The council was held on neutral ground, halfway between Erebor's looming gates and the shattered walls of Dale. A simple pavilion had been raised there, little more than a big tent with a long oaken table beneath, a few sturdy chairs, and carpets laid over the earth. Jugs of water and modest trays of bread and fruit had been set out—symbols of courtesy more than comfort.
On one side of the table sat Thorin Oakenshield, grim and watchful, with Dáin Ironfoot at his right and Balin, ever steady, at his left. Opposite them sat King Thranduil, his face a mask of unruffled grace, though his eyes were keen as polished eralds. Behind his chair stood Legolas and Tauriel, silent shadows in green and silver.
Between these two wary hosts, the others had gathered: Ben, Bilbo, and Bard seated together, while Gandalf and Saruman faced them from across the table.
Gandalf was the first to speak, his voice cutting through the hush.
"Since we are all here, let us begin. Gentlen—and lady," he inclined his head towards Tauriel, who answered with a faint smile, "we are gathered to discuss our ans and strategies to combat the orc army that marches even now upon this place. I propose we begin by taking stock of our numbers and our arms."
Thranduil's voice flowed smoothly in reply. "Certainly. Yet I must ask—why is it that none of our scouts have seen any sign of this supposed orc host?"
Saruman's dark eyes flickered. "I believe you ca here by the Great East Road, my lord?"
"I did," Thranduil admitted with a graceful tilt of his head.
"Then you will have passed round the northern curve of Long Lake," Saruman said. "It is likely the orcs advance from Dol Guldur, south-west of here."
Ben cleared his throat, drawing all eyes. "Actually, the orcs are coming from the south-east, not the south-west. At least those led by Azog are. His son Bolg commands another army, coming from the north-west."
The tent fell silent. Faces turned towards him in disbelief. Gandalf blinked and said flatly, "What?"
Ben rose. From his coat he drew two small discs—smooth, tallic, unassuming—and set them upon the table. At his touch they flared to life, spilling upward columns of light that ford into hovering illusions. The gathered lords and kings leaned forward as the light resolved into images: two different landscapes, both crawling with vast columns of marching orcs.
Ben turned to Thorin, eyes glinting with mischief. "Rember the night I first brought out my flying ship? When we left Azog fuming on that cliff while we soared away under the moonlight?"
Thorin's brows lifted, and he gave a short nod.
"Well," Ben smirked, "I didn't leave him without a parting gift."
He raised a hand, and from the Storage ring upon his finger a shape flitted forth. A tiny bird whirred through the air, its wings glinting with tallic light. It circled once before alighting upon the table.
The gathered people leaned forward in astonishnt. The creature was no true bird—its body glead with polished tal plates, gears clicking faintly beneath translucent crystal. Its beak was a shard of clear stone, its tail and wings fashioned of razor-thin feathers wrought from silver alloy. Its eyes were twin crystal lenses that glowed faintly in the dim tent.
Ben coaxed it onto his hand. "Say hello to the Hummingbird drone. A golem, crafted for the skies. It records sights and sounds from great heights and can send them across leagues in an instant."
Murmurs rippled through the council.
"When we departed," Ben continued, "I left a pair behind to track Azog's movents. That proved… useful. After we escaped, Azog dispatched his son Bolg north to Gundabad."
"Gundabad?" Gandalf repeated sharply, his brow furrowed. The elves stiffened, their king's mask montarily cracking, while Dáin's knuckles whitened on the table.
"Yes," Ben said gravely. "Bolg went to rouse the orcs of Mount Gundabad. Azog himself returned to Dol Guldur to marshal his host." He tapped the discs, and the images shifted. "This was four hours ago."
The first projection clarified—Azog at the head of an army black and endless. "He commands so twenty thousand orcs," Ben said. Frowns deepened; hands clenched. "And with them—forty-one orc berserkers, twenty-eight war trolls, fifty-seven ogres, a hundred wargs and their riders." The view swept over pale, scarred trolls lumbering with catapults lashed to their backs. Murmurs stirred at the sight.
Then the ground split. From the projection, three enormous creatures surged upward—vast wormlike beasts with maws ringed with teeth, boring through stone as if it were sand. "And three were-worms," Ben explained grimly.
"Azog has turned eastward. He tunnels his army through the hills to the south-east, aiming to burst forth unlooked-for at dawn. From their course, I believe he ans to make Ravenhill his command post."
He let the images fade into a topographic map, glowing lines tracing the orcs' march. "By their speed, they will reach this hill just after dawn tomorrow."
The silence that followed was heavy.
He let them absorb this before shifting to the second projection. A warg-rider galloped into view—Bolg, leading a tide of armored orcs carrying long spears.
"Bolg commands twelve thousand northern orcs," Ben said, his tone steady despite the enormity. "With five hundred goblin rcenaries—and worse still, nine hundred Gundabad bats." The vision filled with swarms of monstrous creatures, wings blotting out the sky as they wheeled above the army. Even Thranduil's composure flickered at the sight.
Another map ford, showing a line snaking south. Ben's voice was quiet, but sure. "By my calculations, Bolg's army will arrive an hour after Azog's. Their path curves round Ravenhill. Likely by design."
He looked around the table. "Azog strikes first from the east, overwhelming us. While we fight for our lives, Bolg cos from the west, catching us between hamr and anvil. That, I believe, is their plan."
He sat down, a little awkward, and folded his hands.
For a heartbeat there was only stunned silence. Then Thorin's eyes glead with pride. Balin and Bilbo exchanged a knowing smile. Gandalf's mouth curled beneath his beard. Bard's gaze was solemn with respect; Legolas and Tauriel both looked at Ben as though seeing him anew.
Dáin leaned close to Thorin and muttered, "I see now why you hold him in such regard."
Even Thranduil's cool mask wavered, curiosity kindling behind his eyes. Saruman's long fingers drumd the table, sharp and calculating.
Gandalf cleared his throat. "Very well. Thanks to Ben's foresight, we know our enemy's numbers, their commanders, and their approach. We know when and where they will co. Now what remains is to decide how we shall face them."
Ben glanced around, hesitating, then said, "About that… I may have a few ideas."
All eyes turned toward him once more.
Thranduil's lips curved into a faint, amused smile. "By all ans," he said smoothly. "Do not keep us waiting. What do you have in mind?"
---
The council slowly broke apart as twilight deepened over the valley. The pavilion's torches guttered in the cooling air, their light flickering against the stern faces of dwarves and elves as they withdrew.
Dáin marched down toward the valley where the Iron Hills army waited, barking orders even before he reached his command. Thranduil, with the sa quiet dignity that veiled his sharper thoughts, sent Legolas with word for his captains in Dale. Soon, elven ranks would shift from the ruins to the valley before Erebor, joining the dwarves in the defence of the Mountain.
Gandalf and Saruman lingered at the table, their voices low and deliberate, while Bard departed to the mountain, eager to spend what hours remained with his family. Bilbo had fallen into quiet talk with Balin, the two of them a picture of incongruous comfort beside the great events unfolding.
Ben remained outside the pavilion, watching. To his left, the dwarves of the Iron Hills glittered like a wall of steel, banners snapping in the evening wind. To his right, the elves stood silent in their ordered ranks, a forest of spears gleaming bronze-gold in the setting sun.
Seventeen thousand warriors combined, proud and formidable. And yet… the orcs would co in numbers almost double, with beasts and siege engines to match. Even with his magic and the arsenal he carried from his own world, he wondered grimly how many of these soldiers would see the next evening.
A firm hand settled on his shoulder. He turned and found Thorin standing beside him, his face unreadable, his eyes deep with purpose.
"Walk with ," Thorin said quietly.
Ben raised an eyebrow but followed. Together they passed beneath the towering gates of Erebor, the stone guardians flanking the archway like silent sentinels. Their steps echoed through the entrance hall, where colossal statues of dwarven kings and warriors stood in eternal watch, weapons raised in grim defiance. They crossed the Great Hall of the Kings, its once-ruined pillars and shattered walls now whole again, restored by Ben's spells after the battle with Smaug.
Through passageways and stairwells, across galleries and bridges carved into the stone ribs of the mountain they walked, descending deeper into Erebor's heart. At last Thorin turned down a narrow side-passage, stopping at a barred iron door. He unlocked it himself, the hinges groaning as the heavy door swung open.
Ben stepped inside—and caught his breath.
The chamber was not filled with heaps of coin and baubles but with treasures chosen for their surpassing beauty. Jewels lay arranged upon silken cloths, each gem glowing as if lit from within—sapphires like mountain lakes beneath the stars, rubies burning with the fire of the earth, diamonds scattering torchlight like shards of heaven. Ingots of gold and silver rested in ordered rows, their surfaces so pure they seed to radiate their own light.
"This," Thorin said, stepping beside him, "is the finest of Erebor's treasures. The brightest gems ever mined, the purest gold and silver ever slted." His voice softened, and he turned to Ben. "Months ago, we first t in the Shire. To my sha, I thought little of you then.
You laughed too easily, gave too freely, and asked for nothing in return. I had not seen such ways since the days before Smaug. After the dragon took our ho, my people beca wanderers. I worked the forges of n, filling their armories while they gave scraps in return. A hundred and seventy years of such toil taught distrust and bitterness toward all who were not of Durin's folk."
He looked at Ben again, a smile touching his stern face. "Then you joined our company. You gave us warm food, powerful weapons, and wise counsel. You gave us dignity before Thranduil, when without you we would have had none. Because of you, we did not crawl like beggars—we stood like dwarves. And now, here we are." He spread his arms wide. "Erebor."
His smile deepened, touched with wonder. "I hated Smaug, but I cannot deny his might. The last great dragon of Middle-Earth, who alone destroyed Dale and seized this kingdom—has been slain by thirteen dwarves, two n, and a hobbit. Who would believe that? Yet it happened. And it happened because of you."
Thorin's gaze grew grave. "Without you, none of this would have been possible. Without you, I would never have avenged my people nor reclaid our ho. And without you…" His voice sank. "I might have shared my grandfather's fate. Driven to madness by greed. Blind to the injustice we brought upon our own ho."
He gripped Ben's shoulders, his voice rich with sincerity. "You are a true friend, Benjamin Carter. And now that I am King under the Mountain, I would show you my gratitude."
Turning, Thorin walked to a stone pedestal at the chamber's center. Upon it lay a folded garnt of silvery-grey, shimring faintly as though woven from moonlight. Thorin lifted it with reverence, and the shirt poured like liquid silver through his hands.
"I will not insult you with common gold," Thorin said, raising the vest. "Instead, you shall have this. One of Erebor's greatest treasures. Silver-steel, my forefathers called it—Mithril. Stronger than tempered iron, lighter than woven linen. No blade can pierce it. Its worth in gold could buy the mightiest kingdom of n. And yet… it is my gift. A token of our friendship."
Ben did not reach for it imdiately. His eyes glimred as he called upon Magesight, probing the wondrous garnt.
At once he saw what set Mithril apart: its magical conductivity was staggering, far beyond Electrum, the finest alloy of his own world. Only his wand's core matched it. And more—its enchantnts remained intact even now, centuries after its making, drawing strength from the ambient magic of the mountain.
He drew a slow breath. "Before you give that to , Thorin, there is sothing you must know."
Thorin frowned, but waited.
Ben continued, "Two spells I use often in crafting are Mineral Appraisal and Transmutation. One lets know the exact structure of any ore, tal or gem. The other lets change one thing into another—permanently."
He crossed to the corner of the vault where ingots lay stacked. Picking up a bar of gold, he said, "I've appraised this. I know its exact make—down to the finest detail." Setting it down, he took a bar of silver. "Observe."
Before Thorin's eyes, the silver bar began to shift, its sheen deepening into the warm glow of gold until it matched the ingot beside it.
Thorin's eyes widened, fixed on the transmuted bar.
"I can turn one into another," Ben said calmly, setting the ingot down. "Silver into gold. Stone into diamond. Even… into Mithril. If I learn its composition."
Thorin's gaze snapped to him. "Would you?" he asked, slow and wary.
Ben sighed. "Yes. I won't lie to you, Thorin. That tal is… extraordinary. If you give that vest, I will make more of it. Not for wealth—I can make gold easily enough for that. I would use it for crafting artifacts. But Mithril—I would make more." He looked Thorin in the eye. "If that bothers you, then don't give it to . I won't hold it against you."
Thorin studied him in silence. Then, slowly, he offered the vest again.
"Take it," Thorin said firmly. "The fact that you told this, proves what I already know. You are an honorable man, Benjamin Carter, and a friend I am grateful for." His gaze softened, tinged with lancholy. "Since the fall of Khazad-dûm, no dwarf has found a new vein of Mithril. Perhaps it was ant to co to you—to cease being a relic, and beco once more the seed of great works."
Ben accepted the vest at last. It flowed over his arms like quicksilver, impossibly light. He marveled at it, then looked up and gave Thorin a solemn nod of gratitude.
---
Ben erged from the vault alongside Thorin, the gleam of Mithril still bright in his hands. The silvery fabric seed to glow faintly even in the dim light of the torches, as if it carried a fragnt of moonlight within it. Thorin gave him a final nod before parting ways, leaving Ben alone with his thoughts.
He walked the long stone corridors of Erebor, each step echoing softly against walls once broken and now restored. Along the way, he passed Balin, Kíli, and later Bofur. Each of them halted at the sight of what he carried. Their eyes widened with surprise—Mithril was the treasure of legends, the pride of dwarves since the elder days.
Yet not one of them protested or questioned why it was in Ben's hands. Instead, each offered him a quiet smile, a look of reassurance, a silent acknowledgnt of all he had done for them. Ben returned their smiles with a small nod, though the weight of what he held only pressed more heavily on him.
At last he ca to the front parapets. He rested his forearms on the cold stone and gazed down at the valley below. In his hand, the vest shimred like quicksilver. Mithril—spoken of in the sa breath as Vibranium and Adamantium. One of the reasons he had co to Middle-Earth. And now it was his.
The possibilities spiraled through his mind—craft, enchantnts, creations beyond what this world or the Wizarding World had ever seen. Yet those thoughts gave way, slowly, to the view below.
In the twilight, the valley was alive with movent. The dwarves of the Iron Hills were preparing in earnest: chariots drawn by armored rams stood ready, wheels greased, blades honed; war ballistae were being dragged into place, their crews checking bolts thick as spears. Lines of dwarves drilled in formation, their armor glinting under the firelight.
Beyond them, the elven host stood in ordered ranks, disciplined and still. They carried no engines of war, but their strength lay elsewhere—three thousand bown whose arrows could darken the sky itself. After centuries of distrust, the two armies stood side by side.
Ben's gaze drifted outward. On a hill to the east, he spotted a solitary figure. With a thought, the Farsight runes etched into his glasses shimred to life, sharpening his vision until every detail was clear.
It was Legolas, standing silent and alone. His eyes were not fixed outward, scanning the horizon for foes, but downward, intent upon sothing within the valley. Ben followed his gaze.
Tauriel. She stood among the elven captains, discussing strategy, her voice calm but commanding, her presence unmistakable. Legolas' eyes did not leave her.
Ben exhaled softly, a sound sowhere between a sigh and a chuckle. He slipped the vest into his Storage ring, freeing his hands, and opened a portal with a thought. The rippling circle of light ford beside Legolas, who turned only briefly at its appearance. Having seen such magic before, he did not flinch.
Ben stepped through, the air folding closed behind him. He gave the prince a small nod, which Legolas returned with quiet reserve. Together they stood, looking down at the valley.
"You like her," Ben said at last, his tone simple, direct.
Legolas hesitated. Then, softly, "Yes."
"You should tell her."
"She knows," Legolas replied, his voice edged with resignation, as if that knowledge alone had been enough to still him.
"Perhaps," Ben said, his eyes still on Tauriel. "But maybe she needs to hear it from you."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the camps—the ring of hamrs, the crackle of fire, the murmur of soldiers.
Ben spoke again, his voice lower now. "Do you know what the most destructive force in the universe is?"
Legolas turned his head slightly. "What?"
"Regret," Ben answered. "It eats you from the inside, leaving nothing but an empty husk. n and hobbits live barely a hundred years. Dwarves, perhaps two centuries. They can afford to carry regrets. But elves…" He gave a humorless chuckle, then looked straight at Legolas. "Do you really wish to spend eternity wondering—what if? Or do you want to spend it with her?"
Legolas said nothing. His expression was calm, but thoughtful—his silence spoke of a conflict not yet settled.
Ben opened another portal behind him, the circle glowing faintly against the night. Before stepping through, he turned his head one last ti.
"One thing long-lived beings tend to forget," he said quietly, "is that life is unpredictable. You should seize every mont—for nothing lasts forever."
Then he stepped into the light. The portal closed with a soft shimr, leaving Legolas alone on the hill.
The prince stood still, gazing once more at Tauriel. His eyes lingered on her, and though he spoke no words, his thoughts were heavy, carried by the weight of what Ben had left behind.
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If you like the story, don't forget to leave a couple of stones on your way out 😊😉😊
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