The Spirit of Dawn lifted gracefully from the wide courtyard before the gates of the Woodland Realm. Its wings unfurled, shimmering faintly in the sunlight as they beat the air. The elves of Mirkwood gathered along the ramparts and bridges, staring in awe as the ship without sails rose above the treetops and turned eastward into the morning sky.
On the top deck, the Company stood together—dwarves leaning eagerly over the rails, Bilbo clinging to a post with nervous excitement, Gandalf and Saruman standing side by side, staffs in hand. At the helm, Ben steered with an easy confidence, though his eyes never left the horizon.
The dwarves' mood soared as the forest fell away behind them. Far in the distance, like a jagged tooth rising against the sky, they caught their first glimpse of the Lonely Mountain. Cheers broke out among them, and Dwalin clasped Thorin's shoulder with a rare grin.
But soon, their cheers faltered. The ship, instead of banking north toward Erebor, held steady on an eastern course, following the River Running.
Dori was the first to speak. "Ben," he called, frowning. "You're steering wrong. Erebor lies north, yet we go east."
Ben placed the wheel into its locking groove and turned to face them. "We will reach Erebor soon," he said calmly. "But first, there is another stop we must make—Esgaroth."
"Lake-town?" Thorin's brows knitted in confusion. "What business have we there? It is a village of boatmen and fishmongers, nothing more."
Ben met his gaze evenly. "Your quest is not just about gold, Thorin. It is about redemption, about reclaiming what was lost and restoring honour. There is a man in Lake-town who seeks the same. His name is Bard...Bard the Bowman. Descendant of Girion, last Lord of Dale."
Thorin gave a sharp, derisive laugh. "Then he will fail, as Girion did. A broken line from a broken house. Why waste our time?"
Ben rolled his eyes. "It was not Girion who failed. It was the weapons forged by your own kin. I saw it, Thorin, before ever I came to this world. Girion stood his ground when Smaug descended. Black arrows from a dwarvish wind-lance struck true, again and again. One found its mark and shattered a scale on the dragon's chest, baring the soft flesh beneath. One more arrow, and Smaug would have fallen. But the wyrm struck first, burning Girion alive before he could loose the final shot."
"Girion did not falter," Ben continued, his voice quieter but resolute. "He died as a lord should—fighting an unstoppable force, and buying precious moments for his people to escape. His family fled with them to Lake-town. And there they were met not with gratitude, but scorn. For generations, his line has borne the blame for Dale's fall. That blame has passed to Bard and his children. If we are to set right what was broken, should he not be given his chance as well?"
Thorin's eyes lingered on Ben, then moved to his counsellors. He exchanged glances with Balin and Dwalin, both of whom nodded gravely. With a reluctant sigh, he said, "This Bard—does he wield bow and blade with skill? Or has time reduced Girion's line into fishermen?"
Ben's lips curled in a smirk. "He is a fierce warrior. And you'll find few better with a bow. Even the elves would take notice."
Thorin gave a grunt and turned away, muttering, "We shall see."
Soon, the green canopy beneath them gave way to open water. The Long Lake stretched vast and glimmering, and at its southern edge the wooden sprawl of Lake-town rose on stilts above the waves. Already the town was in uproar. Bells rang, horns blared, and fishermen scrambled to pull their boats to safety. Mothers clutched their children and pointed skyward as the Spirit of Dawn swept overhead, its shadow draping across rooftops and piers.
From his modest house, Bard stood at the window, jaw tight. His three children pressed close at his sides—Sigrid steady, Bain restless, and little Tilda clapping her hands in wonder.
"Da, look at it!" Tilda exclaimed. "It's beautiful. Can we go see?"
Bard shook his head. "No. We don't know what manner of folk ride such a craft. Friend or foe, it is safer we keep our distance. Bain, stay here with your sisters. I'll see to it myself."
Bain's protest died on his lips when Bard's stern eyes met his. Reluctantly, he nodded.
Across the lake, in the great timber hall of the Master, another pair of eyes gleamed—eyes filled not with worry, but with greed. From his balcony, the Master of Lake-town watched the descending ship with hungry delight.
"Flying ships," he murmured, rubbing his hands together. "Men who command the skies will not be poor."
Alfrid Lickspittle wrung his hands at his master's elbow. "What shall we do, sire?"
The Master straightened his robe. "We shall welcome them with open arms. Make haste, Alfrid—go to the docks, grovel if you must. Tell them the Master of Lake-town bids them comfort. I shall make myself… presentable."
The Spirit of Dawn descended with a hiss of magical hydraulics, its struts coming to rest on the wooden planks of the dock. A hush fell over the gathered townsfolk as the ramp lowered, mist curling about its edges.
First down came a young man clad in strange, fine garments unlike any the town had seen. He smiled warmly at the crowd, but his very presence marked him as someone apart.
Two old men followed—one grey, one white—each bearing staves of power. Then came thirteen dwarves, armed and armored, grim yet regal. And last, a small hobbit with a shining sword and bow that glimmered as though touched by the sun.
"Greetings, citizens of Lake-town," Ben called, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. "I am Benjamin Carter, a humble wizard."
A murmur swept the townsfolk. Wizards were the stuff of stories, yet here stood three before them. Ben gestured. "These are Gandalf the Grey and Saruman the White, of the Istari. And with them, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór—true King under the Mountain."
The murmurs grew into gasps.
Before Ben could say more, Alfrid arrived, elbowing aside townspeople and bowing low with a sycophantic grin. "Most noble Master Wizard!" he simpered. "I am Alfrid, Assistant Deputy to the Master himself. He bids you welcome to Lake-town and would be honoured to host you in his hall."
The dwarves scowled, muttering under their breath at the man's oily tone. Ben only gave him a thin smile. "That will not be necessary. Our stay will be brief."
He turned back to the crowd. "We are on a quest, and we seek a man known as Bard the Bowman. Can any among you—"
"Bard?" Alfrid cut in eagerly. "If he has displeased you, good sirs, the Master will gladly throw him in chains."
Ben's eyes flashed. With a snap of his fingers, Alfrid vanished in a puff of sparks—replaced by a squealing, panicked weasel scrambling across the dock.
Gasps and cries rippled through the crowd. Even the dwarves and wizards stared, startled by the sudden transformation.
Ben's smile returned, calm yet edged with something sharper. "As I was saying," he continued smoothly, "we are looking for Bard the Bowman. Who among you can help us find him?"
A tall man shouldered his way forward, his face weathered but strong, his eyes steady. "I am Bard," he said firmly. "What business have you with me?"
Ben stepped forward and inclined his head. "Well met, Bard, descendant of Girion, last Lord of Dale. There are matters of importance to speak of. Might we do so in private?"
Bard studied him for a long moment, gaze flicking to the wizards, to Thorin's grim company, then back to Ben. At last, he gave a single nod. "Come to my house. We will speak there."
Ben smiled, beginning to follow—then caught Bard's glance cast toward the still-trembling weasel.
"Ah, yes," Ben said lightly. With another snap, the creature shimmered back into the form of a very shaken Alfrid, who scrambled to his feet, patting himself down in terror.
Ben's eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped. "Remember this, Alfred: never bother a wizard if you are not worth his time."
Turning back to Bard with a genial smile, he gestured towards the town. "Shall we?"
---
The walkways of Lake-town buzzed with whispers as Bard led the company through the morning bustle. Fishermen paused in their work to stare, mothers tugged their children close, and knots of gossip spread like ripples behind them. Thirteen armored dwarves, a hobbit, and two wizards following a tall bowman was a sight the town had never seen.
Saruman, disliking the stench of tar and fish oil, had remained aboard the Spirit of Dawn, quite content with the stack of Transfiguration and Charms tomes Ben had given him. But Gandalf, Bilbo, Ben, and Thorin's company pressed on, boots echoing on the planks until Bard turned toward a quieter stretch near the eastern edge of Esgaroth.
His home stood there—modest, weathered but sturdily kept, with drying nets and smoke curling faintly from the chimney. Bard ushered them inside, closing the door firmly behind him. The outside murmur fell away, along with the prying eyes of the Master's spies.
The hearthfire gave the two-storey dwelling a homely warmth. Two girls and a boy lingered in the sitting room, wide-eyed at the armed strangers.
"These are my children," Bard said, voice softer. "Sigrid, Bain and Tilda. We have guests."
The children gave hesitant nods. Ben offered them a disarming smile. "Hello."
"My house is not large," Bard went on, "nor have I enough chairs for so many."
"Please don't trouble yourself on our account," Ben said easily. With a flick of his hand, sixteen sturdy chairs appeared, crowding the room with startled gasps from Bard and the children.
Tilda, the youngest, blinked up at him. "How did you do that?"
"Like this," Ben replied with a playful wave. Three frosty milkshakes and a plate of pastries floated from his ring, moving towards the children. Their wonder deepened as the treats hovered in mid-air.
"Are you a wizard? Was that your flying ship?" Tilda asked, awe plain in her voice.
Ben gave a little bow. "Indeed. Benjamin Carter. Wizard-in-training, Captain of the Spiritof Dawn—at your service."
"You don't look old enough to captain a ship," Bain said, frowning.
Ben chuckled. "What can I say? I'm an old soul."
Sigrid ducked her gaze quickly, cheeks coloring, while Tilda giggled. Bard, however, was watching him with furrowed brows. After a moment he said firmly, "Upstairs, all of you. Now."
"But Da—"
"Upstairs," he repeated. The children obeyed reluctantly, casting lingering glances at Ben before vanishing upstairs. Bard waited for the creak of footsteps to fade, then turned back to his guests, arms folded.
"A strange fellowship you have," he said. "Dwarves, wizards, a halfling. What brings you all to Lake-town?"
Ben paced slowly, pausing by the window. "Oh, you know—this and that." His gaze drifted across the lake, then back. "Forgive me, but I couldn't help noticing—your town seems to struggling."
Bard shrugged, though there was bitterness in it. "Struggling is a kind word. What else is there to do here but fishing? No land to farm. No allies to trade with."
"King Thranduil told me he pays fair coin for trade with Lake-town," Ben said.
The archer's voice turned bitter. "Perhaps. But coin that enters this town vanishes into the Master's coffers. The people see none of it."
Bilbo piped up, frowning. "Why doesn't anyone speak against him?"
"Because the guards serve his purse, and the armory is under lock and key," Bard replied grimly. "Speak too loudly, and you end up in a cell."
Ben studied him. "If you had the chance to make things better—for them, for your children—would you take it?"
Bard narrowed his eyes. "You haven't answered my question. What truly brings you here?"
At that, Thorin leaned forward, his deep voice ringing in the small room. "We are on a quest—to reclaim our homeland. To reclaim Erebor."
Bard's face hardened. "And in doing so, wake the dragon? You would doom us all."
Ben spoke calmly. "The dragon is part of the quest. We are going to kill it."
For a moment Bard simply gaped at him. "Kill Smaug? Have you lost your senses? You speak of it as though it were no harder than spearing a fish."
Ben raised a brow, then turned to Bilbo. "Lend me your bow."
Bilbo blinked in confusion, then handed over the shining Sunflare bow. Ben carried it onto the balcony, gesturing for Bard to follow.
Below, a small fishing skiff bobbed gently. With a flick of Ben's hand, the rope slipped free and the boat drifted into open water.
"What are you doing?" Bard demanded.
"Relax. You'll have your boat back." Ben held the bow out to him. "This is no ordinary weapon. It channels sunlight and ambient magic into arrows of pure light. Shoot the boat."
Bard hesitated, then drew back the string. Light coalesced into an arrow—and startled, he let it fade. He steadied himself, drew again, and loosed. The glowing shaft streaked like a star, struck the skiff, and exploded. Flames roared; timbers shattered. Bard staggered at the sight.
Ben only smiled faintly. With a wave, the flames vanished, wood knit back together, and the boat drifted neatly back into place, the rope coiling around the mooring post once more.
Bard could only stare.
"That was just a taste," Ben said, taking the bow. "We carry more weapons—weapons crafted for dragonslaying. And there are three wizards among us. Smaug will die. That much is certain. The question is—what part will you play?"
Bard's voice was rough. "If you are so certain of victory, why come to me? Why seek me out?"
Ben's expression softened. "I am… something of a seer. I sometimes see the past, and glimpses of what may come. I saw the day your ancestor stood against Smaug. Girion fought with honor. He did more harm to that beast alone than all the dwarves of Erebor together. And I saw what followed—how his family was scorned, blamed, made to suffer for what was never his failure."
For the first time, Bard's hard face wavered.
Ben pressed on. "Erebor's wealth didn't just lay in its hoards of gold and jewels—it lay in the markets of Dale. Prosperity came from people, from trade. Thorin means to rebuild the city when Erebor is reclaimed. And Dale will need a lord. A leader who stands for his people. I believe that is you."
Silence stretched. Bard's gaze turned out over the water, troubled.
"When I was a boy," he said slowly, "my father told me stories of Dale—its markets, its beauty, its laughter. Once I stole a boat and went to see it myself." His jaw tightened. "I found only ruins. Ash and rubble. That is the power you speak so lightly of."
He faced Ben again, his eyes burning. "Look me in the eye and tell me you can kill Smaug. Tell me your war won't bring the dragon's fire down on Lake-town. Tell me my choice won't damn my children."
Ben met his gaze unflinchingly. "Smaug will not leave that mountain alive. You have my word."
For a long moment, Bard searched his face. At last, he gave a slow nod.
---
Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda clustered around their father as he buckled on his quiver and slung his bow across his shoulder. The children's faces were a mixture of worry and defiance, unwilling to let him go without protest.
"Do you have to go with them, Da?" Bain asked at last, his voice tight. "They've got flying ships and wizards. Surely they can finish their quest without you."
Bard's stern expression softened. He placed a hand on his son's shoulder and offered a faint smile.
"They most likely can," he admitted. "But just in case, I'm going to make sure they don't muck it up." His eyes moved between his children. "And I'm not going to the Mountain for them. I'm going there for us."
The three siblings exchanged uneasy glances. Bard drew in a slow breath and went on, his voice low but firm.
"As it stands now, this town has no future. The people here aren't truly living—just surviving, stumbling from one day to the next. I will not see you bound to that fate. I want you to live with dignity, with joy, with respect. But for that to happen, I must wash away the shame lesser men have pressed upon us, generation after generation."
He paused, his gaze steady. "When I return from Erebor, I'll see you have the life you deserve. And all the happiness in the world."
Sigrid's voice trembled as she said, "We just want our Da to come back."
Bard gathered them into a firm embrace, pressing his cheek against their hair. "And I will. You have my word—I will come back to you."
---
Downstairs, the others were making ready. The dwarves were checking their weapons, Bilbo fussed with his pack, and Gandalf made sure he had enough pipe-weed. Ben stood near the door, speaking quietly with two figures in elven armor.
Legolas and Tauriel had arrived not long before, stepping through a shimmering portal Ben had opened to the Woodland Realm. Two other elves stood at their backs, watchful and silent.
"You may rest assured," Tauriel said softly, her green eyes bright with resolve, "we will not allow harm to come to Bard's children."
Ben inclined his head in gratitude. "Thank you, Captain. That gives me peace of mind."
"Think nothing of it," Legolas said, calm as ever. "I would have gone with you to the Mountain myself, but my father has forbidden me to approach Erebor while Smaug still draws breath."
Ben gave him a knowing smile. "He fears for your safety. It's only natural."
Before Legolas could answer, the stairs creaked. Bard descended, his children following close behind. He gave Ben a solemn nod; Ben returned it without words.
Together, the company stepped out into the streets. Townsfolk crowded along the walkways, parting to let them through. Murmurs and whispers rose like the rustling of reeds—fear, awe, and a flicker of hope.
---
At the docks, a larger crowd had gathered. The Spirit of Dawn loomed over the crowd, gleaming in the pale sun. At the forefront stood the Master of Lake-town, robes straining at his girth, his ever-present shadow Alfrid wringing his hands beside him. Guards lingered uncertainly at their backs.
At the sight of the approaching company, the Master spread his arms in theatrical welcome.
"Friends from afar!" he cried, his voice oily with cheer. "Welcome to our humble town. Forgive me for not greeting you upon your arrival. I apologise for any offence my foolish servant may have given you." He shot Alfrid a cutting glare, which the man answered with a tremor of pure terror.
Ben's lips curved into a wicked smile. "Not at all," he said smoothly. "We were just about to leave—but it is good that we were able to see the Master before departing."
The Master's eyes lit. "Truly?"
"Truly," Ben echoed, his smirk deepening.
Then his voice rose, carrying clearly across the hushed crowd. "We are on a quest to reclaim Erebor. We are going to kill Smaug. And this man—" he gestured to Bard "—will help us."
The people gasped and murmured, turning toward Bard with startled eyes. The Master blanched, his jaw slack.
Ben pressed on. "Bard is our friend, and his family is under our protection." He pointed to the elves at his side. "This is Legolas Greenleaf, son of King Thranduil, and Tauriel, captain of the Woodland Guard. They, along with their companions, will remain here in Lake-town for a time, to ensure no harm or inconvenience befalls Bard's household while he aids us in slaying the dragon."
The Master's face twisted, fear and resentment flickering behind his smile. Ben's eyes flicked to him with a warning glint before he turned away.
Without another word, he strode up the ramp into the waiting ship. One by one, the dwarves followed, then Bilbo and Gandalf.
Bard crouched briefly to embrace his children once more. "Bain," he said firmly, "look after your sisters."
"I will, Da," Bain promised, voice cracking.
Bard rose, exchanging a nod with Legolas, then turned to the townsfolk. Their eyes shone with something he had not seen in them for years—hope.
He swallowed hard, then climbed the ramp.
Moments later, the Spirit of Dawn lifted from the dock. Its wings unfurled, catching the light, and with a mighty beat it rose above the lake. Gasps and cheers rippled through the crowd as the ship turned north, soaring toward the Lonely Mountain.