Chapter Text
"Hail and well met."
An eye opened, pupil constricting in the sunlight, to meet the jolly, amused gaze of a gray-hatted man holding a staff. At once his sleep was disturbed and the pain returned in full force, the great gash that was buried deep in his belly burning hot with infection and poison. He blew hot air from his mouth and turned slightly away, resting his head further into the soil below.
"Surely you see that things are not well," croaked the dragon, his thunderous voice a mere speck of what it had once been. "I know not why you have approached me- I am a dragon, if you weren't previously aware, and if I so desired I could kill you with a snap of my maw. I wish to be alone. Leave me to my demise."
"Oh, calm down. Nobody will die here on this day. I assure you of that."
"Well," the dragon spoke, "unless you have a cure for the dark poisons of necromancers, I'm afraid you are mistaken. I was sliced open, you see, by a large orc pack, and their swords were coated in a slow poison that now throbs painfully through my veins. Not to mention how they ripped through my muscles with their dull blades in a way that shall never heal, and of course the filth- I would die from the infection alone."
The dragon neglected to talk about how he had been grounded initially by his own kin, the bleeding mauling of the attack spanning from his shoulder to just above the orcs' slice. The man saw that, of course, but said nothing.
"Oh, you surely would. In that form, most definitely. Your wounds are extensive. But we are not far from the Last Homely House Imladris, and they would heal you if you were made from the right stuff."
"Made from...?" The dragon opened his eyes, glaring at the man. "Surely you know who I am. Or, at least, what I am. I could crush you with just a shift of my foot, chew you up and spit you as mush with my fangs. You may not know me, but I know who you are, Olórin the Grey, Maia of Manwë, messenger to the Free Peoples. Wizard or no, your body is just as soft as that of a man's."
"You cannot very well crush me if you cannot stand. And please, call me Gandalf," the wizard said. "I have not been known as Olórin since I was delivered from the Undying Lands. I go by quite a few names these days, but I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me."
The dragon huffed, a great heat shooting and blowing from his nose into the grass ahead of him. "It matters not. I am bleeding out and this poison steadily weakens me. There is nothing you can do short of cursing me into the body of a man, and I will not agree to such humiliation."
"No, not a man," Gandalf replied. "You would never pass as a man, no. You're too melodramatic."
"Melodramatic? I am quite literally dying."
"Dying you may be, but your argument is needless! I have studied you. You are not like your kin. You care more for basking and flying than for killing and ravaging. You need not live like them any longer and you need not die alone and in squalor."
"Then you have not studied me for very long," the dragon replied. "I have leveled villages, killed and eaten many who look just like you. I fly beneath the stars, creep within the forests unseen. I am fire and destruction; I am a dragon, a bringer of death."
"And yet you choose to take your final rest exposed in a field under the sun, basking like a street cat."
If the dragon could frown in a way that was perceptible to Gandalf, he would have. Instead, his face (snout, really) continued to exhibit its inherent fierceness, along with the weariness of his eyes.
"What would you have me be, then?" The dragon asked, the annoyance turned to defeat. "None of the Free Peoples would ever accept a dragon, and I fear I would be found out. It has been five thousand years, after all, and a dragon's nature is not so easily broken by a wizard's spell. I can be nothing but this."
"Ah, but that is where you're wrong, my dear creature." Gandalf gave him a smile. It was as conspiratorial as it was kind, and the dragon would come to know that smile well, even if he was quite irritated by it as of the present. He sat, cross legged, at the dragon's large head, peering into his large eye. The dragon's pupil dilated and it blinked. "I have asked Elrond to come here so that he may begin healing you as soon as you are turned. But, until then, I shall speak to you of a place where the seasons are kind; with hills of rolling green and flowers of many colors spreading across the lands, catching to the soil like the most brilliant wildfire."
The dragon's tense muscles relaxed slightly upon hearing this, and his eye lidded. He was in pain and he was dying and he was quite sure that, even if he agreed to the wizard's suggestion, he would perish from the shock of the transformation alone, or perhaps the body he was given would disintegrate as it changed, or he would bleed out even faster as one of the Small Folk. He was weaker than other drakes to begin with and his injuries only made him more frail; his only solace was the sun, breaking through the clouds after weeks of mountain blizzards and warming his scales. The sun had been his only companion for as long as he could remember; it was only fitting that it would watch over him as he passed. Hearing of these green hills and flowers, however... he had never been allowed near such places. They were always populated by men or elves, and it was dangerous for him as a hatchling to explore. As an adult, he just didn't see worth in the effort.
"That... does sound quite nice," he murmured, his voice the feeble wind that blew through valleys. He leaned away from Gandalf, closing his eye. "Regale me of this place, then, Gandalf. If I am to die, I would like to do so filled with peace, even if I do not deserve such a quiet rest."
When he said this, Gandalf's eyebrows twitched in a way that betrayed his displeasure. The dragon could not tell, however, as he had only ever spent time around his own kind and knew not the facial subtleties of the small folk.
"Then, dear boy, let me tell you of the Shire."
—
Bilbo did not miss much about his former life.
He enjoyed this much more thoroughly, indeed- the softness of a cooked squab was leagues better than the feeling of bone crunching between his sharp teeth. The comfort of a warm hearth seeped into his limbs better than that of any flame spat in the cold of mountain nights. The gossip and squabble of Shire hobbits was easily preferred when compared to the snapping and painful biting of his past. For the past two hundred years or so, he'd lived a plentiful life of joy, and though it has not been without its fair share of loss, it had been good. His home was warm and inviting, his feet had learned to sink into soil as if he were born to it, and his hands — declawed and blunt as every hand was to these folk — had taken to preparing good food; had taken to preparing the very earth from which it sprung. He read books, he wrote poetry, he spoke with the neighbors and went to the market. It was a life devoid of conflict. Yes, being a hobbit suited him well, and it suited him well to be a hobbit. There was little he missed and even less that he'd relished about that life, and he was quite glad to be rid of it.
One thing he could never forget, however, was how the sky soaked into his scales during the night; how his wings spread under the deep expanse of the heavens. How the sun warmed his body and how he could simply curl up in a field like a cat and doze without being seen. It was the gentle things that he could not achieve with two large feet and a bare back; he missed being able to fly.
This being said, he would not trade being a hobbit for anything. Gandalf had given him a gift, truly, in the package of a curse. There was not much he wouldn't give to be able to take to the skies, but he could live without it. He still could bask in the sun and moon whether he was hobbit or drake, after all, even if the other hobbits in the Ton thought him strange for doing so.
He was comfortable, in any case. That was not a word that could be used to describe dragons in any sense, comfortable, and Bilbo knew now the true meaning of it. It was in his smial, this comfort, in his books and in his interactions with the hobbits of the Shire. It was in the firelight of his fireplace and of his candles, as he watched the flame flicker instead of throb with danger. No, he did not miss it, being a dragon. And no matter how desperately he wanted to fly, he would stay tethered to the ground for the rest of his immortal life if it meant that he could stay like this, in this place.
It was on a warm summer's day when Gandalf visited him again. They were good friends, old friends, and Bilbo was glad to see him whenever he made the journey to Bag End from wherever he traveled. Which was why he smiled when he saw Gandalf coming up the road, bidding hello to Hamfast Gamgee on the way.
He had taken the morning to eat his first three meals and finish up the cleaning that remained from the day before. He had taken a short walking excursion to Bree for some new seeds that had just been delivered, after all, and when he'd returned two days hence the entire place was quite full of dust. He enjoyed it for a day, sitting in his library and reading, watching as the sun caught on the motes like the golden embers of his youth. (Because it was his youth, or at least he considered it so- two hundred years was nothing compared to five thousand but he really felt like these were the years that he finally became something worthwhile, truly came into his own. So yes, he thought, his time with scales and wings and blood between his talons was his true faunthood, and all the rest of it truly saw him growing up.)
But after a time he'd begun to sneeze, as he was apt to do, so he pulled his hair from his face and pulled his rubber gloves onto his hands and he set to work wiping the dust from his tables and mantels and shelves and all the rest of it. He took the opportunity to mop his floors, too, and to do the few dishes that had piled up in the sink from his meals, and then the next morning — the very morning that Gandalf came — he had finished up by putting away the books he had neglected before his trip. And now, he sat outside on his bench, smoking his Old Toby, with the promise to himself that when he had finished the pipe he would set to work organizing and deciding which seeds he was to plant this season and which he would save for the next.
He supposed that could wait, however. When an old friend comes to visit, what else is there to do but bid them welcome?
"Gandalf! Well met."
"Well met, indeed," Gandalf chirped. Bilbo blew a smoke ring at him and the wizard, with a small smile, turned it to a tiny dragon that blew smoke of its own before flying into Bilbo's face, disappearing as it touched his nose. Bilbo coughed between chuckles, waving the smoke away, and stood.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" He asked as Gandalf opened the gate and stepped into his garden. Butterflies followed him and Bilbo watched as they settled on his flowers and vegetables.
"Can one not simply visit an old friend out of care for his well-being?" Gandalf asked. "Does there always need to be purpose for time spent?"
"I suppose not, but there has scarce been a time that you have come without news, reason or request," Bilbo responded, ascending the stairs as Gandalf followed. It was an unspoken thing, this entering Bilbo's house, and as he did, he removed his hat and set it on the large hook — larger than the others, anyway — that had been installed into the building just for him. He rested his staff, too, on the metal mounts that Bilbo had put in- Gandalf had stayed at Bag End for over a month after Bungo and Belladonna's passing, as Bilbo had only been in the Shire three years when it had happened and his progress acclimating had been quite slow. The Fell Winter had been cruel to them all but to Bilbo in particular, as he had all the experience of a new faunt with the body of a hobbit who had just come to age. Even then, he still tripped over his own large feet; after the two died, the flame core that had settled into a hearth had reignited in his grief. When he wasn't lying in bed, dejected and hollowed, he was hissing and spitting fire like the dragon he'd been before. So Gandalf visited to soothe his fury and his loneliness, and after a while, Bilbo had simply gotten tired of seeing the wizard's staff leaning precariously on the wall, and of that large hat that needed three of his coat hooks to hold it. So he had remedied the issue.
Gandalf told him later that watching him modify the house to accommodate Gandalf had been the moment that the wizard knew that Bilbo would be alright, for a dragon of yore would never take its time to care for another who was not his own kin. Then, Bilbo had laughed and told Gandalf that he might as well be, for all the good his own family did him.
"The past is the past, dear boy. It is not an indicator of future results," Gandalf replied as he turned from the hat hook. The chandelier that had once been installed there years and years ago had since been taken down. Elrond had gotten a nasty bruise from it on his last visit, after all, and Bilbo was quick to remove the issue. Bilbo hummed in response, turning and looking up to Gandalf.
"So is there?" He asked. "A reason for your visit, that is."
Gandalf had the nous to at least look sheepish and Bilbo sighed, putting his hands on his hips.
"What is it?"
The wizard looked back at him.
"Let us sit down. A little red wine would do nicely, for us both."
Bilbo peered at him for a moment before dropping his arms and gesturing for Gandalf to sit wherever. He got the wine and returned, a half glass for himself and a half of a larger glass for his big-folk friend, who took it with thanks.
"Do you remember sixty years ago, when Smaug laid claim to the Lonely Mountain?"
Bilbo tilted his head to the side in thought. "Of course, I do. Nasty business. The dwarrow knew no home until they settled in the Blue Mountains, if I remember correctly. We stopped getting seeds from that area when Dale fell. I believe one or two dwarven smiths worked in Bree for a time to support themselves. Dreadful, truly."
"Indeed. And you know the prophecy?"
"I remember it, yes. Perhaps not the words themselves, but then again, my memory is not what it used to be."
"The words are of little consequence. The essence of it is that when the ravens begin to return to Erebor, so too will the King under the Mountain."
"And I assume, as you're bringing them up, that said ravens are returning," Bilbo said. He took a sip of wine. Gandalf nodded once. "But I thought Thrór had died in the excitement and that Thráin had gone mad, wandering after Erebor's conquering."
"He did. I found him in Dol Guldur in the Necromancer's prisons. He was too far gone, but he gave me this"- he pulled a key from his robe and placed it on the table before him- "and told me to find his son and to give it to him. I could not save Thráin, as I am only one wizard against a great evil. But I did find his son, Thorin II Oakenshield. He, in his father's absence, is the rightful heir to Erebor's throne."
"Naturally," Bilbo replied. He placed his hands on the table, clasped, one finger over the other. "Why are you telling me this? I am in a weakened form. I cannot exactly approach Smaug and ask him to vacate the treasure room."
The wizard sighed, turning the key around on the table, his eyes falling to the black iron. It was large, even in his large hands, and Bilbo was sure that his own would be dwarfed in comparison. Still, it looked old, and Bilbo had no doubt it had been used to unlock Erebor's doors once.
"I ask of you a great service, Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf said. His voice was grave. "You once told me you walked unseen and I ask of you to do so again."
Bilbo frowned. "I will not take my first form. I will do much for you, Gandalf, but that I refuse."
"No, no. I do not ask you to become a dragon again- in fact, staying in this form will be quite beneficial to what is being asked of you. And besides- you've been living in this smial for far too long, complacent. An adventure will be good for you."
He raised an eyebrow. Gandalf spoke as if he'd already agreed.
"What exactly is being asked of me, Gandalf?"
"Only to hear them out when they arrive."
"When they ar- who is arriving?"
"A company of dwarrow set for Erebor, with the King under the Mountain as their head. They will be here sometime on the morrow."
Bilbo blanched. “Dwarrow? I- Of course I am sympathetic to their plight, but why have you sent them here?"
"I told you. I ask you to walk unseen," Gandalf spoke, "as their burglar."
"Burgl- You can't be serious!"
"As the grave, my dear boy."
Bilbo gaped at Gandalf for a few seconds before his shoulders slumped. He rubbed his hand down his face, quite fed up with the wizard's antics and realizing that it was no use refusing. He could fight until he was blue in the face but the wizard was more stubborn than anyone else he'd ever met and when something was decided, it was decided no matter what.
"Why do I get the feeling that I have no choice in the matter?" He bemoaned. Gandalf smiled.
"You can refuse them, if you wish. But... no. You have no choice in hosting them. I hope your larder is full, Bilbo, for you will soon be in the company of thirteen hungry, travel-weary dwarrow."
"Thirteen?" Bilbo groaned in frustration. "You know what? That Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was right about you. You do nothing but make trouble in the Hobbiton and in my home! How will I ever be respectable with thirteen dwarrow at my door?"
"Were you ever respectable, truly?" Gandalf teased, and Bilbo swatted him. He stood, putting his hands on his hips and looking around.
"I have cleaned already, thank the Valar, so I do not have to do that. But I should restock my meats and cheeses and prepare some overnight rooms... some of them will have to share."
"Then I will leave you to it," Gandalf said, standing as well. Bilbo sighed, shaking his head.
No, he did not miss much about being a dragon. But at least when he was a dragon, he did not have to undertake the horrors of hosting.