Thorin raised a hand, calling the company to a halt just as the thatched roof of the Green Dragon Inn came into view on the edge of Bywater. Morning mist still clung to the ground like an old cloak reluctant to be shrugged off.
"We'll stop here," Thorin announced. "We need ponies. And supplies."
At that, Bombur practically fell off his feet with relief. "And breakfast! A real, proper meal made from real, proper food!" His declaration was met with groans and cheers from the others, most of whom still looked traumatised by the sardine-and-brine 'hangover cure' they'd endured back at Bag End.
"I don't know what you're complaining about, Bombur," I smiled innocently. "After all, you didn't just finish off your share of the hangover-cures but also Ori's. That's two servings of pickled despair."
Ori raised a small hand in protest, but no one heard him over the dwarves' collective gasp of betrayal.
Before Thorin could begin his famously thorough supply list—complete with haggling columns and bartering margins—I stepped forward dramatically.
"You don't need to buy food."
That got their attention. The dwarves froze mid-step. Even Gandalf looked intrigued.
"I brought enough to last us from here to Erebor. High-calorie meals. Roasted meats, dried and fresh fruits, bread, pizza, pies, cupcakes, cookies, coffee, water, juice, Butterbeer. Plus energy bars, protein shakes, and enough chocolate to make a dragon weep."
There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by a loud cheer.
"Bless your strange wizard heart!" Bofur cried, tackling me in a hug that nearly cracked a rib.
"Do you have any more of those chocolate eclairs?" Bombur asked, suddenly looking very devout.
I grinned. "Plenty." I handed out some protein bars to make up for the trauma of the "joke breakfast."
Thorin gave me a nod of solemn appreciation. "You have our thanks, Mr Carter. Your generosity is noted."
I inclined my head. "Just doing my part. We're all in this together, aren't we? Call me Ben. Oh—don't buy bedrolls and no need to get me a pony either."
Thorin raised an eyebrow. "You plan to walk to the Lonely Mountain?"
I grinned. "Not quite."
The dwarves exchanged looks. Bilbo sighed.
"I just know this will be unnatural."
The stablemaster certainly scratched his head when our strange company came to his doorstep, but it's amazing how easily a hefty bag of gold can persuade a man to ignore a certain amount of strangeness. Without further asking about our business, the surly hobbit handed us the mounts as he began counting out his coin.
Despite being underground dwellers by nature and by choice, most of the dwarves took easily to the ponies, and soon each pony was slung about with all kinds of baggages, packages, parcels, and paraphernalia.
Bilbo was given a sweet chestnut mare.
"I shall name her Myrtle," he declared grandly.
Myrtle neighed in what I can only describe as immediate regret.
Moments later, Bilbo attempted to mount her and somehow got his leg caught in the strap, managing to fall both up and down at once.
"Is there not a gentler method of travel?" he huffed, brushing grass off his waistcoat. "This cannot be the only option."
"Technically, you could ride Bombur," I muttered. "But I'm not sure which of you would object more."
Just as Gandalf swung gracefully onto his horse, I stepped back and summoned my ride from my storage ring.
With a shimmer of light and the soft sound of air whooshing from sudden displacement, a sleek, gleaming ATV bike appeared beside me—squat, muscular, and futuristic in every line. That's right, no getting butthurt by riding a horse all day, no sir.
The dwarves stared like I'd conjured a golden goose doing taxes.
Bilbo's jaw dropped so fast you could've used it as a drawbridge.
Gandalf narrowed his eyes, then let out a soft hum of interest.
"What is this contraption?" asked Dori, clutching his beard in disbelief.
I mounted the bike smoothly, kicking up its magical start-runes. The engine purred—not roared, not clanked—but purred like a well-fed cat.
"It's called an ATV - All-Terrain Vehicle," I explained casually, my spectacles turning into goggles. "Top speed: 120 miles an hour on open road. Runs on a hybrid system—solar core backup and a magic conversion drive. Emission-free. Silent. Smooth. No saddle sores. Which, by the way, you'll all be regretting by lunchtime."
Ori squinted at it. "Does it… bite?"
"Only if you insult its design." I grinned.
"Can it fight?" asked Gloin suspiciously.
I smiled mysteriously. "Maybe."
Still stunned, the company moved out, with me taking up the rear at first. But as we reached the open road, l twisted the throttle—and in an instant, the bike zipped forward with a humming whoosh, leaving behind a trail of astonished dwarves and a very amused wizard.
"Show-off," Gandalf muttered with a smirk.
Bilbo watched Ben weave smoothly around a bend, cloak flaring behind him like a superhero in a shampoo commercial.
"…I have to get me one of those."
It was in this way, that one sunny morning just before May, two wizards, thirteen dwarves and one hobbit set out on a journey that would change their lives forever.
---
The sun hung lazily above us as we pulled off the road near the Brandywine Bridge. A perfect, grassy knoll awaited our company with a gentle breeze whispering off the river. We'd made good progress since morning, and I figured it was time for a morale boost.
With dramatic flair, I conjured up pizzas stacked with cheese, cheeseburgers taller than Thorin's temper, fries sizzling like applause and plenty of cold Butterbeer fizzing in glass bottles. The dwarves' eyes lit up as if they'd discovered a lost hoard.
A few of them—predictably Bofur and Dwalin—asked for something stronger.
"No whiskey while we're on the road," I said firmly. "We're here for dragon gold, not drunk karaoke."
Thorin gave me a sharp nod. "Ben's right. We'll need clear minds and steady hands."
Bilbo dabbed his mouth with an imaginary napkin. "I'd settle for a napkin, actually. Or a plate. Or even the idea of one."
"Use your hands like the rest of us," Gloin grunted, licking cheese off his beard.
Bilbo shuddered. "Uncivilised."
"Here," I grinned, handing a compact yet well-stocked backpack to Bilbo, enchanted for lightness, waterproofing, and a little bit of internal space expansion.
"All your essentials are in there," I said with a small smile. "Clothes, toiletries, towels, handkerchiefs, a few maps, even your favorite tea blend. Oh—and some extra pipe-weed. Just in case."
Bilbo clutched it like a sacred relic. "You are a saint."
The dwarves roared with laughter, clapping him on the back. Even Thorin allowed himself a faint smirk.
After lunch was over, I stepped forward again.
"Time for some gifts!"
"Wait," cried Gloin. "Didn't you just give us pizza?"
"Oh, these are better."
With a flick of my fingers, a sleek black trunk appeared beside me, humming faintly with arcane containment wards.
"You all have weapons. Fine dwarven craftsmanship, no doubt. But these…" I opened the trunk. "These are enchanted."
First came the chestplates—dark grey and faintly iridescent. "Graphene-tritanium composite armour. Light as leather, stronger than diamond. Good luck getting scratched, let alone stabbed."
Next, the vambraces, fitted with projection runes. "These can generate energy shields—enough to deflect arrows, blades, even dragon fire. For a while, at least."
A ripple of impressed murmurs passed through the group.
"Boots of Swiftness. Designed for luxury and speed. Runed soles. You'll move faster than you ever have. Good for retreats… or chasing down orcs."
I moved on to the weapons, drawing a sword from the trunk with a flourish. "These swords will never go dull and can unleash deadly blades of wind when you swing with intent."
Balin picked one up, testing its balance. "It hums."
I nodded. "That's the runes. They react to your energy."
"Gravity hammers. When they land a hit, it's like ten dwarves struck at once." Dwalin's eyes gleamed as he grabbed one and gave it an experimental swing.
"Battle axes. Infused with flame runes. They'll burn what they strike—and sometimes more."
Oin's grin looked almost feral.
"Throwing knives that return to you after a few seconds. Because chasing your knife is undignified."
Then came Kíli's moment.
"The Sunflare Bow," I said, handing the enchanted weapon to the younger dwarf. "Doesn't use arrows. Just pull the string."
He did. A glowing shaft of light formed, fired off with a sharp thoom into a boulder, which exploded in a brilliant flash.
Ori quietly edged behind Bifur for safety.
Kíli grinned. "This is incredible!"
"It powers itself using ambient magic and sunlight. The brighter the day, the stronger the shot."
Looking at Bilbo, I remembered how in the final battle he downed one orc after another by hitting them on the heads with pinpoint accuracy.
"Are you any good with a bow, Bilbo?" I asked.
Bilbo adjusted his waistcoat. "As a matter of fact, I was a dab shot at one point in my youth, until I nearly parted my father's hair with an arrow. That was the end of that alas."
I chuckled alongside the others and handed him another Sunflare Bow. "You'll do fine. Just aim away from us."
Bilbo stared at it with reverence, like a child handed his first toy. "I don't know what to say."
"No need to say anything. Just stay alive."
The final set I saved for Thorin.
"Thorin Oakenshield," I said, lifting the silver grey Shield of Thrain with gold filigree, "this shield absorbs physical and magical energy from the opponent's strikes. Redirects it into this—" I held out a runed broadsword, Thror's Justice, "—which turns that energy into devastating lightning strikes."
Thorin took both with great care, eyes studying every line, every rune. He bowed his head slightly.
"These are… worthy of kings."
"They're yours. You'll need them before this journey ends."
He looked up at me, voice softer. "Once Erebor is ours again, you will not be forgotten."
"You better not. These weren't easy to make."
Gandalf, who had watched the whole affair with an amused look, chuckled as he put on a pair of Boots of Swiftness, the only item he picked. I had a feeling it was more for comfort than for speed.
"You're giving out wonders like candy. I'm starting to feel a bit jealous," he joked.
I smirked. "Don't worry, Mithrandir. I see a fine weapon in your near future."
He raised a bushy eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Oh yes. Something with a blue glow, perhaps," I smiled.
---
Soon, we crossed the outermost hedgerows of the Shire. The land behind us seem to shimmer with a soft green glow, the last of its peaceful charm trailing away like a dream in the distance.
A few leagues in, the sky darkened and it began to rain. It was not a torrential downpour but a slow steady rain, the kind that was quite content to stay around all day.
But I'd been prepared for that.
As the first drops fell, I pulled over. With a thought, fifteen enchanted umbrellas popped out of my storage ring. They floated neatly to their new owners like polite jellyfish.
Bilbo received one shaped like a tea kettle. "How… whimsical."
Gandalf chuckled. "He's saved you from damp dignity."
Bilbo sighed. "It's all right. I'd already resigned myself to prune toes and emotional erosion."
I just grinned and shrugged, coasting along behind them on my bike, which I'd modified with a subtle weather-shield. Rain slid off it like it hit invisible glass, and the hum of the enchanted engine was almost meditative beneath the pitter-patter.
The dwarves muttered darkly about my "Rolling Throne" and "Ben's Bubble Wagon."
It wasn't long before Fili and Kili, curious as ever, fell back from the column and trotted beside me, matching the ATV's pace with their umbrellas tilted rakishly.
"Ben," Fili began, his eyes bright beneath his dripping fringe. "What's your world like?"
"Yeah," Kili added, "and your family? You mentioned your father is a warrior of some kind?"
I smiled, easing back the throttle just a touch. "My dad's an Auror—kind of like a magical knight and investigator rolled into one. He protects people from dangerous wizards, magical beasts, curses. That sort of thing. His name's Andrew Carter."
They whistled in unison, clearly impressed.
"My mum, Miranda Simmons, is a healer—she works at St Mungo's - a magical hospital. And then there's my little sister Rachel. She's a year and a half younger than me. Wicked smart, excellent in Charms and Transfiguration."
"Sounds like a fine clan," Fili said with a nod.
"It is," I said, a touch of homesickness brushing against the inside of my chest. "We live in a pretty big house in London, England. My sister and I go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It's a massive castle in the Scottish highlands where we're sorted into houses and taught everything from transfiguration to potion-making to dueling."
Kili leaned in. "You said you were chosen for this quest because of how well you did?"
"Top of my class, even beat some of the professors in spell duels," I smiled, remembering Quirrel. "I have…a unique gift. So when this opportunity arose, my headmaster and my family agreed I was the best suited."
"By Durin's beard," Kili muttered. "You must be a right hero in your homeland."
"Hardly," I chuckled. "Just someone who likes to help where he can."
Fili elbowed his brother. "Bet he's got his own ballads already."
I laughed, then looked at them both. "You two would love Quidditch."
"Quid-what now?" Kili said, cocking his head.
"Quidditch. It's our most popular sport. Played in the air on flying broomsticks. There are four balls—one of which you put through tall hoops to score points, two of them try to knock you off, and another tiny golden one that's worth 150 points and ends the game if caught. The chasers score, beaters protect, and the seeker—like my friend Harry—goes after the golden ball called the Snitch."
They both blinked at me, then exploded in simultaneous exclamations.
"Flying sport?!"
"Now that's something!"
I chuckled. "I can show you my memories of a match tonight, if you like."
Fili and Kili nodded as one. "We'll hold you to that."
---
The golden light of the setting sun cast long shadows across the damp road as the rain finally petered out. Thorin raised a hand, calling the company to a halt. We had come across a rocky outcropping near a tiny stream—a perfect spot to camp for the night.
We dismounted, ponies were tethered and fed, and dinner was a hearty mix of roast chicken, garlic bread, and creamy mashed potatoes so fluffy Bilbo asked if I'd stolen clouds.
After the last of the plates were cleaned and stacked, I clapped my hands to get everyone's attention.
"All right, time for some shut-eye. I've got something that'll help."
With a wave, I produced a stack of premium sleeping bags—self-heating, moisture-repellent, magically fluffed to feel like clouds. One by one, I tossed them to each member of the company.
Bilbo hugged his to his chest and practically sighed. "Oh my… this is even softer than my feather bed back home."
"Like sleeping on warm bread dough," Bofur muttered, earning approving nods from several others.
But I wasn't done yet.
"You also don't need to worry about standing watch," I said casually, stretching out my hand and drawing a thin circle on the ground with a trail of golden magic. "I'm putting up layered ward fields around us and the ponies—soundproof, invisible, scent-masking. We'll be untraceable until dawn."
That got everyone's attention.
Gloin gave me a skeptical look. "Invisible, eh? No offense, lad, but I'll believe it when I don't see it."
"I had a feeling you'd say that," I grinned. "Thorin, Dwalin, Gloin—please step outside the circle, would you? Face away from the camp and count twenty breaths. Then turn around and tell me what you see."
They complied, grumbling slightly. As they turned away, I raised my hand and cast the spells. A gentle shimmer passed around the edge of the campsite before vanishing completely from view. Gandalf, sitting off to the side and puffing his pipe, narrowed his eyes as he watched my movements with great interest.
Inside the warded area, I turned to the others. "Now, call out to them."
"Dwalin! Gloin!" Bifur shouted.
"Thorin, can you hear us?" Ori yelled.
No response.
A few of the dwarves exchanged startled looks. They yelled again—louder this time—but it was as if our three dwarf friends were out of earshot entirely.
Meanwhile, outside the circle, I could see Thorin and the others turn around. Gloin blinked. Dwalin swore under his breath. Thorin stepped forward cautiously, hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes sweeping what appeared to be a vacant, rocky clearing. They looked utterly baffled.
I dropped the wards with a flick of my fingers. The shimmer returned briefly before vanishing.
Now, suddenly, the camp was visible again—and all the voices came rushing back. The three rejoined the group, still blinking in confusion.
Thorin looked at me, brows drawn. "We saw nothing. Heard nothing. Just empty ground. No trace of fire or company."
"Well," I said with a grin, "now you know. No beast, burglar, orc or goblin is finding us tonight."
"We were right there," Dwalin muttered. "How in Durin's name—?"
"Magic," I said with jazz hands.
Gandalf exhaled a long puff of pipe smoke. "You really do enjoy showing off."
"I'm just setting a very high bar for future wizards."
---
The excited chatter from behind me rose and fell like waves as the projector played the 1st year Quidditch final between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Even Gandalf seemed caught up in the match, puffing his pipe as the Ravenclaw chasers executed a clever Porskoff ploy.
I stood alone at the edge of the rocky outcropping, staring ahead. My spectacle lenses flickered faintly with magical glyphs, and in the next instant, the darkness ahead sharpened into clarity—outlines glowing faint silver against the inky black.
There they were.
A pack of orcs. Mounted on wargs. Twenty-seven of them, scattered across a jagged bluff just beyond a narrow ravine. Black armor glinted faintly under the moonlight. The wargs sniffed, confused. One snarled at its rider.
The orc shouted in Black Speech, probably something like "It was here, Greg!"
But they couldn't see us.
Couldn't hear us.
Couldn't smell us.
The layered wards were holding perfectly—muffling scent, sound, light, even heat signatures. I'd woven in misdirection charms, just for extra flair. To the orcs it would seem like the trail had suddenly vanished.
For a brief moment, I was tempted to go after them now, but no. It was dark, one of them might escape. No, best to hunt orcs in daylight. With the weapons I had provided my new friends, these guys won't stand a chance. Besides, I did want to test the modifications I had made to my bike.
One of the orcs snarled and smacked its warg as the beast whined, agitated and confused. I watched for another moment, then turned and walked back toward the camp.
Laughter. Butterbeer. Dwarves making side bets on Quidditch rules they didn't understand. Bilbo was arguing with Gandalf about foul play involving a bat and a broom.
I stepped back into the light, letting the joy of my companions wash over me, while the darkness behind me grew more dangerous by the hour.
But they didn't know who they were dealing with.
Yet.
---
In the blackened heart of southern Mirkwood, where the trees grew twisted and sick with shadow, there stood a fortress of dread—DolGuldur, the Hill of Sorcery. Its towers, broken and leaning like the bones of some long-dead colossus, jutted above the mists that clung to the forest like a shroud. The stones wept mildew and rot; the air hung heavy with the stench of blood and decay. No birds sang here. No stars could pierce the miasma that crowned its battlements. It was a place forgotten by hope.
And yet, somethingremembered—a will ancient and terrible, lurking in the ruined halls.
Beneath the shattered dome of the fortress's central tower, a gloom deeper than shadow stirred. It pulsed with a slow, hateful rhythm, like the beat of a monstrous heart. Tendrils of flame and black smoke rose and twisted into the suggestion of a figure, tall and crowned with malice. Its form was neither flesh nor fully spirit—an echo of a being once great in shape, now monstrous in will. This was Sauron, the Abominable, the Nameless Enemy, the shadow that survived the ruin of ages.
In the secret tongue of the Elves, he was called Sauronë i Nárë, Sauron the Fire. But fire was too clean a word for what he had become.
He had once walked the lands in glory, fair to look upon, a deceiver cloaked in light. But long gone were the days of Annatar, the Lord of Gifts. That mask had burned away with Númenor, lost in the great cataclysm that had bent the world into its current shape. When the Sea devoured the pride of Men, Sauron's body had perished. But his essence had endured—bound to the Ring he had forged in the fires of Mount Doom.
When the Ring was cut from his hand, he had lost form again. Yet still his will endured, incorporeal but undiminished. His eye turned ever eastward, to Mordor, to Barad-dûr, where stone and fire awaited the return of their master.
For now, though, he wore the guise of the Necromancer, a cloak of deceit and fear to mask his slow return. He knew it would not serve him forever. The Elves whispered his name in Rivendell. The Istari, meddlesome and grey, sniffed too close to the truth. Soon, he would abandon this place and rise openly as the Dark Lord reborn. Soon, the Eye would open in full.
But before that—something new.
A ripple, subtle but unmistakable, had passed through the unseen currents of the world. A magic unlike any he had ever known, ancient yet unfamiliar, powerful but cloaked. It moved across Middle-earth like a river through the soil—hidden from sight, yet touching all things. He had not made this magic. Nor had any of his old foes. Its origin was alien, and that disturbed him.
He could not yet see the wielder, nor pierce their purpose, but he felt its motion, and that was almost enough.
Below the tower, the stone floor had blackened with the residue of spellfire. A dozen orcs crouched at the edges of the seared circle, their claws twitching, eyes wide with animalistic fear. They had seen no figure, yet they felt him. The pressure of his presence crushed down upon their thoughts, filling their minds with ash and flame. They dared not speak, dared not move.
Then—he spoke.
The voice came not with breath, but as a force, a firestorm of language that invaded bone and marrow. The Black Speech erupted in their minds like a hammer striking iron:
Send word to the goblins of the Misty Mountains. Be on the lookout for a strange magic user travelling in the company of dwarves. He is to be taken alive if possible—killed if not. Inform my general. The pale orc has one more quarry to hunt.
The orcs howled as the last word drove spikes of fire through their skulls. Their master's will was clear. They scrambled from the hall, shrieking orders to goblin messengers and fell-beasts, flinging themselves into the choking dark of the forest.
In the gloom above, the shadow that was Sauron flickered like a flame about to ignite.