Note: Sorry, everyone, I made a mistake in the earlier chapter regarding Fiendfyre and Grindelwald. I've corrected it now. Thank you for your understanding.
...
Upon hearing that their leader Bolg had fallen, the Orc army fell into chaos.
And with the giant bats scattered from the sky, the full glare of the sunlight returned, merciless and blazing.
To the sun-hating Orcs, it was like the end of the world.
They screamed, panicked, and fled in every direction, desperately trying to find shelter from the searing light. But there was no escape.
Those caught in the open writhed in agony, their strength draining with every second of exposure. Many collapsed where they stood, too weak to move.
The disciplined Elven and Dwarven armies, seeing this perfect opportunity, wasted no time. They surged forward in coordinated ranks, turning the battlefield into a one-sided rout.
Even Thorin Oakenshield, who had previously been guarding Erebor's gates, now joined the charge, fighting shoulder to shoulder with Dáin Ironfoot and his Iron Hills warriors.
And above all, it was the dragon Smaug who delivered the greatest carnage.
His flames sweeping across the battlefield, turning fleeing Orcs into ash. His massive tail crushed siege weapons and scattered formations like twigs. No one could withstand his fury.
Then came Beorn, now fully transformed into his towering bear for, tearing through the battlefield like a bloodstained juggernaut, flinging Orcs like ragdolls and ripping apart their ranks.
The Orcs had no chance.
They died by the thousands, by flame, by blade, by claw.
By the time the sun began to set, the massive army that Bolg had brought, hundreds of thousands strong, was nearly annihilated.
A few Orcs who regained their strength as darkness returned scattered into the mountains, leaderless and broken.
But these were no longer an army, only frightened beasts running from their own shadows.
Across a field strewn with corpses, the surviving leaders gathered.
There stood King Thranduil, barely touched by battle, his silver hair still immaculate.
Beside him stood Dáin Ironfoot, battered and bloodied, leaning on his axe, and Thorin Oakenshield, grim and silent.
Gandalf stood between them, with Bilbo Baggins beside him, panting and wide-eyed.
For the first time, Elves and Dwarves stood side by side, not in conflict, but in quiet unity.
And then came Sylas.
He descended from the sky on his broom, with the dragon Smaug, closely following behind him.
Even though they had fought side-by-side, the sight of the dragon still made the gathered leaders tense with instinctual fear.
Thranduil, Thorin, and Dáin instinctively reached for their weapons.
Noticing this, Sylas raised a hand.
"Stay," he commanded softly.
Smaug growled low but obeyed, curling behind a nearby ridge.
Only then did Sylas approach the leaders on foot.
Gandalf's face broke into a wide smile.
"Let us welcome the true hero of the Battle of Five Armies, the slayer of both Azog and Bolg, the destroyer of the Orc horde, and the Master of Dragons... Sylas of the Black Robe!"
Even Bilbo clapped excitedly, eyes full of awe.
Then, to everyone's surprise, King Thranduil stepped forward.
Gone was the aloof pride. For the first time, the Elven King bowed his head slightly.
"Wizard Sylas," he said solemnly, "I must offer you my deepest gratitude. If not for your intervention, my people would have shed their last blood here and never seen Mirkwood again."
His words were not empty courtesy.
As a ruler with centuries of foresight, Thranduil understood all too well: had Sylas not stopped the battle between Elf and Dwarf… had he not turned the tide alone, Mirkwood's army might have been lost forever.
In that situation, he could not imagine how he would face his people in the Woodland Realm.
Thus, his gratitude toward Sylas came from the depths of his heart.
"Sylas," Thranduil declared, "you shall be my honored guest, the honored guest of the Elvenking, and an eternal friend of the Woodland Realm. Mirkwood will always welcome your arrival."
With that, Thranduil raised both arms and solemnly performed the ancient Elven salute, his silver cloak billowing behind him.
Legolas, standing just behind his father, offered Sylas a warm smile and bowed low alongside the other Elves.
And then, as one body, the entire Elven host saluted Sylas.
Their movement was precise and fluid, free from ostentation. It was a gesture of sincerity, calm, and timeless grace.
The display caught Sylas completely off guard. His expression faltered slightly, and he became visibly flustered by such overwhelming formality.
"Y-Your Majesty, that's… too generous," he stammered, placing a hand on his chest. "But I'm honored to be a friend of the Woodland Realm. Truly."
Thranduil's face brightened with a rare smile, the kind that reached even his usually distant eyes.
"If you ever find the time, Sylas, do come to the Woodland Realm as my guest. I shall host a grand feast in your honor."
"Legolas has long held you in high regard," he added, glancing toward his son. "I'm sure he will eagerly await your arrival."
Sylas nodded, touched by the invitation. "Once things are settled here," he said, "I will gladly visit your realm on my journey back."
Thranduil's smile deepened.
After all, what ruler wouldn't want to befriend a wizard who could tame dragons, and turn the tide of a world-shaking battle?
And then, not to be outdone, the Dwarves made their move.
Dáin Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills, stepped forward. Gone was the prideful tone from earlier; instead, he now spoke with booming warmth.
"And we of the Iron Hills offer the same!" he proclaimed. "Sylas, you are a friend recognized by Dáin Ironfoot, and our gates shall always be open to you!"
"Moreover," he added, voice louder now, "as thanks for saving our kin and this mountain, we Dwarves shall forge a set of Dragon Armor for your companion! A gift from the Iron Hills, one you must not refuse!"
Sylas blinked, stunned.
Even Smaug lifted his massive head, his eyes glowing with visible excitement. The idea of Dwarven-forged armor, crafted by the finest smiths in Middle-earth, was clearly to the dragon's liking.
Seeing his companion so moved, Sylas smiled and nodded.
"Then I'll accept your gift, Lord Dáin. It's more than generous."
After all, Smaug's heart-scale had been torn away by the black arrow. Armor crafted by Dwarves could cover that weakness, and ensure he would never again fear a mortal weapon.
Thranduil, watching closely, narrowed his eyes. His earlier goodwill remained, but a tinge of calculation crept in.
He had underestimated the Ironfoot Lord.
For all his gruffness, the Dwarf clearly knew how to win favor, not just with gold, but with timely, tactical generosity.
And then, from the back of the group, Thorin Oakenshield stepped forward.
His gaze lingered on Sylas, eyes full of conflicted emotion.
He looked between Sylas, his cousin Dáin, and the wary Elvenking. Then, breathing deeply, he spoke.
"Sylas," he said quietly but firmly, "thank you, for helping me reclaim Erebor from the dragon… and now, for saving it from being lost again to the Orcs."
His voice wavered for just a moment before continuing.
"And… I offer my apology. For the words I spoke to you when I was not myself. They were harsh, and not my true heart."
Sylas's warm smile faded.
He met Thorin's eyes evenly.
"I'm glad you've come to your senses," he said calmly. "I accept your apology."
Thorin let out a long sigh of relief, as if a great burden had finally lifted from his chest.
"Worry not," he promised solemnly. "Your share of the treasure, one-tenth, as agreed, shall be sorted and delivered without delay."
Then he turned to Bilbo, offering a rare, genuine smile.
"And though the Arkenstone was never found, Bilbo's portion shall not be diminished either."
At last, Sylas nodded, his expression softening. For the first time, a flicker of approval crossed his face as he looked at Thorin.
No one knew exactly how Thorin had shaken off the grip of dragon sickness. But now, in this moment, he stood tall and dignified, every inch the King Under the Mountain.
Sensing the time was right, Thranduil stepped forward to make his own request.
To everyone's surprise, Thorin agreed without hesitation.
"No price is needed. It belongs to you."
This simple gestur, a return with no conditions, was more than Thranduil had expected. The cold air between Elf and Dwarf began to thaw. In return, the Elvenking offered back the Orcrist , which had once been confiscated.
Thorin also announced that one-fourteenth of the hoard would go to Bard and the people of Lake-town, in thanks for their valor and the suffering they endured from Smaug's wrath.
Another fourteenth was gifted to Dáin Ironfoot, honoring the Iron Hills for their unwavering aid in battle.
The twelve Dwarves who had journeyed with Thorin to reclaim the Lonely Mountain were also granted generous portions.
His newfound generosity left everyone speechless.
Even Gandalf, who had once been bitterly disappointed in Thorin's descent into obsession, now felt a warm hope rekindling.
"The Lonely Mountain will be stronger than ever," the wizard said, "under a king who has learned wisdom."
After the victory celebrations and burial rites, Thranduil, now in possession of the recovered necklace, began his journey home to Mirkwood with the Elven host.
But just before departure, a small drama unfolded.
Tauriel, Captain of the Elven Guard, stepped forward and bowed before her king.
"Your Majesty," she said softly, "I ask your permission… to leave the Woodland Realm."
Everyone nearby turned at once, shocked.
"I wish to walk a different path," Tauriel continued. "I want to be with Kíli."
During the quest for Erebor, Tauriel had not only protected the young Dwarf but had saved his life, healing him from the wound of a Morgul arrow using athelas.
Somehow, between their unlikely encounters, their hearts had become entwined.
Thranduil's expression darkened.
"You know what you ask," he said. "Elves are bound to time differently. He will age and die before a single season ends for you."
Legolas, who stood nearby, looked stricken.
Even Kíli, though deeply moved, tried to dissuade her.
"You don't need to give up eternity for me," he whispered.
But Tauriel was resolute.
"I do not fear grief. I only fear a life unlived."
Seeing the clarity in her gaze, Thranduil finally relented. He gave no blessing, but neither did he forbid her.
Legolas watched her go with downcast eyes as Thranduil and the Elves disappeared into the forest.
Kíli, in turn, made a request to Thorin.
"Uncle… I will not stay in Erebor. Tauriel's heart is not meant for stone halls or gold-laden chambers. We'll go where the world takes us."
Thorin's face twisted with reluctance.
After all, Kíli and Fíli were not only nephews but his chosen heirs.
And the position of King Under the Mountain would likely be inherited by one of them in the future.
But now that Kili insisted on his request, Thorin could only agree.
Sylas did not express an opinion on this interspecies love, but he was somewhat curious: what would the offspring of a Dwarf and an Elf look like?
Would they lean more towards Dwarves or Elves?
An image of a Dwarf with pointed ears unconsciously popped into Sylas's head, and he was instantly speechless at his own wild thought, quickly shaking off this absurd idea.
When Kili and Tauriel were about to leave, Sylas also offered them his blessings.
And curiously asked, "What are your plans next? Where are you going?"
Kili and Tauriel exchanged glances, their eyes almost trailing threads of connection.
He said with a bright smile, "We plan to travel around and settle down wherever we find a place we like."
"Then, if you come to the West, please do visit Weathertop as my guests, and allow me to be your host." Sylas invited with a smile.
...
Stones PLease
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