. "Let them keep their songs and soft words. I have no use for the counsel of those who stood by while Erebor burned."

Tension crackled in the air. Eric winced.

"I gave you that map and the key so you'd use them," Gandalf said, growing heated. "Not so you could clutch the past like a dog with a bone."

"I don't believe they were yours to give," Thorin said flatly.

A beat of silence. Gandalf turned red.

"You ungrateful—!"

He spun on his heel and stormed off.

"Gandalf, where are you going?" Bilbo called out nervously.

"To the only sane person within ten miles!"

"Who's that?"

"Me!"

"I've had enough dwarf drama for one lifetime."

The wizard halted.

"Eric. Walk with me. Now."

"Uh... alright?"

Eric gave Bilbo a reassuring nod, then followed the grumpy wizard into the trees.

Bilbo stood there awkwardly, caught between worlds.

Thorin didn't even glance back. "Bombur, get the fire going. We're camping here."

Bilbo opened his mouth, then shut it again.

Honestly, he couldn't blame Gandalf. He was starting to think the wizard had the right idea.