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Chapter Text

However unexpected, the matter between Bilbo Baggins and his thirteen dwarf friends was not that complicated an affair. They don't expect much of him the first time they meet, and even Bilbo himself does not prepare to face any less than a complete disaster when he decides to join them. Yet they all find themselves surprised, because while the hobbit might not be quick to draw his sword to fight, his quick thinking is more than capable of getting them out of the need to do so in the first place. Once, twice, thrice Bilbo saves the skins of his companions, and they in turn bow down to him in promise to be forever at his service with their ever growing beards.

And that is the gist of it, of anything in life, really. You give or preserve something of value and gain gratitude for it whether you like it or not.

The matter with the dragon, however, is another story entirely. They are at the end of their journey when Bilbo meets the notorious Smaug that has made it its right to dwell in the mountain which his friends want to reclaim. He sees it sleeping among all of its gold and silver and precious stones, looking like it won't notice a thing, and in a bout of arrogance Bilbo has the idea to steal a piece of its treasure.

He has signed up to be a burglar, after all.

A great two-handled cup, as well as the right to brag about it to the dwarves, is his price for endangering his life. A worthwhile treasure if one wanted to live in comfort for most of their lives. A small gain when the wrath of Smaug resonates through the mountain, spreading dread to their bones and fear in their eyes.

And curse them dwarves for accepting his proposal to sneak back into the dragon's quarters to see what it was on about like it was brilliant an idea! It should be against his nature, against all the rules of self-preservation to near a dragon willingly –with or without a magic ring.

But in Bilbo goes, and this time, Smaug meets him with wakefulness.

"I smell you, thief," it says to him, its voice a low grumble that makes the stone walls of its lair shudder. "I feel your air and hear your breath. Come on in, help yourself."

And Bilbo does help himself. In fact, he does his very best to help himself out of this mess and to save his own skin for a change. And that is the difference between his association with the dwarves and this monstrous creature.

For saving the lives of Thorin and his company he got a vastness of gratitude. For saving his own life he gets the dragon's immortal curiosity.

"I am Ringwinner and Luckwearer; and I am Barrel-rider," Bilbo finishes his list of suitable titles he had gathered along the way.

"Lovely titles, but pray tell, what is your actual name," the dragon murmurs in impatience. "No, never mind the irrelevance of a name, what are you?"

"Nothing compared to you," Bilbo answers, making the dragon both sated and annoyed.

"You reek of dwarf, but that is not what you are," Smaug says after a while, making Bilbo's heart skip a beat at the thought of his friends' intrusion of the mountain being found out by this creature. "The Barrel-rider who is neither an elf nor a human. Fascinating."

"Well deduced." The sarcasm in his voice is involuntary, and for a moment Bilbo is ready to face a fiery death, but Smaug only seems overly pleased instead.

"Of course! I have categorized the smells of many a creature in my memory. Yours however I have never come by," the dragon says, sniffing the air in a manner of superiority. "Now show yourself, little thief, lest you want me to torch you and your thirteen dwarf friends."

Now, Bilbo could have chosen to hare off in the hopes to outrun fire and wrath, but he thinks of his friends and does not want to lead ruin to them if he can help it. Smaug has presumably already had every opportunity to take his life, but it hasn't, and Bilbo has plenty of words left to perhaps talk his good self out of this deep, deep mess of a situation. So he takes off his ring of invisibility, and steps into the range of the dragon's sight.

Only to be laughed at. "And so he steps into the light! Oh, look at you tiny thing, I would have expected a thief more bright than one so ready to reveal themselves to me."

"Bright I would have been indeed when you’d have set me on fire as was promised had I not done your bidding!" Bilbo growls displeased all over. It is one thing to be threatened, but insults he would never accept as they came.

"Your choice to obey does not prevent the fiery fate that awaits you, Barrel-rider, it only prolongs it,” tells the dragon, puffs of black smoke venturing from its nostrils before it cackles in a way that makes Bilbo’s skin crawl. “But do come down from there, for I still have no clue as to what you might be. I must examine you.”

"First you laugh at me for revealing myself to you, then you tell me my inevitable fate. You will excuse me, o Smaug the tyrannical, if I seem hesitant to near you willingly," Bilbo points out dryly, still a bit miffed at being laughed at by a giant reptile.

"Is it my outer appearance that frightens you so?" Smaug questions almost innocently. “If yes, then the one compromise I can make is to turn into a resemblance of a man to lull you into a false sense of security. Maybe then you would be more eager to present yourself to me, well and proper?”

Bilbo only stares for a while. "That's not possible, is it?"

"What?" The dragon's giant eyes narrow with thinning patience, its heavy intakes of breath grumbling in its throat.

"For you, being the size that you are, to turn into a man. It's not possible."

"You infuriating little-! Fine then, it is not my preferred form because it makes me look something akin to you, but I'll show you, if not to kill your disbelieves, then to fit into that tiny tunnel of yours to kill all of you little mice that hide there."

Having said that, the dragon starts to change shape, the glow of its fire waning as it shrinks out of sight and into the growing darkness. Soon there's nothing left to see or to hear, as even the breathing that had filled the room before disappears.

Bilbo waits quietly, afraid to produce a sound other than the rapid beat of his heart which he cannot halt for obvious reasons. Then he spots a breath of fire in the distance, seeing it catch something that starts to burn and bring light to its surroundings.

"Come to me, thief," comes a voice from the darkness, still rich and deep though not as heavy as before. "Or I shall come to you."

Hearing the amused threat made Bilbo's feet move almost without his consent, and he stumbles in the dark, falling down, stepping on and bumping into all sorts of unforgiving objects. "Just hold on a minute," he mumbles more to himself that he does to the dragon, drawing out his sword as he approaches the fire.

On top of a mountain of gold he finds the creature, long abandoned torches which it had lit to help Bilbo find his way illuminating enough for the hobbit to see that it was no more a dragon that greeted him, but rather a dragon who attempted to look like a human.

It has a dark mop of curls for hair, and aside from its high cheekbones and piercing gaze, Bilbo could not label its face unusual. But it also has huge, heavy wings on its back that make the dragon fight for its balance every time it moves them in this unused form. It has its tail also, and a body that is alive with indecision, shifting and reshaping, either pale, porcelain skin or a fiery red of the dragon's scales.

There is a spot, however, which remains unmoved even amid all the restlessness. On the left side of its breast is a patch of human skin that stays as it is, a little bruised, vulnerable and just above its beating heart.

Bilbo swallows and does not let his eyes linger.

"Well now," the dragon says, reaching out with its hand to touch Bilbo in some way. Bilbo flinches and clutches his sword a little tighter.

"I went through much trouble trying to be your size, and yet you are very small still," Smaug laughs, retreating its hand without having its touch land when Bilbo swished Sting to make it very clear that he was not comfortable receiving it. "Do you honestly think you can hurt me with that thing of yours?"

Bilbo looks between Sting and the smirking dragon and scowls despite his situation.

"It gives me courage and I need every bit I can get right now." He says, lowering his weapon despite his words. Because Smaug is right, isn't it? Folk like him would never have what it takes to slay a dragon.

"And why would you be in need of courage? Does my form not comfort you?" Smaug continues with its questions, its voice growing tones of amusement and curiosity.

"You may be smaller in size, but it does not mean your ways to kill me have grown any lesser," replies Bilbo, eyes every now and then taking a look at the creature's chest to make sure it remained a weakness.

"Not entirely true," comes a laugh. "I now cannot step on you or eat you whole, even though you are such a small... whatever you are. Come now, you must tell me what you are."

"I am what I am," Bilbo says and doesn't think it wise to reply with anything more informative.

"Annoying is what you are. Maybe I ought to just kill you, hmm?"

It is not something Bilbo would agree with, passing onto legend as the burglar who as his last deed managed to annoy a dragon. So he does what he does rather well, and thinks as fast as he can.

"But then you would never know what I am," he blurts out. "You are so proud of your collection of scents yet you would not be able to put a name on the one that stole a piece of your treasure."

Smaug narrows its eyes at his words, but doesn't say anything. It shifts and it breathes, humane expressions dancing on its face like the scales and skin do on its body. It looks angered, it looks like it doesn't care, then there's boredom and finally just the need to know.

"Fine then, you have my curiosity," the dragon growls, a smirk quick to grow on its face just afterwards. "You may return to your dwarf friends. Though do tell them to camp outside my mountain. I don't like the reek of them."

Bilbo stares and blinks. "You- you are just going to let me go?"

"Indeed I am."

"Just like that?" He asks for confirmation, looking over his shoulders as if there would be a crowd ready to laugh at his naivety.

"Yes," says the dragon, settling to lie on its belly among all of its gold.

"Right then," Bilbo hesitates, taking backward steps until he feels the riches beneath his feet start giving away and falling towards the ground. "I'll just go now, shall I?"

"I will see you later, little thief," the supposed farewell follows him down the golden pile, and Bilbo turns to look back even though it was the last thing he thought he ought to do.

"See me later? You expect me to come back?" He asks with a little laugh that is just a bit desperate.

"Oh, don't be dull, Barrel-rider. Of course you will return. You are here for my treasure, after all."

"I might give up on that," Bilbo says up to the pile where he can see nothing but the waning light of the torches. "I might run away."

"And I might enjoy the chase," says the dragon, to which Bilbo finds no reply other than to leave back the way he came from.

 

---

 

The dwarves don't take the news he brings very well. Granted, Bilbo doesn't go into much detail about the conversation held, only telling that were they to run, there would be chase, and were they to attack, they would most likely end up being beaten and eaten.

They do, however, pay a keen interest when Bilbo tells them about the possible weakness in armour on the left side of the dragon's breast. The ravens around them listen well and fly away when the dwarves pat Bilbo on the back and encourage him to go spy on the dragon some more.

"Running would be foolish, not that we'd ever choose to do so having come this far," Bofur smiles to him. "So best we can do now is to gather as much knowledge on it as possible. And you, my friend, have proven to be excellent at just that!"

Everyone but Bilbo agrees with this, and so there is little else to do but to return into the dragon's lair.

 

---

 

"Welcome back, thief," Smaug says smugly, still lying on its belly on the exact same spot even though Bilbo had managed to put off his return for two days.

"I half expected to find a dragon here," Bilbo says as a greeting, taking a seat somewhere near the creature, not bothering with pleasantries as he was still quite miffed with the dwarves for having sent him on such an errand.

"It takes an effort to change shapes," drawls the dragon lazily. "An effort which I see no reason to make."

"Right." Bilbo agrees. "So what shall we talk about today? The weather, perhaps?"

"Weather is dull; it has no effect on me. But I would have you tell me your reasons for being here."

The dragon turns its body so that it would be easier for it to scrutinize Bilbo as it ponders on. "I suppose they promised you a share of the gold, but how are you to take it home, I wonder? You have one, a home, is that not right? So why follow a company of dwarves who have not got one into this certain death that you have now arranged for yourself? Where is there a gain in that?"

"There is no gain," says Bilbo quietly. "No gain other than over thirteen friendships and stories to tell."

"And what are those friendships and stories worth when you die for nothing?"

"A lot more than all of your gold when you die alone!" Bilbo snaps, not liking how his every uncertainty is being spoken out loud.

The dragon stares and stares, wonder growing on its features as it props itself to lean on its elbows.

"Are you that selfless?" It asks like it's the first time it sees Bilbo. "Are you what they call golden hearted?"

"No," Bilbo denies, growing a bit uneasy by the sudden wonderment. "I am a burglar."

"How many chances did you have to walk away? And how many of those did you fail to take even while knowing that there is nothing for you at the end of this journey? No, you are here because valour and loyalty would not let you be anywhere else. What a treasure for me to have!"

With that, Smaug is on its feet, jumping towards Bilbo and trapping his tiny body underneath its resemblance of a human form. Bilbo doesn't know which hurts more, the dragon's iron grip on his arms or the precious metals pressing against his back, but it all seems so irrelevant when Smaug has an uncontrollable look of greed in its eyes and the back of its throat glows like an oncoming flame.

"Gold with a beat of its own! I want it! Show me your heart!"

And Bilbo tries his best to struggle when there's a clawed hand on his chest, ready to tear him apart.

"I can't show you my heart! That would kill me and you should know better than anyone that there is nothing but blood and gore when you rip someone to pieces!"

He doesn't tell the dragon that the treasure it yearns is just a figure of speech, even amidst all of his panic, for surely every interest he can rouse in the dragon lengthens his lifespan.

Smaug hesitates, seems to gather its wits and doesn't stop Bilbo when he scrambles away from under it. They stare at each other, one terrified and other still in a daze from having its nature take it over. And in both of their minds lingers forming plans concerning the other's heart.

"Then how am I supposed to have it if not by taking it?" The dragon asks.

"It's not yours to take but mine to give to whom I will," Bilbo answers, quickly continuing when he sees Smaug open its mouth to say something to that. "And don't think for a second that I'd choose to give it to you, no matter all the threats or bribery you'd think of. That's not how it works."

For being denied its heart's desire, Smaug looks infuriated. The fire burning at the back of its throat turns into thick, black smoke that comes from out of its mouth as it glares at Bilbo through hateful eyes. Then it turns its back to the hobbit, slumps heavily down on its gold and doesn't move from there.

"You may go now," it dismisses Bilbo with a moody tone.

And Bilbo doesn't need to be told twice as he's already going, turning back only when he has slid down far enough to feel the rock-hard ground underneath his feet.

"Do you still expect me to come back?" He asks into the dimness, but receives no answer.

So to the dwarves he returns.

 

---

 

It is beyond obvious that they have reached an impasse. The dwarves are too set on their quest to away from the mountain, yet not brave enough to challenge its resident. Their thinning supply of food makes their time limited, and it becomes even more so when the ravens bring news of the restlessness of the humans down by the lake as well as the movements of an army of foul creatures.

Thorin sends out a word asking for an army of his own kin, to which the reply is exactly what the dwarf wants to hear.

In the meanwhile Bilbo performs his duty by spending his days surrounded by darkness. The route to the particular pile of riches becomes familiar to him, because Smaug never seems to move. Every time Bilbo goes to it, it lies where he left it; always half asleep but never off guard.

And they talk about mundane things in order to prolong the inevitable, riddling each other and sharing their knowledge of the world. The dragon has a liking to metal, ash and death, while Bilbo prefers to go on about things that grow, Old Toby and life.

Those are not bad memories to look back on when he's older, Bilbo thinks. He doesn't think many exist who can proclaim having conversed with a dragon in such a casual manner. But at the same time he's growing more fearful, because it's not right, not in any natural sense. His concern is that this is the false lull of security the dragon had promised him. That he is nothing but an insect humouring a bored reptile.

He thinks this even while being unable to keep his hand from touching the dragon's hair softly, letting the curls of it wrap themselves around his fingers while Smaug asks him, "Do you wish to tame me, Master Luckwearer?" while not moving a muscle to stop him, or even opening its eyelids to peer at him with any sort of resentment.

And, "Only your hair," is what Bilbo says to it, completely missing the opportunity to stick something sharp into the heart of Smaug while it lies there, content.

Maybe the both of them were starting to grow a bit delusional underneath the mountain where time seemed to stay still while the world outside kept on moving.

"I don't know what to do," Bilbo confesses to the dragon one day in an attempt to speak over the loudest debater of the moment: his growling stomach.

"About what?" It asks as if already bored with the subject.

"War is brewing," he says, eyes distant as he thinks of the armies gathering on the roots of the mountain. "And I'm no warrior. This might actually be the last time I wish to be back at home."

He smiles sadly at Smaug who observes him from the corner of its eye, listening but not giving much care.

"A war over what?" Smaug wonders absently.

Bilbo considers this, swallowing thickly. The dragon is certainly no fool and should be very aware what motivation an army of any race and size would have to march within the vicinity of its mountain. But it waits for Bilbo's answer, and it makes the hobbit feel like it's in his power to set the inevitable into motion.

"For the land and the right to call it theirs," Bilbo says, pausing before he continues. "Along with the trees and the lake and this mountain…"

"You may say it, burglar," says the dragon unconcerned. "They are coming for my gold."

"Ultimately, yes," Bilbo nods, feeling all sorts of nervous.

"No," Smaug grins lazily as it raises itself to a sitting position, its tail whipping itself against the treasure underneath them as the sounds of the first war drums start to echo in the deep caverns. "They do not come to fight a war against my rule or the right for my gold. They come to get slaughtered."

 

---

 

Bilbo runs as fast as he can. He's surrounded by absolute darkness, still, but the route has become very familiar to him by now, and the closer he gets to the secret entrance, the brighter his sword starts to shine and aid him in navigation. He never makes it to the entrance, not quite, because the dwarves meet him halfway.

"We saw Smaug take wind under its wings," Thorin says, out of breath and a bit unsettled. "What is going on?"

"It's defending the mountain from the gathering armies," Bilbo answers, pointedly speaking of defence rather than slaughter. "What are we to do?"

There's a moment of fear shared between all who don't have the mind of Thorin. They fear that they are about to be ordered into battle against goblins and men and elves and a dragon. The help Thorin had pleaded for had not yet arrived, and so they would have no strong foothold on the oncoming war.

But the mind of Thorin Oakenshield is set on another perspective entirely.

"We will take this mountain as ours now that the beast is gone," he declares firmly. "We will reclaim our halls and protect them from the unwelcomed."

"What about the war?" Asks Ori, hesitant but not unwilling to follow.

Thorin is already on his way deeper into the mountain when he says the final word. "Let them kill each other and we'll fight whoever there is left to fight."

It is a good plan, the best one their situation could possibly let them have.

But Bilbo doesn't like it. He doesn't like it at all.

 

---

 

There is a sickness growing in Thorin's eyes. The more he sees of the piles of riches laid down on the magnificent halls which his fathers had built, the more detached he seems to become from reality.

His companions aren't doing much better, rejoicing as if this is the end of their journey and nothing in the world stood in their way anymore.

"The Arkenstone! Find the Heart of the Mountain!" Thorin commands, his movements becoming hectic as he lusts for the treasure of treasures. And so they search while stuffing every bag and pocket full of riches.

Bilbo is the one who finds it. There's no mistaking the jewel in his hands for anything less than what it is. He says nothing to the others, only wraps it in cloth and slips it into his pocket before he goes to talk to Thorin who is still set on finding the Arkenstone and hasn’t go the mind to think of nothing else.

"You need to prepare to defend your mountain," Bilbo reminds the dwarf. "You still have to fight to keep all this. There's plenty of time to search afterwards."

Thorin agrees reluctantly and starts to give out orders. They head for the main entrance where they plan on building a solid defence from rock and stone. It is from there that Bilbo gets his first look at the dale below the mountain.

And there lies a sea of chaos, goblins and men and elves fighting amidst the fire that Smaug keeps breathing from the sky while clouds of arrows try to bring it down. The sight makes Bilbo feel nauseous, thinking that all of them fight to get the right to stand on the exact spot where his feet now touch the mountain. And he feels even more ill when there is the sound of a horn blowing in the distance, setting a light in Thorin's eyes as he and his companions cheer for the nearing army of dwarves, all of whom have been baptised in battle.

'This is no place for a hobbit,' Bilbo thinks desperately. 'I have no place in this at all.' He goes over in his head what chance of running away he would have and how much of a coward that would make him. And he wonders if it would do him any good to help the dwarves build up their defence and hope for the best in some small crevice inside the mountain.

But he stops to think altogether and runs out of breath when he forgets to inhale. For a crow had flown to a man and told him the weakness of Smaug the Terrible. And the man, though surprised he could understand the bird, took aim and shot his last, trusted arrow as Smaug flew over him. It hits its mark and Smaug screams excruciating howls of pain and trashes in the air as it tries to fly somewhere away where it can land without instantly being hacked to pieces by axes and swords and spears.

What Bilbo does next is insanity.

He disappears from out of sight with the aid of his ring (cowardice). He stumbles down the mountain and into a camp of men where he finds Gandalf, gives him the Arkenstone and tells him to use it against Thorin Oakenshield if it came down to that (betrayal). In the confusion he takes whatever necessary he can from the camp (theft).

And then he runs. Past fire and corpses and continuation of a war, completely ignoring what Gandalf shouts after him.

He had never been in control of this madness, so why try now?

 

---

 

There is a clearing now where Smaug had hit the ground. Trees have fallen down under its weight, some are on fire and some covered in the dragon's blood. Even rocks have given way and have moved or split. But there is not a sign of the dragon itself.

Bilbo breathes heavily from his endless run, the oncoming winter making his exhales evaporate.

Dragon corpses don't just evaporate, however. Smaug must have changed its form, something that only Bilbo knows it is capable of doing. The hobbit finds hope growing in his chest as he takes a better look at his surrounding while wiping the sweat on his brow onto his sleeve.

No one would just assume a dragon has died. Someone would be coming to ensure the slaughter, which would make it wise for Smaug to go into hiding in a less noticeable form. And Thorin, he remembered, had said something about caves and them seldom being unoccupied.

'Right then,' Bilbo braces himself, setting his jaw and straightening his back.

 

---

 

Smaug lies in a small cavern of dirt and rock. It doesn't have its wings or tail, only a small fraction of its body consisting of dragon scales anymore. It looks more human now than it had ever looked before, pale and gasping for air as it lies on its makeshift nest without clothing of any kind or a stopping to the bleeding on its chest.

Smaug looks fragile. It looks like it is dying.

"Have you come to immortalize your name, Master Dragon Slayer?" It asks with a wheezy breath when Bilbo finds it. Smaug seems calm despite its nearing end, and does nothing when Bilbo kneels beside it.

"I'm not after immortality," the hobbit tells it quietly, observing the black arrow still stuck on its chest.

"Then why have you come?" Smaug questions, staring at Bilbo as he digs into the rucksack he had pillaged on his way here.

"I don't know," Bilbo answers, eyeing the ointments and bandages which he had managed to find, thinking that his patient is a dragon and how he really isn't a healer.

"Why are you here?" Smaug repeats. "What do you wish to gain from this?"

"I don't know!" Bilbo cries, suddenly feeling so useless in his lack of knowledge that he just does whatever there is to do and rips the arrow straight off the dragon's chest in one quick motion. Smaug lets out an indescribable sound that would be sure to draw attention had someone been near enough to hear it, but Bilbo just lets it scream as he presses a cloth down on the wound as hard as he can.

"I don't know why I'm here, and I have no idea what I'm doing!" he half sobs as Smaug writhes underneath him. "I'm just a hobbit and I wish I was back at home, at Bag End where I belong."

"A hobbit?" The dragon takes interest even through the pain. "Is that what you are? A hobbit."

"Yes," Bilbo laughs weakly despite his hands getting coloured with the dragon's blood.

"I fear your methods of healing are of no help to me, Master Hobbit." The dragon says when it sees the way Bilbo’s hands tremble from both fear and strain, sounding unconcerned, as if it wasn't its life that was on the line.

"I have some ointments if those would be of-" Bilbo starts, feeling panic rise in him all over again.

"No. Us immortals, we live by different rules and methods. My magic is what is keeping me alive, though it is draining away from me. You can imagine why."

The truth makes Bilbo lean backwards, leaving his hands unhelpful and red as they dangle by his side.

"And what reason do I even have to fight for my life? I will never again have the power to reclaim my treasure. Why would I cling to this forsaken life like a desperate beast?"

"I can't believe you! Man, dwarf or dragon, the ruin of you all will come from your own lust for power and gold! Fine then, please consider this: knowledge can be considered as power if you know how to use it right, and you already are knowledgeable. Why not hoard information which cannot be taken from you even in death?"

The dragon looks surprised, and then suspiciously cunning as it slowly rises to sit in front of the hobbit who has a hard time looking at it in the eye. The rest of the dragon scales merge into human skin and the bleeding comes to a slow end.

"But what of gold? A need to be in possession of a great treasure is in my nature," the dragon says as it stares down at Bilbo whose ears turn red, because he has read tales of the charisma of these creatures, and he feels awfully like he's being driven into a web from which he cannot escape.

"I have no treasure to offer you," says Bilbo, gaze still firmly locked on the ground.

When the dragon doesn't say anything but remains where it is, in front of him and staring on with much more patience than Bilbo has, the hobbit finally gives in to the urges to have his peek. And he sees a pair of ash-grey eyes staring at him with such an unbearable expression that he finds himself almost shouting, "Yes, alright! Fine!"

"You offer it to me?" The dragon asks voice full of both surprised delight and smugness.

"Yes," Bilbo nods weakly, embarrassed, because he likes to think himself smart, but who if not a complete dimwit would have ended up making such arrangements with a dragon? Still, he agrees not because no other choice is given, but because it is the choice he realises he wants to make.

"Even while knowing what we dragons do with our treasure?" Smaug confirms as it leans in closer.

"Yes," the hobbit sighs this time, closing his eyes as the dragon closes its arms around him.

"My golden hearted hobbit," comes a whisper into his ear, one that rattles his core and has his heart beat at a rapid pace.

And there, amidst rocks and dirt and blood, they form an unlikable and unbreakable bond. For a dragon will guard its treasure as long as it lives.

Chapter Text

Somehow, life wins at the end. The dwarves have reclaimed their mountain, and Bilbo has to keep himself busy running between it and the small cavern in the woods. Invisible and unheard he pilfers goods for eating and keeping warm to aid a recovering dragon (well, Smaug is more human in looks now, but still definitely a dragon if judged by behaviour).

Bilbo does this until Smaug declares it is dying all over again, wailing loudly about the onslaught of boredom that is now its life. There is only so much patience to withstand so much annoyance, and in the end, Bilbo watches with a crease on his brow as Smaug pulls on a dark coat of some poor man who now has to make do without it.

"Somehow this feels like a terrible mistake already," he says more to himself than to any pair of ears that might be listening. Smaug certainly does a poor job of listening at times.

"Now then, my little hobbit. Where should we be heading to?" The dragon asks as it exits the cave for the first time since it crawled into it.

"I'm not sure," Bilbo confesses. Though having been thinking about it for days, the hobbit still had little to no idea how to commence now that his brain allowed room for logical thinking. Home was his first desire, but bringing a dragon there would not be a very good idea, now would it? He’d be out of his mind expecting that a bunch of suspicious hobbits and a bored dragon would make a merry situation. Secondly, he yearned to reveal his wellbeing to Gandalf and the dwarves after having heard them search for him on the battlefields in vain. What stopped him from doing so was the thought that Gandalf would immediately recognise his association with the dragon and make sure that bad things followed.

No, no, it all sounded so very dreadful in Bilbo's head that he'd rather have had the dragon heal its wounds a little bit longer if only to give him a little more time to think.

"We shall start with the wizard," says Smaug then, to answer for him. "He ought to be of use. If not, I should gather more strength and try to summon my wings. Flying should hasten our way."

"Our way to where?" Bilbo asks warily, almost fearing the answer.

Which turns out to be a simple shrug and the word, "Home."

 

---

 

"I'm not sure about this," Bilbo frets as he struggles to keep up with Smaug's long strides. "They want your head on a golden platter. You are aware of this, yes?"

"Do not speak to me about gold," the dragon huffs in annoyance. "And I am aware of the fact, just like I am aware how ridiculously human I look at the moment."

"Yet you are very much a dragon in my eyes." The words leave the hobbit's mouth as a peeved mutter. "So don't do any of that stuff you dragons are infamous for. Like attacking the dwarves to get back your treasure. Or, I don't know, set anyone on fire by breathing on them."

More amused than offended, Smaug offers him a look over its shoulder. "I am neither strong nor unintelligent enough to try either. Do not fret my dear hobbit. I shall accept my defeat and hail the dwarves while taking care nothing unmeant catches on fire."

"I find little consolation in your words."

"I promise to behave most amiably," the dragon grins, and both of them know that while Smaug might be keeping its word, its views on what passes for amiable might be a bit lacking.

 

---

 

Bilbo is wrong. Smaug does not lack on amiableness. It doesn't even know what the word means.

"Father issues," the dragon says, eyeing Thorin up and down as they reach the root of the mountain and find a fraction of the company that had set on an adventure from Bag End.

"And what's this? A forbidden romance," it continues, sniffing a bit as it looks to the side as if to keep from revealing of whom it spoke, but by the identically devastated looks on the faces of Fili and Kili, it is not even up for guessing.

The party stands still, seemingly frozen in mid motion, for the dwarves are glad to find the hobbit alive and well, and mad about his betrayal, but ready to forgive because all had turned for the better. And then there was this complete stranger saying buried truths about them in open daylight before anyone else had had the opportunity to open a conversation.

Bilbo himself stands in shock for a while, then smacking the damned dragon on its thigh, hissing, "S-" before realising that he can't really call the dragon by its name in front of the dwarves, can he now?

"Not amiable?" Smaug looks down at him and asks.

"Very not amiable," Bilbo confirms through gritted teeth.

The dwarves take this time to recover from their general confusion, deciding to completely ignore the rude man that has accompanied their burglar as they crowd the hobbit and give him all the hugs and smiles he deserves.

Bilbo in turn has little time to enjoy the forgiveness he is being given, because soon he is lifted beyond the reach of even the tallest of dwarves as Smaug holds him high in the air like some bully.

"You already have your mountain," it hisses. "You cannot have him as well."

And then the rude man is walking away, taking the hobbit who struggles way too little for it to be an actual effort to be freed with him. They hear the hobbit shout something along the lines of, "sorry," and, “tea,” and, “welcome,” before he’s gone.

The dwarves don't know what to think. Then again, Bilbo Baggins has always been a bit strange in their eyes, so it is with a mere shrug that they continue to rebuild their kingdom.

 

---

 

They find Gandalf next, who in all his wisdom does not notice any vices in Smaug other than its bright mind and sharp tongue.

"Saved your life as well, did he?" Gandalf asks while looking between Bilbo and the dragon with a twinkle in his eye. "Our dear hobbit seems to be in the habit of doing that."

A small blush of modesty plays on the hobbit's cheeks.

"Now then, if you are to follow us all the way to Hobbiton, then let us exchange names at least," demands the wizard while looking at the dragon who in turn looks at the hobbit.

And all Bilbo has at the tip of his tongue is the actual name that he cannot give, the S of it already hissing from his lips as he desperately looks at his companion, at the pale face and the curly hair that he now has a habit of playing with.

"Sherlock," Bilbo finishes.

He receives queer looks from both of his future travel companions, but there is also a silent acceptance and the matter is deemed resolved.

 

---

 

Home had been in chaos upon their arrival. Never in his life had Bilbo thought that he would be thought dead and that his house would be in trouble while he was away. Smaug had done a wonderful job scaring away the hobbits trying to buy his stuff, though, and for that at least Bilbo could be grateful.

But now the dragon had disappeared somewhere, and Bilbo sighs heavily as he sets out to make a nice meal to help himself recover from the long journey home.

He was about half finished with his meal making when the dragon reappeared in his hole.

"Your relative had these hidden in her pockets," Smaug says to him a bit absentmindedly, pupils dialated as it holds Bilbo's entire silver cutlery to its chest as if holding the most precious thing in the world. "I made her give them back."

"Made her..?" Bilbo asks a bit unsurely.

"Nothing drastic," says the dragon while rolling its eyes at him. "Though she might have cried a little."

"Right," Bilbo hesitates to accept the answer. "Just- go put them back into the drawers if you would."

With that, the hobbit goes off to finish his meal.

 

---

 

"What is this?" Bilbo asks as he stands at the doorway and peers suspiciously into his bedroom.

Smaug lies on his bed, surrounded by all of his silverware and the gold which they had retrieved from the troll cave.

"A nest," it replies.

"A nest," Bilbo repeats blankly. "But of course it is."

He sighs and turns around.

"Where are you going?" Smaug asks him, rising to sit on the bed as it sees Bilbo retreat.

"I'm too tired to argue right now. You can have your nest and I'll sleep in one of the guestrooms tonight. We can resolve the matter of claiming the bedrooms of other's tomorrow."

But just as Bilbo is trying to leave to get a night full of good rest, Smaug stands up, grabs the hobbit and brings him back to bed with it.

"It is hardly a nest if you are not in it," the dragon murmurs into Bilbo's hair, swelling the poor hobbit's heart and eventually lulling him to sleep with the warmness of the embrace.

 

---

 

They travel quite a lot. Though not enough to allow Bilbo's relatives to think him dead. They visit the cities of men and other kindly folk, learning their lore and behaviour and other such things that Smaug seems to be utterly fascinated by.

Fascinated by too much, perhaps.

"You have an elf for a lover," the dragon says to a man who looks at it with surprise. "Surprising, considering you are but a mere mortal. Ah, but you are not, are you? A Dúnedain. Hmm, not that it makes that much of a difference."

The man looks taken aback, hand unconsciously nearing the sword at his belt as Smaug keeps on going, eyes squinted in cruel amusement as it delivers the final blow. "Not king yet."

Bilbo groans, folding the letter he had been writing to his cousin, thinking it had to be finished later. After all, those two needed to be saved from one another.

 

---

 

My Dear Frodo.

You asked me once if I had told you everything there was to know about my adventures. While I can honestly say that I have told you the truth, I may not have told you all of it.

Concerning the sole man who lives in our Shire, and yes, I do mean Sherlock by that. He was not always as he is now, and while at times I despair that I have created a monster out of him, it gives me a little consolation to think that he was one to begin with.

Crashes and smashes can be heard from the tavern as Smaug -or no, Sherlock now- picks fights quite unwittingly.

"I told you to behave!" Bilbo hollers while rushing to aid.

And poor old him does it with an idiotic grin.

 

Chapter Text

 

For all their differences in size, culture and manners, there is one thing that makes young Frodo and Smaug get along splendidly well: While Frodo has all the questions, Smaug has all the answers.

The relationship they have built is rather questionable, considering how Frodo is as afraid of the former dragon as the rest of the hobbits are, and Smaug is so uncaring of the little one that there is often a look of distain on its face if their paths happen to cross. Still, Frodo is ever curious and Smaug pleased it gets to give the right answer.

"Where do folk go after they pass?" Frodo asks one day, having already heard a hobbit-y version of the truth but willing to hear Smaug's take on the story.

"Depends on how they die," Smaug answers, not looking away from the book about socialization it had found from somewhere. "Your parents, for example, were buried underground and are currently being eaten by vermin."

On his favourite armchair Bilbo almost chokes on pipe fumes, tears gathering on the corners of his eyes at a matching pace to those of Frodo's. Smaug looks up from its book just long enough to make sure the hobbit isn't dying, and then continuing with a bored tone.

"A common death such as fatal wounds acquired in battle have folk go nowhere, assuming their bodies are not collected away by their allies or burned by enemies. In which case vultures are the first ones to get to their corpses while the vermin eat what they do not. And sometimes," it grins at the little shivering hobbit who stares at it with wide, blue eyes. "Sometimes folk get eaten alive, which just makes them go through the digestive system."

"W-who would eat someone alive?" Frodo asks even though he's so, so afraid right now and wants nothing more than to run to Bilbo and be held and told that everything is and will be all right. But he's also so, so curious still and stays even though he's itching to run, because Bilbo has promised to always be there, while this piece of information might be available only at this very moment. Sam, he knows, will think of him as very brave!

"Me," says Smaug.

"S-Sherlock!" Bilbo hollers as furiously as a hobbit is able, having regained his breath but not quite gotten rid of the small coughs that still plague him. "Don't purposely scare the wee thing," he scolds and scoops Frodo up for a comforting hug.

He takes the fauntling into the pantry room to get away from the bully, though it does little good when Smaug seems insistent on following them.

"Are you being cross with me?" It asks from the doorway, looking at Bilbo's back and giving Frodo a nasty glare when their eyes meet. The tiny hobbit whimpers and buries his face on the crook of Bilbo's neck.

"What do you think?" the hobbit asks with a testy tone.

"I do not like it when you are cross with me," says Smaug like it's the one being wronged.

"Then maybe you should apologize," Bilbo shoots back, refusing to turn and face the menace behind his back.

"I refuse to apologize for answering truthfully when a question was being asked of me!"

Bilbo wants to say something about having tact and being sensitive, but he's lived with the dragon for years now, and time has taught him that those are the very things that Smaug lacks. Brutal honesty is something it takes pride in, and asking it to change that is not something Bilbo has any right to do.

He just hopes that little Frodo will make it out of childhood without much emotional trauma caused by the dragon.

"They weren't buried," Frodo whispers suddenly, gaining the attention of the two adults.

"There, there," Bilbo tries to comfort him, batting his back, while Smaug frowns and asks, "What?"

"No one could find my parents after the river took them, so they weren't buried," Frodo clarifies with tearful defiance, daring to gain eye contact with the man now that he knew a cross Bilbo had the other on his toes. "You were wrong."

Bilbo does not mean to chuckle, but he does, the sight of a fauntling challenging a dragon in intelligence not something he ever even imagined he'd pay a witness to. Then again, there were so many unimaginable things that had come to pass during his life that he would have to take this one in a stride.

So while Smaug tsks a, "There's always something," Bilbo smiles proudly at Frodo, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes and giving out a cheerful praise of, "Well done my lad! Don't give in to the insensitive dimwit."

"Dimwit," Frodo parrots, blinking his wide eyes and getting infected by Bilbo's smile.

Smaug huffs loudly to express how displeased their little jibe made it, leaving the two hobbits to snack on honey cakes because it really couldn’t care less.

Except that later that night when Bilbo retires to the nest, he can feel an inconveniently placed silver fork poking his rump, indicating just what Smaug had thought of his commentary. The dragon lies on its side and faces the wall, its ear twitching at Bilbo's amused chuckle and the sound of the fork being carelessly tossed to the floor.

They lie in silence after that, Bilbo's eyelids growing heavy as sleep creeps upon him. Just as he's about to lose knowledge of whether he's awake or not, Smaug says, "I am not sorry," thus drawing his mind back to full yet muddy consciousness.

"So you said," Bilbo murmurs, staring at the ceiling and waiting if there was perhaps anything else the other would want to get off its chest.

"You seem calm about it compared to earlier." Sneaking a glance from over its shoulder, the dragon shifts a bit restlessly on the nest.

"I got upset because you made Frodo cry, true, but I suppose I shouldn't have expected much else of you."

"What are you trying to say?" Wriggling enough to turn around to face and frown at the hobbit, Smaug looks sour as he says, "You expect nothing but disappointment and hurt feelings from me?"

Surprised, Bilbo's eyebrows rise up high as he studies the odd expression of hurt and misunderstanding on the dragon's human face, a smile starting to tug at the corner of his lips when he says, "No, that's not what I'm saying at all," cupping Smaug's cheek in his hand before continuing. "I expect you to be yourself, nothing less, nothing more, even if that sometimes leads to tears."

"Why would I ever be someone who I am not?" Smaug asks confused.

"No reason at all," Bilbo sighs, a content smile on his face as he closes his eyes and thinks how very much he'd like to sleep now. "We're all still learning each other and adapting to this shared life. It'll work out in the end. For all of us."

Peeking through one eyelid, Bilbo lets his smile grow a bit mischievous. "I see a lot of tears and scolding in our future, though. But long as you don't eat him alive, we should be all right."

Hair tickles his brow when Smaug's deep exhale next to him makes his locks flutter, the breath sounding like a release of both relief and annoyance.

"Pity," says the other, "For he is just about the size of a perfect snack."

It's a joke Bilbo can laugh at, because Smaug has left eating folk to its dragon days.

"To you I must seem hardly any bigger than the fauntling," Bilbo muses and yawns deeply right afterwards. "Does that make me the perfect snack, I wonder?"

"Quite the contrary," Smaug denies, wrapping an arm around the hobbit and drawing him close. "Sometimes you seem bigger than life. And sometimes I find that hard to swallow."

There's not much Bilbo can say to that, because Smaug sounds sure of itself, and it's not an opinion the hobbit can repeal with any amount of bashful modesty. So he lets it be, saying nothing and accepting the fact that sometimes, Smaug found its truths in the oddest of things.

 

---

 

At times, Bilbo had been worried that Frodo would be bullied because he had Mad Mister Baggins and his intimidating human friend as his caretakers. Hobbits liked the norm, and not in any way did their dysfunctional family fit those standards.

To Bilbo's surprise, however, living with Smaug made Frodo quite popular among the young hobbitlings. Afraid as they all were, they still tented to flock in the vicinity of the strange man, daring each other to go closer or even talk to him, and trying to hide behind one another if the man turned to glare at them for being so obvious in their stalking.

Merry and Pippin especially were into the act of approach and retreat, filled with questions and downright foolhardiness as they were, these traits often taking over them whenever they got to spend nights at Bag End.

"Go ask him," Merry encourages Pippin while trying to push him in the direction of the tall man lounging in in front of the fireplace with a book in his hand.

"You go," Pippin whispers furiously, trying to dig his heels to the ground to avoid being pushed into his doom.

"Don't be a scaredy-cat."

"Says the one trying to make me go face the actual danger!"

"Not trying, just making," Merry grins, giving a rough enough shove to make Pippin stumble into the room, a blush on his face from sheer fear and embarrassment over his ungraceful entrance. Having heard the whole of the previous conversation, the man doesn't give him much mind.

"Uh," Pippin says, quickly glancing behind him to see Merry barely peeking from behind the doorway, before setting his shoulders and approaching the man with admirable resolution. Traipsing to stand beside the armchair the man occupies, he leans his hands against the armrest and thinks that things so far have gone quite well.

"What are you reading?" Pippin asks to start a conversation.

"Recipes," answers the man without sparing him a glance.

"Oh!" Delighted, Pippin grins widely because cooking is not intimidating at all and he quite likes food. "Do you like cooking?"

"Not at all," comes the reply, after which there is thick enough silence to make the tiny hobbit fidget from lack of things to say. He looks at where Merry is hiding, and sees his cousin urging him to ask what he was sent to ask, and so after a deep inhale, he lets it loose.

"Is it true that you eat folk?"

This time the man turns to look at him, the expression on his face completely neutral as he takes in the tiny creature next to him. Slowly a smile starts to creep on his face, eyelids falling to mean slits as he reaches out and picks the fauntling up by dangling him in the air from his suspenders.

Pippin yelps, flailing his arms a bit and watching the man with impossibly wide eyes as a finger pokes him to the side.

"Ribs," says the man, poking his arm next. "Shoulder."

A bit confused, Pippin only stares at him some more.

"Shank, sirloin, tenderloin, skirt," the man continues while poking the hobbit all over. Finally Pippin understands what is going on, the panic that settles in him making the man's smirk grow even more vicious. Suddenly the cookbook resting on the armchair seems a lot more sinister.

"Help! Merry!" Pippin wails, trying his best to struggle while being dangled in air. "He's going to eat me!"

Merry, to his credit, runs fast from his hiding spot, ready to attack the man that threatens to harm his cousin. Before he can land any hits, though, he gets an armful of Pippin who is being thrown at him and they fall to the ground in a heap of agitated younglings.

"What's all this racket?" Bilbo asks as he steps into the room, a plate of freshly baked cookies in his hand with one of them on its way into his mouth.

"Bilbo!" The two fauntlings yell, scrambling to stand up and running to take cover behind the older hobbit's legs.

"What are you two troublemakers up to now?" he wonders, biting the cookie and looking at Smaug with a brow raised in question. When Smaug doesn't say anything and just goes back to the recipes, Bilbo sighs out a, "No, never mind," while lowering the plate in his hand low enough that the two hands trying to reach it get what they want.

"What excellent timing, Bilbo," comments Smaug from the armchair. "We were just discussing dinner. These two need to be fattened up nicely, do you not agree?"

Pippin halts the hand that is up its way for a second helping, looking up at Bilbo startled.

"I suppose," Bilbo agrees, sending both Merry and Pippin running and screaming. A bit baffled, the hobbit looks after them, then sighing and walking to take a seat in front of the fireplace and settling the plate of cookies between him and Smaug.

"I feel like I should ask, but I'm not sure if I want to know."

Smaug only hums, reaching out for a treat and turning a page.

 

---

 

Though he is a Baggins, Frodo would not label himself as very adventurous, never mind as wild in his ways as Bilbo is known to be. He daren't leave the Shire by his lonesome, because aside from not wanting to disobey Bilbo, getting lost and never making his way back home terrifies him to no end.

But he had just so happened to pass some mushrooms during his trek in the forest, and he could not help but to yield to the urge to pick them up. Wouldn't Bilbo be pleasantly surprised?

The thing was, though, that the mushrooms weren't exactly meant for just anyone to pick, and sooner than later Frodo could hear the growling and barking of dogs that were trained to forget kindness when intruders were concerned. So he had run away as fast as he could, not paying much mind where he was running to as long as it was away from the beasts.

The next thing he knew, whilst looking behind him to ensure he had somehow kept the distance between him and his fanged followers, he had accidentally ran to the edges of a rather steep cliff. Not stopping in time, Frodo stumbled over the edge, rolling over mud and stones and sticks until he hit the rock bottom.

Faint from the unexpectedness of it all, it took a while before the pain set in. But when it did, it took a good, solid hold of his ankle, squeezing hard and unrelenting until Frodo could do nothing but wail from the intensity of it.

To make matters worse, soon the skies grew dark with heavy clouds, and when the first raindrops began to fall, Frodo knew he had to get up no matter what. But his leg protested violently when he tried to put any pressure on it, and his head spun every time he tried to sit up. So he just lied back down again, crying and crying and thinking, 'Bilbo will come looking, Bilbo will find me, Bilbo will-'

This is how, hours and hours later, Sherlock finds him. It's already well past midnight, and Frodo can barely make out the figure clad in dark fabrics from the surrounding darkness, but he can sure feel the looming presence even through his rising fever.

"There you are," Sherlock says with more irritation than usual, picking Frodo from the ground with both of his hands, ignoring his pained whimpers and shifting him around so that he could give the fauntling a piggybag ride.

Even though Frodo had never planned to be this close to the man, he was quick to wrap his tiny arms around Sherlock's neck and press his nose to the hairline in front of him. He finds no comfort in the physical contact, only on the assumption that it was home he was being taken to.

"I read a book on first aid last year," Sherlock tells him after they have spent quite some while walking. "Dreadfully boring and irrelevant, that, so I went and forgot about it, leaving myself with little knowledge on how to treat your injuries."

"I'm sorry," Frodo sobs against the man's dark hair like it's his fault.

"What I am saying is that you better make it through this, fragile as you are," Sherlock says, jostling the tiny hobbit a little bit as if to remind him of the annoyance he had caused. Frodo only bites his lip when his injuries sting.

"I'm sorry," he says again, because he had been so careless and, "Thank you," he says, because Sherlock had gone out of his way to come and find him despite it being dark and wet and unpleasant and, "Why did you come?" Frodo asks with a tiny, tiny voice, because it's so obvious this is the last place the man wants to be at, with him, doing something kind to a silly child he shares no emotional bond with or even pretends to care about.

And Sherlock's voice gets quieter as well, despite agreeing with Frodo on all of the things crooked between them, sounding vulnerable and tad bit scared when he says, "Because he is crying."

They don't speak after that, listening only to the rainfall and finding no warmth to be shared between the two drenched of them, but when they make it home and find Bilbo waiting outside in the rain, worry like years eating on his features and relief washing it all away in an instant, they come to realise that there is perhaps more than questions and answers that tie them together despite their incompatibility.

Handling the fauntling with a little more care than before, Sherlock lowers Frodo from his back and hands him into Bilbo's open arms, both hobbits sobbing and smiling at the same time.

"Foolish fauntling," Bilbo tries to scold and hugs the wee thing closer to his chest, "I was so worried."

Frodo wants to apologize, but instead an ugly sound of his throat contracting escapes him.

"We should go inside," Sherlock interrupts them, looking less annoyed now than he had earlier, though more wet and paler than ever.

"Thank you for finding him," Bilbo smiles up at the man, eyes red rimmed and tears and rain and snot running down his face in a very unflattering manner. Still, the man kneels before him and smiles a genuine, warm smile, saying a half-playful, "With you looking like that I had little else choice, did I not?"

And when Bilbo asks, "Like what?" and Sherlock says, "Like your heart is breaking," to which Bilbo half-sobs, half-laughs a, "You dimwit," before reaching out a hand as an asking to be wrapped in another hug, Frodo can't say he quite understands just what is happening around him, but when Sherlock does wrap his arms around Bilbo, leaving Frodo squished between the two adults, he knows for sure that after being orphaned and passed around by relatives, this is not a bad place for him to have ended up in.

 

---

 

"Why Bilbo?" Frodo asks Sherlock one lazy Sunday when the two of them occupy the parlour together, the hobbit on the floor trying to draw elvish runes and the man sitting on his armchair reading a book.

"You have to be more specific if you wish to get an actual answer," the other huffs.

"You always say us hobbits are awfully dull, yet you choose to live with Bilbo. Why is that?"

"Bilbo is different," comes the unspecific answer that has Frodo puff out his cheeks in annoyance. Sherlock always seems to want him to keep the questions to a minimum, but how can he do that if the answers he gets just keep raising other questions?

"How so?" the hobbitling asks and hopes it's got nothing to do with the nasty things the villagers sometimes whisper when Bilbo walks past them.

"He is a liar and a thief," Sherlock says with a hint of proudness. "As well as a barrel-rider, apparently."

"No he's not!" Frodo protests. He knows Sherlock can be mean, but he had thought that the topic of Bilbo would have him abandon that trait.

"He is. I have witnessed it first hand," the man tries to convince him.

"What? The barrel-riding?"

"No, no, not the barrel-riding," Sherlock frowns, batting his hand in the air as if to chase away strange imageries. "Nor how he buried his friends alive and afterwards drowned them as he claimed to have done when he was first introducing himself to me."

Frodo looks at him wide-eyed now, thinking how Bilbo only ever smiles and says, "All in due time, my lad," when he tries to ask him to tell more stories about his adventures.

"But he did lie to me when we first met, the clever thing," Sherlock continues, a look on his face like he's thinking of a fond memory. "And steal from me he did as well. First a great two-handled cup, and then-"

"W-what else did he steal?" the tiny hobbit asks in disbelief.

"…I wonder," is all the man says before picking up his book again –a hopelessly sappy romance novel that's been missing from Lobelia's bookshelf for the best part of the week now- indicating that he's dropping out of the conversation.

Huffing to himself, Frodo goes back to his runes, wishing he would just grow up already so that he could hear all about Bilbo's shady adventures and through that knowledge understand the two adults he's living with a little bit better.

 

Chapter Text

The last time Smaug truly fell asleep, the dragon has been informed, it slept for 60 some years. And as far as it is concerned, it was a time well spent slumbering away completely surrounded by the weight and shine of its treasure, every last ounce of it still a pleasant hum at the back of Smaug's mind.

Nowadays it doesn't sleep all that much anymore. It retires for the night with Bilbo, dares to close its eyes for five, four, three hours before waking with a start, unable to fall into a continued slumber. Bilbo worries, of course he does, which does not lessen Smaug's level of irritation.

Because it's not the dragon's lack of sleep that is the problem. The problem is that it is absolutely, completely, undeniably bored.

Sleeping has always been a good way to spend time, but since it cannot afford to take the risk of sleeping for too long anymore, it has to stay awake, and there are only so many books Smaug can read to keep itself entertained during its time of lone wakefulness. Bilbo, the stupid, fat, lazy hobbit, Smaug is starting to think, is to be blamed as well. If he had not insisted on adopting the thing that now requires too much care and affection –which Bilbo shouldn't be so ready to share in the first place, not with others- then they could have gone travelling like they used to. Like Smaug had been promised to.

Instead Bilbo chooses to rot in the Shire while taking care of the thing that weeps and shivers and hides behind the older hobbit's feet when Smaug glares at it hard and cruel, the coward. Furthermore, Bilbo doesn't even blink when Smaug storms out of the hobbit hole without sparing its words on what it thinks of this simple life and how it will distance itself from it for a good, long while lest it too becomes a stupid, fat simpleton. Lobelia too gets a glare full of daggers as Smaug passes her on its way out, seething at how she asks if they've had a little domestic and if Smaug's departure means she can have her items back now. And it's not because Smaug will miss any of Lobelia's ridiculous books or worries that it hasn't hidden her jewellery well enough so that there's a risk they might be found, but because Bilbo is too fast to agree with the condition that he is to receive his stuff back in return.

The last hollers after it demanding the dragon doesn't do anything unsavoury while out and about by its lonesome Smaug makes no promises to. And then it is out and free and while Middle-Earth might not be ready for that, Smaug sure as ever is!

And so it travels far and wide, all the way to Rohan because their horses feel so uneasy around the dragon and it never fails to amuse it when the beasts fidget while their riders look on baffled, unable to understand the reason for the odd behaviour. From there it moves on to Minas Tirith and loses itself in the vast libraries buried underneath it, hoarding information until the amount of it makes it fall asleep with ancient dust in its eyes and cobwebs crowning its dark hair.

It's only when someone taps Smaug on the shoulder that it stirs again, blinking sleep off its eyes and caring not how the oils of its human body have latched themselves onto priceless parchments about the history of races and now eat on them like acid.

"Haven't I met you before?" an all-around grey old man asks him as he runs his eyes over Smaug's person, assessing it.

"I would not know. Have you?" Smaug asks in return, rubbing at its face and feeling irritated both for having fallen asleep and being woken up.

"Yes. Yes, I rather think I have," says the man after a long, noisy release of breath. "You are that peculiar man who accompanied Bilbo Baggins after the Battle of the Five Armies. Yes."

At the mention of Bilbo's name Smaug jolts up in its haste, unsettling the dust that had started to set around it as it had slept, the gasp on its lips making the dragon inhale the mixture of fibres, particles and skin cells of curious academics which in turn results in a great, big, fiery sneeze.

"My, my, my," says the man in slight awe as they both stand there staring the papers on the table catch fire and burn merrily. "Peculiar indeed, but hardly a man, are you?"

Then they both seem to remember the worth of the parchments on fire and are quick to combine their efforts to put them out of it, flailing and patting at them hastily. After there is nothing but smoke and lost information left, the old man looks at Smaug in disbelief as if an impossible thought has just occurred to him.

"Bilbo saved your life,” he says from memory. “Or did he spare it? Do not tell me you are-"

But Smaug hasn't got the time to converse with old men when it doesn't know for how long it has slept. Instead it hurries out of the library while the last it hears of the grey old man is a stern grunt of, "Hobbits!"

It hurries the best it can and finds no amusement anymore from the way horses refuse to carry it on their backs. Sleep and food fail to matter much on its way back, and Smaug knows what Bilbo will think of that, but it can live with a scolding or two for as long as it's going to get them.

And it matters even less when the dragon makes its way through a mist infested Shire at the wee hours of the morning, hating the moist air that clings onto its hot skin as it marches on with purpose. Having travelled for so long and bearing every mile on its resemblance, Smaug hesitates only half a beat of its heart when a familiar green door comes to view, thinking how Bilbo will not approve the mud clinging onto its person but pushing the door open despite that.

Only, the door doesn't open. Frowning, Smaug tries to pull it even though that is not the way it should open, and it still doesn't. Which is strange. Because Bilbo doesn't lock his doors unless someone unpleasant is standing behind it. Unable to think of anyone unpleasant who'd be standing outside of Bilbo's door at so early in the morning, Smaug sniffs and dismisses the thought altogether, opting to be polite and knock.

And knock.

And knock.

"Who is it?" a voice it can't say it recognises asks from the other side of the door, wee and sleepy and slightly cranky sounding.

"Who are you?" Smaug asks with aggression, knocking again even though it had already gained contact to the other side. Patter of feet follow its question along with hushed whispers, after which the door is pulled ajar and two small hobbits peek from the gap of the door.

"It is Sherlock," says Frodo relieved from behind the other small one who still eyes the dragon with untrusting eyes. And for once Smaug is relieved to see how small the hobbit still seems to be.

More or less forcibly it pushes the door open, making the two hobbitlings squeak and hop from out of its way as it traipses its way inside.

"Do not tell me Bilbo has gone and taken more of you wee things in while I was gone?" it asks from the one it is unfamiliar with, a blond and round little thing that has more spunk in his eyes than it's ever seen in Frodo's.

"He did take us in," the thing answers hardly in Bilbo's defence. "Though only temporarily and only as guests."

"Us?" asks Smaug while stopping short upon finding more tiny hobbits sleeping in the parlour. "What are all these?"

"They are my cousins and friends all the way from Buckland! It's like a big slumber party, don't you think?" Frodo informs the dragon with a small, shy smile on his face which turns into embarrassed worry when he sees them start to stir.

With a sigh, Smaug is about to let the matter be, turning back to the original fauntling it was more or less used to dealing with. "Where is Bilbo? I need to talk you all out of his care."

"Beg your pardon, sir," the blond one says, sticking to his polite manners despite being about to speak his mind. "But you weren't here to offer an opinion when the decision was made. What makes you think you have the right to turn us away now?"

A small, nagging alert goes off at the edges of Smaug's mind as it stares down at the two tiny things, asking slowly, "Why was the door locked?"

"Because Mr Bilbo told us to lock it," says the blond one like that much was obvious.

"But why?" Smaug demands with a harsher tone of voice which seems to upset the younglings who have stirred up enough to notice the on goings in the next room.

And when Frodo gives an agitated answer of, "So that we'll be safe," Smaug's patience runs out and it roars, "From what?"

"From bad things," a female voice says from behind it, voice stern when she speaks to Smaug but gentler as she tells the young things of the sweets they might find in the kitchen. When most of them are gone, Lobelia looks at Smaug right in the eye with a frown on her face, resting her hands on her hips. "Look at you, finally showing up."

"What are you doing here?" Smaug asks, as utterly confused as it is displeased. "And where is Bilbo?"

"Someone has to look after these wee things," she huffs. "And not here is where Bilbo is."

"Would you just be more elaborate!?" Smaug roars again, startling both Frodo and the blond one beside him who have stayed to listen to their conversation.

"You sure are concerned for someone who left for three years and with such bravado," she glares, apparently not at all intimidated. And why should she be? In her eyes, Bilbo was the one who remained the biggest obstacle between her and Bag End. "But fine. Bad things are creeping towards us from the northeast, they say. Some in as close as Bree have had strange encounters and we do not want to risk these things occurring in the Shire, so the fauntlings from Buckland were sent here while some of us grown hobbits wandered there."

"Some of us grown hobbits, you say," Smaug snorts even though bad feelings start storming inside it. Looking at Lobelia with sharp eyes, it says, "While some of you stay behind?"

Offended, she glares at the dragon right back. "Not all of us grave for senseless adventures, mind you. But if anything foul ever finds its way here into Hobbiton, I will slay them with my umbrella if I have to!"

"But in the meanwhile you are fine cowering here while sending Bilbo face the foul things for you, is that it?"

"We sent the one most likely to know what they were doing," she says through gritted teeth, the tensions between them rising so high that Frodo and his friend have long since fled the room. "It ain't fair, but it is smart."

Unable to disagree, Smaug only grinds its teeth and curls its hands into tight fists, though none of that do it any good when all it can think about are the troubles Bilbo might be in.

 

---

 

Hobbits in Buckland say the same things about foul creatures while eyeing Smaug a bit suspiciously, and folk in Bree talk about a hobbit who was apparently on his way to Rivendell to counsel with the elves. The tightness in Smaug's chest does not lessen its hold the as it tracks down the path Bilbo has taken, and when the talk of foul turns into actual orcs, the bones of its human body start to crackle as it runs its lungs out of air.

Smaug falls down on the ground mid-sprint, howling loudly as its wings start to take form from out of its back, tearing the clothes it is wearing to shreds. Changing back into what it used to be is not an effort it likes to make because it is painful, but the more it thinks of Bilbo the bigger its body seems to grow.

(Groaning bones and stretching muscles and hardening skin, and it hurts, hurts, hurts-)

And Smaug is not sure if falling down now will prolong it or if gaining the ability to fly like this will hasten its way.

 

---

 

The group of elves gathered on a misty field outside of Rivendell can hardly be called an army. They are on horses, though, as well as well-equipped and skilled for a demanding battle if need be. Elrond rides in the front, filled with dignity and confidence that this too shall pass.

After all, they've dealt with orcs near their borders before, and he's lived for long enough to know that some days are more restless than others.

What he does not expect, however, is to have orcs come running towards their direction, screaming in what he suspects is panic and not stopping upon spotting them, only continuing to run onwards without their weapons drawn. While the elves ready themselves for an easy slaughter, the orcs keep looking behind them like they were chased by fire.

Which turns out to be quite true, when a full grown dragon comes into view from within the thick mist, its chest glowing like lit coal before it exhales a sea of fire upon the foul creatures.

"Death! Fire!" the dragon roars, its heavy landing making the ground shiver as it descends onto the field. The horses seem most unwilling to stay where they are, restlessly protesting against their riders' orders to stay put as the elves stare at the creature.

"Smaug," Elrond whispers in disbelief. "How can this be?"

Slowly, the dragon turns to look at the group of elves, its eyes narrowing dangerously and chest starting to glow again. The weight of its steps makes the land shudder again, and the dragon raises its head higher in the air as it speaks its promise, "You will all burn."

Hastily drawing their bows to shoot arrow after arrow against a foe they can do little else against while being so ill-prepared, the elves prepare for the worst, before suddenly there came a shout of, "No, no, no!"

And then Bilbo Baggins appears from out of thin air, flailing his arms in the air in distress as he runs from behind the group of elves. Elrond lets his attention shift from the fire breathing dragon onto the running hobbit, and Smaug too seems to be more interested in the halfling than it is in anything else. The fires in its chest die down and it lowers its head from the skies as Bilbo runs past Elrond's horse and onwards towards the dragon.

"What did I tell you about unsavoury behaviour!" the hobbit seems to be scolding the dragon who looks very put out, somehow.

"Nothing worthwhile!" it says back angrily. "In fact, you are the one I should burn, Barrel-rider. Then at least I would be free of the headache the thought of whether or not you have already met your miserable end always brings me!"

"And I should impale you on a fishhook for all the trouble you have just caused me, you miserable worm!" Bilbo yells back at it, making the dragon huff and turn its back to the hobbit.

"Just," Bilbo says a bit out of breath, dropping his arms to his sides and wiggling his fingers nervously before turning to look at the elves. "Give us a moment?"

"By all means," is all Elrond manages to say from his wonderment, watching Bilbo run after the dragon that has decided to start walking away even though it is completely capable of flying. Perhaps, Elrond thinks, it does it to annoy Bilbo as much as it does it to give him a chance to catch up.

And when Bilbo turns around to look at him again, both index fingers held in the air and an expression on his face as if he's unsure how to word the oncoming request of, "This whole. Ordeal. Stays between us, right?" Elrond can only give his word, "Of course," no matter how hesitantly it comes out.

 

---

 

"What is up with you?" Bilbo asks while hanging onto the dragon's tail like he could stop the thing by pulling on it hard enough. When that doesn't happen, he mostly just gets dragged along to wherever it is the dragon is off to. "Would you just stop?"

"You are up with me!" Smaug says moodily while sparing him a glace from the corner of its eye. "You, a stupid hobbit who does not know how to stay put when you should. Do you not know the aches I went through while not knowing where you were?"

"Aah, actually, I do." Bilbo says quite sarcastically after having pretended to think about it. "I felt it when you went and disappeared for three years, you lump!" he continues angrily, smacking his hand flat against a red scale that can hardly even feel it, though it makes Smaug stop like it had been slapped much harder.

Hopping off the tail, Bilbo marches to stand next to its huge eye instead, looking at it sternly as he says, "And being worried is what it's called."

"Nonsense," Smaug huffs. "I do not worry."

"You do about me, you nonsensical thing." Bilbo says confidently while placing his hands on Smaug's jaw, feeling the heat of its scales and not the least afraid. When Smaug says nothing to deny it, Bilbo grins up at it.

"I'm actually in the middle of a small little adventure as we speak," he all but whispers a bit mischievously. "If you don't feel like going home quite yet, then maybe we should continue ensuring the safety of the Shire?"

"And why should a lone hobbit try to ensure the safety of anything?" Smaug challenges him.

And while Bilbo knows it's more the worry talking than it is Smaug trying to insult him, he finds himself a bit offended despite everything. "I was just trying to ensure you still had a home to return to," he tries to defend himself, detaching his hands from the dragon's scales and crossing them over his chest in a motion of drawing back a bit further than the dragon was prepared for.

"You are the only thing I want to return to," it says then, seeing how Bilbo instantly drops all his guards and lets out an embarrassed laugh that Smaug will never figure out the purpose of.

"Come on, then," Bilbo slaps it playfully, hurting his hand more than affecting a small tingling feeling for the dragon. "Would you not shrink to a more huggable size?"

"Just this once," Smaug agrees with an exaggerated sigh, and, "Only for you," it says and keeps its word.

 

---

 

Elrond, for his part, also keeps his word. Smaug remains dead to the world, though an exchange of glances between him and Gandalf makes him wonder if perhaps not the whole world is as ignorant as it seems. Bilbo is a strange hobbit indeed, but as the years pass by without incidents involving a dragon of any kind, he learns to let his mind relax a bit more.

And it is years and years and years later that he stumbles upon the dragon while it's not by Bilbo's side, when he finally gets to talk to it alone and perhaps gain some insight as to why any of this ever happened. It's after Frodo has brought the One Ring to Rivendell and has promised to take it to Mordor to be cast into the fires of Mount Doom to be rid of it forever. The hobbits have locked themselves into a room where no one else is welcome at the moment, and Smaug looks quite unhappy to be left out.

It sits on a railing, feet dangling dangerously above a fall that is too high for anyone to survive. It seems to be deep in thought, and to Elrond's amusement, keeps playing with an ashtray made of silver.

"I have heard Bilbo complaining about how you pile up all sorts of uncomfortable things in his bed." Leaning against the same railing, Elrond studies the creature beside him.

"He likes to complain about inane things sometimes," the other responds, no indication in its tone of voice that it would like for the conversation to continue.

But, "And does he complain about Frodo going on a quest, I wonder?" Elrond asks just to keep the words flowing despite the reluctance of his interlocutor.

"I rather think he'd want to go in his stead," the dragon mutters, tossing the small tray it has taken into its possession from hand to hand above the fall.

"Always up for an adventure, even in his old days." Even though he's chuckling himself, the way Smaug flinches at his words enough to let the treasure in its hands fall the great distance does not escape Elrond's notice. Perhaps he should not have let the cruel reminder slip so easily.

"Given that you can still take your original form, would you not help Frodo on his quest?" he keeps asking even though Gandalf, for one, obviously does not agree with this thought.

And it just might be because of Smaug's instant, though hardly surprising, answer of, "No."

"No?"

"It has got nothing to do with me." Smaug says while staring down to where the tray dropped, if only to avoid having to look at the elf beside it.

"The fate of the ring has everything to do with all of us," Elrond counters, drawing himself to stand upright as he speaks gravely. "If the ring finds its way back to its master, the world as we know it will come to an end. This you know."

"My world is ending whether or not that trinket gets tossed into the pits of doom."

A small, uncomfortable silence settles between them, during which Smaug lifts its legs over the railing and hops down from it in order to walk away.

"You do know that growing old is not a disease?" Meaning well, Elrond says this to the dragon's retreating back despite foreboding how little it will be appreciated.

It earns him a freezing cold look and a smile made of winter when Smaug turns to walk backwards only to keep Elrond in its line of sight when it says a final, "I wonder if you keep to your opinions even after your daughter chooses mortality?"

And then the dragon walks away, leaving Elrond unable to say anything or follow it even if he had wanted to. With a slightly defeated sigh, he tries to keep his worries concerning the choices of his daughter to a minimum while understanding why the dragon would rather spend these fleeting moments with Bilbo who is rapidly losing the battle against time.

Then again, the elf muses, he could have told Smaug about how easy it was for him to envision the dragon standing at the docks of Grey Haven with Bilbo beside it, quite ready for another adventure. Valinor would welcome them, and Bilbo would be at his prime again, and Elrond only wishes he could see the look on Smaug's face when the disease of time gets lifted from its heavy heart and it can sleep properly again without the fear of waking up to a loss.

But for now he leaves it to its grief, mostly because the future is not his to reveal. And only partly out of spite.

 

Chapter Text

---

 

 

”Let it go.”

”No.”

 

---

 

 

In all of Lobelia’s romance novels, the shared first kiss is always overly glorified to a point that it leaves Smaug doubtful whether or not it would be possible to trigger such an explosion of uncontrolled physical reactions with such an insignificant gesture. Huffing in annoyance, it reads onwards quickly as it can, turns the pages and forgets what it had just read, because it finds this sort of information irrelevant, useless, and quite frankly, unrealistic.

Besides, although they have never discussed it, Smaug suspects Bilbo feels the same as it does on matters such as these. Which would be nothing. True, Smaug likes to sleep on top of and below and completely pressed against Bilbo’s frame like it used to sleep in its treasure hoard, and Bilbo in turn can get awfully touchy with Smaug’s dark hair, but that is hardly plotting material for a novel worth Lobelia’s poor tastes in literature.

The reason Smaug reads them in the first place is to gather knowledge on what would be a proper way to maintain something it refuses to lose, even if Bilbo keeps on telling the dragon, “You’re doing fine by just being yourself, and even if you’d do exceptionally poorly, I promise to express my thoughts on the matter loudly as I am able,” while to everyone else around them it seems unbearably difficult to accept seeing them sharing a life.

But because Bilbo is the only one whose opinion matters, and thus the only one worth listening to, they keep on being as suits them the best, a hobbit and a dragon keeping to a bond while not giving a care what the world has got to say about that.

But Lobelia’s books, frustratingly illogical as they might be, return to its mind the first time they do actually share a kiss. Or no. Not share. It’s more like-

Well.

The parlour is painted in shadows when Smaug makes its way into it, bare feet making no sound as they take it through familiar paths where no piling books will be kicked or temporarily dismissed papers stepped onto. It’s quiet now in Bag End, as opposed to a couple of days ago when the chaos of Bilbo and Frodo’s oncoming birthday had escalated into an enormous party that had involved hobbits at their merriest and one wizard blowing up fires and sparkles against the starlit sky. Smaug had watched with keen fascination at the wasted opportunity of potential destruction explode to amuse a group of simpletons that would never understand to appreciate the true spectrum of what fires like that would be capable of. There had been beauty up in the sky that night, and one day, when the wizard is less vigilant, Smaug will get its hands on the unreleased sparkles and set fire to them in the appropriate manner.

But for now it is content enough to just crouch in front of the fireplace and breathe purpose into its existence, finally giving a light for the shadows in the room to dance with. Before his birthday had passed, Bilbo had been so adamant to avoid his relatives that they couldn’t keep the fires going lest someone deduced they were at home by the smoke rising from their chimney. A slight chill had crept into the parlour because of that, and while Smaug can’t actually feel it even if it walks barefooted on cool tiles, there should always be a fire going in Bag End despite that, it thinks.

The pinecones and logs crackle when the fires latch onto them, and pleased by this, Smaug takes a step back and slumps onto its favourite armchair, stretching out its long legs and letting the back of its head lean on top of the backrest to have a nice view of the ceiling where the lights of the fires it had lit keep moving about.

That’s how Bilbo finds it, still in place and in a pose of utter relief that another of Bilbo’s birthdays had passed, relishing the peace it would have now before the next one.

“You all right there?” the hobbit asks it a bit amused, a hint of malt still on his breath when he silently walks to stand behind Smaug’s chair. He looks down at the dragon and is all wrong way up when Smaug stares back up at him until Bilbo’s hand sinks into its hair, making the dragon’s eyelids grow heavy. With a deep release of breath, Smaug melts against its chair as much as all the odd angles of its and the chair’s body allow, feeling the last remnants of annoyance evaporate.

The moment is quiet when Smaug chooses not to answer and Bilbo in turn doesn’t give it too loud a thought. Only the fire keeps on crackling in its place and the sound of it, though sadly subdued and awfully restricted, lulls Smaug into such a contended state that it could fall asleep surrounded by all the things that matter.

Perhaps it’s the unusual bliss that makes way for ignorance, but Smaug is not aware what Bilbo is about to do, not even when the hobbit leans down so that his breath ghosts over the dragon’s face, not until there is a gentle brush of something against its slightly parted lips.

And that is their first kiss.

Completely unexpected, out of the blue and stolen without Smaug having any say to it.

This is something the dragon has sometimes witnessed hussies being subjected to in taverns. It had seemed unnecessary then, and it feels like nothing other than Smaug’s right to refuse being dismissed as unimportant. Still, Smaug keeps its eyes closed, drinking up the new sensation and storing it away as information, useless as it will be.

Bilbo doesn’t linger for long, pulling away and continuing to run his fingers against Smaug’s scalp like nothing had happened. Only after a while does the dragon open its eyes, studying the almost serene, if not a rather far away, look on the hobbit’s face.

“You kissed me,” Smaug states to bring the subject up before it gets the opportunity to hide behind enough time that it would be difficult to speak about again.

It doesn’t get an answer, though. Bilbo just hums and has this tiny smile on his face, offering Smaug no more than a small glance from the corner of his eye.

“You kissed me,” Smaug says again, and this time the hand in its hair tightens its grip enough to let Smaug know that it had been heard, so it continues because this is getting curious now, saying, “Without my consent.”

“Consent,” Bilbo chuckles and the words coming from out of his mouth sound so foreign that it’s almost ugly. “What do dragons know about consent?”

And he’s right, of course. Smaug is more familiar with taking and keeping than it is with acquiring and sharing. But that’s just in its nature while it is certainly not in that of Bilbo Baggins’. Intrigued now, it studies the hobbit above.

Bilbo looks, for the most part, like his stomach is still filled to the brim and the drinks in his head have yet to release their hold. It should be the most sated look ever to be, but there is also something far away in Bilbo’s eyes to which Smaug can find only one explanation for.

While Bilbo’s hand is still playing with the dragon’s hair, the other one is against the pocket he thinks he so cleverly hides his precious little golden ring in.

And Smaug knows exactly what it is.

And it knows what it does.

Goblins and orcs or pray tell dragons even will never be enough a reason for Bilbo to disappear from out of sight on such regular basis, but come his birthday and with that all of his relatives, there’s not much that will stop Bilbo from slipping the trinket on to his midmost finger he likes to keep up whenever Lobelia is near, making a strange face while he’s at it before vanishing from this realm. Smaug doesn’t know what the gesture means, and doubts that anyone else besides Bilbo does either, suspecting it to be some form of crudeness the hobbit has invented to be rude without anyone else being none the wiser for it.

To be honest, rudeness is the least those blasted relatives deserve. Smaug had offered to do much worse, because it couldn’t for the immortal life of it understand their cruelty for constantly reminding how Bilbo was alone (because Sherlock is not a hobbit, and thus, not worth a mention) and had no heirs (because Frodo is a threat, and thus, should be left unmentioned) and how very nice his little hobbit hole was indeed and would he not just die already so that they could have it? And what strength must Bilbo have to just wave his hand dismissively when Smaug confronted him of this falsity, saying that he’d live to be older than Old Took just to piss them off and then going off to give those cretins presents because it was what tradition demanded, leaving Smaug to deal with its frustrations and wonder when it realised how it could learn the politics of men in a couple of days, but how the customs of hobbits seemed so impossible to grasp a hold of.

There was simply no logic behind their behaviour!

Still, the ill will of Bilbo’s relatives and the constant use of the ring as of late was the only conclusion Smaug could draw.

After all, the ring was known to be tricky. It was treacherous.

And it was slowly corrupting Bilbo’s heart.

The hobbit had acted considerably more irritable and crotchety as of late, Smaug’s perfectly proper and polite Bilbo sneering and snapping at things he never would have before, and now apparently taking things as he chooses and how he pleases.

This change in behaviour, or no, rotting of principles should’ve been alarming, the dragon thinks, but it can’t help but be utterly fascinated of the way Bilbo’s eyes seem to darken for just a second when he returns from his thoughts only to find Smaug taking in every inch of his being. Bilbo fists his hand in Smaug’s hair, the yank now bordering on painful when he asks, “What are you thinking about?”

And when the hurt turns into the final confirmation it needs, Smaug thinks that if this is Bilbo with his heart starting to blacken, then it’ll sit back and observe the consequences of it, not caring even if Bilbo forces more kisses or whatever it is hobbits do to multiply in such numbers on Smaug, partly because if it’s Bilbo, it won’t mind even if it doesn’t care for it, but mostly because seeing the beginnings of cruelty on someone usually so kind is truly, very interesting.

Just to test the waters, Smaug says, “I think you should let go,” and when Bilbo does, but only of its hair before turning around to go to the pantry, Smaug continues, saying, “Of the thing in your pocket, I mean.”

When Bilbo stops and turns, he looks almost angry, hand on his pocket to protect his precious when he snarls, “No.”

And when the hobbit turns to go away, Smaug does nothing to stop him.

Because their life has not and never will be out of the pages of Lobelia’s romance novels. Bilbo has made his choice, dark and dangerous as it may be, and Smaug thinks that maybe, if Bilbo is the one making Smaug’s heart grow better while the ring is making Bilbo’s heart grow worse, they’ll end up meeting somewhere halfway, and then everyone will see them like they were meant to share a life together.

The only thing Smaug is certain of is that come what may, Bilbo as he was and is and will be is all still the dragon’s to covet. Because while the ring might have come to Bilbo, the hobbit had come to Smaug, and there will only ever be one answer if it is asked to let go.

And it is, “No.”

 

---

 

 

There are long periods of time during which the ring is out of Bilbo’s mind and use. He’s mostly his old self then, kind and entirely respectable as any hobbit should be. It’s when the presence and ill will of his relatives don’t plague him, and when the vast world more fascinates him that it does scare him.

An so it is, now that Frodo has grown up and is thus generally less useless when left by his lonesome, Smaug and Bilbo can travel again, which leaves little space for emotions other than excitement.

Bilbo’s little meaningful sighs of, “Oh, I wish to travel the paths of Mirkwood,” on regular intervals, continued by, “And to visit Lake Town again,” and finally followed by something inarticulate Smaug knows has to do with the hobbit’s yearning to see a certain isolated mountain filled with greed and the unappreciative, finds them at the roots of Ettenmoors. Bilbo is rather keen to avoid Rivendell after reintroducing Smaug to Elrond who had kept his face as blank as an empty canvas, making the hobbit feel rather nervous to go and visit any time soon. So they’ve taken a different path, choosing the North as a place to go over the mountains, because Smaug has its opinions on how they should do it, and Bilbo does not want anyone fair witnessing it being put into motion.

“This is an awful idea,” Bilbo frets unnecessarily while neatly folding the clothes Smaug keeps taking off and throwing at him.

“If by awful you mean time-saving and efficient, then I suppose you are right,” the dragon says dryly, trying to find a state of mind that will help with the inevitable growing pains it’ll be going through in a moment’s time. It finds it in the thought that this is the first time it’ll take Bilbo flying, and while Bilbo has ridden on the backs of Eagles before, it was to survive while this time it’ll be for the pure sensation of it.

Flying is something Smaug holds in the highest value, the want to feel the wind under its wings something so inborn that it could get high on it. So it wants to share it with Bilbo just like the hobbit insists on sharing his food with it, and lets its body take the form that is capable of doing what it was born to do while Bilbo stares at Smaug’s transformation with widened eyes, chanting something along the lines of, “Think furnace with wings, think furnace with wings.”

“Now then, Guest of Eagles,” Smaug spits the last word as it lowers its head to the ground so that Bilbo could hop onto its back from the peak of a rather large rock where he had been waiting for his ride. “Let me show you what real flying feels like.”

Bilbo hesitates, but only for a passing moment, because he’s the hobbit whose home is behind and the world was ahead, who stands up against the Defiler to save his friends and riddles strange creatures at the bottom of mountains to save his own, not because he dares, but because it’s who he is.

And while Bilbo never did take up the opportunity to adopt the name Dragon Slayer, one day he can tell Frodo in a hushed secret that he might have accidentally tamed one enough to have it offer him a ride through the skies.

In no time at all Smaug rises into the air, the wind its wings create making the treetops fight against a storm. It is a tug-of-war the ground is never going to win, although Smaug makes great use of its pull by first soaring through the clouds and then letting itself fall free, roaring with laughter against Bilbo’s terrified screams. Before they hit the ground the dragon opens its wings wide again, feeling a good current of air travelling over the mountains and starting to glide along with it.

“Well,” it asks when the mountain tops start to go downhill and the edges of Mirkwood can be seen in the distance. “How does Middle-Earth look from this perspective, if I may ask?”

Although the roaring wind devours the hobbit’s awed answer, “Insignificant,” is not what Smaug would expect to hear even if it’s something it can most certainly agree with, for they’re all insects from up here, even the great cities of men seeming miniscule and so easy to break. Now Bilbo too can see it and agrees wholeheartedly while a passing thought has him entertain an idea somewhere at the back of his tarred mind how he’d have all the means to have those cities burn to ash.

But Smaug doesn’t hear him, feeling playful instead of lethal and thus doing another drop towards the ground to make Bilbo scream and clutch onto it like his life really, actually depended on it. The only thing Smaug can make out besides the screams is when they fly along a river and it laughs, “Now is the time to let go,” to make jest of the hobbit’s fear and his desire to reconnect with the ground already, is Bilbo’s crystal clear and solid, “No.”

 

---

 

 

The air of Mirkwood is thick to breathe as opposed to the thin mountain air they had just descended from. It also feels heavy and pressuring when the treetops hide the sky from view. All the plants look like they are trying to reach out for the things breathing what is theirs, and Smaug hurries its steps to walk closer to Bilbo, holding on to the back of the hobbit’s collar to not differ from his path.

“Old fat spider spinning in a tree,” Bilbo hums quietly, pulling Smaug along wherever it is he thinks he’s going. “Old fat spider can’t see me.”

Smaug really hopes Bilbo knows where he is going, because while it certainly finds it hard to see Flora and Fauna as a threat to be reckoned with –not compared to a dragon anyway- the very air of their surroundings makes Smaug feel like its human skin is pulled too tight across the wriggling maggots eating its muscles.

“Attercop, attercop,” Bilbo keeps singing, his travel staff clanking against the elven path in rhythm as they walk. When they pass a tree blanketed in strings of cobweb, Bilbo sticks his finger behind some of it, pulls and lets go.

“Won’t you stop,” he asks, looking up to see the chain reaction he had set hurry up the tree and out of their sight, and if Smaug is correct, and it knows it is, one can spy a wicked little grin at the corner of the hobbit’s mouth as he sings, “Stop your spinning and look for me?”

The forest seems to grow more hostile as they keep walking, rustling noises coming from here and there after every dark nook they pass. Still, Smaug is not concerned, because it could burn the forest down with everything in it if only it felt like it. Besides, what is more interesting than their survival in this environment that does not welcome them with open arms, is how the reactions of Smaug’s body conflict with those of its mind.

While Smaug knows that whatever it is that keeps making noise in unseen places cannot harm Bilbo and it without receiving the damage back tenfold, it doesn’t stop its body from showing the same symptoms of fear it has witnessed on its victims before. Its heart beats fast like a rabbit’s, and for the life of it, Smaug does not know how to slow it down. Because while it is admittedly fascinating to think that this is what a prey is most likely to feel before it is devoured, it is also absolutely mortifying that the predator would come to feel the same way.

“Attercop, attercop,” the song repeats, making Smaug’s vision spin when it thinks its fear heightened hearing catches small voices from above them asking in a rush, ‘What is it? What is it?’

Bilbo too looks up to prove that it wasn’t just Smaug’s ailing mind that was playing tricks, the look of delight on his face just as absurd as Smaug’s fear, adding to the madness the forest seemed to have planted in them.

“Down you drop,” Bilbo welcomes the small spiders suddenly descending from above them on their fine strings of web.

‘What is it?’ they keep asking, and Smaug too wonders what it is. It’s close to impossible for it to breathe now. The pressure of their surroundings seems to keep growing, like the descending spiders are bringing the sky down with them. And if it isn’t the constant curiosity of, ‘What it is?’ that the dragon is hearing, then it’s the sound of its own blood rushing through its veins like rivers.

Just when the indecision whether to curl up into itself or to just burn it all is about to break its mind, Bilbo reaches up to the bravest spider that has come down the furthest, cooing, “You’ll never catch me up your tree,” to it as he snaps the string from which it hangs, disconnecting it from the tree branch it had hopped down from and now having it hang from his hand instead.

All the other spiders halt, their silence only lasting for a second before the one Bilbo has caught cries out, ‘It’s the Stinging Fly, the Stinging Fly!’

‘The Stinger,’ the others respond in fear, creating a chaos of too many a feet scrambling all at once and their panic spreading fast like a rumour when they, ‘Scatter away, scatter away!’

Just like that, the air seems to clear and Smaug almost gasps like it had been holding its breath for a long, long time. The irrational fear too steps aside, and it is the first moment of utter clarity they’ve had since stepping into the forest.

And it sees Bilbo better now, sees the way he smiles when the spider still hanging from his hand tries desperately to reach the ground only for the hobbit to reel it back up by its string. When Bilbo seems to tire of his game, he reaches for the spider and has it sit on the palm of his hand.

“Bilbo,” Smaug says sounding out of breath as it observes the breath-taking sight. “Let it go.”

“Let it go,” it repeats soon after when Bilbo makes no sign that he intends to listen. Smaug says it not because the fate of the creature in Bilbo’s hand concerns the dragon in any way, but because of the way Bilbo claps his hands once with more force than necessary to state his wordless, ‘No,’ the echoes of which make Smaug wonder if this is something it is willing to let grow without interference after all.

 

---

 

 

“The thing about woodland elves,” Bilbo had whispered with an added wink before he had been escorted away to have a private audience with the king himself who, while charmingly welcoming, looked like he trusted the hobbit not one bit. “Is that they really like their wine.”

Confused as to why that would be a relevant piece of information in any way, Smaug had watched him go, uninterested in the fine dining and songs the hobbit was about to be subjected to as it was.

It didn’t take it long to understand what Bilbo had meant, though.

“What a strange pair you make,” a red haired elf comments from where they are tailing behind Smaug to escort it to places it was ‘free to visit’ but apparently on very restricted basis.

“Indeed,” responds another elf, all strawberry blond hair and beautiful in a way that it left Smaug unsure whether to think of them as a male or a female. Not that it matters. “A grey wizard or rangers I would have expected, dwarves even nowadays, and all on business. No one visits us with leisure in mind.”

“I cannot imagine why,” says the dragon dryly.

“Well, while we do make an effort to keep our forests clear of any foul creatures, the woods are still more mirk than they are green,” the other continues, making the dragon wonder if they will just keep talking until Smaug gives up on roaming their kingdom and go hide their constant yapping in the room Bilbo and it had been provided. “Tell me, how did a man and a hobbit walk through the forest without any incidents?”

“The hobbit,” Smaug grits out through its irritation, thinking of the eight-legged incident which most definitely happened and feeling its strides grow quicker because it was a problem it didn’t have a solution for yet, “Seems to have quite a reputation around these parts.”

“Yes!” the strawberry blond one laughs despite having to almost jog to keep up with their assignment. “Our king is very distrustful of him, as you might have noticed.”

“Yes?” Smaug asks as if it doesn’t know.

“We have every reason to believe the hobbit stole our prisoners once upon a time.” There is a hint of legend in their voice, and Smaug has never been prouder to have obtained a bond with a creature such as Bilbo Baggins.

“Thus the precautions,” the other chimes in, pointing between their guest and themselves and then suddenly reaching out to take a tight hold of Smaug’s shoulder just as it was about to walk into what it supposed was a treasury of some sort based on the trophy like things held on display there.

“I am sorry, but you are not allowed to go in there,” they apologize without sincerity, and then offering to of course escort their guest to wherever else it was they wanted to visit.

First pretending to consider it, Smaug casts one last look at the place denied from it, then turning to ask its stalkers, “Did you mention having a spectacular wine cellar?”

 

---

 

 

“Less wise indeed,” the dragon mutters as it enters the guestroom, finding its hobbit already lying on their bed with a flush on his cheeks and half a laugh on his breath. “And you seem to be high on spirits as well.”

“Mm, they do make excellent wine,” the hobbit admits with a grin, his movements slow and sluggish when he attempts to turn to look at the dragon. “I see you entering without your escorts tailing you. What happened there?”

“I can recognize a fine piece of advice and take it, even if it comes from silly old hobbits such as yourself,” Smaug says while it takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “Besides, they tell tales which led me to believe tomorrow will not be the first time they wake up in the wine cellar full of regrets.”

Bilbo’s laugh comes out unrestrained when he slaps Smaug on its arms and says, “You naughty dragon! Their suspicions are never going to die down now,” the look of utter amusement on his face betraying his scolding words.

“And I in turn shall be very disappointed if I learn you did not sneak your way out of the king’s clutches,” Smaug counters and gives Bilbo’s forehead a retaliating flick. The hobbit makes an admirable effort to keep another burst of laughter at bay, swallowing it down so that only a cheeky grin was left when he presses his forefinger against his lips to indicate that the truth of it was a secret he was going to keep.

For another minute the hobbit looks blissed out, but that changes as soon as Smaug goes to change the topic of their conversation by saying, “I got you a token,” the mention of which has Bilbo’s eyes widen almost comically.

“Oh no,” is his response.

“Oh, but I did,” the dragon insists and frowns down at Bilbo’s rather odd reaction.

“Yes! Yes, you probably did, I’m just afraid-“ Bilbo tries to explain in haste, but stops abruptly when Smaug brings the token in question into his line of sight, asking warily, “Don’t tell me that’s-“

“It is,” Smaug nods as it watches the hobbit struggle to sit up beside it.

“My goodness me, they are going to imprison us, you thoughtless fool!” he hisses through his teeth despite bowing his head so that the dragon could crown him. And what a fine crown it was too, one adorned green by leaves and bright with the colour of the flowers that grew on it, and if Smaug was any judge of vanity, it would guess that some magic would have them bloom for the rest of forever. It supposed it was Thranduil’s handsomest crown to fit the summer season, but it doubted it would ever look as good on the Elven King as it did now on Bilbo Baggins.

The flowers, while an entirely different species, were similar in colour to the ones growing on their garden back home where old Gaffer had planted and nurtured them by Belladonna’s request a long, long time ago. And the crown, though obviously an ill fit for Bilbo’s small head and failing to make him look kingly or empowered at all, made the hobbit look like he had once under the Party Tree where his cousins had weaved flowers into his hair while he told them wild tales about his adventures, and though his audience had gasped with both awe and horror after each impossible escape and battle won, the loudest they cheered was always how in the end Bilbo had found his way back home.

Catching a glimpse of his crowned self in the looking-glass standing in the corner of their room makes that something distant take a step back from where it had made residence in Bilbo’s gaze ever since his last birthday, and the hobbit blinks and says, “Suddenly I’m hit with a wave of homesickness,” while gently touching the flowers circling his head.

“It seems to be a common disease among hobbits,” Smaug comments while observing the other carefully.

“No, well-“ Bilbo starts to say absentmindedly while his other hand drifts to rest against his pocket, inside which a certain kind of solidity demands his unconscious attention with a siren’s call. “I’ve felt like this even at home, sometimes. Like I’m getting lost without being aware of it.”

‘You are,’ is what Smaug wants to say but doesn’t think is something Bilbo wants to hear, not when the trinket would insist the dragon’s interests were set on a more selfish and sinister goal than just wanting to maintain the balance of Bilbo’s mind. What did the ring know anyway? It was just an arrogant piece of gold pretending there was no other kind of metal more valuable than it.

The one ring of power, Smaug scoffs.

To desire more power is to admit you are weak to begin with. And while it can admire how the trinket can make nations fall on their own corruption, it was still nothing compared to the burning fires of a dragon intent on leaving nothing but destruction behind.

Still, Bilbo has now been seduced by that piece of metal, so allured by its empty promises that for the first time in its immortal life, Smaug feels like it cannot open its mouth to say whatever it desires lest it gets it into a fight it cannot win.

“Where did you even find this?” Bilbo wonders out loud, his moment of melancholy short lived, partly because he gets lost without being aware of it and mostly because the wine he has consumed does little to aid him find his way back.

“From a pathetic excuse of a treasury,” the dragon shrugs. “It is no wonder the Elven King desires the riches of Erebor.”

“A treasury? How did you manage that?”

“It was quite easy considering it had no door and the crown was being held on display.” Although Smaug is no Master Burglar like some others claim to be, it would have to have been a rather lousy thief to have mucked that one up, especially after having gotten rid of its escorts.

But Bilbo, it knows, appreciates its non-existent efforts, because the treasure Smaug has hauled back is sure to tickle the fancy of any old hobbit. This gets confirmed when they hear somewhat hurried footsteps along the corridors outside their door and Bilbo’s expression turns into one of childish excitement when he whispers, “I think it is best we take our leave lest we get into serious trouble.”

“Or you could give up your crown, my king, and see it returned to where it belongs,” Smaug replies, although the smirk on its face speaks strongly against its suggestion.

Getting up from the bed, Bilbo hurries to gather their belongings, all the while laughing out, “My kingdom for a decent thought! Oh, but I want to keep it. And why shouldn’t I? It was given to me, after all.”

“Won’t you let it go?” Smaug asks as it too stands up, having no need to pack anything at all since clothes were the only thing it bore.

When Bilbo turns around and says, “No!” it is without any malice and full of glee.

And when they vanish into the night of Mirkwood, so does the welcome and hospitality of the woodland elves.

 

---

 

“Will you be all right?” Bilbo asks for the fifth time after they leave Dale before having barely even entered it. The men don’t recognise them anyway, used as they are to having all kinds of strange folk pass by their rebuilt city. Why would one pair of a hobbit and a dragon deserve their interest in midst of all that? Which in turn leaves the said pair hardly in any danger of being though as impolite for just running through without so much as a hello.

The reason for their sudden haste is Erebor, which looms right where they can see it, drawing Bilbo’s attention to it like rotting corpses do flies.

Smaug does nothing to resist the urge to roll its eyes, wondering just how many times Bilbo wanted to hear that its uncontrollable lust for gold was in the past now, especially since roaming the realm had turned out to be much more enjoyable a pastime than sitting atop a mountain of treasure with nothing else to do than sleep had been. If it did nick a shiny artefact from here or there to add to their nest, they were always both small in size and number to not make them a bother to lug around on their travels.

But still the hobbit frets, his imagination probably playing with images of Smaug losing its wit to its nature and of all the bad things that would follow.

“Ask me one more time and I assure you I will not be all right,” it gnarls back with a mean look, one that is a complete waste of effort when Bilbo gives it no worth.

“Maybe I should have let you wait on me in Dale?” Bilbo wonders, adding fuel to their disagreement.

“I will not be left behind waiting for you like some loyal beast!” Smaug bursts out, gathering the stares of a couple of guards standing outside the gates of Erebor. They seem to recognize the hobbit from tales being told but the verbal dispute he was apparently involved in made them hesitant to greet him. Instead one of the guards waves at their mates on the upper balcony to signal that a welcome needed to be organized as quickly as possible.

“A mountain full of gold and dwarves and you is bound to end up in a disaster, isn’t it?” Squishing his own cheeks between his hands, Bilbo shakes his head desperately while his needless woes keep growing, “And it’ll be all my fault!”

Huffing, the dragon accepts the fact that it didn’t have the means to reason with a hobbit on a fretting frenzy, making a final effort despite that by saying, “The only disaster I am going to cause is if the dwarves think you are theirs to keep, and even then you are not the one to blame,” unintentionally setting up a beautiful storm in Bilbo’s eyes.

“I am not anyone’s to think I can just be kept if only they feel like it!” he shouts back, the echoes of his sudden rage running along the stone walls of Erebor. They are gathering an audience now, dwarves stopping here and there to stare at them as they walk past.

“You are by me, Barrel-rider!” Smaug counters with a bluster of its own, glaring solely at Bilbo even though the dwarves around them would have deserved it more.

“Only because I agreed to it, you soft-bellied beast! I have a mind of my own!”

‘One that you are losing,’ Smaug stops itself from saying in the meanest voice, knowing it would do more harm than it was aiming to cause. Instead it mutters, “If my belly is soft, it is because sleeping atop you does nothing to harden it, and for that you have no one but yourself to blame.”

Bilbo looks much like he has another argument coming, but a cheerful shout of, “Bilbo!” has him snap his open mouth shut when a dwarf Smaug cannot put a name on but supposes is one of the thirteen the hobbit had gone on a quest with greets them enthusiastically. Seeing the faces of old friends seems to end the beginnings of hostility on Bilbo’s behaviour, and the hobbit’s mood makes a complete turn when he greets them back.

“Bofur, Bifur! It’s been a long while!” he laughs, having to fight for balance when they smack the hobbit on the back so hard that it almost makes him topple. Watching it happen makes Smaug frown, but it resists the urge to make the faces of the dwarves repeatedly meet the stone floor and settles for glaring daggers at the two of them instead, because Bilbo is still smiling widely and would probably not approve of Smaug’s plan to murder his friends.

“Couldn’t agree more!” the one wearing a hat and responsible for the smack laughs heartily. The joyful ruckus he’s making lessens the moment he realizes someone is giving him a nasty look, though, and he leans in closer to Bilbo to ask, “Erm, who’s this?” while pointing at the man who had kept a respectable distance after the hobbit had hurried to meet his friends.

Bilbo gives the dragon a look over his shoulder, silently daring it to act out of line before turning back to the two dwarves, smiling sweetly as he says, “My companion,” not stating that it was for life but not dismissing it to be just for their travels either.

“I beg you to treat him kindly even if he sometimes fails to respond in kind,” he continues and bows his head to upkeep his polite manners. “I, of course, will take full responsibility of his actions.”

Oh, the cunning of him! There was no way Smaug could do and act however it pleased if Bilbo was the one to take the brunt of it. Here the hobbit might be held in the highest regard, but there were laws to abide by, and dwarves were probably not ones to let the offences of foe or friend go without an appropriate punishment. So it bites its tongue and bows its head when the dwarves do the same, the one who does all the talking saying, “Of course. Any friend of yours is a friend of ours.”

They leave any further introductions be after that, when a guard informs them that they are awaited by the King, and while there is no real reason to hurry, it does take a while to navigate through the giant stone halls. Bilbo chooses to walk beside the talkative one of the two who had greeted them, leaving Smaug to tail behind them with the silent one who, interestingly enough, has the head of an axe stuck on his forehead, which fascinates the dragon to no end.

“How come you are not dead?” it asks to begin a normal conversation such as Bilbo was having in front of them. The dwarf gives him a look it cannot read at all, saying something in a language it understands even less.

“I see,” it agrees despite that, feeling an itch at the tips of its human fingers. “What would happen if I pulled it off? May I touch it?”

Even though the content of the flow of words that follow its questions remain a mystery, the look the dwarf is giving it turns so murderous that it gives Smaug the gist of how the other feels about the matter. “Fine,” Smaug relents, thinking this was one of the things that would probably reflect badly on Bilbo. “Keep your secrets, you fascinating specimen. I care not.”

Except that it does, making plans to return to the subject once other things stopped mattering so much. Like keeping up Bilbo’s good relationship with his supposed friends. Or after forming a foolproof plan in which no one could pin the disappearance of one dwarf on the dragon.

As its sinister plans grow, they keep walking through achingly familiar halls that have been dusted and cleaned and redecorated now that a colony of dwarves had made them theirs to inhabit. Everything reeks of dwarf, even the smell of their vast treasure hoard drowning behind it, and while Smaug might have agreed to keep up pleasant enough pretences, it does not stop it from expressing its rightful anger at the occasional inhabitant they happen to pass by, giving them a disdained look.

Finally, they are climbing up stairs that seem to never end, clambering up and up from ground level to reach a place high enough to give the throne the glory and significance it deserves. The sounds of stone being carved in the mines somewhere below them is loud here, and Smaug scrunches its nose, because it can still remember the complete silence of its former residence before a certain two-handled cup went missing. The sounds and smell of life, they ruin the beauty this place.

“We’re almost there, I hope?” Bilbo asks with a wheezy breath, having travelled far, yes, but still not quite used to such strenuous exercise like climbing up so many stairs. The hatted one both apologizes and gives the preferred answer, and surely enough, soon they reach the end of their climb. From here they can see the King’s throne, the shine of the Arkenstone as well as a gathering of dwarves, all of whom seem to recognize the hobbit.

“Bilbo Baggins!” an old one whose hair has gone white greets them first, opening his arms wide and bowing down so deep that the end of his beard touches the floor. “We welcome you.”

Bilbo too bows, his back still facing Smaug and thus remaining unaware that the dragon does not follow suit, keeping its hands deep inside its pockets instead and looking on like it needed not be welcomed.

“I am grateful and at your service,” says the hobbit with an unneeded manner of politeness, the King Under the Mountain surprisingly agreeing with what the dragon is thinking when he descends from his seat of power and walks over to greet his burglar.

“Come now, there is no need for such formalities,” Thorin says with his tone of voice lighter than it had been for all those years after Smaug’s attack. His strides are strong and filled with purpose, making Bilbo seem indecisive if he should meet the other half-way or take a wary step back. When he does neither, Thorin comes to him and wraps his large arms around the baffled hobbit. “You are a friend of ours and we shall treat you thusly.”

The gesture and affection with which the king handles Bilbo sparks something burning hot and ugly within the dragon, and it grits its teeth and balls its fists, taking a step towards the two of them before the one with the axe on his head stops it by holding up a hand against its belly. Smaug glares down at him, wishing death on all of the bearded creatures, but the dwarf only shakes his head, saying something in that strange language of his.

“You can say what you will, but it does not change the fact that Bilbo is not his to hold!” Hissing, it swats away the hand holding it back, though staying put where it was to not cause a scene. The dwarf beside it says nothing to that, possibly even agreeing with Smaug, if the frown on his face when he turns to look at his king is anything to go by.

Suddenly their gazes meet over the top of Bilbo’s head, the king slowly retreating from the hug as he stares at the sole man standing inside his kingdom. Dismissing the hobbit for the time being, Thorin takes a step to shield Bilbo behind his back when he says, “I have a feeling we have met before, but disregard if I am wrong,” while addressing Smaug.

Smaug wonders if the king perhaps senses something foul in its persona, old grudges sewn so deep that some form of instinct has Thorin instantly act like the man is a potential threat even if he can’t grasp why he would think that. If that is the case, it would be most amusing to keep him on the edge of uncertainty by continuously raising his suspicions but never providing any proof to lay a basis for them.

“We have, not too long after the Battle of the Five Armies. I was the one who took Bilbo away,” Smaug enlightens the king while smiling unkindly. “I have been with him ever since.”

This makes Thorin look confused, hesitation thick in his voice when he tries to process the information, all that he can think of to ask ending up being, “Why?”

“Because that is the manner of our relationship,” is the simple answer.

“And what other manners does this relationship include?” the king bites out, his posture growing more stiff as they keep talking.

“Ones that are no concern of yours,” Smaug replies calmly, because it can behave by Bilbo’s request, and even if the King of Carven Stone had taken its hoard and there will always remain a bitter taste in its mouth because of this, it can stare down at the dwarf smugly for knowing that it too had acquired something Thorin could now never call his.

“You lack manners and cannot for the life of you be called a decent person,” Thorin says vehemently, crossing his arms against his chest to not have his white knuckles scream out how displeased he had grown in such a short time. “Why would Bilbo Baggins voluntarily associate with the likes of you?”

Irritated now, not because it was being accused of things it knew it was guilty of, but because Thorin was questioning whether or not Bilbo had a mind of his own and was capable of using it, Smaug takes a threatening step towards the king who responds in kind, both glaring enough to solidify the tension.

“Because he chose to,” Smaug says with so much anger that its breath starts turning alarmingly hot.

“The more you speak the less I understand,” Thorin says just as hotly.

“You fail to understand why he would choose me over you?” the dragon challenges.

This seems to strike the king harder than the dragon had thought it would, and Thorin takes a step back almost like he had been hit. “No,” he says shaking his head. “No, I’m just concerned. You seem like a choice Bilbo would be unlikely to make.”

“Concerned?” Snorting, the dragon decides to push a little further despite knowing that trouble would follow, asking, “You think I am corrupting him? You think I will defile him?” with such cruelty that if the king doubted his reasons to think the man improper before, he had all the confirmation now.

“You!” the dwarf shouts enraged. “I will not stand back and watch this go on without interference!”

A response instantly on its tongue, Smaug’s eyes grow to slits when there seems to be no end to their staring contest. “And what right do you think you have to overrule the choice Bilbo has made? You are not his king.”

“But I am his friend,” he insists. “And no friend would be content to watch such an obviously poor decision be in the making.”

There remain plenty more insults that could be thrown around and assumption reliant arguments to out-reason each other with, but even amidst their heated dispute, something is starting to feel amiss. A little armistice helps to highlight how silent their surroundings have grown, which in turn makes them realise how they’d been so concentrated on each other that they had neglected the reason behind their argument.

“Bilbo!” they exclaim simultaneously, both king and dragon turning to look where the hobbit had last stood. Only, he isn’t there anymore, which, now that Smaug thinks about it, makes sense since surely he would have had a couple of things to add to the conversation just held.

They spot him further away, where he has wandered over to a rather round dwarf with ginger hair who is holding a platter of treats, which apparently intrigue the hobbit more than worldly conflicts ever could.

“Do not just wander off in search of treats, you fat hobbit!” Smaug says in irritation as it and the dwarven king both start heading towards the hobbit with hurried steps.

“And he insults you!” Thorin cries out. “I beg your pardon, master burglar, but I find myself questioning the company you choose to keep.”

Bilbo takes his time to choose the treat he wants to taste first, wriggling his fingers above the platter before deciding which one he is most likely to fancy the most. It is a puff pastry coated in honey and walnuts, and Smaug dreads that if the taste of those things is as good as Bilbo thinks it will be, the dragon might be subjected to them later on as well.

“Are you two done arguing all the drama out of each other?” Bilbo asks with a raised brow, efficiently killing any desire Smaug or Thorin had to continue from where they had left their earlier conversation.

“And it is difficult to find offence in being called fat when your life philosophy revolves around being well-fed all of the time,” he continues to say to fill in the silence left behind by their lack of response, taking a bite of his pastry and apparently approving of its taste if the way he closes his eyes and licks his lips is any proof of it.

“Besides, there are worse things to be called.” The sound of Bilbo biting down to crush a nut between his teeth doesn’t sound pleasant at all, not when it seems louder than the mining below them before he speaks again, smiling in a way no one is familiar with. “Like grocer. Or ferret.”

“A means to an end,” he says looking at Smaug in the eye, nuts still cracking between his teeth when he turns his gaze towards Thorin. “Traitor.”

If the argument before had heated their surroundings, it now feels like they have been frozen solid. Smaug thinks that Bilbo can probably hear the way it swallows despite the distance remaining between them, refusing to entertain the idea how utterly pathetic it would look for a dragon to be starlet by such a small creature.

Stuffing what remains of his treat into his mouth, Bilbo wipes his hands against his trousers and asks a smaller dwarf with a book in his hand if he could show him to the library. The dwarf nods hesitantly, looking between his king and their guest, before telling the hobbit to follow him, which he does without sparing another word to anyone else.

“Oh no,” Smaug mutters to itself, though Thorin hears it clear and well, turning to the dragon to ask questions he isn’t quite sure how to voice. “I fear he is actually peeved.”

And a thought gnaws at its mind that this cannot be just the result of having to deal with bad manners. This is not Bilbo at all, dismissing and using the words of others against them to raise doubts and to gain distance that could not be mended if left be.

“Peeved,” asks the king with the beginning of a laugh that is killed off quickly by disbelief. “That is a rather mild way of expressing it, isn’t it?”

“Does it matter?” the dragon mutters, turning away to tail after its hobbit. “Though I should probably fix this before it grows into something much worse.”

 

---

 

 

Smaug quite likes the dwarf with the axe on his head. He makes good company, a great listener and whatever he might say in response to its rants the dragon can just interpreter as suits its tastes the best. It was a blessing, then –is what Bilbo would say- that it was that specific dwarf the king had sent after their human guest to ensure he didn’t do anything out of line, because as much as Thorin seemed to dislike having the man anywhere near his mountain, Sherlock was still entitled to their reluctant welcome just for being Bilbo’s companion.

“I understand your circumstances are quite different,” Smaug begins to say to the dwarf next to it, “Considering yours is a physical injury while Bilbo’s is rooted inside his head –caused by an external force as well, granted, though too differently for me to be able to make a direct comparison… Still, may I ask you something?”

They are sitting on the stone floor outside the biggest library in Erebor, where Smaug had navigated itself to without the help of his guard, because this is –was its home and it’ll never get lost within the mountain. The place it might get lost in, though, is the realm of books and scrolls and everything in between, the thought of devouring all that accessible information tempting its instincts so much that it dares not enter now when other things take priority.  

The dwarf beside it gives a vague grunt, one that it chooses to take as an affirmative, turning its head to look at the other’s reaction since it wanted an honest answer. “Are you aware of your own lack of sanity?”

The other turns to look at the dragon slowly, brows knit together in what looks like both confusion and taken offense. When he doesn’t say anything –not that it would make much of a difference even if he did- Smaug keeps talking. “No, I suppose you are not. The mad do not know they are mad.”

That gets it a verbal reaction, and it turns out the dwarf has a lot to say about the matter. Fascinated, the dragon observes as the other rants on with added wild hand gestures which hold no meaning to it at all.

“What I was getting at is,” it eventually interrupts the dwarf when whatever it is he is saying seems to turn a bit too passionate for Smaug’s tastes, to its relief his speech stopping to a wall the instant Smaug speaks. “I fear the trinket is much like your axe. If I leave it be he will remain out of his mind. If I take it away he will wither away faster than I am willing to let him. I am good at serving my own interests but there is not much to gain in a situation like this.”

A hand reaches out and pats Smaug on its shoulder in what it thinks is an attempt to show empathy, but instead only manages to make it feel uncomfortable in its own skin and shy away from its companion to avoid any further unexpected physical contact.

“I suppose there is nothing else to it,” Smaug finally concludes, liking to think that the dwarf beside it agrees with its decision. “I will just have to make him face the truth of it.”

And ultimately the truth is that if the dragon has to choose between living a hundred lifetimes with the hobbit who will eventually lose himself or to spend a fraction of that time with Bilbo knowing and remembering exactly who he is and where he comes from, it is not that difficult a choice at all.

Bilbo, it thinks, will come to agree as well once he gains back his wits.

 

---

 

 

The mountain is ridiculous with its bad habit of making locating specific things impossibly difficult. While Smaug knows all the halls the peak of stone consists of and has faith in the knowledge that they won’t move around as it navigates with worrisome confidence into places some of the dwarves do not want it in, finding one Bilbo Baggins, as it turns out, is not an easy task.

It had thought it had the hobbit trapped inside the library from where he couldn’t leave without running into the dragon, but of course the place has smaller exits as well, ones to which Smaug had not bothered paying attention to at all while it had been in its dragon form. Looming over the small dwarf who had escorted Bilbo into the library had not provided any useful information on where the hobbit might’ve gone to either.

So now it has not only wasted time waiting for the hobbit to come out of the library but also running around the mountain trying to find him all the while muttering out unpleasantries at no one in particular to express its irritation.

“I should have him on a leash,” it curses, the last word coming out in a dragon-like hiss which has his axed companion look at it funny.

The first place to look is, naturally, the kitchens, though their search quickly turns out unfruitful when the cooks are fast to thrown various things at them with alarming accuracy which their apparent stress provides them. Catching a hard sweet from mid-air and sneaking it into its pocket to bring back as a gift to a certain young hobbit before skulking out in defeat, Smaug tries to think of the next place to look from.

Beside it, its escort looks most unhappy while dragging his fingers on the creamy treat that had hit him on the head, expression changing to delight as soon as he licks those fingers and gets a taste of what is to be served at the feast that is apparently being held later that day.

“What’s this, Bifur?” Someone suddenly speaks from behind them, the voice as cheeky as are the twin grins Smaug is subjected to once it turns around. “You know better than to provoke the cooks at a time like this.”

“Like you are ones to talk,” Smaug scoffs at the unknown duo, taking in the powders and berry sauces they are covered in. “At least he took only one scone to the head.”

“Which shall only serve as a testament for his lack of trying,” says the other, a blond one braided in a considerably fashionable manner, the dragon supposes.

“Hear, hear!” the other agrees enthusiastically, this one darker in colour with a pathetic excuse of a beard and no braids in sight. Vaguely Smaug remembers upsetting a pair like this once upon a time, but then, it had done so to so many that it couldn’t be bothered to keep count.

“There’s to be a feast tonight, we hear, so we did our very best to be the first ones to get a taste of what is to come,” the darker of the two continues to grin. “To ensure the quality of things, of course. As crown princes, it should be our privilege, is what we think.”

“It’s too bad the cooks don’t agree,” the blond shakes his head in mock defeat, then turning his curious gaze back at Smaug to inspect the sight of it, stroking his braided moustache between his fingers as he asks, “This banquet came a bit out of the blue. You wouldn’t happen to be a guest of honour, would you?”

“I suppose I am,” the dragon agrees, knowing it’s hardly Smaug’s return the dwarves are celebrating but guessing it’ll be invited despite that.

“I wonder if uncle forgot to tell us of some successful treaty?” the younger one of the two wonders. “You come here from Dale, right?”

“No,” the dragon denies with a displeased look and wonders where it can say it hails from. It’s been a long, long time since it has been a fire drake from the north, and it has lost its right to call itself the King Under the Mountain to Durin’s folk as much as it loathes admitting it. Besides, coming from a place or another shouldn’t even matter, not when it shall make an effort to behave before taking its permanent leave of this ruined place. But the two princes keep looking at it expectantly and with growing suspicion, so Smaug goes to say what is less likely to get it into trouble. “I am from the Shire.”

“The Shire?” They ask in tandem.

“Aren’t you a bit tall to call yourself a hobbit?” the blond one asks in doubt while the dark one jumps in excitement, demanding if, “You brought Bilbo Baggins with you?”

Smaug’s confirming nod has the younger laugh in delight while the other keeps his eyes on the man, sudden realisation giving him a comical expression when he hastily yanks on the blue sleeve of the one beside him.

“Kili!” he hisses out in half a whisper, turning them both around to hold a brief emergency gathering. “I think that man is the one who said that we…“

“We what?” the one called Kili asks dumbly, sneaking a peek of the man left standing behind their backs, the wheels inside his head starting to turn the more he thought the man looked familiar somehow, finally his eyes growing large and face turning red enough to match the other’s. “That man? The rude one?”

When the blond one only nods, it seems to make it harder for the two of them to turn around and continue any sort of casual conversation.

“Ah,” Smaug says as it suddenly remembers. “The brothers.”

“Fili,” the blond one says suddenly, turning around to stand with his back straight and apparently no intention to apologize for anything, which makes the dragon respect him just the tiniest bit. His brother hurries to follow suit, gaze not wavering when he introduces himself as, “Kili.”

“At your service!” They bow down deep and when they stand back up straight, they are smiling without a worry again.

“Sherlock at yours, though in a considerably less enthusiastic manner,” replies the dragon with a small nod and hands kept in its pockets, quick to continue with, “And now that you have agreed to be at my service, I would appreciate any knowledge you have on the whereabouts of one Bilbo Baggins.”

“You were the one who informed us of his arrival just now,” Fili says while his brother nods beside him. “You can hardly expect us to know anything more than that.”

“Useless,” Smaug grieves, motioning to its escort who by now has finished eating the dessert that had landed on his head and starting to walk away from the two princes in a very dismissing manner. Not that it serves its purpose, when the two start following them like they had been invited to come along.

“So you’ve been with Bilbo all this time?” they ask to satisfy their curiosity. “We expected him to pay a visit much sooner, you know. Was it you that prevented him from visiting before this?”

“If anything ever prevented Bilbo from doing something, the fauntling is to be blamed,” replies the dragon a bit bitterly.

“What is a fauntling?” Kili wonders.

“A bother is what it is,” Smaug huffs and leaves it at that despite the impressive efforts Fili and Kili go through in their attempts to try and pry more specific definitions out of their guest, eventually leaving the dragon not far from agreeing when they finally come to the conclusion that it must be a maintainable disease of some sort.

Annoying as it is being followed by two bored princes that talk too much and of uninteresting things, it provides a clear advantage when trying to get into places. Such as the sickroom which Smaug thinks might be of interest to the hobbit considering his growing interest in the practicalities of healing now that he has been more or less forced to mend the cuts and bruises of both Smaug and Frodo. Or the forges where lumps of metal took beautiful shapes to serve various purposes, which might go beyond the caring of others, but for those who sat at their dinner table wondering how their silver tableware came to be, perhaps it was the place to visit.

They were even granted access to the treasury, although with great caution. Bilbo might not be a habitual thief, but since his lookers were slowly running out of ideas as to where he might be after having searched the sleeping quarters provided for the guests as well as revisiting one irritated King Under the Mountain only to end up being yelled at on how the princes should clean the mess they were covered in, there is really not many places left they can think of.

When they eventually do run into the hobbit, it’s when the bells ring loud and clear along the halls of Erebor, calling all those who know they are welcome to join the king in the Great Hall where a feast will be held. By the time Smaug and the three dwarves still insistent on following it make it there, they are all tired from roaming the ridiculous distances of the kingdom, and the dragon especially irritated beyond reason for all the effort it had wasted in poor company only to run into Bilbo in a place it could have waited for him all along.

So it ignores the happy greetings Fili and Kili shout at Bilbo when they finally find him standing in the Great Hall with a bald dwarf carrying war axes on his back like he was ready for battle, pushing past the two princes with an angrier shout of Bilbo’s name.

It doesn’t care about the time and place. It never has and never will, not when Bilbo turns to look at Smaug and his eyes harden like he knows what is coming. When the dwarf Bilbo had been talking with goes to stand protectively in front of the hobbit, for the snarling man approaching them looked very much like a threat, Bilbo pushes him aside without apologies and meets Smaug half way.

“I’m sure that whatever it is you wish to discuss can be done in a more private place,” Bilbo says from under his breath, very conscious of the way they are being stared at.

“Much as I wish to agree with you, I fear I cannot,” Smaug replies, not doing anything to lower its voice. “Besides, what I wish to say to you I have said numerous times before; you have to let it go.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about,” the hobbit says through gritted teeth, hand automatically pressing against his pocket.

“Let me be clear, then.” Crossing its arms against its chest, Smaug glares down at the hobbit who’s never looked this aggressive before. It wonders if this really is a bad place to have this conversation, but since Smaug won’t wait for a moment longer to tell Bilbo what is on its mind, and were it not so sure that Bilbo would try his hardest to escape from the dragon the moment they stepped out of the sight of prying eyes, the current place and time would have to do. “Since you are blind to your own lunacy and I refuse to see it grow any longer, I must insist you cease to use the trinket in your pocket.”

“Cease to use it? You want me to let it go?” Bilbo drags his hand down his face before letting it cover his mouth to catch a hysterical laugh. Smaug is certain the hobbit’s dwarven friends would long ago have gotten between them could any of them recognise the Bilbo Baggins now as the one they had gone on an adventure with. As it is, they keep to standing on the side-lines, feeling unsure and helpless when they start to recognize symptoms similar to those of gold-sickness growing on Bilbo’s character.

“Why? So that you could have it?” From the growing realisation on Bilbo’s face Smaug can tell the ring is whispering its own truths to its bearer, things that speak strongly against anyone nearby trying to help. It angers the dragon, has it seethe and feel the first cracks in its bones when its body wants to morph and tear everything apart. But the overwhelming darkness has blinded Bilbo by now, and he takes a wary step back when all he can see is some unrevealing conspiracy everyone around him is involved in.

“It came to me,” he says while shaking his head. “It’s mine!”

“I have no interest in your precious trinket!” Smaug roars and takes a step forward. “My demand only serves to preserve your sanity! It is for your own good!”

Only a moment too late does it realise its mistake, knowing very well how Bilbo will react when feeling like he’s being driven into a corner. With trembling hands the hobbit takes the ring from out of his pocket, his eyes wide when he whispers, “You were never any good for me.”

“Do not dare,” Smaug says warningly, knowing their distance is not enough for it to be able to stop the inevitable. “Do not dare!”

But anything it has to say now does not stop Bilbo from vanishing right in front of it and everyone else.

 

---

 

 

This time Smaug is fairly certain where to look for the hobbit.

Because there is nothing under the pressure of the mountain that would remind Bilbo of who he is or where he comes from, Smaug too takes its leave and walks away without looking back. And it is thinking of a place where field flowers grow amid lush grass and trees aren’t too eager to block the warming sunrays with their sheer quantity. Somewhere quiet where the air carries the scent soil rich enough that anything can be grown on it.

A place that will remind them of the comforts of home even though they are a million miles away from it.

The dawn is chilly and moist, greeting exhales of breath by turning them into vapour, which reminds Smaug of the times it lets the fires in its throat die down instead of breathing them out red and yellow, oftentimes leaving it with just smoke to puff out in an impressive imitation of Bilbo’s smoking habits. But this is not smoke at all, and what it breathes out just quickly mingles with the thin layer of mist the edges of the reviving Greenwoods have gathered.

The mist seems lazy, hardly moving at all as it goes about and covers the slowly waking forest in a layer of dew, making everything look fresh and pure.

It creates a stark contrast to the mess Bilbo has made of himself.

For when Smaug eventually does find him, that’s what Bilbo is. A literal mess.

He’s sunk his hands into the ground, soil all over his person and clothes, the fabrics of which the dewdrops the grass underneath him has gathered now attach themselves onto. The soles of his feet show he’s been walking on mud and grass, and the twigs and cobweb caught fireflies in his hair hint that it took him a while to find the meadow he now sits in the middle of, surrounded by small flowers that come in all colours.

Still, he seems fine now compared to how he carried himself in the mountain. The posture of his shoulders is not wary at all even though Smaug knows the hobbit can hear it as it stops to stand at the edges of the meadow to stare. To sign that its presence has been acknowledged, Bilbo tilts his head backwards the tiniest bit.

“What are you doing here?” he eventually asks without much emotion in his voice.

“Do not feign ignorance, you know exactly why I am here,” Smaug replies.

“Let me rephrase that then. How did you find me?”

“I like to think it is because I know you.” Starting to cross the misty meadow, Smaug goes to kneel in front of its hobbit who seems reluctant to meet its gaze.

“You said I was losing my mind,” Bilbo laughs quietly, drawing his hands out of the ground and letting them rest on his thighs instead. “I suppose the sight of me now only strengthens your beliefs on that matter.”

“The sight of you now reminds me of your gardener,” it says as it lifts the token Bilbo had left behind and crowns him with the ill-fitting thing for the second time, the sudden weight of the flower crown on his head making Bilbo lift his gaze. “When we first met, you and I spent our days on top of a mountain of treasure and yet you kept talking about the flowers on your garden like they held more value than anything you had put your feet on that day.”

“How very hobbit-like of me,” says Bilbo with a hint of returning humour. “Is that what this token is about? To remind me of that?”

Smaug nods. “Perhaps I was hoping it might turn you into the hobbit I met back then.”

“And who am I now?” Bilbo wonders absentmindedly.

Someone testy and a little bit cruel, Smaug thinks but doesn’t say out loud, because the ring that is known to make even the kings of men fall is at fault, and if anything, Bilbo has shown great resilience against its influence. There is no shame in that.

So, “You are that same hobbit, of course, only I fear that you have been courted by the powers of evil for too long,” it says instead to lead Bilbo to the root of it.  

“I’m being courted by an evil ring of power?” Bilbo laughs and doesn’t even begin to understand how true his words are. “It is too bad then that I have already promised myself to the Chiefest of Calamities of our age.”

“And I would appreciate it if you would remember that without me having to remind you of it.” Frowning and tugging on a strand of curled hobbit hair, Smaug hopes it is making enough of an impression that Bilbo will take its words seriously.

Bilbo accepts the abuse without a fight, though he fails to seem sorry for what he had just been accused of. Not that the dragon’s hisses and fits have ever deserved much of a reaction from out of him.

Eventually he just closes his eyes and sighs out, “You knew all along what it was doing to me?”

“Yes,” it answers truthfully, because there’s nothing else to it than that. When Bilbo opens his eyes to look at it expectantly, not with rage and accusation, but more with this quiet kind of impartiality he often does when Smaug has acted as it had pleased and he wishes to understand the reasons behind its decisions, Smaug musters its explanations through the layers of bother and inconvenience things so obvious to it usually hide behind. “I was aware of the tendencies of that trinket and I found them both fascinating and amusing, though the most promise I saw was in its ability to lengthen your unfortunately short lifespan. Seeing the changes in you, however, made me doubt what the point would be to spare you for a hundred years more if I cannot recognize you as the hobbit you once were. After all, I am rather fond of your manners.”

“And of all the things you could have done to either stop me from using it or watch it corrupt me, all you did was ask me to let it go?” Bilbo breathes a bit unsteadily.

“Well, you did say you have a mind of your own. I trust you will see the reason behind my words and act accordingly.”

Taking a moment more to let is all sink in, Bilbo leaves Smaug to wait in silence before surprising it by sighing out a quiet, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Smaug asks tilting its head, wondering on the peculiar way Bilbo oftentimes reacts to its actions which seldom compromise with the customs of hobbits. Or of anyone for that matter. After all, the bruises Bilbo often has to soothe come in the shape of what folk think about the things Smaug has got to say to them.

“For not taking that decision from me,” comes the answer while Bilbo goes to rub his eyes with the palms of his hands, which only has him spread the mud on his hands all over his face.

“Have you made one then? A decision?” the dragon inquires curiously.

“Oh yes.” Nodding, Bilbo lowers his hands from his eyes and looks ridiculous with smears all over his face. “I think I’ll take to keeping it on the mantelpiece instead of carrying it with me wherever I go, though come my birthday I might have no choice but to use it. For strategic purposes, you understand.”

“I think you are well entitled to your strategies, all things considered,” Smaug agrees, smirking down at the other and running its knuckles against the corner of Bilbo’s eye in its attempt to clean some of the mud away, but only managing to spread it on a wider area, which makes it jest, “How unbefitting of a king to be this filthy.”

“You are allowed to think what you will, O’ Tyrannical, but soil suits a simple hobbit like me better than any rings of power ever could,” says the hobbit merrily, reaching to pull something out of his jacket when he suddenly looks like he was just reminded of something. “Speaking of tyrannies, I got you a token.”

An iron crown makes its way out from the depths of Bilbo’s clothes, this heavy, sturdy thing looking foreign in the hands of the hobbit, though he makes it his own by leaving bits and pieces of earth on it wherever his fingers grace the metal. It doesn’t look like it has been made for a king to wear, because it is quite plain without any jewels attached to it and the carvings on it are minimalistic, but if Bilbo says, “I can’t be a king all by myself,” then Smaug won’t make any comments as it bows its head down so that it too can be crowned with this ill-fitting thing that is way too small for its human head. But the metal pressing against its scalp feels nice and homely, its dragon nature approving of the material it has been gifted with.

“How did you come by this?” it questions suspiciously, which makes Bilbo grin.

“Found it just lying about, didn’t I?”

“And you dared to call me naughty for taking from the elven king!” The accusation is playful, as is the insult, “Thief,” it throws, knowing it is not taken in the wrong way when Bilbo only looks at it smugly.

“The difference between you and I is that I have a signed contract that entitles me to a portion of the treasures of Erebor.”

The counter makes Smaug’s eyes widen, because it has seen the contract back at Bag End, but has never bothered to read the contents of it, for it was filled with lawful matters and reading things like that were for folk who actually abide by the rules. “Then how is it you just left it there?” it demands very vocally, never minding that Bag End couldn’t possibly hold all those riches within it.

Its reaction is being looked at with great amusement, Bilbo’s excuse being, “Because the treasure I ended up with happened to follow me home by itself, didn’t it?”

“You rot my teeth, Barrel-rider, you do,” it gnarls back reluctantly, yielding completely when Bilbo’s hands come to squish its cheeks between them and adding warily once it becomes aware of the similarities this scene has to those fictional ones it has so often read about, “I hope whatever hobbit values you attempted to dig from out of the ground gave you enough clarity and sense that you will not try to kiss me again as you please.”

The resignation in Smaug’s voice makes the playful grin on Bilbo’s face vanish, something shameful quick to take its place as his hands drop to rest on his lap again. “They did,” he says to the ground. “And I am sorry for every mean word and act of inconsideration I threw at you.”

“Do not worry, I will have my revenge yet,” it replies with a smirk to say everything was all right now that it was ensured it wouldn’t be subjected to anything too unexpected, the gist of which Bilbo catches with ease.

“I shall dread for that day,” he says before getting up and quite uselessly wiping his hands on his trousers. “But for now I suppose we ought to return to the mountain and explain ourselves.”

“We ought to do no such thing,” counters the dragon rather sourly while giving no indication that it was going to stand up as well.

“You did say at least something to them as to what was wrong with me?” When Smaug only gives him a blank look, Bilbo sighs in defeat. “No, of course you didn’t. Just ran away and left them to their confusion, didn’t you? Poor, clueless things.”

“They are hardly poor,” the dragon mutters with resentment that will always have a place somewhere at the back of its mind, forced to get up when Bilbo goes to leave without it.

“And neither are we,” hollers Bilbo back at it from where he’s making his way back to the mountain, trailing twigs and mud and fireflies, somehow looking younger than he has for a while. “Now if you sourpuss would just be a good dragon and follow me, I might even properly introduce you to them as something a bit more significant than just a companion.”

“Fine,” it goes for the bait. “But I shall warn you that I will not remove my crown upon our arrival.”

“And neither should you,” Bilbo nods almost seriously, though the mirth his eyes gives his sentiments away.

“My, my,” Smaug drawls as it catches up and looks down at the other with amused suspicion, “Sounds like someone is up to no good.”

Lifting his nose up with a snob-like expression on his face, Bilbo goes to say, “Nonsense. When are us kings anything but entirely respectable?”

“Indeed,” the dragon agrees with a laugh that eventually matches Bilbo’s when he can’t keep it in anymore.

And when they make their return and raise both eyebrows and tempers, they are very well mannered indeed even if their crowns gather quite a lot of grouse around them. Still, Smaug walks without apologies, smirking all the way at the reactions they get when Bilbo tells them the truth about the nature of the pair of them. The dwarves might not fully comprehend, but come to eventually just accept it as it is.

Because this is the life they both agreed on sharing, and despite the narrow-mindedness of others, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

 

---

 

 

When Bilbo truly finally lets the ring go, he is one hundred and eleven years old.

It’s not because of anything Smaug would have to say about it, but because Gandalf’s voice booms heavy with magic and concern for a friend. The golden trinket drops onto the floor with a weight that a thing its size shouldn’t possess, and with a final glance, Bilbo walks away from it for good.

Smaug is waiting for him at the willow gully where they had agreed to meet once it had loudly objected to being forced to attend yet another birthday, even if it would be the last one like this. It waits till Bilbo is by its side before they start taking the road that will lead them to Rivendell, walking too slowly for the dragon’s tastes.

But Bilbo is so old now, his hair having lost any pigmentation it ever held and hand slightly shaking as he goes about with his walking stick. It seems like the years come crashing in now that he’s let the ring go, the effects of which Smaug doesn’t want to see take form so suddenly.

To have one final look at the Shire, Bilbo turns around and breathes in the fresh night air with a satisfied look, asking, “I’ve lived a life, haven’t I?”

“You have lived to become a senile old fool,” Smaug replies as it stares at the lights surrounding the party tree they can see even all the way from here, wondering how everything would turn out if it just flew away now to a distant land and pretended this had a happier ending.

There’s a familiar smack against its thigh and as it looks down, it sees Bilbo smile up at it in a laddish manner. “Stop sulking, I’ve one more adventure in me yet! Come along now.”

“Are you sure you do not want to stare a moment longer?” it wonders at the hobbit’s haste to leave. “I know you. You will fall ill with homesickness in no time.”

“Home is where the heart is,” Bilbo says easily, motioning with his hand for Smaug to come hither and once it is close enough, taking a hold of the corner of its jacket to start pulling the dragon along. “I’m good to go.”

And so he seems to be, surprisingly so, with energy Smaug isn’t quite sure where it could possibly come from. Still, it follows. Always. Forever.

To whatever end.

Chapter Text

 

Middle-Earth is roaring.

The echoes of Grond knocking on the gates of Minas Tirith carry far and wide, as do the voices of the Rohirrim when they scream for death thrice before they charge. There's the sound of the bones of their horses cracking and breaking when they're stepped on by Oliphants, and the wails of the soil when the great beasts are brought to the ground one by one in retaliation.

The air is thick with the stench of war, which others wage for the right to oppress while others respond to it to keep their freedom, and on both sides they fall in such numbers that they hide the Pelennor Fields underneath their spent, lifeless bodies.

Yet it is not a high price to pay, when the fate of their world is their cause to fight for.

Life is cheap.

A preferred future is not.

But however loud, the sounds of their struggles, cheers of victory, or tears shed over those who have been lost do not carry here.

In Rivendell, there is only dead silence.

A veil of deep melancholy has landed over the lands the elves have now mostly abandoned, leaving Middle-Earth to its own fate. Those who remain walk around solemnly and hardly speak. No songs have been sung for the longest time, nor poetry read to an applauding audience. The loudest it gets anymore is at the odd chance there is thunder in the distance, or if one became aware of the constant white noise of the numerous waterfalls surrounding Rivendell, which would continue to beat the stone underneath them into smoothness regardless of the outcomes of the war.

Though walking, at least, is not such a quiet business anymore, seeing as there is no one left who'd care to do something about the dry, fallen leaves scattered all over the numerous pathways, making this scrunching noise a constant companion if one didn't make a conscious effort to avoid stepping on them.

It is not an effort Smaug is too willing to make anymore.

These days, when the constant silence borders on maddening, it's even willing to listen to its own breathing; the sounds its nostrils make every time it draws in a breath, how its lungs fill and empty of air, the way its heartbeat slows down if it holds its breath for long enough, and how it quickens with relief each morning when Bilbo doesn't forget to wake up.

Days spent like this feel like an eternity, and Smaug loathes almost the entirety of it. Yet if it'd be given the chance to preserve the time spent in here forever, it would take without hesitation.

This is the thought Smaug is playing with on the day the silence is broken by a cough, when the daughter of Elrond gets her first bitter taste of mortality.

She looks awed when she stares at her hand, which she had by some observed instinct brought to cover her mouth before her body had failed. And then she smiles. For what reason, Smaug has no idea.

"There is hope still," Arwen says, and although she isn't making any physical gestures that she is addressing the dragon, Smaug knows it is the one she is talking to. Discreetly as it might try to move around, these are the beings that have always been quick to catch onto its presence.

"For all of us," she smiles with so much belief in her own words that it makes something inside Smaug lurch violently. It feels anger pulse through its veins. Pitch black wrath wraps around its heart and its tendons twitch with the effort of keeping it all inside instead of just letting them explode like the Wizard's fireworks on a midsummer's eve.

Because there's no hope to be found in this wretched place. Nothing to fight against or an enemy to slay. No plans for tomorrow and no talk about the future. There's nothing here except for the last minutes of an era passing quietly out of existence and foolish fantasies that the nearing end could somehow be halted and kept away.

Still, she smiles while Smaug seethes.

And so Smaug spends the last of its remaining time in Rivendell in a foul mood, because if it could, it would curse every last one of these damned elves and their enigmatic propensities.

For where Lord Elrond manages to keep a straight face, Lady Galadriel makes no effort to keep her amused smile at bay while Smaug glares at them at the docks of Grey Havens where, a few moons after Arwen's cough, Bilbo and it had been invited to join them.

"Places have been reserved for you on this ship. Accept them or not, the choice is yours," they care to say only now, gesturing at the last ship to set sail towards the Undying Lands.

"This reservation must have been arranged long beforehand," Smaug says to them acidly while keeping its arms crossed against its chest as if to hold on tightly to the despair and hatred it had carried with it for so long now that it would have felt weird letting a wave of relief just wash it all away in seconds.

"You all knew this!" it almost shouts. "You could have told us!"

"Nothing is ever certain," Lady Galadriel responds to its allegations, still smiling, still so infuriatingly placid and enigmatic that it makes Smaug's fingers curl into painfully tight fists. "Hope was all we had to offer, and since hope is often lost on those who make lovers out of facts set in stone, it was better to not say anything at all."

Beside her, both Celeborn and Elrond nod to agree, while Gandalf looks like he's having a hard time keeping a comment to himself.

"Come now, my eternal vexation," Bilbo says as he appears by Smaug's side after having said his farewells to the hobbit lads still in tears somewhere behind them. The dull look of a waning life is long gone from the hobbit's eyes now as he looks with rekindled mischief at the ship waiting for them to board so that it could sail them to the Undying Lands. "Be in higher spirits, would you? I, for one, am pleasantly surprised by this turn of events."

"As you very well should be, being gifted with immortality after living a life of good, brave deeds as you are," Smaug grumbles and tugs lightly on the tip of Bilbo's ear as if to scold him for daring to spend his life as a mortal until now. "But I, for one, find it hard to forgive those who left me to despair despite having an inkling that a shared eternity between us was a possibility, so excuse my frustrations."

"In all truth," says Gandalf, finally allowing a piece of his wisdom to colour the conversation, "out of the two of you, Bilbo is still the only one seen worthy of entering the Undying Lands."

"What are you saying?" Smaug asks quickly, body growing rigid with alert when something so cold takes a hold of it that it feels like the fires inside it are dying. The dragon shifts closer to Bilbo and rolls a strand of his white hair around its finger to anchor itself to the hobbit about to set off on another adventure, saying with a voice that should be demanding but instead sounds something else entirely, "I did not come here for farewells. I will not say goodbye!"

Gandalf leans heavily against his staff, breathing out what could very well be a mutter, while taking a good, long look at the pair of them from under his brows as if assessing the sight before him. The seconds ticking by are vexing, but by the time they come to an end, the old wizard is smiling again, saying, "Yes, good. Good! We simply cannot leave you behind on these shores, seeing how you've stuck to his side to this day. That is out of the question!"

"Wizard!" Smaug growls warningly, but is soon spoken over by Bilbo.

"You must stop teasing him!" the hobbit laughs and starts walking towards the ship when Elrond makes an inviting gesture towards it, grinning up at the dragon who is still reluctant to distance itself from Bilbo's personal space and keeps eyeing everyone suspiciously, "I would have sneaked you on board no matter what, anyway."

"So you'd have," agrees Frodo who joins them a moment later, giving Bilbo a long, hearty hug before going to have his last glimpse of the friends he's leaving behind forever.

Once all those who have been invited have boarded, the ship detaches from the pier almost without notice, its departure so slow and steady that one could have missed it if their eyes were closed.

Smaug keeps its eyes open, and witnesses the growing distance.

It feels like letting go.

Despite having never bothered to carry naught but its scales and skin and later on whatever the pockets of its battered jacket could hold (and yes, all right, sometimes Smaug even carried hobbits on its back), it feels like tons and tons of treasure keeps pouring off its shoulders the more room its mind gives for the realization that this is it; this is them on their way to the Undying Lands, where the reason behind the name would help Smaug leave the heavy burden of just idly waiting for the inevitable somewhere far behind.

Beside it, Bilbo rests his hands on the railing that circles the ship and looks calmly at the shores like he hasn't got a single regret concerning everything that had led to this moment. Apparently reluctant to tear his gaze away from the view, because this is his last glance of the past while he has the whole of his future to stare at Smaug's mug, Bilbo keeps looking into the distance when he goes to say, "Much as I dislike bragging, this scene seems awfully alike to the ending lines of my book. I must have a predictive bone in me."

"Lies," denies Smaug, tugging at the strand of hair which it has yet to let go of. "It is not possible for you to have predicted this. The only good your bones are for is eating."

"I forgive you your doubt, but only because I know you didn't bother to read one verse of what I wrote. Else you'd be agreeing with me."

"I already know what happened on your journey, so I saw no point in reading about it," the dragon reasons, rolling its eyes before huffing, "But since you are obviously expecting me to ask: what were the ending lines of your book?"

With a cheeky grin, Bilbo leans against the railing with his elbows and rests his head against the palms of his hands before throwing a jovial look at the dragon beside him from the corner of his eye.

"And they lived happily ever after," he says, using the dancing tones he adopts when he transforms into a storyteller. "To the end of their days."

"Rot and decay," Smaug responds with a breath of a laugh to protest the sweetness of it all, but not to disagree. Their moment is shattered when from their left comes a cough that sounds like a poorly concealed chuckle.

"My dear Bilbo!" Gandalf says when they turn to look, the old wizard obviously pretending he was only passing by rather than actively eavesdropping on them.

"This is hardly the end. Your book might be finished, but the story goes on. And I do wish you are well prepared for whatever that may imply," he continues to say with a merry look, taking the time out of his day to wink at Smaug when Bilbo is too busy laughing to notice.

Following the wizard's gaze, Smaug looks down at its hand, where the white strand of hair it had wrapped around its finger was white no more, but more the colour it had been the day Bilbo had sneaked into its lair.

 

---

 

"What is this!?" Smaug roars as it appears from under the deck with so much flare that Frodo worries it might accidentally set the whole ship on fire could the dragon not tame its temper. It seemed like gone were those peaceful days when Smaug was actually content within the limited space their vessel had to offer, its time and attention having been captured by the physical changes Bilbo was going through as their journey progressed. Years had kept dropping off the older hobbit's appearance, resulting in, to Bilbo's great annoyance, on-going poking and an endless litany of questions from his curious companion.

Now, though… Now it looked like the dragon wasn't happy at all with the changes.

"…This is quite unexpected," Elrond comments from where he is lounging on the deck, the scent of his morning tea drifting around him.

"Let me go, you beast!" Bilbo shouts with his face red from the way Smaug is dangling him in the air from his ankle, flailing his arms around in an attempt to land a punch. A sound of disbelief leaves Frodo's throat, which Smaug apparently mistakes for a laugh, because it is throwing a glare so nasty at the hobbit that Frodo instinctively raises his hands as a sing of surrender.

"Well, well," Gandalf inputs, walking up to the pair making a ruckus to inspect the manhandled wee thing. "If it isn't the small hobbit lad that once upon a time ambushed me while wielding a wooden sword."

Bilbo looks up at the wizard with huge, round eyes, like it'd help him convince the wizard that he had done no such thing. Gandalf gives him a flick to the forehead for his troubles.

"What happened?" Smaug tries to demand from the wizard, yanking the hobbit away from the old man and having the courtesy to turn Bilbo back the right way up so that all the blood wouldn't keep rushing to his head. "Why is he so little?"

"I am not little!" Bilbo announces loudly, pushing the palm of his hand flat against the dragon's cheek. "And I slay dragons between this breakfast and the next, I'll have you know!"

As much obstinacy as he is showing, Bilbo has become undeniably small. Smaug would compare him to Frodo when Bilbo had taken that wee thing as his responsibility, but can't really say if their ages would match. Be it what it may, it is no doubt annoying.

"He seems to be big in spirit, at the least," says Gandalf with great mirth. "Why, dare I even say that this is Bilbo when he had the most potential. Before he mellowed down and started to identify as a Baggins rather than a Took."

"What is potential compared to actual done deeds!?" the dragon cries out when forced to face such iniquity. "Why did he not stay as he was after the Battle of the Five Armies? Would that not have been more deserved?"

"Deserved?" the wizard wonders. "There is a difference between dreaming of doing something and doing something because it has to be done. It seems to me that what our dear Bilbo deserves is to dream once again. Would you begrudge him that?"

Bilbo has gone silent in Smaug's arms, picking at a stray string that has been poking out of the dragon's jacket for almost a decade now. A clear sign that even if he's lost his size and bits of maturity, his habits are sticking like they are sewn to his skin. And Smaug has had to deal with these particular symptoms enough to know what is going on.

Bilbo is not happy about what he is hearing, but has decided not to say anything about it rather than argue his standpoint through. A somewhat frustrating trait of his, because in Smaug's opinion, silence is a poor medium for two different mindsets to reach a middle ground.

"Will he stay like this forever?" Smaug asks quickly and a lot more calmly, not bothering to make a fuss when it receives a much-expected lack of a proper answer when Gandalf says, "You have time to find out, don't you?"

When Smaug says nothing more and just leaves with Bilbo tucked under its arm, its footsteps perhaps a tad heavier than necessary as it makes its way back into the cabin it shares with the hobbit, Frodo asks hesitantly, "Should we- should we do something about this?"

"And what do you suggest should be done?" Gandalf enquires with a questioning look, not waiting for an actual answer before he goes to continue. "Not to say that I tend to meddle, but these two have always seemed to manage just fine without outside input."

Elrond hums against his tea in agreement, and begrudgingly, Frodo accepts it as counsel enough for him to leave the matter be.

"Am I good no more?"

Celeborn does not mean to eavesdrop, but then, their ship is very small, and his elven ears are awfully prone on catching even the smallest of noises. He's just passing by the cabin occupied by the oddest pair of their travelling lot, when he hears something he perhaps shouldn't, and even though it is entirely by accident, he feels quite naughty for it.

"Am I not worth coveting anymore?" the elf hears Bilbo ask with a teary tone, though there is something else off about his voice as well. It sounds so childlike, even more so than before. Dignity would not let him admit that curiosity is what has him halt and listen in a little bit more, but perhaps, Celeborn thinks, concern over the evident despair to be heard in the hobbit's tone would be an allowed excuse.

"I never said that! Do not put words into my mouth," he can hear Smaug say testily, which, even in all his wisdom, makes the elf wonder how the relationship of those two could ever have worked as it seemed like irritable and arrogant were the default characteristics the dragon stuck to. Surely these were not traits a hobbit would look for when choosing a lifelong partner.

"But you hate fauntlings!" Bilbo argues with more aggression than sorrow now.

"True," Smaug admits, apparently ignoring the sob which its honesty rips from out of the hobbit. "But keep in mind that I dislike hobbits in all sizes."

Celeborn does not jump in surprise when a hand slips into his, but he does look at his Lady with slight embarrassment at having been caught. Galadriel only smiles at him, bringing a finger to her lips while staying there with him, oozing mirth as if she's taking part in some great mischief.

"As well as all the hours during which you tend to eat. Your birthdays, also, and in extension all of your relatives that come with it. I hate most hobbit customs, come to think of it," Smaug continues to prattle.

"Is this supposed to make me feel better!?" the hobbit asks in disbelief.

"Yes! Yes it is!" the elves can hear Smaug roar back. "Not worth coveting anymore? You insult me, Bilbo Baggins. Did I not tell you once what we dragons do with our treasure? Have I not done exactly that despite your lacks and flaws, even whilst you were losing your mind, or is that not merit enough on my part to make your daft, mortal mind understand what an eternity means?"

When Bilbo has no response, Smaug goes to continue.

"Not worth coveting anymore? Like something as trifle as this could change that. By choosing demean yourself now, after all this time, you might as well state that the life we have shared to this day has been a waste of time. Stop it."

"You're right." Bilbo manages to say between hiccups. "I'm sorry."

The argument quiets down after that, and what remains of it turns into softer murmurs that are not meant for others to hear.

'And so a storm passes,' Celeborn thinks out loud fondly for his Lady to hear, giving a light squeeze to the hand he held in his. But Galadriel does not respond immediately. She only stares at the wooden boards of the ship, like she could see the endless sea that lied behind them.

'While another one approaches,' he can hear her think, smile back on her face when she starts pulling him along so that they could join the others on the deck.

Celeborn doesn't voice any of the questions she had roused in him. Instead he trusts that in due time, he will come to learn what she means.

 

---

 

Having grown up in a household occupied by a certain dragon, Frodo thought himself quite capable of recognizing majority of its moods and the behavioural patterns that often tailed them. The current mood seemed to be the unfortunate combination of restlessness and being on the hunt for attention, and seeing how Bilbo was momentarily absent and thus unable to take care of this issue in his blessedly professional fashion, Frodo knew to make himself scarce whilst Smaug looked around for its shipmates in search of entertainment.

With no proper hiding places in close sight, the best Frodo could do was to casually walk to the opposite direction of the menace, like he was much interested in seeing the horizon from the front of the boat rather than from the side of it, making sure that he was separated from the beast by Elrond, who just so happened to be lounging on the deck in his blissful ignorance. He thought he felt a sharp gaze bore into the back of his head, but a small glance over his shoulder proved to Frodo that his plan had worked. Smaug had taken a seat next to Elrond.

"Most curious," says the dragon to the elven lord conversationally. Frodo silently hopes Elrond would know better than to take the bait, but already he is turning to face Smaug, one quizzical brow raised.

"Yes?"

"The way they interact," Smaug provides, giving a nod to the direction where Lady Galadriel and Gandalf are having a quiet conversation. "It is rather… intimate. Do you not agree?"

Clearing his throat, Elrond turns his gaze elsewhere. "I am not comfortable discussing this topic."

"Not indeed?" Smaug says, throwing a mean smirk at the elf it had decided to bully. "Now that is a pity, for I would much like to ponder over this with someone who perhaps has some deeper insight on the matter."

"Then I suggest you find someone else," Elrond stresses, turning a page of the novel he had been reading to indicate that some peace and quiet would be highly appreciated right about now. "Please excuse me."

"Excused," Smaug nods almost sagely. "Though I must confess I am no stranger to talking to myself, either."

"I beg you do it elsewhere."

Frodo can see how Elrond's jawline tightens in annoyance. Smaug, he knows, has long ago drawn its conclusions concerning the relationship between the Lady of Light and the former Grey Pilgrim, so the show he was witnessing was most likely just about what kind of reactions the dragon could draw out from the unfortunate elf. Which Frodo admittedly found quite amusing, given the limited supply of entertainment their boat had to offer.

"And where else do you suggest I go? It is a very small ship, after all." Smaug asks, its potential to feign genuine curiosity quite convincingly being laid to waste by how everyone on the ship were already aware of the rather mean demeanour behind its character.

With a great sigh, Elrond pinches the bridge of his nose like he wasn't quite believing what he was about to say. "Perhaps somewhere with a looking glass would do, so that you could maintain eye contact with the one person willing to listen to nonsense like this."

Smaug leans more into its chair, a coy smile on its face as it asks, "Below the deck, is what you meant to say? Out of sight, out of mind?"

"Indeed." agrees the elf, not hanging onto too much hope that the dragon would actually leave him in peace.

"How rude." the dragon retaliates, looking very pleased with itself.

Elrond doesn't take being called rude very well. "I beg to differ," he says sourly, comforting himself with the thought that even if he had been slightly rude, his words and actions would never be as ill-meaning as those of the menace beside him.

Their debate ends there, though, when they both turn to look as Bilbo enters the deck, squinting when the light of the sun proves to be a bit too bright. He lifts his hand to cast a shadow over his eyes to help his sight adjust as he looks to the horizon. "Fortune's been with us weather-wise until now, but it seems like the clouds in the distance might bring a change to that."

Ignoring the hobbit's comment on the weather, Elrond shuts his book with a sharp snap and gives Bilbo a very grave look. "Bilbo Baggins," he says. "When I settled out here on the deck with the intention to finish reading this lovely novel, I was not planning on being bothered by your curious life choices."

"Do not tattle on me like I'm some fauntling with its paws too deep in the cookie jar!" Smaug snarls, turning to glare at the elf beside it.

Bilbo doesn't seem too apologetic on the behalf of his companion. In fact, he grins. "Naughty," he says, padding over to them and placing his small hands on Smaug's knees. "Behave, or I'll write you into a song."

Smaug looks down at the hobbit, momentarily indecisive if it wanted to continue tormenting the elf for its own amusement or to avoid the humiliation of being sung about day and night as Bilbo tried to arrange the words and melody into their suitable places, before agreeing in defeat, "I will behave."

"He says he's fire, he says he's death," Bilbo begins to hum much to the dragon's irritation, using some tune borrowed from a song fauntlings often sing while bundling up the flowers they had picked to bring back home. "Wings like a hurricane, and a really bad breath!"

"Such flibbertigibbets should be thrown into the ocean!" it declares and stands up abruptly, pretending to chase the squealing hobbit around the deck, before finally making the extra effort and going in for the capture. Three times it tosses Bilbo into the air, the hobbit's loud laughter drowning out the grumbling clouds looming in the distance.

 

---

 

Smaug is sick of the motions with which their vessel tries to fight against the storm raging outside. It feels like if the heaving sea grows its waves any larger than they already are, their chances to survive yet another monstrous mass of salted water trundling at them would decrease to absolute minimum.

As if to test Smaug's belief in its own immortality, another uphill battle against such wave comes to an end, their quick descend making the surrounding boards groan in stress when the bottom of their ship hits the water that eventually catches them, almost swallowing the bow of their vessel.

The taste of bile fills the dragon's mouth, but it only swallows it down thickly. It is not pathetic enough to show such signs of weakness, and refuses to be humbled by the idea that their journey might very well end here. Not when Bilbo has apparently no trouble continuing his slumber throughout this hellish trial.

Unable to stay still any longer, Smaug lugs itself off the bed. It has to hold onto things just to keep upright, and in the dark it is near impossible to avoid stepping on the small items that keep rolling along the floor. More than once or twice the dragon lets out a curse when something sharp presses against the soles of its bare human feet. Climbing the stairs that lead onto the deck is no easy feat either, and when it finally struggles its way up them, Smaug is drenched within seconds after opening the door.

It's hard to tell what time of the day it is. All Smaug can say is that it is dark. There's no sky to be seen from beneath the heavy clouds, and the only light provided comes from the enormous bolts of lightning that rumble like the world is being torn apart.

Smaug considers just closing the door and skulking back into the cabin where it could steal Bilbo's body heat to supplement what this useless trip to see what was going on had lost it, but it abandons this thought when it senses something peculiar amidst the forces of nature and fear of dying.

It ensnares the dragon's curiosity, gnaws at its mind and makes it fight against the howling wind and shifting balances of the ship against its better judgement, the door leading to the cabins below banging shut behind it.

What it ends up discovering is her standing at the bow of the ship.

Her usual white glow shines only with its absence, and instead she seems to be blending in with all the murk surrounding her. She, too, is drenched from the rain, but seems otherwise unaffected by the violent elements throwing a tantrum around her. She keeps her balance like her feet aren't even touching the boards underneath her, and the waves threatening to swallow them whole look almost hesitant to near her.

"Witch!" the dragon tries to yell to get her attention, but it can hardly even hear its own voice in the loudness of the storm. Frustrated, it spits out saltwater and holds onto the mast when something jerks the vessel sideways.

Suddenly there's a voice, and while it is inside its mind, Smaug does not recognize it as a thought of its own. It supposes it must belong to the Witch.

'Are you afraid?' she asks, her words coated with this white quietness that lets nothing else be heard, like there is a void swallowing all the dark rage surrounding them.

"No!" it denies vehemently, assuming that she'll have a way of hearing its words just like it has hearing hers. "What is this storm? Some trial? I would have thought that a ship carrying cargo as precious as yourself would be ensured more pleasant passage."

Warmth spreads at the back of its mind, and it feels like the laughter from Bilbo's lips when he's biting down on one of the first ripened strawberries of the season, tasting the promises of summer. Shaking its head, Smaug tries to get rid of the feeling. If she is the cause of it, then it does not want it.

'This is you,' she says, turning around slowly.

"What?" Smaug roars over the thunder and wind.

'Your presence is being rejected.' The smile on her face is not unkind as she says this, and her tone is light as opposed to the weight of her words.

"Rejected!?" it howls with fury that heats its insides enough to make the drops of water on its skin boil along with its temper. Her lack of reaction only fuels the virulence Smaug harbours against her. "But I was welcomed! I was invited!"

'Yes,' she agrees. 'You received an invitation to journey with us.'

The forces of nature keep waging war around them, but she remains unmoved by any of it. The warmth in her gaze remains, even as Smaug bares its teeth, ready to spit slander at her. It wants her to know that she should be torn apart. It wants to take their empty promises and useless hope and-

"Sherlock?"

The dragon barely hears it. It is a small voice in the middle of chaos. Fragile and insignificant in the grand scale of things, yet simultaneously heavy with the relevance of something the worth of which can't be measured.

Smaug wants so many things all at once. It wants for the sickening motion to just stop, to be elsewhere where these fraudulent beings sprouting all these half-truths didn't exist, to turn into its former self and release a storm of its own. It wants and wants and hates so much, that this slanted view almost makes it lose sight on why it wants, why it hates.

But it's all because of him, isn't it. Because of Bilbo, who's right there, standing at the door after having followed Smaug to the deck, clutching onto the wooden doorframe and calling its name in the midst of it all.

"Bilbo!" Smaug shouts, paralyzing dread spreading through the dragon's entire body. "Go back inside! Now!"

It seems scripted, somehow, and only now Smaug begins to realise what a fool it has been.

It'd been told that there's no hope for those who rely too much on facts. And the fact is, that they've been invited on this ship, but have been given no direct promises of an afterlife in Valinor, only the assumption that there might be one. Or rather, Bilbo's been named the deserving one, but no one has told them the true consequences of adding Smaug into the deal.

And there is no witch or an elf or a wizard whom Smaug could blame for it. In the end, they've fed them no lies. Smaug's the one who's been gorging on their very vague truths.

Please, Smaug repeats in its head, trying to will Bilbo from out of its sight and back into the cabin, the most selfless thought it has had in all its life flying past its comprehension. Please, let him live.

'Do not be afraid.' The words of the Witch come and try to fill Smaug with comfort, but it rejects the feeling with every fibre of its being. 'All will not be lost tonight.'

And it happens then. The ship falls on the waves in an awkward angle, and when it corrects its course in one violent movement, Bilbo loses his balance. His legs give out. He loses his grip. And when he starts to fall, he falls quickly, unable to fight against the speed and gravity of things when the ship leans heavily on its other side.

Bilbo falls. And all Smaug can do is watch it happen, as its will to react drowns under the denial that the worst is about to come to pass. Despite what it is seeing in front of it, Smaug rejects the idea that this could be it, and remains frozen, adopting the passive role of a bystander, detaching itself from the scene and becoming an unwilling spectator.

It sees the fright and desperation in Bilbo's eyes, and thinks it's just a transient reaction that will be replaced with relief once Bilbo manages to grab a hold on something and haul himself back onto his feet. It stares at how the hobbit tries to reach for the dragon with his hands held out, and does nothing, because the distance is too great, sees and hears the beginning of its name being wailed, and says nothing back, because it can say everything there is to say once they both find an agreeable balance and can meet somewhere halfway without such a struggle.

But Bilbo keeps on falling, until his back collides against the railing so hard that something cracks.

Smaug sees how Bilbo's eyes dull.

It sees his tiny body slip past the railing and how the ocean devours it.

And that is it.

Despite its denial, against all its groundless expectations and delusional assumptions, Smaug enters a world where Bilbo Baggins does not exist. A world that doesn't stop to mourn this loss, instead continuing on like nothing has happened, storm still raging, boards of the ship groaning.

For a fraction of a moment, Smaug believes itself as unchanged as the world around it.

Because.

Because before they had set sail, and way before there had been any mention of hope, the fact that Bilbo might cease to exist one day had never been just one possibility within a variety of different scenarios that might play out during their lives. Smaug has always treated it as something inevitable. And for that reason, it had practiced.

Yes, even before this, Smaug has seen Bilbo die a thousand times.

It has imagined the one morning the hobbit failed to open his eyes. It has seen him being mauled to death by hordes of orcs, being torn to pieces in the teeth of their wargs. Bilbo's been taken from the dragon by incurable diseases, poisons consumed, and ridiculous domestic accidents where he's reached too far up while standing on a stool before overbalancing and falling down with tragic consequences.

These murders the dragon had often committed during the wee hours of the morning, while Bilbo had slept beside it, serene and blissfully unaware of what went on behind his bedmate's eyes. When everything was peaceful and quiet, and this realization would crawl out from the dark corners of Smaug's mind and whisper how nothing lasted forever.

So to help itself understand what was to come, and in order to minimize the impact this very moment would have on it, Smaug had imagined Bilbo's end in preparation, because sometimes the hobbit tended to forget that Smaug had only ever been the cause of death, never the victim of it. And while Smaug had reminded Bilbo of his mortality frequently enough, the hobbit had been too busy living to care much about the inevitable. That he was going to be gone one day, one way or another. And that because of this selfishness of his, this avoidance of a subject that would be no concern of his once he was gone, Smaug would one day be left behind by its lonesome with no grasp of a worthwhile future.

But even though its mind has always been vivid and rich on details, its imagination as good as reality, sometimes, and these thoughts have never been the easiest to create and endure, a thousand of such imaginary scenarios would never be enough to prepare Smaug for this.

On paper, the word grief had always seemed such a pathetic word, something reserved for pitiful creatures and their short lives. But once the momentary stupor starts to release its hold on Smaug, and it begins to understand that this is not a self-created thought it can just shake off, that this is now the reality it had always feared would come to pass, grief ceases to be just a word.

Grief turns out to be something hideous that slowly crawls its way inside, nests on Smaug's chest and then grows in places where there is no more room to grow. It becomes this gripping and crippling, all-consuming and compressing disease that presses on its lungs with such gravity that it tears a raw scream from Smaug's throat, wringing and twisting the horrid sound until it cracks and breaks.

It makes it feels like there's not enough air left in the world to breathe, or maybe that there's just no reason left to breathe it. For while the world might have no trouble moving on, the dragon isn't sure it can do the same despite having prepared so well, when it finally internalizes the last lesson it has been taught by Bilbo Baggins: The price it has to pay for having cared, for being enslaved by sentiment, for being such a fool, is grief. It is what is left, when the world has naught to offer except for a ship that refuses take all of its passengers to its destination, a raging ocean that eats for other reasons than to satisfy a hunger, and a sky hidden from view.

Smaug reaches out, regardless. It knows it's a delayed and desperate reaction, that there's nothing reaching back for it anymore, no matter how many times its mind keeps repeating the scene, over and over and over again, analysing, rethinking, unable to erase the memory of how Bilbo had looked calling out for its name, the realization how the end must have looked through Bilbo's eyes ripping and shredding Smaug the most of all.

Nothing. Bilbo had watched it do nothing to help him. Heard Smaug say nothing back to his last desperate pleas. Saw it show no emotion as he fell.

Any hesitation it might feel gets buried under the weight of its regrets. Once Smaug reaches the railing, it doesn't even stop to reconsider the dark waters below. The ocean isn't a violent monstrosity anymore. It's where Bilbo is.

And these are the depths it is willing to go through to follow him.

After the plunge, the first thing is the coldness. It hits Smaug in the chest like a war-hammer, ripping a gasp from out of its lungs as it leaves immense pain in its wake, which spreads to every corner of its body. Its extremities are screaming as blood is drawn from them in an attempt to ensure the survival of more vital bits and parts, and Smaug is screaming too, air bubbling away too quick. When reflex has it try to fill its empty lungs, it feels how saltwater rolls in instead. The salts make the dragon gag, and the water in its lungs makes it cough, but there's no air, no air at all, just ice-cold water surrounding it from every side, pressing on the drums in its ears and filling its insides. Smaug feels its body convulse in its desperate attempt to somehow survive, but the direction of the surface was lost the moment it hit the water, so eventually, it will all be in vain.

Despite the pain, while it still has any coherence left, Smaug tries to look around. It hopes beyond hope that it will be granted this one kindness by the architect of this end. That it would see Bilbo drifting somewhere beneath the surface, and with its last strength Smaug would reach out and hold him in its arms, press its nose against his hair and close its eyes, content that in the end, even if Bilbo will never know it, Smaug had not left his call for help unanswered.

But it sees nothing. The ocean beneath the waves is darker than any night before a battle or the bottom of a mountain occupied by strange creatures will ever be. It is a lightless and desolate world reigned by the merciless hands of an airless winter.

 

So in the end.

 

 

 

 

When its heart beats.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For the last time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It does it alone.