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Bilbo stood in the dark corridor, feeling the cool stone under his feet and the faint breeze of stale air stirred up by the long-closed doorway they had just opened. Night was falling outside but there was no time to lose in this quest; Bilbo understood that, or thought he did, until Thorin had turned to him with that look in his eyes, not the recognition of a friend or colleague, more like a warrior deploying a tool. “Find the Arkenstone. Don’t wake the dragon.” So here Bilbo was, alone, about to search a dragon’s cave for one particular stone, only vaguely described, with a vaguer purpose—would it help them defeat the dragon faster? Bilbo didn’t get that impression; it seemed to be related more to solidifying Thorin’s claim to rule under the mountain. Which maybe could have waited a bit.
On the other hand, Bilbo had been employed on the quest as a thief, and here he was, assigned to purloin something; so perhaps he should stop standing around in the hallway dithering, and get on with it. Resolutely he hefted his sword and crept forward.
The cave ought to have been pitch black, but it wasn’t; as he entered what must have been the treasury of Thorin’s people, Bilbo was overwhelmed by the massive scale of the room and the gold it contained. The vault of the Hobbiton bank could’ve fit snugly in one corner, easily overlooked amid the mountains of gold coins studded with gems, chests, goblets, armor. The ceiling rose into darkness far above him; at a lower level a few flickering wall lamps were amply reflected by all the metal below them.
Bilbo had always had a comfortable life in the Shire, and had never thought much about money, for good or ill. But this—this was enough gold to inspire lust in the purest heart. He could see why Thorin’s grandfather had been stricken by madness for it, and why a dragon would rout a whole kingdom for it.
Remembering the dragon made Bilbo press suddenly against a rocky outcropping, his eyes darting around the room. Everyone thought it was so obvious what a dragon would look like, but when they were still, how did you tell them from all the other enormous lumps? Could he even expect the dragon to be in this room, as opposed to another? Things he hadn’t thought to ask about, which now seemed crucial.
Well, he hadn’t come all this way to hide behind a rock, Bilbo reminded himself. Hearing only silence in the room, he crept forward to the first spill of gold, hoping ridiculously that perhaps the Arkenstone would be nearby. If it had the mystical, semi-sentient properties Thorin liked to attribute to it, it ought to know to get itself over here where it could be rescued, Bilbo thought, with desperate humor. He wasn’t sure he really believed the idea of mystical, semi-sentient treasure anyway, or felt comfortable with it. His fingers went automatically to his pocket to make sure the magic ring was safe.
A large green stone the size of a gourd caught his eye and he carefully crawled across the gold to pick it up. “You’ll know it when you see it.” Well, Bilbo was unsure, so he put it back down gently. Something red seemed to glow a few paces away—it was a gem in the hilt of a sword, glinting in the firelight. Not right, then. A huge white gem sparkled with a rainbow of colors and was quite tempting; but when Bilbo tiptoed over to it across the slippery, cold coins, it seemed fairly ordinary. As ordinary as huge gemstones worth more than Bilbo’s estate could be, anyway.
He sighed and sheathed his sword, feeling more frustration now than fear. He couldn’t spend all night at this task. Then again—he climbed atop a hill of gold and surveyed the landscape—the treasure stretched far away into darkness, and lay deeper than he was tall in most places. A team of thieves might be unable to find one particular thing in a week of searching, if it was buried deep enough, or inside something—
Bilbo froze as he turned atop the mound. Just a few paces away, in a golden hollow, was a person—asleep on a fluffy mattress with blankets atop him. He was Man or Elf-sized, with dark hair and pale skin, and Bilbo found himself staring—first in surprise at finding someone so comfortably ensconced in the dragon’s lair, and then at his high cheekbones, full lips, large but elegant hands and feet that escaped the covers. He was beautiful—that was the first word that came to Bilbo’s mind. The strength of the reaction shocked him—he’d admired a person or two in Hobbiton, not enough to make a move, though, and never had any of them struck him the way this person did, just lying there asleep. Bilbo felt almost… connected to him somehow, like they knew each other and had just been reunited after a long separation. But in fact they’d never met; Bilbo knew there was no way he could forget someone like this.
Gold shifted under him, bringing him back to the present, and Bilbo became consumed with urgency to get this person out of the cave before the dragon realized anything was amiss. Forget the Arkenstone, at least for now; clearly the top priority had to be rescuing Smaug’s prisoner.
Bilbo skittered down the pile of treasure to land next to the mattress. “Hello. Hello there,” he tried, hesitant to touch the person, whose otherworldly beauty was even greater close up. Definitely some kind of Elf, then. “Wake up. Wake up now.” Finally he lightly touched the sleeper’s shoulder through the blankets.
His eyes popped open, blazingly blue, and Bilbo was transfixed by them. The gaze softened to something akin to recognition—maybe Bilbo was confusing it with relief?—and he propped himself up on one elbow, the blankets sliding down his naked torso.
“It’s—it’s alright,” Bilbo stammered quickly. “I won’t hurt you—”
“Of course not,” the Elf said, an amused half-smile on his face, and his voice was deep and rich and smooth in a way that made Bilbo’s insides wobble. He glanced around, yawning a little. “How long have I been asleep? Knew you’d turn up one of these days.”
Bilbo blinked in confusion. “You did? Oh, well, of course,” he added. The Elf must mean he’d maintained hope that he would be rescued. “Anyway, let’s hurry and get you out of here. Have you warm clothes?”
The Elf sat up all the way, and Bilbo feared he might not have clothes at all. “There’s no rush,” he claimed, taking Bilbo’s hand. “You’ve just arrived. I’ll show you around.”
Being a dragon’s prisoner could easily drive one mad, Bilbo reasoned. Everyone knew Elves were prone to that sort of thing anyway. “No, we haven’t time for that,” Bilbo told him patiently, clutching the hand that burned in his. “We have to leave before the dragon catches us.”
The Elf blinked, then seemed to realize what the problem was. “Oh. I am the dragon,” he claimed matter-of-factly. Bilbo tried to keep his expression neutral. “I can transform from this shape to the dragon one. I mean, all dragons can. It’s something we do.”
“Really,” Bilbo replied carefully. “I never knew that, that’s fascinating.”
“Yes, it’s quite convein—Oh, you don’t believe me,” the Elf realized suddenly. This seemed to amuse him. “Honestly, Bay, have you ever seen how ungainly a dragon is, trying to read a Dwarf-sized book? Not to mention bathing! You know I like a good bath.”
There was a flirtatious glint in his eye as he turned Bilbo’s hand around in his, and the Hobbit nearly forgot what had just been said, something rather tempting about books and baths. Then he thought—“Sorry, did you just call me Bay?” he asked. The man thought he could transform into a dragon, so why should Bilbo expect sense with his own name? Still, he felt a stab of disappointment—that smile, that gaze were not for him, but for some other specific person, whom he had been mistaken for. “It’s Bilbo, actually. Bilbo Baggins.”
The Elf frowned. “Not Bay?”
“No, sorry,” Bilbo replied with a forced smile. “So, shall we go? I think we’d best go.”
The Elf didn’t move, anchoring Bilbo in place. “Never heard the name Bay before?” he checked.
“No, sorry,” Bilbo repeated. “Look, I’ve got some friends outside, and we’ll take care of you, make sure you get to Lake-town safely—”
“Friends?” the Elf interrupted with interest. “How many? What sort?”
“Dwarves,” Bilbo told him, reaching for the sheet. “Maybe we can just sort of wrap—About nine of them, I think. Clothes would really be a good idea,” he added, trying to sound reasonable. “It’s a bit nippy outside.”
“So your name is not Bay, and you don’t remember me at all?” The Elf seemed stuck on this point, and unwilling to rise when Bilbo bid him. “Are you considered an adult in your culture?”
The question was, to say the least, unexpected. “Yes—”
A large hand shot to Bilbo’s throat, not to choke him but to yank open his collar, fingers brushing his collarbone and chest in a manner at once clinical and sensuous. “Are you wearing any kind of protective charm?” the Elf inquired. “Something you’ve had forever, that you never remove?”
“No,” Bilbo breathed, feeling trails of fire where his fingertips had grazed.
The Elf nodded slowly, his gaze assessing. “Abusive childhood, then?”
The question splashed cold water over Bilbo, bringing up a flurry of shadowy half-memories that rarely rose to his conscious mind. “No,” he sputtered, trying to pull back from the Elf and his deeply inquisitive gaze. “No, look, you’ve—” He shook his head. “Really, we’ve got to leave,” he insisted, trying to stay focused. “You want to leave here, don’t you?”
“No, I rather like it here,” the Elf claimed, stretching in a way that showed off more pale skin. “It’s quite comfortable. Well, I could use more books,” he added thoughtfully. “Dwarves aren’t big readers, really. Not much of a library.”
Bilbo was not sure where to go with that. “But aren’t you afraid of—” The Elf raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to mention the dragon again. “—of being lonely?” Bilbo substituted at the last minute.
The Elf’s expression changed suddenly, open and raw just for an instant. “Yes, I’m very lonely,” he said earnestly, clutching at Bilbo again. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”
He drew Bilbo forward, onto the mattress. “Hang on—just a moment—” Bilbo protested, though without much force.
The Elf’s face hovered close to his for a moment, his gaze darting between Bilbo’s eyes and lips, then he leaned in and kissed him. It was gentle at first, savoring, then became urgent and devouring, sweeping Bilbo away. He clutched at the Elf, desperate to get closer, fighting through the blankets that kept them apart. Bilbo had lived a quiet, circumspect life until this quest began, and the old him would’ve resisted this temptation, no matter how potent. Now, though, he knew that sometimes he had to be bold and follow his instincts, and every instinct he had told him this was the right thing to do.
At least for a few moments. He might be bold but he wasn’t suicidal. When Bilbo pulled back, panting, he saw that he and the Elf were half beneath the blankets, pressed close together, and the Elf definitely didn’t have any clothes. It was slightly awkward as Bilbo—true to the nickname Halfling—was only about half the Elf’s height, but he thought they could work that out somehow. If they ever got the chance. “Look, we’ve really got to get out of here,” Bilbo tried once more.
“Mm, why?” asked the Elf, nuzzling his jaw.
“Well, my friends are waiting—”
“Oh yes, the Dwarves,” the Elf remarked, with slight disdain. The Elf-Dwarf animosity apparently extended even to those who’d been out of society for a while.
This alone did not seem to convince him, since he started unfastening Bilbo’s coat. “And also—” Bilbo added hurriedly, taking his hands, “—also there’s the dragon.” He tried to say this carefully, hoping the Elf’s opinion on the matter might have changed.
The Elf pulled back slightly, the smirk on his face making Bilbo suddenly uneasy. “Shall I demonstrate for you, my little gem?” he purred, and the hands Bilbo held became hot, unpleasantly so. Then Bilbo realized his eyes had turned from blue to gold, with the pupil a vertical slit.
Very reptilian. As was the tail that flicked out from beneath the blankets, which Bilbo was certain had not been there earlier.
In a panic Bilbo scrambled away from the mattress, stumbling over the treasure surrounding them. The—creature followed slowly, now crawling on all fours. “What’s wrong, Bilbo Baggins?” he teased dangerously, as his pale skin became golden and scaly. “Don’t you find me so attractive anymore?” He laughed, and the teeth displayed were larger and sharper. Hastily Bilbo drew his sword, which only made the creature laugh more, and then his transformation became so distorted and surreal that Bilbo threw himself into the corridor and around the corner out of sight. He wedged the point of his sword into the stone floor to prevent himself from running away completely, dark laughter echoing in his ears.
Foolish, stupid, he cursed himself. What were you thinking? He wasn’t like Kili or Fili, young hotheads chasing after pretty things with a hint of danger. A hint! He rolled his eyes at the vast understatement. Had he really been kissing a dragon? Despite the disgust he wanted to feel, the thought stirred him. There was something wrong here, wrong because it was right, like this was exactly where he was supposed to be and what he was supposed to be doing.
There was silence all around him, Bilbo suddenly realized. Then he heard the same voice he’d been listening to earlier, only coming from higher up—much higher up. “Come out from hiding, Bilbo Baggins,” it coaxed. “I won’t hurt you.”
What was Bilbo going to do, go back to the Dwarves with no Arkenstone and the dragon awake? That would be a total failure. So he took a deep breath and went back around the corner into the treasure room.
At first he didn’t even see the dragon, so monumental was he, and glimmering golden in the faint light like the rest of the treasure. Then he moved and his outline snapped into focus for Bilbo, and the Hobbit stood rooted to the spot, staring up and up and up at the huge creature. Just his claws were as tall as Bilbo, and when he lowered his head and grinned, his teeth were as long as Bilbo’s forearm. A Hobbit or even a Dwarf could be easily swallowed whole by this monster, not to mention impaled by his claws, charred to a cinder, or crushed with a single gesture. What hope did they have against it, when there were so few of them? His eyes began to sting.
“I said I wouldn’t hurt you,” the dragon rumbled, in the same silky voice. It seemed so wrong coming from his mouth. He bent over to lean down closer to Bilbo. “Don’t you believe me, my little gem? You’re making a habit of that.”
Now, Bilbo thought, and shakily raised his sword—even a dragon would be vulnerable under his chin or in his eye, and this might be his only chance to wound the beast. A great golden eye blinked at him wetly, as if waiting for his decision. The moment dragged out, and then Bilbo knew he wouldn’t do it.
The dragon seemed to know, too, and sat back up, filling the cavern that earlier had seemed so vast. His paw reached out swiftly and snapped Bilbo up, pinning his arms and sword safely to his sides in a cage of steely claws and scaly skin, which was as hard as armor plating—though also warm, comfortingly so. He deposited Bilbo on a ledge at what was presumably a more convenient height for the dragon.
“Now, let’s discuss things,” he said in a companionable way. “You may call me Magnus.”
Bilbo had a horrible fleeting thought that they’d come to the wrong cave and disturbed the wrong dragon. “Magnus?” he repeated dubiously. “Not Smaug?”
“My public name,” the dragon dismissed. “Magnus is what my friends call me.”
“Are there many of those?” Bilbo asked, with perfect innocence, and the dragon’s grin grew, cheeky and menacing at the same time.
“The question is, what to do about your friends,” Magnus went on. “Nine little Dwarves come to steal away my home and treasure.” He didn’t sound too worried.
“You did steal it first,” Bilbo pointed out, wondering which remark would get him fried to a crisp.
“I’m a dragon, that’s what I do,” Magnus claimed, as though this was perfectly natural. “But I can’t have them poking around, bothering us. Naturally, my first thought is to destroy them,” he added, relish in his tone.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Bilbo interjected carefully.
“Somehow I knew you would say that,” Magnus replied, as if this bored him. “I don’t suppose you could just talk them into going away?”
Bilbo considered this, and then suddenly put his sword away. “Well, I could try,” he offered gamely.
The dragon blinked at him. “Really?”
“Of course,” Bilbo assured him optimistically. “I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, they’ve been rather determined, but I think I could persuade them. Really, there were just a couple of items they wanted, sentimental value more than—”
Magnus huffed, cutting him off. “It’s so cute when you try to be clever,” he remarked patronizingly. “I’m not letting you go, Bilbo Baggins. Not when I’ve just found you.”
“You speak as though you’ve been looking for me for a long time,” Bilbo noted, trying to go with the flow. The flow of a mentally unhinged dragon, that is.
“Oh, I have.” Magnus’s head bobbed around him on his long, sinuous neck, as though examining him from every angle. Something about his gaze made Bilbo feel quite bare and he flushed. “Well, waiting for you,” the dragon corrected in a purr. “You’re so much more than a mere—” He stopped and snuffled Bilbo, nearly knocking him over. “What are you, anyway?” he asked. “I’ve not smelled your kind before.”
“I’m a Hobbit,” Bilbo explained. “From the Shire.”
“Hmm,” Magnus replied thoughtfully, staring at him hard. “Oh, a Hobbit,” he finally repeated, as though he’d suddenly recognized the term. “Little agricultural folk who live in underground houses.”
“Um, yes, I suppose so,” Bilbo agreed, thoroughly confused now.
“I read about your kind in a book in the library,” Magnus explained eagerly. “On the different people of Middle-Earth. Quite fascinating really, you can borrow it sometime.”
“Thank you,” Bilbo replied politely, not sure what else to say. “We were talking about how you knew me somehow?” Despite the dire situation he was terribly curious about this part.
“Oh yes. You are no mere Hobbit,” Magnus continued persuasively. “You’re a very special being, Bilbo Baggins. A magical being who has lived many different lives as many different creatures.”
“No—I really don’t—” Sensations burst unbidden across Bilbo’s mind, like half-remembered fragments of dreams that no longer made sense—traveling in futuristic machines, walking through enormous cities, Magnus’s face—his Elven face, or human—beside him in bed—“I don’t know what you mean,” Bilbo insisted, slowly, his tone troubled.
“Obviously not,” Magnus agreed. “The most common reasons for not remembering are being developmentally immature, possessing certain folk charms, or suffering a malicious head injury as a young child,” he listed matter-of-factly. “I believe we’ve established it was the last one in your case. Often the memories will return, with time.”
“Now hang on a moment—” Bilbo started to protest.
“It’s lovely chatting with you,” Magnus interrupted him, with a hint of sarcasm, “but I won’t be able to settle down knowing those Dwarves are lurking about. Back soon.” The dragon started to turn away.
“Wait!” Magnus paused. “I thought I was going to talk to them,” Bilbo reminded the dragon, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.
“Let’s be honest with each other, little gem,” Magnus responded, which somehow seemed hypocritical to Bilbo. “The Dwarves aren’t going to just leave quietly, no matter what you say to them. Who’s in charge out there? Thrain? His son Thorin, the young prince? They want their lonely mountain back, and their treasure and their kingdom.” Bilbo couldn’t help realizing that the dragon was right, and his heart sank as he continued speaking. “They’re not going to go away. Even if they left today, they’d be back later, perhaps in greater force. So really the only option is to destroy their little band now, so we can have some peace and quiet.”
The dragon proclaimed this with great curiosity; then he just stood there, watching Bilbo curiously, and the Hobbit suddenly understood he was to come up with an alternative, if he preferred. “You want me to stay with you?” Bilbo reiterated. “Then let’s be honest. If you hurt my friends, you would have no peace and quiet.” The dragon eyed him unblinkingly and Bilbo trembled slightly, from the weight of all the emotions coursing through him right now, not just fear but also anger, and despair, and a tiny but undeniable surge of excitement. It was the kind that had propelled him out of his home in Hobbiton, to undertake this journey in the first place. “If you hurt my friends,” Bilbo repeated, “I will do everything I can to hurt you in return, until you have to kill me.”
“I would never kill you,” Magnus said immediately, and Bilbo could see this idea truly disturbed him. Good, he could use that.
“I would run away, you’d never find me,” Bilbo threatened, feeling more powerful now. “This underground city is a maze of holes and tunnels, you couldn’t check them all.”
“Perhaps I would keep you in a cage,” the dragon proposed, but Bilbo thought he sounded less confident than before. “So you couldn’t run away, or hurt anyone.”
“You wouldn’t want me in a cage,” Bilbo stated. He felt this was certain, but didn’t know why. “You want me to stay voluntarily. Don’t harm my friends, and I will—I’ll stay with you.”
Magnus gave him a narrow look, his warm breath puffing over Bilbo. “You’re not trying to be clever again, are you?” he accused suspiciously. “No, I think you’re quite sincere.”
“I am,” Bilbo stated firmly. And he was. There was too much at stake for games. And… something told him that life with a dragon would not be as terrible as he might have suspected earlier.
“Hmm,” replied Magnus thoughtfully. He reached up and plucked Bilbo from the ledge, a queasy sensation for the Hobbit, who wrapped his arms around one of the scaly knuckles and closed his eyes. It was almost as bad as flying on one of those huge golden eagles. Bilbo was finally set down on a large mound of gold, cold and hard, and watched as Magnus burrowed into the treasure around him, like a mole through sand. The piles of gold rippled all around him and then the dragon’s head emerged from near where he’d started—Bilbo was surrounded.
“Then we’re back to our earlier dilemma,” Magnus noted, his chin resting on a lump of treasure as he eyed Bilbo. “How to get rid of the Dwarves.”
Bilbo sat down and tried to think. He was saving his friends’ lives here, he reminded himself, and shouldn’t feel guilty about appeasing the dragon to do so. “They’re looking for a special gem,” he revealed. “If I can give it to them, they might go away. For a while,” he felt compelled to add.
“The Arkenstone?” Magnus asked, and scoffed at Bilbo’s surprise. “Read about it! Cheap trinket assigned sentimental value by mentally unbalanced Dwarven rulers,” he assessed disdainfully. “But,” he added more thoughtfully, “there is some drivel about whoever possesses it being King Under the Mountain. Which is currently me, by the way,” he pointed out to Bilbo.
The Hobbit nodded. “Yes, I do think the idea is to get the Arkenstone and use it to summon the Dwarves back here, to reform their kingdom,” he admitted.
There was a sarcastic expression Bilbo could see even on the face of a dragon. “Hmm, would they be open to sharing Erebor with a dragon?” he wondered, and Bilbo rolled his eyes. “I could live here in the treasury, eat a few sheep now and then… No,” he decided. “I don’t think I’d like Dwarves as flatmates. Too smelly.”
“Yes, I understand,” Bilbo assured him sharply, annoyed by his obnoxious, patronizing tone. “The two groups cannot coexist here.” The dragon fixed him with a look and blinked slowly, waiting with exaggerated patience for his next idea.
If the Dwarves wouldn’t go away, and they wouldn’t live with a dragon, then the only thing Bilbo had left to suggest was—“Perhaps you—er, we—could leave,” he proposed weakly.
Magnus did not approve. “Leave,” he repeated flatly. “Leave the greatest treasure hoard in Middle-Earth, conveniently located inside a cave. That’s your idea?”
Bilbo knew he had only one shot to sell this. “We’ll find another cave,” he asserted with forced enthusiasm. “And perhaps—I’m sure Thorin would give you some of the treasure if you left peacefully. And no one would get hurt, and I would come with you.” He ended this speech with a smile that he didn’t really feel. It dropped away when he saw Magnus’s disdainful expression. “Well, have you got a better plan?” he demanded, a bit peevishly, and quickly added, “That doesn’t end with anyone getting hurt.”
“Most dragon plans end with someone getting hurt,” Magnus claimed. “Or rather, begin with it. You’re all so small, you’re like insects to a dragon,” he continued, warming up to his metaphor. “I was merely ridding Erebor of its infestation.”
Bilbo sighed. “Well that’s not a very useful attitude to take, is it?” he observed. “Come on, there are mountains on the other side of the lake—”
“Really more like hills,” Magnus sniffed.
“—which surely must have caves of acceptable size somewhere,” Bilbo pressed on. “And with some of this treasure—maybe I could ask for ten percent, but be prepared to negotiate down—”
“I will not negotiate with Dwarves,” Magnus snapped. Gold coins fluttered off his scales as he shifted, perhaps preparing to rise.
“Okay, okay,” Bilbo placated. “So we’ll just tell him it’s ten percent or nothing—”
“I will take what I wish,” Magnus declared. His tone was slightly grudging, and Bilbo realized suddenly this was because he was accepting the proposal—to leave and live elsewhere, without hurting the Dwarves.
Bilbo burst into a sudden grin, which the dragon fixed on. “Then you agree?” he checked hopefully. “We’ll leave Erebor peacefully?”
Magnus sighed heavily, hot but not unpleasant breath wafting over Bilbo. “Fine,” he conceded.
“You won’t regret it!” Bilbo promised him.
“I’m sure I shall,” Magnus countered grumpily, unslithering from the gold. The coins slid from his scales like water droplets. “What will you tell the Dwarves?” he asked curiously. He was nosing through the treasure now, perhaps looking for his favorite bits.
“That you’re leaving, and I’m going with you, and they can have the mountain—”
“No,” Magnus snarled suddenly, and Bilbo froze, fearing he was about to change his mind. “They won’t let you come with me,” he predicted. “They’ll think I have something nefarious in mind.” He grinned, baring his dagger-like teeth, and Bilbo thought that while his motives might not be nefarious, they were certainly… impure.
The Hobbit flushed faintly and cleared his throat. “Well, what should I tell them, then?” he asked, trying to sound business-like.
“Say the dragon is gone, you didn’t see him,” the dragon suggested. He was rooting in a treasure pile again, his back to Bilbo, and his twitching tail nearly swept the Hobbit off his feet. Magnus glanced over his shoulder. “You’ll have to learn to keep out of my way,” he advised patronizingly.
“Yes,” Bilbo agreed, understatedly. “Look, I’m not sure I can just say there was no dragon—” He didn’t like lying to his friends.
“No dragon,” Magnus repeated, as if Bilbo hadn’t spoken. “Or they’ll never believe you. Chatted with the dragon and convinced him to leave? Honestly, you’d sound mad.” His tone was disdainful, as though this tale—though true—was very stupid. “Ah, here it is.” The dragon turned expectantly to Bilbo, who couldn’t see what he’d been poking at. Then Magnus reached into the gold with the tips of his claws, surprisingly delicate, but not enough to avoid dropping whatever he was aiming at.
“Are you trying to pick something up?” Bilbo inquired. “Shall I do it?”
“I’m perfectly capable of—Fine,” Magnus huffed, as he chased the small object again. “I could just change back into my human form,” he insisted, as Bilbo clambered over treasure to reach the spot. “But since you’re here, you might as well be useful.”
“Human? Oh, I thought you were an Elf,” Bilbo remarked. “A dragon-elf?”
Magnus snorted. “Elves have pointy ears, and they’re not very curious about things,” he judged harshly.
“You know, I didn’t notice your ears,” Bilbo replied dryly. “Is this it? What am I looking for?”
“The Arkenstone,” Magnus told him, as if it should be obvious. “It’s quite tiny, not sure what all the fuss is about.”
Bilbo pushed at the loose treasure with his foot. “Uh-huh. And what does it—” Then he saw it, a large white gem glowing as if lit from within. Of course; he would’ve known it anywhere. When he picked it up it filled both his hands.
“So you give that to the Dwarves,” Magnus instructed, “and tell them you didn’t see any trace of the dragon.”
“Hmm? Oh, right,” Bilbo agreed, looking up from the mesmerizing jewel. “And what will you be doing?”
“I’ll pack up what I want and leave in my human form,” Magnus explained. “Doubt they’ll notice me, the unobservant clods. I’ll set up a new place and send for you. You can stay with the Dwarves until then? Do try to bathe regularly.”
Bilbo rolled his eyes and stuffed the Arkenstone into his coat pocket where it wouldn’t distract him. This dragon seemed to think he had everything figured out, and Bilbo was just going to go along with whatever he wanted. What other choice did Bilbo have, though? Smaug—er, Magnus to his friends—had laid waste to cities and kingdoms, how could a small band of Dwarves (with no plan that Bilbo could discern) hope to defeat him? But if he kept his word, the Dwarves would get what they wanted, and not be harmed.
If he kept his word.
“Magnus,” Bilbo began.
The dragon was pushing treasure into piles with his great paws, like a child playing in the sand. “Are you still here?” he remarked pointedly to the Hobbit.
“Are you planning to cross me, Magnus?” Bilbo asked him straightforwardly. “Because if I say there’s no dragon, and they come in and there is a dragon—well, I won’t be very—” Bilbo stopped talking as he realized the dragon was shrinking, and he had to turn away as Magnus’s features became grotesquely distorted in the process.
“Bilbo Baggins.” He looked up and the beautiful Elf—er, Man?—stood there once more, still completely naked and unconcerned with it as he marched across the golden hills towards Bilbo. “I am not going to cross you, my little gem,” he vowed, and suddenly pulled Bilbo into a deep kiss. The mound of gold Bilbo was currently standing on made an excellent platform to keep him at the right height.
When Magnus pulled back they were both panting. “I will not hurt you, and I have promised to leave here without hurting your friends,” Magnus reiterated, and all Bilbo could do was nod mutely. “If you cross me—if you don’t come when I summon you—you will regret it,” he added in a low hiss. With Magnus pressed against him, warm breath in his ear, somehow fear was not the first emotion Bilbo felt.
Abruptly Magnus pulled back. “Go on, take that little rock back to the Dwarves,” he said dismissively. He was now occupied with opening an ornate chest half-buried in gold coins, digging through its fabric contents. “I have to find some clothes, apparently,” he went on disdainfully.
For some reason Bilbo did not really want to leave. “Do you not really, er, like clothes?” he asked lamely.
“Clothes are annoying,” Magnus declared. He turned around, holding up an old-fashioned doublet of purple and gold which only covered his upper half. “What do you think?”
“It’s you,” Bilbo said promptly.
Magnus waited a moment. “You’re still here,” he observed. “Have you changed your mind?”
“What? No,” Bilbo assured him.
“Then get on with it,” Magnus insisted. “Look, I’ve got rather a lot to do, and you’re quite useless at the moment. So get on.”
“Right, of course,” Bilbo agreed quickly, cheeks flushed at how he’d been staring. He turned away before anything could tempt him further—he needed all his wits about him, to explain to Thorin and the others without seeming mad.
**
Dwarves knew how to throw a party, that was for sure. It reminded Bilbo of parties back in the Shire, though perhaps a little less family-friendly. To Hobbit values, anyway—there seemed to be plenty of Dwarven children running around, or at least that was what Bilbo assumed the especially short (though still bearded) Dwarves were.
Drinking, feasting, singing, dancing—the Dwarves of Erebor were celebrating their long-awaited homecoming, with more Dwarves coming out of the woodwork to join them every day, reigniting the festivities whenever it looked like they might be winding down. Funny how these Dwarves had apparently been near enough to join the party quickly, but too far away or otherwise occupied to help actually recapture the place.
The journey here had certainly been arduous, and Bilbo didn’t think for a moment that Azog and his Orcs had given up on their pursuit of Thorin, so there might be more battles in the future; but sitting at the table, contemplating his beer more than drinking it, Bilbo couldn’t help but repeat to himself that the Dwarves hadn’t actually won Erebor back. From their perspective, and everyone else’s except Bilbo, they’d walked in and discovered the place empty, the dragon having left or died long ago. Anyone could have done that, for decades perhaps, though thankfully they hadn’t as the place was dripping with treasures. So really they had Smaug’s reputation to thank for keeping the looters away.
Magnus to his friends, Bilbo thought, bitterness warring with excitement in him.
It was Bilbo who had risked his life going in there, Bilbo who had confronted the dragon, Bilbo who had agreed to live with the dragon—though of course no one else knew this—and all Thorin could do was laugh about how they hadn’t really needed a burglar after all. Of course Bilbo was a valued member of the company, so on and so forth, and—hey, did you hear the one about how he wanted to turn back because he forgot his handkerchief? That was a good one.
Magnus had been right about the smell, too—on the road you made allowances and got used to it, but now that everyone was supposedly bathing in (crowded) hot springs and dressing in their best, the smell of concentrated Dwarf seemed to fill even the massive rooms of Erebor. And, if you tired of drinking and singing, there was little else to do—the library had been roasted, probably during Smaug’s initial invasion, and there was nothing left of the books and scrolls but charred wood. A loss to the more scholarly-minded, of course, but overall not a high price to pay, in Dwarf opinion. Somehow, Bilbo suspected the books were perfectly safe, just elsewhere.
At least Gandalf wasn’t there to give Bilbo knowing looks and pry the truth out of him, though that did beg the question of where the wizard was. No one else seemed troubled by his absence, or only in a bitter, “What else do you expect from wizards” kind of way. Bilbo would’ve expected him, as the driving force behind the expedition, to be here, at the height of their triumph. If there was one thing he had learned during this adventure, it was to not rely so much on his preconceived notions about people—yes, there were beautiful, intelligent, benevolent Elves, but also fierce and suspicious ones, good Men as well as bad, brave Hobbits and ones content with the quiet life, very complex dragons—okay, granted, the Orcs and Goblins and Trolls had been along the lines Bilbo had suspected, only perhaps more horrible. But he certainly wasn’t going to shrug off Gandalf by saying, “Unreliable wizard!” and sneering as if he’d never done anything for them.
But neither was Bilbo organizing a search party for him. His time was currently under contract, you might say, and with each messenger who appeared Bilbo grew more and more anxious, awaiting his summons. It would be a relief to finally get going, however the journey ended.
Bilbo trudged back to his room one evening—he’d been steadily bumped down from private quarters to a dormitory as new Dwarven guests arrived—and saw an envelope sitting on his pillow, and his heart skipped a beat. No one else had retired yet so he was alone in the room, and his hands shook slightly as he broke the red wax seal—the image stamped into it was of a dragon—and unfolded the heavy paper.
Across the lake to the Crawdor Pass, the note read simply. The script was authoritative. Go up. Start now. It was unsigned.
Bilbo’s mind was blank for a moment, suffused only with panic that he had to start right now, but how could he do that without attracting too much attention? Should he sneak out in the night? No, they’d probably catch him and that would be more difficult to explain. Well, they couldn’t expect him to stick around forever—but surely they’d notice if he went the opposite direction from the Shire—
Bilbo sat down on the bed and took a breath to calm himself. He couldn’t possibly set off on a journey at night, that was ridiculous. But he could pack his few possessions, and think of the story he was going to tell in the morning. That would have to be quick enough for Magnus.
**
“Your cousin?” Thorin repeated with some skepticism. “I was under the impression no other Hobbit had traveled so far.”
“I was, too,” Bilbo assured him, trying to sound delighted to learn otherwise. “Well, he’s more like a third cousin, once removed, on my mother’s side—always a bit eccentric, just wandered off one day. No idea he was even still alive!”
“And he lives in the Brown Hills?” Thorin went on. Bilbo gave him an earnest look. “Just happens to live in the hills nearby?”
“I know! He was quite thrilled to hear I was so near,” Bilbo confirmed. “It’s really a small world, isn’t it?”
“Too small,” Thorn snorted. “Might it not be some kind of trap?” He asked this not of Bilbo but of Balin, who stood at his side. “Some deception of Azog’s, to draw us out?”
“Rather unlikely he’d know about my cousin, isn’t it?” Bilbo countered mildly. “Childhood memories and so forth?”
Thorin again looked to Balin, who shrugged a little. “Let me see this letter,” Thorin demanded.
Bilbo did not reach for it. “Really? You think you’re going to find something suspicious in my personal correspondence? Bit excessive, isn’t it?” He put a significant spin on the word ‘excessive,’ which might mean ‘paranoid.’ It was a low blow given Thorin’s family history of sickness, but it did the trick and he drew back from Bilbo. “I mean, I am free to go whenever I choose, aren’t I?” Bilbo checked, as if this was suddenly in doubt.
“Of course, lad!” Balin assured him, when Thorin just sat there brooding. “Just don’t want you getting into trouble, that’s all.”
Bilbo managed a genuine smile for the older Dwarf. “I was very good at staying out of trouble my whole life,” he noted, “until I met you.” Balin laughed heartily, and Thorin gave a knowing half-smirk. “It’s just my cousin,” Bilbo went on dismissively. “I’ll be fine.” If he stopped to think about it, he would have been impressed by his own deception skills.
Thorin nodded and straightened up in his chair. “You must invite your cousin to return here as our guest,” he proclaimed. “We have much to celebrate.”
“Yes, I’ll do that, when I see him,” Bilbo promised.
**
He left later that day, after saying his goodbyes to all the thirteen Dwarves. It took forever, of course, and always involved the same questions. Bilbo played it light, as if this was only a temporary separation, but didn’t skimp on the farewells all the same. Because in reality, he probably wouldn’t see any of them again. He doubted the dragon would let him go visiting.
So with his pack he went down to the dock and hired a boat to take him across the lake to Crawdor Pass—everyone knew where it was, apparently—and watched the Lonely Mountain recede into the distance. It seemed like only yesterday that it had been unreachably distant; the longed-for goal he had begun to dream about—once he stopped dreaming of home, that is. The thought of never seeing that again pained him, but fortunately the boatman was a chatty sort. Bilbo concocted several amusing anecdotes to tell him about his cousin—the man didn’t know from Hobbits anyway, and they would add authenticity to his story when they got back to the Dwarves. It was a curious thing, to feel so close to some people and grateful to them, and yet be erecting barriers between them all the same, quite deliberately.
Bilbo assumed he would have plenty of time to ponder this later.
Crawdor Pass was a narrow gap between two sheer cliff faces, with a small ledge for disembarking from the boat. It looked a little forbidding, or at least inconvenient, which was probably what Magnus wanted—a trail few would follow. Go up, he’d said, so Bilbo shouldered his pack and started walking forward along the rising path, which wound around through the rocks and dangling tree roots. It wasn’t a bad place—there were birds singing, peculiar plants perched on knobs of rock, a healthy moisture in the air. Bilbo had been in bad places, and this one was pleasantly alive. Just rather close—Men in single file with small packs could probably get through, but no beasts of burden.
The pass widened suddenly into a larger clearing, no doubt carved out by the waterfall that collected in a discreet pool, and Bilbo decided to take a break for lunch. It was quite tranquil and enjoyable there, actually, and he realized how much less tranquil it would have been with thirteen Dwarves crammed into it as well—he didn’t think they would have fit anyway.
There was a noise around the bend, ahead of him, and Bilbo reached for his sword warily. He was going to be so disappointed if there was something bad in this lovely place.
Oh, it was only a dragon, and Bilbo relaxed. “Just me,” Magnus announced cheerfully, sauntering over in human form (fully clothed, to Bilbo’s regret). “Is this all the further you’ve got? Well, I suppose your legs are rather short.”
Bilbo narrowly restrained himself from rolling his eyes and continued eating his sandwich, refusing to be rushed despite Magnus’s obvious impatience. The man wasn’t even carrying a water sack, let alone any other supplies. “Is it nearby then?” he inquired.
“Well, always,” Magnus replied vaguely. “I think you’ll find it rather comfortable. Could use more gold, in my opinion, but…”
“Did you take the books from the Erebor library?” Bilbo wanted to know.
Magnus finally sat down, seeing that Bilbo was in no hurry. “Naturally,” he confirmed. “Surprised anyone even noticed.” Bilbo made no reply to this. He wasn’t even sure how he felt at this point—Magnus was attractive and powerful and interested in him, and that was flattering though not exactly what he’d dreamed of in life. But he couldn’t forget the way Magnus had threatened his friends, the deal he’d forced from Bilbo, the lies Bilbo had told his friends because of him… and yet, that had also been somewhat freeing, allowing Bilbo to see his friends in a new light, that made parting less painful.
“That was a complex thought,” Magnus judged, studying Bilbo’s face intently.
Perhaps Bilbo should focus less on the Dwarves he’d left behind, and more on the dragon he was heading towards. “You sound surprised,” he remarked neutrally.
Magnus smirked; it was a heart-stopping look. “No, you’re very intelligent,” he stated, too matter-of-fact to be an attempt at flattery. “Though this life has taught you otherwise.” Somehow this remark was a put-down to everyone Bilbo had ever met, and also Bilbo himself. “But don’t worry, I will help you find your true self.” He stretched out on the ground suddenly, hands behind his head, and the shirt he wore began to ride up, exposing pale, tempting flesh. Bilbo forgot to chew for a moment.
“Sorry, what?” Bilbo asked when he remembered himself, and Magnus chuckled and turned over onto his belly, slithering towards Bilbo as no human should be able to.