[ Sorry about the late upload, everyone. I just changed jobs. Thankfully, it cut down my total commute time everyday from 2 hours to about 40 minutes. Unfortunately, my workload went up by a huge margin. So, busy, busy, busy!]
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The Great Hall of Erebor shone brighter than it had in a thousand years. Light poured down from chandeliers of cut crystal, scattering across banners of blue and gold that draped the towering pillars. Tapestries depicting the seven clans of Durin's folk — Longbeards, Firebeards, Broadbeams, Ironfists, Stiffbeards, Blacklocks, and Stonefoots — lined the walls, each woven with gold thread that shimmered like molten ore. Enchanted torches burned with steady golden flames, casting a soft, living glow upon the marble floor.
And upon that polished floor, thousands had gathered — warriors, craftsmen, miners, and families — shoulder to shoulder, their beards braided in honor, their armor gleaming. The air thrummed with anticipation, like the echo of a hammer striking the heart of the mountain.
At the far end of the hall rose the dais of marble and gold, and upon it stood the Throne of Durin — vast, ancient, and now fully restored. Once marred by Smaug's claw, it had been reforged by the finest smiths of Erebor, inlaid with runes that pulsed faintly with power. Beside it stood Balin and Dwalin, proud and solemn, and Dáin Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills, his crimson beard braided in ceremonial gold.
Then, as trumpets sounded, the great doors swung open.
Thorin Oakenshield entered.
He wore armor of burnished gold chased with blue enamel, a regal cloak of deep sapphire trailing behind him. Fíli and Kíli followed close, their usual mirth subdued, their steps measured and proud.
As Thorin walked the long aisle, a hush fell over the crowd — then, like a tide breaking, cheers erupted, echoing off the vaulted stone. He reached the dais, gave a discreet nod to Balin, Dwalin, and Dáin, and turned to face his people.
In the front rows stood Gandalf, smiling faintly beneath his hat; beside him, Bilbo and I, both clad in ceremonial dwarven attire, our faces bright with joy. The Company of Thorin stood nearby — Óin and Glóin, Bifur and Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori, and Ori — each looking prouder than Thorin had ever seen them.
Next came Bard the Bowman, Lord of Dale, his children at his side, clothed in new garments that shone in the hall's light. Behind him stood the first of Dale's citizens, builders of a city reborn. Bard's eyes met Thorin's; he bowed deeply, and Thorin returned the gesture with a solemn nod.
At last, Legolas and Tauriel stood among their elven retinue — tall, calm, radiant beneath the dwarven glow. Thorin's gaze lingered on them, and the ancient tension between their peoples seemed to waver, if only for a heartbeat. The two warriors exchanged a respectful nod.
When the trumpets faded, Balin stepped forward, bearing a crown — a circlet of gold and silver, set with gems that caught the torchlight like captured stars. He spoke, his voice carrying through the hall:
"Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. You have reclaimed the lost realm of Erebor.
With courage and valor, you have led our kin through fire and darkness.
You have restored the honor of Durin's folk.
Will you take your place as King Under the Mountain?"
Thorin knelt, his head bowed. The hall was utterly still.
"I will," he said simply, his voice ringing clear.
Balin nodded, and with steady hands, placed the crown upon Thorin's brow.
"Then rise, Thorin Oakenshield — King Under the Mountain."
Thorin rose. The light struck the crown, and the hall exploded with sound.
"All hail Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain!" Dáin bellowed, his voice echoing like a war drum.
The crowd answered as one — a thunderous roar of joy and pride that shook the golden pillars. Hammers clanged against armor; cheers rolled like a storm through the mountain's heart.
At last, Thorin raised a hand. The hall fell gradually silent, save for the fading echo of their devotion. He stepped to the edge of the dais, his gaze sweeping over his kin and allies.
"My friends. My kin. My brothers and sisters in arms," he began, his voice strong yet warm.
"Erebor stands reclaimed — not by the will of one, but by the blood, sweat, and tears of many."
He turned slightly, his eyes seeking out those he named.
"Dwarves fought for our home. Elves stood beside us," he said, meeting the eyes of Legolas and Tauriel.
"Men risked their lives at our gates," he continued, glancing toward Bard.
"Every arrow loosed, every sword that fell, every drop of blood spilled upon this land — has brought us this day."
The hall was silent, utterly entranced.
"We have long held grudges," Thorin said, his tone deepening. "Old hatreds buried deep as gold beneath these halls. Dwarves against elves. Elves against men. Wounds that have poisoned the roots of our world."
He paused, his voice softening.
"But I say to you now — those days must end. The age of grudges has passed. The age of fellowship begins."
He lifted his gaze toward the vaulted ceiling, where runes of Durin's line gleamed like constellations.
"Let Erebor be more than a kingdom," he said. "Let it be a beacon. A forge where peace is hammered, and friendship is tempered stronger than steel. May no pride, no treasure, no rift come between us again."
Then he drew Thror's Justice, its blade gleaming like a shard of sunrise, and held it aloft.
"By Durin's name, and by the heart of Erebor, I swear: these halls shall welcome every ally who seeks peace.
Our gates shall not close to those who come in good faith.
For only together can we keep the darkness at bay."
The Great Hall erupted.
Dwarves pounded their chests, their voices rising in unison. Elves bowed their heads in respect. Gandalf smiled, his eyes glimmering with quiet pride. Even Dáin — granite-faced and gruff — allowed himself a rare, approving grin.
Amid the thunderous applause, Bilbo leaned towards me and murmured with a fond grin,
"Now that's a king."
---
Dwarves really are a hardy people. That thought crossed my mind as I stood in the chamber I'd resided in since the reclamation of Erebor. It was among the finest rooms in the mountain city—though "fine" meant something different to dwarves. Even luxury here was forged from restraint. Nothing gaudy. Nothing wasted.
The walls were smooth and dark, polished until they gleamed like obsidian, their surfaces veined with fine threads of gold and silver that caught the firelight like stars trapped in stone. Massive pillars framed the room, carved with runes of welcome and protection. Between them, bronze sconces held steady amber flames—enchanted, smokeless, eternal.
The floor was a mosaic of interlocking stone tiles, each one subtly distinct, like the mason had hidden a secret message in the geometry. A thick rug of crimson and gold softened the space before the bed. The bed itself—oak reinforced with rune-etched iron—was a testament to dwarven craftsmanship, its headboard carved with Durin's crest. The blankets were heavy wool in muted greys and russets: built for warmth, not vanity.
A sturdy desk sat by the wall, its drawers stamped in Khuzdul script. A low, broad chair waited before it, made for dwarven stature but surprisingly comfortable. In one corner, a hearth was carved straight into the rock. Above it, a granite mantle displayed small treasures—a golden hammer, a miniature anvil, and a crystal lamp that shimmered faintly with captured starlight.
Opposite the bed stood a door of iron-banded oak. The hinges were so precise that even a breath could swing it open. Beyond it, a narrow balcony tunnel led to a shaft of sunlight filtering from the upper vents—an unbroken ray of gold cutting through shadow, touching the floor like a benediction.
I folded the fur-lined coat I'd worn at Thorin's coronation—his gift to me, and a memento of my time in this world. The fabric caught the light briefly before vanishing into my storage ring.
It has been a week since Thorin was crowned King Under the Mountain. Since then, I'd roamed the glittering halls of Erebor and the ruins of Dale beyond. Every morning, I crossed through the mountain gates to help the men rebuild—lifting beams with telekinesis, mending walls with transmutation. What would've taken weeks, I finished in hours. Their gratitude had been overwhelming… and infectious. Amid all that laughter and life, I'd begun to miss my own world, my own family, my friends.
It was time to go home.
I took one last look around the room, then stepped out. Thorin waited outside.
He wore his usual attire—royal but practical. The only difference was the crown, a circlet of burnished gold resting easily upon his brow. For once, there were no guards hovering nearby. Just the two of us.
"You look good, Thorin," I said. "Kingship suits you."
He gave a low chuckle. "The crown doesn't weigh as heavily when one has the right company to share the burden."
I smiled. "Are you sure I can't persuade you to stay a few more days?" he asked.
"No one understands the call of home better than you, my friend," I said gently.
Thorin nodded. "Aye. Then I will not ask you to stay." His voice softened. "But I will ask that you visit us when you can."
"Of course," I said—and then, grinning, added, "Before I go, I have something for you."
Thorin arched a brow. "A parting gift from a wizard? It had better be impressive."
"Judge for yourself," I said, pushing open the door to my room and gesturing for him to enter.
He stepped inside, scanning the chamber. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary," he said dryly. Then, with a smirk, "But after traveling with you for months, I've learned you do love your theatrics. Go on then—dazzle me."
"Challenge accepted," I said, raising one eyebrow and snapping my fingers.
The air shimmered. A wave of magic rippled through the room as the disillusionment charm fell away. In the far corner, light flared—brilliant, silver-white—and Thorin froze.
His mouth opened slightly. No words came out. Just stunned silence.
I strolled up beside him, smug grin firmly in place. "Let me close that for you," I said, lifting a hand and gently nudging his hanging jaw shut.
Before us, stacked neatly in columns, was a mountain of metal bricks—each one glowing with that living, liquid-silver sheen known only to one thing.
Mithril.
Ten thousand bricks, each a perfect kilogram of the most precious metal in Middle-earth.
Thorin whispered, almost reverently, "Is that…?"
"Mithril," I said. "Ten tons of it."
He tore his gaze from the pile, disbelief etched across his face. "How did you—how is this possible?"
"Transmutation," I said with a shrug. "Remember? I told you."
He blinked. "I thought you could only manage small quantities. Not… this."
"Well," I said, smiling, "I couldn't exactly give the King under the Mountain a modest gift, could I? So—what do you think? Not too shabby, eh?"
Thorin shook his head slowly, still smiling. "It's a gift fit for a king of kings. But I can't accept it. It's too much."
"Oh, like hell you can't," I said, crossing my arms. "You remember who gave me that mithril vest? Without it, I couldn't have made this. So technically, this is your fault."
He opened his mouth. "But—"
"No buts," I cut in. "I'm leaving a gift for my friends. That's final. So be a good friend, shut up, and accept it graciously. That's what friends do."
For a long moment, Thorin just looked at me. Then, finally, he sighed—defeated—and smiled. "I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to," I said. "I know you, Thorin Oakenshield. You have a temper like a forge, and trust that comes slowly as winter thaw. But when it matters most, you stand by those you call your own. You always will."
Thorin stepped forward and pulled me into a crushing embrace.
"I will miss you, my friend… nay, my brother."
I patted his back. "It's all right," I said with a grin. "I'd miss me too."
He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that echoed against the stone walls.
---
Thorin and I walked side by side through the halls of Erebor. The mountain felt alive now. The sound of hammers rang faintly in the distance, a steady rhythm that seemed to echo through every corridor. Wherever we went, dwarves moved with quiet purpose—carrying tools, rolling carts of stone, rebuilding what had once been lost. They nodded respectfully as we passed, some offering brief smiles. Every so often, a dwarven child would dart across the hall, then stop to stare, wide-eyed, at the two of us. By now, every parent in Erebor had told their children about the Company that slew Smaug and reclaimed the Lonely Mountain. And though Thorin tried to keep his regal composure, I caught the faint softening in his eyes each time he looked upon them—the new generation, free of the hardships that had shaped his life.
At last, we reached the great gates of Erebor. The massive doors stood open, the late afternoon sunlight spilling through like molten gold. Waiting outside were all our friends—Balin, Dwalin, Fili, Kili, Dain, Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori, and Ori. Alongside them stood Gandalf, Bilbo, Bard, Legolas, and Tauriel. The sight of them all gathered there brought a warmth to my chest—and an ache that sat just behind it.
Two days earlier, I'd told Bilbo that I intended to leave for home soon. He'd nodded, saying he too missed Bag End and that it was time to return. So we'd decided to leave together. I would take him first to the Shire through a portal, and from there, I'd use the Anywhere Door to return to my own world.
When Thorin learned of our plan, he'd tried to arrange a formal farewell—something grand and ceremonial, attended by every dwarf in the mountain. Thankfully, Bilbo and I had talked him out of it. A simple goodbye among friends was all we needed.
One by one, I traded embraces with the Company.
"Dwalin," I said as he crushed me in a hug, "try smiling every once in a while, or your face might freeze like that."
He grunted, but I saw the faint twitch of a grin before he let me go.
"Fili, Kili," I said, turning to the brothers, "make sure your uncle doesn't drown himself in royal duties. Get him to relax occasionally."
They laughed and clapped me on the back, promising they'd do their best—though Thorin gave them a side-eye that said otherwise.
"Bofur," I said, shaking his hand, "try not to drink yourself unconscious every night. Go find yourself a wife instead."
Bofur chuckled, "That might be the more dangerous quest."
I moved on. "Bombur, maybe stop eating halfway through meals before you explode."
"Ha! You try saying no to dwarvish pudding!" he said, patting his stomach.
"Ori," I said last, placing a hand on his shoulder, "keep practicing your runes. You'll be a master carver one day."
His face lit up like a lantern. "Aye, I will."
We laughed, teased, and reminisced, but under the humor was the unspoken truth that this was the end of our journey together.
Even though each member of the Company had signed a contract promising one-fourteenth of Erebor's treasure, none of them had accepted their full share. They'd asked only to be reimbursed for their expenses, insisting the rest be used to aid the families of those who'd fallen in battle.
When Bilbo heard this, he'd tried to do the same, offering his share for the same cause. The dwarves, proud and stubborn, refused, saying he was not bound by dwarven honor. Bilbo, equally stubborn, argued that he'd fought beside them and was as much part of their Company as any dwarf.
In the end, they compromised: he'd keep a single large chest of treasure as payment for his service—a chest now tucked safely within my storage ring. Judging by the weight of gold and gems inside, I doubted Bilbo would ever have to worry about the price of second breakfast again.
When I came to Balin, the eldest among them, he embraced me warmly. His beard brushed against my cheek, smelling faintly of soot and stone. Pulling back, I handed him a stack of thick, leather-bound tomes.
He blinked in surprise. "What's this, lad?"
"The best gift I can leave you," I said. "Knowledge. I never finished our lessons on runes and enchantments, but you all know the basics now. These books hold everything I've learned—rune matrices, inscription harmonics, advanced enchantment theory. With them, dwarven craft will grow beyond even what you can imagine. Not just here in Erebor, but across the world."
Balin's hands trembled as he took the books. His voice was thick when he spoke. "By Durin's beard… this isn't a gift. It's a legacy." He bowed deeply. "The mountain will remember your name, Benjamin Carter, long after the last hammer falls silent."
Next were the elves. Legolas and Tauriel greeted me in the elvish manner—right hand over the heart, a graceful incline of the head. I mirrored it as best I could.
Legolas unclipped Orcrist from his belt and held it out to me. "Thank you for lending it to me when I needed it."
"Keep it," I said.
He frowned. "I cannot. It's yours."
I shook my head. "I found it in a troll hoard. That doesn't make it mine. It was forged by elves of the First Age—you have far more claim to it than I ever will. Besides, I'm no swordsman. Keeping it with me would be an insult to its craftsmanship. In your hands, it'll be what it was meant to be—a weapon of honor."
For a moment, he simply stared at me. Then, slowly, he lowered the blade, smiling faintly. "Thank you."
I waved him off. "Don't make it sound like I'm doing you a favor."
Turning to Tauriel, I said, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Captain." From my storage ring, I produced a mithril bracelet inlaid with emeralds. "This is for you."
She gasped softly, taking it in her hand. "It's beautiful."
"It's more than decoration," I said. "It's enchanted to create a magical shield when something approaches at a threatening speed. Very handy against ambushes—though I'd recommend taking it off during sparring."
Tauriel's lips curved into a gentle smile. She fastened it around her wrist and bowed her head slightly. "Thank you, Benjamin Carter."
Then came Bard. He looked unsure even before I spoke.
"I must say," I told him, "it took me the longest to decide what to give you."
"You owe me nothing, Master Ben," he said with a polite smile.
"Yes, yes, I've heard that before," I replied, smirking. "But I can't give everyone else something and leave you empty-handed. That would ruin my reputation."
From my ring, I drew out a thick tome bound in brown leather. As I opened it, the pages shimmered with motion—blueprints that shifted, words that rearranged, illustrations of cities and schools glowing faintly in gold ink.
"I call it The Codex of Civilization," I said. "It holds knowledge of architecture, agriculture, medicine, governance—the foundations of a better world. It teaches how to build, not conquer. To lead, not rule."
Bard accepted it with both hands, leafing through the pages with awe. "You would give this to men? To us, who can scarcely keep a few cities standing?"
"Don't get me wrong," I said. "I don't expect miracles overnight. But change has to start somewhere. And what better place than Dale—where men, dwarves, and elves will live side by side?"
Bard closed the book reverently. "I'll see to it this knowledge is guarded and shared. Dale will stand on the foundation you've given us."
"I know it will," I said, giving him a small nod.
Finally, I turned to the last figure waiting for me—Gandalf. He leaned on his staff, a soft smile under that weathered hat. I looked at him and, for a moment, all the memories flooded back: our journey, our laughter, the battles, the firelight conversations that stretched deep into the night. The words I wanted to say tangled in my throat.
Gandalf inclined his head. "Well, Benjamin Carter, this is where we part ways. Smaug has fallen. Erebor is free. Sauron's shadow is gone. A new Age begins—and our fellowship, though eternally bound by friendship, must now end."
I swallowed hard, tears pricking at my eyes. Stepping forward, I pulled him into a hug. I didn't trust myself to speak, so I let the gesture carry what words could not. Gandalf's hand came up to pat my back—an unspoken I understand.
When we finally parted, I drew out two final books from my ring.
"These," I said, placing them in his hands, "contain knowledge of light and healing magic—how to heal wounds, purify corruption, and shape light into protection against darkness. I know you'll see to it that they're used well."
He smiled, eyes glinting like morning stars. "I will try."
I nodded and turned to Bilbo. "Ready?"
He adjusted his pack and gave a firm nod. "Ready."
With a wave of my hand, a portal shimmered into existence on the grassy slope outside Bag End. The familiar circular green door stood there, as if inviting us home.
I turned back to the others, blinking rapidly to keep my tears at bay. "Goodbye, everyone," I said, my voice trembling. "Thank you—for letting me be a part of your story. For letting me be your friend."
They stood together, every member of our Company with tears in their eyes. As Bilbo stepped through the portal, I lingered one last second, turning back to face them.
"Until we meet again," I said softly.
Their reply rose as one voice—strong, heartfelt, eternal.
"Until we meet again."
And with that, I stepped through the light, leaving the Lonely Mountain—and a piece of my heart—behind.
---
Evenings in the Shire were the kind of beauty you couldn't bottle — no enchantment, no illusion, no spell could ever capture it. The air hung heavy with the scent of wildflowers and freshly turned earth, and the golden light of the sinking sun rolled like honey over the hills. Bag End, with its round green door and curling chimney smoke, looked less like a home and more like a memory that refused to fade.
I sat on a grassy knoll just above the path — the same one I'd stood on when I'd arrived through the portal earlier that afternoon. Bilbo was inside, humming cheerfully about "mushrooms and Black Forest cake," which, in fairness, was one of the strangest yet most Hobbit-appropriate combinations I'd ever heard. I'd promised to join him soon, but for now… I needed the quiet.
I leaned back on my elbows, watching the light mellow into amber hues. The Shire stretched before me — small, soft, impossibly fragile. From up here, it felt like a painted world, one brushstroke away from vanishing.
And yet, I had changed the strokes.
The One Ring was gone — utterly destroyed. Sauron, obliterated six decades before his shadow was meant to fall across Middle-earth. Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli still breathed. Elves and dwarves who would have known only suspicion now shared bonds of trust. Legolas and Tauriel walked side by side beneath the stars instead of being separated by duty and grief.
I had broken prophecy. I had rewritten destiny.
And yet… as the sun dipped lower, the light dimmed enough for the doubts to show their faces.
Had I done the right thing?
Middle-earth was free — but at what cost to its story? Every age had its shadows to test the hearts of its people. If darkness never came, how would light ever be defined? Without Sauron's fall, would the courage of men still rise? Would the Elves still hear the call of the West, or would they linger too long and decay into melancholy? Would the Dwarves, untested by conflict, grow complacent — their crafts dulled by comfort?
I exhaled softly, the evening wind brushing my face. I had changed this world irrevocably. The question that haunted me was whether I had changed it for better… or worse.
And then there was the other matter — the one that refused to leave me in peace.
My hand drifted to my chest, to the spot that had burned with unearthly agony the day the Ring died.
I had underestimated it. Or maybe I'd overestimated myself. I had forgotten that the Ring wasn't merely a tool — it was a living wound, cut from the soul of Sauron himself. And for a heartbeat… I had been ready to wear it.
I could still hear its whisper — silken, promising, reasonable. You could use it for good. You could fix everything.
Then came the pain.
It wasn't fire. Fire would have been merciful. This was something purer, fiercer — light so intense it felt like it was tearing the darkness out of me by force. I'd fallen to my knees, gasping, clawing at my chest as if I could dig the agony out. Reality itself had seemed fractured. For one impossible second, I thought I was dying.
And then — nothing.
The whispers had vanished. The Ring's will had dissolved. I could feel it — the emptiness where its hunger used to sit in my mind. Someone, somehow, had cut the connection.
I'd asked myself a hundred times since then: What had happened? Who had saved me?
"That would be me," a voice calmly answered from the slope above me.
I froze.
No ripple of magic. No sound of footsteps. Nothing. And yet the voice — warm, knowing, almost amused — resonated in the air like it belonged to the world itself.
Slowly, I turned.
Standing there against the crimson sky was the last person I ever expected to see again.
----
Can you guess who's our mysterious visitor?