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‘Oh, yes,’ Smaug almost purred, angling his head to and fro, trying to get another sniff of the intruder, ‘it has been a long time since I have been out west but I have smelt your kind before.’
Bilbo almost stopped breathing. The ring was still securely on his finger, but he knew that he needed to take it off before the change. He could already feel the heat brewing inside him.
‘Or,’ Smaug said, his head swooping perilously close to where Bilbo was hiding, ‘perhaps I should say kin?’
Bilbo removed the ring then and readied himself for battle.
X—X
After the second roar from inside the mountain, Thorin could stand still no longer.
‘Arm yourselves,’ he ordered his company. ‘We’re going inside the mountain.’
The others were quick to find their feet, and they followed their leader as he made his way into his ancestral home, ready to take it back from the worm.
The stench was unbearable; the smell of decaying bodies and dragon’s greed which had stewed together for years now, coming up towards them like a solid wave from the depths, almost overpowering them where they stood. But they continued onwards, leaving the sunlight behind them for the gloom of Smaug’s lair.
As they ventured downwards in darkness, Thorin feeling his way through familiar hallways, a red, flickering glow, like a giant lit furnace, started to emerge from the great treasure hall.
Smaug was near at hand.
The company was pressed up against the clammy wall in a small alcove leading into the treasury when another, closer roar burst out from the hall, deafening their ears and shaking the ground beneath their feet.
Dwalin was behind Thorin as always. ‘I’ll go first,’ he said.
‘No.’ Thorin shook his head once. ‘None of us will go until we know what we are about to encounter.’
‘And where is Bilbo?’ Balin whispered behind them.
The tightening in Thorin’s chest was now too painful to ignore, this close to the dragon’s lair. He tried telling himself that all through the quest Bilbo had, almost by magic, managed to escape more dire situations than any other mortal. The hobbit was clever and quick-footed, indeed, Thorin thought, but surely even the nimblest of feet couldn’t have saved him from a rampaging dragon. He knew only too well the damage that evil creature was able to inflict on others.
His dark thoughts were interrupted then by a new, unfamiliar sound coming from the treasure hall. A loud screech, very unlike the deep rumblings of Smaug, pierced his ears. As he looked towards the stone wall opposite him, he saw that the red glow was being broken up by flickers of green light.
The other dwarves murmured behind him, having obviously noticed the odd change as well.
‘What is going on?’ Someone hissed from somewhere in the middle of the group.
Thorin made a decision. ‘Nori?’ He turned around, just about making out the peaked points of the other dwarf’s hair in the red gloom. ‘You will go into the treasure hall.’
‘I will not---!’ Nori protested loudly before being immediately shushed by the others.
Dori took a firm hold of his brother’s arm. ‘You will obey your leader’s command,’ he said, pinning Nori into place with a fixed glare.
‘Not if he commands me to kill myself!’ Nori objected, just catching himself before it turned into an indignant yell.
‘You are by far the most…’ Thorin paused to find the word. ‘The most stealthy of the lot of us, Nori. And you won’t have to go far. Just through this opening here and two steps to your right.’
Nori pulled his arm from Dori’s grip and folded it on top of the other, remaining defiantly at the back of the group.
Thorin sighed. ‘We need to know what is happening. We cannot go forwards and we will not go backwards until we do. You will only be out in the open for a moment.’
The other dwarves nodded, murmuring their agreement.
Nori’s shoulders dropped. ‘Alright.’ He inched his way forward until he stood beside Thorin. ‘But if I die I still want my share of the treasure. Give Nori the thief the grandest funeral known to all of the dwarven races. That’ll show those nobs from the Blue Mountains.’ He laughed grimly.
Thorin put a hand on his back. ‘Of course, my friend.’
Nori took a deep breath and continued forward, another roar sounding just as he disappeared through the opening into the great hall.
The clamour and the lights continued while Nori was away, growing quicker and more intense as the dwarves waited in a tense silence, thinking about their absent friends.
And then just as quickly as he had gone from sight, Nori returned to the narrow hallway, breathing quickly, bending over as he steadied himself against the cave walls.
The dwarves gathered around him.
‘What did you see?’ Balin finally whispered.
‘Two…’ Nori paused to gulp painfully. ‘There are two dragons; Smaug is red and horrible while the other is green and small.’
‘Two dragons…’ Ori whimpered.
The company seemed to be sharing the same thought in that moment. They had signed up to take back the mountain from one seemingly dead dragon but now they were faced with two very much alive ones. Their contract had included no addendums regarding that eventuality.
‘What were they doing?’ Dwalin asked.
Nori shook his head, still not quite putting together what he had seen. ‘Fighting. The smaller one throwing balls of fire against Smaug’s jewel-encrusted chest before dodging away from his flaming breath. Very quick, the green one was, next to Smaug’s great, lumbering body.’
‘That is dragon’s greed for you,’ Balin muttered. ‘And the size of Erebor’s treasure would entice even the most foolhardy of dragons to fight Smaug for it. It is a wonder that he has held it for so long as it is.’
‘Nori?’ Thorin could no longer wait to know. ‘Did you see Bilbo down there?’
‘I…’ Nori hesitated. ‘I did not. But he could be hiding from the dragons’ battle,’ he quickly said, ‘just as we are now.’
‘Then why didn’t he come back?’
‘Maybe something has barred his way?’
‘Or he is too clever to come out while there are dragons exchanging fire right next to him!’
‘Quiet!’ Thorin hissed, turning away from his company. The roars and screeching had stopped, and now they heard a deep voice booming out from the treasure hall.
‘I know where you came from,’ it said, ‘I know who showed you the way inside the mountain. It can only be those Lake-town men,’ it spat out that last word like it was a piece of rotten meat. ‘They want the treasure for themselves and they thought that a puny, little thing like you could sneak in and kill me in my slumber. Well,’ it breathed and steam billowed into the alcove where the dwarves were hiding, ‘I will show them what it means to wake a dragon.’
A great boom of wind sounded then, the noise of enormous wings taking flight.
Thorin knew only one way out of the treasure hall that a dragon of Smaug’s size could leave through, and so he was no longer wary of stepping out into the light. He quickly gathered his company around him, all of them ready to follow their leader.
As they moved forward into the treasure hall, the red glow was steadily disappearing towards the main entrance to the mountain. Thorin was quick to follow, taking no notice of the gold and jewellery skidding and sliding beneath his feet as he made his way to the treasury’s largest archway, the one looking out towards the entrance hall. He could hear another roar and a crash then as Smaug smashed through the barricaded opening and made his horrible way to Lake-town.
The silence and the darkness that followed Smaug’s departure felt like a heavy blanket falling around Thorin, shielding him from the world around him. ‘Easy…’ he murmured to himself as he stood looking out at the violent opening that Smaug had left behind. ‘Can it really be so easy…?’
But the silence was short-lived. He could hear Balin shouting out orders behind him, telling the company to find some way to make a fire, to make torches. And Glóin’s voice asked where the green dragon had got to as its light had faded alongside Smaug’s.
‘And,’ Thorin finally said into the darkness, ‘we need to find Bilbo.’
The dwarves set to work, and somebody soon discovered a stash of dried cloth and torches near where the treasure hall guards had been stationed. Glóin’s tinderbox still worked, thank Mahal, and what was at first one lit torch, soon became two, then four until the entire company each had their own light as they made their way across the vast cavity of the treasure hall, tiny, golden circles of light pinpointing their position.
‘Right,’ Thorin said, ‘Dori, Ori and Glóin will go outside to bring in whatever supplies we have and will make a camp in the guard’s hall.’ The three dwarves nodded and turned back to the small alcove heading towards the hidden door. ‘Dwalin, Nori and Bifur will search for the green dragon’ He saw their hands become firm around the handles of their weapons. ‘But you will not fight it on your own. You will need the entire company and a plan before you do that.’ He turned towards the rest of the company. ‘Balin, Bombur and I will search for Bilbo.’
Thorin and the two other dwarves with him quickly mapped out the treasure hall, dividing it between themselves, one part for each of them to search.
Thorin’s gaze never left the ground from then on, his arms moving the torch to and fro over the treasure, ignoring the enticing glint of the gold for any glimpse of the over-sized, blue coat Bilbo had been wearing when they left Lake-town together. He started moving faster and faster, scaling the mounds of treasure, almost tumbling down again when his right leg lost its footing in the scattering golden coins. But he kept going.
The clinking sounds of the others moving about echoed through the hall but Thorin took no notice of them, his mind and his gaze focusing in on his own search. He kept moving ever quicker, his frantic movements almost extinguishing the torch as he desperately wheeled it in front of him, his eyes jumping from one spot to another, almost without seeing. Smaug was still close to the mountain, the Arkenstone was certainly near, but all he could think about was seeing Bilbo again.
‘Thorin!’
The voice was loud enough to break through the barriers to Thorin’s mind. He turned and saw Dwalin coming down the stairs from one of the smaller, outer halls.
He was carrying something. Someone.
Thorin made his way quickly back across the hoard, meeting Dwalin just as he placed Bilbo next to the fire Glóin had gotten started in the guards’ hall, carefully supporting his limp head until somebody else placed a rolled up coat under it.
Without thinking Thorin immediately removed the coarse brown coat he had been given by the Lake-town men, and covered Bilbo’s naked body with it.
‘What happened to him?’ Ori breathed. Thorin hadn’t even noticed that he was there as well.
‘And where are his clothes?’ Dori added
‘Maybe the combined heat of the two dragons became too much for him?’ Glóin offered.
‘That doesn’t like our respectable hobbit,’ Dwalin said, ‘this is the one who would wring out his handkerchief in a rainstorm and carefully fold it before placing it back in his soaked pocket.
Thorin kept his gaze fixed on Balin as he prodded and listened to Bilbo’s limp body. ‘How is he?’
Balin cast a short look in Thorin’s direction. ‘Alive,’ he said.
‘Can you tell us nothing else?’ Thorin could hear the strain in his own voice. ‘Is he hurt? Is he sick? What happened to him?’
‘He’s fallen into a deep sleep, it seems to me,’ Balin answered, ‘though why he chose to do so next to a pair of fighting dragons is a mystery to me. As to his clothes…’ His head lowered, putting an effectual end to the conversation, ‘I have no idea.’
Dwalin came up behind Thorin, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘We need to keep him warm and safe, laddie,’ he said, ‘until he is ready to wake up again.’ He turned towards the rest of the assembled company. ‘And we need to replace the front barricades before Smaug returns. He may have left willingly but he will certainly use force to return.’
The others murmured their agreement and left Thorin standing alone in front of the fire, looking down at the worryingly still Bilbo.
It was odd seeing him without his clothes. Even in the Lake-town rags, oversized and worn as they were, Bilbo had still managed to look presentable, adjusting his belt just so and making sure that his pockets lay flat. His clothes were part of the armour he wore to meet the world, a way of carrying a little bit of respectability all the way from the Shire, and seeing him stripped bare like this made him seem even smaller, more fragile.
He bent his knees, sitting down next to Bilbo.
‘I’m sorry’ he whispered into the silence. ‘This would never have happened to you if I hadn’t…well, if you had never known me or I you.’ He reached out, his hand fumbling in the gloom until it reached Bilbo’s fingers, clumsily taking hold of the three middle ones.
Thorin breathed in and out, allowing himself to finally say it out loud. ‘But I’m glad that we did, very glad that we met all those months ago.’ His hand tightened around Bilbo’s. ‘And I promise to tell you so when you wake up, to tell you what I’ve been thinking and feeling about you all these months.’ He swallowed hard. ‘So you have to wake up, you see?’
Whether or not Bilbo took any note of that was beyond Thorin’s understanding, but he finally felt brave enough to say it, hoping that this bravery would endure when Bilbo woke up, when he was faced with those clever greyish-blue eyes looking back at him.
He stayed with him for the rest of the day, only moving when someone pushed a piece of dry bread in one hand and a bedroll in the other. He lay down then, his gaze never leaving Bilbo, wondering if he could ever sleep as deeply as that.
X—X
When the news of Smaug’s death reached Erebor, Bilbo was still sleeping.
When Thorin’s company had finished their search of the halls, finding no trace of any other dragon but Smaug, Bilbo was still sleeping.
When the ravens came back with tales of elves and men setting up camp in Dale, Bilbo was still sleeping.
But when the work began on reinforcing the barricaded front entrance, Bilbo woke to the sounds of metal striking rock and the straining of ropes as large boulders were piled beneath the front balustrades.
He turned over, slowly testing out his limbs. It had been a long time since his last change, but he still remembered how the soreness had hobbled his movements for several days afterwards. He raised his head, feeling whatever had been covering him fall from his shoulders. Even the low, flickering light from a nearby torch was slicing at his squinting eyes. His throat felt dry.
How long had he been asleep this time?
‘Mister Baggins!’ Kíli’s eager face appeared in front of him. ‘We thought you would never wake!’
‘What--,’ Bilbo croaked, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. ‘—Smaug?’ he managed to say. The last he had seen of him was when he was chasing the dragon towards the front entrance, ready for more battle if need be.
‘He’s dead, Mister Baggins. Dead and buried in the Long Lake. Bard from Lake-town shot him down with a black arrow.’
Bilbo’s head fell back again. Dead. That was that, then. The mountain and peace was won, and he would not need to change again anytime soon.
‘I’ll go get Uncle Thorin,’ Kíli said, standing up, ‘he’s the one who’s been doing most of the watching over you.’
‘I’m sorry for causing so much trouble,’ Bilbo whispered, the walls of his hoarse throat sticking and pulling apart.
‘No need to apologize.’ Kíli shrugged his shoulders. ‘We all should have seen it coming, to be honest. You fainted at the mere mention of a fire-breathing dragon, it is no wonder that you should fall into a deep sleep at the sight of two dragons doing battle with fire.’
‘Two?’ Bilbo felt a chill in his middle.
Kíli hummed, already turning towards from where the sounds of work were coming. ‘A small, green one as well as Smaug. Didn’t you see it yourself?’
‘Yes…’ Bilbo nodded his head weakly. ‘Yes, of course but I’m still…’ He shut his eyes shortly.
‘Right.’ Kíli smiled. ‘I’ll get the others while you rest. They’ll want to see you better.’
Bilbo lay on the bedroll, listening to Kíli’s footsteps travelling away and wondering if the company expected any explanation for the unanticipated, additional dragon.
X—X
The closer and more threatening the presence of men and elves grew to the mountain; the more determined Thorin was in his search for the Arkenstone. By now the company had hung lit torches all around the treasure hall, their golden light enhancing the enticing shine of the gold, and as Thorin walked tirelessly up and down the great mounds, his mind narrowed more and more until it could only encompass the glimmering metals.
And he forgot his promise to the sleeping Bilbo, never telling him what he had felt when he thought he had lost him.
X—X
Bilbo had never felt such boredom in his life, and even he had to admit to having led a fairly quiet existence so far. But now, walking aimlessly back and forth in some big, echoing hall, looking for a piece of gem slightly different (but nobody could tell him in what way) from all the other thousands of gems in the hoard.
More than once he had been tempted to slip on his ring and just pop outside for some fresh air and a look at the sky, just anything else than the dull glimmer of dead metals and the lingering smell of dragon.
But… He looked over his shoulder at Thorin, who was trudging mindlessly through the coins, his shoulders painfully hunched…But he couldn’t bear to leave him now. The sounds of assembling troops and rattling weapons coming from Dale had seemed to burrow into Thorin’s mind, instilling in him a mindless want for the Arkenstone, the King’s stone, his right to rule the mountain.
And Bilbo was afraid to lose him entirely to that want if he didn’t stay close.
He picked up a red stone, turning it over in his hands, looking for any ancestral significance.
And surely, he thought, surely the dwarven kingdom needed a strong king; especially now when men and elves threatened Erebor. Though Bilbo had liked Bard and didn’t think he would do anything dishonourable…and Thorin had promised them a part of the treasure…
As his thoughts circled, his large foot kicked something from underneath a golden, decorated shield. It skidded a bit before coming to a stop a few feet away from him. And Bilbo knew it as soon as he saw it. This was the Arkenstone - a white gem encompassing a whole sky of stars. There was no doubt in his mind.
It was surprisingly light when he picked it up, feeling its smooth surface with the pads of his fingers. It glowed dully, emitting a mild warmth to Bilbo’s hand. Yes, this was something special indeed.
He opened his mouth, ready to call out to the others to halt their search, to tell them that he had found the coveted prize. His hands, however, didn’t seem to be following his own intentions, quickly pushing the stone deep into one of his inner pockets, down to where his ring was nestled.
And his mouth shut again without making a single sound.
To this day, Bilbo couldn’t tell you why he did it. Thorin says that Bilbo saved him and his foundering mind that day by withholding the Arkenstone from him, that Bilbo was a true hero for attempting to stop a senseless war by trading it for peace. And even though Bilbo is a sensible hobbit, he never can help himself from holding his head high every time Thorin tells the story of the hobbit who saved the king and the entire kingdom from sickness and ruin.
But there was a dark corner of Bilbo’s mind, one he only visited at night when he was alone in the dark, which called him greedy, called him thief and traitor, saying that it was only his unnatural luck which made everything turn out alright in the end, that he didn’t deserve the life he had now after stealing from the one he held most dear.
Because in that moment Bilbo was a burglar indeed.
X—X
‘Ravenhill…’ Bilbo whispered, his knees almost buckling beneath him. It had been an exhausting day, though the noon sun had yet to reach its peak. And now he could only stand here on the edge of the battle and watch as Thorin, Dwalin, Fíli and Kíli were letting themselves be cut off from the rest of the fight and surrounded by teeming hordes of orcs and goblins. Already, several of the enemy’s armies had turned towards Ravenhill, all of them wanting the head of the proud dwarven king as their prize. And though Bilbo knew that all four of them were hardy and fierce fighters, they could never withstand an enemy of that size.
They were going to be overrun and killed. Bilbo was sure of it.
He could hear Gandalf calling after him when he turned back to the ruin of Dale but he ignored him, looking frantically for any place both hidden and big enough. He finally found it in what looked to be the ruins of a storehouse for grain, the stone skeleton still standing for him to burrow into and find a place to remove his clothes.
The heat was building again, starting in his belly. It felt like a great wood-burning stove being opened up, the flames bursting out from within the cast iron oven. They seemed to be licking up his chest, quickening his heartbeat and melting his bones. He felt like a loose jelly then, his hands falling to the ground as they started to lengthen. The claws burst out from his knuckles as the green scales climbed his neck, pressing his windpipe and stealing his breath until they finally smoothed out over his expanding head. He fell forward, tears in his eyes as the spikes ripped through his spine and pulled at it until the large, green tail unfurled behind him, hitting the corner of the ruin so hard that the roof rumbled above him, threatening to collapse and crush him. But Bilbo could take no heed of that now, tightening his middle, preparing himself for the final and the worst pain.
He gritted his teeth, already feeling his skin tearing over his ribcage in the back, something strong and sinewy pushing from within it. When the wings finally burst through, he couldn’t stop himself and he screamed and he screamed. But the sound he made wasn’t that of a terrified and distressed hobbit. It was the ear-piercing screech of a green dragon, finally unfurling its wings fully as it took off towards Ravenhill.
The cold wind whooshed over his scaly body, doing a bit to numb the pain of the change. As he flew, he chanced a glimpse down at the battlefield. It was carnage and it was chaos, impossible for anyone to know which way the battle was turning. Bilbo could do nothing but leave it behind and focus his attention on Ravenhill.
He swooped around the hill once, twice, scanning it for any possibilities to head off the enemy hordes encircling Thorin and the others. Suddenly, he spied a thick, wooden pole, probably once used as a weighted lift, raising and lowering goods and weapons from the bottom of Ravenhill to the top. It stood at the side of the main path up towards the plain ground of the hill, and on the other side was a large pile of loose boulders, obviously removed to make the path a long time ago. And now Bilbo had an idea for a defence.
Another large group of orcs were swarming up Ravenhill, clinging to the walls alongside the narrow path and screaming bloody murder.
Bilbo watched their rampage for a moment, gauging their speed before returning to the wooden post and let loose the first fireball.
Wood is no match for dragon fire and soon the pole was burning merrily, ash and smoke reaching Bilbo’s nose even as far up as he was. The shouts of the orcs were louder now as they reached the final bend. Just before they reached the very top, Bilbo blew another quick burst of flame at the pole.
The wood groaned and creaked, large splinters appearing at its middle and then it started to fall forward over the path, the top of it just hitting the uppermost boulder with a crash of flame.
At first, Bilbo thought that they wouldn’t be moved at all but just before the first orc reached the passageway the boulders started to slide into the path, smoothly but certainly, like milk poured into a bowl. Some of them fell down the path, knocking the legs out from under several of the beasts, while the rest formed an impenetrable barricade across the path. There was no reaching the top of Ravenhill from here anymore.
The orcs growled and yelped in surprise at being stopped in their rampage, but soon some of the quicker ones attempted to climb over the icy rocks. But as soon as their feet stepped onto the boulders, they were met with a scorching blast from above. Bilbo’s large wings flapped lazily, holding him still in one place as he released one burst of heat after another. On and on he went until the rest of the group finally turned and ran, pointing towards that silhouette of an enormous, winged figure as their screams served as a warning for anyone else who dared to climb Ravenhill.
Bilbo allowed himself to drop lower then, knowing that his hardy scales could protect him from any crudely fashioned goblin spears and arrows. And he needed to get closer to make out the details - to find Thorin.
He kept encircling the hill, letting loose fireball after fireball at any group of goblins or orcs he saw, dispersing their groups and sending most of them fleeing. He finally halted his flight over the frozen waterfall, his heart sinking as he saw the small figure of Thorin raising his sword towards Azog, the huge, white orc.
Bilbo knew he couldn’t use his fire here; the ice would melt under Thorin’s feet as well as Azog’s. And before he had time to think of anything else, a horde of rampaging orcs were coming towards the two figures, hungry to help their leader in killing this haughty dwarf.
His skin itched and burned as his claws extended even more and without thinking of what he was doing, Bilbo swooped down and tore through the orcs, slashing and bleeding them as best he could, taking to the sky again, clutching one of them beneath him before letting it drop down over the edge of the waterfall.
The falling orc’s terrified scream caught the attention of Thorin and Azog, and they both craned their heads upwards, gawping at the frightening spectacle of a large dragon tearing through the orcs like a farmer mowing his field.
Thankfully, Thorin was the first the recover his composure and swung his sword as Azog’s side just before ducking away from a thrust from that bladed arm.
As Bilbo made another circle of the top of the hill, looking for any other forces to stop before they reached Thorin, he heard a loud crack as Azog’s mace hit the thick ice. The sound grew even more terrible as the frozen water groaned, heaving itself apart into massive floats, making the ground under Thorin’s feet even more perilous.
The muscles in Azog’s wide back tightened as he raised the massive mace yet again, seemingly ready to destroy everything around them, to drown himself if only to see Thorin drowning alongside him.
Bilbo was close to them now. He didn’t know if he was able to do it, to fly so low and so precisely, but it was the only thing he could do.
X—X
Just as Azog was ready to let the mace drop, a cold wind pressed down towards him as the sound of heavy wings boomed all around him. And though he was a strong orc, his strength was nothing against the force pulling at his right arm. The mace was wrenched from his grasp and before he knew it, he saw it falling from the grip of the green dragon’s claws over the precipice of the waterfall.
And then he felt the cold steel piercing his middle.
Thorin pushed his sword in even further, staring into Azog’s face as he did, twisting it to watch the pain in those evil features, wondering if it could ever match the pain his grandfather had felt at the Battle of Azanulbizar.
And then Azog fell, if possible even paler than before. Thorin stood over him, his hard breath making plumes of vapour in the air in front of him. He could still feel his muscles shaking from the exertion as he looked down at the dead body below him. It had been so long, but it was finally done.
A dull thump sounded from the nearby shore, and Thorin looked up from the dead orc to see that green dragon settling down close to him, looking like a raven folding its wings and returning to its nest after a long day’s flying. Steam flowed lazily from its nostrils, and its head lowered towards its chest.
Thorin should have been afraid of the beast, should have been on his guard for another battle. But this dragon had helped him defeat the dreaded Azog. And right now it seemed more like a sleepy child, waiting for permission to close it eyes completely.
He bent down and wiped the blade of his sword against Azog’s rough loincloth, impassively watching the rusty streaks it left behind.
When he stood up again, the dragon was nowhere to be seen, vanished as if by magic. He squinted hard towards the shore and then he saw it: in the dragon’s place lay a small, fragile body, pink skin against the white snow.
‘Bilbo,’ he whispered into the quiet air, realization hitting him like a dunk in cold water.
Thorin jumped from ice float to ice float, his feet sliding, almost falling down several times until he reached the shore, sinking to his knees next to Bilbo. The snow was melting around Bilbo’s body and as he scooped his hands under him, easily picking him up, he marvelled at the heat still rising from that small body. The dragon fire was slow to leave, apparently, even after the body had changed and diminished back into its original state. If this indeed was Bilbo’s original state, he wondered, carrying him down the hill, calling out to Dwalin and his nephews as they finished off the last straggles of orcs and goblins.
And when he heard the cry of the Great Eagles above him, he knew that the battle was finally won.
X—X
Bilbo’s head was pounding when he opened his eyes again. This was the first time in his life that he had done the change twice within the span of a month. He felt lucky to still be alive.
He could see a figure sitting on a cot out of the corner of his eye, and he opened his dry lips to speak.
‘Water…’ he croaked, not recognizing his own voice.
A broad hand held his head slightly at an angle while a tin cup was placed at his lips, tipping tepid water into his mouth. It tasted like life to Bilbo. He drank greedily, ignoring the ache in his throat as he gulped it down until the cup was emptied.
‘More?’ a deep voice asked.
Bilbo wanted to shake his head but was afraid of aggravating the pain any further. ‘No…thank you,’ he whispered, licking his dry lips as his head fell back on the pillow.
Bilbo slept.
It was evening when he next woke, the smell of cooking carrying in through the flaps of the healing tent.
‘I brought you some stew,’ the voice spoke again, ‘and some of that Elvish bread which sustained you while hiding in the halls of Mirkwood.’ Somebody sat down on a chair next to his cot. ‘Can you eat?’
Bilbo let his head fall to the side, looking at the dwarf. ‘You know me, Thorin. I can always eat.’ He chanced a small smirk, ignoring his aching jaw as he did.
‘Yes, I know you,’ Thorin murmured as he dipped the bread in the stew and held it up to Bilbo’s mouth, watching as he chewed slowly, his jaw moving in jerky circles. He offered another piece as he said carefully, ‘we found your clothes in that ruin in Dale.’ He avoided Bilbo’s gaze. ‘Do you always have to remove them before…?’
‘Yes.’ Bilbo swallowed his mouthful. ‘Or my tailor would be quite a wealthy hobbit. Large, scaly wings do wear and tear the stitches of my coat.’
Thorin couldn’t stop a small smile. ‘How long have you been able to—’
‘Change into a dragon?’ Bilbo thought it was time they said the word. ‘Since childhood. My mother claimed that a distant Took cousin, I don’t know how many times removed, was able to do the same. Apparently, he used his flaming breath to clear wooded areas for farmers when they wanted new fields for fresh crops. Made him quite respectable despite, you know, being a dragon.’
‘And you?’ Thorin offered another bite of food.
Bilbo chewed. ‘I don’t do it often. As you can see,’ he raised his arms lamely from the sickbed, ‘it rather knocks the stuffing out of me afterwards. But when I do…’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘I fly.’
‘Fly?’
‘As far as way as I am able away from Hobbiton, seeing everything I could see from high up in the sky, marvelling at the changing landscapes just outside of the Shire. Feeling the cold winds over the mountains and listening to the rush of the sea as it came into shore.’ Bilbo’s voice was hushed and reverent.
‘That sounds wonderful,’ Thorin murmured, loving the change that had come into Bilbo’s face.
‘It is, it is wonderful.’ His face suddenly closed and he looked down at the thin blanket covering him. ‘Until the pain sets in afterwards, making you feel like your body has been torn apart and then stitched back together with especially thick darning needles, confining you to your bed for days afterwards, not being able to stand or sit without help.’ He brushed a hand over his lap. ‘So I do not do it often.’
‘But you’ve done it twice within the last month,’ Thorin said, placing the half-empty bowl of stew on the floor next to him. ‘Why?’
‘Because I had to. You wanted to take back the mountain from Smaug.’ He shrugged. ‘We got it back.’
‘And the battle?’
‘You were surrounded,’ Bilbo said, still not looking at Thorin. ‘I had to defend you.’
‘You did that? Endured all this pain? For me?’
‘I have seen what you are ready to do for those you love.’ Bilbo shook his head. ‘Why do you wonder that I am willing to do the same for the one I love?’
Bilbo picked at a loose thread in his blanket, listening to the sounds of men, elves and dwarves in the camp outside. Somewhere, someone was singing a song while a woman laughed loudly at an unheard joke. But inside the tent, the silence lengthened and thickened, threatening to swallow Bilbo up where he lay.
‘I have ceased wondering about you, Bilbo Baggins,’ Thorin finally said. ‘Gandalf promised you were quick-witted and quick-footed and that you are, indeed. But he said nothing of your courage, your loyalty, your wisdom, your kindness.’ He paused. ‘I feel I should be more astounded at finding one of my closest companions to be a skin-changer but not when it is you, Bilbo.’ His voice was warm and fond. ‘This is just another one of your many marvellous qualities.’
Bilbo could feel warmth flooding his cheeks. ‘Well, don’t expect another display of this particular quality anytime soon.’ He looked up at Thorin and smiled.
‘I don’t think you need to. Rumours are already flooding through the camp of the huge, green dragon which cut down half the goblin army in defence of Thorin Oakenshield’s claim on Erebor.’
Bilbo raised one eyebrow. ‘Huge?’ He knew that he was no bigger than the width of Bag End in his dragon form.
‘Twice the size of Smaug himself, some say! Claws like spears and teeth like swords! Or was it the other way around?’ Thorin finished with a wry chuckle. ‘They say that the new King under the Mountain is a friend of dragons and that Erebor itself is now under the protection of this most fierce dragon.’
Bilbo shook his head. ‘Well, at least they were right about the friend bit.’
‘So, you see there is no need for you to show off your wings for quite some time. The tales of your horrible greatness is enough to keep away any other greedy thieves, be they dragon or no.’
‘Just don’t expect me to spend my nights sleeping in your treasure hall. I’m not sure my poor back could take it!’ Bilbo giggled shortly before stopping with a wince and a hiss, rubbing his ribcage ruefully.
Thorin reached out and placed his hand over Bilbo’s. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured. ‘You saved me - you saved all of us.’
‘I couldn’t stop the battle.’ Bilbo looked down at that broad hand covering his own.
‘But you tried,’ Thorin said. ‘You were surrounded by madness and stubbornness and yet you tried to make everything right.’
Even though Bilbo had long since given it up, he could still remember how the Arkenstone had weighed the corner of his pocket down, how it had swung against his belly as he walked, a steady rhythm always following his steps.
‘Not everything,’ he said. ‘I lied to you; I cheated you of your birthright.’
‘A birthright I was not worthy to claim until I had paid my debts. You saw it when I could not. Will you forgive me my blindness and careless cruelty?’
Bilbo looked up into his eyes, turning his hand over and threading his fingers lightly through Thorin’s. ‘If you will forgive me for stealing from you?’
‘I already have.’ Thorin’s voice was warm.
‘And I you.’ Bilbo spoke softly but with an ore of iron running through it.
Thorin’s smile grew irrepressibly wide and he glanced away, his eyes shining.
Noticing the discarded bowl of stew on the ground, he said, ‘Now, can your jaw stand a few more bites? I’ll stay away from the meaty chunks if you like, although,’ He picked up the stew, tilting the bowl slightly and poking at it with a spoon, ‘they look more like greyish dumplings than any meat I’ve ever seen.’ He raised one eyebrow at Bilbo. ‘Do dragons eat dumplings?’
‘With great relish!’ The weight of the last weeks had finally left Bilbo’s chest, leaving him more happy than he could remember being for a long time. When had he last felt like this? When they had been feasted in Lake-town? No, he had had a cold then and the peak of the mountain still waiting for him in the horizon.
No, it had been in Beorn’s garden, a place of peace and plenty. It had somewhere to sit down and the song of birds to divert you. It had been the last place that Bilbo could truly breathe freely.
He looked up at Thorin holding out a spoonful of stew, smiling at him like that. Until now.
Thorin didn’t seem to notice Bilbo’s absent mind as he balanced a dumpling on its way to Bilbo’s mouth. ‘Encampment food have always been terrible, most cooks are confined to one pot and one fireplace. You wait, Bilbo, you wait until we’ve rebuilt Erebor. And then we will have feasts like my forbearers did in its prime: half a boar for every guest, a selection of exotic fowls from far away, a multitude of cakes and fruits to choose from.’ He scooped up another spoonful for Bilbo. ‘I know hobbits are well-accustomed when it comes to food but you just wait and see.’
Bilbo chewed and swallowed, his eyes never leaving Thorin’s face. ‘I will,’ he said because he was quite certain, more certain than he had ever been of anything in his whole life, that he would wait, that he would stay here with Thorin.
X—X
It is a common fact that nobody likes fantastical stories more than the race of men. Perhaps it is because of their short lives that they seek to lengthen and enrich them with sharing stories of a multitude of lives and ages. Maybe it is because, unlike the race of elves, none live to remember the awakening of the world, so all of history becomes a collection of stories told to entertain rather than to enlighten, passing them on to their children to embroider and elaborate.
The one about the Emerald Dragon of Erebor, first told in the rebuilt city of Dale, is just such a tale, full of adventure and wonder. It is said that a great, green dragon had guarded the treasure of Erebor in long gone days, friendly to the dwarves living and working around it, the only time that a dragon had ever shared treasure with others. Sometimes it would leave the mountain, stirring the winds as it flew over Dale, over the Long Lake, over Greenwood, off to who-knows-where. But it would always return to the mountain.
Some of the younger people would also tell this story, adding that the dragon hadn’t really been a dragon at all but a skin-changer. And that this skin-changer had been nobody else but the dwarven king’s consort himself - a hobbit from a strange and mysterious land in the West. He had stayed in this part of the world, the great love he shared with King Thorin keeping him bound to the mountain forever.
And the old people of Dale would listen with fond, if slightly patronising smiles, saying that the young will always have a hankering for romance, before pouring themselves another pint and starting another story.