When Radagast showed up looking like a hippie druid who'd rolled through a compost heap, I honestly thought Gandalf was going to hand him a broom and tell him to go shower. The guy was covered in moss and twigs, and the smell... let's just say it was somewhere between "swamp corpse" and "wet goblin socks."
But once he started talking, the mood shifted real fast—from goofy woodland vibes to full-blown horror movie at eight in the morning.
"The Greenwood is sick, Gandalf…" he said after Gandalf calmly removed a beetle from his mouth.
Yeah, that should've been the first red flag.
"Darkness is spreading. The plants are dying. The animals are fleeing. And… there are webs. Everywhere. Giant spider webs."
And boom. Giant spiders. My favorite phobia, right up there with invisible snakes and stinky orcs.
I stepped forward, frowning.
"You mean… Ungoliant's spawn?"
Radagast nodded so fast a mushroom flew off his hood.
"They're nesting in Mirkwood. And they're moving toward Dol Guldur. I went to see it myself."
Everyone froze. Even Thorin—who normally only believes in his own beard—raised an eyebrow.
Then Radagast dropped the bomb.
"I saw… the Witch-King."
I swear I heard Ori swallow audibly.
"With my own eyes. He held a sword. It… burned like night. And there was someone else with him. The Necromancer. He saw me. He… he said my name."
Radagast was shaking like a leaf of mint. Gandalf handed him his pipe—the wizard equivalent of "here, have a drink, you'll feel better."
"You're sure it was him?"
"I'm sure."
Silence followed. Not the awkward kind—the kind that comes right before avalanches or dragon attacks.
Radagast pulled out a sword wrapped in a cloth.
A cursed sword. Dark. Disturbing.
Gandalf took it wordlessly, examined it slowly, and nodded gravely.
And that's when we heard it—a howl. Deep, guttural, ominous. No normal beast.
A warg.
I leapt to my feet. "They're already here."
Gandalf shot a dark look at Radagast.
"You led them here?"
"No! I swear I didn't!"
I handed Gandalf the wanted poster we'd picked up in Bree.
"They've been tracking us. Since the beginning. This isn't coincidence."
It was a bounty notice—with Thorin's not-so-photogenic mug printed front and center.
And then, boom. A warg leapt down from a rock, growling like an overheated engine.
I didn't even think. BAM—telekinetic punch to the snout. SLASH—clean decapitation with the black blade. Fast. Precise.
But more were already coming.
"Kíli, bow!" Thorin shouted.
Arrows flew. Three wargs dropped.
I wiped my black blade on the still-warm fur of the fallen beast and stood tall.
"Scouts. The orcs are coming."
Bilbo went pale, eyes wide.
"Orcs? But… they don't come out in daylight, do they?"
I grabbed him by the collar.
"They hate the sun. But they'll eat you anyway. So get ready to run."
Behind me, Nori was yelling:
"Our horses! We've got no chance on foot!"
Gandalf, dead serious like a train conductor on strike day, answered:
"It's that or death, Nori!"
Then Radagast raised his hand.
"I'll slow them down."
Everyone turned to him like: You're kidding, right?
But he pointed to his sled.
"These are the Rhosgobel Rabbits. Fastest in all of Middle-earth."
I thought: Why not? We've already faced trolls, ghosts, and Bilbo nearly got roasted on a spit.
Radagast climbed into his sled, clicked his tongue, and his giant rabbits bolted like arrows in the opposite direction.
"Good luck, everyone!" he yelled, vanishing into the mist.
And us? We ran.
Like madmen.
Gandalf led the way through the forest.
We dodged roots, leapt over rocks, slid across mossy patches.
Thorin nearly fell every five seconds. Bombur was gasping like a broken bellows. Even I, with my half-divine cardio, was starting to feel it.
After what felt like forever, Gandalf stopped on a small rise.
Everyone was catching their breath.
Thorin, ever dignified even when half-dead, walked up to Gandalf.
"Where exactly are you taking us, old fool?"
When Thorin asked where we were going, Gandalf just... ignored the question. Which, for a guy who speaks in riddles 90% of the time, basically meant: "I'll explain when we're not running for our lives."
And given the current situation? Yeah, definitely not the time for a philosophical debate.
Even with Radagast playing distraction-bunny up front, the orcs on wargs were fast. Too fast. And us? Well... we had dwarves. Adorable, brave, packed with muscle, sure. But Olympic sprinters? Not their strong suit.
We were hiding under a massive rock while one of their scouts—an orc as ugly as a slug crossed with a rusty knife—scanned the plains from above.
What he didn't know was that we were right underneath him. I could hear his warg's foul breath, like a sputtering diesel engine. And I was so focused I could almost smell it. Which is not exactly the sensory win you'd hope for.
I turned my head toward Thorin. He gave a slow nod.
Alright. Showtime.
I stepped out of the shadows and raised my hand.
The warg and its rider were yanked off the ground, as if by an invisible crane. The orc opened his mouth to blow into his horn… but he never finished the note. The dwarves pounced on him and his beast, and in seconds, it was over.
Except—plot twist—wargs communicate. With howls. And guess what? This one had let out a nice juicy one before dying.
And you know what a warg howl does out in the wild? It's like ringing a dinner bell for all its hungry friends.
I straightened, already feeling the echo in the ground.
"They've spotted us! Run!"
But let's be honest: when it comes to a footrace between full-speed wargs and dwarves carrying backpacks, it's not exactly a fair contest.
The howls drew closer. Branches snapped. Leaves shook. And soon, we were surrounded. Dozens of wargs, each ridden by orcs bristling with weapons.
Thorin raised his sword. Dwalin clenched his jaw. Bilbo... was shaking like a pudding on a power plate.
And then—a voice from nowhere.
"Over here! Quickly!"
Gandalf. In a crevice between two rocks. Of course. The old man had a knack for showing up like a cheat code during suicide missions.
I turned to the others.
"Go ahead! I'll cover the rear."
A warg lunged.
I clenched my fist.
The air shivered.
The beast froze mid-air, suspended, then crushed in on itself by my will.
Crunch of bones.
A horrific scream.
Then... silence.
Another one charged at me, ridden by an orc screaming like he was aiming for gold in the Screaming Olympics.
I hurled my black blade.
It flew like a shadowed arrow, piercing the warg's skull. The orc tumbled off, sword raised.
I backflipped, barely dodging—then, with a tug of telekinesis, was yanked backwards to safety.
He came after me, but an arrow struck him clean through the chest.
I glanced back.
Kíli, at the tunnel entrance.
Nice timing.
My black blade gave a wet shk as it pulled free from the warg's skull, twirled in the air, and returned to my hand like a loyal pet.
I stood, swung once, and sliced the orc's head clean off.
More were coming. Too many.
I spun my blade around me. A black whirlwind.
Ten meters wide.
Anything that entered the circle... didn't leave in one piece.
"Edward! You're the last one!" Thorin yelled.
I sheathed the blade, leapt into the air, and shot toward the entrance.
When I landed beside him, his eyes nearly popped out of his skull.
I clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Let's go."
We dove into the tunnel—and that's when a clear, crystalline sound broke through the chaos.
An Elven horn.
I glanced back and knew.
The cavalry had arrived.
The Rivendell patrol had made it.
And if the orcs thought they were walking away from this, they had the wrong address.
I paused at the tunnel's mouth, watching the surface battle.
Elven arrows rained down. Orcs dropped like dominoes.
And at the center... a figure. Graceful. Deadly.
Elrond. In the flesh.
My future father-in-law.
(Assuming I survive all this. And Arwen says yes. But that's another story.)
An orc collapsed right at the tunnel entrance, an arrow buried in his chest.
Thorin yanked it out, examined the fletching, and scowled.
"Elves."
I rolled my eyes.
"Yes, Thorin. Elves. The ones who just saved our butts. Again."
He stared at me.
"You know them well, don't you? That cloak you wear... it's Elven, isn't it?"
I smiled.
Mysteriously.
Because honestly? Now was not the time to explain that I practically live in Elrond's house and think about his daughter 23 hours a day.
Dwalin leaned forward.
"I can't see how far this tunnel goes."
Thorin sighed.
"Let's keep moving."
We moved in a line, slowly, until light appeared at the end.
And then...
Rivendell.
I always pause at the entrance. Even though I've seen it before.
Hanging waterfalls, carved archways, timeless trees, and sunlight filtering through silver leaves.
It's like stepping into a dream.
Bilbo whispered, eyes wide:
"Rivendell…"
Gandalf smiled.
"Imladris. The Last Homely House."
And me? I smiled too.
Because despite the wargs, the orcs, the trolls, the riddles, and the cursed swords…
we were still alive.
And in this world, that was already a pretty big win.