Six Months Later – The Year 2941 of the Third Age
Alexander had spent nearly a year in Bree. It wasn't exactly where he had expected to end up, but he had made a name for himself there.
At first, he had only stayed at The Prancing Pony, but after months of running the inn (even if Barliman did most of the work), people started to recognize him. The man who had come from nowhere, a wanderer who never seemed to age, who could drink an entire keg of ale without getting drunk. Rumors spread—some said he was a lost prince, others whispered he was an exile from Gondor or Rohan.
But what really cemented his reputation was the bandits.
A group of outlaws had been harassing the people of Bree, robbing travelers on the road and demanding "taxes" from local farmers. The town guard was too weak, too cowardly to do anything. So Alexander took matters into his own hands. He hunted them down in the woods, slaughtering them in a single night. By morning, their heads were displayed on pikes at the town gates.
Since then, people in Bree gave him a wide berth.
Now, he lay on the roof of The Prancing Pony, a mug of mead in hand, staring up at the night sky. The stars here were different, but there was still something familiar about them. They reminded him of Asgard's sky, of his father, of… home.
He exhaled, watching the mist of his breath drift into the cold air.
Then, he heard something.
A voice—whispering from the forest beyond Bree's walls.
He sat up instantly, his senses sharpening. He wasn't imagining it. Someone—or something—was calling to him.
Without hesitation, he moved.
He leapt across rooftops, moving like a shadow, landing silently on the wooden beams of the buildings below. When he reached the town's outer wall, he scaled it with ease, gripping onto the rough wooden planks before swinging himself over.
The forest loomed ahead.
Alexander landed softly on the damp earth, his boots barely making a sound. Then, he walked forward, following the voice.
And then, he saw it.
A great eagle—larger than any beast Alexander had ever seen, its golden-brown feathers gleaming in the moonlight. Its eyes, deep and ancient, locked onto him.
Alexander's breath hitched. He had seen creatures like this before—through Celebrimbor's memories.
The Eagles of Manwë.
Messengers of the Valar. Beings devised by Manwë himself.
The eagle lowered its head slightly, regarding him with intelligence beyond any normal animal. Then, it spoke.
"I am Gwaihir."
Its voice was deep, powerful.
Alexander's eyes narrowed. "And what do you want with me?"
The great eagle's wings shifted. "Gandalf has summoned me. He told me to seek you out."
Alexander's interest piqued. "Gandalf?"
Gwaihir nodded. "A great battle is coming. One that will shape the fate of Middle-earth. Gandalf believes you can help."
Alexander crossed his arms. "What battle?"
"The battle for the Lonely Mountain."
And so, Gwaihir told him everything.
About the dwarves of Erebor.About Smaug, the dragon.About the gathering armies—the men of Dale, the elves of Mirkwood, and the orc hordes of Gundabad.
A war was brewing.
Alexander's grip tightened. A real battle. Something that might actually matter. And, more importantly, it would bring him face to face with Gandalf again.
He exhaled, then nodded. "Alright. Let's go."
Gwaihir lowered one massive wing to the ground.
Alexander climbed onto the eagle's back, gripping the thick feathers as Gwaihir took off.
The wind roared past Alexander's ears as Gwaihir soared through the night sky. The stars above blurred into streaks of silver light.
Though Gwaihir was fast, Alexander couldn't help but compare it to his own flight. Back when he still had his full power, he could have travelled faster than this eagle.
Now, he was stuck on its back like a passenger.
Annoying.
As they flew, Alexander noticed other eagles joining them. Two more great eagles soared alongside them, each carrying a rider.
One was a wizard, dressed in brown robes, with wild, unkempt hair and a frazzled beard. He looked like he had been rolling around in dirt for decades.
The other was a giant of a man—hairy, broad-shouldered, towering even while sitting atop an eagle.
The brown-robed wizard grinned at him. "Ah, fire wielder! I like your hair."
Alexander smirked. "Thanks."
The large man beside him raised a brow. "Fire hair?"
Alexander chuckled. "You'll see."
Minutes later, the battlefield came into view.
Smoke and fire filled the air.
The city of Dale lay in ruins. The gates of Erebor, carved into the mountain, were damaged and broken.
Men, elves, and dwarves stood together against a swarm of orcs. The forces of darkness outnumbered them. The armies of Gundabad were winning.
And then, the eagles struck.
Gwaihir and his kin dove from the heavens, talons tearing through orc flesh.
Alexander jumped.
Midair, he ripped off his headband, revealing his true form. His hair ignited, flames twisting like a living inferno. His eyes burned molten gold, and the air around him shimmered with heat.
The moment he hit the ground, the impact sent out a shockwave, knocking dozens of orcs off their feet. He felt the world suppressing his power, making him weaker than he should have been. But he pushed through.
He summoned Narquar.
The black flame roared as the sword formed in his hands.
Then, he went to work.
An orc charged. Alexander spun, slicing clean through its torso, bisecting it. Blood sprayed the ground. Another lunged at him—he grabbed its head, and with a flick of his fingers, incinerated it to ash.
The battle was chaos.
Men, elves, and dwarves fought desperately. The eagles rained death from above.
Alexander saw Beorn, now in the form of a massive bear, ripping through orcs like paper. The beast crushed skulls with its jaws, tossing bodies aside like ragdolls.
Then, a massive orc stormed toward him, wielding a war hammer the size of a cart.
The orc swung, aiming for Alexander's skull.
Alexander met the attack head-on, slashing through the hammer itself like it was made of paper. The blade continued through the orc's neck, severing its head in a single clean stroke.
The battle was a bloodbath.
At one point, Alexander saw a dwarf with a red axe—Dáin Ironfoot—fighting fiercely. But an orc was sneaking up behind him.
Alexander summoned an axe of fire and threw it.
It buried itself in the orc's skull.
Dáin turned, saw Alexander, and grinned. "My thanks, Fire Person!"
Alexander smirked and kept fighting.
By the time the battle was over, the ground was soaked in blood. The orc army was either dead or retreating.
Alexander helped the wounded—dwarves, elves, men. It didn't matter.
Dáin Ironfoot clasped Alexander's shoulder. "The dwarves will remember this. You will forever be a friend of Durin's folk."
Alexander simply nodded, then placed his headband back on, suppressing his true form once more.
The City of Dale – After the Battle
The battle was over, but the scars of war remained.
Dale was in ruins. The once-proud city, with its tall towers and great markets, was now burned and broken. Homes lay in ashes, streets were filled with debris, and the wounded—men, women, and children—were everywhere.
Alexander moved among them, helping where he could.
He lifted broken beams off crushed survivors, carried the wounded to makeshift healing tents, and even used his suppressed divine fire to cauterize wounds when necessary. His power was still weaker than before, but it was enough to keep some men from bleeding out.
The people of Dale whispered about him.
Some called him a fire-spirit, a demigod, or even an avatar of the Valar. Others simply saw him as a stranger who fought beside them when it mattered most.
As he finished binding a soldier's wounds, he felt eyes upon him.
He turned.
A tall elven figure stood nearby, draped in shimmering silver armor with intricate engravings. His face was cold, beautiful, and proud—his long golden hair flowing like silk. His piercing blue eyes held a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
King Thranduil of Mirkwood.
The Elvenking stepped forward, his regal presence dominating the area around them. His warriors flanked him, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons.
Alexander sighed, already knowing what this was about.
"You wield fire," Thranduil said, his voice smooth but edged with caution. "And I have seen what fire can do to our world."
Alexander glanced at his own hands, still stained with the soot and blood of battle. "And yet, that same fire helped your people today."
Thranduil's expression remained unreadable. "That remains to be seen."
Before things could escalate, a familiar voice interrupted them.
"Peace, Thranduil."
Alexander turned to see Gandalf approaching, his long grey robes swaying as he walked. His presence immediately shifted the air between them.
"This man is no enemy to the Free Peoples of Middle-earth," Gandalf continued. "He is a friend, and his fight is our fight."
Thranduil studied Alexander for a moment longer, then, with a small nod, he turned and left without another word.
Alexander exhaled. "He's a cheerful one."
Gandalf chuckled. "He has seen too much loss. The fires of Smaug destroyed much, and he has not forgotten it."
"Still," Alexander said, "I don't like the way he looked at me."
"Few do," Gandalf admitted, smiling behind his beard.
Alexander leaned against a half-collapsed wall. "Alright, let's get to it. How much longer do I have to wait before we take the fight to Sauron?"
Gandalf sighed, his expression turning serious. "As I said before—decades."
Alexander clenched his fists. "That's too long."
"Sauron has reappeared," Gandalf said, lowering his voice. "But he was pushed back to Mordor. His power is still growing, but he is not yet at full strength."
"Then we should strike now while he's weak," Alexander argued.
"No," Gandalf said firmly. "We must wait for the return of the king."
Alexander narrowed his eyes. "You've mentioned that before. What does it even mean?"
Gandalf stroked his beard. "The heir of Isildur must reclaim his throne. Only then can we hope to unite Middle-earth against Sauron."
"Alright, and where is this heir?"
"In Rivendell," Gandalf answered. "His name is Aragorn, though for now, he is simply a boy. He is being fostered by Lord Elrond, trained for the day he must reclaim Gondor's throne."
Alexander mulled it over. "So you're saying I should go meet him?"
"It would not be unwise," Gandalf said with a small smile. "You may yet have a role to play in shaping his destiny."
Alexander thought about it. This Aragorn guy was the descendant of Elendil and Elros—a link to Celebrimbor's past.
And if meeting him brought Alexander one step closer to going home, then it was worth it.
He nodded. "Fine. Rivendell it is."
The Funeral of Thorin Oakenshield
Hours later, Alexander stood among the gathered warriors, watching as the dwarves buried their fallen king.
Thorin Oakenshield lay upon a stone slab, his body adorned in royal armor. His hands rested on the hilt of Orcrist, and the Arkenstone lay on his chest. His nephews, Fíli and Kíli, were placed beside him.
The dwarves raised their voices in a solemn chant, their deep, sorrowful tones echoing across the mountains.
Alexander glanced around.
Beside him stood Beorn, in his human form once more, arms crossed in silence. Radagast was also present, muttering some quiet prayer.
And then, Alexander's gaze locked onto someone small standing near the tomb.
A hobbit.
Alexander frowned, sensing something off about him.
His eyes focused on the hobbit's pocket.
There was something inside.
Something powerful.
A Ring of Power.
Alexander stiffened.
He turned to Gandalf. "That hobbit. He has a ring."
Gandalf sighed. "Yes. I know."
Alexander tensed. "A Ring of Power, Gandalf. You're telling me that's not a problem?"
The wizard shook his head. "It is not the One Ring. It is likely one of the lesser rings, forged long ago by Celebrimbor and Sauron. It has power, yes, but it is not yet a threat."
Alexander wasn't convinced. He knew exactly what Rings of Power were capable of.
Still, the hobbit—Bilbo, was it?—seemed normal. He wasn't consumed by darkness or turning into some wraith.
Maybe Gandalf was right.
For now.
After the funeral, Dáin Ironfoot, the new King Under the Mountain, approached Alexander.
"Come," he said. "I have something to show you."
Alexander followed Dáin through the stone halls of Erebor, passing countless piles of gold, gemstones, and artifacts. He had never seen so much wealth in one place.
Finally, they arrived at the armory.
Dáin gestured to an ornate helmet placed upon a stone pedestal.
It was magnificent.
A closed-face design, protecting the entire head with a rigid visor that had narrow slits for the eyes. The top dome was made of polished steel, but the faceplate and decorations were gold, covered in elaborate engravings.
Two large, curved wings extended from the sides—highly detailed, as if they had been carved by a master craftsman.
Alexander's eyes widened.
"The Stormfather's Helm," Dáin said. "Forged by one of the greatest dwarven smiths of the First Age Telechar. It was meant for an elven warrior who followed Manwë, but he never claimed it. Since then, it has remained among Durin's treasures, too heavy even for any dwarf to wear."
Alexander lifted the helmet. It was heavy, but not for him.
He smirked. "I can use it."
Dáin laughed. "Then it is yours, my friend. A gift from the House of Durin."
Alexander gave him a nod of respect. "I appreciate it."
Dáin grinned. "No, I appreciate you. You saved me, you saved my kin, and for that, I make an oath. If ever you or your descendants need aid, Durin's Folk will answer."
Alexander was surprised by the weight of those words.
But he accepted.
Later that night, as the feast for the victory, and crowning of a new king began, Alexander sat alone, staring at the Stormfather's Helm.
There's room for improvement…
And he would make it worthy of him.