Chapter Text
2911
The Old Forest
The snow comes down in thick drifts, blanketing the Old Forest so heavily that the only path through it has been completely covered. There are no footprints in the new snow—no Hobbit would willingly go into the Forest, especially during one of the coldest winters since the Shire was founded. Not unless they were desperate.
Bilbo Baggins is desperate.
He wears snow-shoes—an odd contraption made by his father just days before—and marvels at how much easier it is to walk on top of the snow in them, even if his walking is more like waddling. Across his shoulder is his mother’s old bow and a socket of arrows; he hopes that there will be some sort of game in the Forest that hasn’t been scared away by the cold.
His family hasn’t eaten in three days; just the walk to the Forest was enough to make Bilbo light-headed and weary. If they don’t get food soon, he’s not sure they’ll survive to see Spring.
He enters the Forest where the path should be; between the snow and the overcast sky, it is even darker than usual. Bilbo doesn’t dare light a torch, though. There’s always been stories about the Forest—the way the trees move, sometimes, or make odd noises.
Bilbo walks for ten minutes without seeing any signs of life. The bow gets heavier and heavier across his back, his stride shorter and shorter as he loses vitality and strength. Soon he won’t even be able to make the long walk back. He must stop and turn back, only—he hasn’t found any food. How can he go all the way home empty-handed? How would he be able to face the lean, hungry faces of his mother and father, who depend on him to see them through this?
He can’t go back. Not until he has something, anything to show for this—
A sound. Bilbo pauses and turns. It came from the trees, the muffled cry of a dying animal; Bilbo’s heard it from cows and pigs. He begins in that direction, ducking under the branches of the thick growth of trees. If he’s extraordinarily lucky, the animal will be dead by the time he gets there and his only worry will be how to gut it and cut it up to bring it home with him in the snow and the cold. He sends a prayer up to the Valar as the sound comes again, much closer this time and slightly to the left. Bilbo veers and bursts into an open clearing.
The snow is the clearing is muddled, overturned. Bilbo gets his bow to the ready and searches for the creature who must have created this mess, but sees nothing. He frowns, pausing near the tree-line. What if this is a trap, of some kind? He’s heard the stories. Perhaps there are creatures in the Forest who send out a dying cry as a way to ensnare potential hunters—
A soft cry comes from the very edge of the clearing, on the opposite end of Bilbo. He moves forward cautiously until he sees a brilliant red body huddled at the base of a tree. He’s never seen an animal that color, not even foxes, but it isn’t until he gets closer that he realizes what exactly it is. He freezes in his tracks as a golden eye meets his, filled with pain. Something shifts in Bilbo’s chest, like a screw tightening, as he meets the gaze of the first dragon to grace this part of the world in over an age.
The dragon turns its head and spreads its wings—they are shredded things, incapable of flight and barely bigger than Bilbo’s arm-span. The dragon hisses, but the sound is weak, pathetic. As he recovers, Bilbo notices the dark patches on the dragon’s scales—bruises, perhaps, or soft spots created by repeated hits. Some scales are even torn free entirely.
He steps closer and the dragon hisses again. As it tries to raise its wings higher, it shudders in pain and makes a high, keening sound. Bilbo shivers with it, feeling an echo of its pain without understanding why.
“Ssh,” Bilbo says to one of the most terrifying creatures on Middle-Earth. “It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The dragon regards him carefully. Its golden eyes are very human—huge, discerning.
No, it says, though it does not open its mouth. No, you will not hurt me. You are mine. My treasure.
Bilbo frowns. “Well, I wouldn’t quite say—“
Before he can finish, they’re both startled as an animal comes flying out of the trees. Bilbo has split seconds to think—to notice it’s a deer, to raise his bow and fire without taking aim and hope it’s enough—before he’s staring at the corpse of a stag with his arrow through its throat.
“I was aiming for its chest,” Bilbo says to the dragon, numbed with shock.
The dragon, to his surprise, burbles with something that can only be some form of laughter, odd as it sounds. Will you share it with me? it asks.
Bilbo runs an eye over it. The stag hasn’t been starving like the rest of them, apparently, for it is of a good weight. If he can find another one, he’ll have some to spare for the dragon. And where there’s one, there’s more.
Besides, his mother would never forgive him if he let a creature of ancient legend die.
“You can have some,” he says. It will be long, cold work butchering it in the snow, but he’ll make do. He brought knives and a pack for this very reason—easier to carry the meat back in pieces, especially since he doubts he can lift the body. “I’m Bilbo, by the way. Bilbo Baggins.”
The dragon’s silent for so long that Bilbo looks back at it, concerned that it has succumbed to its injuries, but instead finds its great golden eyes fixed on him.
My name, the dragon says, is Smaug.
2941
The Old Forest
It doesn't take Thorin long to find the forest—indeed, it was hard to not notice the imposing thatch of dark trees settled just on the edge of the Shire. Thorin pauses as he makes his way up the main road, brow furrowing as he surveys the trees. He's never been to the Shire before and never seen what Gandalf called the Old Forest, but it strikes him as odd that creatures such as hobbits should live so close to a forest such as this, which breathes such malevolence. He hasn't felt this unsettled by trees since the last time he saw Mirkwood, over fifty years ago.
Thorin continues to make his way down the road with considerably more caution than he'd felt just a few minutes ago, when the greatest preoccupation of his mind was the failed meeting with his kinsman. After three hours of listening to their excuses about why they couldn't provide any help to reclaim their homeland, Thorin had left in a disgusted huff. His brow wrinkles to think about it—even Dáin, the cousin Thorin had been closest to as a dwarfling, had refused to help.
Is it worth the cost, cousin? Dáin had said to him.The dragon may yet still live. Are you sure you’re not reaching for too much?
It infuriates him to think of Dáin's cowardice—to leave a homeland empty because of the possibility of a threat! Thorin had only waited so long to storm his mountain to gather supplies, men, and find a possible entrance. Until Gandalf happened upon him in that pub in Bree, Thorin had almost given up on finding a way to sneak into Erebor undetected. And now that they have a possibility of a way inside, his kinsmen balked at the opportunity!
Thorin turns a corner and pauses. At the edge of the tree-line, he sees a large group that he would know without looking is his Company. For one thing, no other group could be so loud.
"—late, as always—"
"—should we go in without—"
"—kind of person lives here—"
"—it’s so dark in there—"
Thorin allows himself a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose and count to ten before he stomps up until he stands just on the edge of his squabbling company. He waits for any of them to notice him and, when they don't, clears his throat pointedly. To their credit, they all fall silent instantly.
"Get lost again, cousin?"
Well, almost all of them. Thorin glares at Dwalin, who grins at him, unrepentant.
"I am here now," Thorin says, and though several dwarves notice his avoidance of the question, at least none of them think to challenge him about it. He meets Gandalf's amused gaze. "Tharkûn, are we going to meet this burglar or not?"
Gandalf's eyes positively twinkle. "Since we're all together now, I think it's safe enough to go into the Forest," he says. "If we don't find him before sunset, however, I think it would be best to leave and try again in the morning."
Thorin's eyebrows raise. "It is truly that dangerous of a place?" he asks, skeptical.
"It would not be wise to think otherwise, Master Oakenshield," Gandalf says. "If you will all follow me. Oh—and try to stay close to each other, will you? People have a tendency to get lost in this forest."
Thorin sees several of his Company exchanging looks as Gandalf swans down the path and stifle a sigh. The ways of a wizard are a mystery to all of them—but Thorin's always thought they were an infuriating kind of folk.
They herd down the forest's path in a single-file line. Thorin stays behind Gandalf and is the first to notice when, after ten minutes of walking, the wizard takes an abrupt left turn. It isn't until Thorin goes after him that he notices the wizard is following another path forking off the main road—smaller and beaten down by foot, it looks like it is used often but only by a few people. Perhaps the person Gandalf dragged them all out here to meet?
The Company grumbles as they continue to walk, for the new path is considerably smaller than the main road and some of them have trouble with all the blasted roots and tree branches in the way. Thorin takes little notice of their bad temper, but he is starting to get impatient as they continue to walk without the sign of anyone else for another ten minutes. Perhaps Gandalf is lost?
Gandalf stops so suddenly that Thorin nearly bumps into his back. He leans around Gandalf and frowns—the path in front of them is empty, stretching out into the wall of trees ahead of them. What—?
"You can come out now, my friend," Gandalf calls out to the trees. Thorin throws a baffled look over his shoulder at Dwalin, who walks behind him—perhaps the wizard really is barmy? There are a lot of stories about Gandalf, after all . . . . "We won't harm you," Gandalf says, drawing Thorin's attention. "In fact, I was hoping you would offer us sanctuary for the night, if you would be so kind?"
There's just silence for a long moment. Gandalf sighs and opens his mouth, presumably to try and persuade his imaginary friend to reveal themselves, when the trees above their heads rustle ominously. Thorin's barely had time to draw his axe before a figure vaults out of the nearest tree, somersaulting over their heads to land neatly on the footpath, inches in front of Gandalf and Thorin.
They are shorter than any dwarf, dressed in grey-brown leathers and green cloth, with a nut-brown mask drawn over their face. However, their pants are cuffed short to reveal large, hair, distinctly hobbitish feet.
"It is good to see you again, old friend," Gandalf says, his voice warm.
"I would say the same, Gandalf," the hobbit says. The voice is unmistakably male. "But I do like some forewarning when people come stomping about in my part of the woods, you know."
"Well, I would send a letter, but we both know that there would be no one to deliver it."
"What, your little moths don't do paper service?"
Gandalf looks outraged. "I'll have you know—"
"And for Eru's sake, Gandalf, what are you doing dragging around a bunch of strangers into my home?" The hobbit goes up on tip-toes and whistles as he catches sight of the long line stretching out behind Thorin. "What is that—ten, fifteen dwarves? What in the Valar's name have you gotten yourself into now?"
Gandalf sighs with a particularly resigned kind of fondness. "Would you take your mask off, my dear boy? It is odd to speak to you without seeing your face."
There's a long pause and then the hobbit sighs. He reaches up and peels the mask off, revealing a face as smooth and young as a dwarfling’s, keen dark eyes, and a frown.
"Thorin," Gandalf says, gesturing him forward. "This is Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo, this is Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of this little party."
Baggins arches an eyebrow and meets Thorin's gaze so directly that Thorin's taken-aback—and not just because no one has looked at him like that outside his family since he was very young. Baggins has dark eyes, but this close Thorin can see a startling ring of bright, edgy gold around the outer part of his iris. Thorin's never seen eyes like that before.
"At your service," Thorin says, remembering his manners just in time. He bows his head, but when he looks up, Baggins looks more amused than anything else. Thorin scowls.
"And I'm rather at yours, I imagine," Baggins says. "Though I can't imagine why Gandalf has brought you to meet me."
"If you don't mind, Bilbo, I'd rather we discussed this further at your home," Gandalf says, looking to the sky. "It'll be night soon."
Baggins blinks and looks up as well with a frown. "Yes, of course. But first I must have your promise, Gandalf, that no harm will come to me or mine while these dwarves are under my roof."
Thorin opens his mouth, outraged at the assumption, but Gandalf nods. "My word as a wizard," he says. "I will protect you and yours, should it come to that."
Thorin fumes as Baggins nods, apparently appeased. Does the hobbit think them animals, to attack him at the slightest provocation? Baggins turns back to Thorin.
"Follow me," he says. "We must hurry if we are to make it back to my home before nightfall."
"There is nothing in this forest that we fear so much that we must scurry like rats for shelter," Thorin says, still sour at Baggins slight toward him and his people.
Baggins is not an imposing figure—shorter and slighter than Thorin and most of the other dwarves—but the ice in his odd, dual-colored eyes is enough to freeze Thorin in place.
"You may think this looks like a normal forest, but there are many things to fear here, Master Dwarf," Baggins says. "Looks are deceiving. If you can’t understand that, why, I imagine you won’t survive long on whatever journey you’re planning to take."
He turns on his heel and stomps onward down the slim little path, head held high and shoulders tight. There's a long moment of silence as Thorin blinks and tries to remember the last time someone who wasn’t of his blood insulted him so easily.
Dwalin roars with sudden laughter and sweeps past Thorin. "Y'know," he says as he strides forward, "I think I rather like him."
Thorin thinks that if Baggins really does end up coming with them, he's going to be a giant pain in Thorin's ass, but he has the good sense not to say that out-loud.
It takes another fifteen minutes walk to reach Baggins' home, and it takes all of them by surprise—one moment, they are on a footpath surrounded by trees, and the next they have entered a large clearing with a giant house square in the middle of it. The house is a few stories high, built from dark wood and, though crude, looks solid. It has a few windows cut in on each floor (three of them altogether) and a front porch, which has a few rocking chairs sitting on it. The front yard has obviously been converted into some kind of garden—it is lush with plants and flowers, though they are all able to approach the house without harming them thanks to a clever footpath winding through it all. Baggins picks his way through it with obvious ease.
"Did you build this house, Master Baggins?" Balin asks with obvious interest. As an architect, he's always been interested in the buildings of other races. "It looks almost Man-like."
"I made the plans for the building," Baggins admits. "But I hired several men from Bree to do the actual construction several years ago. I had to pay them double to come all the way out here, but it was well worth it, I think."
Baggins opens his front door without stopping for a key—apparently whatever dangers live in this Forest aren't so ill-mannered to break in unannounced. They file in after him, taking in the inside of the house. There are flowers in clay vases everywhere and every spare space is covered with books—they pass several bookcases on their way in and, as they file into the living room, Thorin notices that many of the chairs and tables are covered with even more. He looks back and, sure enough, little Ori looks entranced. Balin and Dori look interested as well, although Dori might be more interested in the delicate tea set already set out on the main table.
The living area is a squarish sort of room with several plush arm-chairs settled around a large hearth. Above the fireplace hangs portraits of a dark-haired, dark-eyed hobbit couple—surely Baggins' parents. The house is oddly empty and quiet, despite being so large; they must have passed on already, and it doesn't look like Baggins has married.
Thorin, for the first time, wonders why exactly Bilbo Baggins, who looks to be a perfectly normal hobbit, perchance for book-loving and oddly infuriating manners aside, has decided to live in a dangerous forest all alone.
"I have some cured meats hanging out back," Baggins says as the dwarves begin to settle in. "I'll get them heated up and we'll have a dinner—I'm only sorry that I can't provide more. I only usually have enough for myself, you see."
"Don't worry yourself, laddie," Balin says, eyes crinkling as he smiles. "We are thankful for anything you can provide, of course."
"Master Baggins," Ori cuts in, sounding a little strangled and desperate. Thorin's honestly surprised it's taken him so long to speak up. "Is it alright—I mean, would you mind terribly—?" He casts a longing look at the precarious stack of books on the floor by the fireplace.
Baggins' smile is a revelation—it turns his face from intent and intriguing to guileless and joyful. Thorin's a little stunned.
"You can look at any books you like, Master Dwarf," he says to Ori, more gently than Thorin's heard him speak so far. "In fact, all of you may make yourselves at home. I don't have any beds beside my own, but if you can find a good bit of floor on the rooms upstairs, you're welcome to sleep wherever you like." He casts a look back at Gandalf. "And once we've all eaten, we can sit down and discuss the reason you've all come out to see me, hm?"
"Of course, Bilbo," Gandalf says, with his usual amount of infinite cheer.
Wizards.
Baggins rolls his eyes and turns. "I'll be back in a moment," he says, and slips outside.
"I'd better go help him," Gandalf says. "If you'll all excuse me."
Thorin watches the wizard leave with suspicious eyes and exchanges a look with Balin. As soon as Gandalf returns, they'll have to have a little talk.
Bilbo thinks he might be having a panic attack. He's never had one before, but the shortness of breath and the black dots swimming in front of his eyes align with what he knows the symptoms to be and—
"Bilbo?"
Bilbo rounds on Gandalf with all the ferocity he can summon. "I cannot believe you brought a bunch of strangers to my home!" he hisses. "Not only strangers, but dwarves! What were you thinking! How could you not warn me, Gandalf—"
Gandalf sighs. "I was afraid you would refuse to see me if you knew, my boy," he says.
"Damn right I would've refused—"
"And that would have been a mistake!" Gandalf says. "I don't just bring dwarves to your door, Bilbo Baggins—I bring an opportunity. An adventure."
Bilbo pales. "I can't leave here, Gandalf," he says. "You know that. You know why."
Gandalf runs an eye over him and sighs again. He reaches out to put a hand on Bilbo's head and ruffle his hair.
"The Shire did more damage to you than they knew, sending you to live here," he murmurs. "I don't know that I can forgive them for that."
"They were afraid," Bilbo says, knocking Gandalf's hand away. "Can you blame them?"
"I can always be disappointed when the kindness of any race is brought short by fear," Gandalf says. "But their treatment of you should not keep you from living your life, Bilbo."
"I do live my life," Bilbo says. "I read my books, I tend my garden—"
"You waste away!" Gandalf says. "You've sequestered yourself in this forest. At this rate, you'll never leave, you'll never see anything beyond the boundaries of the Shire!"
"And I'll say alive because of it!" Bilbo argues. "If anything, the Shire taught me a valuable lesson—I can't trust other people to understand—" He pauses when he feels an intent focus in the back of his mind and groans. Of all the bad timing—!
You are hurt.
I'm fine! Bilbo says, aware of the way Gandalf's eyes narrow at him. Gandalf came by with a little surprise, that's all.
A mental snort. That old man meddles even when he is not wanted.
Bilbo can feel him coming closer and groans. You can't come down here! They'll see you!
Not if I land in the back.
Before Bilbo can argue further, there's a whoosh of air and Smaug drops heavily by his side, tucking his wings away. They still have webbed scars from his wounds when Bilbo first found him, but they healed well enough to allow Smaug to fly as well as ever. Bilbo sighs and meets Gandalf's amused gaze. Of course, the only reason Smaug healed at all was thanks to the wizard in front of them.
"Smaug," Gandalf says. "Perhaps you can convince Bilbo of my point. You have, I have always thought, had the most sense between the two of them."
Bilbo makes an indignant noise, because that's hardly fair—
"You speak the truth as always, Gandalf," Smaug says, his deep voice amused. Bilbo smacks him on the shoulder Smaug turns one affronted gold eye at him. Around his pupil is a ring of very dark brown—the exact shade of Bilbo's eyes.
"If either of us has good sense, it's me," Bilbo says. "You're the one who decided to pop 'round when I've got a dozen or so dwarves lounging in my sitting room! What if they see you?"
Smaug's entire body shivers—were he human, the motion would have been a shrug. "Then they see me," he says. "They cannot kill me."
Bilbo huffs. "You're not invincible—"
Smaug bumps at his shoulder, hard enough that Bilbo stumbles. Smaug's tail comes up to steady him before he can and there's a whisper of an apology at the back of his mind, but Smaug's gold-brown eyes are intent.
"Listen to what Gandalf says."
Bilbo gapes at him. "He wants us to leave!" he says. "To go off and follow these dwarves to wherever to do whatever! We can't—"
Smaug's tail curls around Bilbo's forearm. If he wanted to, he could crush Bilbo's arm with it; though it barely thicker than Bilbo's thigh, it has twice the muscles and strength. But Smaug only uses it to tug Bilbo closer until they stand nose to nose and Smaug can huff over Bilbo's forehead affectionately.
There is no need to be afraid, he says. They won't hurt me. They won't take me away from you. There's a threat lingering at the back of that, at the idea of anyone taking Bilbo away and Bilbo settles his forehead against Smaug's and breathes for a moment.
When he looks back, Gandalf has left. He huffs and looks at Smaug. "You really think we should listen to them?"
"I think there is no harm in seeing what kind of adventure Gandalf offers," Smaug says. "You want to see the outside world as much as I do, my treasure."
"But the dwarves—"
"Gandalf would not put us in danger," Smaug says. "He would not bring the dwarves here unless he trusted them not to hurt us."
Bilbo ponders that. Gandalf was the one to heal Smaug, to come to their aid when the Shire grew tired of Bilbo Baggins' odd "pet" and exiled him—he came to visit at least every few months to bring news and company and some odd wares from every part of Middle-Earth. He is Bilbo's only true friend in the world and, now that he's been cut off from everyone else, his only real family beside Smaug.
And we owe him, Smaug reminds him.
Yes, there is that. No matter what they do, they will never really be able to repay Gandalf; but this is one step in that direction.
"I have to go get the meat," Bilbo says, but floods Smaug's mind with acceptance. "They'll start to wonder. Stay out of sight until I say otherwise, alright? No sense in springing you on them."
Smaug huffs in amusement, noses over Bilbo's forehead again, and then springs into the air. Bilbo watches until he is a speck in the sky and then turns to the small house in his backyard that he converted into a pantry.
To think this day started out like any other.
When Gandalf comes back inside, Thorin goes to meet him. The wizard smiles, but his eyes are distant, thoughtful.
"Do you really think the hobbit is the one we need?" Thorin asks, frowning up at him. "Surely it will be too dangerous—"
"You asked me to find you a fourteenth member, Master Dwarf," Gandalf reminds him. "Bilbo Baggins is my choice and, in my opinion, the wisest choice you could make. He is a most extraordinary hobbit."
"Why does he live out here, Gandalf?" Thorin asks, glancing around the room. Most of his dwarves have settled in, chatting in small groups—only Dwalin stands apart, standing guard by the door that leads out front. "I do not know much of hobbits, but if this forest is as dangerous as the two of you pretend, why does he live in the middle of it?"
Gandalf's brow darkens and Thorin stares at him, taken aback. He's never seen Gandalf look so angry.
"It is not my story to tell, Master Dwarf," the wizard says. "Bilbo moved here nearly twenty years ago and has lived here ever since, let us leave it at that."
"But surely—"
The back door opens again and Baggins steps inside, plates heaped with steaming meat in his hands. Thorin bites the inside of his cheek when all of the Company's heads come up at the smell of food like hunting dogs scenting prey. Honestly.
"I'm sorry to say I don't have a dining room," Baggins says, ducking around bodies to set the plates on the low, large table in front of the hearth. "Never seemed much point, considering how few guests I have. If you don't mind the informality, we can eat in here."
Kíli, the little rascal, is already reaching for a leg of what is probably chicken, but Baggins surprise all of them by snapping at Kili's hand.
"Not quite yet, Master Dwarf," Baggins says as Kíli yelps and draws his hand back with a wounded expression. "If you'll give me another five minutes and a couple more hands, we can have some bread and potatoes as well—and even some beer."
There's a cheer at that and Thorin watches as Bofur and Balin offer their services, following Baggins out of the door. He turns back to Gandalf, who smiles down at him.
"Let it lie until we have eaten, Master Oakenshield," Gandalf says. "You may ask the hobbit in question then."
Thorin scowls and stomps back to his place by the fire. Blasted wizards. They never tell anyone what they need to know.
"He hit me," he hears Kíli exclaim to Fíli and stifles a smile.
Well. If nothing else, at least Baggins has proven that he has enough mettle to handle excitable young dwarves.
Bilbo grew up with hobbits and there's nothing a hobbit loves more than good food—but he's never seen anyone down a meal as quickly as the thirteen dwarves in his living room. He watches in awe, his own plate forgotten, as every morsel is gobbled up down to the last bite, every plate licked clean. (Quite literally in some cases, such as the black-haired dwarf that Bilbo slapped.)
He eats his own food more slowly and considers his new companions. He's never seen dwarves up close before, even before he retired to the Old Forest—he'd considered going to the Blue Mountains, back when he was trying to get the house built, but his father had known Men in Bree and they had been more than happy to help for half the cost. It is refreshing to see another race at eye-level—elves are irritatingly tall people and men are little better. Even the way Gandalf, dear as he is, towers over Bilbo is enough to drive him insane. Dwarves, though, are the proper height; out of all of them, only their leader and the burly one near the door are tall enough to make Bilbo wary.
They're all so hairy, though. Hobbit men don't really grow much facial hair, so seeing beards as thick as the ones some of the dwarves sport is decidedly odd. And they've all got so many odd braids and hair ornaments and such! Bilbo's a little curious if they are decorative only or if they have some sort of meaning—he read somewhere that dwarves braid their beards for battles won, but he's not sure how true that is. It's difficult to trust any of the books written on dwarves, for they are a close-mouthed race and all the books were written by men.
Bilbo finishes the last of his potatoes and sets his plate aside. From the number of dishes littered across the room, he'll have plenty of cleaning to do, but he'll leave it until tomorrow. Some of the dwarves have pulled out pipes—Bilbo notices that instead of wood, they are carved of stone, of all things—and the room has become pleasantly smoky. The fire cracks in the hearth and Bilbo relaxes into his chair and wonders when they'll get down to business when there's a long, mournful howl outside the house.
That's a huorn's howl.
Bilbo's on his feet only seconds before half of the dwarves in the room and he races to the front door. He knows some of the dwarves have followed him, but he pays them little mind, skidding to a halt near the front door and listening. The howl was closer than Bilbo can be comfortable with—it couldn't have been more than a half-mile away. The huorns never came so close, even at night, when they were at their most active. It must be because of the dwarves.
Bilbo?! Smaug roars in his mind. He feels distant, as if he'd been flying over the far part of the Forest. What is it? What's wrong? He sounds like he's coming closer.
Don't worry, dear heart, Bilbo says. It's a huorn. But I think it's gone now—it's probably just a warning for us.
He feels the anxious curl of worry in the back of his mind and sends back as much soothing comfort as he can, even as he tries to figure out if the huorn is gone or not. There's a dwarf right behind him, so close that they're nearly on top of one another, but Bilbo doesn't pay him any mind as he continues to listen. However, whatever the huorn doesn't howl again and Bilbo would notice if the spells around his clearing were to fail or fall. Once the silence passes the five-minute mark, Bilbo relaxes, turns around, and blinks up into the eyes of Thorin Oakenshield, who has a drawn axe in one hand and his gaze fixed on the closed door.
"What was that?" he barks out as soon as Bilbo faces him.
What a bossy dwarf.
"A huorn," Bilbo says, side-stepping him.
The other dwarves who had come into the hall with him and Thorin are all holding weapons as well—axes, a mattock, and, to Bilbo's amusement, a cooking ladle. They all lower them as Bilbo passes, looking confused, but they follow him back into the living room willingly enough. The only one still seated there is Gandalf, who favors Bilbo with a questioning look. When Bilbo shakes his head, Gandalf relaxes fully into his chair and takes his pipe back up again.
"The living trees?" Thorin asks as he re-enters, his axe back at his waist. "They are a story, a myth. Tales to tell bad dwarflings to behave."
Bilbo snorts. Bossy and arrogant, to think he knows the truth of legends.
"They are as real as you or I, Master Oakenshield," he says. "The ones here have been twisted by the oldest huorn in the Forest, a tree we call Old Man Willow. He hates all trespassers and does his best to draw them from the road so that they are lost among the trees—and then he lures them to him so that he can capture them until they starve to death."
The dwarves are all staring at him now. Some of the younger ones look openly horrified.
"The other huorns are younger and, whatever they may have been before, they are all in the thrall of Old Man Willow now and do his bidding. However, many years back, a friend of mine made a deal with the Old Man so that he could only attack travelers who came into the Forest after the sun had set. Anyone who sets foot in the Forest during the is allowed safe passage. In exchange, no person in Middle-Earth is allowed to touch the woods or chop down the trees." [1]
"So that's why you didn't want us to travel at night," Balin says, sounding thoughtful. "But why are we safe in your home? Why do they not attack you?" He gazes around the room. "And where did you get the wood for your house?"
"Gandalf warded my home with spells and enchantments," Bilbo says. "It would take a lot of effort for the huorns to enter this clearing. The house was built from wood from a nearby forest on the other side of the Shire, which I had imported. And I have my own deal with the Old Man."
"Oh?" Thorin says. "And what is that, Master Hobbit?"
Bilbo meets his gaze and Thorin flinches as if he's never had anyone look him straight in the eye before. Bilbo knows his eyes are unsettling, but surely a dwarf such as Thorin can handle them?
"Old Man Willow would do anything to keep this forest safe," Bilbo says. "So I offered to protect it when he couldn't—if anyone tries to cut down more trees or some such during the daylight hours, I stop them. I keep Men who would poach and excitable young fauntlings out of the woods. In exchange, the Old Man lets me stay here and kill some of the animals for meat."
"How do you stop them from entering?" one of the young dwarves asks. He's the one with the blond hair and mustache, the one who had taken out and started to polish a truly alarming number of knives after dinner. "Are you skilled with bow or axe, then?"
Bilbo snorts and feels an echoing curl of laughter from Smaug. Confounded dragon, there's no need to be so amused!
But it is funny that any dwarf would think you good with sword or axe. Though you could tell them about your knife-throwing.
You and I both know I've been getting rusty. I probably can't even hit a tree, let alone a moving target.
"I have good-enough aim to use a slingshot," Bilbo says, ignoring Smaug's distant laughter. "And I know as well as any other hobbit how to give a good solid thwack with a stick. But no, Master Dwarf, beyond that I have no fighting skills."
The blond dwarf's brow furrows. "But then how—"
"Gandalf," Bilbo interrupts, "I think it's time you told me why you're all here. That huorn wouldn't have come so close, normally—it knows that I have visitors and it doesn't like it. You'll all have to leave tomorrow before dark, so we've no time to waste."
Bilbo can tell from the exchanged looks that he hasn't diverted the dwarves' attention from the way he protects the forest, but Gandalf allows the change of subject nonetheless.
"Very well," he says, letting out a puff of smoke. "I think it's time we get down to business, then."
Thorin watches as Baggins settles into his chair and the rest of the dwarves re-take their seats. Gandalf gives Thorin a questioning look, but Thorin shakes his head. Better the hobbit hear their tale from an old friend.
"Across the Misty Mountains, far to the East," Gandalf says, blowing another smoke ring, "there lies a single, solitary peak."
Baggins raises his eyebrows. "The Lonely Mountain?" he asks. Thorin's surprised he's even heard of it but, glancing around at the books surrounding them, perhaps he shouldn't be. "Wasn't it taken by a—" Baggins eyes narrow. "No. Oh no."
Gandalf beams at him. "Now, now—"
Baggins eyes narrow. He says, in a tone of recitation, "Two hundred years ago, a shadow dragon came from the South and drove the dwarves out of the mountain." Baggins shakes his head. "The books say he was a terrible beast that darkened the land and left it in permanent twilight. His name was—"
"—Sivath," Thorin finishes grimly. "Sivath the Destroyer." [2]
Even today, two hundred years later, he can still remember the terrible spread of the dragon's dark wings, the deep night that had rolled along the land after it, leaving everything in shadow. The deadliness of its black fire that was ever-burning and cold enough to freeze.
"He razed Erebor and took its gold," Thorin continues, his eyes locked with Baggins'. "Drove out my people and destroyed the city of Dale that had once sat at its base."
Baggins bites his lip. "Thorin is a Durin name," he says, hesitant and unsure. Thorin's surprised all over again. How well-read is this hobbit? "I thought the line of Durin was lost at Dimrill Dale."
"Azanulbizar," Gandalf clarifies when Thorin looks at him in confusion. "Dimrill Dale is its common name."
Thorin's mood darkens at the thought of another terrible day in his life, the one that lost him the rest of his family and much of his people.
"My father and younger brother were killed there," Thorin says, ignoring the knife-twist of pain in his chest at the thought of them. "My younger sister and I survived. Her two sons come with me on this quest—Fíli and Kíli." He gestures to both of them, who puff up with pride.
"So you are the king," Baggins murmurs. "And you want to—what? Take back the mountain?"
"The dragon hasn't been seen in over sixty years," Thorin says. "Rumors have begun to spread that he is dead. There is no better time to take it then now."
"But he could be alive!" Baggins says. "What're you going to do, stomp up to the front gate and knock and hope for the best? That's a terrible plan."
What an insolent little creature. Dwalin looks like he's about to start laughing again, the traitor.
"Gandalf has promised us a back-way into the mountain," Thorin says, though Gandalf has yet to reveal what exactly this way is. "What we need, Master Baggins, is someone to scout the mountain for us before we can go inside."
Baggins eyes go very wide.
"What we need, Bilbo," Gandalf cuts in, shooting Thorin a wry smile, "is someone quick and clever and, most of all, sneaky. A burglar, so to speak."
Baggins, for some reason, looks hurt by that. "You're not only asking me because of—"
"No," Gandalf says. "No, I know that he does not affect you that way. But we do need someone like you, Bilbo. The dragon knows the scent of dwarf already—it will not be expecting you. And we know that hobbits are the quietest of all races—you especially."
"Why can't you go," Baggins says to Gandalf mulishly. "You're better at walking in dark places than I am!"
"And you must've killed a hundred dragons by now!" Ori pipes up. "Isn't that right, Gandalf?"
Gandalf looks flustered. "Well—"
"Come on, how many have you killed?" Kíli demands. He looks mischievous, the little rascal—probably knows as well as Thorin that Gandalf hasn't slain any dragons, but likes to make the wizard squirm.
Thorin watches Baggins as Gandalf squabbles with the young dwarves. The hobbit doesn't look like he's going to reject them out of hand, though he is still wide-eyed and pale. Thorin doesn't think he's going to be much use, of course, but it will even out their party to have a fourteenth member and Gandalf seems particularly stubborn about it being this specific hobbit to take that place. Perhaps Baggins will surprise them.
"Will you kill the dragon?" Baggins asks, interrupting Kíli's obnoxious interrogation. "Sivath, I mean?"
"If he's still alive, we will stop at nothing to drive him from our home," Thorin says. "He is a greedy worm who defiles our ancient halls."
For some reason, that makes Baggins look even more anxious. "You won't even try to—to—reason with him?"
Thorin barks out a laugh. "Reason with that animal? Master Baggins, I might as well try and talk an orc out of killing for pleasure. I was there when the dragon came—I remember the death and destruction it rained down on me and my people just to possess our wealth. It will have no sympathy or mercy from me."
Baggins hands have tightened into fists, for some reason. He looks around at the other dwarves, but none of them so much as waver, even the youngest ones. Finally, Baggins' gaze rests on Gandalf, and whatever he sees in the wizard's face makes him relax, just a bit. When he looks back at Thorin, his eyes are clear and direct.
"Before I can make a decision, I ask you to answer one question of mine, Master Oakenshield," he says. Thorin inclines his head. "Why do you want to reclaim the mountain? Not just because it's convenient or the dragon might be dead—why do you want to take it back so badly that you will storm it with only twelve other dwarves and potentially face a dragon's wrath?"
Thorin gives the question the consideration it's due, for if this hobbit follows them out of his Forest, he follows them into grave danger and possible death. Still, the answer is an easy one, for Thorin has had the answer since he was forced to watch his father's head separated from his body and became the true leader of his people.
"My people have been forced to wander the lands of Middle-Earth since we lost our original homeland in Khazad-dûm," Thorin says. "We found a home in Erebor from the grace of Mahal, but when it was taken from us, we were forced to wander once more. I am sick of my people living on the charity of men who look down on them, going homeless and starving in the streets. I would give them a home again, if I can. That is why I want to retake the mountain: it is the best chance at a home we will have."
He feels the eyes of every dwarf on him, but he only meets the gaze of Bilbo Baggins who, after a long moment, gives him a slow, thoughtful nod.
"Well then," he says. "When do we leave?"
Bilbo sits in his backyard in the grass and looks up at the stretch of sky above his head littered with stars, his mind chewing on the events of the last few hours. After Bilbo had agreed to come with them, Gandalf had given Thorin a map and a key, explaining that there was a secret entrance into the mountain that would allow them to go inside without alerting the dragon, if it was still alive, to their presence. Bilbo had signed a lengthy contract and slipped out of the door while everyone else was distracted discussing their plans for the upcoming travel.
Do you think we made the right choice? Bilbo asks Smaug, who he can sense flying overhead. If he squints, he can see a small black shape against the night sky. We'll have to tell them about you soon, you know. Probably tomorrow.
I think that there is a part of you that longs to see the world outside the Shire, Smaug says. And this is your best chance.
What if they hurt you? They don't seem to think well of dragons, Thorin especially.
They will not hurt me, Smaug says. And they will never touch you. A protective snarl accompanies the idea of that, leaving Bilbo in no doubt what Smaug would do if any of the dwarves try. Gandalf will help convince them that we are on their side.
Bilbo worries over what will happen like a dog with a favorite toy. He can't help imagining the worst possible scenarios—Thorin attacking Smaug as soon as he sees him and killing him . . . .
You worry too much, my treasure. It will be fine.
You don't know that, Bilbo says. Oh, Yavanna, what was I thinking!? Maybe I should just go back inside and tell them that the deal's off and I'm staying here—
Feelings of amusement, concern, fond irritation. Calm down. What force on Middle-Earth can take both of us together? If the dwarves do not like us, we will drive them out as we drove out the men or the fauntlings.
They didn't have axes—
We have Gandalf on our side too. He won't let them hurt us either.
A thud as Smaug lands in the backyard. The heat of his body is pleasant as he comes and curls around Bilbo, just big enough to cover him completely. Bilbo rests his head against the beat of Smaug's heart, the heavy, comforting thud of it that has kept Bilbo grounded since he was barely a tween.
"It will be dangerous out there," he whispers. "For both of us."
"But it will be a glorious adventure, I think," Smaug says, sounding wistful. "Doesn't that outweigh the risks?"
Bilbo snorts and pats the nearest foreleg in fond amusement. "You reckless creature," he says. "You'd have me dive into any dangerous situation possible just to get the thrill of it, wouldn't you?"
"Don't worry, my treasure," Smaug says, curling more tightly around him. "I'll keep you safe every time we do."
Bilbo smiles and, as the minutes pass, gives in to his drowsiness, allowing sleep to come over him.