If I had known that crossing the Shadowmount felt so much like a philosophy lesson on stubbornness, I would've taken a shortcut. Maybe through Moria. Yeah… no. Bad idea.
There's an old saying: a horse can wear itself out trotting in front of a mountain. That's exactly how it felt. Since we'd crossed the Lightwell River — a name way too poetic for such a grimy stream — it had taken us two whole days to reach the edge of Troll Forest. Two days marching along the East-West Road under a sky so gray it would've discouraged a Norwegian sailor.
And as if that wasn't enough, the scenery had gone full "haunted kingdom." To the west: endless plains scoured by wind. To the east: jagged hills bit by frost, then spiked peaks as welcoming as a goblin's dinner party.
And right there, in the twilight gloom, we stumbled upon it: the burned-out cabin.
No roof. Charred walls. Stones half-swallowed by time. And a silence… heavy. Like the memories of the place still hovered between the scorched beams.
I felt Bilbo behind me, frozen in place.
"Did people live here?" he asked, voice tight.
Gandalf stepped forward, resting a hand on the crumbling doorframe.
"Once. Families. Laughter. Children playing. Then the trolls came. And never left."
We could've been in a bad children's story — except these trolls weren't metaphorical. And the cabin still smoked faintly, as if the ashes had refused to die out.
Thorin scouted the area, eyes sharp.
"We camp here tonight. Fili, Kili — take care of the horses."
The brothers grumbled but obeyed. Say what you want about Dwarves — they grumble, but they deliver.
Gandalf didn't agree.
"Thorin, this place is too close to Troll Forest. We should head to Rivendell before nightfall."
Thorin straightened like a bear disturbed mid-nap.
"I've said it already. I will not set foot in Rivendell."
I sighed. This argument had been going on for three days. Three. Long. Days.
Gandalf, being Gandalf, didn't drop it.
"Elves are not your enemies. You forget what they've done for your people."
"What they didn't do, you mean."
And boom — the box of grudges flew open. Thorin listed off: Smaug, the fall of Erebor, Elven indifference, old betrayals… There was even a rant about overcooked venison, which I'm pretty sure was off-topic.
Gandalf clicked his tongue, exasperated.
"Fine. But you can't open the Mountain alone. Elrond can help. You need him."
Thorin's glare could've split stone.
"That map is mine. You got it from my father. And my father never asked for Elven help."
Silence fell — sharp and heavy as an axe. Gandalf turned on his heel and stormed out of the cabin.
Bilbo, panicking, ran after him.
"Gandalf! Where are you going?"
The wizard didn't even look back.
"To breathe."
Translation: I'm sulking in a corner until someone grows a conscience. Spoiler — that someone won't be Thorin.
I stayed back. I'd seen Gandalf angry before. But this was different. He was hurt.
And he wasn't the only one.
When Thorin came out next, he barked:
"Bofur, make dinner."
No eye contact.
No apology.
Just silence and tension thick enough to cut with a dagger.
I stared straight at the so-called King under the Mountain. He met my gaze.
That — not trolls, not orcs — was the real test.
Pride.
The camp settled. Nori, Bombur, and Bofur stirred something that might've once been venison stew but now resembled "game-flavored memory water." Bilbo had just received his portion when he came over, more worried than a Hobbit mum facing an empty pantry.
"Edward… do you think he'll come back?"
I handed him my bowl and gave a half-smile.
"That's your tenth Gandalf question since he left."
Bofur, chuckling nearby, added:
"He's a wizard, not a rabbit. He'll return."
I sat apart, gazing at the sky. A thick cloud blanket covered the Shadowmount, but the moon still pierced through. Bigger and brighter than in England. It bathed the forest in a pale, otherworldly light.
Gandalf wasn't just angry. He was disappointed.
Disappointed by Thorin's hate. By the Dwarves' grudges, clinging like soot to the ruins around us. And if I was honest — I was disappointed too.
Night fell like a blade.
At the campfire, Bombur stirred three sad chunks of meat in a massive pot. Supplies were vanishing faster than snow in Mordor.
I refused my share.
Bilbo, predictably, insisted. "You need to eat, Edward."
"I'll eat when Gandalf returns."
Truth? I wasn't hungry.
I had a plan.
A plan that had nothing to do with Gandalf or Thorin and their drama.
I stood silently, pulled on my elven cloak, fastened the leaf-shaped brooch, and slid my sword into its scabbard. The blade hummed gently, as if it sensed its moment had come.
Bilbo stood, alarmed.
"You're leaving?"
I tapped his head lightly with the sword hilt.
"I'm going to find Gandalf. At least, that's what you'll say when they ask."
And I slipped into the night.
Let's be clear: Gandalf could take care of himself just fine.
What I was after… was the trolls' cave.
It wasn't far. I'd spotted it earlier, hidden beneath a rocky outcrop. In the book, this is where the Company finds treasure — but not just gold.
Swords. Legendary ones.
I entered the cave.
It was silent — just the sound of my boots on damp stone and droplets echoing from the ceiling.
But inside…
Ancient weapons.
Three elven blades, laid out like forgotten relics.
Glamdring, Turgon's sword. Massive. Regal. Blue as a moonless sky.
Orcrist, serrated and majestic. A commander's weapon.
And Sting.
Small. Slim. Perfect.
I took it.
And it glowed — with a soft, pale-blue light.