He raised Ryujin Jakka high, then with a powerful thrust, plunged it into the ground.
"Blaze, Ryujin Jakka," he whispered.
The ground shook. As if the earth itself was startled awake from its long slumber. From where the sword was planted, pillars of red flame spurted into the sky with a terrifying explosion. The fire was like red dragons dancing in the air, raging uncontrollably.
Waves of fire spread rapidly, forming a ring of destruction that swept across all of Ravenhill. Orcs that were too close were instantly incinerated, their bodies melting in screams and shouts that echoed throughout the mountains. Even Azog, who stood firm atop the peak, and his son, Bolg, turned briefly before the tongues of flame lashed out at them.
"AAAAAARRGGHHH!!" Azog's scream tore through the sky as the fire burned parts of his body, sending him tumbling from the rock where he stood. Bolg staggered, one side of his body scorched, his right arm almost shapeless.
The Elven archers, who had been firing from a distance, stopped, stunned by the blazing red flashes that tore through the field. Thorin's Dwarves halted their advance; even Kili and Dwalin bowed their heads to shield themselves from the heat that swept over their skin. Bilbo himself, standing not far from the battle, nearly dropped his sword, his eyes unable to tear away from a power that did not belong to their world.
The ice that had covered Ravenhill—frozen, silent, and deadly—began to melt. The hard surface turned into steam, hot mist rising into the air as the temperature drastically increased. The steam formed a red haze, enveloping Thalion like a mystical curtain that set him apart from others.
There was no sound. Only a soft rumble from the still-blazing earth, and the gasping breaths of those who survived. Some Orcs tried to flee, but their bodies were immediately consumed by the fire, which seemed to have a will of its own.
Thalion pulled Ryujin Jakka from the ground. Smoke billowed from the scorched earth. He looked at Arwen, then at the silent armies staring at him, both friend and foe.
Thalion's voice finally spoke, softly yet resonantly:
"This battle... has changed. Now it is no longer the Battle of Five Armies. But the sixth destiny has arrived."
He raised his sword, and for the first time in that almost desperate battle... hope felt alive again, but also... fear of a power they did not fully understand.
The frozen ground exploded into steam and embers. Pillars of red flame shot up from the point where Thalion plunged Ryūjin Jakka—forming quickly and repelling the relentlessly charging horde of Orcs.
From the side of the ruins, Thorin stood tall between Fili and Kili. Their chests still heaved from the previous battle, but now... all was silent. His eyes were fixed on Thalion's figure, standing firm, his cloak billowing in the heat he himself had created.
"Thalion..." Thorin murmured softly, more to himself.
Fili swallowed, looking around at the melting landscape. "I knew he was strong... but not this strong."
Kili, his face covered in dust and blood, added, "He hid this from us."
Bilbo, standing not far away, still clutched Sting with trembling hands. His wide eyes rounded as he gazed at the pillars of fire that incinerated Orcs without touching any of them.
"Is that... magic?" he said softly. "Not ordinary magic," Thorin replied without shifting his gaze. "It is his will."
On the other side of the field, Legolas and Tauriel froze their steps as the ground before them cracked and burned. A large Orc that was about to strike Tauriel burst into flames before it could even swing its weapon.
Tauriel turned quickly, and upon seeing Thalion in the distance, she let out a heavy sigh.
"He's more than just a warrior, Legolas. He's..." "He is a fire waiting to be awakened," Legolas interrupted, his eyes gleaming green, filled with awe and caution.
From the sky, Griffindor, their winged mount, circled once over Ravenhill, letting out a long shriek before landing lightly beside Thalion and Arwen.
The atmosphere changed. The ice covering the high ground melted, yet it did not turn into mud. The ground hardened like gleaming black glass—coated with embers that did not burn. The cold air now turned hot and heavy, as if every breath brought fragments of embers into the lungs.
Azog, standing not far from the center of the explosion, grimaced against the heat. His left arm, blackened, appeared blistered. Bolg behind him stumbled, half his body burned.
Azog hissed.
"He... he was not part of the calculation," he said in harsh Orcish. "He has changed fate," Bolg replied with a horrid grin.
But atop the ruins, Azog's large body began to move. His left hand, partly charred, pressed against the stone to rise. The spikes on his back were broken, and parts of his body were covered in still-blackened burns. Yet his eyes—eyes full of hatred and an unwillingness to be defeated—still blazed.
"GrrraaaaaaaHHHHHH!!"
His roar tore through the steam and mist. Bolg, his son, limped closer, his face half-burned but his eyes full of vengeance.
"Father... we must retreat..."
Azog looked towards Thalion, who now stood calmly. Then at his forces, who had been roasted alive.
But Azog was not a creature who knew the word 'retreat'.
With a furious cry, he raised his spear high—though his body still trembled from his wounds—and rallied the rest of his forces.
"CHARGE!! Kill him! Kill them all!!"
But Azog's voice was almost drowned out by the thud of footsteps from the other side of the hill. The ground trembled again. This time not from magic, but from the thud of thousands of armored feet.
"Erebor! Erebor is not alone!"
The cry came from the back of the Dwarf lines—Dáin Ironfoot and his army from the Iron Hills finally arrived, breaking through the debris and fiery mist, with great war hammers, spears, and an unwavering spirit.
Thorin raised his sword high. His gaze met Dáin's, who was running towards the front lines.
"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"
And with that war cry, the Dwarves charged forward. An explosion of spirit and the clang of steel once again echoed on Ravenhill. But now, one thing was certain: Thalion had changed the course of the battle.
Meanwhile, Thalion stood still, Ryūjin Jakka still glowing fiery red. Beside him, Arwen looked at the Elven and Dwarf forces that were now moving closer, with an expression between hope and apprehension.
Thorin finally stepped forward, his voice hoarse but firm.
"You waited too long to show who you truly are."
Thalion turned slowly. His eyes did not shine, but were filled with a calmness that was even more unsettling.
"I waited for the moment when hope began to fade, so that when I appeared… that flame would return."
Dwalin snorted. "It worked."
Thalion gazed at the battlefield, which had momentarily fallen silent. Only the rustle of fire could be heard.
"But this is not over yet. There is still more to burn… until the root of this hatred is completely gone."
And with that, Thalion stepped forward. Each of his steps left a trail of red embers that faded in seconds.
Silence. For a moment, only the sound of burning fire could be heard amidst the cracking ice and lingering screams. Ravenhill, which had been filled with the clang of swords and cries of death, was now haunted by a hanging silence—as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Azog and Bolg stood opposite Thalion in the middle of the high ground, which was now cracked and blackened. They did not speak, only stared at each other. But in Azog's eyes, a glint appeared that had never been there before: fear.
Ryūjin Jakka blazed in Thalion's hand—not just as a sword, but the very life of fire itself. Its red glow was unusual. It was not a fire of this world. It lived. It breathed. It writhed like a red dragon ready to strike anything in its ancient fury.
Thalion stepped forward. Not in a hurry. Not roaring. He simply walked calmly, but each step radiated a pressure like a heatwave destroying the balance of the air.
Azog raised his axe, Bolg prepared to ambush from the right side.
But both were too late.
In one movement even faster than a shadow, Thalion thrust Ryūjin Jakka forward, then slashed from below to above in a dazzling red arc.
"Higeki o oete kure—Akai yōna!" ("End this tragedy—Red flame!")
Fragments of fire exploded like shimmering shards of glass. The line of his slash cleaved the air, striking Azog and Bolg in one breath. There were no screams. No time to react.
Azog's body paused for a moment… then slowly split. From shoulder to hip. The same happened to Bolg, who tried to parry but his sword melted instantly upon contact with the flame. Both were silenced before their bodies burned from within, blazing in red inferno, then—
—vanished into ashes blown by the wind.
The remaining Orc forces watched the event with wide eyes, then threw down their weapons in fear. No leader, no courage. They retreated, some fleeing, some stumbling over each other, some simply frozen in horror.
Elves, Dwarves, and Men who witnessed from various sides of the battle could only stand still. Not one cheered. No one even spoke.
Bilbo clutched his rapidly beating chest. Tauriel touched her neck, as if to ensure she was still alive. Legolas only stared at the fire still dancing in the air, slowly fading, like a reluctant falling star.
Thorin stepped forward. Disbelieving. But he knew… the war was over.
"We all... just witnessed history," he murmured.
Thalion stood in the middle of the field. His hair was gently ruffled by the hot wind that was now beginning to subside. Ryūjin Jakka still glowed, but calmly, like a lion that had consumed its prey.
Arwen approached, her horse stepping lightly over the blackened earth. She looked at Thalion.
"Is it enough?" she asked softly.
Thalion gazed far towards the horizon. The Orcs were beginning to disappear from view.
He nodded once.
"It is."
And with that, the fire of Ryūjin Jakka extinguished, leaving only red smoke slowly rising into the overcast sky of Ravenhill.
Ravenhill had just witnessed an unexpected end: Azog and Bolg, two of the darkest commanders, turned to ashes by the blazing red slash of Ryūjin Jakka in Thalion's hand. Yet the battlefield was not entirely calm. Below the hill, thousands of Orcs still moved, raging, blindly without direction.
From the sky, another rumble emerged. Not footsteps. Not war drums. But the flapping of wings that shook the wind.
The Giant Eagles came.
They soared high in the sky, cleaving the clouds like sky gods descended from ancient tales. Their wings were like magnificent silver sails. They circled in the air then swooped—with a speed incomparable to their large bodies.
"Eagles…" Bilbo whispered, his voice choked with awe.
The Orc forces looked up. But it was too late.
Sharp talons tore. Large wings sliced. In one strike, the Orc lines were flung back, their bodies tossed like dry leaves swept by a storm. Some did not even have time to scream before their bodies were crushed on the rocky ground.
But the miracle was not yet over; Arwen stepped forward.
She stood on a cliff overlooking the Orc hordes in the valley. Her hair blew in the wind, her gown fluttering like the last flag of hope. And it was then that she drew Sakura from its sheath.
Its blade was smooth. Straight. Pale like dawn. But as she raised it to the sky, cherry blossom petals began to appear from the air, not from the ground.
"Sakura no Mai," she whispered. —Dance of the Cherry Blossoms.
The petals appeared soft, almost weightless. They floated gently, encircling Arwen in a beautiful swirl that looked like an illusion. But as soon as they touched the air around the Orcs…
Everything changed.
The petals cut flesh like hidden blades. Some shot like arrows, piercing chests and throats. Some spun rapidly, slicing hands and feet, severing muscles, tearing faces.
Screams filled the air. Orcs touched by the petals writhed, bled, then collapsed in bodies destroyed by fine yet deep wounds. Some did not even understand what killed them. They only saw those beautiful flowers… then their world went dark.
The petals did not burn. Did not explode. But danced. Danced amidst the blood and dust.
And in the midst of that chaos, the Giant Eagles swooped again. One of them snatched three Orcs at once with its talons, slamming them against a rocky cliff. Another flapped its wings above a group of fleeing Orcs, creating a dust storm that swallowed them, erasing an entire line in one gust.
The sky was filled with majesty. The ground was filled with petals.
At that moment, the battle no longer sounded like a battle. But rather like the end of a symphony played by the universe itself.
The sky was still red, but this time not from fire or blood. Cherry blossom petals fluttered slowly, falling onto the still-warm ground of Ravenhill after the fire pillars of Ryūjin Jakka had swept the place.
Legolas stood frozen, his blue eyes staring at Arwen with a surprise that had not yet turned into words. Beside him, Tauriel gasped, the blood on her cheek not yet dry, but her eyes were fixed on one thing: the killing petals.
"What was that...?" Tauriel whispered, almost inaudible.
Legolas did not answer. He only stared at Arwen, who still stood calmly, her Sakura not yet returned to its original form. At the tip of her sword, the last petals spun softly, then vanished as if only an illusion of spring lost in winter.
The Dwarves below them were equally silent. Kíli—still wiping blood from his arm—looked at Arwen as if seeing her for the first time. "That's magic," he murmured, half-awed, half-frightened. Balin stood beside him, nodding slowly. "Not ordinary magic, lad. That's a power older than the oldest tree in Lothlórien…"
Bilbo could only gape, his eyes staring at the two Elves he thought were of the same kind, but who turned out to be from different worlds.
And as all eyes were fixed on Arwen, deep and firm footsteps were heard from beyond the thin smoke.
"I expected as much…"
The voice echoed like a small, clear yet calming bell.
From the mist and smoke of the remnants of battle, Gandalf the Grey emerged, his robe dirty, his staff scratched, but his gaze sharp and bright like an unquenchable ember.
"In the end…" Gandalf said, approaching, his eyes looking at Thalion who stood not far from the dying pillars of fire. "…The Son of Rohan chose to intervene in the destiny of this world."
Thalion turned, his smile thin. "I have been merely an observer for too long, Gandalf."
"And because of that," Gandalf said, looking towards Thorin, Kíli, Fíli, and the Dwarves who were now alive—whereas in the previous timeline they should have fallen in this place—"this world has changed."
"Destiny can be rewritten," Gandalf continued in a deep voice. "But only by those who have enough courage and... love to challenge the timeline."
Thalion bowed slightly. "And it seems this war is no longer about five armies. But six."
Gandalf smiled faintly. "Six armies because the Rohirrim from Rohan apparently participated in this war. Six directions of intent. But one choice: endure or perish." He looked at the brightening sky, where the last eagle flapped its wings to mark the end of the fight.
"The question now," Gandalf whispered to Thalion, "what will you do after the fire and flowers have finished dancing?"
A cold wind swept over Ravenhill again, carrying the fading scent of blood metal and embers. The fire of Ryūjin Jakka had extinguished, the sakura petals had stopped swirling. Beneath the brightening sky, all that remained were the traces of battle… and a victory yet to be celebrated.
Thalion stood tall beside Griffindor, his winged horse, which now flapped its wings gently. Beside him, Arwen looked at the warriors who were beginning to move, raising their fallen comrades, wrapping wounds and tears in silence.
"We must go home," Thalion said softly, without turning his face.
Arwen nodded. "To Rohan?"
Thalion sighed. "Yes. There is something greater than all of this. This battle is merely a shadow of the wave to come. And I… must prepare."
They were about to mount Griffindor when a heavy, rumbling voice was heard from behind.
"Thalion!"
They turned. Thorin Oakenshield, though his body was covered in wounds and his armor stained with dust and blood, stood tall. Behind him, the Dwarves of Erebor stood respectfully. Kíli, Fíli, Balin, and the others—all bore wounds, but their eyes shone with unconcealed respect.
Thorin stepped closer, then stopped a few paces from Thalion and Arwen. The air between them felt heavy, but not from tension—rather from something unspoken… something deeper than mere gratitude.
"No words are enough to repay what you have done," Thorin said, his voice hoarse but firm. "Erebor stands today because of both of you."
Thalion bowed his head slightly. "I only did what I had to do."
Thorin smiled thinly, then nodded deeply. "Then allow us to repay you with something more than just words. As King Under the Mountain, I invite you—Thalion, Son of Rohan, and Arwen of Imladris—to come to Erebor, as honored guests."
The Dwarves behind Thorin simultaneously struck their chests with their right hands, a gesture of the highest honor from their people.
Arwen turned to Thalion. Silent for a moment, then a faint smile appeared on her face. "We cannot refuse such a grand invitation, can we?"
Thalion looked at Thorin for a while, then nodded.
"Very well, King Under the Mountain. We will come."
Thorin smiled wider, and for a moment, the weariness in his eyes vanished. He turned to the Dwarves, then said loudly, "Prepare the feasting hall! Tonight, Erebor welcomes noble guests!"
A small cheer was heard from the Dwarves, and in the distance, Balin's voice was heard telling the guards to open the great gate of Erebor.
Thalion mounted Griffindor, then extended a hand to Arwen, who accepted it gracefully. The winged horse took a step, then flew low, following the company of Dwarves who were beginning to walk back towards the Lonely Mountain.
From the sky, Arwen looked at the ruins of Ravenhill, now being left behind. "The battle is over…"
Thalion looked to the east. "But the real war… has just begun."
And with that, they flew through the valley towards Erebor, where the night would be filled with torchlight, Dwarf songs, and a feast that only appears when life is won back from the jaws of death.
The victory feast had ended.
The songs of the Dwarves were now only faint echoes remaining beyond the majestic stone halls of Erebor. The torchlight began to dim, replaced by a peace that could only be born after blood no longer flowed. The scent of roasted meat and ale still lingered in the air, but none of those now sitting in the meeting hall felt hunger or thirst. They had come not to feast, but to look upon the future with open eyes.