I was standing in the rain, straight as a yew tree, while the Dwarves splashed through the mud like grumpy pigs.
My Elven cloak — a gift from Arwen, woven by Galadriel's own hands — kept me dry, warm, and, let's face it, stylish. Right next to me, Bilbo looked like a half-wrung dishcloth, hair plastered to his forehead, feet going splotch-splotch with every step.
And guess what? Thorin still found something to complain about.
"You didn't think this through," he growled at the two unruly brats of the group, Fili and Kili. "And one day, you'll pay for your recklessness."
Classic Thorin. The moment he's not in control, he grumbles like a sulking volcano.
He pointed an accusatory finger. "You think you know this world? In truth, you know nothing."
For once, I agreed with him.
The rain, the cold, the slippery ground... This part of the Weather Hills was treacherous. Not because it held traps — but because the real trap was believing there weren't any.
Fili and Kili lowered their heads, ashamed. Even their usual spark had been thoroughly soaked.
Balin, always the diplomat, stepped in.
"Come now, Thorin, don't be too harsh. They're young. They'll learn."
He paused, then, as he often did when wanting to say something without being contradicted, launched into a story.
"You know where the name 'Oakenshield' comes from? It was Thorin's grandfather, Thráin, who earned it. When the dragon took the Misty Mountains, he fought for Khazad-dûm with nothing but an oak-wood shield."
Bilbo, struggling with a raindrop right in his eye, looked up, fascinated.
"That's… impressive. And what about Azog?"
Bad topic.
Balin stiffened, and Thorin, who had stopped a little ahead, turned the moment the name was spoken.
Thorin looked at me. I was soaked to the ankles, drenched in rain — and tension.
"He went into hiding in the depths of Khazad-dûm. We thought he was dead. But… we were wrong."
His voice was dry, full of restrained hatred.
"When I see Azog again… I will strike him down myself."
I nodded slowly, saying nothing.
What I knew — and hadn't told Thorin — was that Azog wasn't somewhere.
He was behind us.
---
The next night, the rain fell even harder. Seriously, it felt like the sky had cracked open and poured all the oceans of Valinor down on our heads.
Bilbo tripped into a puddle roughly his size. "Edward… can't we stop? I can't feel my feet. Or my butt. Or my soul."
Fili, water streaming down his hair, grumbled, "Nothing here, Mr. Baggins. We keep moving."
Dori shouted over the downpour, "Gandalf! Can't you do something?"
Gandalf, with nothing more than a soggy pipe clinging to his lips, shrugged.
"I'm a wizard, Dori. Not an umbrella. If you want the weather to change, go pray to Manwë. Or hire another wizard."
Bilbo's eyes went wide.
"There are other wizards?"
Silence fell. Even the rain seemed to pause to listen.
Gandalf tapped his pipe, looking thoughtful. "In our company… there might be another."
Everyone turned to me.
Great.
Óin offered, "What about Balin? That one knows all the secrets!"
Balin nearly choked. "By my ancestors! I'm a storyteller, not an enchanter!"
Thorin, of course, said nothing. He just looked at me with a small, ironic smile.
"You spoke of a wizard, Gandalf? Are you thinking of Edward?"
I would have thrown a rock at him. A small one. Into his beard.
But Gandalf, naturally, chose that exact moment to drop this gem:
"You could say that. He has faced Saruman, after all."
Thanks, Gandalf. Really subtle.
Bilbo stared at me, eyes as wide as dessert plates. Fili stepped closer, intrigued.
"You're a wizard?"
I raised my hands, palms out.
"No, no, no. I'm a ranger. Just a ranger. With… a few practical skills."
Gandalf smiled, falsely modest.
"I myself only dabble in fireworks tricks."
Hypocrite.
But the Dwarves had already made up their minds: I was some kind of Gandalf 2.0. Not that I minded — but so much for staying low-key.
Bilbo, still curious, kept the questions coming:
"And Saruman? Who's he?"
Gandalf grew serious. "A very powerful wizard. Leader of my order. A White Wizard. But he lost himself in his own ambitions."
"And there are others?"
"Two blues — I've lost track of them. And a brown one: Radagast."
Bilbo nodded rapidly, too fascinated to notice he was slipping deeper into the mud.
I moved to the front of the group, taking the opportunity to step away. I needed silence.
I was thinking about Azog. About the orcs trailing us. About Saruman.
And mostly, about myself.
I wasn't a wizard. Not a hero. Just an English kid thrown into a world where magic is real, dragons exist, and Dwarves can snore louder than a freight train.
But I had a part to play.
And soon, that part would face its first real test.
The Troll Forest was waiting.