Transmigrate to the world of The Lord of the Rings?

[General POV]

"Something is wrong," Gandalf murmured from atop the walls. His constant spells briefly illuminated the barricade, hurling the few orcs who managed to climb over into the air. This gave a momentary reprieve to the men and elves fiercely fighting around him. However, a shadow of doubt clouded his gaze. The number of orcs is much smaller than what I observed earlier, he thought as a flash of light destroyed the ladder the enemies had just placed.

He wasn't the only one who had noticed. Thranduil, with his elegant yet lethal bow in hand, frowned in suspicion. Aldril, slicing through the face of a troll, also sensed the odd discrepancy. However, the relentless battle left them little time to analyze it; they could do little more than remain vigilant.

Beside Gandalf, Bilbo stood frozen, almost paralyzed with fear. The small hobbit had never witnessed such a horrific scene: the black blood of orcs soaked the green grass, the walls were darkened with the remnants of battle, and lifeless bodies piled grotesquely at the foot of the fortification.

His ring, that artifact that rendered him invisible, tempted him from his pocket. But his instincts told him that staying close to Gandalf was his best chance of survival. What good would invisibility do against arrows or the crushing weight of an orc charge?

The wizard's spells sent the enemies flying through the air, each explosion ripping a cry of despair from the enemy ranks. Bilbo, hands trembling, nervously watched as his friend kept the orcs at bay. Thankfully, no orc had yet managed to scale the walls, largely thanks to the men and elves stationed in strategic positions on the mountain's arms, shooting with deadly precision.

Despite this brief reprieve, the same question lingered in Bilbo's mind: why did the orc army seem so small? Gandalf, his brow furrowed, scanned the battlefield, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

----

-Erebor-

The Wargs had already charged toward Erebor, attempting to besiege the dwarves—a futile effort. Erebor's walls were strong, their structure forged by expert blacksmiths, capable of withstanding a dragon's onslaught. "What could these idiotic Wargs possibly do?" was the collective thought among the guards stationed at Erebor's gate.

"Wargs incoming!" Bofur warned, grabbing his axe from a nearby pillar. Oh, how he longed to kill orcs! His fury over the death of his friend Bombur had not subsided. On the contrary, it had only burned brighter with the presence of the orcs.

"Let the cursed beasts come!" Gloín growled, axe in hand. "Hurry up, you bastards!" he barked, eager for the Wargs to close in faster. He had to beat Aldril—he couldn't let himself lose.

The dwarves of the Iron Hills alerted Dain of the Warg charge. Without hesitation, Dain emerged from the corridor and observed from afar as hundreds of Wargs charged with orcs on their backs.

"Ready the bows!" he ordered, his anger apparent. Dain was furious with Thorin's attitude, and what better way to channel that anger than by slaughtering some orcs and Wargs?

The distance between the valley and Erebor was about an hour on foot, or a mere 15 minutes on horseback at full gallop—time the dwarves used to prepare. Within minutes, a crowd of dwarves stood ready with bows in hand, prepared for the Warg onslaught.

Kíli, his hands trembling with nerves and anticipation, swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the dense horde of Wargs. Not long ago, he had been fleeing from these beasts. Now, within the safety of his home and fortress, alongside an army of dwarves, he eagerly awaited the chance to wield his sword and release all the pent-up rage he had harbored since that first chase.

The Wargs were a different story. These wolves were slightly more intelligent than the stupid orcs and growled and whimpered in disagreement at the orcs' desperation to attack the walls.

Lacking siege weapons, attacking Erebor's fortified gates was pure folly. But Azog had insisted they attack both locations, distracting the men and dwarves. Thus, despite the Wargs' protests, the orcs charged toward Erebor with reckless abandon.

It didn't take long for the chaos to erupt. Like a raging tsunami, the hundreds of Wargs struck Erebor's strong walls. The dwarves, ready for the assault, unleashed a relentless hail of arrows that pierced through the orcs and Wargs as if they were mere paper.

Some Wargs attempted to climb the walls, only to be brought down by the unceasing barrage of arrows. The orcs, lacking archers among them, were powerless to respond. Their force was purely melee.

"Bring the molten iron!" Dain commanded. Seeing the pile of corpses forming a makeshift ladder for the Wargs, he decided to employ one of his defensive strategies. The dwarves behind him rushed into the corridor.

Moments later, a group of dwarves emerged, carrying a platform laden with stone cauldrons. Steam rose from them, scorching the beards of the nearby dwarves. A thick, bubbling liquid, occasionally releasing bursts of air—molten metal—was to be their weapon.

"Pour it!" Dain roared. With a wave of his arm, the dwarves advanced step by step to the edge of the wall.

"Taste the metal of Durin!" the dwarves bellowed. With a concerted effort, they poured the molten liquid onto the unsuspecting Wargs and orcs below.

A deafening screech echoed across Erebor's gates. Many orcs and Wargs were engulfed by the molten metal, their flesh burning and corroding. The attack was followed by another hail of arrows, an impeccable defense.

"Retreat! Retreat!"

The cries of despair came from the survivors at the rear. Realizing further attacks would lead to total annihilation, the orcs and Wargs began to fall back. Some orcs fleeing on foot were massacred by the enraged Wargs, who deeply resented the stupid orcs responsible for so many of their pack's deaths.

"They're retreating!"

The defending dwarves shouted with great fanfare. Many cheered, embracing one another. Some even danced, while others, like Gloín, grumbled.

Having dropped his axe, Gloín knelt, pounding the cold wall with his fists. "Damn it! Damn it!" he cursed, his knuckles reddened from the blows.

The surrounding dwarves looked at him as if he were an idiot. But Gloín didn't care. With one final strike, he bellowed in fury, "I didn't kill a single orc!"

His cry of frustration drew understanding looks from the other dwarves, who then shook their heads in amusement. "Bah, they're just stupid orcs!" some said, trying to console him. But Gloín only glared at them, his eyes dark and lips pursed.

Such a tense and serious atmosphere was enlivened by Glóin's outburst, which was joined by Kili and Fili, witnesses to the wager between Aldril and Glóin. With a pat on each shoulder of the frustrated dwarf, they spoke with mocking amusement in every word.

"It seems we'll soon see a naked Glóin dancing," Kili said.

"Wait until I tell Gimli!" Fili added.

The dwarves burst into laughter, their warm and joyful victory was abruptly dampened by Dain's grim words. His gaze was fixed on the eastern flank of the mountain.

"Something is terribly wrong!" he exclaimed as he noticed the men stationed there had stopped firing arrows. Instead, he spotted orcs fighting them. It was then that he understood.

"They're ambushing the men of the east from behind!"

-Royal Chamber-

Thorin sat on the throne, his regal presence exuding arrogance as he kept his head held high. A smug smile adorned his lips, and in his hands, a gem that glowed like the most star-filled night was held with great care. In Thorin's eyes, only obsession was evident.

The desolate royal chamber was steeped in gloom, illuminated only by the faint glow of the torches flickering on the stone walls. The echo of Thorin's breathing resonated like a steady heartbeat in that vast and cold space. In his calloused hands rested the Arkenstone, its gleaming surface capturing every glimmer of light as though it were the very heart of the mountain.

"My beauty," Thorin murmured, admiring every inch of the treasure. His fingers gently traced the surface as if afraid to damage it. "No one will ever take you from me," he declared with a fanaticism that darkened his voice. Yet his expression darkened instantly. In the reflection of the stone, he saw his own face. However, the gaze that looked back at him was not one of pride or satisfaction, but of disappointment and fury.

"I am not like my grandfather…" he muttered.

A voice echoed in the chamber: "I am not like my grandfather!" It resonated, clear and charged with intensity, making Thorin abruptly turn around. He clutched the stone behind his back like a child protecting a prized toy.

"Who's there?!" he shouted, his voice breaking the silence like thunder. Only the echo of his own words answered him. The air, heavy and dense, seemed to carry an invisible threat.

"I am not like my grandfather!" The voice rang out again, this time louder, more demanding. The force of the sound seemed to vibrate in the chamber walls, and Thorin felt sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. His face contorted in confusion and rage. "Who?!" he managed to utter, but his words were cut off by a sharp pain piercing his head like a dagger.

He fell to his knees, letting out a muffled groan as the Arkenstone hit the ground with a hollow thud. He clutched his head, trying to contain the pain spreading like wildfire through his mind. The voice, now inside him, mocked:

"You were always like him…"

Thorin tried to scream, but his throat tightened. In his mind, an image formed: his grandfather Thror, standing with madness painted in his eyes, clutching a treasure with trembling hands as his kingdom fell to ruin. The vision filled him with panic. "No! I am not like him!" he forced himself to repeat through gritted teeth.

But the chamber responded only with silence.

The pain left Thorin gasping on the floor. His trembling hands reached for the Arkenstone, lying a few steps away.

"AGGHH!"

The pain struck again, even more severe, as though the weight of all his decisions bore down on him, sharing the suffering of those who had once believed in him.

"I am not like my grandfather…"

"I am not like my grandfather…"

He murmured, his eyes red with pain carrying a will that slowly awakened within him. Those repeated words were like cool water easing the heavy burden of the headache. With each repetition, his mind grew clearer. A fresh breeze, like the coastal air, swept across Thorin's face. Frowning with pain, he slowly stood, leaving the heart of the mountain on the ground.

"I am not like my grandfather," he said through gritted teeth as the deafening pain began to subside.

"I am not like my grandfather," he repeated, taking a deep breath.

"I am not loke my grandfather!!!"

***

Filthy orcs!

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