The Lord of the Rings : The Journey of a Transmigrator

I didn't know if the Arkenstone was truly a Silmaril. Honestly? I didn't care.

Silmaril or not, it didn't change my mission. I had to get my hands on it. Then maybe I'd think about its true nature — if I felt like it. Because really, it's hard to uncover the secrets of a gem you haven't even seen.

And while we're at it: no, I'm not interested in the One Ring. Yes, that Ring. The one that turns Hobbits into invisible kleptomaniacs and makes long-dead kings want to come back and play dictator.

Of course I thought about it. According to my memory, it should still be hidden in some slimy cave, clenched between Gollum's sticky fingers. I could go there. Take a shortcut. Grab it before Bilbo ever laid eyes on it.

But I chose not to.

Why? Because I've seen enough dystopian movies and read enough time-travel novels to know that changing the story is a terrible idea.

The Ring is a domino. Touch it, and you knock over the whole line: no alliance of the Free Peoples, no Fellowship, no destruction of Evil. In the end, you gain a glittery trinket… and lose the entire world.

And honestly? I wasn't sure I'd have the willpower to resist the Ring's pull. That thing is like a Mariah Carey Christmas song: it gets in your head, eats away at your brain, and before you know it, you're singing along against your will.

No thanks.

"What are you thinking about, Edward?"

I jumped. Bilbo had popped up beside me, looking curious. I'd been so deep in thought I hadn't even heard him arrive. He looked at me like I was planning a dragon heist — which wasn't entirely wrong.

"Sorry?" I said.

"You looked… concerned."

I pulled a folded map from my satchel and handed it to him.

"I was thinking about a route. A way to avoid Bree and reach the East Road another way."

Bilbo frowned. "Why avoid Bree? We could rest there… buy food…"

I glanced toward Thorin, marching ahead like he was personally carving paths through Middle-earth with the power of his eyebrows.

"How much do you think our favorite bearded royal is worth in Bree?"

Bilbo paled.

I pulled out a crumpled old scroll. On it: a crude sketch of Thorin — looking rather constipated — and beneath it: 'One hundred gold coins for the capture of the dwarf Thorin, known as Oakenshield. Alive preferred.'

"Those Bree folks would sell us out for half that."

"Charming…" Bilbo muttered.

Gandalf trotted up on his horse, as if he'd heard the whole conversation (spoiler: he definitely had).

"We'll cut through the Chetwood and follow the Midgewater Marshes. Safer — at least for Thorin."

Spoiler: "safer" doesn't mean pleasant.

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The journey was… how can I put this? Long. Muddy. Noisy. And mosquito-infested.

The Midgewater Marshes aren't called that as a joke. Every inch of water was swarming with bloodthirsty insects. Balin was grumbling, Dwalin was at war with his beard, and Bilbo… poor Bilbo looked like a hobbit roll at an all-you-can-eat bug buffet.

Me? I was fine. I'd had the brilliant idea to whip up a repellent using elvish leaves, Rivendell herbs, and a splash of personal pride. Not a single bite.

And for the more persistent bugs? One quick telekinetic flick — splat. Instant karma.

After four days of swampy misery, we finally emerged onto the Weather Hills. The wind howled like an angry wolf, but at least it didn't bite.

We set up camp at the base of a hill. The Dwarves were already snoring like enchanted chainsaws. As usual, I took first watch.

Bilbo wandered around the camp, restless and unable to sleep. Eventually, he found me leaning against a rock, eyes closed.

He hesitated to say something, then thought better of it.

Good.

I enjoyed the silence… until a scream tore through the night. A raw, bestial cry. Not a wolf. Not a man.

Orcs.

I sprang to my feet.

Fili and Kili drew their weapons instantly. Bilbo rushed toward me, panicked.

"What was that?!"

"Orcs."

"Orcs… what?"

"Ugly, smelly creatures who love stabbing sleeping travelers."

Fili added helpfully, "They strike at night. While you're asleep. Slit your throat before you even open your eyes."

Bilbo turned white as a sheet.

Kili smirked. He thought it was funny.

Thorin, however, did not.

He appeared out of nowhere, his expression dark.

"You think this is funny? You think an Orc attack is a joke?"

Kili lowered his head. "That's not what I meant…"

But I could see in his eyes that it was exactly what he meant.

I sighed.

"Alright. Let's prepare. If it's a real attack, they'll come in numbers. But I'm guessing it's just a few scattered raiders."

Gandalf nodded, pipe in mouth, like everything was under control.