On a grotesque throne carved from bones and metal, sat the Great Goblin—an enormous, wart-covered creature whose pendulous chin wobbled as he sneered at the newly captured company. In one hand, he held a crude mace topped with the yellowed skull of some unfortunate beast, a twisted scepter of authority.
The dwarves' weapons were thrown in a heap at the base of the dais, stripped from them upon their capture. The goblins cackled and hissed, jostling for a better look as their king rose.
With a thunderous crash, the Great Goblin leapt from his throne, his sheer bulk crushing several of his own underlings without care or notice. He loomed over the dwarves, grotesque features twisted in mockery.
"Who would be so bold as to come armed into my kingdom?" he roared. "Spies? Thieves? Assassins?"
Grinnah, slinking up with a deferential hunch, answered quickly.
"Dwarves, Your Malevolence."
The Great Goblin blinked once.
"Dwarves?" he repeated, curling his lips into a leer.
"We found them on the front porch," Grinnah offered helpfully.
The Great Goblin sneered.
"Well, don't just stand there! Search them! Every crack, every crevice!"
A swarm of goblins surged forward, clawed hands rifling through packs and pockets with gleeful malice. Oin gave a small cry of protest as his hearing trumpet was wrenched away and smashed beneath a goblin's boot.
"What are you doing in these parts?" the Great Goblin growled. "Speak!"
Silence. The dwarves glared at him but held their tongues.
The Great Goblin's grin widened into something far more malevolent.
"Well then, if they will not talk, we'll make them squawk! Bring out the Mangler! Bring out the Bone Breaker!"
He gestured wildly. "Start with the youngest."
He jabbed a stubby finger at Ori, whose face turned pale.
"Wait!" Thorin barked, stepping forward.
The Great Goblin's eyes narrowed in recognition, then lit with cruel delight.
"Well, well, well. Look who it is. Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror... King under the Mountain."
He swept into a mocking bow, his massive belly jiggling with each exaggerated movement.
"Oh, but I'm forgetting—you don't have a mountain. And you're not a king. Which makes you... nobody, really."
The goblins jeered. Thorin's fists clenched.
"I know someone who'd pay dearly for your head. Just the head, mind you—nothing attached. Perhaps you know of whom I speak? An old enemy of yours... a Pale Orc, astride a White Warg."
At the mention of Azog, Thorin's jaw tightened, hatred blazing in his eyes.
The Great Goblin laughed and turned to a small goblin seated in a suspended basket nearby.
"Send word to the Pale Orc. Tell him I've found his prize."
The tiny goblin scratched furiously on a slate, then pulled a lever. With a rattling creak, the basket zipped off into the shadowy depths via a system of ropes and pulleys.
The Great Goblin turned back to Thorin, his grin never fading.
"And where is your other friend? The young human. The wizardling."
Thorin frowned.
"I do not know what you mean."
"Oh come now," the Great Goblin said with a chuckle. "Do you think you can deceive me? I know you've been traveling with a boy—a mage. My orders are to bring him in alive. Not from the Pale Orc, mind you. No... these orders come from higher still."
Thorin's heart sank. Has Sauron taken an interest in Ben?
"I don't know who you're talking about," he repeated coldly.
The Great Goblin's smile curled crueler still.
"Very well. If you won't speak—then you will scream! Slash them! Beat them! Bite them! Gnash them! Take them to the darkest holes, fill their ears with the hiss of snakes, and never let them see the light of day again!"
The goblins shrieked in wild delight, hauling forward wicked torture implements: spiked wheels, chains, twisted drills, and cruel brands. The Great Goblin reached out, grasping a particularly vicious iron hook. He lumbered toward Thorin, saliva trailing from his cracked lips.
And then—
BOOM.
A blinding explosion of white light detonated across the chamber, followed by a forceful shockwave that hurled goblins screaming into the air. Instruments of torture shattered into pieces, and the air went still—eerily still—as the very stones seemed to tremble.
Sound was replaced by a ringing silence. The flames of the goblin torches guttered out. Smoke curled through the darkness.
And then, from the haze, a figure emerged—tall, straight-backed, crowned with a wide-brimmed, pointed hat.
Gandalf.
His staff crackled with residual power, casting a cold blue glow across the chamber. In his other hand, the sword Glamdring glistened like silver fire.
All eyes turned to him in stunned awe.
"Take up arms," Gandalf said, voice cutting through the stunned silence like a bell. "Fight. Fight!"
With a roar, the dwarves sprang into action.
Weapons were snatched from the pile. Enchanted steel gleamed to life—swords whispered with air-shredding arcs, hammers landed like thunderbolts, axes crackled and flared with runic fire. The goblins rushed forward, only to be swept aside by steel and sorcery.
Gandalf moved through the chaos like a storm made flesh. Every swing of Glamdring cleaved goblins in twain; his staff knocked them aside like straw.
The Great Goblin, struggling to rise from the floor, saw the sword and screamed.
"He wields the Foe-Hammer! The Beater! Bright as daylight!"
His minions hesitated—but too late. The tide had turned.
Oin dove for his hearing trumpet, triumphantly snatching up the mangled remains. Nori tripped and fell, but as the Great Goblin charged him with a roar, Thorin leapt between them. The dwarf prince's enchanted shield absorbed the crushing blow—and then Thorin's sword flashed forward.
A deep, glowing gash appeared across the Great Goblin's belly. With a scream, he staggered, lost his balance, and fell—tumbling off the platform into the abyss, his cries echoing as he vanished into the depths.
"Follow me!" Gandalf shouted, pointing toward an arching stone bridge that led out of the chamber. "Quick! Run!"
Cutting down any goblins in their way, the Company followed Gandalf—charging across the pathway, the sounds of their escape mingling with the chaos and fury left behind.
---
Deep beneath the Misty Mountains, in a crevice forgotten by time and untouched by light, the silence lay heavy like wet wool. Yet it was not empty. Somewhere above, the clash of goblin iron and enchanted steel echoed like distant thunder, but here, in the bowels of the earth, all was still—except for the soft, almost imperceptible sound of breathing. Or rather, the near absence of it.
Bilbo Baggins stood utterly motionless, pressed into the rough stone wall, the One Ring cold and heavy upon his finger. Though invisible, he felt as exposed as if he stood in broad daylight. His wide eyes, though unseen, were fixed in terror as a shadow moved past him—bent, grotesque, muttering.
Gollum.
The creature stalked by, shoulders hunched, limbs twisted like wind-warped branches. His great pale eyes swiveled wildly, scanning every crevice, every outcrop, glowing faintly like swamp-lights in the dark. They passed over Bilbo—and for a heartbeat, the hobbit thought he was seen—but they moved on, gliding past without pause. Bilbo dared not even breathe. The rocks bit into his back, but he could not move. Not yet.
Gollum stepped forward, muttering to himself in a voice that hissed like steam from a cracked kettle. "Where is it, preciousss… where iss it gone? Gone, gone, gone away, yesss…" His feet slapped softly against the stone, flat and bare, padding with unnatural silence.
Bilbo began to edge away, silent as falling dust—but Gollum froze.
"Something's moving, yesss," he whispered. "Something quiet and sneaky, preciousss. But we hears it, we smells it... oh yess, we do…"
Bilbo's heart pounded so hard he feared it would echo against the walls. He gripped his sword tight as his hand trembled. He could strike. End it now. The creature was foul, dangerous… yet it had done him no harm. Not yet. And in the depths of his heart, something stirred—a terrible pity. A vision of endless, lonely years gnawed at his mind: fish in cold water, whispered conversations with shadows, no sun, no stars. Just stone, and hunger, and solitude.
His hand loosened. He could not do it.
Gollum crouched low to the stone floor, his pale limbs taut with tension, his eyes glowing green in the gloom.
The scent was there—faint but clear. Hobbit. It was nearby. He could smell it.
And more than that.
The Precious.
His treasure.
His birthdaypresent.
It was close, close enough to taste, and Gollum's long fingers twitched like hooked talons against the cold stone. His throat rasped with soft, urgent breaths.
"Yesss, we smells it," he hissed. "It's here, oh yesss… tricksy thief has it… took it from us, nasty little Baggins…" His head swayed, his eyes darting through the blackness. "Give it back, Preciousss, give it back!"
He sprang forward, then froze. His nostrils flared. Something else.
Another scent.
His eyes widened. He turned slowly. A flickering illusion seemed to shimmer in the dark—and then, impossibly, there it was.
Set upon the cold rock floor, was a large red-checkered picnic blanket.
On it was a veritable feast: golden-fried chicken legs still steaming with heat, glistening sweet-and-sour ribs stacked high, a juicy rare steak crowned with grilled mushrooms, seared lamb chops arranged beside creamy mashed potatoes, trout dripping with garlic butter, cod gleaming with lemon glaze, and thick cuts of honey-glazed salmon glistening like amber. The air shimmered with the aromas—savory, sweet, rich.
Gollum froze.
Then his eyes widened to the size of saucers.
"Oooohhh!" he breathed. "What… is… THISSSS?" His voice cracked with astonishment and hunger. He lurched toward the blanket, almost reverently, before falling on it with a ravenous squeal. "Meaties! And fishies! And hot, crispy things, yesss! Ooohhh, what is this tricksy magic? What is this deliciousdeception?"
He tore into the fried chicken, gnawed a rib down to the bone in seconds, and let out a groan of utter joy as he sucked on a trout tail.
Then, he stopped.
His head snapped back, eyes narrowing, gravy dripping down his chin.
"Wait…" he whispered, low and dangerous. "He's here. The thief. The Hobbit. He's trying to escape, Precious. He thinks he can trick us. He put this here, he did. For us. To distract us!"
He twisted, scanning the shadows with trembling fury.
"He has it, he has it, the Precious, our Precious… and he's gettingaway!"
But the food was still there. So hot. So close. Glistening. Glorious. His stomach clenched and growled, twisting on itself like a serpent. Gollum whimpered again.
He turned to chase.
Stopped.
Turned to the food.
Growled.
Spun again.
Then shrieked aloud, caught between his two greatest desires. "No! But yes! But nooo! Oh, cruel tricksy Baggins! Wicked clever Hobbit!"
He dropped to his knees before the food, rocking back and forth.
"We wants it. We needs it. We both wants it," he moaned, clutching his head. "But only one, only one, Precious! We can't have both!"
He looked over his shoulder, wild-eyed, as though he could still hear the faint patter of invisible hobbit feet escaping into the dark.
"Gone… he's gone…" he whispered. "And the Precious with him…"
Silence.
Then a slow, broken sigh.
"But he leaves us food. He leaves us thisss. Pitying us… maybe… maybe not so cruel… Clever Baggins. Tricksy, but merciful…"
He licked his fingers and let out a soft, wretched giggle.
"He knew. He knew we would choose this…"
Another sigh.
"We hates him. We loves him. We hates him…"
He turned back to the feast and tore into a salmon fillet, whispering between mouthfuls.
"But it's so tasty, Precious… oh yesss… it's so tasty…"
---
Bilbo crept forward, invisible and breathless, his feet making barely a whisper against the stone floor as he slipped past the hunched, muttering form of Gollum. The strange picnic still lay spread out on the cavern floor, and the wretched creature had sunk into it with all the desperation of a starving wolf. Fried chicken bones clattered beside him. Grease glistened on his chin.
From behind, Bilbo heard the creature murmur in a voice both tender and broken, "But it's so tasty, Precious… oh yesss… it's so tasty…"
The hobbit didn't dare look back.
He moved through the tunnel that Gollum had been guarding, heart hammering like a drum in his chest. The darkness was oppressive, but then—there! A glimmer ahead, faint and golden. Daylight. Hope.
Then—
"I hope he leaves a good Yelp review."
Bilbo nearly leapt out of his skin. He spun around in alarm, only to find a familiar figure leaning casually against the tunnel wall, arms crossed and smirking.
"Ben!" Bilbo gasped, relief rushing into his voice like fresh air into tired lungs. "I knew all that food appearing out of nowhere had something to do with you!"
Ben shrugged, his smile mischievous. "The poor guy looked so hungry I felt compelled to give him something to eat that wasn't a hobbit."
Bilbo let out a breath and leaned against the stone wall to steady himself, the Ring still on his finger. Then a thought struck him.
"Wait—" he turned to Ben, eyes wide "—you can see me?"
Was Gollum's treasure—his precious—faulty perhaps? Had Bilbo used up all of its magic by now?
Ben gave a half-nod. "In a manner of speaking. When you wear the Ring, you slip into the Wraith World—a shadow realm hidden from the living. But like everything in the universe, even the Wraith World is made of energy. And thanks to a spell called Magesight, I can see those energy patterns... including you."
Bilbo frowned deeply, troubled by the weight of Ben's words. "The Wraith World?" he repeated slowly. "That doesn't sound good."
Ben's tone turned serious. "That's because it's not."
Taking note of the serious tone in which his friend spoke, Bilbo quickly took off the Ring. The cold metal left his skin with a tingling burn. He dropped it into his pocket and tried to ignore the feeling that he should've kept it on, no matter what Ben said.
Ben gave a nod of approval, but his expression remained thoughtful. "Why didn't you kill Gollum?" he asked quietly.
Bilbo blinked at him. "Do you think I should have?"
He wasn't sure. The thought had bothered him already—whether he had broken some unspoken rule of adventuring by sparing such a dangerous foe. Was mercy a mistake?
"I'm not saying that you should have," Ben replied evenly. "Merely asking why you didn't."
"Ah, well… it just didn't seem fair, I suppose," Bilbo said after a moment.
"He was going to eat you," Ben pointed out, though there was still a faint trace of amusement in his voice.
"Well, yes, but only if I lost our game of riddles."
"Which you won."
"Well… asking what's in my pocket isn't much of a riddle," Bilbo muttered, a bit sheepishly.
Ben raised an eyebrow. "Taking Gollum's side now? An odd enemy to defend."
"No, no, not taking his side," Bilbo replied quickly. "Just… seeing where he's coming from. To be trapped here… to us, this place is a nightmare. But to him it's home. And prison. Cold fish and dead goblins for supper. No sunlight. No stars. Not even proper company. It must be such a cold, lonely existence."
Ben tilted his head slightly, studying the hobbit. "You pitied him," he said.
Bilbo nodded. "Shouldn't I have?"
Ben's expression softened. He laid a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "My dear Bilbo… if only more people acted out of pity rather than fear or anger, this world… everyworld would be a much better place."
The warmth of those words reached Bilbo's heart—but faded just as quickly when Ben's tone darkened again.
"Unfortunately," he continued, "you picked up a terrible evil when you took ownership of that Ring. And while your pity may shield you from its malice… even aid in your escape from it… it will still be a greatburden for you to carry."
Bilbo's fingers shook. Slowly, as if it weighed a hundred pounds, he drew the Ring from his pocket. He stared at it—at its perfect shape, its gleaming surface. A beautiful thing, but it made his skin crawl.
"This thing is evil?" he asked, his voice trembling.
Ben didn't answer the question. Instead, he asked, "Do you know what kind of creature Gollum is?"
Bilbo blinked in surprise. "Some kind of goblin or orc, maybe?"
Ben sighed deeply. "No. Gollum is—or rather, was—a hobbit."
Bilbo's jaw dropped. "A hobbit?"
"Once," Ben said quietly. "His name was Smeagol. He lived happily with his family in the Stoor country. On his thirty-third birthday, he and his cousin Deagol went fishing in the Gladden Fields. Deagol was pulled into the river by a large fish. When he came up, he held the Ring in his hand."
Bilbo's breath caught. "And?"
"Smeagol demanded it as his birthday present. When Deagol refused… Smeagol strangled him. Took the Ring for himself. Called it his precious."
Bilbo took a step back, horrified.
"The Ring corrupted him," Ben continued grimly. "He used it for thieving, to torment his relatives. Eventually his grandmother threw him out of her Hobbit-hole. He wandered alone, broken, for years. The Ring twisted his body, prolonged his life, destroyed his mind. It made him into what you saw—Gollum. He lived in these caves for over fivehundredyears. And all the while… the Ring waited."
Bilbo looked down at the Ring again, this time as if it were a snake in his hand.
"Waited for what?" he asked, eyes wide.
"For its master to return," Ben said. "For Sauron."
At once, Bilbo dropped the Ring with a cry, as though it had scalded him.
"Take it," he said desperately, backing away. "Please, Ben. Take it! Destroy it! Just take it away from me!"
Ben watched him quietly. "You don't want it?" he asked. "The Ring could extend your life far beyond what you could imagine."
Bilbo shook his head violently. "No thank you. I don't want it. I'd rather live five years as a good hobbit than five hundred as… that."
Ben studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Very well."
He held out his hand and a strange object appeared upon it—a many-faceted crystal sphere etched with glowing runes.
"What… what's that?" Bilbo asked.
"A PsionicSealingCasket," Ben explained. "It's warded with the strongest psychic defenses I could muster. And inside is an independent pocket dimension cut off from reality on the outside. The Ring won't be able to affect anyone once it's sealed away."
Without touching the Ring, Ben lifted it from the floor with a flick of his fingers. The band floated in the air, glinting, resisting slightly—as if reluctant to be caged—but Ben was firm. He guided it into the open sphere, and the moment it crossed the threshold, he snapped it shut.
A shimmer of energy rippled across the runes—and it was done.
At once, Bilbo exhaled, as though a mountain had been lifted off his back.
"It's gone," he whispered. "I can breathe again."
The sealed artifact disappeared before Bilbo's eyes. "So," Bilbo said after a long pause, "what are you going to do with it?"
Ben gave a grim smile. "What else? I'm going to chuck the loathsome thing into the fires of MountDoom."
Bilbo nodded solemnly.
"For now," Ben added, "let's keep this a secret between us. Once Thorin's quest is complete, we'll tell the others. Then we'll finish this. Properly."
"Agreed," said Bilbo.
As they started walking along the tunnel, Bilbo turned to look at his companion.
"Ben, I... thank you."
It wasn't much considering that Ben had just saved him from being an unwitting servant of Evil for who knows how long. But the heartfelt emotion in his voice caused a big smile to break out on the young man's face.
"Of course, my dear friend."
Together, both of them stepped out at last into the pale, golden light of day.
---
After what felt like an eternity in the suffocating blackness of Goblin Town, the weary company of dwarves finally burst forth from the side of the Misty Mountains. One by one they stumbled out, blinking against the stinging twilight after so many hours in that clammy underworld. Their clothes were torn, faces smeared with grime and sweat, and each footfall bore the weight of desperate struggle. Thorin Oakenshield led them with his chin held high despite the pain etched in his posture, and beside him, Gandalf the Grey trudged forward, his once-pristine robes streaked with soot and goblin filth.
They came to a stop amid the trees on a steep slope, gasping for breath, the mountain at their backs and the wind finally free to kiss their faces again.
A voice called out, clear and oddly casual.
"Finally. What took you guys so long?"
Every head turned. Leaning lazily against a tall pine stood Bilbo Baggins, looking dusty but entirely intact. Next to him, arms crossed and grinning, stood Ben, his long coat fluttering slightly in the breeze as if he hadn't just walked through the bowels of a mountain.
"Bilbo!" cried Bofur in delight. "You're alive!"
"We thought you were lost!" Ori exclaimed.
"Dead, more like," added Dwalin, though he didn't sound displeased to be wrong.
Even Thorin, eyes narrowing, allowed the barest crack of surprise to cross his stony face. "What happened to you?"
Ben answered before Bilbo could speak. "When the floor gave way, I had just enough time to cast a levitation charm. Managed to slow our fall—Gandalf was close enough to grab. As we dropped into that chasm, we saw Bilbo falling, locked in battle with a goblin. Gandalf and I split up. He went after you lot. I went to find our little burglar."
"And he did," Bilbo added, with a grateful smile. "Just in time too."
Gandalf stepped forward, laying a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "You've done well, Master Baggins. Very well indeed."
The brief moment of reunion, however, was cut short by an eerie, distant sound that sent a chill down every spine.
A howl. Then another. Then many.
From the far ridge, a thunderous roar answered the howls. There, standing tall astride a monstrous white warg, was Azog the Defiler, pale and monstrous, his great iron arm gleaming in the dying light. Beside him surged a sea of orcs and snarling wargs, and without warning, the beasts lunged forward.
Gandalf's voice boomed: "RUN!"
The company turned and bolted down the slope, weaving between the pine trees. Branches clawed at their faces and roots tried to trip them, but still they ran. Behind them, the pounding of paws and the guttural roars of the orcs closed in fast.
Kíli turned mid-run and loosed a bolt of sunlight from his Sunflare bow, sending a warg tumbling back in a flash of golden fire. Bilbo followed suit, grimacing as he shot a glowing arrow at another beast lunging too close.
Still, they kept coming.
Night fell swiftly, swallowing the landscape in shadows as the moon rose pale above the horizon. The company finally reached a wide stone outcropping high on the mountainside. It jutted out above a sheer drop. No way forward. No way down.
"Now what do we do?" Bombur cried, panic rising in his voice.
"This." Ben replied. He stepped forward and muttering something magical under his breath, he moved his hand in a straight line.
A wall of golden fire erupted before them, stretching high and wide across the slope, cutting off the advancing wargs and orcs. The heat washed over them like the breath of a dragon, and two unfortunate wargs that barreled into it were immediately engulfed in flames, their screeches echoing into the mountains.
The dwarves stared, dumbfounded.
"By Durin's beard…" muttered Balin.
"That'll hold 'em," Ben said with satisfaction, then turned back. "But not forever."
"We should fight!" Dwalin growled. "With our weapons, we can take them!"
"Aye, and I would see Azog fall tonight," Thorin added, eyes burning with the fire of vengeance.
"No!" Gandalf said sharply, cutting through the air like a blade. "You're all exhausted, barely standing. You'll get yourselves killed. We must escape, not battle."
"And how, exactly, do we do that?" Thorin snapped.
Gandalf looked at Ben, who simply smiled and shrugged. "Oh, I might have a little something that can help."
From his storage ring, Ben drew a small, elegant ship no longer than his forearm.
Ori blinked at it. "What are you going to do with that toy ship?"
Ben grinned. "One thing you should remember when dealing with wizards, my friends—Appearances... can be very deceiving."
He placed the miniature vessel on the ground and swept his hand over it.
In a shimmer of blue light and a burst of wind, the ship grew. Larger. Taller. Until, in moments, a majestic skyship stood before them—80 feet long, hovering inches above the ground, its hull gleaming with runes and golden-blue accents. Enormous wing-like sails unfurled from its sides like the wings of some great draconic bird, pulsing softly with arcane energy.
The dwarves gaped.
"By the Halls of Erebor…" whispered Gloin.
"It flies?" asked Bilbo, breathless.
"It soars," Ben corrected. He snapped his fingers and a gangway extended from the side hull.
Ben walked up the gangway, paused halfway, turned with a smirk, and said:
"What are you all waiting for? An invitation?"
Still in disbelief, the company followed him, murmuring in awe as they stepped onto the polished deck of the vessel.
"Welcome aboard," Ben said cheerfully. "This is The Spirit of Dawn. Please keep your arms and weapons inside the vehicle at all times."
He strode to the helm, placed his hands on the wheel, and with a wild grin, shouted:
"Allons-y!"
With a sudden whoosh of air, the ship liftedoff, rising smoothly above the rocky outcropping.
Below, the wall of fire vanished.
Azog charged forward, but found nothing on the cliff but smoke and scorched stone. Then a great shadow passed overhead. He looked up.
There—the ship, rising high above the mountain, with Thorin and the others standing at its railings, looking down at him.
Kíli grinned and saluted mockingly. Bofur made a rude gesture. Even Gandalf smirked.
Azog screamed in frustration, a howling bellow of impotent rage as the ship turned east, leaving the orcs behind. The Spirit of Dawn flew steadily toward the looming silhouette of Mirkwood, golden in the moonlight.