The wind at the top of the spire was still hot with the scent of war—iron, ash, and burned flesh. I stood alone on the jutting column of stone I'd conjured, watching the aftermath unfold far below. The dwarves and elves had already moved towards Ravenhill, where the tide of Gundabad orcs had threatened to roll in. Fortunately, the eagles had arrived just in time—vast, dark wings blotting out the sun as they swept down from the north to turn the tide in our favour.
The Farsight spell active on the lenses of my enchanted glasses showed me the duel happening on the far eastern slope. Thorin and Azog were circling one another, two predators at the end of a very long hunt. I could almost feel the fury rolling off Thorin from here, see how the mountain's light itself seemed to cling to him.
I didn't interfere. That fight was his to finish. The armor, shield, and sword I'd given him should hold; the blessing he'd received from the Heart of the Mountain would see to that. Still, my right hand rested lightly at my side, ready to twist a portal open at the first sign of trouble.
It wasn't needed.
I watched the glint of Thorin's blade as it drove through Azog's chest—clean, certain. The pale orc staggered, gave one last defiant snarl, and collapsed into the dirt, unmoving.
Only then did I let myself breathe.
The valley below was a graveyard. Smoke drifted in slow ribbons over the battlefield, curling through heaps of twisted armor and broken spears. The smell of scorched leather and blood hung heavy in the air. Tens of thousands had fought here. Thousands of them would never rise again.
This had been my first true war.
Modern battles—those of the world I came from—were fought from shadows, with rifles and drones and distance. This was raw and personal: blades grinding on armor, men screaming as they fell, the ground trembling beneath stampeding wargs. I had watched every corner of it through the eyes of magic, sending lightning to crush trolls, freezing ogres in mid-charge, striking down orcs whenever their lines threatened to overrun ours.
Without those interventions, the dwarves and elves would have bled far more than they already had. Yet even victory looked hollow when seen through the smoke.
From here, I could see healers—Gandalf, Saruman, and the elven wardens—moving among the wounded, their hands glowing faintly as they worked to keep death at bay. I could hear the cries: dwarves calling out for brothers who would never answer, elves singing the low, mournful hymns of the fallen.
A heavy sigh escaped me. My skull throbbed with the kind of dull ache that only overuse of magic could bring. My body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry in the sun. The firestorm had drained me far more than I'd expected; controlling that tornado of elemental power, keeping it from consuming our own lines—it had taken everything.
Still, there was one more thing I could do.
Raising my wand, I summoned what light I had left. "Lux Mederis."
A pulse of blue light rippled outward from the wand's tip, sweeping across the valley like a gentle tide. It passed over the wounded, through the ranks of the living and dying alike. The groaning softened. Cries turned into gasps of wonder as bones realigned, bleeding stopped, and strength returned to trembling limbs. Across the field, dwarves and elves blinked in disbelief as the pain ebbed away.
By the time the glow faded, my arms were shaking. I lowered my wand and cancelled the transfiguration on the spire beneath my feet. The stone melted back into the ground, and I descended slowly, each step heavier than the last.
As I walked across the scarred earth, soldiers—elves and dwarves alike—looked up and nodded. Not with the loud gratitude of battle songs, but with the quiet, wordless acknowledgment of those who had seen too much death and were grateful to still breathe.
A thought, a twist of intent, and I opened a portal.
I stepped out onto the slope where Thorin, Dáin, and the surviving dwarves of Erebor had gathered. Of the five dozen Iron Hills riders who had followed Thorin into this chaos, perhaps half still stood. The rest lay among the shattered wargs and orcs carpeting the ground.
Thorin strode toward me, his armor blackened and dented but his eyes bright with triumph. "Thank you for that healing spell, my friend," he said, clapping my shoulders. "Without it, many of our brethren would be in dire straits."
I managed a small smile. "Don't worry about it. Just doing what I can."
He studied my face, his brow furrowing. "Are you all right? You look a little pale."
"I'm fine," I lied with a tired grin. "Just… overdid it a bit. Too many lightning bolts for one day."
He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. "Then you've earned your rest."
Dáin approached, his warhammer hanging from the saddle of his armored boar trotting behind him. "You handled yourself well out there, master wizard," he said, extending a scarred hand. "Because of you, a lot of these lads will see their families again."
I shook his hand. "Glad I could help."
Thorin turned to him then. "Seal those tunnels," he ordered, gesturing toward the dark mouths of rock that Azog's horde had poured through. "I'll not have orc filth creeping back under my mountain."
Dáin nodded and barked orders to his dwarves.
I looked at the tunnels, gauging their depth with an instinctive eye. "I could seal them for you, if you want," I offered.
But Thorin shook his head. "You've done enough, Ben. Rest. We dwarves aren't afraid of a little hard work."
I smirked. "Oh, I know that all too well."
We shared a laugh, the first true laughter since dawn.
Then a voice called out behind us—"There he is!"
I turned to see Kíli jogging up with Fíli at his side. Behind them came Legolas, Tauriel, and Bilbo. They looked worn but alive, and for a fleeting moment, the world felt lighter.
Kíli threw an arm around my shoulders, grinning wide. "Every time I think I've got the measure of you, you pull something outrageous! Healing an entire valley full of wounded? That's madness, you know."
I laughed softly. "That's my middle name."
Bilbo caught my eye, smiling wearily. We shared that silent understanding—the kind that only comes from surviving something neither of us ever wanted to see again.
As the brothers rejoined their kin, my attention drifted to Legolas and Tauriel. There was something different about them. The way they stood close, hands almost brushing, their eyes softer than I'd ever seen. It took me a moment to realize what it was.
I raised a brow. "So," I said to Legolas with a knowing smirk, "did you tell her?"
He glanced at Tauriel, who met his gaze with a smile that said everything. He took her hand and turned back to me. "She knows."
I smiled back, warmth spreading through the exhaustion. In this version of events, at least, their story wouldn't end in loneliness and grief. Not if I had anything to say about it.
---
"Thank you all for coming," I said, looking around the long stone table carved from a single block of polished obsidian.
The faces staring back at me were a sight that could fill a history book — Thorin Oakenshield, proud and regal even in simple garb; Dain Ironfoot, his arms crossed and beard still dusted with soot from the forges; Balin and Dwalin, their expressions steady and alert; Fili and Kili, whispering to each other but attentive; Gandalf, puffing his pipe thoughtfully; Bilbo, sitting beside him, visibly more at ease than he'd been in days; Legolas and Tauriel, calm and silent, their gazes like twin stars amid the warm glow of the chamber.
Two chairs stood conspicuously empty. One for Saruman. The other for Thranduil.
After the battle, Thorin had made good on his promise and returned the white gems of Lasgalen to the Elvenking. Thranduil had accepted them with grace—well, as much grace as one can muster while surrounded by dwarves who still regarded him like a decorative snake—and then taken his leave with his army. Only Legolas and Tauriel had remained behind at Thorin's invitation, to attend his upcoming coronation.
Saruman, on the other hand, had departed shortly after the victory. He claimed he needed to report to Elrond and Lady Galadriel about the disturbing fact that the enemy could now breed trolls that walked in daylight. Fine by me — the fewer white-haired control freaks in this room, the better.
It had been five days since the battle for Erebor—five blessed, uneventful days.
The mountain was alive with sound and light once more — hammers ringing, stone echoing with the voices of craftsmen and masons, the smell of forge-smoke rising through the great vents. Dwarves filled the halls, not with spears, but with hammers and chisels. Cracked walls were being mended, shattered tiles replaced, and the ancient banners of Durin's line once again hung proudly from pillars of stone.
After the battle, Thorin had decreed that his coronation would take place in a week—just enough time for kin from the Iron Hills and faraway lands to arrive. Every day, new dwarvish families streamed into Erebor. I had watched some of them fall to their knees in tears the moment they crossed the threshold, pressing their hands against the marble floors as though they were touching a long-lost loved one. Children laughed, their small voices echoing through the halls, discovering a home their parents had only ever spoken of in stories.
Down in the valley, the city of Dale was coming back to life too. Thorin had honored his word to Bard. Gold and silver poured from Erebor's vaults into the ruins of Dale, fueling its rebirth. Word had spread fast—Smaug was dead, the orc armies crushed, Erebor restored. Men came from Lake-town and beyond, drawn by the promise of a new beginning. Under Bard's leadership, they rebuilt homes, markets, bridges. Dwarves joined them, stonecutters and smiths side by side with men.
Of course, not everything went smoothly. The old Master of Lake-town, oily as ever, had tried to swoop in with his cronies to claim control of Dale. That went about as well as a goblin trying to lecture Gandalf on manners. The people—fed up and furious—had him thrown out with the help of a few dwarves who'd been "just passing by with hammers." The next day, Thorin publicly declared Bard as the new Lord of Dale, to thunderous cheers. Even Gandalf smiled, and that's saying something.
But before everyone could have their happily ever afters, there was one last thing that needed to be dealt with.
And that's why I'd gathered them all here.
"I know most of you are busy with preparations for the upcoming ceremony," I began, "so I'll keep this short. I'm sure you all remember the night we sought shelter from that thunder battle in the Misty Mountains."
A few groans rumbled around the table. Dwalin scowled. "Aye, the night we fell through the blasted floor and landed in that filthy goblin pit."
Fili crossed his arms. "My back still aches thinking about it."
Kili nodded. "And the smell! I'll never forget that stench."
Dwalin grunted, "One day, I swear I'll march our warriors up there and flatten that miserable Goblin-town."
"Hear, hear!" the brothers said together.
I smiled faintly. "Well, I'm glad your enthusiasm for revenge hasn't dimmed. But yes — that's the night I'm talking about. You'll recall Bilbo and I didn't exactly join you for the scenic tour through Goblin-town."
Thorin nodded. "Aye, we were separated. You went after Master Baggins when he fell."
"Indeed," I said, glancing at Bilbo. "And in that darkness, he and I… found something."
Their eyes followed me as I withdrew a metallic dodecahedron inscribed with glowing runes from my storage ring—the Psionic Sealing Casket. Its polished surface reflected the golden light of the chamber.
The murmurs quieted.
I placed it on the table, pressed several runes in sequence, and the casket unfolded with a series of gentle clicks. Inside, suspended within a field of soft blue light, floated a small, unassuming golden ring.
The air seemed to change the instant it appeared.
Gandalf's pipe fell from his hand, scattering ash across the table. His eyes hardened.
Bilbo turned away, jaw clenched. Even now, after months apart, the ring's pull reached for him like invisible fingers.
The elves stiffened. Tauriel's sharp intake of breath was almost inaudible, but her eyes were fixed on the ring as if it were something alive. Legolas's expression was unreadable, but his hand had unconsciously drifted to the hilt of his knife.
The dwarves felt it too—though their kind had been forged to resist domination, even they could sense the corruption seeping from it like venom. Thorin's eyes narrowed. The Heart of the Mountain's blessing allowed him to feel magic deeply, and this… this was not of any wholesome kind.
It was beautiful, perfect even, gleaming softly in the air. And yet, it radiated corruption like heat from a forge.
For a moment, I found myself staring too long — admiring the craftsmanship, the balance, the temptation of it. Then the whisper began, faint and sly: a voice, promising power, knowledge, dominion—
I snapped the casket shut with a decisive click.
Everyone exhaled almost at once, as though a pressure they hadn't noticed had just lifted.
Kili was the first to speak, his voice uncertain. "What… was that, Ben? I don't know why, but just looking at it made my skin crawl."
His brother nodded beside him. "Aye. It felt like it was watching us."
I met their eyes grimly. "Most likely it was. That ring belonged to Sauron."
A ripple of shock spread across the table. Gandalf's knuckles went white around his staff. Dain swore softly in Khuzdul. Even Thorin seemed momentarily struck speechless.
I continued, voice low but steady. "This isn't the first time I've seen something like it."
Their eyes fixed on me again—curious, wary.
"In my world," I said, "there was a dark wizard who called himself Lord Voldemort. He found a way to split his soul into pieces and bind them to objects called horcruxes. As long as even one remained, he couldn't truly die."
"By Durin's beard…" Balin whispered.
"I helped destroy them," I said simply. "Every last one. So when I first saw this ring in that cave, I recognized the same… wrongness. The same dark malice. I sealed it in this casket immediately to keep it from influencing anyone."
Gandalf stared at me for a long moment, his bushy brows rising. "You mean to tell me you've had the One Ring in that… contraption… for months without being corrupted?"
I shrugged lightly. "Pocket dimension storage. Very handy for cursed artifacts."
The wizard let out a low whistle. "Extraordinary. I knew your magic was unlike anything in this world, Ben, but this…" He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Meeting you was one of the best things that ever happened to Thorin, my boy. Now I see it may have been one of the best things to happen to Middle-earth."
I grinned slightly. "I'll take that as high praise."
"So," Dwalin said gruffly, "if we smash this ring, Sauron dies?"
"Not quite," Gandalf replied gravely. "The Ring was forged in Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade."
I nodded. "Exactly. Which is why I've called you all here. A few weeks ago, Sauron was banished from Dol Guldur by Lady Galadriel. He's fled to Mordor, weakened and rebuilding his strength. This—" I tapped the sealed casket "—is our best chance to end him before he rises again."
Thorin leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "You have a plan."
"I do," I said. "We take the Spirit of Dawn, go straight to Mordor, drop this ring into the fires of Mount Doom, and end Sauron's reign of terror once and for all."
The room fell silent for a heartbeat — then one by one, the others nodded.
Thorin's gaze met mine, resolute and fierce. Dain grunted his approval. Balin smiled faintly. Dwalin cracked his knuckles. Legolas and Tauriel exchanged a knowing look. Gandalf's eyes gleamed with purpose.
And Bilbo — brave, unexpected Bilbo — simply said, "Let's finish what we started."
A faint smile touched my lips.
"Yes," I said quietly. "Let's."