"A toast to our hero!"
The Dwarves, as always, were the first to grow rowdy. Lord Dáin, never one for solemnity when a victory was at hand, led the charge with a booming voice that echoed off the stone.
The Men of Lake-town were quick to join the cheer. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the deep furrows on Bard's brow smoothed over, and the hint of a genuine smile touched his lips.
But before he could add his own voice to the chorus, a sycophantic figure scurried out from the side, shouting over the din.
"Welcome back, our great hero!" Alfrid cried, his voice slick with false praise. "I knew from the very moment I laid eyes on him that he was a man of noble and extraordinary character!" He puffed out his chest and gestured wildly to the crowd. "Listen to me, everyone! Shout it together! Long live Levi! Long live the great hero!"
The smile vanished from Bard's face, and his brow knitted together once more.
"Alfrid, you—"
Thump!
A furious townsman cut him off, sending Alfrid sprawling to the ground with a well-aimed kick.
"What are you doing?" Alfrid shrieked indignantly from the dirt. "I'm celebrating the hero!"
That was all the invitation the crowd needed. A swarm of townsfolk immediately descended on him, their boots and fists finding their marks. Someone even took the opportunity to land a couple of sharp slaps. Within moments, Alfrid passed out from the flurry of blows and was unceremoniously dragged away, leaving only a scuffed patch of ground behind.
Levi simply shook his head, unable to watch the pathetic display.
With that brief, undignified interruption dealt with, a sudden, synchronized movement drew every eye. The Elves, who had remained perfectly still and silent until now, turned as one to face Levi and offered a deep, respectful bow.
Thranduil himself then took the initiative, striding forward to greet Levi personally.
"Welcome back, Levi," the Elvenking said, his voice clear and resonant. "We were all waiting for you."
Thorin Oakenshield glanced from Thranduil to the formidable Elven host, his expression unreadable as he fell silent. After a moment, he too approached Levi.
"Tonight, we hold a feast to celebrate this victory," Thorin announced, his voice filled with newfound warmth. "I hope you can join us. I made a promise to you at the roadside fortress that should you ever come to the lands of the Dwarves, we would welcome you with open arms." He paused, meeting Levi's gaze. "Now, allow me to formally say it: Welcome to Erebor."
As the two leaders spoke, a respectful hush fell over the gathered armies. Even Gandalf and the other lords watched with quiet smiles.
Under the focused gaze of the crowd, Levi straightened his tunic and offered a formal yet heartfelt reply.
"Levi Stonecraft, at your service."
A thunderous roar erupted from the assembled Dwarves, Elves, and Men.
With that single exchange, Levi's standing was cemented. He was no longer just a powerful warrior; he was a respected ally to the factions of the Lonely Mountain, the Iron Hills, the Woodland Realm, and Dale. His status was now equivalent to that of a lord, second only to the kings themselves.
Of course, his renown was not confined to these lands. In the days to come, his influence would continue to grow, spreading ever wider until his name was known throughout Middle-earth.
Including Mordor.
Far to the south, in the land of shadow, a dark power took notice. A new name had been added to its endless list of foes.
[Mordor: -5000 (Great Enemy)]
Third Age 2941, November.
On this day, the great gates of the Lonely Mountain were thrown open, welcoming a steady stream of Dwarves, Elves, and Men. Inside the grand hall, hearths burned high, casting a warm glow on long tables laden with roasted meats and strong ale. A magnificent feast was underway.
Uncharacteristically, the Dwarven hosts had even catered to the tastes of the Elves, providing an abundance of fruits, vegetables, and lighter fare alongside their usual hearty cuisine.
"Getting them to stand together in harmony is no easy feat," Gandalf remarked, plucking a grape from a nearby platter and popping it into his mouth. "Not bad," he mumbled, "very sweet."
"Actually, it's not entirely harmonious," Levi replied with a grin, gesturing towards a large table.
There, a Dwarf and an Elf were locked in a fierce drinking contest, a large circle of roaring spectators cheering them on. The Dwarf was downing ale by the flagon, while the Elf coolly sipped a potent, wine-like spirit. One relied on volume, the other on proof. As for who would win, it was truly anyone's guess. It was an evenly matched contest.
Speaking of drinking, Levi thought, Legolas certainly had a talent for it. He scanned the hall but saw no sign of the prince. After the great battle, Legolas and Tauriel had not returned with the main host. They had departed on their own, and for now, their whereabouts were unknown. It was clear the stubborn son had little desire to face the father who had come all this way to find him.
After sharing a few words with Levi and eating some fruit, Gandalf wandered off, likely on some errand of his own. Seeing nothing else to do for the moment, Levi found an empty seat at a table and began gnawing on a few pieces of Dwarven-style roasted meat to replenish his hunger bar.
He had barely taken a few bites when several Dwarves stomped over, their chairs clattering against the stone floor as they sat opposite him.
"Glóin, Óin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur… and Balin?" Levi recognized them all as members of Thorin's company. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Glóin leaned forward, his beard bristling. "We heard a story that you once drank one of our finest right under the table and weren't even the slightest bit drunk afterward. Is it true?"
"Oh, that," Levi said, a slight smile playing on his lips. "That did happen." He looked at the imposing line of Dwarves before him. "What, are you all here seeking revenge?" He chuckled. "I'll even allow you to take me on one after another."
"You look down on us too much, Levi!" Glóin boomed, his eyes wide. "I will admit you are stronger than all of us combined in almost every other way. But when it comes to drinking, to say such a thing before a Dwarf is nothing short of arrogance!"
"So, you want to compete with me?" Levi challenged.
"No…" Glóin shook his head, a sly grin spreading across his face. He reached back and pushed the widest Dwarf in their group forward. "Bombur, it's your turn!"
"Aha!" Bombur roared, slapping his broad frame and letting out a fearsome battle cry.
Beaming, Balin cheerfully brought over two large barrels of strong ale, already filling two massive tankards. The other Dwarves gathered around, their faces alight with anticipation, ready to witness the contest.
While the feast raged in the great hall, a deep quiet pervaded the throne room.
Before the King's seat, Thorin held the Arkenstone, its inner light pulsing softly in his hands. He gazed into its depths for a long time, silent and still. Scenes from his youth played vividly in his mind: his grandfather, Thrór, upon this very throne, with himself and his father standing proudly at his side. He remembered his grandfather's dragon-sickness, the greed that led him to withhold the white gems from the Elves, and the darkness that followed.
"I am not you, grandfather," Thorin said softly. He placed the Arkenstone upon the throne and turned away, his gaze not lingering on the jewel for another second.
As he walked toward the entrance of the great hall, a gentle, deep voice called out to him. Someone had been waiting for him.
"Thorin."
"Gandalf."
"You seem to be in good spirits," the wizard said cheerfully, a rare, genuine smile on his face as he approached.
"Things have never been better," Thorin replied, his voice calm and steady. "I feel like a wanderer who has spent a century trekking through the wilderness, weighed down by hatred and obsession with every step." He looked toward the sounds of celebration. "Today, that burden has finally vanished. I finally have a home again."
"Good," Gandalf nodded, his eyes twinkling. "That is very good." He suddenly grew more serious. "Thorin, there is something I never told you."
"What is it?"
"It is a message your father, Thráin, asked me to pass on to you." Gandalf paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "He said, 'He has always loved you, Thorin.'"
Thorin's breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed with difficulty. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath before speaking in a slightly hoarse voice.
"I know now." He turned to the old wizard, his heart full. "Thank you, Gandalf."