Edward's Point of View
I've always liked dark, mysterious, slightly creepy places. Not because I'm goth or a horror movie buff — just because that's where you find the interesting stuff.
This cave, for instance, was a festival of shadows. The air was thick, damp, reeking of mold, dried blood, and old stone. Roots crawled along the ceiling like veins, and the walls sweated a blackish ooze. In short: the perfect setting for either a legendary treasure… or a gruesome death.
I moved slowly, my steps muffled by moss and dead leaves. To the right, a pile of rusted weapons. To the left, armor reduced to beer mug jewelry. I almost sighed.
"If I wanted to die of magical tetanus, this is where I'd come," I muttered.
I pulled a few Elven blades from a splintered rack. All useless. Some broken clean in half, others so corroded they probably couldn't cut bread.
My eye caught a golden necklace inlaid with gems. Beautiful — but incomplete. The central jewel was missing. I set it aside, like a showroom piece from IKEA's "Ancient Doom" collection.
I kept digging, deeper, in a corner clearly untouched by troll feet for a long while. And there — jackpot.
A golden box, carved with ancient symbols. Inside, a twin to the first necklace. But this one was whole. And glowing. Even in the darkness, it shimmered like a fallen star. I didn't hesitate. Arwen deserved something special. And this was it.
I also picked up three mythic blades I had spotted earlier: Orcrist, Glamdring, and the small but deadly Sting. That legendary trio was just waiting for a worthy bearer. Well, no Gandalf or Thorin in sight, so I filled in.
Just as I was about to leave, I froze.
Something… moved? No. Something called.
Between two boulders, in a jagged crevice, I saw a sword hilt. Barely visible. Black as a sleepless nightmare. As if the blade had been carved from solid shadow. It seemed fused to the rock.
I stepped closer, cautious. The grip was dull, unadorned. Just a spiral engraving, like a giant fingerprint.
I pulled.
Nothing.
No problem. I had something better than muscles: telekinesis. My power surged, invisible, pressing into the stone like a silent battering ram.
Crack.
Metal groan.
Then, with one final effort—
CLANG.
The blade tore free like a lightning bolt of darkness. It trembled in my hand, alive — almost… aware. It devoured the light around it. A black blade, slim, with two deep grooves down the back — blood channels. Not Elven. Not Dwarvish. Something else.
I made a slow, circular motion. The air recoiled from its path. A pale aura spilled from the blade, then vanished like a shooting star.
I smiled.
"You… you're dangerous. And I already love you."
---
Bilbo's Point of View
I never should've listened to Kili. Or Fili. Or anyone who thinks sending a Hobbit to steal horses from three giant trolls is a good idea.
Troll Forest was the kind of place maps politely avoid naming. The trees were so twisted they looked like they were in pain. The ground was muddy, slick, and the few moonbeams looked like blue-tinted knives stabbed into the shadows. Every trunk seemed to watch me, waiting for me to screw up — which, spoiler, I was absolutely doing.
I tiptoed toward the horses tied to a tree, holding my breath. The trolls were right there — all three of them, huge and… revolting.
The first one was as tall as two houses and smelled like cheese left in the sun. He had a potato nose and a cauliflower ear.
The second, stockier, held a makeshift axe made from a stone tied to a tree trunk. He snored loudly, bubbles puffing from his nostrils.
The third? The most terrifying: he was smiling. A real smile, like a kid pulling wings off a fly.
And of course, he's the one who grabbed me.
"Bert! I caught one! Look what I pulled out of my nose!"
Honestly, I'd have preferred to be something pulled out of a nose than what I was experiencing. I squirmed like a fish out of water — no effect. His grip was that of a giant snot-covered vise.
The trolls started debating how best to cook me. Soup, skewer, or marinated in mushroom mud. Delicious.
That's when the Dwarves charged in.
Fili leapt first, followed by Kili, then the entire crew. Thirteen fully armed Dwarves against three trolls built like walking trees. I was torn between "Yay, my friends are saving me!" and "Cool, we're all going to die together."
The fight exploded like a bonfire.
Bombur threw his ladle like a boomerang, Bofur screamed while biting an ankle, and Dwalin used a log like a baseball bat.
But the trolls… tanked it. And hit back hard. One grabbed Ori by the ankle and spun him like a sling. Another nearly flattened Thorin with a backhand.
In the chaos, I tried slipping away toward the exit. Bad move. A troll grabbed me again — this time by the legs.
"Do we cook all of 'em, or just the small one?" he asked.
"The small one first," the other replied with a toothless grin.
Great.
They demanded the Dwarves drop their weapons. Thorin hesitated… then obeyed. One by one, they all surrendered their axes, swords, spears. We were trussed up like Sunday roasts.
I was just beginning to resign myself to becoming shish kebab when a roar shattered the night.
Not a normal roar.
A sound from the depths of the world. Deep. Heavy.
The trolls froze.
"What was that?" "A… dragon?"
Thorin glanced at me. Not Smaug — that much I knew.
But what then?
The trolls hesitated.
And me?
I prayed it was Edward — making one of his dramatic entrances, with a black sword that sliced through shadow itself.
Because otherwise?
We were toast.