[General POV]
-Thranduil-
The Third Age began for Thranduil's kingdom with a long period of peace, during which the population of the Silvan Elves grew once more. Yet, despite this, a shadow remained in his heart. He had witnessed the horrors of Mordor and could not forget them.
In his bedchamber, he lay awake late into the night, his gaze fixed to the south. Each time he looked in that direction, the memories darkened the moonlight.
He knew those lands were desolate, deserted, and guarded by the men of Gondor. However, his heart told him that evil had not been defeated for good. Sooner or later, that evil would rise again. His fears were confirmed when, after a thousand years, a shadow slowly crept into the forest from the south. His dread became reality.
Wild beasts hunted everything in their path, and dark creatures began weaving their traps. During that time, he had decided to move his kingdom further north, where they now reside. It was a heavy blow to learn from his scouts that the place his father once ruled had become home to an unparalleled evil, a presence so corrupt that it rotted the once-green forest.
The pieces were falling into place; fate was taking control. It was no coincidence that the son of that woman had appeared at this moment.
His beloved wife, who with her blessing had kept dark magic at bay, informed him that she had sensed the changes that had begun with the appearance of Túrin's descendant. Fate had once again united the blood of those two individuals, who had brought great change during the First Age.
The unbeatable bow and sword would once again join forces in the fight against the dark powers, clear evidence that evil was stirring. As he was lost in thought, warm arms wrapped around his waist, prompting him to look at the person embracing him.
"What troubles you, my love?"
Her sweet voice was like a melody to his ears. He would never tire of hearing his beautiful wife's voice. Both she and Legolas had given him hope, the light he needed when he was consumed by darkness. Turning, he wrapped his arms around his beloved Thalwen, her rosy scent filling his senses. His wife's hair was like the brightest spring, and as he closed his eyes, savoring her warmth and fragrance, he allowed himself a moment to calm down.
"The darkness is on the move. The child's arrival is a very clear sign. We must prepare for the battles ahead," he explained. "Though the time of the Elves has passed, that evil will not leave us in peace. It will seek to destroy us. We are a thorn in its side, and it will not rest."
He was speaking more to himself than to his wife. He knew that if Sauron returned, he would attack every Elven kingdom still standing.
Thranduil needed to strengthen the borders of his realm and prevent Sauron's forces from seizing Erebor. Should that happen, his kingdom would be in grave danger. He trusted that the son of that woman would slay the fearsome Smaug, and the death of the dragon would allow them to establish a strong strategic point to defend against Sauron's dark forces.
"We knew this moment would come," Thalwen said as she remained wrapped in her husband's arms. She lifted her gaze to meet his warm eyes. Her heart raced, as it always did when she looked into them, no matter how many decades they had been together. "We will be ready when the time comes," she whispered softly.
-Bolg, Mirkwood-
Splash.
The sound of a head being pierced echoed loudly. It was caused by a messenger orc who was supposed to have been keeping an eye on the expedition group.
"Arrg! You idiot! What do you mean you don't know what happened to them?" Bolg growled, his face contorted with rage, further accentuating his already hideous features.
In front of him stood an orc, cowering in fear. It had been one of the orcs left behind to watch the expedition team. Not long ago, an orc had dared to investigate Beorn's house, only to be shocked when he found no sign of the dwarves. The orc had quickly rushed back to inform Bolg.
"Useless scum!" Bolg snarled in anger. He had vented some of his fury on the now headless orc. He quickly shifted his gaze to the other orcs. "There's your dinner," he said with a simple gesture of his hand. The orcs immediately began tearing apart the dead orc's body.
They were fortunate to be in Mirkwood, waiting for the opportunity to strike. Now, Borg had to act quickly; the dwarves were likely to leave the elven kingdom soon, so it was wise to wait for them near the river port. It was the only path they could take, and they would need to set off immediately if they wanted to ambush them.
"Hurry up, you stinking rats!" he shouted, prompting the orcs, still smeared with their comrades' blood, to rise and grab their weapons. None dared ask what Borg's plan was, for they were simple-minded creatures, focused only on following orders, a testament to their general stupidity.
-With Aldril-
The dwarves drank late into the night, though only a few remained awake, mostly those who hadn't drunk much. Among them were Balin, Thorin, Aldril, Bilbo, and Bofur. The five of them sat in a circle, illuminated only by candlelight and the moonlight filtering through. The conversation had shifted to the greatness of Erebor and the tragic loss of the kingdom of Moria.
"Durin's Bane ravaged the kingdom. The dwarves, powerless to stop it, were forced to migrate. It remains a dark stain on our people's history," Balin explained. As one of the wisest dwarves, he briefly recounted some tales.
"What is Durin's Bane?" Bilbo asked, his curiosity piqued. The stories Balin was sharing intrigued him, and he could easily imagine writing a book about all the things he had experienced and heard on this journey. There was no doubt it would make for a fascinating read for the hobbits of the Shire.
A heavy silence followed Bilbo's question. All the dwarves believed that Durin's Bane was a cursed fire that consumed their people, yet Aldril, with his knowledge, knew that it was the Balrog, but he could not say so openly, especially because he did not want to explain why he knew.
"Fire, Bilbo. A fire that consumes everything," Bofur finally answered after a few moments of silence, his voice somber. All dwarves of Durin's line knew of it; it was told to them as children, passed down from generation to generation, to ensure they never forgot the evil that arose from their greed.
Sensing the dark atmosphere, Aldril decided to change the subject. He wanted to learn more about Erebor, especially since the films hadn't covered much of the kingdom. "By the way, Thorin, I heard Erebor had many treasures. Which were the most valuable to you?" He knew that his relationship with Thorin had become one of friendship, or at least that was how Thorin had acted after the Goblin Kingdom incident, so he felt comfortable asking something so direct.
Unbothered by the straightforward question, Thorin sank into thought, remaining silent for a few moments before speaking. "The hundreds of spears with gold tips commissioned by Bladorthin. They were masterpieces, forged with great dedication by our smiths." He fell silent again, as if trying to recall something else, then raised his eyes as the memory returned.
"There was also a helm," he tried to remember its name, but it had been so long that he could only recall its appearance, not its name. "It was a helm of grey steel, with a visor to protect the eyes, adorned with gold and victory runes engraved upon it. Its crest bore a golden image of a type of dragon."
For some reason, Aldril's heart raced at the description of this helm. Unnoticed by the others, Anglachel, the sword stored in the corner by Aldril, began to glow faintly with its characteristic dark, starry sheen.
"I don't remember its name," Thorin shook his head, unable to recall it, and looked to Balin, hoping the old dwarf might still remember the helm that had been so treasured by his grandfather.
Feeling Thorin's gaze, Balin sank into thought until he raised his hand, as if the memory had just come to him. "Ahh, I remember now. It's said to have been abandoned by Húrin in a fit of rage and sorrow. I don't know the reason why," Balin said, shaking his head as he looked back at Thorin.
"If I'm not mistaken, its name was… the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin."
***
Filthy orcs!! here is your leader once again feeding you with chapters!
I will be correcting the first chapters, as I think I have gained more experience, so the quality should have gone up (I hope so) so to attract more readers I will progressively correct the first chapters.
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