The Elves who saved the expedition were from the Woodland Realm. They didn't have Lord Elrond's broad-minded tolerance—seeing their old enemies, the dwarves, they arrested them on the spot without so much as a discussion.
"Wait, what?" the hobbit blurted out in disbelief. "Aren't we friends?"
"Friends?" The Elven prince looked even more surprised than he did. "No. We simply hate Orcs more. But dwarves are just as unwelcome in this forest."
"And since when does this forest belong to you?" old Dwalin cursed under his breath. "Just because your ears are long, you think you've got to hear everything in the world? That's sticking your nose in far too deep!"
"The darkness in the woods is stirring, as if it's been frightened by something. We're here to clear away the threat," the Elven prince explained, still speaking politely.
The expedition had barely escaped the wolf's jaws, only to tumble straight into an Elven nest—truly a run of rotten luck. But perhaps because so many bad things had happened these past days, when the Elves captured them, no one resisted much. They just grumbled a little.
Bilbo glanced left and right and saw the same knowing look on his companions' faces. Thorin even wrinkled his nose at him, signaling that he'd put on the filter. Right—the Elves had to go home sooner or later. Once they were in an enclosed space again, their potion would work.
"(in Elvish) Search these dwarves thoroughly. Take everything from them that can hurt or kill," the Elven prince ordered.
He'd noticed the dwarves' strange expressions. They couldn't help "rehearsing" the motion of pouring their potion—one hand raised high in front of them. It looked suspicious as hell.
So the Elves took their swords and shields. The dwarves only smiled it off.
Then they took their knives and axes. The dwarves stayed calm.
Then they took their bows and spears, took their armor, took their packs—by that point the dwarves looked displeased, but they still endured it in silence.
"All searched. Nothing left behind," an Elven soldier reported, laying their belongings out on the ground in neat rows—from small daggers to broad axes, from spoons to pot-lids, even arranged by size.
The expedition all drooped like punished schoolboys. The whole scene felt like a university dorm inspection for illegal appliances—absurdly, inexplicably funny.
The Elven prince noticed those two swords taken from the trolls' cave. "(in Elvish) Blades from Gondolin, from the First Age—crafted by the hands of my kin. I wonder how they came by them." He clicked his tongue in admiration—then turned and saw the dwarves bunched together, waggling their brows, snickering and laughing in a way that made him deeply unhappy.
"What are you still hiding?"
The dwarves' faces changed. They forced themselves to look steady—then immediately tried to bite back.
"You already took everything we had. You didn't even spare the pots and pans. If you still want more, go ahead and frisk our underwear too."
"Heh—take Bombur's underwear. That one's got power."
"How do you know Bombur's underwear's got power? You smell it?"
"Last night when we slept, my head was pointed toward Bombur. I had nightmares all night. Thought somebody's cheese went bad."
"Pff—hahahaha—"
"Smell yours. It's not any better than mine!"
They bickered noisily. Bilbo frowned and slipped behind the others.
But the little hobbit's movements were always easy to spot—especially from above. A sharp-eyed Elven warrior noticed Bilbo's hand pressed to his waist.
"He's got something hidden under his clothes."
"Hand it over!" The Elven prince's expression was like a strict disciplinarian catching a student's cheat sheet. Bilbo shivered, made a brief, doomed show of refusing—then a group of hulking Elves pinned him down and seized the wizard's pouch he'd been hiding.
Thorin and the others fell silent at once, like someone had grabbed them by the throat—or hit a mute button. Their expressions flickered through a whole spectrum, more dazzling than a nightclub mirror ball.
"Mm. Look—now they can't laugh anymore. So it's this. Take them away."
The dwarves erupted into curses.
The expedition was marched back to the Woodland Realm. The road there wasn't peaceful—they saw many spider corpses in the woods. It seemed the Elven patrol had fought a major battle.
As the Firstborn Children of Ilúvatar, the Elves not only possessed ageless life, their bodies also far surpassed those of humans. The Elven warrior who'd been smashed by the Orc leader's hammer was wounded, yet still retained fighting strength. Against the forest's monsters and beasts, the Elves handled them as easily as breathing.
The dwarves looked at the dead giant spiders and couldn't help feeling uneasy. In these woods, spiders were the true natives—and yet the Elves had defeated them here. That alone proved their speed and sharpness far surpassed those monsters.
At last, Thorin and company were brought into the Woodland Realm's halls. The king there turned out to be an old acquaintance—and an old enemy. King Thranduil laughed the moment he saw Thorin.
"Thorin Oakenshield, heir of Durin. This is not your first time stepping into my realm. So—you mean to return to the Lonely Mountain, defeat the dragon, and reclaim a king's treasure. You need my help for that, and I can offer it—on one condition."
"Thranduil, I don't trust you. When the dragon attacked the Lonely Mountain, I came to you for aid as well. I brought my people—starving, homeless—and you did nothing. You turned away and left us to it. You watched the Mountain burn in dragonfire."
"Do not preach dragonfire to me! I warned your grandfather: greed leads to ruin. What became of the Mountain was self-inflicted. I want only the jewels the Elves lost—your dwarves refused to return them. So don't blame me for refusing to die for you."
"There is no friendship left between us."
"(in Elvish) Lock them up. Let them rot."
Below the throne, the dwarves shouted and cursed.
Thorin roared, "By what right do you imprison us? Have we committed a crime? The only crime we've ever committed is defending—without fear—the rights of the people of the Lonely Mountain!"
No matter how they argued, the expedition still went to jail.
They spent the night in the Elven Kingdom's cells—dry, even a bit comfortable. The Elves brought them bread, meat, and water. After they ate, everyone fell into a sour mood. Every one of them had been caught—except that elusive wizard. But now the expedition had been dragged to a place like this; would Dumbledore even be able to find them?
In the prison, Thorin seethed. The targets of his abuse had expanded: it wasn't just Orcs anymore—now it included Elves. In his mind, Orcs were a poisonous tumor that must be cut out, while Elves were an unwelcome people who had to be guarded against.
"For these unwelcome ones, you should find a place to gather them all together, isolate them from society…"
He grabbed a piece of broken stone and began carving a "diary" into the prison wall.
That wall, covered in dwarvish runes, was treated as a book—and its contents stirred inspiration in someone far away, currently a guest on Aman. A gaze fell across the distance, and the expedition appeared—still trapped in the Woodland Realm's dungeon.
Dumbledore circled above Mirkwood on his broom, unable to find the expedition no matter what he did. Just as he was running out of options, Skyl called him.
"Professor, those dwarves are in the underground kingdom on the eastern edge of Mirkwood. Follow the Forest River and you'll find them. And also—did you feed them some kind of weird ideas? That guy named Thorin started writing a book in prison…"
The next day, morning light leaked into the cell and fell across Thorin Oakenshield's calm face. The wall in front of him was packed with dwarvish writing, and Thorin himself wore the expression of someone who'd suddenly seen the truth of the world.
Knock, knock.
Someone rapped on the iron door. Thorin turned—and saw an old man in a wizard's hat smiling at him.
"Alohomora." A light tap of the wand against the lock.
The door swung open.
"Dumbledore—you finally came!"
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