[800 powerstones bonus chapter (even though the target hasn't been reached yet)]
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When a god descends in the fullness of power, the fate of war is already sealed.
Before the Gate of the Lonely Mountain, the armies of Light closed their circle. The remaining Gundabad Orcs and red-eyed Orcs of Dol Guldur were hemmed in, surrounded on all sides.
"Loose the shafts!"
The bowmen bent their bows. Arrows soared in shining arcs and fell like rain, cutting down Orcs in droves. The heavy cavalry thundered through the field, cleaving the horde with their charge. The horse-archers wheeled along the rim of the circle, loosing arrows until their quivers were spent, and then took up their long spears, darting in and out among the foe.
The heavy infantry pressed forward step by step, shield to shield, crushing all before them. None who stood in their path were left alive. Among them fought Kaen himself, King of Eowenría, his sword red with the blood of his enemies.
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Under the protection of Artemis, the Elves, the men of Dale, and the ten surviving guards of the fabled Golden armored warriors fought at Kaen's side. The circle of death tightened, and at last the Orcs were slaughtered to the last.
A great cry split the air.
The Eagles wheeled aloft, their keen voices echoing over the valley as they turned back toward the Misty Mountains. These were the messengers of Manwë, Lord of the Valar. Though not Maiar, their wit was keen and their strength mighty. In the airs of Middle-earth, none save a true dragon could rival them. White birds too circled, glimmering in the holy light, singing as they soared.
Before the Gate, a roar of triumph arose. Weapons were lifted high as voices joined in the thunder of victory.
The kings and captains gathered together. Thorin Oakenshield looked upon Kaen, and with solemnity bowed deeply.
"Forgive me, Kaen. For my words and deeds before—I did not mean them so. I ask pardon, and I give you my thanks."
Kaen spoke with warmth: "My friend, whether Dwarf, Elf, or Man—there is no king flawless. He who conquers the dragon within his own heart has already surpassed most of his kind."
Nearby, the Elf-captain Thaliondir, together with Elladan and Elrohir, greeted Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm.
"Your Majesty," said Thaliondir, "it has been three thousand years since last we met, in the days of the Last Alliance. To behold you again is my joy."
Thranduil inclined his head coolly. "And I am glad to see you again."
For the Sindar had long borne resentment toward the Noldor, and Thranduil, who had lived since the First Age, bore those memories keenly. Doriath, the great Sindarin kingdom, had been plundered by Dwarves, rebuilt, and ruined again. Yet in the end, it was not Dwarves who brought its final doom, but the Noldor—Fëanor's sons—who spilled Elven blood in the Second Kinslaying, when they came ravening for the Silmarils. The Twilight Kingdom of the Sindar perished at last beneath their onslaught.
If not for Elrond Half-elven, in whose veins ran the blood of the Sindar kings, Thranduil would have offered little courtesy at all. To Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond, his manner was warmer—yet even so, the old wounds could not wholly heal.
At that moment Gandalf and Saruman came forth. Their eyes turned upon Artemis.
Saruman spoke, his voice measured: "Unknown one, I have not heard your name in Valinor. From whence do you come, and what mission do you bear?"
Artemis answered: "I have cast aside my former name and all that I was. By the command of the One Above All, I stand as guardian at Kaen's side. My name is Artemis."
"The One Above All…"
Most who stood there did not understand. But to the Maiar, the words struck like thunder. Gandalf and Saruman saw in their minds a figure beyond all thought: Eru Ilúvatar, the Creator, whom every Maia had beheld before the making of the world.
They themselves were sent by the Valar, servants of the world's lords. But Artemis declared that she came at the behest of Ilúvatar Himself. Awe and dread filled them both. For since the War of Wrath at the end of the First Age, Ilúvatar had not revealed Himself; only the Valar might commune with Him in the deep places of Eä.
That He would send forth a Maia in her full might, to guard this mortal King—this was a mystery that shook them.
They looked at Kaen with wonder and with doubt. What was he, that Ilúvatar should set His gaze upon him? That question they could not answer, not yet.
Kaen said nothing of it. Instead he stepped forward and spoke: "Lords and kings, our war is not yet ended. Though the Nazgûl have fled and their armies with them, on Ravenhill there remains another foe."
"Azog…"
At once, every gaze turned toward the hill. The Dwarves' eyes blazed with hatred. Long had they wandered in exile, and much of their sorrow was laid at Azog's door. Between them was enmity that could end only in death.
Yet in truth, all who had fought here—Elf, Man, Dwarf—had lost dearly to Azog's cruelty. None there were who did not count him a mortal foe.
They gathered their strength and marched swiftly for Ravenhill.
When they came,the bowmen under Reger, Zakri, and Andric were already holding the pass, fighting grimly against the foe. Three thousand red-eyed Orcs still remained there, with at least five hundred Warg-riders. They sought desperately to break through and flee the field, but the bowmen barred the way, and blood was spilled upon the slopes.
The allied host fell upon them, forcing them back, up the hill.
"Strike!" Thorin roared, and with Dáin at his side he led the Dwarves upward. Thranduil waved his hand, and his Elves swept up another path. Kaen's chosen heroes, each newly risen to renown, rushed forth with him toward the summit.
At last upon the flat crown of Ravenhill they met. Azog and his son Bolg stood surrounded.
Soldier faced soldier, captain faced captain, and kings faced kings. None pressed forward all at once. Instead champions were chosen, to meet in single combat.
Legolas Greenleaf took the field against Bolg.
Thorin Oakenshield faced Azog the Defiler.
Before the eyes of all, the duels raged.
At last, Legolas the peerless Elf-prince, newly risen to legend, slew Bolg the dark champion. And Thorin, King under the Mountain, in the might of his wrath and valor, struck down Azog, the bane of Durin's Folk.
Thus fell their ancient foe, and the doom of Durin's House was avenged.