— Third Person Perspective —
The Oak Shield company advanced cautiously, while warg riders were closing in from the left flank. Halt, Gilan, and the Khuzait warriors unleashed a rain of arrows upon the approaching beasts. Gilan swiftly drew his new bow, feeling a surge of admiration for its ease of pull—it required almost no effort. He aimed at a warg charging straight toward him; in a single heartbeat, he gauged the wind, his own movement, and the beast's speed—then released.
Fiiiuuu~
The arrow shot through the air faster than usual, piercing straight into the warg's skull. The shaft buried almost entirely in its head; the creature's corpse rolled several times before coming to a halt. Gilan wasted no time—he loosed five more arrows in rapid succession. One warg fell dead, another took a hit to the leg, while three others managed to evade at the last second.
It was the first time the Khuzait warriors had seen Gilan in action. They watched in awe at his precision and lightning-fast shooting. Bamsı gave a sharp whistle, drew his bow, and aimed at a warg rider.
Fiyuuu~
The warg rider—one of the orcish elite—felt the danger and raised his shield just in time.
BANG!
The arrow shattered against it. Bamsı's brows furrowed. He fired again.
Fiyuuu~
BANG!
Once more, the arrow broke upon the shield. Bamsı's eye twitched violently. He gripped the bow so hard that it creaked under pressure.
CRACK! CRACK!
He fired again—but this time, he aimed for the warg beneath the orc. He released the arrow and waited eagerly to see it hit.
Fiyuuu~
But the beast saw it coming and dodged swiftly; the arrow buried itself in the dirt. Bamsı froze for a moment, then glared furiously at the rider and his warg. He swore the warg was laughing at him—and that thought alone was enough to drive him mad.
"Hehehe~ fine, have it your way!"
With a wild grin, Bamsı tossed his bow aside onto the saddle and reached for his twin swords. Just as he was about to charge, his brother Doğan called out urgently.
"Brother! Don't get mad! Be patient—we're almost at our target!"
Doğan's voice carried panic, because Bamsı's face was bright red, his breath heavy like an enraged bull. Veins bulged across his forehead, and yet he smiled coldly—almost maniacally—at his enemy. Doğan had been with him since childhood. The last time Bamsı looked like this, far too much blood had been spilled.
Bamsı took several deep breaths. As wild as he was, he wasn't stupid—on the contrary, he was sharp and battle-hardened. He loved the thrill of combat, the rush of the fight—but hated thinking too much. Still, he knew his priorities. If one of his comrades were to die because of his recklessness, he would never forgive himself. So, forcing himself to calm down, he left his swords sheathed and picked up his bow again.
He studied the warg rider carefully, thinking of a way to bring him down. Suddenly, an idea sparked. Bamsı pulled several arrows from his quiver, holding five in one hand, and fired them one after another in quick succession.
"Hah! Try dodging this, you flea-ridden sack of fur."
Fiyuuu~ x5
Five arrows streaked through the air in perfect parallel formation, each slightly apart from the others. The warg froze—one arrow was coming straight for him, but there were two on his right and two on his left. The beast chose to jump with all its strength—but it wasn't fast enough. One arrow struck true, piercing deep into its belly.
The orc rider toppled, crashing to the ground and rolling several times before stopping. The warg was dead; the rider's condition was unknown.
"HAH! SKEWERED HIM GOOD! HAHAHA! DOĞAN, THAT MAKES TWO FOR ME!"
Bamsı shouted triumphantly, puffing his chest with pride as he looked to Doğan for acknowledgment. But Doğan merely stared blankly and replied,
"I'm at four."
"WHAT!?"
Doğan shrugged.
"While you were busy focusing on that one, I took down four."
Bamsı's jaw dropped, and his expression twisted with outrage. He quickly began searching for new targets.
Meanwhile, on the right flank, Bilbo and Kili were advancing—scanning their surroundings and glancing toward the ongoing battle on the left. Bilbo's eyes caught a dust cloud rising from the distance.
"Kili!" he called out.
Kili turned, following Bilbo's gaze—and his eyes widened.
"By Durin's dirty drawers! Not again!"
A massive pack of wargs was charging from the right. Kili couldn't help but curse in frustration. The last two week had aged him more than any adventure in his life; a few strands of his hair had even turned gray from stress.
"UNCLE!" he shouted.
Thorin turned toward him, and Kili pointed at the right flank. Thorin's brows twitched violently as he let out a flurry of furious curses.
"*************! ***********! ************!"
Then he turned to the left and roared,
"HALT! THEY'RE COMING FROM THE RIGHT!"
On the left flank, Halt flinched mid-shot and glanced right. He muttered a curse in Welsh, then shouted,
"******! GILAN! ENEMY FROM THE RIGHT! TAKE HALF YOUR MEN AND DEFEND THE FLANK!"
"GOT IT! ALTAY! GIVE ME FIVE MEN!"
Altay quickly called out names.
"BAMSI! UMAY! ALP! URAZ! NILAY! SUPPORT GILAN!"
Leading his group, Gilan rushed toward the right flank. At that moment, Gandalf raised his staff and released a glowing sphere of mana into the air. He carefully aimed it in their direction so the elves could see which way they were heading. The old wizard muttered to himself:
"In the last week alone, I've lived through more danger than I have in years... and somehow, I feel this is only the beginning."
The mana orb soared upward, glowing brightly before bursting apart. The explosion illuminated the night sky, visible from every corner of the battlefield.
---Meanwhile, in Rivendell---
Rivendell lay hidden within a vast valley between towering mountain ranges. Thin waterfalls cascaded down from the cliffs, merging into the crystal river that flowed through the valley's heart. The gentle sound of water blended with the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The entire valley was wrapped in dense forest. From afar, pale stone structures peeked between the trees—homes harmoniously intertwined with nature.
These were no ordinary houses, but graceful halls crafted from stone and wood in perfect balance. Each was adorned with high arches, open terraces, and wide windows. Ivy climbed the walls, and white blossoms bloomed around the marble pillars. The rooftops, made of dark polished wood, curved upward delicately—the hallmark of elven architecture.
The paths were narrow, cobbled trails connecting terraces through arched bridges. The bridges over the river appeared fragile yet strong, carved with elegant elven patterns. Along the riverbanks, small gardens and fruit trees thrived, with benches for quiet reflection. Sunlight filtered through the peaks above, scattering across the water's surface, making the entire valley shimmer as though wrapped in a soft golden veil.
There was little movement. Birds flitted silently between branches, and from somewhere far away came the faint sound of music—perhaps a flute, or merely the wind whispering through the stone arches. The air was crisp, cool, and alive. Everything was peaceful, orderly, exactly as it should be.
A few grand structures stood out along the valley, none more magnificent than the house of Elrond atop the highest terrace. It was broader and taller than the rest, its front supported by long stone columns and its rear nestled against the mountain wall. From its balconies, one could see the entire valley—the winding river, the aligned bridges, the graceful arrangement of homes.
At night, Rivendell transformed entirely. Warm lights from every window reflected upon the river, as though stars were floating upon its surface. The sky was often clear, the stars reaching down to the mountain peaks, while the valley lay bathed in serene silence—broken only by the murmur of the river.
Rivendell was a place untouched by war, chaos, or noise. Time seemed to flow more slowly there. Aside from the constant stream of the river, nothing ever truly changed. It was a valley where years passed quietly—a sanctuary for travelers, and a home for the elves.
Elrond's house stood on the highest terrace of Rivendell, overlooking the entire valley below. Even from afar, the graceful lines of the building caught the eye. A wide stone staircase led up to the entrance, which opened into a courtyard surrounded by open columns. Each column was carved with delicate patterns—leaves and winding vines intertwined across the stone like living art.
The walls were made of pale stone, smooth to the touch, softened by slender ivy climbing upward in silent devotion. The roof, of dark polished wood, curved elegantly at the ends, reflecting that natural, flowing harmony so unique to elven architecture.
Through the wide windows, daylight poured in freely. The frames were adorned with intricate carvings, the glass faintly tinted so that the sunlight entered in a gentle, golden hue, leaving a warm shimmer across the stone floor. Even from outside, one could feel the air of the place—quiet, cool, and perfectly ordered.
Before the door stretched a small terrace, commanding a breathtaking view of the valley. From there, one could see the winding river, the bridges arching gracefully over it, even the distant shimmer of leaves stirred by the wind. At night, the whole valley transformed into a sea of starlight, with lamplight spilling softly from the windows below.
Elrond's home was more than a residence—it was the very heart of Rivendell's governance. Inside lay a vast hall, with high ceilings and broad, carved beams. Maps and ancient scrolls hung along the walls, mingling with elven-made ornaments. Fine handwoven rugs covered the floor. At the center stood a long table where Elrond and his guests would often gather to discuss matters of wisdom and counsel.
Corridors branched from the hall to other chambers of the house: a silent library, a healing room filled with living plants, and several elegant rooms for guests. The library was one of the most remarkable places—its shelves reached all the way to the ceiling, filled neatly with old books and scrolls. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and resin.
From the outside, Elrond's house might seem as grand as a palace, but within, grandeur gave way to simplicity and serenity. Everything balanced delicately between elegance and purpose.
It was a place that carried the very soul of Rivendell—wisdom, silence, and peace intertwined. Here, time itself seemed to slow, and the chaos of the world was left beyond the threshold.
From the terrace drifted a soft melody. Two tall, graceful elves with long black hair sat there, listening to the calm of the night and watching the stars.
Elrond was spending one of the most precious moments of his day—sharing quiet time with his lovely daughter, Arwen. If one were to ask him what he valued most in life, he would have answered without hesitation: the time spent with his family.
Arwen sat elegantly beside her father, humming an ancient elven tune. Her voice was soothing, soft as velvet. Elrond leaned back in his finely crafted wooden chair, but though this should have been a moment of peace, his face carried the weight of thought. He had learned of the bounty placed on Thorin Oakenshield and his nephews. Troubling thoughts passed through his mind.
'What should I do? Should I intervene… or stay distant?'
His eyes lifted toward the brightest star in the night sky, and his thoughts drifted back through the ages—to the image of a broad-shouldered dwarf with a fiery red beard and a proud smile.
'What would you have me do, Durin? Those three are your direct descendants—the last of your line. Am I to stand by and watch the final blood of my sworn brother perish?'
There had always been a mystery surrounding the bond between Elrond and Durin IV. They were more than friends—they were brothers in spirit. Each admired the other deeply, and their ideas often mirrored one another. Durin had found in Elrond a friendship unlike any he had known among dwarves, while Elrond had found in Durin a kindred mind who understood the thoughts that often set him apart from his own kind. When the two met, conversation would flow endlessly; time itself seemed to disappear.
Their friendship, born from chance, grew into a brotherhood sworn by oath—Durin's own suggestion. Both believed nothing could ever break their bond… until the hatred between their peoples reached its peak.
When the King of Khazad-dûm—Durin's father—learned of his son's friendship with an elf, his fury was boundless. The two quarreled bitterly, and Durin, with the unyielding stubbornness of his kind, declared that he would not abandon his friendship with Elrond. The king, enraged by his heir's defiance, could scarcely contain himself.
At first, Elrond knew nothing of these matters. He only noticed a change in Durin's demeanor and later learned the truth from Durin's betrothed. It grieved him deeply. He did not wish for his friend to stand against his own kin—especially not his family—so he chose to distance himself.
The last time they met was after Sauron's so-called defeat. Durin had been gravely wounded in an ambush by Sauron's followers, yet he survived. That meeting would be their last. A year later, Durin succumbed to his wounds. When Elrond received the news, his world fell apart.
From that day forward, Elrond became a colder man. The warm, sincere smile that had once never left his youthful face vanished, replaced by measured composure. He rarely smiled again—until he met Celebrian, Arwen's mother, and later, when his daughter was born. He smiled more often then, though never quite as he once had. Losing a friend you considered a brother leaves a scar that never truly fades.
"Faaat… Faaa… Faaaatheeer… Father! Father!"
Elrond blinked, pulled from his thoughts by Arwen's voice. His gaze softened as he looked into her eyes. She spoke, her tone laced with worry.
"Are you all right?"
Elrond sighed and answered softly,
"I'm fine… I just remembered an old friend."
But Arwen wasn't convinced.
"Father, you've been lost in thought a lot lately. Something's bothering you. You won't tell me or Mother what it is."
Arwen rose, knelt beside him, and took his hand. She gently pressed it against her cheek, her voice tender.
"You're my father. We're a family. Families are supposed to help each other. Whatever troubles you, tell us—we'll find a way together. My mother will be back soon from Grandmother's; she can help you too."
Elrond remained silent, surprised at how deeply the matter of Thorin affected him. Normally, he hid his emotions well. After a long pause, he sighed, then stood. Arwen, a little startled, also stood and looked at him, hope flickering in her eyes.
Elrond met her gaze for a moment but said nothing. Instead, he raised a hand and gently stroked her head.
"Don't worry about me, my dear. I'm fine."
Arwen felt a twinge of disappointment. It wasn't the first time she had seen her father like this. Every year, during certain times, Elrond would grow quieter—withdrawn. He would speak less, work less, even spend less time with his family.
When she was younger, Arwen had asked her mother why he behaved this way, but Celebrian didn't know either.
--- Flashback ---
"I don't know, Arwen,"
Celebrian had said.
"When I first met your father, he rarely smiled. He was usually calm, serious, disciplined… but once a year, he would close himself off completely, almost as if he were mourning. Before you were born, it happened more often, but he seems more at peace now."
Curious, Arwen and her mother had quietly asked some of Elrond's closest friends, but none could give an answer. They even sought the wisdom of Galadriel herself, but her reply offered little clarity.
"I do not know the full reason,"
Galadriel said.
"Elrond and I were close once, but during the wars, we came to disagree—bitterly, at times. I must admit, his counsel was often the wiser. Back then, my brother, my father, and my kin had all been slain by Sauron's hand. I was consumed by vengeance… my rage clouded my judgment. My pride led to the fall of one of our cities. But that is another tale.
Elrond was once very different—cheerful, full of light, his smile unshaken by any shadow. Yet after the war, I did not see him for five years. When he returned, his smile was gone. I tried to speak with him, but he withdrew from me. For five hundred years, he kept his distance. We exchanged greetings, spoke only of necessity, but never as friends. I too wondered what changed him… yet I never sought the truth. I feared to endanger what fragile friendship remained between us. In time, I chose not to pry."
Hearing this, Arwen had grown disheartened. Not even her wise grandmother knew the reason. She would have to hear it from her father himself. Galadriel had noticed her granddaughter's downcast face and chuckled softly. Stroking Arwen's cheek, she said,
"If you're really so curious, I can direct you to someone who might know; one of your father's teachers. If anyone should know, it's him."
Following Galadriel's guidance, Arwen and her mother met with an elf so ancient that even among elves he was considered old. The elder listened and then spoke gently.
"Elrond was a good child—always smiling, one of the most hopeful elves I have ever known… until he lost his dearest friend. Since that day, he has never been the same. Every year, when that day comes, he grows quiet again—it is the anniversary of that friend's death. He mourns still, unable to let go of the pain. The two of them were like twin souls—their thoughts, ideals, and passions intertwined perfectly. His friend's death struck Elrond deeply, for it came too soon… and they had quarreled before the end."
Celebrian, curious, asked the question that lingered most in her mind.
"This friend… was it a woman?"
"Mother!"
Arwen gasped, wide-eyed.
Celebrian only smiled at her daughter.
"You'll understand when you're older."
The old elf chuckled softly.
"No. He was a man."
Celebrian let out a small breath of relief, while Arwen, ever curious, leaned forward.
"Then who was he? The friend my father misses so much—can you tell us his name?"
The elder shook his head.
"No. That is Elrond's secret to share. Until he chooses to speak of it, I can tell you no more."
Arwen's shoulders slumped in disappointment, but before she could press further, her mother gently stopped her, thanked the old elf, and led her outside.
"We must respect your father, Arwen," Celebrian said softly. "He will tell us when he is ready."
Arwen accepted with quiet disappointment.
---Present Time---
When Arwen opened her mouth to speak, a surge of mana erupted across the night sky. The heavens blazed with sudden light. Elrond's brows knitted together.
"Guards!"
Two heavily armored elves entered at once.
"Prepare the riders immediately! That was a signal for help — I will accompany them myself."
The elven guards saluted with grace and left to carry out the order. Arwen looked at her father with concern and curiosity.
"Who do you think is asking for help?"
Elrond was already preparing to don his armor.
"It doesn't matter. If someone came to Rivendell as a guest and now calls for aid, we shall answer. Rivendell always greets its guests and allies with open arms… but if this is a trap, they will all die."
Arwen stepped forward to help her father with his armor. Elrond, deep in thought, continued fastening the silver plates in silence.
---Thirty minutes after the mana burst---
Less than an hour's ride from Rivendell, four groups were moving swiftly through the forest. The Oak Shield Company was locked in fierce combat with two packs of wargs attacking from both flanks. Halt and Gilan led the mounted archers, their fingers raw and bleeding from endless bowstrings, yet they did not stop. Arrows whistled through the air — but their quivers were running dangerously low.
Fiyuuu~
URGH!
Fiyuuu~
PAT!
Fiyuuu~
BANG!
Halt's group managed to take down ten wargs and three riders, but the enemy had grown cautious. The beasts moved unpredictably, zigzagging between trees and rocks.
Doğan muttered under his breath.
"Tch! These bastards are clever — they're trying to drain our arrows. They're not charging straight anymore."
He glanced at his saddle quiver. Seven arrows left. His gaze darted toward the main company.
"FÍLI! DWALIN! I'M RUNNING OUT OF ARROWS — GIVE ME A FULL QUIVER!"
Luckily, they had scavenged a few enemy quivers during earlier skirmishes… but even that wouldn't last forever.
Fíli galloped over swiftly, tossing a full quiver to Halt and another to Doğan before speaking.
"Halt, these are the last ones. Gilan's side isn't doing great — they've been firing non-stop. We think there are over forty enemies, and at least a dozen warg riders. Some orcs are firing arrows too."
Halt listened carefully, still loosing arrows, then barked an order.
"USE YOUR ARROWS WISELY! DO NOT FIRE UNLESS THEY'RE CLOSE! THESE ARE OUR LAST SHOTS!"
The archers immediately ceased firing, conserving what remained while riding alertly forward. Gilan's group did the same, shooting only when necessary.
The Oakenshield group was cornered by the enemy once again. Their mounted archery proved its worth — but their supply of arrows was nearly gone. Gandalf weighed whether to use magic. He hesitated; he didn't wish to waste power unless absolutely needed. Yet the wargs were many, and without the fear of arrows, they'd already be upon them. The faint sound of orcs goading the beasts reached his ears. Just as he made his decision—
FFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMM...
A deep horn's call echoed through the valley. Gandalf smiled toward the sound — the elves had arrived, and Lord Elrond himself led the charge. Relief washed through the weary company; even the orcs faltered, eyes filled with dread and hatred.
Elrond's voice rang clear and commanding:
"Dagad yrch, tira naugrim a edain!"
(Slay the orcs — protect the dwarves and men!)
The elves split into two divisions. Elrond and his vanguard rode toward Gilan's embattled flank, while the second group reinforced Halt's side. Arrows sang again, graceful and deadly. Several wargs fell before they even reached the line.
Then Elrond unsheathed his sword — and in a single breath, four wargs and two riders fell to the ground. His soldiers followed, their strikes elegant yet merciless. It became a one-sided massacre.
The Elves were armored from head to toe, their horses bred for war, and their coordination unrivaled. The Orc riders were an army of bounty hunters and assassins, no match for the True Warg cavalry. They stood no chance against a disciplined army led by Elrond.
The entire battle lasted less than twenty minutes. The remaining wargs broke and fled, but the last rider was cut down by Elrond's blade.
The Oak Shield Company waited a short distance away. Elrond approached, stopping before them. Upon seeing Gandalf, he smiled gently.
"It has been a long time, my dear friend."
Gandalf smiled back.
"It's good to see you as well, Lord Elrond. Might we stay in Rivendell for a time? We have wounded among us."
He gestured toward Bifur and Nori. Elrond followed his gaze, then turned back to Gandalf with a soft nod.
"Rivendell would be honored to host you."
He looked around at the group.
"You are all welcome. Now, allow us to escort—"
He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes caught sight of Thorin Oakenshield. For a brief moment, he froze, studying the dwarf intently. The hair and face were different — yet something about Thorin carried the same presence, the same spirit as Durin himself. The faint resemblance stirred old memories. Elrond smiled, touched by nostalgia.
"It is an honor to meet you, Thorin Oakenshield."
Thorin frowned, unimpressed.
"The feeling's mutual... I suppose."
Elrond chuckled softly.
"As hot-tempered as your grandfather."
Thorin blinked in surprise, his frown deepening.
"You knew my grandfather?"
Elrond merely smiled, offering no explanation.
"Come. We shall speak at length once we reach Rivendell."
Suddenly, laughter echoed from afar.
"HAHAHAHAHA! GANDALF! I HAVE ARRIVED!"
The company turned. Gandalf's grin widened.
"So, you made it after all, my friend."
Radagast smiled proudly as his sled screeched to a halt before them.
"Of course!"
However, his rabbits were in dreadful shape — sprawled on the ground, gasping for breath.
Inside their weary minds, murderous thoughts flickered:
PIPPPPPIIII!
(I swear, I'll kill this old man myself!)
PIPIPIPIIIIIII!
(Agreed!)
Ppppppiippppppiiii!
(Let's shove carrots down his throat until he chokes!)
The exhausted rabbits muttered similar squeaks of protest while Radagast scratched his head, embarrassed by their rebellion.
Before anyone could laugh, Gilan's panicked voice rang out.
"GANDALF! COME QUICKLY!"
Frowning, Gandalf hurried to him.
"What is it?"
Gilan pointed at Igris, hesitating.
"I–I–is this normal?"
Everyone turned to look — and froze.One of Igris's arms was completely covered in dark scales, black as obsidian, the hand more claw than human.
Gandalf's eyes narrowed.
"This... should be impossible..."