In the year 2398 of the Third Age, King Reinhold von Lionheart was returning from the long war with the orcs in the Desert of the Dead. A survival is more accurate when this conflict has lasted too long, chipping away at the physical and mental fortitude of this once proud and formidable army. Their bodies are broken, and their spirits shattered as mere husks of their former selves.
Reinhold took long, weary strides around his camp, his mind full of idle thoughts. 'If only I could carry my horse and run straight back to Lion's Mane.' The long day spent on horseback had taken a toll on his drained body, but he couldn't let that show.
He looked over at the soldiers, who were busy and hastily set up the camp; their once shiny armor was now tarnished, and their faces were marked with scars. They were no longer the young and confident soldiers they once were.
However, as soon as they saw him, the soldiers parted to make way for him with respect and admiration. Their right hands clasped tightly on the Lionheart family's crest. Their left hands were carefully placed on the hilts of their swords.
Despite having marched for a long day on their feet, their eyes were filled with fatigue the first moment and shining like stars the next as they followed the king's every move. To them, he was like a lighthouse, a huge pillar illuminating a world full of sin and death.
Reinhold, however, only dared to glance at these devoted eyes, not because he was afraid of their strength, but because he was afraid of the words that would blame him for this endless war.
'Would any king have to make his soldiers kill and eat their war horse to survive?' he asked. He asked himself, as he couldn't shake off the guilt that weighed heavy on his heart.
Suddenly, a soldier approached solemnly and announced, "Your Majesty, your tent has been set up. Please come in and rest."
"You've worked hard, my friend." Reinhold said, patting him on the shoulder as he dragged his heavy steps towards his tent.
As he lifted the curtain aside, his eyes were met with a luxurious hut, adorned with surprisingly large furs on the floor, a spacious bed, and a small fireplace with a chimney sticking straight to the outside.
He gently plunged his ax deep into the ground and took off his armor. An ax is so massive that if you put it on a stand, the stand will collapse, and if you put it on a table, the table will break immediately.
As if liberated from chains, he immediately laid down on the soft bed. It was strangely comfortable—a dense bed of soft fur that seemed to cling around him and relieve his physical fatigue. But his mind was not so peaceful.
'Hah, my soldiers had to use the earth as a mattress and the sky as a blanket, yet I, who led them into this journey of exile, enjoy this favor.' A sense of shame and disgust enveloped his mind. 'They trusted me and followed me into hell on earth, but in return, I forced them to eat their horses for nearly a year. What a shame!' He raised his hand and rubbed his temples, his eyes exuding a sorrowful look.
Reinhold continued to lie on the bed, deep in thought. 'What heinous crime did our ancestors commit to be exiled to this accursed land? From our ancestors to my father, there has been constant war, and now it's my turn, but it seems like it's all for nothing, except to sacrifice the lives of my soldiers to an endless, meaningless storm.
He rolled over and sat up, gazing directly into the burning fire. The flames seemed to flicker before his eyes, taunting him with their fiery embrace. He could almost feel the heat licking at his skin, threatening to consume him whole.
At that moment, his mind recalled a prophecy that was rapidly circulating in the human realm during his time on the front lines. He learned from the words of reserve soldiers sent to the front lines on a regular basis every year.
'For in the fire of æternal, infused with the pure blood of a chosen one, the prince who was promised shall be reborn. The one who shall free us all.' The words of the prophecy echoed in his mind, and at the same time, a disdainful smile curled his lips. 'Another false prophecy from a bunch of bums gripped by despair.'
'Even the most ignorant person in this world knows that this continent has no one left with the pure blood of the chosen one.' He had always dismissed it as mere superstition. Even though he bore the blood of the chosen one and even came from one of the two great houses that represent this continent, his blood was still mixed and could no longer retain its purity.
But he didn't think so gently in his mind. 'Why must my soldiers suffer and die for the sake of a prophecy? Our bloodline has been fighting for thousands of years, only to let the nobles and mortals cling to some unproven prophecy while living in luxury. A bunch of fools!' Despite his outward appearance of strength, he carried the weight of every life lost on his shoulders, a burden that not everyone could bear with such grace.
He put all his energy into his legs as he slowly stood up in frustration and trudged toward the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his waist. As he stood there, bathed in the warm light of the fire, his long, blonde hair shone like a lion's mane, a stark contrast to his weathered face. He exuded an undeniable air of heroism, forged through countless battles and trials, despite his age. He was a warrior, a leader, and a legend.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
He closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer as his hands clenched tightly, shaking with anger. 'But am I worthy to lead at all?' The crackling of the flames seemed to echo his inner turmoil, as well as the doubts and insecurities that plagued his mind.
Suddenly, a series of strong horse hooves made the ground shake. A sudden commotion outside the tent seemed to pull Reinhold out of the dark storm in his mind and bring him back to reality.
'Would any enemy dare to enter this deep into our realm?' His hand clenched around the ax's handle. Unbridled anger fueled his every step as he burst out of his chamber.
However, what caught his eye was not any enemies, but his soldiers. Their faces showed a hasty and exhausted look, with dirt and mud covering their faces and armor as if they had just gone through a fierce battle.
As soon as they saw the king's presence, they dismounted and kneeled before him in unison and haste.
"Your Majesty, we are scouts from the second division of the first infantry corps. While scouting ahead, we accidentally encountered a group of orcs raiding a village."
Reinhold shook his head in denial. "Impossible! Orcs do not travel this far south, and the red orcs from the west cannot cross the Great Mountain as we just defeated them." Reinhold replied incredulously, his hand tightly gripping the ax.
"My lord," the second man, a young scout, added, his voice trembling with fear. "It seemed like these orcs were just the remnants of a larger army. And it even seemed like they were running away from something from the fortress of Threhbor in haste and fear. If that's what I am afraid of, these orcs must have traveled here through Threhbor."
"But orcs can never get past those dwarves in the first place." Reinhold replied, his mind racing with possibilities.
"The dwarves from the west have long since hidden themselves in their mountain, my lord. Could it be that they have allied with the orcs?" The scout asked, his eyes wide with fear.
"That's madness! The orcs and dwarves have been enemies for centuries." Reinhold stated, his tone filled with certainty.
A feeling of frustration and anger overwhelmed Reinhold. ''My army had just returned from a bloody and devastating war, and just as they reached our territory, these nameless orcs appeared. How damned!' He pondered as he rubbed his tightly closed eyes with two fingers. 'Will we ever be able to escape this endless cycle of killing?'
This is the worst time to hesitate, and Reinhold knows that better than anyone. But at this moment, a feeling of guilt arose within him, and it clung to his heart persistently as he looked at the dirty faces of these soldiers. Exhaustion never left them.
"I know this is overwhelming for you, but time is pressing more than ever. I need you to split up and ride like the wind towards our outposts in the northwest, near the mountain. There was no way those orcs could get past them undetected." His face bore a grim resolve, and his eyes were stern with an indescribable look in the depths.
Without hesitation, the scouts mounted their horses and galloped off in different directions. Reinhold watched them go, his heart racing as the wind howled through the trees, drowning out all other sounds. As anger coursed through him, his hand clenched into fists. This wasn't supposed to happen.
'This isn't even the worst. If the orcs weren't coming from the north or west, then, at worst, they had to come from within the mountain. Does the dwarf have anything to do with this? What caused the orcs to flee?' Reinhold thought as the gears in his mind turned rapidly, trying to piece together everything that happened.
"What should we do now, my lord?" A soldier standing next to him inquired, his hand firmly gripping his sword.
"Transmit my orders to the division commanders. Tell them not to let down their guard, and be ready to march quickly to Lion's Mane tomorrow morning." Reinhold ordered with an urgent voice.
"At once, my lord." the soldier replied, hurrying off to carry out his orders.
As Reinhold stood there, the feeling of exhaustion and anxiety weighed heavily on his mind, making him feel restless. "Steady...it is no time to rest." He muttered to himself.
A soldier saw this and approached solemnly with a bow and said, "Your Majesty, please rest for a bit."
"No. No time." Reinhold replied curtly. He walked over toward his horse, tied outside the tent.
"Where are you going, Your Majesty?" The soldier asked, confused.
"You must quickly summon Gawain and his knights. Tell them to take their strongest and fastest horses and march with me to the fortress of Threhbor." He spoke hastily, his hands quickly preparing the necessary things for his horse.
"To Threhbor?!" The soldier exclaimed in astonishment. "But my Lord, we don't know yet whether the dwarves have betrayed us or whether there is something hidden in the mountains.!" He added, shaking his head in disbelief.
Reinhold paused for a moment to think, then turned and said firmly, "Something is amiss with the dwarves. I will not risk losing such a close ally." Then he climbed on the horse and said in a deep voice, "Now, go get Gawain and his knights at once! We ride tonight!"
The soldier hesitated briefly, then nodded and hurried off.
His eyes were glued to the soldier's hasty steps as his mind raced with the possibilities of what could have transpired. The dwarves, once loyal allies, are now potentially turning their backs on the realm and joining forces with evil. It could be a betrayal of the highest order, one that could have devastating consequences for the whole realm.
'Thorin won't let something like that happen while he's still breathing.'
As he contemplated the dire circumstances, a troubling realization began to take root in his mind. Was it conceivable that the dwarves had delved too eagerly and too deeply into their mines, awakening an ancient and powerful force? Memories of Vanuir's destruction flooded his mind—a once-thriving city brought to ruin by the hubris of its inhabitants.
'No, it can't be.'
The mere thought sent shivers down his spine. He knew that if the dwarves had indeed awakened something sinister, it would spell doom for the entire realm. He thought desperately, 'They must have learned something from the mistakes of the past.'
'I want to believe that it's a coincidence, but why now, when our army is at its most fragile?' Reinhold thought to himself.
He took one last look around the camp, taking in the scene of soldiers frantically preparing for battle, before turning his gaze westward, toward the mountain and Threhbor. His heart was heavy and full of sorrow.