After delivering the gift, Garrett didn't stay any longer. Instead, he returned to his stronghold, where he continued his underground construction work.
Renovating the tower at Wayfort, building high-speed transit tunnels through the Nether, constructing safe houses in Gondorian territory... It seemed that in this life, he could never escape building projects.
As for his stronghold in Gondor, he had left it open, allowing Gondor's Rangers, soldiers, and even civilians or travelers seeking shelter to enter and make use of its resources.
The only condition was simple: they had to consciously maintain the environment, treating everything inside as respectfully as if they were guests in someone else's home.
This news spread in the form of legend. Other than the Rangers and Gondorian soldiers who knew of it and came regularly to check on the place while maintaining the stronghold and its surroundings, some desperate folk also sought out this rumored safe haven said to be built between Gondor and Mordor.
They came clinging to hope.
---
"At last, I've found it."
On the northern side of Ithilien, Garrett crouched in the grass and plucked a few mushrooms from a rotting log.
Yes, these were the ones.
He tossed the mushrooms into his inventory and finally felt relieved.
"I need to go back and make myself a proper mushroom soup."
To restore the dignity of a chef.
"Well, well, what have we here? A careless mushroom picker..."
Suddenly a voice rang out. Garrett stood up and turned his head.
Seven or eight Uruk-hai were staring him down.
They all instinctively stepped back a pace.
Seeing the look on Garrett's face, the lead Uruk's mind worked quickly. He immediately stepped forward and said, "I know where you can find more of those mushrooms you're picking! I can guide you to them!"
"You'd better."
"I definitely know!"
They scattered.
After about a quarter-hour, one Uruk returned, carefully laying down an armful of mushrooms.
"Mm, yes, these are the ones."
"Now get out. Leave these lands." Garrett gave the order.
A year ago, when he left, this area rarely saw any orcs or Uruks. But now, it seemed that after a year, some of them still hadn't given up trying to creep back in.
"Y-yes, of course, we'll leave immediately..."
The Uruk scurried back to the others.
Perhaps this place would remain quiet for a while longer.
But not forever.
Staring across at the scorched lands and mountains of Mordor, Garrett rubbed his chin in thought. A moment later, he slowly shook his head and turned back toward the White City.
---
The next day, at midday in Thengel's home, a pot of fragrant mushroom soup was simmering.
"Now this is what mushroom soup is supposed to taste like."
Garrett took a sip of his own cooking, his expression full of contentment.
Yes, this was the proper flavor.
After drinking Thengel's soup a few days earlier, he'd even begun doubting himself.
"Forgive me, I even started to question my own skills."
When Morwen tasted Garrett's authentic mushroom soup, she was just as surprised.
So this was what it was really supposed to taste like...
"It is indeed somewhat better than mine," Thengel admitted, nodding. "I'll remember this."
"Excellent. The front lines are quiet lately, so I can take my time for a while. In the coming days, I'll practice making this more often, so I can fully reproduce the flavor."
Morwen's expression changed.
"Fine, drink it all yourself. I've heard too much mushroom soup isn't good for a child's development."
"What a pity."
Thengel looked disappointed and reached out to take away the bowl of Garrett's mushroom soup sitting before Morwen.
"In that case, this bowl—"
"No."
Morwen shielded the soup protectively.
"Once in a while is acceptable."
"...Very well then."
Another food hoarder.
This trip to Gondor didn't last long. Once the messenger Thengel had sent out returned, Garrett also took his leave.
The brief journey came to an end.
But he was never the type to remain idle, since he was already traveling, how could he not explore elsewhere?
The very next day after returning to Wayfort, he set out again.
Heading west, to Lindon.
Many years ago, Lindon's lord, Círdan, had invited him to visit, but he had always left it at the back of his mind, forgetting about it time and again.
Fortunately, from an Elf's perspective, a span of years like that was nothing. Even if he were ten years late, the one who had extended the invitation, Círdan, wouldn't think much time had passed at all.
When Garrett departed again, the residents were already accustomed to it.
In any other territory, such behavior would have been unacceptable. After all, a lord had to manage countless affairs, maintain relationships, make decisions about the future development of the land, and so forth. Especially in a place like Wayfort, which had grown rapidly and become the "northern hub" within just a few years, it should have required meticulous governance.
But that wasn't how things worked here, or rather, that wasn't how Garrett's domains functioned.
Because of their special nature, having a lord like him, coupled with high levels of education and virtually limitless resources, his lands needed little in the way of oversight. There was no scheming, no petty disputes over interests.
The only issues that could arise were technical ones: outdated methods, or areas in need of improvement.
As stability took hold and the younger generation gradually replaced the old, the way the people looked at the world began to shift.
Their needs no longer stopped at full bellies, warm clothes, and sturdy homes. Their eyes were now set farther and higher.
For example, following in the footsteps of their mysterious, revered, unfathomable, and yet approachable, kind, and down-to-earth, lord.
A breeze stirred the tender green grass, and a few small white flowers peeked among the blades.
Brightly colored meadows rippled in the wind, and several gleaming white towers stood tall upon a high hill.
In western Eriador, west of the Shire, east of the Grey Havens, within Lindon, on such a high hill, a dark-armored rider on horseback slowly approached, stopping to gaze into the distance.
The Tower Hills.... As far back as the dawn of the Second Age, this place had served as an elven outpost, where many white towers were raised.
The tallest among them was called Elostirion, within which was kept a palantír.
But this palantír was unusual: it could not communicate with the others, nor could it be used to survey the lands of Middle-earth. Its sole function was to reveal the Undying Lands, Aman, the Blessed Realm where the Valar dwelt.
Many Elves made pilgrimages here, wishing for just a glimpse of the beauty of that sacred land through the seeing-stone.
Before the Elostirion tower where the stone was kept, a number of Lindon Elves stood guard.
When Garrett approached, their faces showed hesitation.
The vision of the Undying Lands was not for just anyone to see. To the Elves, it was holy, pure, untouchable.
If it were another race, they would likely have turned him away.
But this one...
"Well met."
The guards at the foot of the tower were the first to speak.