Chapter Text
In a hole lived a hobbit.
It wasn't a dirty, dark hole, but a comfortable one, remarkably well-furnished, and filled with the delicious aroma of apple pie. In this hole lived Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. A respectable, wealthy, and very likeable hobbit, to whom no adventure of any kind had ever befallen. At least, not until a company of thirteen dwarves invaded his home, interrupting his supper and dragging him into a perilous quest. Bilbo, like any good hobbit, nearly choked with indignation a good hundred times that evening. But Bilbo had inherited from his mother's Took side an adventurous, somewhat whimsical, less hobbit-like quality. So, adventure had charmed his heart, the dwarves' song had enchanted him, and one morning he had sprung out of his hole, bounding away from his hill, abandoning his Shire. And so, Thorin Oakenshield's company, consisting of thirteen valiant dwarves and one somewhat dreamy hobbit, guided by a wizard, set out for Erebor.
It was thus, at dusk on the second day, when the landscapes of the peaceful Shire had given way to wild plains, that Ithilnùr found them again.
First came the wind. The company, gathered in cheerful conversation around the fire, fell suddenly silent. Two dwarves drew their swords, another seized his bow, grasped an arrow, and listened to the rustling of the trees. Then came the shadow, which veiled the moon, and finally, a rumble that made hearts pound. All straightened, alert. The ponies neighed, rearing furiously. Without a sound, Bilbo grabbed his bowl of soup and hid behind a pile of provisions. Only Gandalf remained motionless, calmly smoking his pipe, his eyes twinkling with amusement. And Thorin, of course. The prince remained silent. He had almost hoped this moment would never come. That the beast would never come to honor its part of the bargain. And yet, there was no doubt. It had come.
For first, they saw the golden eyes. Then the long, sharp, white teeth. And finally, emerging from the thickets, appeared Ithilnùr. She rose to her full height, her wings obscuring the pale moonlight, the campfire reflecting off her black scales in a macabre dance. The silence was so stifling that Thorin could hear his own heart pounding in his head. Then the clang of metal, of a sword drawn, an axe brandished, an arrow nocked, shattered the moment.
"A dragon!" yelled a dwarf. "It's a dragon!"
"To arms! To arms, my brothers!"
With a single war cry, the dwarves charged. The dragon roared, sweeping away the arrow, which shattered against its chest. Its tail lashed the air, mowing down several dwarves; its head drove back others; and its wings, beating fiercely, extinguished the fire, plunging them into darkness. The dwarves howled with rage, and the dragon answered with an even more terrible roar. Then, a dwarf seized a glowing ember and was about to hurl it at the beast when his arm was firmly restrained.
"That's enough," thundered Thorin. "Enough, I said, enough! Put away your blades, lay down your axes, and by the gods, all of you, stop shouting!"
"But Thorin;;;" said a dwarf. "That dragon will massacre us if we don't kill it first!"
"She won't do that," laughed Gandalf. "Well, she certainly frightened you, and I suppose that must have amused her. Now it's all over. And you, my fair friend, put away your big teeth and come this way. I'll rekindle this poor fire and... come now, Bilbo, come out of there, there's nothing to fear!"
Thorin wished he could tear his hair out. His men were terrified, and the wyvern's eyes gleamed mockingly. With swift, fluid steps, she approached, the flickering light of the rekindled fire casting her terrifying shadow against the rock where they had taken shelter. The company parted, letting her climb back to the wizard. She breathed, a harsh growl echoing off the walls, before settling down by the fire, her golden eyes narrowing with satisfaction. No one moved, no one dared utter a word.
"This is Ithilnùr, daughter of the wind. She has a personal matter to settle with Smaug the Terrible, and in this, she will join our quest. We cannot defeat the dragon alone."
"Thorin," stammered a dwarf with a long white beard. "Well, he's a dragon, the same kind as the one that took our home. We can't trust him!"
"Let's kill her now, let's get this over with!" shouted another.
They all agreed with furious cries that would make the fiercest warrior tremble. Faced with such hatred, Ithilnùr blinked slowly, but said nothing, simply observing Thorin.
"No," said Thorin, stepping in front of the wyvern, trying in vain to shield it from his companions' gaze. "We have sworn an oath. On my life and my lineage, on the wind and its blood. It has my trust."
The dwarves fell silent, as if struck by lightning, and their eyes were filled with profound betrayal.
"Now, my brothers," Thorin continued, rising to his full height, "the choice is yours. You have followed me here to reclaim our home, to restore to the people of Eerbor their dwelling place, their grandeur, and their history. Smaug is a calamity, an abomination, a vile creation of darkness against which we alone are powerless. I believe in the strength of the promise I made, I believe in your loyalty and your trust. My brothers, will you follow me?"
Only the crackling of the fire answered him.
Then, the dwarf with the white beard cautiously advanced.
"Of course, Thorin, my prince, my king. Forever and unto death, and even beyond, I will follow you. For you are our hope, I saw it at the terrible Battle of Moria. And I will never cease to believe in it. I walk with you."
"And I'll walk with you," growled another. "And if that means being around a dragon, so be it."
All the dwarves agreed. They would follow Thorin Oakenshield, in life and in death, in victory and in defeat. They would follow their king under the mountain. Gandalf finally allowed himself to breathe. He had never doubted the dwarves' loyalty to Thorin, but he had doubted Thorin's strength in keeping his own promise. Ithilnùr was a great ally, but she was, first and foremost, and forever, a wyvern. And the dwarf prince's anger toward those so like him ran deep, like a gaping, ever-festering wound. But it would seem the wizard had been mistaken. Thorin had far more to lose than his ego or his pride in this quest, and he knew it. This was not merely a prince's desperate attempt to reclaim his throne. The future of Durin's line, of an entire dynasty, hung in the balance; but also that of a people. The future of an entire people. Of innocent women, children, and men.
Gandalf, seeing the great wyvern resting peacefully by the fire, observing the dwarves' embraces and renewed oaths, thought that for the first time, there was true hope in this quest. Perhaps the dwarves of Erebor could truly return to their mountain.
Ithilnùr tilted her head slightly. No dwarf had spoken to her, no dwarf had even met her gaze, save for the little prince, fleetingly. And she didn't mind, at least, not much more than that. Dwarves didn't like dragons. Well, dwarves didn't like many people. They were a proud and insular race, who cherished their traditions and stories more than any other, even more than the elves. They lived for their honor, for their treasure, for their lineage, surrounded by simple and honest pleasures. She sniffed a little, then narrowed her eyes in approval. She could smell the heavy, intoxicating scent of gold in their pockets, the steady clinking of coins in their purses, the delicate whisper of the precious stones that adorned their rings and necklaces. It was very pleasant; because it had been a long time since she had had the opportunity to hear such beautiful melodies.
Then, a strange smell caught her attention. It was neither the rocky, metal scent of the dwarves, nor the sharp, odd odor of the wizard. It smelled of toast and jam, but also of a poorly treated cold and soap. It smelled of home. A warm, cozy hearth, where one could sleep safely, eat well, and watch the world through the window. She shivered. She knew these smells. They reminded her of a time long ago. A time when her brothers and sisters were still with her. A time when she had never known fear and war. Nor blood, horror, screams, or tears. A time when she knew nothing of the terrible fire of dragons. A time so long ago that she had forgotten she had ever lived through it.
She turned her head, searching for the source of the strange fragrance that plunged her into such sad memories. And there, behind the magician's gray cloak, stood a child. No, not a child, an adult. But clearly, he was neither a dwarf nor a man. She hesitated. She couldn't recall ever seeing such a creature before. What was it?
From Bilbo's point of view, he was experiencing the most terrifying thing in his life. A dragon, a dragon, had emerged from the forest. The creature had been fighting the dwarves until Thorin abruptly announced that it was joining the quest. A dragon! And now everyone seemed to have accepted it. Even Dwalin, even Bombur! And Gandalf… No, no help would come from the wizard, who was busy rekindling the fire and smoking a pipe while watching Bombur cautiously return to the kitchen, carefully avoiding going near the dragon. Good heavens, a dragon! Then, Bilbo thought he was going to die. He truly thought so when the dragon locked its gaze with his before bending down, its head slowly lowering to his level. Bilbo felt his heart skip a beat. He had to do something. Run away? Hide? Throw himself to the ground and beg for mercy? The dragon breathed softly and then Bilbo did the only thing a hobbit could do in that situation.
"Uh… Hello?"
He was polite. After all, a well-bred hobbit couldn't decently do otherwise. The dragon froze. Then, it stepped back a little before rearing up. A deep growl sounded, threatening to extinguish the fire once more.
"Finally, someone with manners."
Thorin Oakenshield's company had faith in their leader. A blind and boundless faith, reinforced by unwavering loyalty and a burning desire to return to their mountain. So, if Thorin had faith in this dragon, they would accept it. However, it wasn't certain they would be happy about it. On the first night, only Gandalf fell asleep without a care, sinking into a deep slumber. Few dwarves were able to do the same, and Bilbo, alas, could only manage a meager hour or two of rest. This was as much due to the excitement of this new adventure as to the fact that a dragon was only a few feet from his own bed. But Ithilnùr had hardly moved, content to observe the horizon, his golden eyes scanning the wild plains.
They had been riding for many hours now, and the sun was nearing its zenith. Gandalf, perched atop his large bay horse, led the way, conversing with the wyvern. The wyvern had not spread its wings, walking calmly in step with the horses, its black tail occasionally lashing impatiently through the air. A wyvern flying at the company's slow pace might have attracted the attention of enemies and vile creatures, so it followed them at a walking pace.
Bilbo found it very difficult to tear his gaze away from the creature. It was large, immense even, yet so small compared to the engravings he had seen of Morgoth's great dragons. He knew nothing of its kind. How old was it? What was its history? What did it eat? Did it have a family?
Without even realizing it, he spurred his pony, drawing closer to Gandalf and Ithilnùr. As he approached, their conversation broke off, and the wizard strode ahead, suddenly driven by the desire to light their way. Intimidated, and already regretting his haste, Bilbo reached the wyvern. He swallowed hard at the sight of its claws, its immense wings, and the golden eyes that fixed upon him. But there was no cruelty, no hatred in the calm and surprisingly patient gaze it bestowed upon him.
"My name is Bilbo," he said softly. "My apologies, as I didn't introduce myself yesterday. In fact, I realize that none of us did."
“No harm done, no need to hold a grudge. Bilbo, that’s a name that suits you well,” replied the wyvern in its deep, resonant voice. “A name that fits a hobbit perfectly. Hobbits… Yes, I had forgotten you existed. But I remember now. I remember the bountiful vegetable gardens, the feasts at every solstice, the beautiful forest of Buckland. I remember, but it was a long time ago.”
"Have you visited the Shire?" Bilbo wondered, "for if a dragon had ventured there, no doubt this story would be known to all."
"Yes, in a time when the Shire was young, very young, and the north still shone with life. Now, only your lands seem to still harbor a little joy and light."
“Yes,” agreed the hobbit, puffing out his chest proudly. “It’s a wonderful place, and if you ask me, the Shire is never more lovely than in springtime. You should see Bag End, my home, when the daffodils and tulips are in bloom, richly adorning the lawn. Our gardener is very skilled; it’s always a profusion of vibrant colors and intoxicating fragrance. In fact, when this whole adventure is over, I’ll invite you to come and see for yourself. The garden is quite large enough to accommodate you, and I have a thousand blankets to keep you warm. You like pies, don’t you?”
Bilbo caught his breath as the wyvern trembled slightly. She was laughing.
"Aren't you afraid I'll eat you alive anymore, young Bilbo?"
"Oh… well, to tell you the truth, I think it will take a little longer for me to get used to your fangs, but by next spring, it should be sorted."
"So, if life allows, I'll come see your flowers. And as for the tarts, I'll eat them with great pleasure. It's been a long time since I've received an invitation. That's very thoughtful of you."
Bilbo nodded, satisfied. He was already looking forward to seeing the faces of the Sackville-Bagginses when they discovered a dragon on their hill.
"And you, do you have a house?" he asked, curiously.
Bilbo had always loved to make conversation, and now that he was more or less reassured that she didn't intend to make him her next dinner, he had to admit that he found the wyvern rather likeable.
“No, Bilbo. Or rather, not in this world. My home is far away, beyond the sea. It has been many years since I had to leave it, and I do not know if I shall ever be allowed to return. For my home is in the clouds, in my father’s palace, with my brothers and sisters. Here I have no home, no ties. I go where the wind takes me, where my heart leads me. But the West will always be my favorite, for it is from the West that I came, in a time now forgotten.”
"Then you're welcome to Bag End for as long as you like. Everyone should have a home," Bilbo said softly. "Even dragons!"
"You are very generous, very generous for such a small being. Yes, Bilbo, everyone deserves a home, isn't that precisely why you are accompanying this company?"
Bilbo glanced back. The Shire was long gone. On the horizon, the wild lands stretched as far as the eye could see. He watched the dwarves. Some were laughing and bickering, others rode on with grave expressions, all riding toward an uncertain future, perhaps in vain hope of returning to beautiful Erebor, the world that had been stolen from them.
Bilbo loved the Shire deeply, and he didn't doubt for a moment that if it were ever taken from him by any evil, he would do everything in his power to get it back. Every hobbit would do the same. For they were good and peaceful beings, but their land was sacred, for it was their land that they would defend against all odds. They had already proven this in the past. Yes, Bilbo had been furious when the dwarves had invaded his beloved Bag End. But the song of the mountain had broken his anger, and compassion had filled him completely. These dwarves, with their dark yet promising eyes, would one day return home. Bilbo hoped so with all his heart. And he would help them, as best he could. Yes, everyone deserved a home.
"Certainly," Bilbo finally replied. "They'll fight to get their mountain back, just as I would if it happened to the Shire. They need a burglar, they came to me for that, so I'll do it. I'm a Baggins, you know, a Took on my mother's side, no less. It's a grand adventure, but I'm happy to be part of it. I think?"
"The wizard has chosen you, the dwarves have accepted you. You are capable of great things, little hobbit. I feel it in your heart."
"Thank you... Well, I suppose you do too? After all, you're a dragon."
Ithilnùr shook herself in irritation, frightening Bilbo's pony, which pawed nervously.
"I'm a wyvern, Bilbo. Not a dragon. Do I look fat and vain then?"
Gandalf's laughter echoed through the woods.
The camp was set up at nightfall. During the day's march, Ithilnùr had made a point of memorizing the names of the company. There was dear little Bilbo, of course, whom she found particularly agreeable. He had excellent manners, was a good conversationalist, and he hardly even flinched when she grumbled. Then there was also the dwarf with the long white beard, who answered to the name of Balin. He seemed wise and full of good advice. His distrust of her was measured, and if he didn't approve of her presence, he showed it, even exchanging a few banal pleasantries with her as she walked alongside the wizard.
There were also Fili and Kili, the prince's nephews. She found them terribly rude, their questions as indiscreet and unrestrained as could be. But they treated her like an old friend, as if her scales and wings weren't so different from their skin and beards. As if she were just a slightly eccentric distant relative, always spoken of with an amused smile. She appreciated that.
She also remembered Dwalin, the proud warrior. He hadn't even flinched when she yawned, revealing his sharp fangs, challenging her with the kind of gaze one gives to a formidable and respectable opponent.
As for the other dwarves, well, she still had a bit of practice to do before she knew who was who. She observed them, trying to spot Dori and Nori, Ori then Óin and Glóin, and finally, Bifur (that one had an axe stuck in his skull, so he was easier to remember), Bofur and Bombur.
And then there was Thorin. The prince.
He hadn't spoken a word to her, not a single one since their exchange on the hill, for over a season. His gaze never lingered on her. She sensed his anger, his reluctance. He didn't want her help, he didn't want her presence. He had only accepted her reluctantly, out of despair, out of spite, because he knew Smaug's power. She wasn't offended; she would be patient. One day, Thorin would thank the stars for her company.
"Tell me, aren't you going to eat anything?" asked Bilbo, joining Ithilnùr, who was lying away from the fire. "I mean, you've been with us for over a day and a night now, and I still haven't seen you swallow a thing."
"Why, Bilbo, would you like to serve him as dessert?" Kili joked as he approached, his pipe emitting a pleasant scent.
"I don't need to eat anytime soon," Ithilnùr said softly. "Dragons and wyverns have a slow metabolism. If I wanted to, I could survive many winters without eating."
"Years?" exclaimed Bilbo, clutching his still-steaming bowl of stew tightly. "What a terrible ordeal that must be. And to think I already find it hard to go without my second breakfast!"
"We dwarves," said Kili, "believe that good food is what gives meaning to gatherings and to life in society. A good meal, plenty of beer, a few songs, and that's how my people have risen over time, building their happiness stone by stone."
"I like songs," said Ithilnùr.
"Are there any wyvern songs?" asked Fili, who had joined them.
"Yes. But they are reserved for times of misfortune. I know of none that lends itself to being uttered in such joyful company. All there is sadness, fear, and sorrow."
"Then we'll sing you some songs," said Fili. "Silly, cheerful, and insignificant songs, as long as they bring a little comfort. Would you like that? And you, master burglar, do you sing?"
"Of course! All brave hobbits love that, and practice it with pleasure."
The night was dark that evening; the overcast sky offered no light, and only the flickering glow of the fire brought a little comfort. Ithilnùr let herself be lulled by the conversations, by the peaceful and cheerful voices of Bilbo, Fili, and Kili, allowing her limbs to relax. She wasn't used to walking; her wings usually carried her much faster, soaring through the wind.
"But I'm still having a little trouble understanding," Kili continued, "how are you so different from Smaug?"
Ithilnùr sharply raised his head, observing the dwarf with cold anger.
"I mean, you're much less terrifying but..."
"Oh, but I can be absolutely terrifying," growled the wyvern.
And of course, she was. As her wings unfurled, immense and terrifying, as her eyes narrowed in defiance, as a low growl escaped her throat, she saw the dwarves hesitate to raise their weapons. Only Thorin's stern gaze prevented them. For he saw no threat in the wyvern. She did not beat her wings, nor did she snap her teeth. Kili had overstepped the bounds of politeness, and she was letting him know, in her own way. It was for the best. Thorin returned to his task, sharpening his sword, and the tension subsided. Ithilnùr calmed then, lowering his head to Kili's.
"I am a wyvern, young dwarf, and I am terrifying. Never forget that."
Kili nodded. Ithilnùr sat back down with a thud, and his head fell heavily to the ground. Only Bilbo could read, could understand, what lay deep within the wyvern's golden eyes. A terrible, burning, heart-rending sadness. A festering pain that cried out in distress. His voice was low and slow when he spoke, addressing only the ears closest to Bilbo, Fili, and Kili.
"You ask me what distinguishes me from Smaug, little dwarf. It's a dreadful question, for it shows me how much the world has changed, how much everyone has forgotten the old stories. Dragons were created and raised by the dark Morgoth, in an age when Beleriand stretched across the entire West of Middle-earth. In an age when the old alliances did not yet exist, when the great rings of the dark lord Sauron had not yet been forged. In an age when none of my own had yet been born. The dragons, immense and vicious, yearned only for the destruction of all life. The most terrible of all was Glaurung, the Crawler, who reduced one of the three great Elven cities of his time to rubble, the beautiful Nargothrond. Then Doriath and Gondolin fell in their turn. Thus began the War of Wrath."
Silence fell over the camp. Everyone listened, with rare gravity and a certain melancholy, to this tale from another time, so distant that it seemed forgotten forever. Everyone felt the wyvern's sorrow slowly winding itself around their hearts, everyone felt the grief in her calm voice, a grief so long kept silent and only waiting to be expressed.
“Morgoth, in his quest for domination, did not stop at the creation of Glaurung. He was only the first of a long and fruitful line, the father of dragons. They diversified, multiplied, acquiring wings capable of unleashing hurricanes, blazing fire, growing ever larger and more malevolent. Beleriand could not withstand such hatred, so some representatives journeyed across the sea, summoning the aid of the Valar. It was granted. It is there that I was born, among my brothers and sisters. In the realm of Manwë, chief of the Ainur, king of the Valar, atop Mount Taniquetil in Valinor, the highest mountain in the world. We were his children, made of wind and hope. We breathed neither fire nor hatred, we were hardly as imposing, but we were faster, more agile, and more numerous, created for the sole purpose of standing up to the terrible dragons. Those were days I know to be happy, but of which I retain few memories.“
Then, almost imperceptibly, a single tear escaped from her golden eyes, disappearing into the black scales.
"A great army was raised," said Gandalf gloomily, giving the wyvern a brief respite. "It was led by Eönwë, the herald of Manwë, and Finarfin, king of the Noldor of Aman. Along with so many other brave men, they marched to Mount Thangorodrim, beneath which lay the dark fortress of Morgoth. The war began and raged for endless years."
"Then came Ancalagon the Black,” Ithilnùr continued. “The great winged dragon, with fire hotter than all his kind combined. With the force of his thunder and flames, he drove back the army of the Valar while the other dragons shattered every retreat. Under Eönwë’s command, we charged into battle. We fought the dragons for a day and a night. They were stronger, but we were more numerous, better prepared, driven by hope and love, not by hatred and fury. Many of my people perished. But we were not alone."
"Ancalagon fell, the fortress of Angband was opened, and Morgoth, imprisoned by the Valar, vanished into nothingness," concluded Gandalf. "Thus ended the War of Wrath. Thus ended the First Age."
"What happened to the other dragons?" asked Balin.
"Those who survived fled, hiding in caves for countless years, fearing swords and the grim fate of their kin," the wizard reflected. "Alas, they eventually found enough strength to roam the lands of the free peoples once more, sowing chaos and destruction. Smaug is but one sad example among many."
"And you, Ithilnùr?" murmured Bilbo. "And your brothers and sisters?"
“The dragons were defeated,” the wyvern murmured. “Our task was accomplished. Of the few who survived, many returned to our father. But others chose to stay. That was my choice too. I was young and eager for adventure. The horrors of war had passed over me, but had not yet touched my heart. I was full of confidence; I thought myself strong. How wrong I was. Once a numerous and valiant race, I watched my people decline. The free peoples forgot our faces; we were mistaken for dragons and slaughtered and hated. The gates were closed to us, our names cursed and forgotten. I lost my faith, I think, and I hid in the wild lands. My sisters and brothers did the same, and time passed, inexorably, carrying away our secrets and our hopes.”
She closed her eyes. Her heart was so heavy.
"Is it because of the war that you hate Smaug so much?" Thorin finally asked, his deep voice breaking the heavy silence.
Ithilnùr inhaled a breath before fixing his golden eyes on the dwarf. Their gazes truly met for the first time since their encounter on the windy hill.
"War is war," she said slowly. "The War of Wrath is no exception. Terrible things are done, little prince, on both sides. But a massacre in peacetime? There are some things that, even in eternity, cannot be forgotten or forgiven."
Then she stood up, her claws marking the ground.
"Enough story for tonight," she murmured. "Everyone sleep, I'll be watching over you."
Then she walked away, melting into the night.
"It was a terrible and dark tale that was told to you tonight," said Gandalf, rekindling the fire. "A tale of old, which too many of us mistakenly take for old nonsense. I thank you for not bothering him about it again. His heart has suffered too much to dwell on so much sorrow."
"Smaug," Thorin asked abruptly, "what exactly did he do to his own people?"
"Didn't you hear? For sheer pleasure and surprise, Smaug attacked many wyverns, tearing their bodies apart, burning their few young, shattering their lives. Ithilnùr is one of the last. All have vanished, either by sea or by fire."
Thorin didn't answer. He could make out her dark figure, far off in the gloom, perched on a rocky promontory, standing guard. He remembered the times he had challenged her by calling her a dragon. He thought he was mocking her, but he had been mistaken. He had no idea of the hatred, the anger, she harbored toward those against whom she had always fought, from her earliest days until this very day. For the first time, he didn't see her as an enemy. No pity touched Thorin's heart, no compassion. Only a profound understanding took hold of it. He who had lost so much, who had seen his people reduced to nothing, saw in those golden eyes a strange reflection of his own story.
That night, Thorin silently accepted that the quest for Erebor would rely on the help and friendship of a wyvern.
That evening, he accepted Ithilnùr as one of his own.