Alright, I'll admit it—Orcrist was a hell of a sword.
But it wasn't for me.
Not that I don't enjoy legendary blades that slice through trolls like deli meat. It was just… too massive. Too raw. The kind of hunting knife a giant might carry. Not really my thing. I'm more into the elegant elven style—clean, graceful, subtle. Cuts through flesh without spraying intestines everywhere.
Besides, let's be honest: Orcrist belonged to Thorin.
I walked over to the dwarf in question, who was fiddling with his belt like his life depended on it.
"This sword's not for me. I'm giving it back."
He looked up, suspicious at first… then surprised. He clearly wasn't used to people giving him things—especially without asking for anything in return.
Before he could say a word, Gandalf, who was always listening even when pretending to nap with his eyes open, stirred and sat up.
"Where did you find this blade? Let me see it."
Thorin, still eyeing Gandalf, handed him the sword.
"Edward gave it to me. You'll have to ask him."
Gandalf drew the blade with slow, reverent movements. A chill shimmer ran along the elven runes etched into the metal. It looked impressive—even gave me goosebumps.
"Edward, where did these weapons come from?"
I unsheathed Glamdring and handed it over, hilt-first.
"It's a long story. Basically, Bilbo was about to have a nervous breakdown looking for you, so I thought I'd get ahead. On the way, I found a troll cave. Creepy, damp, stinking. But inside? These beauties. No way those trolls forged them. This is elven craftsmanship. Gondolin, most likely. First Age."
Gandalf nodded. The kind of nod that said you know what you're talking about.
"Neither Men nor Dwarves make such weapons. These are blades of the First Age. Elven-made, indeed."
He offered Orcrist back to Thorin, but the dwarf hesitated. Just hearing the word "elven" was enough to make him scowl.
"You refuse an elven blade… but this one may save your life. It's a gift, not a debt."
Thorin gave me a look… then reluctantly took the sword.
"Very well. I accept. Thank you."
Progress.
Gandalf returned Glamdring to me, but I shook my head with a grin. Instead, I reached behind my back and handed him the black sword—light as a whisper.
"I'm giving you this one. I already have what I need."
He stared at it, and I saw his expression shift—somewhere between awe and concern.
"This blade… it could have belonged to a great elf. One whose name still echoes through time. Its former master must have been formidable."
I shrugged. "Doesn't matter. It's yours now. No take-backs."
Gandalf finally accepted it, storing it carefully, like he'd just been entrusted with a sacred relic.
And then—right on cue—Bilbo tiptoed over.
"Edward… could I maybe… have a sword too?"
I turned around, surprised. He was staring at Sting—the smallest of the blades we'd found.
I smiled gently.
"I think that one suits you, Bilbo."
But his face changed instantly. He took a step back, uneasy.
"I can't. I've never used a weapon. I mean, I've only ever killed a fish."
Gandalf stepped in.
"This blade is elven. It glows when goblins are near. It's not just a weapon, it's a warning."
I placed a hand on his shoulder.
"I hope you'll never need to use it. Courage isn't about killing—it's about protecting. This sword is for when the moment comes. Not for blind bloodshed."
Bilbo looked thoughtful. He took Sting with both hands, looking almost comically solemn. Like a kid holding a butter knife.
"Forgiveness is a strength, Bilbo. Don't forget that."
I left him with the blade and returned to camp.
---
Camp was buzzing like a hive. Everyone was packing, strapping harnesses, checking weapons. The trolls were no longer a threat, but the forest ahead—Mirkwood—loomed. No one truly knew what lurked in there.
Except—minor detail—the mounts were gone.
Thanks, Bilbo.
The night before, in a burst of hobbit optimism (or idiocy), he'd loosened the reins to "give the horses some freedom." Result? Even my elven mare, Elenaril, had bolted.
That stung a little.
I tightened my pack, sat on a log, and quietly activated my magical interface. The mental screen appeared:
> [Notification: +200 Reputation Points Earned!]
[Level Achieved: 1 – Ranger]
[Current Prestige: 350/1000]
Not bad. One more level and I might unlock a new power.
But before I could fully enjoy my little victory…
"Someone's coming!" Fili shouted.
In a blink, the dwarves had raised their weapons, forming a wall around Thorin.
A strange sound followed—click-clack, rapid… leaves rustling.
"An assassin? A wraith?" Dori whispered.
"Undead?!" Nori panicked.
Gandalf raised his hand.
"No. Calm yourselves. It's… Radagast."
And then, bursting from the forest like some bizarre forest-ballad, Radagast the Brown arrived… in a sleigh.
Pulled by… rabbits. Giant rabbits.
I wasn't dreaming. Giant. Rabbits. With beefy legs.
"Radagast?" Thorin muttered. "You've got to be kidding me."
"No. Just a very unfortunate surprise," Gandalf replied, raising an eyebrow.
The brown wizard skidded to a halt, wild-eyed, his robe full of leaves and his hair a bird's nest.
"Gandalf… I need to speak to you. It's urgent. Rhudaur… Rhudaur is burning!"