The smoke from the burning trees curled up toward the moonlit sky, casting the cliffside in a veil of haze and shadow. The wind carried the scent of scorched pine and burnt flesh, but Azog the Defiler ignored it all.
His pale, scarred body stood rigid at the edge of the precipice, one clawed hand clenched around the hilt of his massive mace. His eyes, cold and colorless, watched the darkening horizon where a great silhouette vanished into the stars—the Dwarves' flying ship.
The orc's lip curled into a snarl. He had fought and hunted for decades, crushed bones and spilled royal blood, but never had he seen this. A ship that soared like the wind, bearing the sons of Durin beyond his reach. No eagle, no dragon—this was sothing else. A new kind of magic.
Azog growled low in his throat.
"So… the whispers were true," he muttered, his voice rasping like a blade on stone. "A human wizard walks among them."
The wind howled in the canyons below. Behind him, war-drums rumbled faintly in the distance, but the cliff remained deathly still—until heavy paws thudded across the rock.
A great black warg loped forward from the smoky haze, and astride it sat Bolg—massive and armored in jagged iron plates, his father's son in every savage line. His tusked mouth grinned wide.
"You summoned ?"
Azog didn't turn. "You saw it."
Bolg squinted toward the sky, then spat. "I saw cowardice. Oakenshield flies like a craven instead of facing us in battle."
"No." Azog finally turned, and his gaze burned with purpose. "I saw power. That ship was wrought of strange magic. That is the hand of the wizard—the one our master sent you to warn of."
Bolg's grin faded. "The human?"
Azog nodded. "He hides behind dwarves, but he is the true threat. If that ship carries them to Erebor, we lose our chance to strike."
He paced slowly, each step echoing like a drumbeat.
"Sauron commands us to seize him. Dead, if we must—but alive, if we can. His knowledge… his power… could be dangerous."
Bolg dismounted with a grunt, warg growling low beside him. "Then give the word. I'll hunt him myself."
"No." Azog's voice was firm as iron. "You will ride north. Go to Gundabad. Rally our forces. Wargs, trolls, all who still rember the glory of Angmar. Tell them we march—for the Mountain."
Bolg's eyes glead. "And you?"
"I ride to Dol Guldur." Azog's gaze turned toward the East. "The Master gathers his strength there. We will lead the armies from both sides and crush Erebor before the line of Durin can rise again."
The two orcs stood in silence for a mont, the moonlight gleaming off their armor like pale fire.
Bolg bared his teeth in a savage grin. "And if the wizard resists?"
Azog's reply was ice and certainty.
"Then we tear the magic from his bones."
He raised his mace high—and with a guttural roar, Bolg mounted his warg and turned to ride. The beast growled, claws scraping against the rock, then bounded down the cliffside path like a shadow of death.
Azog watched him go, then turned eastward, toward the dark silhouette of Dol Guldur rising like a wound against the night.
"The end cos, Oakenshield," he growled under his breath. "Fly where you will… I will find you."
And with that, the Pale Orc strode back into the smoke and shadow—toward war.
---
Moonlight stread across the elegant deck of The Spirit of Dawn, casting silver sheen on polished railings and smooth wooden floors that humd softly with enchanted propulsion.
The ship glided silently through the star-scattered sky, wings outstretched like a soaring albatross, floating with serene grace above the patchwork of forests, hills, and rivers far below.
Though the ship appeared no longer than eighty feet from the outside, its deck felt far more spacious than physics would permit—another quiet miracle of its maker. The cool wind rustled cloaks and braided beards, refreshing after the acrid smoke and suffocating darkness of Goblin Town.
Bilbo stood at the railing, gazing down at the sleeping lands far below. Forests stretched like shadows, rivers glittered like slivers of glass, and here and there the lantern-glow of a village flickered like a distant firefly. A cool breeze tugged at his curly hair, and he drew his coat closer with a small smile tugging at his lips.
"When Ben first turned up at Bag End," he said aloud, half to himself, "I was sure the strange wizard would turn my humble hobbit-hole into a flying castle or sothing equally unnatural. Well, Bag End isn't flying yet—thank the Valar—but it seems I am."
That earned a round of chuckles from the company. Even Gandalf let out a soft laugh as he leaned on his staff, his eyes thoughtful as he looked around the skyship with a touch of wistfulness.
"Long ago, in the days of the Second Age," the wizard said, his voice gentle, "the Núnóreans—at the height of their glory—crafted ships that could sail not just the seas, but the very air of breath. They were mighty vessels, used to explore unknown lands, far beyond the reach of any mortal kingdom. So say they even reached the Farthest East, beyond the maps we know."
"Flying ships like this, you an?" Kíli asked in wonder, looking around at the graceful vessel.
Gandalf nodded slowly. "After the Downfall of Núnor, such marvels were lost to the world. I have not seen their like in an age."
Fíli, seated on a coil of rope nearby, looked up. "Imagine how much easier and faster travel would be with ships like this! No orc ambushes, no trudging through swamps or climbing over mountains."
"And far safer," Balin added, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "No trolls or goblins up here. Just clouds and stars."
At that mont, Ben stepped away from the helm and joined the group near the starboard side.
"I hope you're all enjoying the flight," Ben said with a grin.
"We are," Dori said, although his tone was a little nervous. "But shouldn't you be steering? The wheel is—well, it's empty."
Ben laughed lightly. "Don't worry. The ship's on Autopilot. As long as there aren't any major storms or crosswinds, it'll stay on course at this altitude."
"Autopilot?" Dwalin raised an eyebrow. "Never mind that. If you had sothing like this all along, why not use it from the start?"
"Well," Ben said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly, "if I had—there wouldn't have been much of a journey, would there? Besides, what would we have done after reaching Erebor? Sit around the hidden door for months, waiting for Durin's Day to arrive?"
That made the dwarves fall silent, looking at one another with sowhat embarrassed expressions. Even Thorin's stern features twitched into a reluctant smirk.
Seeing that they were all a bit scuffed and bruised from the chaos in Goblin Town, Ben brought out several small vials of glowing liquid from his storage ring.
"Here—these should help," he said, handing out potions. "Wiggenweld for the bruises, and a bit of Pepperup to clear your heads."
One by one, the dwarves took the potions gratefully. Bilbo sipped his with a grimace—it tasted like boiled mint and pepper—but within seconds, the ache in his shoulders faded, and his head felt clearer than it had in days.
"Much better," Balin murmured, flexing his fingers.
"Back in fighting shape," grinned Bofur.
Gandalf, watching Ben quietly, finally spoke. "You've done a great deal for us all tonight, Ben. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't brought this ship out when you did."
Ben shrugged with a modest smile. "You'd probably have called the Eagles."
Gandalf raised his eyebrows. "As a matter of fact, I was preparing to do just that."
"See?" Ben said with a grin. "Great minds think alike."
"Alright," Ben said, glancing around at the gathered faces, "now that we've got a mont to breathe, let's talk about how we're going to move forward."
Thorin stepped forward, arms crossed over his chest. "There's nothing to discuss. We press on—fly straight to Erebor." He looked to his kin for support, and many of the dwarves nodded in agreent.
But before the murmurs could rise, Gandalf raised his voice.
"No," the wizard said firmly, leaning on his staff. "We need to make another stop—at the Woodland Realm. The Elves of Mirkwood must be warned that the Enemy has returned."
Thorin's jaw tensed. "The falling kingdoms of Elves are no concern of ours, Mithrandir. Let them deal with their own darkness."
"They may beco your concern," Gandalf retorted, "if the spiders of Mirkwood pour north and lay siege to Erebor alongside the Orcs."
Ben nodded. "Gandalf's right. We need to speak to King Thranduil and convince him to send his army to help defend the Mountain."
Thorin scoffed. "We don't need Elven help to defend our ho. My cousin Dain will answer the call. His army of Iron Hills dwarves will hold the line."
Ben's expression remained calm. "I don't doubt Dain's courage—or his warriors' skill. But how many of them will live to see the end of that battle, Thorin? Is that what you want? Another Azanulbizar?"
The na fell like a stone in still water.
For a mont, no one spoke. The dwarves who had cheered just minutes ago now stood subdued, haunted by the mory of that terrible day. Thorin's expression tightened, but he said nothing.
Ben softened his tone. "Let's go to the Woodland Realm. Talk to Thranduil. He wouldn't want Erebor to beco an Orc stronghold—especially not one that could strike at Mirkwood anyti. Nor would he want Smaug and Sauron joining forces. He has a reason to help. And if he doesn't… we'll leave. Fly to Erebor. No harm done."
A long silence followed.
Then Thorin looked to Balin.
The old dwarf t his gaze, then gave a slow, thoughtful nod.
Thorin turned back to Ben. "Fine. We go to the Woodland Realm. You can speak with Thranduil on our behalf." His voice was firm, but not hostile. "But if the talks fail, we leave for Erebor at once."
Ben nodded. "Deal."
With the matter settled, the tension bled from the air. The dwarves began drifting away in small groups, murmuring quietly among themselves. So returned to the railings, gazing out at the ocean of clouds lit softly by the stars. Others lay back on deck benches, finally allowing themselves to rest.
Ben turned and headed back toward the helm. The wooden wheel spun gently under enchantnt, the glowing runes on its spokes pulsing like a heartbeat.
Gandalf joined him, robes rustling softly in the night air. He watched the boy for a mont before speaking. "You have a gift, Ben. You can make people listen—reason with hearts too often closed."
Ben chuckled. "Not much of a gift. Just a little bit of common sense… and a whole lot of perseverance."
Gandalf smiled beneath his beard. "A powerful combination."
Ben leaned against the helm and looked out toward the eastern horizon. "Are you coming with us to the Woodland Realm?"
Gandalf shook his head. "No. I'm afraid my path lies elsewhere. Galadriel, Elrond, Saruman, and Radagast are waiting for . We're going to confront Sauron at Dol Guldur. The longer he remains in the fortress, the worse the darkness in Mirkwood will grow."
Ben nodded solemnly. "I'm glad we're flying. If we'd gone through the forest..."
"You might not have co out again," Gandalf finished, his voice heavy. "Mirkwood is not what it once was. Be glad you'll soar above its cursed boughs."
Ben glanced over his shoulder. "Where should I drop you off?"
"Just a little ways ahead," Gandalf replied. "I'll need to secure a horse from an old acquaintance of mine who lives nearby. Beorn. He's a skinchanger, a bit gruff… but reliable."
Ben grinned. "I could lend you my bike, if you like."
Gandalf's brows lifted in horror. "No offense, Benjamin, but I will only ride that strange contraption if my life absolutely depends on it."
Ben laughed, and the sound echoed over the deck, warm and light against the hum of magic that carried them ever eastward.
---
The moon rode high above the Great River Anduin, casting silver light over the slow-moving water. The Spirit of Dawn descended with a soft hum of magic, touching down on the upper reaches of the riverbank. The night air was cool, scented faintly of pine and distant adows.
The company disembarked, boots crunching softly on gravel. Thorin's gaze was drawn imdiately to the looming shape that stood a short distance away—a colossal, isolated rock, rising from the ground like a silent sentinel. It stood nearly three stories tall, its face weathered and jagged, the moonlight giving it the pale hue of ancient bone.
Thorin frowned. "Where are we?"
Gandalf stepped forward, leaning on his staff as his eyes went to the great stone. "That," he said, "is called the Carrock. It marks a sort of boundary… a line between the goblins and orcs of the Misty Mountains, and an enemy of theirs—who also happens to be an acquaintance of mine."
Bilbo moved to Gandalf's side, squinting up at the massive rock. "Why is it called the Carrock?"
Gandalf's mouth quirked into a small smile. "He calls it the Carrock because Carrock is his word for it. He calls things like that Carrocks, and this one is the Carrock because it is the only one near his ho and he knows it well."
Bilbo blinked. "Who calls it? Who knows it?"
"The acquaintance I ntioned," Gandalf replied. "A very great person indeed." His tone made it clear that no further explanation would be given—not yet. He lifted his chin toward the eastern horizon. "But what's important is this—we are now more than a hundred miles away from the Misty Mountains. Our pursuers are far behind us."
The dwarves looked at one another, surprised murmurs passing between them. A week's journey on foot—crossed in a couple of hours.
Ben smiled faintly at their wonder, then lifted his hand. The ship shimred and started shrinking, until it was no more than a twelve-inch model glowing faintly in the moonlight.
He slipped it into his Storage ring with practiced ease, then moved about the riverside clearing, murmuring incantations under his breath. Soft threads of warding magic unfurled invisibly into the air, anchoring themselves to the stones and trees.
Every one of them felt dead on their feet. The mory of falling through the goblin trapdoor still clung to them like a bad dream. A hasty dinner was eaten in near silence, and before long, the company was asleep beneath the stars, the sound of the river murmuring in the background.
They woke late the next morning, sunlight already spilling warm and golden over the land. After a hearty breakfast, Ben summoned the ship once more, its full size unfurling in a gleam of light. One by one, they climbed aboard.
The Spirit of Dawn lifted gracefully into the air, the wind fresh and scented with green things. Not long after, a broad, sunlit valley ca into view—a tapestry of heather and clover swaying gently, alive with the hum of bees.
But these were no ordinary bees. Each was nearly the size of a newborn's fist, their deep black bodies striped with yellow so bright it shone like molten gold in the sun. They drifted lazily from flower to flower, their low, resonant buzzing vibrating through the air.
A little further on, nestled amidst the fields, stood a large wooden house with a thatched roof. Wide pastures stretched around it, dotted with sheep, goats, and ponies grazing freely.
Beehives shaped like old tree stumps stood in tidy rows, and vegetable gardens, laid out with simple precision, thrived within a low timber fence overgrown with honeysuckle and wild roses.
"Set us down a little outside the fence," Gandalf said quietly.
The ship touched down gently on the soft grass. Gandalf made his way to the gangway, staff in hand, and turned to the company.
"I'll be back before you are ready to enter the mountain," he told Thorin. "Do not enter without ."
Ben stepped forward, drawing a small silver dallion from his pocket. A red ruby glead at its center, etched with delicate runes. He placed it in Gandalf's palm.
"This will help you be on ti," Ben said. "When your work in Dol Guldur is done, press the ruby. I'll be able to sense your position and open a portal to bring you straight to us."
Gandalf studied the piece with interest, the faint light of the ruby reflecting in his eyes. "A clever gift indeed."
Ben smiled, but his hand moved again, this ti producing a small bottle of glowing, silvery liquid from his storage ring.
The mont Gandalf saw it, his eyes narrowed slightly. The magical power radiating from it was undeniable. "And this?" he asked softly.
"A powerful restorative potion," Ben said. "Brewed from the horn extract of a unicorn—one of the purest magical beings from my world. If you or your friends are injured, whether in body or spirit… it might prove to be of great help."
Gandalf held the vial reverently, his fingers closing around it. He said nothing more, but the gratitude in his eyes spoke clearly.
With a last nod to the company, Gandalf stepped down onto the grass. They watched him make his way toward the broad wooden gate of Beorn's ho, his figure frad by the gold-lit valley.
Monts later, The Spirit of Dawn rose smoothly back into the sky, turning toward the deep green expanse of the Woodland Realm.
---
The Woodland Realm was never truly still, though it wore the quiet like a cloak.
Sunlight spilled through the sumr canopy, scattering in liquid gold shards upon the forest floor.
High in the beech and oak boughs, silver-haired sentries paced the woven bridges, bows in hand, their eyes sweeping the green shadows. Below, the broad path leading to the great gates lay dappled in sunlight and shadow, where elf-maidens carried baskets of herbs and armoured guards drilled with swords and spears under the watch of their captains.
It was a day like any other—until one sentinel, leaning on his bow, froze mid-breath.
A strange gleam had appeared in the distant sky, glinting like polished silver against the morning sun. It moved far too swiftly to be a bird, yet it flew with a grace no machine of n could match.
As it drew closer, the shape resolved into sothing wholly alien to the forest — a sleek, shining vessel with wings that caught the light in dazzling flashes.
Another guard called out sharply in Sindarin, and the cry rippled along the battlents. Elves gathered on the high branches and at the gates below, arrows nocked and eyes narrowing in disbelief.
The ship descended in a wide, silent arc, its keel glowing faintly as if woven from sunlight itself. It skimd above the canopy, casting shifting shadows on the leaves below, before slowing to a graceful hover just above the mossy stone forecourt before the great gates of Thranduil's halls.
The ship's prow dipped in a manner almost like a bow, and it descended in silence save for the deep, resonant hum of its magic. The gates shuddered in their fras as the vessel settled upon its landing struts. Leaves stirred in its wake, and startled birds burst from the branches above.
From the side of the ship, a ramp unfolded with a soft chanical sound. And then, to the astonishnt of all, out strode a young man in strange garnts, confident as though arriving at his own hall, his coat stirring faintly in the forest breeze.
Behind him ca a line of stocky, bearded dwarves in travel-worn mail, their boots thudding heavily on the ramp, and last of all, a small hobbit adjusting his waistcoat with nervous precision.
As murmurs rippled through the elven ranks, the young man smiled brightly, keenly aware of the nurous gazes upon him. "Greetings," he said aloud, his voice carrying with strange confidence across the courtyard, "We co in peace!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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