Chapter Text
Third Age, beginning of 2941.
Thorin disliked this tavern. It was horribly quiet, far too silent for the discussion he was to have there with the Grey Wizard. The innkeeper would only have to strain his ears to hear every detail of their conversation—a conversation that was supposed to be conducted in the utmost secrecy. The fire crackling in the hearth seemed deafening, and the soft humming of the man at the counter assaulted his eardrums. Thus, when the wizard appeared (long after the appointed time had passed and the night was well advanced), the dwarf prince was not in the most convivial mood.
"You have a knack for making us wait, Gandalf," growled Thorin.
"And you, Thorin, have the honor of welcoming your friends. Don't be gloomy, I have good news for you and your project. Excellent news, in fact."
Thorin grumbled under his breath but raised an appreciative eyebrow when the innkeeper placed two pints of lukewarm beer on their table ("Brewed with great care, my lords!"). Gandalf, who had finished packing his pipe with a woody-scented herb, spread out before him an old piece of parchment, shriveled and black with grime.
"I’m returning your grandfather’s card," said the wizard, taking a long drag on his pipe. "I’m finished with it. As I suspected, it is indeed a code. I’ll decipher it in due time, for that is not what brings me to you on this dark night. It is time, Thorin, to find you some allies. Honest and loyal people who will join your cause for motives somewhat more honorable than the lure of your mountain’s gold. I have already found our burglar. But that doesn’t quite solve the dragon problem yet."
"The burglar isn't supposed to slay the dragon," Thorin hissed. "I only expect of him what he's capable of. To retrieve the Kingsstone. Then I will have the mountain's rightful claim, then I will become Thorin, king among kings, and finally, I will be able to march proudly on Erebor and drive out the beast."
"And how will you do it?" Gandalf sneered darkly. "With pikes and picks, wielding axes and swords? You've seen the dragon with your own eyes, Thorin, you've seen his monstrosity, his burning fire, his hatred and malice. You won't overcome Smaug alone. Not even an army could."
"Am I to understand that I must abandon my kingdom to a greedy lizard? Leave dishonor upon my lineage and my heritage? No, Gandalf, do not ask me that. For then, I would throw myself into Smaug's maw to erase that shame."
"Now then," said the magician softly. "Banish this dark fate, for this is not your end. You still have much to accomplish before you plunge into your final sleep. But you will need help in this mad undertaking."
He was silent for a moment, puffing on his pipe before leaning towards the prince, a sly, conspiratorial smile slightly distorting his wrinkled face.
"Tell me, my dear, do you know the best way to defeat a dragon?"
Thorin hesitated.
"Well," Gandalf continued, "it's a matter of asking for the help of another dragon!"
Then Thorin choked, Gandalf picked up his pipe again with a satisfied smile, and the innkeeper, behind his counter, dropped his tray.
The sun shone high in the sky. Spring was warm and nature radiated with life. Thorin observed the landscape stretching out below him. Wild lands opened up beneath the hill in a profusion of thickets, wild animals bounding through the undergrowth, and birdsong offering a welcome respite after the exhausting hours of walking.
Then a shadow fell upon him.
The plain, so radiant and peaceful, fell into a deathly silence. Life ceased, and the wind began to blow in violent gusts, nearly tearing the tops off the tall trees. A distant whistling sound was heard before filling the entire space. The sun was veiled, and a rumble rose.
And from behind a cloud, a vivid and powerful shadow, a dragon appeared. Its roar ripped through the air, as its mighty wings stirred clouds of dust. For a moment, the beast circled Thorin menacingly, like a bird of prey eyeing its quarry before swooping down. But no claws struck the dwarf prince, no fangs tore at his flesh, no fire scorched his body. Only the wind shook him, forcing him back a few steps. Then, in almost stifling silence, the dragon lowered its long wings before descending to the ground. It did so slowly, almost gently. As if the creature, terrible and awe-inspiring as it was, were trying not to frighten the dwarf.
Thorin found it very difficult not to draw his sword. The last time he had seen a dragon, his home had been destroyed, his people decimated and exiled, his honor trampled. It took immense courage not to rush at the beast and pierce its heart. How he longed for revenge, to make this dragon pay for all the others, for Smaug's crimes, to cut off its wings, to display its head at his doorstep as a grim warning… But he did nothing of the sort and waited. He waited for the dragon to approach, climbing the hill with a heavy but steady gait, giving the prince time to observe his enemy.
It was like Smaug, with its great wings, serpentine head, and four legs with sharp claws. Deep black, its scales seemed to absorb the daylight, darkening the plain. But as the beast drew closer, Thorin was struck by its size. Though terrifying, the animal was much smaller than the great red dragon. True, it towered over the dwarf prince by several heads, but compared to the monstrosity of Smaug, the latter was almost laughable. This did little to reassure him. Thorin was here to find an ally, not a useless lizard. How could this thing, dangerous as it was, possibly rival the calamity that was the red dragon? A simmering anger seized the prince. Gandalf had been wrong. He would gain nothing good from this wild beast.
Now the dragon had reached the hilltop, and Thorin felt his heart race, adrenaline coursing through his veins like poison. The dragon was terrifying. Its wings were like a bat's, its tail beat impatiently in the air, and its molten gold eyes stared strangely at the dwarf. A roar, like thunder breaking through the clouds, then enveloped Thorin. It took him a moment to realize it was the dragon's voice.
"The dwarf of Olórin, I presume? You're shorter than I imagined. Is Durin's line dying out?"
"Filthy beast... Know that I am nobody's dwarf," spat Thorin. "My name is Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór."
"You are all someone's son. But the magician called you Oak-Shield, why?"
"A nickname given to me after I defeated the most fearsome of the orcs at the Battle of Azanulbizar. And I will cut off your head likewise, dragon, if you dare to disrespect my people again in this way."
Contrary to what Thorin expected (almost hoped), the dragon did not become angry. It straightened up, its golden eyes narrowing slightly.
"Peace, little prince, peace. I didn't come here looking for a quarrel."
"What do you expect from me and my people, dragon?" asked Thorin. "The wizard sent you to meet me, why have you come?"
"Stop calling me that. I am not a mere dragon. I am a wyvern, born of air and wind, by the grace of Manwë, and not of ash and fire, by the wrath of terrible Morgoth."
"My apologies, dragon."
"Insolent."
The beast shook its head, almost amused.
"You gave me your name, Thorin Oakenshield, so here is mine: Ithilnùr. At least, that is the one the elves gave me, and I have no other."
Thorin hesitated. He hadn't expected the beast to be so calm and willing to talk. He was convinced it would all end in a fight, already picturing himself tearing out the beast's heart and bringing it back to Gandalf to show him where talking to wild animals born of Morgoth's dark powers led. Would he have to negotiate with this dragon, this wyvern, when all he dreamed of was wielding his sword? He almost regretted not having slammed the door on the grey wizard.
"The magician asked me to find a dwarf in the wild lands. I am here, and so are you, little prince," the wyvern hissed softly. "It is rather I who should be asking you this question. What do you want? Speak, for the sun is setting and these lands are dangerous for a dwarf after nightfall."
"I fear neither orcs nor the darkness of night," said Thorin, raising a mocking eyebrow. "Dwarves are warriors; we face the darkness, we vanquish evil, and if we fall, we rise again."
"Yes, I've heard you're a rather tenacious race. That's good. Now, put down your sword, Thorin, for I don't intend to eat you, and say what you have to say."
The dragon then shook itself, fluttering its wings before gently lying down on the ground, crossing its forelegs in a gesture of appeasement. Thorin, not pleased to be being told what to do by a lizard, reluctantly had to lower the hilt of his sword. Gandalf had told him to find the black dragon, to ask it to join the company, and he would. But he had never promised it would be done courteously.
"I am Thorin," he repeated. "Prince of Erebor, heir to Durin's people."
"A prince in exile, without a mountain, without a kingdom, without a crown. What are you a prince of then?"
There was no cruelty in the wyvern's growling voice. She awaited his reply, curious and patient, her tail lazily swishing in the air. Thorin didn't know what to say. He longed to leave, to abandon this cursed hill and never again meet those golden eyes that made his heart ache. But his undertaking was so perilous. An ally would be invaluable. But what was he prepared to endure for it? What was he willing to reveal? His pride choked him for a moment, then he answered in a low voice, full of resentment and barely concealed anger.
"I am not a prince of anything, wyvern. Of anything. Except for loyalty and love for my people. I carry the hope of my people. The hope of returning to their home, to the land from which they were torn nearly two centuries ago. Our home, our past, and our future await us far away, beneath the Lonely Mountain, and it is my task to reclaim it. Twelve trusted dwarves, great warriors, are loyal to me and have lent me their blades. We will march to Erebor at the end of summer. Gandalf will lead us, we will slay Smaug the Golden, we will reclaim our mountain, and then, at last, Durin's line will be at peace."
There was a moment of silence, terribly long. Then Ithilnùr laughed. It was a strange laugh, half-suppressed, as if she were coughing and sneezing at the same time, her eyes closing briefly. No gaiety, no joy lit her golden pupils.
"You hope to test yourself against Smaug? You? Against a dragon? Well, the wizard told me this discussion would be interesting, but I didn't expect it to be so hilarious. I thought you were a reckless dwarf, standing here before me with your demands, but you're simply mad... or stupid."
Thorin felt his anger rekindle, insidiously wrapping itself around his throat, burning his eyes, forcing him to tighten his grip on his sword.
"I am none of that, wyvern. As I told you, I am a prince preparing to reclaim my home. I don’t care what you think of me, for I will go, with or without you. I have come to offer you a deal, and if I must be insulted and humiliated to get what I want from you, so be it. But I will not waste my time if you have no regard for my cause."
"Don’t be angry, little prince," said Ithilnùr, rising onto his hind legs. "I don’t like angry people. I hear you. I hear your courage and your trampled pride. But you seem to think that dragons are like me. No, we have little in common, and that’s just as well. For they are creatures of darkness, of fire and ash, created by Morgoth for his wars. They live only for hatred and destruction, feeding on the dread and fear they leave in their wake. Do not underestimate these daemons, little prince, for they are far more than mere winged lizards. They are terribly clever, driven by a wicked cunning that would turn you against your own brothers. And their greed—it surpasses anything you can imagine." You dwarves think you cherish gold and treasure, but when faced with dragons… Nothing tempts a dragon more than the call of destruction and the whisper of gold that reaches the deepest recesses of its dark soul. To fight a dragon, with thirteen dwarves and a wizard? That's a dangerous undertaking, very dangerous."
"But this is our fight, the fight of my people. And if I must die to save the honor of House Durin, then I will. I will not let a dragon sleep on my mountain without doing something to dislodge it. I must try."
"But they are enormous, little prince. And they fly and breathe fire. Smaug will make short work of your undertaking. His wings are so powerful they sweep forests and rivers in their path, his paws could sink an entire fleet. His gaping maw with its sharp teeth would swallow you alive. And his fire... his fire will take your life in excruciating agony; and the world of men will fall again, the story of Dale will repeat itself. How many deaths are you prepared to endure, dwarf? Have you not built a beautiful city in the blue mountains? Why risk it all? Why go and awaken the sleeping fire and darkness?"
"For one day they will awaken. And they will unleash their fury upon the world once more. This dragon and I have a score to settle. He has broken my people, reducing them to wandering and shame, diminishing Durin's great line. I will reclaim Erebor, for it is my right and my duty, no matter the cost. Smaug will pay for his vile crimes."
The wyvern shook its head, growling. It closed its eyes for a moment, exhaling deeply, and a thin wisp of smoke escaped its flared nostrils. Thorin was no expert on reptiles, but clearly, it was deeply annoyed. It stirred a little longer, turning its long head this way and that, before lowering itself, its molten gold eyes locking sternly into Thorin's pale ones.
"I’m listening, little prince. I hear your anger. And you see, I’ve been consumed by that same anger for centuries. An immense anger that gnaws at me, suffocates me, and deprives me of sleep. For Smaug has committed an act of high treason against my people. I have never forgotten, never forgiven. For many long years I have brooded over my anger and hatred without the slightest hope of ever seeing my revenge come near. And you arrive one perfectly ordinary morning, a proud yet insignificant dwarf, and you offer me your axe and those of your dwarf brothers in exchange for my wings and claws. Now that’s a proposition worth considering."
The wyvern fell silent, catching its breath before straightening up a little, its head towering over Thorin's.
"We’re all probably going to die," she continued. "You, your brothers, the men of the lake, and myself. Only the wizard will survive, because he always does, which is quite an admirable feat considering the trouble he gets into every single day. Yes, we’re probably going to die. But that suits me fine, as long as I can drag Smaug the Traitor down with me."
Thorin hesitated to ask what could have provoked the wyvern's anger. But he said nothing.
Firstly, because the wise Gandalf had strongly advised against it: "Thorin, note that Ithilnùr is renowned for being patient and gentle among her kind," he had said. "But never forget that she does not think exactly as you and I do. She is a child of the wind, not of earth and stone. Never try to force her to do anything, or you will incur her wrath. And with an immortal, a grudge is destined to last for eternity." That had been enough to dampen the dwarf's curiosity.
Secondly, because she was a reptile and strongly resembled the monster that had destroyed his mountain. Admittedly, she was much less imposing, and even if she didn't breathe fire and didn't seem to have any intention of harming him, for the moment, she still had large teeth, wings, and claws that would make Durin's swords pale in comparison.
Finally, because Thorin hadn't appreciated the envious glance she'd cast at his silver ring set with sparkling emeralds. Clearly, a dragon, whether born of ash or wind, was still a dragon.
"Then," Thorin finally ventured, "will you join us? Will you join my quest? I have a mountain to reclaim, and you have a dark matter to settle involving a dragon. If you pledge yourself to my side, I will give you gold, enough to satisfy you for your entire long life, and lands where you can hunt and live in peace."
"No, little prince," said Ithilnùr. "Your gold doesn't interest me, or only very little. I want Smaug. I want your sword with me when I tear off his wings. I want the wizard at my side when I slash his throat with fire. I want men to witness my triumph over Smaug the Betrayer. I want to see him dead, and if you promise me you will fight for it, then I will help you retake and hold your mountain from the enemy's grasp as long as my heart beats and the wind fills my wings."
Thorin hesitated. It wasn't his habit to make promises he wasn't sure he could, or even wanted to, keep. Even less so to a flying lizard with sharp fangs. But the wyvern was right; their chances were already slim, and there was no point in turning his nose up at a powerful ally. He would bargain with her. After all, he was a prince, and no prince owed anything to a dragon. He smiled, a wicked smile that never reached his eyes.
"Then you will have Smaug's head," said Thorin. "I swear it on my life and my lineage."
Ithilnùr rumbled, a guttural breath that echoed for long moments in the valley.
"Then you will have your mountain," she said finally, "I swear it on the wind and my blood."
Thorin nodded, his heart overflowing with a mixture of hope and mistrust. His mountain, his kingdom, his home, finally appeared to him as a near, real vision, full of certainty and promise. Soon, he would be home; soon, Durin's line would return to great Erebor.
Ithilnùr rumbled with satisfaction. At last, after all these years, vengeance was hers. Smaug the Traitor's days were numbered, and all the rage and cruelty the wyvern was capable of would finally be unleashed upon the glowing red monster.