The air in Elrond's chambers was cool and still, perfumed faintly with night-blooming flowers from the gardens beyond the open windows. The chamber, circular and high-vaulted, was lined with bookshelves and ancient tapestries depicting the history of the Eldar. A silver chandelier glowed softly overhead, casting long shadows upon the polished stone floor. Outside, the waterfalls of Imladris sang their endless song, a backdrop of power and peace.
Elrond stood near a tall window, bathed in the pale light of the rising moon, his face unreadable. His hands were folded behind his back, long robes of midnight blue trailing silently along the floor. Gandalf, seated on a finely carved bench nearby, watched him with an expectant look, his pipe held loosely between his fingers, unlit. Thorin Oakenshield stood rigid with his arms crossed, the map in his hand, his jaw set tight. Beside him, Balin wore an expression of quiet concern, while Bilbo lingered slightly behind them, eyes flicking curiously between each face. Ben leaned casually against a stone column near the chamber's entrance, silent but watchful, his eyes glinting behind his glasses.
"I still say this is no business of the Elves," Thorin muttered, his voice sharp with defiance. "It is my legacy… my burden. Its secrets are mine to guard."
Gandalf's brows lifted in exasperation. "Do not be a stubborn fool, Thorin," he said, his tone edged with steel. "This map may hide the very key to your quest—and Elrond is among the last who can read such hidden texts. Let not pride become greater than purpose."
Thorin's glare faltered as Gandalf's words struck home. His shoulders lowered a fraction. The memory of another voice—Ben's—echoed in his mind: Don't let pride turn a key into a lock. With a reluctant grunt, he stepped forward and extended the map toward Elrond.
Elrond turned at last, his gaze falling on the parchment. He stepped forward with a graceful movement, taking it gently. "A map of Erebor," he murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. "And what interest do you, Thorin, son of Thrain, have in it?"
Before Thorin could reply, Gandalf interjected with a dry smile. "Purely academic, I assure you. You know how fond we are of old things. Tell me, Elrond, do you still read ancient Dwarvish?"
Elrond didn't respond immediately. He had already turned away, walking toward the moonlit edge of the room. As the light touched the surface of the map, something shimmered faintly beneath its ink.
"Moon Runes," Elrond said softly, the words falling from his lips in Sindarin.
Gandalf's eyes lit up. "Moon Runes? Of course!" He turned to the others. "An easy thing to miss."
Bilbo stepped closer, his face alight with curiosity. "Moon Runes? What are they?"
Elrond glanced at him, his expression softening. "They are rune-letters, visible only when the moon shines from behind them. And only then, if it is a moon of the same shape and season as the night on which they were written. The Dwarves devised them, writing them with silver ink."
Thorin stepped closer, his skepticism momentarily replaced by hope. "Can you read them?"
Elrond nodded, then turned and walked out of the room. The others exchanged glances before following, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the stone corridors.
They emerged onto a wide platform of smooth stone, carved into the mountainside. White waterfalls thundered down around them, spraying mist into the night air. Above, the stars gleamed cold and bright. The moon hung low, its crescent shape casting a silver hue over everything. Elrond approached a crystal table at the center of the platform and laid the map upon it.
He examined it silently, the others gathered around him. "These runes were written on a Midsummer's Eve," he said at last, "beneath a crescent moon… nearly two centuries past." He looked up at Thorin, his eyes thoughtful. "It seems you were meant to come here. Fate is with you, Thorin Oakenshield, for that same moon shines upon us tonight."
They all looked up. Thin clouds parted, allowing the moonlight to fall directly onto the crystal table. The runes began to glow, pale and ghostly, rising like frost from the parchment. Light flowed along their edges, illuminating the map with ethereal brilliance.
Elrond's voice was clear as he read:
"Stand by the gray stone when the thrush knocks,
And the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day
Will shine upon the keyhole."
Bilbo blinked, enchanted. "Durin's Day?"
Gandalf answered solemnly. "The first day of the Dwarves' New Year. When the last moon of autumn and the first sun of winter appear in the sky together."
Thorin's brows drew together in alarm. "That is ill news. Summer wanes. Durin's day will soon be upon us."
Balin placed a hand on his shoulder. "There is time yet. We must be in the right place at the right moment. No sooner, no later."
Elrond studied Thorin. "So this is your purpose. To enter the Mountain?"
Thorin's jaw tightened again. "What of it?"
Elrond's gaze grew stern. "There are some who would not deem it wise."
A silence fell.
Ben stepped forward at last, his voice steady and calm. "Then those people would be short-sighted."
All eyes turned to him. The roar of the waterfalls faded in the stillness of the moment.
Ben looked to Elrond, his expression somber. "Has Lady Galadriel arrived? And Saruman the White?"
Elrond nodded slowly. "Just now."
Ben took a breath, his voice quiet but firm. "Good. There's something I must show you. Something that affects the future of elves, dwarves, and men alike."
Elrond studied him for a moment, the moonlight glinting off the silver filigree of his circlet. Then he nodded.
---
The marble stairs wound upward like a carved ribbon of moonstone through the cliffs of Rivendell. Their polished surface gleamed under the night sky, each step echoing softly beneath the travelers' feet. Elrond led the way with silent dignity, his robes trailing behind him like shadowed water, his expression unreadable.
Behind him came Gandalf and Radagast, their staffs clicking softly against the stone. Ben walked a few paces back, flanked by Thorin Oakenshield, whose eyes remained fixed on Elrond's back, his shoulders squared, pride held taut like a drawn bowstring.
"You were fortunate to encounter young Benjamin," Elrond said calmly as they ascended. "But slaying a dragon—especially one as ancient and wicked as Smaug—is no small feat. You would do well to remember that, Gandalf."
He cast a pointed look over his shoulder. The wizard did not flinch, only puffed slightly on his unlit pipe with an air of resignation.
"I remember it well, Elrond," Gandalf muttered, "though you seem to think I don't."
"I know the task is near impossible," Thorin said grimly, his voice echoing faintly in the narrow stairwell. "But I care not. Even without Gandalf… even without Ben, my company and I will march on the Mountain. Erebor is our home—stolen from us by fire and death. I would rather die seeking it than live in exile a day longer."
Elrond glanced back at him but said nothing. The silence pressed between them like stone.
At last, the stairs gave way to a wide stone platform carved into the edge of a towering cliffside. A great chasm yawned to one side, falling away into unknowable depths. The far-off thunder of waterfalls rose faintly from below, distorted by distance and space. Marble plinths lined the escarpment like silent sentinels, and above, the sky opened wide, vast and sharp with starlight. The moon hung low and full, bathing the cliff in silver.
And yet, not one of them—wizard, dwarf, or boy—spared the view so much as a glance. For standing near the edge, half-turned to them in the moonlight, was a woman.
She turned slowly as they approached, and Ben felt his breath catch in his throat.
Never, not even in dreams, had he seen anyone like her.
She stood tall and still, her form draped in robes of moonlight blue and snow-white silk, the fabric catching the wind like the wings of some ancient bird. Her golden hair flowed in soft ringlets, luminous even beneath the stars. Two long strands framed her face, a face regal and beautiful beyond mortal reckoning, her silver circlet glinting softly. A single pearl rested at her chest, glowing with inner light.
But it was her eyes—calm, vast, and ancient—that arrested Ben. They were the eyes of one who had seen ages pass like leaves in the wind. And yet, within them lived compassion, wisdom, a fierce joy, and a serenity that seemed to radiate through the very air around her.
The Lady of Lothlórien.
Gandalf stepped forward slowly, struck momentarily dumb. His voice trembled with warmth.
"Lady Galadriel."
Galadriel smiled softly. "Mithrandir," she replied, her voice like clear water over stone, deep and melodic in the Elven tongue. "It has been a long time."
"Age may have changed me," Gandalf said with a bow, "but not the Lady of Lórien."
She nodded gracefully, then turned to Radagast. "Radagast the Brown, keeper of beasts and wild things. You are welcome."
Radagast inclined his head, his eyes wide and awestruck. "Thank you, my lady."
She then turned her gaze on Thorin. The dwarf stiffened, but bowed slightly.
"Thorin, son of Thrain," Galadriel said. "Your burden is great."
"Your words honor me, my lady," Thorin replied, voice even. "Though I do not ask for pity."
Galadriel merely gave a serene nod, then her gaze settled on Ben.
Ben felt something move through him—not cold, but vast, as if his very soul was being turned over in the light.
He bowed respectfully. "It is an honour to lay eyes upon the Lady of the Golden Wood," he said. "I am Benjamin Carter, student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Galadriel's expression softened further, her smile widening gently. "Then welcome to Rivendell, Benjamin of Hogwarts… and welcome to Arda."
She did not stop looking at him.
Her smile remained, but her eyes searched deeper. Through him. Galadriel, child of Finarfin, granddaughter of Olwë, niece of Fingolfin, once student of Melian the Maia—she who had walked the shores of Aman and crossed the grinding ice of the Helcaraxë—she saw what none had yet fully seen.
In Ben she felt power—young, wild, and raw—but free of corruption or pride. A yearning heart, hungry for connection and adventure. But something else too. A protection wrapped tightly around his soul, not of this world, but not dissimilar to the workings of the Valar. Who had marked this child so?
Before she could speak, another voice rang out.
"So, this is the one," said a tall figure as he approached from the far side of the platform. "The magic-user who has stirred so many currents lately."
Saruman the White.
He looked similar to Gandalf, but where Gandalf was weathered, Saruman was polished. His robes were flawless white, his beard trimmed, and his staff shimmered faintly with enchantment. His face was sharp, calculating—but not unkind, not yet.
Gandalf greeted him with mild surprise. "Saruman. I didn't expect to find you here—or the Lady Galadriel."
Radagast added, "We only just arrived ourselves."
Saruman raised an eyebrow. "When one aims to prod a dragon from slumber, one must expect those watching to take interest." He turned to Ben. "But before we speak of your little crusade, I'd like to know more about you, my young friend."
Ben met his gaze calmly. "I come from another world. It's called Earth… or Terra. There, children born with magic go to schools to learn control. My sister and I attend one—Hogwarts."
Saruman tilted his head, interested.
"There's a powerful artifact at our school," Ben continued, "a gateway that allows travel across worlds. Every once in a while, exceptional students are sent through it - whether for experience or for materials. I came to help Thorin Oakenshield's company reclaim Erebor. To kill the dragon and retrieve its corpse."
Silence followed.
Radagast blinked. "Why would you need the corpse of Smaug?"
Ben sighed. "In another world, far from here, an ancient undead plague is rising again. In two short decades, it will consume all life on that planet—millions of people and animals alike. But we've found a possible answer—something the body of an ancient drake like Smaug might provide. It may be the key to ending this plague before it can claim any more victims."
The weight of his words hung heavy. Gandalf and Galadriel exchanged glances. Elrond's brows were furrowed. Even Saruman, often skeptical, could feel the truth in Ben's voice.
"I see," Saruman said slowly. "A noble goal… but a dangerous one."
He turned to Thorin. "Even so, if you fail—if Smaug awakens and escapes—he will not simply fly north. He will destroy. Lake-town may burn. The Woodland Realm may be next."
Thorin's hands clenched into fists, fury lighting his eyes.
But before his rage could find voice, Ben spoke again.
"The price of inaction," Ben said, "would be far greater."
Galadriel's gaze turned toward him. "What do you mean, Benjamin?"
---
The great round table, carved from a single slab of Rivendell stone, stood at the center of Elrond's council chamber, its surface veined with subtle runes that seemed to flicker faintly in the light. Around it sat the wisest and most powerful of Middle-earth's guardians: Elrond, Lord of Rivendell; Galadriel, Lady of Lothlórien; Saruman the White; Gandalf the Grey; Radagast the Brown; as well as the exiled dwarf prince Thorin Oakenshield and the stranger from another world—Benjamin Carter.
Ben's fingers tapped lightly on the polished surface as he leaned forward, his expression grave. "Earlier today, Radagast the Brown came to us with concerning news," he said. His voice, though calm, held tension. "And something else."
Elrond's sharp eyes shifted to Radagast, who, seated beside Gandalf, gave a solemn nod. He stroked his long, moss-tangled beard and took a deep breath, the lines on his face deepening.
"A sickness has fallen over Greenwood," Radagast began, voice raspy with unease. "The people now call it Mirkwood... for nothing good grows there anymore. The trees are dying. The animals flee. Even the grass withers underfoot."
Galadriel tilted her head, golden hair cascading over her shoulder, brows furrowing. "What sickness?"
Radagast's eyes darkened. "Witchcraft, my lady."
At that, even the serene Galadriel blinked, repeating the word like a breath of wind passing through a dead forest. "Witchcraft?"
"Aye," Radagast confirmed gravely. "Dark and terrible magic. I first noticed it when trying to heal my friend, Sebastian. A porcupine," he added with a faint smile that did little to warm the chill in the room. "But the spell—so twisted, unnatural—it felt wrong. When I tried to undo it, my home was attacked by shadowed beasts. I barely had time to lift the curse before they broke through my wards. They fled once the spell was broken, but not before I saw them—giant spiders... the size of horses."
A murmur of disbelief rippled through the table.
"Will, one of my birds, told me where they came from. Dol Guldur."
That name struck like a gong.
Elrond leaned forward. Galadriel's eyes narrowed with foreboding. Saruman's expression, however, remained unreadable, watching Radagast with measured interest.
"I knew of the Necromancer there," Radagast continued, "but I never thought a mere human sorcerer could summon such foul things, or curse the forest itself. So... I went to the Old Fortress."
He reached inside his robes and slowly pulled out a bundle, wrapped in faded cloth. It thudded dully onto the table like a heartbeat in the quiet. All eyes turned to it.
"What is that?" Elrond asked, hand already moving toward the bundle.
Galadriel's voice cut across the table like a blade. "A relic... of Mordor."
Elrond paused, gaze sharpening. He unwrapped the cloth with caution and dread. Inside lay a short, wickedly sharp blade. Its edge seemed to drink the light. Black steel shimmered with an oily sheen.
"A Morgul blade," Elrond breathed.
"That blade was made for the Witch-king of Angmar," Galadriel said. Her voice was distant, but her eyes gleamed with the cold light of memory. "It was buried with him, when Angmar fell. The Men of the North sealed his remains within the High Fells of Rhudaur. A tomb so deep, no light would ever find it."
Elrond turned to Radagast. "Where did you find this?"
"In the fortress," Radagast said quietly. "It was wielded by a wraith. I fought it—won by the skin of my teeth. And then...I saw the Necromancer. Not a man. No mortal sorcerer could command such darkness. I barely escaped alive."
A long silence settled over the room. The weight of his words pressed on them like a storm.
Ben cleared his throat and stood. "That... that's not the worst of it."
All eyes turned to him.
"One of the reasons I was sent on this quest is because of a unique gift I possess—I am a psychic. Sometimes... I get visions. Glimpses of things that have yet to happen." He extended his hand and a small metallic projector appeared on the table. "This artifact allows me to share memories, even those visions with others."
The device flared to life. Pale blue light shimmered upward, coalescing into a three-dimensional image. The council leaned in, breath held as the scene unfolded.
Gandalf and Radagast stood at the edge of a broken causeway, looking toward the dark, ruined towers of Dol Guldur.
Radagast: "It looks completely abandoned."
Gandalf: "As it is meant to... a spell of concealment lies over this place."
Ben watched as Galadriel and Elrond sat motionless, eyes fixed on the vision. Saruman watched too, unmoving, fingertips steepled under his chin.
Gandalf: "Our Enemy is not ready to show himself. He has not regained his full strength."
Radagast: "What do you mean—?"
Gandalf: "I'm going in alone. Do not come after me."
Radagast's fearful face flickered. "What if it's a trap?"
Gandalf: "It is undoubtedly a trap."
The scene shifted—Gandalf deep within the fortress, his staff sending out a wave of white light. The illusion of safety shattered when the pale orc appeared.
Thorin stood sharply, fists clenched. His voice cracked with fury. "It cannot be! Azog died at Azanulbizar!"
But the image told no lies.
Azog: "Thewizard..."
Orc underling: "He is lifting the spell... he will find us."
Azog smiled. "Yes."
The illusion shifted again. Gandalf was fighting, casting spells, filling the ruined courtyard with bright light. But then came the darkness—the crushing, suffocating presence of something far older, far more terrible.
When Gandalf's staff disintegrated before their eyes, a visible shudder passed through Galadriel. Elrond looked on, eyes shadowed with dread. Saruman sat frozen, his lips pursed tightly. Even he could not deny what they had just seen. Radagast kept shaking in horror.
A huge flaming eye took shape. And the dark pupil formed into a dark figure.
Gandalf: (whispered) "Sauron..."
><><><><><><><><><
So, our favourite Grey wizard won't be making a macho solo entrance into Dol Guldor, get his ass kicked and be stuffed into a hanging cage like a goddamn parakeet.
Also, Saruman isn't evil—not yet. He is just arrogant, stuck-up and egotistical, like every other old white guy with power.