LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

"Ouch-my ankle! I think I twisted it!"

Gandalf yelped as he landed, stumbling forward in a hopping limp that made him look less like a mighty wizard and more like a cranky old goat on bad terrain.

Eric, on the other hand, brushed off a bit of dust and stood up straight, barely scratched. Thanks to his Feather Falling enchantment and the pearl-teleportation system he'd fine-tuned, his descent damage was reduced to decimal points.

"You don't look particularly injured," he said flatly, eyeing the wizard suspiciously.

"If you knew what it cost to cast that escape spell, you'd be limping too," Gandalf muttered, leaning heavily on his staff. "The toll is mostly... metaphysical."

"Right. I totally believe you're metaphysically bruised," Eric replied, crossing his arms. "You didn't even lose health. You'll live."

Gandalf scowled, then suddenly clutched his back. "And my spine disagrees."

Eric sighed, pulled out a shimmering golden apple from his inventory, and tossed it. Gandalf caught it with a flick of his wrist and took a bite.

"Bless the creators," Gandalf murmured as he bit into it. Warmth radiated through his body, and a soft golden shimmer enveloped him. A protective shield formed around him, golden particles settling like stardust on his cloak.

"This fruit is miraculous. A little spark of my strength just came back."

"Good. Then let's get moving."

As they began sprinting through the dense forest, the air behind them darkened unnaturally. From the direction of Dol Guldur, a great shadow bloomed like a storm cloud, curling and writhing across the treetops.

"Down!"

Eric tackled Gandalf to the ground just as a wall of black smoke roared overhead. The wizard reacted quickly, erecting a translucent barrier with a flick of his staff. It formed a small dome, shielding them as the malevolent mist swept over, ripping up entire trees and tearing at the earth like a living thing.

The darkness moved on without discovering them.

Eric raised his head cautiously. "I think they lost us."

"Only for now," Gandalf said grimly, getting to his feet. "Look."

From the ruins of Dol Guldur poured an army of Orcs and Wargs. Thousands of them. It was as if the fortress had exploded with malice, spewing out wave after wave of monstrous soldiers. Towering trolls stomped among them, and skeletal banners fluttered in the dark wind.

Leading the horde was a pale, towering figure on a monstrous Warg. Eric's gaze locked on him.

"Azog," he muttered.

Gandalf's expression darkened. "They're heading north. Toward Erebor. That's where this tide is flowing."

"Smaug already made his deal with Sauron. Now they're going for full conquest," Eric said. "Looks like the war's starting early."

"I must rejoin Lady Galadriel and the others. We need to strike Dol Guldur again while their main force is away," Gandalf said. Then he paused, turning to Eric. "And you?"

Eric hesitated. "Me? I think I've used up my usefulness. You saw it. I couldn't do anything to Sauron."

"I disagree," Gandalf said, eyes shining with certainty. "You can. You just haven't realized it yet."

But before Eric could respond, Gandalf shifted the topic with sharp focus. "For now, there's somewhere you're needed more than here."

"Let me guess. Erebor?"

Gandalf nodded.

Back in Lake-town, the atmosphere was less grim and more... awkward.

Kíli sat on a wooden chair in Bard's modest home, flexing his freshly healed leg with wonder.

"It doesn't even hurt anymore. That's amazing. Tauriel, Bilbo-thank you both."

Earlier, while traveling through Mirkwood, Kíli had been struck by a Morgul arrow. Bilbo had used one of Eric's golden apples to suppress the spreading corruption, while Tauriel later applied kingsfoil to purge the last of the poison.

Bilbo waved dismissively. "Don't thank me. The apple came from Eric. He's the one who deserves the credit."

"So he saved me again." Kíli looked troubled.

Before he could spiral into emotional reflection, Thorin strode in. "We'll repay him. But first, we must continue to Erebor."

Legolas, standing nearby with arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. "You Dwarves still plan to march on the mountain?"

"It's our home. Of course we're going," Thorin shot back, bristling.

"And what does that have to do with you, elf?"

"Perhaps we were just making sure you weren't planning anything suicidal," Legolas replied coolly.

"We're not going back with you if that's what you're thinking. We might be unarmed, but we're not surrendering."

"I was not given any order to bring you back," Legolas replied, his frown deepening.

Tauriel stepped in, her voice calm. "We were tracking an Orc warband that led us here. But they withdrew for some reason. So our mission ends here."

Thorin glanced at her, then at Kíli, whose ears had gone red. He grimaced.

This nephew of mine... he really is into her, isn't he?

Maybe it was time for some counseling. Or maybe just a reminder that there were barely any female Dwarves to begin with.

Shaking his head, Thorin turned to the others. "If no one's dying, we leave for Erebor at dawn."

Fíli leaned over. "Shouldn't we wait for Gandalf and Eric?"

"We can wait at the mountain," Thorin replied. "But I won't waste another day in this town."

"But we don't have weapons. If something happens on the way..."

"Something will happen," Thorin said, matter-of-factly.

That didn't comfort anyone.

Legolas and Tauriel exchanged a glance. They had no idea what the Dwarves were planning, but it was suspiciously... optimistic.

Bard, standing nearby, frowned as well. "You plan to leave? There's no forge here. No weapons to buy."

"Yes, well," Balin said, rubbing his beard, "we were just discussing that."

"We've stayed long enough," another Dwarf added.

Balin, trying to change the subject, pointed toward a peculiar object behind Bard.

"Say, that drying rack of yours looks rather sturdy."

"That's not a drying rack," Bard replied flatly.

"Oh?"

"It's a relic. My father left it to me."

The Dwarves blinked in confusion.

"A relic? Like... a family sword?"

"A black arrow," Bard said, almost reverently, running his hand along the gleaming shaft. "He used one just like it when Smaug first attacked Dale. Struck him clean through the chest, or so he swore."

"You're the heir to Dale's Lord?" Balin's voice was low, reverent.

He stepped forward, inspecting the weapon. His eyes widened.

This wasn't just a story.

The black arrow had Dwarven craftsmanship all over it. Ancient runes etched into the shaft, a strange magical resonance humming beneath the surface. It was said such arrows never missed, and always returned to their wielder, though no one could prove that last part.

"You know," Balin said softly, "that's not what the legends say. If the dragon was truly struck, why does he still haunt Erebor?"

Bard stiffened. "He was hit. My father never lied. He wounded the beast, I swear it!"

"Easy there," Balin said, patting his arm. "I believe you."

He looked once more at the arrow.

"It's sharp enough to pierce even dragonhide. I'd wager it left a scar, at least. But Smaug is still alive. So whatever damage your father did... it wasn't enough."

Bard looked down, fists clenched.

"You and your father both fought bravely. There's no shame in the outcome. You have nothing to prove, not to me or anyone else."

Balin's voice dropped lower.

"What matters now is protecting the people who are still alive. Not chasing ghosts of the past."