I stepped off the bike slowly and looked up at the tall, graceful figure waiting for me. His dark hair shimmered in the sunlight, brown threads catching the breeze like moonlight on water. His robes were elegant, his bearing noble—and his eyes, sharp and timeless, studied me with a calm interest that was equal parts courtesy and caution.
I straightened my coat as my goggles turned back to glasses, and bowed slightly.
"Greetings, good sir. I am Benjamin Carter, wizard-in-training. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
His gaze shifted from me to the bike—still humming faintly, its rune-lit barrels cooling in the breeze—then back again. He raised an eyebrow with quiet curiosity.
"I am Elrond, Lord of Imladris," he said. "Well met, Benjamin Carter. Might I ask what business brings you to this place?"
"I was travelling in the company of Thorin, son of Thrain, and Gandalf the Grey when we were attacked by orcs on the road," I answered. "My friends headed for safety through the Hidden Pass while I stayed behind to take care of the pests."
He regarded me a moment longer, then gave a faint, approving nod.
"Your courage does you credit. Few would face such foes alone. I extend to you the hospitality of my house—and the opportunity to reunite with your companions."
"Thank you, my lord," I said, mounting the bike and riding beside him as we began to move. "That sounds wonderful. I'm quite fond of the lot—even the grumpy ones."
He allowed himself the hint of a smile.
As we rode side by side down the slope, he turned to me again.
"Tell me, Benjamin—where do you hail from?"
"London," I said cheerfully. "In the United Kingdom."
Elrond frowned, his brow creasing just slightly. "I do not know this land. And yet… I sense no falsehood in your words."
"I understand," I said, shrugging. "Let's just say I'm a long way from home."
His gaze lingered, thoughtful but not intrusive. Then he gestured lightly toward the machine humming under me.
"And this… mechanism you ride. It is no horse."
"Indeed not," I said, patting the bike's side. "I built it myself. Horses are great and all, but—between us—riding them is absolute murder on the buttocks. Major design flaw, if you ask me."
That earned a chuckle from the Elven-lord. "All things become easier with time and patience."
"Sure," I said, grinning. "Or, hear me out—we just invent a better way."
The land around us began to change. The rocky plain gave way to sloping hills and narrow ledges. The air grew cooler, clearer. I could hear the distant whisper of running water in a rocky bed below, and the scent of pine began to rise around us—clean and sharp and ancient.
We began to descend a winding, zigzagging path carved into the valley wall. The air warmed with each turn, and that pine scent thickened into something heavier, more intoxicating. My limbs felt lighter. My thoughts, slower. My eyelids, just a touch heavier.
I blinked. "I… don't suppose this sudden urge to catch a wink is normal?"
Elrond glanced at me, a knowing glint in his eye. "One of Rivendell's many defenses. We do not rely solely on stone or steel. What you feel is a veil of peace, woven into the very land. Contentment… serenity… drowsiness. A simple ward—but a powerful one. For what enemy can fight when it is tempted to rest?"
I hummed in appreciation, letting the feeling wash over me. "That's brilliant. Psychological warfare via nap-time."
The trees around us began to change—beech and oak now, taller and more elegant, their leaves dancing gold and green in the filtered light. The rough stone gave way to soft grass beneath the wheels of my bike. The last of summer's green was fading into autumn's gold.
And then… we came to a break in the trees.
I gasped aloud.
Spread before us was a wide, sun-dappled glade—beyond it, nestled among the cliffs and trees, was a valley glowing in golden light. Waterfalls poured like silver threads from the rock faces. Elegant bridges arched over streams that glittered in the sun. And everywhere—trees, flowers, and slender towers crowned with banners that stirred gently in the wind.
Rivendell.
I blinked, speechless for a moment.
Elrond stepped forward, his gaze resting warmly on the valley below. "Welcome, Benjamin Carter… to Imladris, the Last Homely House East of the Sea."
I found myself gaping like a tourist. The golden light spilled across the valley like a blessing. Trees rustled in the soft wind, and the sound of the river below whispered secrets to anyone who would listen. I blinked, trying to take it all in—and then instinct kicked in.
I pulled out my camera from my ring.
"Lord Elrond," I said, trying to keep my voice polite even though I was practically vibrating with excitement. "Would you mind if I took a couple of photographs of this place?"
Elrond turned to me, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. "What's a photograph?"
"Right," I said, digging into my coat. "Here, I'll show you."
I pulled out the photo I always kept in a pocket sleeve—one of me, Rachel, Mum, Dad, and Teddy in the park. Me and mum are trying to hold Teddy still for the camera, but he's clearly going for Dad's shoelaces, while Rachel's somewhere between laughing and choking on an ice cream cone. The picture moved, like all good magical photos do. It wasn't just an image—it was a moment, a memory you could hold in your hand.
Elrond took it gently and examined it, his long fingers gliding over the glossy surface. "Fascinating," he murmured. "A moment in time… frozen, yet alive. Magical, indeed."
I grinned. "So?"
"You may take your photographs," he said with a small nod. "Just be sure not to capture anything… sacred."
"Understood," I said, already lining up the shot. The view was too perfect—gold light, green leaves, soft mists curling in the distance. Click. There. A keepsake of a dream.
Just then, a set of horns sounded from nearby. Deep and regal. The elves were announcing our approach.
We crossed a narrow stone bridge, its surface worn smooth by centuries of use. Ahead, the great house of Rivendell stood like a living sculpture, all elegant curves and pale stone, tucked into nature rather than imposed upon it.
In the courtyard ahead, I spotted them—Gandalf, Radagast, the dwarves, and Bilbo, clustered around one of Elrond's elves, mid-discussion. The moment they saw our procession, the dwarves immediately went into full porcupine mode—axes and swords out, forming a tight circle with Thorin facing the riders.
The Elves fanned out, weapons ready but not drawn, circling them in return. Tension crackled in the air.
Elrond rode ahead, calm and composed. "Mithrandir," he greeted, inclining his head to Gandalf.
Gandalf smiled faintly. "Elrond. A pleasure, as always."
Then Elrond's eyes fell upon Radagast. "Radagast the Brown," he said in surprise. "It has been long since we last met."
Radagast gave a sheepish nod, looking slightly out of place among the tall and graceful elves.
Gandalf gestured to the group. "Where have you been, my friend? We expected to find you here."
Elrond's gaze turned westward. "We were hunting orcs that had crept up from the south. But we came upon a most curious sight instead."
I stepped forward, casually resting one hand on my bike as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "Hey guys."
Gandalf turned, eyebrows lifting. "Ben!"
Bilbo's face lit up. "You made it!"
The dwarves let out various murmurs of relief and surprise.
Elrond gestured to me. "We found the young wizard raining fire and light upon a group of orcs from above. He said he was traveling with a company of dwarves under the guidance of Gandalf the Grey."
He turned to Thorin. "Welcome, Thorin, son of Thrain."
Thorin stepped forward warily. "I do not believe we have met."
"You have your grandfather's bearing," Elrond replied calmly. "I knew Thror, when he ruled under the Mountain."
Thorin's expression hardened. "Indeed. He made no mention of you."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut steel. Yet Elrond, ever composed, ignored the slight and turned his gaze to the company as a whole. In his musical voice, he addressed the nearby elves in Sindarin: "Light the fires, bring forth the wine. We must feed our guests."
The dwarves shifted uneasily, hands tightening on their weapons.
Gloin stepped forward with his axe raised. "What's he saying? Does he offer us insult?"
I chuckled softly, but Gandalf was already moving.
"No, Master Gloin," the wizard said, stern. "He's offering you food."
The dwarves murmured among themselves, still watching the elves like they were ready to bolt. I could practically see the struggle on their faces: pride versus free dinner.
Gloin finally grunted. "Well… in that case, lead on."
I smirked, leaning over to Bilbo. "They're going to lose their minds when they realize it's all vegan."
Bilbo blinked at me. "What's vegan?"
I just gave him a wink.
The peace of Rivendell had begun to work its way into the group, bit by bit. Even with the tension, something about the valley seemed to press down gently on everyone's shoulders—like a warm hand, easing muscles tight with years of war and distrust.
And me? I was just glad to be alive, to be here, and to have a camera full of proof that this wasn't all some very weird dream.
Well, weirder than usual, anyway.
---
The setting sun cast golden light across the courtyard, bathing Rivendell in a warm, ethereal glow. Birds chirped in the trees, and the soft strains of elven music drifted through the air—harps and flutes playing a melody so serene it made the very breeze seem gentler. In the center of the courtyard, a long table groaned beneath the weight of an elaborate vegetarian feast—platters of roasted vegetables, spiced lentils, stuffed mushrooms, warm herb breads, and fragrant rice dishes.
Around the table sat the company of dwarves, freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothes that shimmered faintly with elvish craftsmanship. Bilbo sat beside them, looking curiously at a neatly arranged tower of marinated radishes. Benjamin Carter, now dressed in an elegant yet practical set of grey robes gifted by the elves, lounged in his chair, sipping a goblet of some crisp, floral elven drink.
Despite the hospitality, the dwarves were restless. They poked suspiciously at the food, muttering among themselves.
"Where's the meat?" grumbled Bofur.
"I'd settle for a slice of bacon," muttered Dwalin.
"Do they at least have chips?" Gloin asked, squinting around the table.
Ben chuckled quietly to himself. He had suspected the dwarves would find the elven fare a touch… underwhelming. Watching Bombur eye a bowl of quinoa salad as if it might bite him back, he decided not to mention that most of it was vegan.
Moments later, Elrond, Gandalf, and Radagast entered the courtyard through a colonnaded archway, the air of nobility and old magic trailing behind them. Gandalf gave a theatrical sigh as he pulled out a chair. "Thank you for this fine meal, Lord Elrond," he said. "Although I fear I'm not dressed for the occasion."
Elrond smiled faintly, lowering himself into a chair at the head of the table. "You never are, my friend."
They began to eat, or at least some of them did. The elves and the Wizards partook gracefully, as did Bilbo and Ben. The dwarves, however, needed coaxing.
Elrond, sipping a pale green drink, turned to Gandalf. "So, what brings Gandalf the Grey and Radagast the Brown to Rivendell?"
Gandalf replied, "We were traveling upon the Great East Road when a pack of orcs found us. Seeking refuge, we turned west."
Elrond's gaze slid over to Ben and lingered. "You need not have hurried. By the time we found the orcs, your unusual companion had already taken care of most of them." He gave a faint smile. "From above, no less."
Ben gave a modest shrug.
Elrond's eyes moved to the hilt of the sword strapped to Gandalf's side. "That blade…" he murmured.
With a knowing look, Gandalf drew the weapon and laid it on the table. "We found it in a troll hoard."
Elrond examined it with reverence. "Glamdring," he whispered, running a finger along the runes. "Foe-hammer. Sword of the King of Gondolin. A noble weapon."
Ben rose and presented his sword. Elrond's brows lifted as he took it.
"This… this is Orcrist, the Goblin Cleaver. Forged by the High Elves of the West—my kin." He returned it with care. "May it serve you well."
Ben accepted it but said, "I'm no swordsman. I'm just holding on to it until someone worthy comes along."
Thorin, sitting nearby, scoffed. "He may not be a swordsman, but he's one of the best smiths in all of Middle-earth."
There was a murmured chorus of agreement from the dwarves and Bilbo. Elrond raised an elegant eyebrow.
Thorin nodded to Dwalin, who proudly displayed his gravity hammer. Then Thorin drew his own enchanted sword and unstrapped the shield from his back. Bilbo hesitantly showed off his gleaming sunflare bow, which radiated with faint golden light even in the setting sun.
Elrond was visibly impressed. "These enchantments… they're unlike anything I've ever seen."
Ben leaned forward. "I studied Ancient Runes and Enchantment in school."
Elrond turned to him curiously. "What school?"
"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Ben answered, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Elrond tilted his head slightly. "I do not know this name. It is in London?"
Ben shook his head. "No, it's in Scotland. Although Scotland is part of the United Kingdom, yes."
Elrond looked at him, intrigued but unsettled. There was something in Ben's voice—certainty and honesty—that suggested he was telling the truth. And yet…
Before he could question further, Gandalf raised a hand. "We will discuss young Benjamin's… peculiarities in time. For now, I understand Saruman and Lady Galadriel are to be in Rivendell soon?"
Elrond nodded, recovering. "Indeed. Saruman summoned a meeting of the White Council. They should both arrive by nightfall."
Gandalf exchanged a long glance with Ben, something unspoken passing between them.
"Yes," the wizard said softly. "We have indeed much to talk about."
---
The moon had risen high over Rivendell, silvering the leaves and rooftops with a soft, dreamlike glow. The feast had ended, the dwarves had wandered off in search of anything vaguely resembling meat, and most of the elves had returned to their quiet studies, music, or meditations. In the hush of the valley, two figures could be seen ambling leisurely through the open walkways of the Last Homely House—one small, the other tall, both equally enchanted by their surroundings.
Bilbo Baggins padded along beside Benjamin Carter, his hands clasped behind his back like an elderly scholar on a garden stroll. "Well, I'll say this for the elves," he remarked. "They do know how to make stone feel like home. And I haven't stubbed my toe on a single step all evening."
Ben chuckled, adjusting his new elven robe, which billowed slightly in the breeze despite being entirely wind-resistant. "It's like walking through an architectural poem. Though I'd wager a hobbit-designed path would have more benches and significantly fewer majestic staircases."
They turned a corner and entered a quiet gallery framed by arching windows and columns of white stone. In its center stood a great statue of a noble figure clad in armor, holding aloft the hilt and broken blade of a sword. The shards were cradled in a bed of velvet and moonlight, reverently preserved.
Bilbo stopped and squinted up at the fragments. "What's this then? Someone leave their sword too close to a dragon again?"
Ben stepped closer, eyebrows rising as he read the inscription on the pedestal. "Nope. This would be the Shards of Narsil. The sword that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand. Legendary stuff."
Bilbo whistled low. "Bit broken for a legend."
"Perhaps it will be reforged one day," Ben said, folding his arms. "Passed down to some heroic heir who'll unite men and defeat evil or something. You know, classic prophecy stuff."
"Hmph. Hope they do a good job reforging it," Bilbo muttered. "Wouldn't want it snapping again halfway through a duel. Very embarrassing."
As they turned to leave, their path brought them to a wide mural etched into the stone wall, spanning from floor to ceiling. In dusky hues and golden linework, it depicted a battlefield strewn with corpses and fire. At the center loomed a terrible black-armored figure, mace raised high, towering over a much smaller man with a broken sword—Isildur.
Bilbo's eyes widened. "Is that Sauron?"
Ben nodded, tilting his head. "Yep. The mural of the Battle of Dagorlad. This part here shows the final confrontation. And judging by the size difference, the artist took some… dramatic liberties."
Bilbo gave the mural a long, considering look. "I can see why you'd want a broken sword for that fight. Might distract the fellow while you run away."
Ben grinned. "Nah. Isildur won, remember? Cut the Ring right off Sauron's hand."
Bilbo tapped his chin. "Then what happened?"
Ben hesitated. "Then he got shot by orcs in the woods and dropped the Ring in a river."
Bilbo blinked. "Well. That went downhill fast."
They continued their walk, crossing into one of the open courtyards where lanterns hung from the trees and vines spilled like green waterfalls from high balconies. The air was fragrant with honeysuckle and the whisper of waterfalls in the distance.
Bilbo breathed deeply. "You know, I'm beginning to understand why Elrond doesn't leave this place very often. If I lived here, I'd never go anywhere again."
Ben gave a mock sigh. "Don't tempt me. I have half a mind to bring all my friends and family here and open a bookshop tomorrow."
"Oh yes," Bilbo said, eyes twinkling. "Books, tea, a warm hearth, and no trolls. That's the dream."
They reached a balcony that looked out over the moonlit valley. The towers of Rivendell rose like silver fingers through the mist, and the sound of rushing water sang from far below. Both stood silently for a while, content to just breathe it in.