[In the previous chapter I wrote:
Saruman isn't evil—not yet. He is just arrogant, stuck-up and egotistical, like every other old white guy with power.
Some people said I was being a bit racist by saying that. In case you forgot, Gandalf is also an old white guy with power—yet he is neither arrogant, stuck-up nor egoistical. Dumbledore, another old white guy with power, is treated far better in this story than almost every other fanfic in Webnovel.
It's a sad world we live in, where people can't tell the difference between a little joke and a derogatory sentence, unless you add something like LOL or 😆😂🤣]
---
The image on the screen flickered in silence, casting eerie shadows across the vaulted chamber. A massive flaming eye formed against the backdrop of darkness—its burning iris narrowing into a pupil that twisted and morphed until the shape of a figure emerged within: tall, dark, and wreathed in shadow.
On the screen, Gandalf's voice came as a low whisper, barely audible, yet full of pain.
"Sauron…"
Ben exhaled sharply and turned off the projector with a wave of his hand. The room fell into an unnatural hush, the silence hanging thick in the air like smoke after a fire. The council chamber felt suddenly colder, as though the very mention of the Dark Lord had drawn a veil of dread across the room.
Then, Gandalf looked around the table and said softly, "He has returned."
Galadriel's eyes burned with light. "We must act swiftly. If the Enemy regains his full strength, all the free peoples of Middle-earth will suffer."
Saruman, who until now had been silent, finally spoke, stroking his beard in slow, measured thought. "Let us not be hasty," he said. "The Dark Lord's power has not yet fully returned. Had it done so, Radagast would not have been able to escape Dol Guldur with his life intact. Even so…" he paused, glancing meaningfully around the room, "what we just witnessed—his will, his form—should not be underestimated. If it came to open conflict now, it would still take all of us to withstand him."
Ben leaned forward, his brow furrowed and his tone calm, but filled with certainty. "Which is precisely why Thorin's quest matters more than ever," he said, gesturing gently toward the Dwarven prince. "Sauron sent Azog and his orcs not merely out of cruelty or vengeance. They were meant to stop Thorin's company from reaching Erebor. The Lonely Mountain is more than a pile of gold to the Enemy—it's a strategic keystone. If he gains a foothold there, he could use it to begin reclaiming the lands of Angmar in the North. That would shift the balance of power completely."
Gandalf's expression darkened. "Should the Northern Kingdom of old rise again under Sauron's command, then Rivendell will fall. So will Lothlórien. And the Shire… even Gondor itself will be hard pressed to stand."
Radagast shuddered visibly, his arms wrapping around his staff as though seeking warmth. "And should he forge an alliance with Smaug…" he began, but trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought aloud.
All around the chamber, faces turned grim. Even Thorin, proud and resolved as ever, tightened his jaw. He had always believed in the importance of his quest—felt it burning in his chest like a forge fire—but now he understood it differently. More than his people's legacy was at stake.
Elrond's voice broke the heavy silence. "And there is still the army gathering beneath Dol Guldur. The orcs we saw—organized, numerous, and swift—they are not just raiding parties. They are marching to war. Azog may already be leading them towards Erebor as we speak."
"Then we must get there first," Ben said firmly. "With our enchanted weapons, armor, and the spells and potions I've brought with me, we stand a good chance at taking down the dragon. Smaug may be mighty, but he is not invincible."
Thorin turned slightly to face the others, his voice level but full of determination. "Once Erebor is ours again, I will send word to my cousin Dain in the Iron Hills. He will come—swiftly, and with an army. Together, we will hold the mountain."
The elves and wizards exchanged long, uncertain glances. None of them spoke immediately. It was clear they harbored doubts—about Smaug's defeat, about the dwarves' ability to withstand a siege, even with aid. But in the end, none voiced any objections.
It was Galadriel who finally broke the impasse, her voice soft yet resolute. "Then so be it. Thorin Oakenshield, Benjamin Carter… you shall have what help we can offer. Gandalf will accompany you through the Misty Mountains and guide you towards the path through Mirkwood. Afterwards, he will part from you and join us at the southern edge of Dol Guldur, where we will confront Sauron together. With luck, Mithrandir will return to your side before the time comes for you to enter the mountain."
Both Gandalf and Ben nodded solemnly. Thorin offered a curt bow.
Galadriel continued. "We will also write letters—myself, Elrond, and Saruman—addressed to King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. In them, we will speak of the Enemy's return, the orcish army, and the true purpose of your quest. We will urge him to grant you safe passage through his forest and, if he can be persuaded, send fighters to aid you in reaching Erebor and slaying the dragon."
She paused then, clearly measuring her next words. "We will even request that he lend his army to repel the orc host. Though I confess, that last request is unlikely to be fulfilled."
Thorin stiffened, and a dark look passed over his face. "I need no help from the Elves of Mirkwood," he said bitterly.
But before his resentment could blossom further, Ben placed a steady hand on his shoulder. His eyes met Thorin's with a silent message—this is not the time. Thorin hesitated, clearly struggling with the request, but at last, he gave Galadriel a terse nod. "Very well," he said, with stiff reluctance. "I will carry your words."
The tension in the room eased slightly, and the council began to prepare to disperse, but Ben lingered, lifting a hand hesitantly.
"Ah… there is one small thing I would ask before we part," he said, somewhat sheepishly, reaching into his satchel and pulling out his camera.
Elrond gave a soft, knowing smile. "Another photograph, perhaps?"
Ben chuckled. The others looked puzzled, so he explained.
"It's called a camera. A tool from my world that captures moments. Images, really. Moving ones too, like the vision we just saw. But this one's simpler—it captures a picture, a memory."
He showed them the moving picture of his family having fun in the park. Radagast blinked in wonder. Gandalf chuckled softly. Galadriel's expression warmed.
"I didn't want to alarm my friends, so I didn't exactly mention the whole 'dragon-fighting' part of this journey, or that I was coming to Middle-Earth in the first place," he said with a half-smile. "But… my best friend, Hermione, knows about this place. She'll never forgive me for coming to Middle-earth without her. Still… maybe if I present her with a picture of all of you, she might go a little easier on me."
There was a soft ripple of laughter around the room. Even Saruman cracked a faint smile.
"Well," said Gandalf, "then we had better make it a good one."
With murmurs of agreement, the group gathered before the levitating camera: Saruman with dignified composure, Elrond with quiet warmth, Galadriel like moonlight given form, Gandalf with a subtle smile behind his beard, Radagast fussing with his hat, Thorin standing proud despite himself, and Ben—young and strange, yet already part of them.
As the camera snapped the picture, a gentle click echoed through the chamber.
A moment saved. A memory forged amidst the gathering storm.
---
The winding stairwell of Rivendell was quiet in the early morning light, their footsteps echoing faintly against the smooth stone. Thorin walked beside Ben in contemplative silence, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes shadowed with old pain.
After several turns of the stair, Thorin broke the silence.
"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice rough but sincere.
Ben glanced sideways. "For what?"
Thorin's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "For showing me where my enemies are."
Ben furrowed his brow. "Azog?"
Thorin nodded once, eyes growing distant. "After we lost Erebor, my grandfather, Thror... he couldn't bear the shame. He sought to reclaim another ancient home—Khazad-dûm, though the world had come to call it Moria. But when we arrived, the orcs were already there. And they had a chieftain... Azog."
His voice sharpened as he said the name. Ben saw the clench of his jaw, the flicker of something fierce in his eyes.
"It was Azog who butchered my grandfather before the gates of Moria," Thorin continued, stopping at a window overlooking the courtyard below. "I took his arm for it, thought I'd killed him. But the filth crawled away and lived."
Ben said nothing, letting the dwarf speak.
"The Battle of Azanulbizar," Thorin went on, "was ours in the end—but it was no victory. So many died, the valley itself soaked in blood. There were no songs sung that night. Only silence, and the stench of death."
He resumed walking, slower now, as though the memory weighed on his limbs.
"My father… he was never the same after that. Grief hollowed him out. And then… he disappeared. Just vanished. I spent years searching for him. And now, now I understand."
He looked over at Ben, eyes burning beneath his furrowed brow.
"Thror gave him the map and the key. And my father made it his mission to reclaim Erebor. But Thrain never made it to the mountain. The orcs must have taken him. To Dol Guldur. Tortured him. Left him to die alone in that cursed place."
Ben felt the flicker of something cold stir in his chest. He had known, in a general sense, about Thrain's fate—but seeing its cost etched across Thorin's face gave the history weight and colour.
They passed into a wide corridor, sunlight dappling through high archways. Elven voices could be heard distantly, melodic and mild, a stark contrast to the heavy silence between the two men.
Thorin's voice lifted with a touch of fire. "Long before all this, during the War of the Elves and Sauron… when Eregion fell, it was my people who came to Elrond's aid. Durin sent warriors from Khazad-dûm to strike Sauron's army from behind. Without us, the elves would have been slaughtered."
His eyes narrowed. "And yet, when Smaug came, no elf came to our aid. Not one. They watched from afar as fire rained down on Dale and Erebor burned. Elrond may speak honeyed words here in his halls, but the betrayal still stings."
They climbed a flight of narrow steps leading to the northern wing. Ben paused, placing a hand lightly on the stone balustrade.
"I won't lie to you, Thorin," he said softly. "I don't understand your pain. Not fully. Not the way one who lived it does."
Thorin turned to face him, brow raised slightly.
"But I swear to you, I'll do everything in my power to help you reclaim your home. And kill the dragon."
For a moment, Thorin studied Ben's face. Then, very faintly, he smiled. It softened the lines of bitterness that had etched themselves into his features over the years.
"You're a good friend, Benjamin. More than I expected. More than most deserve."
Ben shrugged, uncomfortable with praise. "Just trying to do what's right. But—there's one thing I'd ask in return."
Thorin's eyes sharpened again. "Name it."
Ben stopped walking and turned to face him fully. "Let me handle Thranduil."
Thorin's jaw stiffened. He stared at Ben, incredulous. "Why?"
"Because you're furious with him," Ben replied plainly. "And rightfully so. But we have to go through Mirkwood to reach the mountain. A meeting with the Woodland Elves is inevitable. If you speak to Thranduil, it'll end in insults and threats. And while he won't be able to detain us—not with me there—he will send riders after us. And I'd rather not kill elves who are just following orders."
Thorin's nostrils flared. He looked away, lips pressed in a hard line. "You want me to just… stand there and say nothing while that pointy-eared peacock looks down his nose at us?"
Ben gave a slight smile. "No. I want you to not be in the room at all."
Thorin exhaled sharply through his nose. "And you think you can reason with him?"
"I can try. From what I've heard of him, Thranduil respects power, and I'll make sure he knows I have it. If nothing else, he'll listen to me more than he would you. Once you're the King under the Mountain, you can call him all the names you like."
Thorin grunted. The corners of his mouth curled slightly. "That does sound tempting."
They reached the threshold of the chambers assigned to the company. The carved doors stood open, warm firelight spilling out from within.
Thorin turned to Ben, his expression a strange blend of pride and reluctant concession.
"Fine," he said at last. "You talk to Thranduil. I'll stay out of it—for now. But when all this is done, don't expect me to play nice."
Ben laughed lightly. "I wouldn't dream of it."
With a nod that carried both gratitude and gravity, Thorin stepped inside, leaving Ben alone in the corridor—his thoughts already turning to how best to face the Elvenking of the Greenwood.
---
A few days after their arrival, the morning air in Rivendell was crisp and fragrant with the scent of pine and wildflowers drifting from the forest beyond. The sun was just beginning to rise over the eastern ridge, painting the sky with warm gold and pale pink. In the outer courtyard, the company gathered, rested, fed, and quietly preparing to resume their journey. The sounds of rushing waterfalls echoed in the background like an eternal lullaby, and birds chirped overhead in the trees. It was a peaceful morning, and for a moment, even the most travel-weary dwarf felt the touch of that peace.
Despite Lord Elrond's generous offer to replace their lost ponies—who, having more sense than many people, had bolted the moment the Wargs had appeared—Thorin had politely but firmly declined. The loss of the animals was regrettable, but there was no sense taking fresh ones where they would only become liabilities. Elrond had understood, even if he didn't quite agree.
It was not just sentiment guiding Thorin's decision. The usual route through the Misty Mountains, the well-paved High Pass of the Great East Road, had become dangerous. Elrond had gravely warned them that the goblins had taken control of the upper reaches. Orcs patrolled the slopes, ambushing the unwary and desecrating ancient trails. Given that they were already marked by Azog's hunters, Gandalf and the company had wisely agreed to avoid the High Pass.
That meant choosing a narrow, winding route rarely used by travelers—one that twisted and climbed through deep ravines and jagged rocks. There would be no gentle bridges, no paved paths—only treacherous ledges, sheer drops, and the constant risk of falling. Ponies would slow them down, or worse, tumble and drag others with them. They would proceed on foot, carrying what they could.
A short distance from the dwarves, Bilbo and Ben stood together in companionable silence. Bilbo's eyes scanned the valley one last time, lingering on the elegant spires of the Last Homely House, the ivy-covered balconies, the flowing curtains in open windows. He looked as though he were trying to burn every detail into memory, as if by sheer force of will he could carry Rivendell's beauty back to the Shire with him.
Ben glanced at him and smiled. "Don't worry," he said gently. "We'll pass this way again on our way back. Maybe even stay here a couple of nights, get some proper rest."
Bilbo turned to him, surprised, and then laughed, his eyes shining with delight. "You really think so?"
"I do," Ben said with quiet certainty. "And I think Lord Elrond might even serve us something with meat next time."
Bilbo chuckled. "One can dream."
At that moment, Gandalf and Lord Elrond descended the stone steps from the house, walking slowly in conversation. Gandalf's staff clicked lightly against the steps as he walked, his expression composed but reflective.
"Thank you again, Elrond," the wizard said sincerely. "Your hospitality has, as always, been a balm to both body and spirit."
"You are welcome here whenever you choose, Mithrandir," Elrond replied, placing a hand briefly on Gandalf's shoulder. "Though I wish the circumstances of your visits were ever more peaceful."
Elrond paused then, glancing toward the courtyard, where Ben and Bilbo still stood talking. His expression grew thoughtful—measured, even wary.
"You were lucky to find him in the Shire," he said softly. "Almost… too lucky. Are you certain, Gandalf? That this Benjamin is what he seems? Could he not be some instrument of the Greater Darkness—cleverly disguised, perhaps? The Enemy is cunning, and agents have worn fair faces before."
Gandalf regarded Elrond in silence for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"I had those same doubts when I first met him," he said. "A stranger who appeared in the Shire with strange speech, stranger tools, and the habit of asking questions more often than answering them. But I've come to know him better. He has had every chance to turn away or serve his own ends—and yet he's risked his life to help these dwarves. Given them food, advice, weapons and armour, and asked for nothing in return."
Gandalf's gaze followed Elrond's to where Ben was now adjusting Bilbo's pack straps and saying something that made the hobbit laugh.
"You only need to spend a few hours in his company," Gandalf continued, "to know he would never follow Morgoth or any creature who served him. He's curious, stubborn, a bit too clever for his own good… but there is a light in him. Not Elvish, nor Wizardly—but something else. Something good."
Elrond's expression softened slightly, though a trace of doubt lingered in his eyes. He looked at Ben again, at the relaxed way he stood, the care with which he treated his companions. After a moment, he nodded.
"Perhaps you are right," he murmured. "Still…" He looked back at Gandalf. "What made you look in the Shire for the fourteenth member of this company at all? Why not a warrior or a woodsman of the North?"
Gandalf looked over at Bilbo and said nothing for a long time. Then he spoke, his voice low.
"He gives me hope," he said simply. "If even a little hobbit can leave his warm hearth, brave a thousand miles of danger, and fight for something greater than himself… then there is hope yet for all of us."
Elrond's smile was faint but warm. He stepped forward and gave Gandalf a brief but genuine embrace.
"Safe travels, my friend," he said. "Take these. Letters from myself, from Lady Galadriel, and from Saruman. They should ensure you safe passage through Thranduil's lands—provided he still listens to reason."
Gandalf accepted the letters and tucked them into a leather pouch at his belt.
The dwarves, having strapped on their packs and adjusted their gear, now gathered at the base of the steps. One by one, they turned to bow or nod to Elrond. Bilbo gave a polite, heartfelt wave. Ben simply said, "Thanks for everything."
Elrond returned the farewells with grace. "May the stars guide your path," he said. "And may your burdens grow no heavier before they must."
With that, the company passed through the arching gate of Rivendell and out onto the rocky trails beyond. The last homely house disappeared behind them, veiled once more by trees and the music of waterfalls.
Ahead lay the wild. Behind, a place that had already begun to feel like a dream.