Transmigrate to the world of The Lord of the Rings?

General POV]

"I'm in," said Kili from the side after slaying an orc. His small but quick steps brought him to Thorin's right side.

Thorin slowly turned his gaze, a deliberate and weighty gesture. His dark, tired eyes settled on his nephew.

"No. If something happens to you, my sister will be left desolate." His voice, usually firm, now carried the weight of a pain he rarely admitted. The memory of his younger sister crossed his mind, echoing moments they had shared. Although they had lived together, true closeness had always eluded them.

He took a deep breath before continuing, as if the words weighed heavier than the stones of Erebor.

"I've already caused her enough pain by bringing you both with me. I couldn't bear the guilt if you died chasing my obsession with Azog." The usual hardness in his eyes faltered for a moment, revealing a flicker of vulnerability.

"But, uncle…" Kili tried to protest, his tone a mixture of defiance and plea.

Before he could continue, Aldril intervened. He stepped forward, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by an imposing presence that demanded attention. His eyes shone with unexpected authority, and his voice, though calm, left no room for argument.

"Listen to him, Kili."

"Even you…" Kili's voice cracked with frustration as he lowered his head, resigned. It was a small gesture, but in it lay the bitter acceptance of his uncle's words and Aldril's warning.

Aldril clenched his fist slightly. He understood Kili's frustration but had to guard against the event that led to the young dwarf's death. He didn't want another of his friends to perish.

Fate was difficult to alter, and he didn't want to take the risk. Although it was possible he, too, might fall on this battlefield, the odds were low. With the arrival of the eagles and the dwarves joining the fray, the orcs became as fearful as animals before their predator.

The tide of the battle turned. Their initial advantage slipped away, their numbers rapidly dwindling under the spears of dwarves and elves, as well as the eagles' onslaught, which sent more than fifty orcs to their deaths with their magnificent, razor-sharp talons.

As Aldril and Thorin prepared to advance toward Azog's location, a roar shook the battlefield, echoing from the valley walls. It caught everyone's attention.

There, rising like a magnificent beast of tremendous power, stood Beorn in his bear form, his majestic fur stained with the black blood of orcs he dispatched like mere straw and feathers.

His roar thundered across the field, like war drums heralding the might of an army. No one knew how he had appeared out of nowhere, but his formidable presence reignited the flames of hope among those besieged in the valley ruins. With renewed vigor, they charged at the orcs and wargs, who fled in terror, their hearts trembling before such a beast.

Accompanying the men were King Thranduil's elves, who, with the support of the eagles and the king's countless years of battling such creatures, managed to repel and drive back the orc hordes that had besieged them.

In that charge, carrying the hopes of victory, a wizard and a hobbit rode atop a dark horse as black as the night, marching with great spirit. The battle, once believed lost, had taken an unexpected turn.

"Wait, Shadow Star!" Bilbo shouted in panic, his voice interrupted by the constant jolts that threw him from side to side in the saddle. His small body bounced relentlessly, and each impact against the leather made him let out a pitiful yelp.

His hands, white from gripping too tightly, clung desperately to the reins, as if his life depended on it.

"Please, slow down! I beg you!" he continued, nearly in tears, but Aldril's steed seemed utterly indifferent to his pleas.

Shadow Star, his dark mane flowing in the wind, galloped with unstoppable purpose. His powerful hooves pounded the ground with a deafening rhythm, as though nothing in the world could hinder him. With each jolt, Bilbo twisted in a futile attempt to maintain his balance, while the scenery blurred past him at dizzying speed.

The hobbit, who had never considered himself a rider, shut his eyes tightly and murmured to himself:

"By my late mother, I should never have mounted this demon in horse form!"

Shadow Star snorted with every gallop. Allowing this weak hobbit to ride him was a privilege, one he begrudgingly permitted as he remembered the times this hobbit had fed him carrots and his genuine friendship with his companion and master. Besides, the wizard had insisted that it was time to ride and join Aldril in the battle. Without protest, the steed had allowed the hobbit to climb onto his back.

"Oh, great Eru, what have I done?" Gandalf muttered breathlessly. His magic allowed him to run faster than a regular horse, but that was the problem. This steed was far from ordinary. Shadow Star's powerful gallop sent orcs flying, tossed aside as if they were mere insects.

The magnificent horse carved a path through the battlefield like lightning through a storm cloud. Fearlessly, he charged against the orcs' attacks, their spears and arrows unable to pierce his tough hide. This left many onlookers, especially Gandalf, baffled. The wizard could only form one theory in his mind.

"The horse evolves with Aldril's strength," he thought.

This was not the first time such a bond had been witnessed. In the ancient days of the First Age, the noble horse of Fingolfin, King of the Noldor, formed a connection so profound with his master that their fates became intertwined.

This steed was no ordinary horse. His loyalty and love for Fingolfin elevated him above others of his kind. It is said that his eyes shone with an unusual wisdom, as if he understood the burdens his rider bore. Over time, the steed's glory became legendary: no arrow or spear could wound him grievously, and his speed was such that it seemed he ran with the very wind.

Yet even the greatness of this horse could not alter the tragic destiny of his master. When Fingolfin fell in his desperate duel against Morgoth, the steed stood by his side, faithful to the end.

The songs tell that, after the king's death, the horse withdrew to Mount Fingolfin, where he neighed with heart-wrenching sorrow for seven days and seven nights. His lament echoed through the mountains like a song of grief, until he finally succumbed to his pain. There, on the slopes of the mountain that bore his master's name, the steed, whose name only Fingolfin had ever known, found his final rest, faithful in death as he had been in life.

----

Like a tempest, Shadow Star stormed across the battlefield, ignoring the arrows and spears hurled at him with hatred and fear. All he desired was to be by his master Aldril's side, to fight alongside him, and, if the worst were to happen, to die with him.

It wasn't until he delivered a powerful leap that struck the face of a troll, shattering its teeth under the force of the steed's hooves, that his momentum carried him through the battlefield. Within mere minutes, he reached the elven ranks, who parted to let him pass, for they knew to whom such a magnificent horse belonged.

"Damn it, Shadow Star!" exclaimed Aldril, unable to contain his disbelief. His steps had halted abruptly when the thunderous arrival of his loyal steed echoed through the air, so forceful that even Thorin turned to look.

Aldril, who had been preparing to march resolutely alongside Thorin, now found himself rooted to the spot. Shadow Star's imposing figure stood silhouetted against the battlefield, his dark mane flowing like black flames in the wind.

"Did you really go through all that just to find me?" Aldril murmured, his voice barely a whisper, filled with awe and gratitude.

With an unusual tenderness on his face, he couldn't help himself. Aldril wrapped his arms around Shadow Star's neck, resting his forehead gently against the animal's head.

"Thank you, my friend," he whispered, letting the warmth of the moment wash over him.

Shadow Star neighed with unbridled joy, a sound that seemed to fill the air with pure happiness. His tail swished, and his hooves pawed at the ground with energy, as though he fully understood his rider's words and accepted them with pride.

"Hugh… I think I'm going to vomit."

But the joyful atmosphere was abruptly shattered by Bilbo, his face a sickly green. He couldn't hold on any longer and collapsed to the ground like a sack of potatoes, emptying what little remained in his stomach.

***

Filthy orcs! 

Sorry for the delay, I have taken a few days for a "Spiritual" retreat in a town here in Mexico and the truth is that it is working for me, I feel that I needed to talk about everything that I had been holding back.

Remember to check out the new fic "son of feanor". 

Advanced chapters in "[email protected]/Mrnevercry"