"There's still time."
Inside the halls of Erebor, Legolas spoke with certainty. But Thorin held a different view.
"But Garrett has been gone for quite some time, and the battlefield there also needs reinforcements. How can there still be time?"
"Rest assured, son of Thranduil. The dwarven warriors of Erebor will defend this land. Anyone foolish enough to invade will learn there's no one here to be trifled with."
"Perhaps you do possess courage."
Then Orothir suddenly said, "But the army made up of Easterlings and Uruks is not a weak force."
"From the intelligence I've received, their numbers are no fewer than ten thousand."
"Setting aside where you obtained your news, you should know this: Erebor does not stand alone. The soldiers of Dale, Lake-town, and Esgaroth are here as well."
"Even if the main force has marched west into the mountains, the garrisons left behind are not to be underestimated."
Thorin spread his arms wide, gazing out toward the great gates, and declared loudly, "Do you truly believe that without Garrett, the people here are nothing?"
"You underestimate these folk, and you underestimate Garrett."
"After all, this is his domain."
"That, I agree with." Legolas nodded. "And the Woodland Realm lies right beside us. Their armies will not stand idle."
Thorin cast him a glance.
"On that point, I'll reserve judgment."
Who knew if that old woodland king would even be willing to lift a finger?
Though Erebor and the Woodland Realm had reconciled, after such long estrangement their bond was still fragile, and neither side truly knew what the other thought.
Prejudice was not something erased overnight.
Orothir looked somewhat puzzled.
"Can you not simply send someone to speak with the Woodland Realm?"
"I will not." Thorin's reply came louder than before, echoing through the hall.
The mere thought of Thranduil dispatching aid with that lofty, condescending air already made Thorin's teeth ache.
Even if it were to help Garrett, Thranduil would no doubt say something like:
"It seems our dwarven friends are not strong enough to face this crisis, so Garrett's mightier allies must step in."
"I'll go."
Legolas volunteered.
"I'll inform them. And as for Garrett, I have a way to let him know immediately. His allies extend beyond us alone."
"Then it's in your hands." Thorin nodded.
Legolas departed first.
Seeing that the messages had been passed on, Orothir also rose to leave, but Thorin stopped him.
Clearly, something was left unfinished.
"Who are you?"
"I believe I've already introduced myself well enough. My name is Orothir, a vineyard master from Dorwinion, and a friend of Garrett. Do you doubt my words?"
"No, of course not."
Thorin gestured for him to sit, and when he had, continued:
"You may indeed be Orothir of Dorwinion, a vineyard master, an Elf who has lived two whole Ages peacefully, tending vines and making wine."
"But besides that, you could also be something else you haven't mentioned, for example..."
"For example?" Orothir asked curiously, as though it had never crossed his mind that Thorin would speak so.
"For example... a lord of some domain in Dorwinion, or perhaps even a king of some bygone age?"
Thorin fixed him with a steady gaze.
The hall fell into silence.
"I don't quite understand your meaning."
Orothir still maintained his usual calm tone and courtesy.
Thorin raised his brows slightly and said:
"Perhaps you can fool a trusting elf, or a certain lord who spends all his time adventuring. But there are things that only those who have truly sat upon a throne reveal in subtle ways. That kind of bearing cannot be hidden."
Neither Legolas nor Garrett were the suspicious type. To them, a person's identity hardly mattered. In fact, speaking of "status" to them was the most useless thing of all.
So, naturally, they would never bother to scrutinize such matters.
In their eyes, Orothir was exactly what he appeared to be: a refined and noble vineyard master. That was hardly surprising.
But Thorin was different.
He spent his life dealing with all manner of people, running his kingdom's affairs within his domain. He was exceptionally sensitive to matters of identity and bearing.
Especially when it came to those whose standing mirrored his own.
Orothir might have buried his true nature deeply, but never deeper than the mines dwarves had delved.
"It doesn't matter." Thorin seemed at ease now.
"At the very least, I can be certain you are not an enemy. Correct?"
"Of course, we are not."
A dwarf and an elf stood and clasped hands.
"I hope you enjoy your time here. The markets of Erebor are thriving, perhaps you'll find something to your liking."
"Thank you. I'll take a look."
Outside the Lonely Mountain.
Clip-clop, clip-clop...
Legolas galloped on horseback toward the entrance of the Sky Road. Not long after, he arrived at the special gateway reserved for the Woodland Realm, what people called "Eighth Station."
He took a deep breath, just about to descend, when movement in the forest caught his eye.
The army of the Woodland Realm had already mobilized. They had long since caught wind of the news.
Seeing this, Legolas breathed a sigh of relief.
He pressed onward westward, all the way to the Carrock, the dwelling place of Beorn's people.
There stood a roost prepared by Garrett specifically for the Great Eagles: a colossal tree, wide, strong, and towering, with a comfortable nest upon its branches.
By good fortune, one of the Great Eagles happened to be resting there.
Legolas called to it and relayed the message.
---
"I see."
Hearing Glorfindel's recounting, Garrett understood everything.
"Thank you for the message."
He waved to the eagle, which answered with a piercing cry.
"What do you intend to do now? Head back?"
Glorfindel visualized the map in his mind.
"It might be a long journey."
"For the soldiers, perhaps. But for me, it isn't far."
"That, I agree with. He's always disappearing, one moment in the west, the next in the east, swifter than even an eagle's flight."
A warm, aged voice suddenly rang out nearby. Gandalf had ridden up on horseback.
"Glorfindel."
He dismounted, exchanged a brief greeting with the two before him and the eagle, then said, "All is well here. Do whatever you must, Garrett."
He gazed toward the east, where the fiery red sun was rising.
"It is already finished."
"It begins."
Rumble, rumble...
Outside the high walls of Dale, countless figures clashed together, dark armor and bright mail.
The ones in dark armor were shorter, but ferocious beyond measure. The ones in bright mail were taller, stronger, and far more disciplined, making them a greater challenge.
Behind them lumbered siege towers driven by Olog-hai, and several catapults.
"They've come."
On the wall, Thorin stood in full armor, flanked by dwarves and men, staring grimly down at the host.
For this battle, he was the highest commander here.
"Just as I thought, the Elves didn't come."
Abandoning hope for further reinforcements, Thorin raised his hand and signaled to those behind him:
"Load the heavy crossbows. Let's show them our steel."