Far to the north of Gorgoroth, the ruins of Barad-dûr rose against the bloodstained dawn. The sun clawed its way over the horizon like a bleeding wound, casting pale crimson rays through the choking veil of ash that blanketed the land. The air was thick and heavy with soot, and every gust carried with it the scent of scorched stone and death.
The plains surrounding the tower were a wasteland of grey and ember — a corpse of a land, beaten and burned into submission. The black earth cracked underfoot, still hot from unseen fires deep below. Across the plains, thousands of orcs labored under the whips of their overseers, dragging stone and twisted metal to rebuild the dark tower. Their snarls and grunts blended with the ring of hammers and the hiss of molten iron, a symphony of suffering that filled the morning air.
Barad-dûr, once the seat of Sauron's dominion, had been reduced to ruin in the Second Age, when Isildur had cut the Ring from his hand. But because it was created using the power of the One Ring, its foundations could not be destroyed while the Ring itself still existed. Now, under a crimson sky, it was being born again. Slowly, inexorably, it was rising — rebuilt upon the bones of Mordor, like a wound refusing to close.
And within its growing shadow… Sauron stirred.
In the deepest chamber of the tower, where no light dared to enter, his spirit lingered — a formless storm of malice and will. He was weak still, reduced to a mere echo after his recent defeat at Dol Guldur. Galadriel's power had cast him out, forcing his essence to flee from the ruins of the Old Fortress, battered and humiliated. But though diminished, he was far from defeated. The Eye still burned.
Now, his wrath burned hotter than the fires of Orodruin.
He knew all that had transpired. His awareness stretched across the lands like a spider's web, feeling every tremor of defeat and every whisper of disobedience. He knew that Azog and Bolg — his chosen generals — were dead. The twin fangs of Gundabad, broken. His orc armies, wiped out in battle. And the dragon Smaug, his greatest would-be instrument of terror, slain by mortals and dwarves.
Worse still, the Lonely Mountain, which could have been his greatest bastion in the north, was now held by Thorin Oakenshield and his kin.
But the greatest outrage of all — the ember of fury that refused to die — was the wizard from another world.
Sauron's formless shape coiled within itself, tendrils of black mist writhing like serpents in the dark. He had studied the wizard's energy through his servants' reports, had tasted the echoes of that foreign magic when it tore through his armies. It was strange — unlike anything that belonged to Arda. Older, in some ways. Wilder. It had bent the laws of the world as easily as one might bend iron under a hammer.
And now he knew why.
The wizard was not of this world.
He had come through the Space between Spaces, crossing the void between realities. No being of Arda — not Maia, not Vala, not even the Children of Ilúvatar — had ever managed such a feat unaided. Whatever method the young human had used to reach Middle-earth, it could not be allowed to remain solely his.
With such a method, his master — MorgothBauglir, the true Dark Lord — could be freed from the Void. The chains that bound him beyond the Circles of the World could be broken. Together, they would not only reclaim Arda — they would rule a thousand other worlds. Worlds beyond the stars, beyond time, beyond even the reach of Eru Himself.
But his servants had failed.
Azog had died without delivering the wizard. Bolg had fallen with him. The orcs of Gundabad and Dol Guldur lay as charred ash beneath the feet of elves and dwarves. And now, the wizard had found shelter behind the impregnable gates of Erebor.
Sauron hissed — the sound like iron scraping over stone. His wrath rippled through the chamber, shattering a pillar of obsidian into dust.
Then — something changed.
Sauron's awareness flared, like a spark catching wind. His gaze turned northward. Across the horizon, beyond the jagged teeth of the Ash Mountains, something glimmered — faint, silvery, and moving swiftly through the sky.
Sauron focused his sight, and the distance folded like cloth beneath his will.
A ship — a strange craft of polished wood and gleaming silver, with wings outstretched and runes glowing faintly along its hull. It flew without sails, without wind, defying all natural law.
The Spirit of Dawn.
He knew of it — Azog had described it before his death. The flying ship of the otherworldly wizard, a craft that soared the heavens as though it mocked gravity itself.
And now it was coming here.
Sauron's form rippled with malice. The Eye turned toward it, burning with a cruel and eager light. He wondered why the wizard would dare approach Mordor, but the reason no longer mattered. It was an opportunity — a chance to seize the wizard, to rip the secret of his travel from his mind, and to bend that power to his own purpose.
Sauron himself didn't need to give chase. Instead, he sent out a call that spread across the blackened land like a living scream.
"Harken to me!"
The Nazgûl, standing motionless upon the outer spires of Barad-dûr, stirred. Cloaked in shadow, their hollow crowns gleamed faintly as they turned towards their master's unseen gaze.
Sauron's command rang out in Black Speech, a guttural language of iron and hate:
"Destroy that ship! Bring me the wizard! Kill the others!"
The reply came as a chorus of shrieks — piercing, wailing cries that froze the marrow of every orc on the ground below. Thousands dropped their tools, clutching their ears as the terror of that sound flooded their minds.
From the pits beneath Barad-dûr, the fell beasts emerged — great winged horrors, half-dragon, half-carrion, with leathery wings that stretched wider than city gates. Their screams split the dawn as the Nazgûl mounted them, black cloaks billowing like smoke.
Nine shadows took to the air, circling once above the tower before darting toward the northern horizon.
Sauron watched.
The Spirit of Dawn soared over the Ash Mountains, gliding gracefully through the fumes of Mordor. Even from afar, he could discern the small figures on its upper deck — the human wizard standing at the helm beside Thorin Oakenshield, with four other dwarves close behind. Two Woodland elves stood near the prow, bows in hand, eyes sharp. Beside them was a small figure — a halfling. And standing at the stern, staff in hand, was one of the Istari — Gandalf the Grey.
A strange company — one that had thwarted him more than once.
As the ship turned toward Orodruin, the mountain's crown of fire pulsing faintly in the gloom, Sauron felt a creeping unease within himself. A foreboding that even he could not name.
No matter. They were in Mordor now — his dominion, his domain. Here, his will shaped the air and the earth itself.
He began to chant.
The ancient words of the Black Speech rolled from his unseen lips, low and terrible, resonating through the barren land. The skies above darkened further as clouds swirled into a vortex. The wind began to howl, fierce and unnatural, tearing through the canyons and sweeping over the plains.
High above, the Spirit of Dawn shuddered as the tempest struck. Its wings strained, the runes along its hull flickering. The wind buffeted its sides, forcing it to tilt and sway like a leaf caught in a storm.
---
(Ben's POV)
"Hold on!" I yelled, both hands gripping the wheel as if my life depended on it — which, to be fair, it absolutely did. The Spirit of Dawn shuddered violently, its polished silver hull groaning against the fury of the wind. The sky had gone from gloomy to apocalyptic in the span of a minute. Forks of lightning carved jagged veins across the black clouds, and thunder rolled like the growl of a waking god. The acrid smell of ash filled the air, and the once-distant Mount Doom loomed beneath us, a burning wound in the heart of Mordor.
Dwalin bellowed over the wind, "Blast this storm! We were so close to the mountain! Couldn't it have come an hour later?"
At the prow, Gandalf's cloak whipped around him like a storm-tossed banner. His voice cut through the howling gale, grim and sure. "This is no ordinary storm! Sauron knows we are here — though why, he may not yet know. His dark magic turns the skies of Mordor against us, to hinder our purpose!"
The ship lurched again, pitching sideways as the storm grew worse. Sparks leapt off the metalwork, and a bolt of lightning flashed so close that it turned the deck white for a heartbeat. Through the chaos, I glanced over the side. "We're almost above Mount Doom! Once we reach the crater, we—"
A shriek split the sky. Not thunder. Not wind. Something far worse. It was an unholy, metallic screech that made the air itself tremble. Everyone turned toward the south.
From the ashen distance above Barad-dûr, I saw them: nine shadows streaking towards us on vast, leathery wings.
"Nazgûl," Legolas said grimly, his voice tight as his eyes tracked their flight.
Bilbo, white as snow, looked at me with desperate eyes. "Please tell me you have something up your sleeve!"
I smirked despite the chaos. "My dear Bilbo — who do you think you're talking to?"
I slammed my hand onto a rune-etched panel beside the wheel. With a deep thrum, the floor plates on both sides of the deck retracted. From the compartments beneath, two turret assemblies rose smoothly — gleaming Tritanium barrels carved with glowing sigils.
The turrets swiveled as if alive. A moment later, twin beams of concentrated sunlight lanced across the sky.
One Nazgûl and its beast disintegrated mid-screech — consumed utterly, no shadow left to reform. Another dove aside but too late; its mount's wing was caught by the light, turning to vapor as the creature spiraled downward, trailing black fire.
"Ha!" Kili shouted. "Nice shooting!"
But there was no time to celebrate. The remaining Nazgûl screamed — a sound that curdled the soul — and dove together.
"Hang on!" I shouted, wrenching the wheel. The Spirit of Dawn banked hard, climbing sharply through the churning air. The storm tried to tear us apart, but the ship's runes flared gold, holding it together.
The turrets continued to fire, cutting through the dark sky in radiant arcs. Another fell beast went down in flames, but three Nazgûl broke formation and descended — dropping from their mounts directly onto the deck of the Spirit of Dawn.
The thud of their landing shook the ship. Shadows poured off them like smoke, and the temperature dropped instantly, frosting the metal rails.
"By Durin's beard!" Dwalin roared, drawing his hammer.
Gandalf was already moving — Glamdring in one hand, his staff in the other. His white hair whipped around his face as he struck, light and darkness clashing in sparks of raw power.
Thorin met another wraith with a roar, raising the Shield of Thrain. The Nazgûl's blade came down in a blur of black steel — the impact cracked like thunder, but the shield held. Thorin countered with a fierce swing of Thror's Justice. The sword flared with blue light where it struck, and the wraith screamed as its form burned.
The third wraith advanced toward me at the helm. But before it could reach me, a blur of motion flashed past — Legolas, blade drawn, intercepting the strike. Their swords met in a ringing clash, but with each hit, the elf's blade began to darken. Black veins crept along its edge — the metal withering under the Morgul enchantment.
Legolas grimaced, forcing the wraith back but barely keeping pace.
I extended one hand, focusing. "Depulso!"
The spell burst from my palm — a ripple of invisible force that hit the wraith like a battering ram. It flew backward, smashing into the deck.
Without hesitation, I summoned Orcrist from my storage ring. The sword shimmered into existence in my hand — bright, cold, and deadly. I called out, "Legolas!" and hurled it toward him.
Legolas caught it effortlessly. Recognition flickered in his eyes — awe, almost reverence — before he turned and met the wraith again. This time, the Morgul blade met its match. Orcrist flared white-blue, cutting through shadow like sunlight through mist.
Gandalf's staff flared white; and Glamdring pierced the heart of his foe, the wraith's scream fading into smoke. Thorin's blade burned blue as he cut through the second. Legolas ended his duel with a precise strike to where the wraith's face would have been, light bursting from the wound like dawn breaking through night.
For a moment, there was silence — broken only by our ragged breaths and the groan of the wind.
The remaining Nazgûl circled in fury, their cries echoing over the storm. Thorin, standing tall at the prow, bellowed into the sky, "Is that the best you can do?!"
And as if in answer, another shriek cut through the thunder — deeper, colder, filled with malice that seemed to chill the soul itself.
Out of the tempest came a larger shadow — vast and crowned with flame. The Witch-king of Angmar.
Even from a distance, his presence was crushing — a weight pressing against my mind, cold and suffocating. The air itself seemed to recoil around him.
Gandalf's face was grave. "The Lord of the Nine," he said. "The Witch-king of Angmar."
I gritted my teeth and yanked a lever beside the helm. The Spirit of Dawn surged forward with a roar, the golden Runes blazing white-hot. The world blurred — the mountains and ash plains streaking past beneath us. The Nazgûl fell behind, their cries fading in the distance.
But as I looked down, I saw that Mount Doom was slipping away beneath the ship.
Damn it. We'd overshot.
"Fíli! Kíli!" I shouted.
The brothers rushed to my side, their hair whipping wildly in the wind.
"Take the wheel!" I barked.
"What?!" Fíli's eyes went wide. "Are you mad?"
"Probably," I said, stepping away from the helm. "Keep her steady — circle above Mordor until I return."
Kíli grabbed my arm. "Ben, what are you doing?"
"I'm ending this."
I raised my hand, and a ring of golden light formed before me — a portal opening to a ledge on the side of Mount Doom, its surface glowing faintly with heat.
"Keep the ship steady," I said, voice firm but calm. "I'll be back as soon as I've thrown the Ring into the fire."
"Ben—" Gandalf began, his tone sharp.
I cut him off with a grin. "Relax, Gandalf. I have no plans of dying today."
One last nod to my friends — to Thorin, Gandalf, Legolas, Tauriel, Bilbo, and the dwarves — and I stepped through the portal.
The air on the other side was heavy — thick with heat and the stench of brimstone. The ground trembled beneath my boots. I conjured a thin bubble of magic around my head, filtering the choking fumes. My breath came easier, though the heat still scorched against my skin.
Ahead, through the veil of ash and smoke, a jagged crack yawned open in the mountain's side — a passage leading into the heart of Orodruin.
I turned to seal the portal behind me — and froze.
"Ben!"
Bilbo stood there, panting, covered in soot, his curls singed and his eyes fierce with stubborn determination.
"Bilbo!" I shouted over the roar of the wind. "What are you doing here? Get back to the ship!"
He bent double, hands on his knees, coughing through the smoke. His eyes were watering, but he still managed to glare at me. "I am not letting you go alone inside what is literally called Mount Doom, Ben," he rasped. "If it hadn't been for me finding that confounded ring, we wouldn't even be here in the first place. So I'm coming with you. And that's final."
He tried to look stern, but it was hard to take him seriously when he was wheezing like a chimney.
I sighed, closed the portal behind him, and shaped the air with a thought — a Bubble-Head Charm, clean and cool around his face. The relief in his eyes was immediate. "Fine," I muttered, "but stay close."
The slope of Orodruin was hell made real. Every step sent gravel sliding, each rock sharp enough to slice through boots. The ground hissed and spat, bleeding molten light from its wounds. The air burned, red and alive, and the smell of brimstone clung to every breath. Ash came down like dark snow, and lightning forked through the clouds above, painting the mountain in flashes of crimson.
When at last we reached the jagged opening of Sammath Naur, the light from within pulsed like the heart of some colossal beast. The doorway yawned before us — a wound in the world, bleeding fire.
Inside was worse. The heat struck like a living wall; even through magic, it clawed at my lungs. I layered Cooling Charms over us both, but the air still shimmered. The tunnel twisted and breathed with molten light until we emerged into the great chamber — the crucible of creation. A vast chasm of flame stretched below, the molten lake churning and glowing like a sea of liquid metal. Every surface glared orange and gold.
"This is it," I said, my voice shaking despite me.
Bilbo's throat bobbed as he swallowed, then he nodded. "Let's finish this and go home."
I smiled faintly, and with a flick of will, called forth the Psionic Sealing Casket. It shimmered into existence beside me, runes glimmering faintly. I tapped the sequence — it unlatched with a hiss, and the One Ring rose into the air.
Immediately, the air changed. The heat thickened. The Ring glowed with an inner fire, the letters of its inscription burning bright upon the gold. I could feel it awaken — as though it recognised its birthplace. And its doom.
---
In the black tower of Barad-dûr, Sauron's will flared like a beacon — he felt it, the One Ring, his soul made gold and deceit. His eyes turned toward Orodruin, fury and hunger awakening after centuries of smoldering.
And in the high airs of Mordor, the Nazgûl wheeled sharply from their pursuit of the flying ship, their fell beasts screaming as they turned toward the mountain's heart.
---
The Ring rested in my palm — warm, pulsing, alive. And in the instant it touched my skin, it spoke.
A thousand whispers filled my head, silky and irresistible. Visions flooded my mind — worlds uncountable, power without limit. I could see myself standing atop realities, bending the multiverse to my will, shaping creation like clay. The whispers promised knowledge, dominion, mastery — not for greed, but for purpose. For protection. For good.
"Ben!" Bilbo's voice sounded far away. "Throw it in! Quickly, before—!"
I wanted to. I tried to. My arm trembled, but it would not move. The Ring's will was gravity itself — pulling me closer, chaining my thoughts. My breath came ragged. Sweat and ash stung my eyes. My body screamed to listen to Bilbo, but my mind…
My mind whispered: Study it. Master it. Use it.
And then, for one impossible instant, I saw everything. The multiverse stretched out before me — infinite worlds, all threaded through a single burning center. Me. Stronger. Wiser. Triumphant. Protector of the innocent. The hero who never failed.
My hand trembled, lowering the Ring away from the fire. It gleamed in my palm, perfect, alive.
Mine, the thought whispered.
I smiled — a terrible, hollow smile that didn't feel like my own.
Bilbo grabbed my arm. "Destroy it, Ben! Throw it in the fire!"
Destroy it? Never!
Another voice, older and colder, slipped into my skull: He wants it. He means to take it for himself.
Rage spiked through me. How dare he covet what is mine? The thought wasn't my own, but it felt real. I raised my hand, gathering magic at my fingertips. An Avada Kedavra — I could see it forming.
But then—Bilbo. My friend. His terrified face. His small, stubborn heart. I couldn't. Iwouldn't.
My hand shook violently. Instead, I snapped my fingers. "Petrificus Totalus."
Bilbo went rigid, collapsing backward onto the stone. His eyes screamed more than his mouth ever could.
I turned back to the Ring. Slowly, I lifted it toward my finger. The world shrank to that motion — one breath, one heartbeat, one gleam of gold.
And then I felt pain.
---
Within Ben's soul, a mark — shaped like a handprint upon his very essence — flared with light. It ignited, searing through his spirit, burning away the Ring's hold.
---
I screamed. The sound tore out of me raw, echoing through the cavern. The Ring slipped from my fingers, clattering against the stone. I dropped to my knees, clutching my chest as pain like molten iron ripped through me.
Then — release. Air. Clarity.
I looked up, gasping. My thoughts were my own again.
Bilbo's eyes — wide, fearful, desperate — met mine from the ground. Guilt hit me like a speeding truck. "I'm sorry," I whispered hoarsely. "I'm so sorry, Bilbo."
I turned toward the Ring. It glowed faintly, writhing like a living thing. Fury rose in me, clean and cold. Getting up, I kicked it with all my might.
The Ring spun through the air, glinting once, then vanished below into the fire.
For an instant, there was silence. Then the mountain roared.
The world exploded in fire and light — a blinding spear that tore through the roof of the cavern. The shockwave hit like a hammer. I threw up a shield, barely holding it as the walls split and magma surged upward.
I snapped my fingers again. "Finite Incantatum!" Bilbo's body unlocked, and I hauled him to his feet. "Are you alright?"
He wheezed, "I'm fine! Now, let's get out of this exploding volcano!"
"Good idea," I said through gritted teeth.
I opened a portal to the Spirit of Dawn. The deck shimmered beyond, safe and high above the ruin. I grabbed Bilbo's arm, and together we stepped through.
We stumbled onto the deck, the portal closing with a snap of displaced air. The ship rocked as shockwaves rippled through the sky. Around us, the others clung to the railings, their faces bathed in the hellish glow of the eruption.
I hurried to the helm, set the ship to autopilot, and guided it northward. Then I joined Bilbo and the others at the railing.
Below us, Mordor burned.
Mount Doom erupted in a tower of flame that split the heavens. Rivers of lava flowed down its slopes, swallowing the land. The sky convulsed with red lightning. And far off, the half-rebuilt tower of Barad-dûr shook, its dark crown crumbling. I felt it — the instant Sauron's spirit broke. His will fractured like glass under the hammer of creation.
In the ruin of his fortress, a soundless scream rippled through the minds of all who had ever served him. The tower folded in on itself, collapsing in a tempest of fire and dust. The ground split. The very stones of Mordor rebelled against their master.
High above the plain, three wraiths screamed as their mounts dissolved into black mist. The Nazgûl's shadowy forms burst into flame — and were gone.
The Black Gate of Mordor toppled, crushed under its own weight. The land cracked open, swallowing thousands of fleeing orcs and trolls. Rivers of fire cut through the ash plains.
Then — slowly — it began to quiet.
The black storm thinned. The fire dimmed. The wind shifted. Through the drifting smoke, a single beam of sunlight broke through the clouds, falling across the scorched land like mercy.
For the first time in ages, Mordor saw the light.
Bilbo exhaled beside me. His voice was barely a whisper. "It's over."
I nodded, eyes fixed on the fading fire. "It's the end of an era," I said quietly. "And now, something new will begin."
---
In the deep green heart of Mirkwood, the shadow that had coiled through the trees began to fade. The dark sap that had clung to roots and leaves seemed to retreat as if the earth itself was purging a sickness. The trees sighed as sunlight touched their leaves once more. The air grew lighter, sharper, alive.
On a balcony of carved stone and silverwood, King Thranduil stood, eyes closed, face turned to the sun. Below, his people murmured in wonder. Elves looked up as shafts of brilliance pierced the gloom, illuminating the forest floor like blessings from on high.
Thranduil's eyes opened — bright and distant. "A shadow long endured has been broken," he said softly. His gaze turned south, toward the distant horizon. "But how? And by whose hand?"
The forest whispered its only answer — birdsong, pure and untainted.
---
Far to the west, beneath the roaring waterfalls of Rivendell, Elrond Half-elven looked up from the scrolls on his table as the quill stilled in his hand.
The crystal lamps flickered — not in fear, but in release. A deep hum rolled through the valley, as though the very stones of Rivendell had sighed.
He rose, stepping out onto the terrace. The breeze was warm, carrying scents from distant lands — cedar, rain, and something older: freedom.
On the balcony, Galadriel stood beside Saruman the White, both having come to discuss the aftermath of the Battle of the Four Armies. But now neither spoke. Both had turned eastward, sensing the same shudder in the fabric of the world.
"Mordor has fallen," Galadriel whispered, her voice trembling like light upon water.
Saruman frowned, his hands tightening on the railing. "Impossible. The Ring was lost — Without it, Sauron could not be destroyed."
"And yet," she said, eyes bright as stars, "that is what has come to pass."
Elrond joined them, his expression one of wonder. "Who could have done such a thing? Not even the Istari could reach into Mordor unseen."
Galadriel tilted her head slightly, as though listening to something far away. A faint smile touched her lips. "Perhaps," she murmured, "someone from beyond this world."
Saruman scowled, unwilling to admit the truth he felt pulsing through the air. Yet even he could not deny the surge of peace — the silence after centuries of whispering evil.
The Lady of Lórien turned away, her eyes misted with tears of joy. "The Age of Shadow is ended."
---
In Minas Tirith, the morning began with tremors.
The great city shuddered as cups rattled on tables and dust drifted down from the high towers. Farmers in the Pelennor Fields paused their work, staring east as the ground thrummed with deep, distant thunder.
Then they saw it.
Beyond the Ephel Dúath — the Mountains of Shadow — Mount Doom erupted. Not with the fury of conquest, but with the exhaustion of finality. Fire belched into the heavens, and a vast column of smoke twisted skyward.
But the sky above it… was clearing.
The black clouds that had brooded over Mordor for an age began to dissolve — shredded by light. Pale gold spilled through the gaps, rays of sunlight pouring over the desolate plains like redemption.
From the lowest gate to the highest tower, every soul in Gondor stopped to stare.
The bells began to ring.
Cheers rose from the markets, from the Citadel, from every window and courtyard. "The darkness falls!" they cried. "The Shadow is broken!"
In the Great Hall, the White Tree shimmered faintly as a new wind swept through the court. The petals trembled, and one single bloom opened in full.
---
In Rohan, shepherds on the plains lifted their faces to the sun.
In the Blue Mountains, dwarves paused their hammering as the echo of thunder rolled and faded.
In Lothlórien, the golden leaves shone brighter than they had in centuries.
And high above, through the fading clouds and dying smoke, the Spirit of Dawn soared northward — silver upon gold — carrying the last echo of a fallen Shadow, and the first light of a new Age.