The wind from the North carried the scent of iron, wet earth, and something older than history—tension. From the rocky crevice where they stood, Thalion and Arwen could see the entire valley stretched out like a giant stage awaiting its bloody drama to begin.
The army of Men from Dale stood in neat ranks, their spears reflecting the pale light that pierced the grey clouds. On the other side, the Elves from Mirkwood Forest stood like a frozen river current—graceful, but deadly. And from the east, the heavy sound of war drums began to echo; the Dwarves from the Iron Hills had arrived, led by Dáin, with hammers and an inherited fury from ancient times.
Arwen stood beside Thalion, her face as calm as stone, but her eyes scrutinizing every movement of the armies below.
"I never thought I would see this with my own eyes," she said softly, almost as if speaking to the wind.
Thalion did not reply. His gaze was fixed on the valley, on the rumble of footsteps, on the challenging breaths before even a sword was raised.
Finally, Arwen looked at him. "Three great powers. Men, Elves, and Dwarves. That's three, Thalion. But you just mentioned five."
Thalion took a deep breath, as if inhaling the bitterness from the field before him. "The fourth will come when the sky is darkest. They do not march in honor. They flow like a plague—Orcs, Wargs, the remnants of Dol Guldur's power. They smell blood from afar."
Arwen looked down, biting her lip gently. "And the fifth?"
Thalion turned. For a fleeting moment, there was a shadow of the past in his eyes. But as always, he did not speak of that past.
"They carry no banners," he finally replied. "They are not part of any kingdom. Outcast Dwarves, human hunters from the mountains, wandering Elves who refuse to bow to the Forest King's command. They do not come because they are summoned. They come because they have their own reasons."
Arwen nodded slowly. Silence for a moment.
"Are you waiting for them?" she asked gently.
"I am waiting for everyone," Thalion replied. "I want to see... if the fire in their chests is still the true fire."
"And if it isn't?" Arwen asked again. "If all you see is greed wrapped in the name of honor?"
Thalion did not answer immediately. In the distance, Thorin's shouts began to echo from the mouth of Erebor. His words pierced the air with undeniable grandeur. The Dwarves began to beat their weapons against their shields. The rhythm was like the heartbeat of war beginning to throb.
Finally, Thalion spoke, almost a whisper.
"Then I will not descend."
Arwen looked at his firm face. "And if they are worthy?"
Thalion closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the sounds from the valley.
"Then I will descend. Not as a hero. Only as one extra sword... on the side that still believes that true honor is not about winning, but about for whom you fight."
Arwen turned her face to the fiery field. "You call this the Battle of Five Armies," she said softly. "You knew this would happen."
"I knew," Thalion replied. "Because history is not always written by the victors. Sometimes, it is rewritten by those who remember."
The Dwarf Army – A Heritage Defended Behind Erebor's sturdy stone walls, Thorin Oakenshield stood tall, his eyes burning with the fire of pride and ambition. The Dwarves of Erebor, clad in heavy armor and wielding their axes and swords, were ready to defend their ancestral land, finally reclaimed from Smaug. However, it was not just about land or gold—it was about honor and the right they had awaited for years.
From a distance, iron trumpets sounded. The army from the Iron Hills had arrived, led by Dáin II Ironfoot. They were tough fighters, short but unyielding as stone in battle. With their strong shields and strategic movements, they came to support Thorin and ensure that Erebor remained in Dwarf hands.
The Army of Men – A Wounded City, A Rising Leader Among the still-smoking ruins of Lake-town, after Smaug's rampage, Bard the Bowman raised his arrow to the sky. There were no homes left for them, only the destruction left by the dragon he had slain. Yet, Men did not succumb to sorrow. With the remnants of their strength, they moved towards Erebor—not to wage war, but to claim a share of the treasure that could rebuild their lives.
They were fighters unaccustomed to great wars, but they possessed strong hearts and clear purpose. With simple swords and bows that had helped them survive, they stood with Bard, hoping that justice could be obtained. However, would Thorin, now increasingly consumed by greed, hear their voices?
The Elven Army – Grace in War From the depths of Mirkwood Forest, the Elven army came in neat ranks, like shadows moving silently. Before them, King Thranduil rode his majestic elk, his eyes sharp as steel. They came not just for gold—they came for honor. They believed that the treasure of Erebor was part of their right, something they once possessed and now wished to reclaim.
With arrows ready to be loosed and swords gleaming silver, Elves were warriors who relied on speed and precision. They were not like Dwarves who struck with brutal force or Men who fought for survival—they were artists of war, every movement a blend of beauty and lethality.
The Orc and Warg Army – Darkness Rises Deep within Mount Gundabad, the sound of thunder echoed from the footsteps of thousands of ferocious creatures. Bolg, the cruel leader of the Orc army, stood tall among his followers, watching Erebor with deep hatred. They came not for negotiation, not for justice—they came to destroy.
Orcs were savage beings, with rusted weapons and eyes that knew only brutality. Alongside them, ferocious Wargs howled under the darkening sky, smelling the battle about to begin. There was no honor in their fight—only a thirst for blood and a desire to annihilate anyone who dared stand before them.
The Giant Eagles – Glory from the Sky As the battle reached its darkest point, a large shadow crossed the sun, and a cry was heard from the sky. The Giant Eagles from the Misty Mountains, their leader gleaming golden, descended from the heavens like flashes of hope. They were not part of the war, not part of the greed—but they came because balance had to be restored.
Their wings beat the air, creating a storm that overturned the Orc forces. Their talons clutched fleeing enemies, dropping them to the ground without mercy. They were entities beyond the battles of Men, Dwarves, or Elves—they were a force of nature that determined the end of the conflict that had burned Middle-earth.
Thalion still stood tall behind a moss-covered rock, his eyes fixed on the valley that was twisting like a dragon awakening from a long slumber. Rain had not yet fallen, but the air was already heavy with moisture. The earth seemed to hold its breath.
Arwen stood beside him, her cloak caught by the wind, her silvery-black hair dancing softly. She waited, knowing that Thalion had not finished speaking.
And indeed, the man finally spoke again—softly, but heavily, as if the weight of two worlds pressed upon his shoulders.
"I call this the Battle of Five Armies," he said, "because that is what is written in the destiny of this world. Five powers, five conflicting wills, finally colliding in anger and old wounds."
He took a deep breath, then slowly turned to Arwen.
"But... my presence here has shifted something that was meant to remain."
Arwen frowned, but did not interrupt.
"Lake-town should have been completely destroyed," Thalion continued. "The Men there, according to the history I know... would have become shadows of a lost city—angry, desperate, and demanding more than just promises. They would have come to the gates of Erebor not to ask, but to take."
He gazed into the distance, towards where remnants of smoke still curled over the now calmer lake.
"But now… they are safe. Many of them. Children. Mothers. The corrupt mayor is gone earlier than he should have been. And Bard... he leads his people more calmly, more firmly, without vengeance. Their demand now is only a promise once made—not plunder."
Silence.
Then Thalion turned his body slightly towards Arwen, his voice this time almost a murmur.
"The Battle of Five Armies will still happen. Destiny is not something I can completely destroy. But... its form has changed."
"And now," he added, raising one corner of his lip, thinly, as if laughing at himself, "it seems there will be six."
Arwen raised an eyebrow, halfway between surprise and alertness. "Six?"
Thalion nodded slowly.
"Rohan will come. Under my banner. Perhaps only myself, but enough to be called a sixth force. I come not because this war is mine. But because this world calls me... and I am ready to answer."
He looked at the valley once again. The glint in his eyes changed. No longer just an observer. There was fire.
"Thalion of Rohan will descend into this valley. And when I step... this world will record an additional line in its history. Destiny has shifted. A little. But enough."
Arwen looked at him for a long, long time. Then she smiled faintly, with a voice almost inaudible.
"Then what's the title now? The Battle of Six Armies?"
Thalion chuckled softly, his laugh hoarse like dust carried by the wind.
"Perhaps," he said. "Or... The Battle That Shouldn't Have Been. But happened nonetheless."
The grey sky seemed to mourn the fate of the warriors gathered at the foot of the mountain. On one side, the ranks of the Mirkwood Elves moved gracefully but with palpable tension. On the other, the exhausted yet tenacious Men of Lake-town prepared to defend their honor. The stone fortress of Erebor stood majestically, but beneath it, uneasiness enveloped the Dwarves awaiting the opportune moment.
However, the calculation was incomplete without the arrival of the last ally—Dáin II Ironfoot, Thorin's distant cousin, who led the Iron Hills Dwarf army from the west with immense strength and fiery spirit.
Dáin's presence became a symbol of hope. From a distance, red and gold banners fluttered gallantly, signifying reinforcements soon to join the fight.
Darkness came from the north—the Gundabad Orc forces descended like an unstoppable black wave, carried by giant roars and the clash of heavy weaponry. Their screams broke like lightning shaking the earth.
Elves fired arrows in quick succession, wounding and felling many Orcs, but their numbers were overwhelming.
The Men of Lake-town, under the command of the valiant Bard, fought with all their souls, barricading themselves with makeshift spears and shields.
The Dwarves, confined within the fortress of Erebor, seemed reluctant to emerge—but the shadow of the past and vengeance flowed in their veins.
The battle continued, and the pressure from the Orc forces intensified. The Elves began to be pushed back, the Men weakened, and the situation appeared grim.
Dust swirled in the grey sky, the scent of hot iron and smoke filled the air. In the valley that was once peaceful, the roar of war now echoed between three great armies—the Men of Lake-town, the forest Elves, and the Dwarves—facing the darkness that came from the ferocious Orcs. Relentless attacks made the ground tremble; the cries of warriors mingled with the clang of weapons.
Thalion stood side by side with Arwen, from behind a large rock at the edge of the battlefield, his eyes sharply observing every movement and unfolding plan. "Look, Arwen," he whispered softly, "this war is not just an ordinary fight. This is the Battle of Five Armies. Men, Elves, Dwarves of Erebor, Dwarves of the Iron Hills, and of course, the Orcs that overshadow everything."
Arwen turned, her expression serious. "I know, but seeing all this, are you sure our forces can hold out?"
Thalion nodded. "That's why I wanted to wait. I haven't interfered yet, wanting to see their spirit. You see for yourself, Elves and Dwarves are already being worn down, lives are falling, and the human forces haven't helped much yet."
"And Dáin?" Arwen asked.
A sharp glint appeared in Thalion's eyes. "He came from the Iron Hills, with his Dwarf army, like a hurricane arriving exactly at the critical moment. They bring new strength capable of changing the tide of battle. However, even with this addition, we are still caught in a pincer."
They watched the Orcs charging, mad with rage and ferocity, fighting against the last stronghold of the Elves and Dwarves. Swords clashed, shields shattered, blood soaked the earth.
Then, suddenly, from the gate of Erebor, the shadow of a large figure emerged. A ray of sunlight revealed a figure in heavy armor, hooded with fur, with a stern and valiant face—Thorin Oakenshield himself. With a low cheer from the Erebor Dwarf forces, he led them out, breaking through enemy lines with blazing courage.
Thalion squeezed Arwen's hand. "This is the decisive moment. Thorin is not just leading, he is reigniting hope that was almost extinguished."
Arwen looked down for a moment, then spoke softly. "But... what about the Men of Lake-town? They are holding back, not yet fully advanced."
"You are right," Thalion replied. "They were saved from destruction by my presence. The initially sharp conflict has now subsided into a simple demand from the Dwarf king: to keep a promise. However, that is not enough, because I myself, from Rohan, will join. So, although it's called the Battle of Five Armies, in reality... it could be six."
From behind the scorched trees, Thalion and Arwen stood transfixed, gazing at the battlefield. In the distance, the shadow of the Dwarf army from Erebor moved forward, shaking the ground with their heavy steps. At the front, Thorin Oakenshield walked tall, his eyes burning with fury, leading his warriors towards Ravenhill.
"Look at that," Arwen whispered, her voice almost swallowed by the roar of clashing weapons in the distance. "Thorin and his Dwarves dare to attack Azog's stronghold directly."
Thalion nodded slowly, his eyes sharply following every movement. "This is no ordinary attack. He knows that letting Azog run free means destruction for all of them. But it also means they have to face the most ferocious wave of enemies."
Dust and smoke billowed, covering the field in a thick haze that blurred shapes. The shouts of battle echoed, the clash of axes and swords creating a mournful rhythm of death. The Erebor Dwarf forces broke through the Orc lines, but the enemy was too numerous and brutal.
Arwen squeezed Thalion's arm. "Are you sure they can withstand this attack?"
"If not, everything will be destroyed," Thalion replied. He looked far ahead, to the peak of Ravenhill shrouded in dark shadows—where Azog stood like a king of hell on a throne of death. "I have to intervene. It's time for me to show who I truly am."
With a subtle movement, Thalion drew the sword from his waist. Ryujin Jakka—the legendary blade glittered red, emanating an ancient aura that heated the blood. The sword's gleam reflected the twilight, piercing into the souls of those who saw it.
Arwen looked at the sword with awe and apprehension. "Don't rush in too quickly, Thalion. Wait for the right moment."
But Thalion was impatient. His eyes were filled with determination. "This battle has dragged on too long. I must give a sign that there is another force determining the fate of this day."
At that moment, from a distance, a resounding war cry was heard, a call to advance and hold the line. From behind the smoke and mist, Thalion's figure began to move—stepping out of the shadows, cutting through the noise with a blazing gaze.
Ryujin Jakka was unsheathed, gleaming sharply like a flash of lightning in the grey night. The atmosphere grew tenser, all eyes fixed on him, and as if time slowed, only the sound of breathing and heartbeats could be heard.
The battle on Ravenhill grew fiercer. Thorin Oakenshield confronted Azog the Defiler directly, a gigantic Orc figure radiating an aura of savagery. Every clash of Thorin's axe with Azog's weapon shook the ground and the air around them. Dust flew, flames blazed wildly around the ruins, while the shouts of warriors intertwined in the chaos of battle.
On the other side, Tauriel, the Elven warrior of extraordinary agility, moved nimbly amidst the assaulting wave of Orcs. Her arrows sliced through the air, piercing targets one by one. Legolas, Tauriel's companion, also helped with incredible speed and accuracy, cutting down enemies with tirelessly used arrows and daggers.
Meanwhile, Kili, along with the Dwarves of Erebor, fought with almost impossible bravery. Although their bodies were shorter, their spirit and determination overcame the giant Orcs that surrounded them. Slowly, however, they began to be overwhelmed. Many among them were wounded, and some had to retreat as the lines began to break.
The atmosphere of the battle grew more chaotic. The Elven and Dwarf armies from Erebor and Lake-town were almost annihilated by the ceaseless waves of Orc attacks. Cries of pain and the clash of weapons filled the air, as if this field had become an endless vortex of death.
Suddenly, from the overcast sky, came the sound of great wings beating—a heart-stirring sound. A large creature in the form of a winged horse appeared above them, parting the dark clouds. It was Griffindor, the valiant and mighty flying horse, with golden feathers shimmering in the twilight.
Arwen and Thalion rode Griffindor steadfastly, hovering above the battlefield. Their faces were calm, filled with conviction. The sound of its mighty wings echoed, making all the fighting forces fall silent instantly. The previously ferocious Orcs also bowed their heads, sensing the aura of new power that came with the two mysterious figures.
On the frozen ground of Ravenhill, the air, which had been cold and biting, began to change. Thalion's presence with Ryujin Jakka unsheathed emitted a wave of heat that swept across the battlefield. The ice covering the Iron Hills slowly melted, turning into a burning warmth that ignited the spirits of the almost despairing warriors.
Thalion lowered his gaze to the battlefield, his eyes alight with determination. The sword Ryujin Jakka gleamed with a fiery blue light, ready to cleave through the darkness and change the fate of this battle.
Ravenhill still thundered with clashing weapons, but the atmosphere shifted as the clang of metal stopped, replaced by a rumble from the sky and a slow, spreading heat carried by the changing wind.
Thalion dismounted Griffindor with slow but dignified steps. Arwen followed behind him, her eyes sweeping over the field full of wounds and destruction. Ryujin Jakka was now unsheathed in Thalion's hand, a sword that looked like a blazing sun in blade form.
Without a single word, Thalion stepped forward, until he stood precisely in the middle of the frozen plain of Ravenhill, littered with Orc corpses and blood that had not yet dried.