(Bilbo Baggins' Point of View)
I was hanging in a sack like a sad Sunday roast. Literally. Five dwarves were skewered above a campfire, and I was right next to them, tied up in a burlap bag that scratched worse than troll stubble. The smell? A delightful blend of sweaty troll, burning wood, and desperate dwarf.
"It's burning!" Bofur was shouting.
"I'm gonna be well-done!" Bombur moaned — the poor guy seemed to attract heat like a magnet, thanks to his size.
And me? I was sweating like a hobbit in a volcano, caught between the frying pan and the skewer.
The trolls, meanwhile, were having the time of their lives. Chatting about cooking like they were prepping for a gourmet dinner.
"Boiling takes too long," Bert grumbled.
"We could roast 'em, sprinkle a bit of sage on top — whaddaya think, Tom?"
I would've corrected the recipe (no taste, these trolls), but I'd just noticed Thorin moving quietly in his sack. I narrowed my eyes and held my breath.
He had cut his ropes. Slowly. Like a pro. Then passed a dagger to Balin, who was just as tied up.
My heart skipped. There was hope — if I stayed calm. If I didn't make noise. If I, basically, wasn't me.
But you know what? I said to myself: "Come on, Bilbo, time to shine."
I straightened up as much as the sack would allow and shouted:
"Wait! You're about to make a huge mistake!"
The trolls looked at me, baffled — like a slice of bread had just spoken to them.
"You know how to properly cook a dwarf?"
They froze. Intrigued. Curious. A little hungry.
"First, you've got to skin them!"
I swear I made that up on the spot. Judging by the outraged screams from the dwarves, it worked.
"Insulting!"
"You trying to get us killed, you roasted little rat?!"
But I held my ground. Every second counted. I saw Balin cutting his rope. Thorin sat up. Fili too. Edward? No clue where he was. Probably brooding in a tree somewhere.
And then…
A shadow.
It widened in the sky, diving straight toward us.
I barely had time to yell "NO!" before something cut through the air.
A black flash.
A blade.
A troll.
Then nothing.
The troll collapsed, pierced clean through, eyes frozen in eternal surprise.
Silence.
Then:
"EDWARD!"
"Finally!"
"By Durin's beard, he's here!"
I would've clapped if I'd had my hands. Thorin tore his sack open, Balin freed Fili, and I crawled toward Sting — my beloved little Elvish blade.
Edward surged into the chaos, black silhouette lit by the fire, looking like an elf in a perfume ad. He handed Orcrist to Thorin, Glamdring to Kili, and everyone got back into position.
Two trolls remained. They growled, their breath toxic in the air.
One raised his foot above the still-tied dwarves, ready to squash them like worms.
"Drop your weapons or I'll turn 'em into mush!" he threatened.
Edward shrugged. Cool. Calm. He could've been reading a book.
Then he raised his hand.
And then…
BAM.
The troll's foot froze midair, inches from Nori's face, blocked by an invisible force.
The trolls froze.
The dwarves blinked.
Me? I wanted to clap again.
With a single motion, Edward lifted the pole holding the dwarves — literally — and sent it flying away from the trolls. It crashed down near me in a huge muddy SPLAT full of curses.
"Ouch… I'm crushed!" Dori groaned.
I staggered to my feet, heart pounding, sword in hand, ready to bite the dust again.
But not tonight.
Tonight, we had Edward Highland on our side.
And the trolls… were about to regret it.
---
(Edward Highland's Point of View)
Okay, I'll be honest: I didn't think it would be this… satisfying.
Trolls of Middle-earth? Big, dumb, loud, smelly. But they had never seen this.
Two levitating swords slicing them like vegetables in a kitchen gadget commercial.
Sting whirled around the fattest troll, carving into him like a possessed circular saw. With each hit, a geyser of blood. The troll howled like a toddler denied dessert.
"If I catch you, human, I'll rip your skin off!"
Oh. Original. Trolls are always so creative with threats.
As he rolled on the ground, trying to dodge the spinning blade, I signaled to the black sword.
It darted from the shadows like a silent guillotine, ready to slice him clean.
But at the last moment, that sack of bones rolled aside. The blade slammed into the rock, sparks flying.
Missed. Shame. Try again?
The black sword didn't like failure. It quivered, uncertain. A hint of rebellion filled the air.
And me? I didn't have time for moody weapons.
I closed my eyes and sent a wave of telekinesis. Not gentle.
A solid mental shove.
Obey, or go back to being a paperweight.
The blade shuddered, then relented. Back to spinning. Good little knife.
To the side, Thorin was fighting like a tired lion against another troll. Even with Orcrist, it wasn't going well.
His attacks barely scratched the troll's hide. One wrong move, and he'd be punted like a rugby ball.
I saw him lunge, roll, and strike the troll's ankle with his sword — "Goblin-Cleaver," as he liked to call it.
This time, the beast fell to one knee, howling.
But it swatted Thorin away like a fly. The dwarf crashed against a boulder.
I winced. Ouch.
Just then, the rest of the freed dwarves joined the fray.
Axes, screams, sweat, angry growls.
It was the most organized chaos I'd seen since Black Friday at Harrods.
Me? I was done.
My troll was on the ground, disemboweled, missing an arm, his blood decorating the clearing like a Jackson Pollock.
I walked toward him. Sting and the black sword floated beside me, loyal, menacing.
He tried to look at me — eyes full of fear and hate.
"That's it?" I asked flatly.
I'd expected a challenge. Something epic.
This was just a slaughter.
I could do this with my eyes closed. One hand tied behind my back.
I raised my hand.
"Time to die."
The two blades crossed in the air, then dove as one.
Shhh-clack.
His throat was sliced clean.
Not a drop hit the ground.
Neat. Surgical.
The troll staggered back, confused.
He thought he'd survived.
Then his head fell.
His body followed.
I caught both blades in midair, feeling them hum with pride in my palms.
I smirked. Not bad.
Over on Thorin's side, things were looking up: the dwarves were hammering their troll with the fury of a starving people.
And that's when I saw him.
Someone, at the edge of the forest.
Hooded silhouette. Long beard. Pointy hat.
Gandalf.
Finally.
He raised his staff, glowing with white light.
"Dawn is your enemy!" he roared.
A divine ray burst from the rock he stood on.
I turned, squinting.
Another light spell. Classic.
The rock split.
The sun pierced the heavy cloud cover, flooding the clearing.
The trolls screamed, frozen in place, and within seconds…
Stone.
Grotesque statues, frozen in agony.
The dwarves raised their weapons, shouting in triumph.
Bilbo nearly fell over. Bombur kissed the dirt. Thorin stood tall.
Gandalf calmly stepped down from his perch, as composed as a grandpa letting the kids handle the brawl.
He walked over to me, a faint, amused smile on his face.
The kind of look a teacher gives when the student outshines the master.
"Well done," he said.
Thorin, sheathing Goblin-Cleaver, stared at him.
"Where were you?"
"I was scouting the road."
"And why did you come back?"
Gandalf laid his hand on one of the petrified trolls.
"To see if you'd learned my lessons."
Thorin didn't answer right away. He looked around — at the dwarves, Bilbo, at me. Then locked eyes with me.
He held out Orcrist , still stained with a little blood.
"This sword is yours, Edward. You saved us."
I took the blade. And this time, I didn't deflect the thanks.
I nodded, simply.
Because yeah — for once, I'd earned it.